Helmets slid to the back of the head, and oculars positioned above the eyes, exposing faces to the red glow of ship lights. The sound of G Plat adjusting in their seats could not be missed. In the following lull, Windsor turned to the view screen and tapped the top of his right glove twice. The large screen brightened with incoming drone feed. Port Terras Galles Naval Command was in trouble.

“Listen up,” said the C. S. M. “Port Terras Galles Naval Command is ten thousand strong.” Extending a hand toward the live feed, Windsor continued. “As you can see, there is extensive damage to naval vessels. Command estimates a presence of up to eight thousand Enmen.  Terras Galles City is on lockdown, and we have a presence within the western perimeter but we can't tell where the bastards are coming from.”

Windsor switched the screen to close-over fly-bys showing scorched docks and burning ships. On-screen could be seen firefights and hand-to-hand. Windsor stepped away from the screen and searched the faces of his men. “Companies Sierra and Yankee, with armed seamen under Paladin Command, hold the line on the docks from the south to central warehousing. We'll drop in the north. Squads D and C will secure the warehouses; A and B the northern shipyards. Men, this is straight-up kick ass and Hoorah.”

Sergeants Dingovan and Lopez were the first to stand beside C. S. M. Windsor, followed by Sergeants Rodriguez and Scott. Second Lieutenant Smith took his place opposite Windsor. There was silence in the ship, the screen dimmed, and troops shifted in their seats.

Windsor extended an arm toward the leaders and said, “ Second Lieutenant Smith will channel between Naval support and the squad leaders, gold star only. Sergeants Dingovan and Scott will lead point south. Sergeants Lopez and Rodriguez will lead point north, following the RFMFs. Point will take channel silver rush, Once you drop, I'll join Naval support and be in direct contact with Second Lieutenant Smith.”

“Con Isle,” said Smith, “is in lockdown. Our assumption is the Enmen seek the drilling platforms offshore. As the Enmen have made no aerial attempts to reach Con Isle, the reasoning is they don't have the capability. We have been commanded to secure Naval vessels at all costs. We'll drop hot. Be firing as your feet touch the docks. Command General Davian Saxe is scheduled to speak before we drop.”

A red light flashed, and Windsor commanded, “All stand!” 

The face of Command General Davian Saxe appeared larger than life. Saxe's features were blunt. His cropped hair, scowling eyes, clenched jaw, and medal-heavy jacket were a custom package made to chill the blood of enlisted men. The General's eyes moved back and forth as if he saw the heroes before him. He stood straight, shoulders broad, and began his address without preamble.

“Men,” he said, “what you hear about Terrans not wanting to fight is a load of crap. Heroes love a fight. If you're like me, the very thought of losing will toast your shorts. Heroes aren't losers. So, watch your threes and come back from this; every man and woman of you. Each of you must look out not only for yourself but for the hero beside you. Every soldier has his job. Every one of you is important.” Saxe coughed and relaxed, losing the paternal tone.

"Wade in and gut them. When it's them or you, you'll know what to do. Our plan of operation is to advance and keep advancing. Naval Port Terras Galles is a fucking shit storm. The quicker we kick some Enman ass, the quicker we go home. The harder we push, the more Enmen we kill. The more Enmen we kill, the more comrades we save. Terrans don't surrender. Remember that. Hoorah!”

As the General's face abruptly snapped to black, the co-pilot leaned across the top rail, faceless in his helmet, and spoke urgently. “We're coming in hot. God bless.”

Windsor commanded loudly, “Seal tops! To the line!”

Rude took a deep breath and checked internals. He could feel the pirini move in him and found comfort in the alien presence. Squads D and C would drop first. Then, the ship would speed north to drop A and B. A muffled, distant siren filled the craft, and suddenly, Rude was falling. Adrenaline flooded his body long before his boots touched wood. It was a long second, then, Rude rolled to his feet. He turned immediately northwest.

Internals painted an enhanced picture of what lay before him. Behind stacked crates against the southernmost warehouses, four Enmen used three Ma-las and one APE to pick off dropping soldiers. Two Mal-las were set at automatic short pulse while the third was set at continuous loop stream. The Enman with the APE was strafing indiscriminately and howling in berserker fashion. Private Walker of C Squad got off a shot with his wrist Beezee, an Enman imploded, then Walker's neck exploded from a Ma-la pulse.

The RFMFs fell and positioned behind Rude and men ran for cover. Detonations rocked the naval vessels while armed seamen retaliated from fire team barricades. All this, Rude knew in the seconds of his drop and roll, as he leaped between the short and continuous fire. A tight roll ending with a high bound over the crates brought Rude down atop the nested Enmen. As he fell, he used the first of his three shield charges. The Enmen fell beneath him as he rolled quickly to his feet, making effective use of his Arm Blade.

Enmen necks and heels were vulnerable; Rude struck fast and hard, slicing the neck of the first Ma-la wielder, and shooting the heel of the Enman with the APE. Rude sliced a rising Enman, and shot the APE wielder in the neck, then quickly dispatched the remaining Enman. His moves fluid, Rude lifted the APE and fired north then south, taking down a dozen Enmen. Dropping the spent weapon, Rude ran north. Squad leaders were screaming orders, but Rude had no time for that. Marq was somewhere north of him.

Rude sensed the needles as he barreled forward. It swept in from his right. Rude leaped over it, twisted, and rolled to his feet, changing his direction for the howling Enman before him. A large detonation hit the wooden deck behind the Enman, scattering debris. As the Enman sought balance, he lifted his APE, and that was Rude's opportunity. He plowed shoulder-first into the brutish berserker and knocked him from his feet. Rude rolled across the howling Enman, firing point blank into his uncovered skull. A quick spin brought Rude to his feet with the APE in hand.

Charging immediately north, Rude fired short at the feet of the Enmen engaged in hand-to-hand. A continuous Ma-la stream raked north to south from one of the warehouses to Rude's left. Leaping and spinning above the stream, Rude spotted and polished the wielder. A quick roll had him running at top speed through close combat. Sergeant Dingovan screamed charging orders, but Rude was way ahead of him. He bowled through combat, knocking Enmen from their feet, and leaving his fellow soldiers to mop up.

As long as Rude could detect incoming fire, he could easily leap over or roll beneath. The pirini added speed and dexterity beyond his comrades, and it seemed no more tasking than a jaunt through the base obstacle course. Bodies fell around him. Needles streamed by, and energy pulses flashed. The cryolite armor dampened most noise. Breathing was another matter. As Rude pushed himself to his limit, the ragged attempt to suck in oxygen was loud.

A blast sent him suddenly tumbling through the smoke and ash. He, his fellows, and Enmen were tossed together. He shot three Enmen mid-air. He rolled to his feet and avoided a Ma-la pulse. Commands raced in all directions, changing by the second. Rude briefly heard the voices of Windsor and Smith. He tacked east toward burning ships, towering flames tickling the night sky. Ahead were high stacks of metal shipping units. Some of the units had been knocked from the tops of their columns and lay at angles on the dock. If hell was a play, Rude was center stage.

An Enman leaped to the top of a fallen unit. Rude fired his Sandman and hit him mid-jump. The APE fell from his hands, and the brute fell hard. Rude jumped and rolled, coming up with the APE, dispatching Enmen in their tracks. Through the smoke rolled two seamen, girded in Skats. They rolled directly into a large group of Enmen, extended their sidebars, and spun, knocking the enemy from their feet. As they continued spinning, they fired into the group. They rolled over corpses and fired their arm cannons.

A large nest between two warehouses threw all they had at the ship behind Rude. Hunkering behind the stacked units, Rude turned to see the ship burst into flaming disarray. Even so, the large guns turned to the warehouses. The shock waves from the guns would scatter the heavy metal units, and all else before them. Rude raced north, in a desperate stride. The guns fired, the warehouses disappeared, leaving a smoking hole. Containers fell across the dock, crushing all before them.

The docks took persistent rocket fire as hundreds of Enmen rushed from warehouse positions in a bid for the naval vessels. Bodies flew through the air like tattered dolls while the blood of heroes and Enmen commingled. That was the firestorm through which Rude pressed. He raced through scattered destruction, leaping over Enmen and comrades alike.

Ships to the north, large destroyers, were the prize the Enmen sought. Marq was somewhere in that mess. Rude would have a long haul to get there, and he would have to run through hell itself. Behind Rude was a maelstrom of burning ships and destroyed warehouses. Ahead would be more of the same. Tanks would drop and air support would arrive, but nothing changed the brutal hand-to-hand clashes with crazed Enmen.

Black market Enmen tanks rolled from the warehouses ahead of Rude. Some turned north but one set its sight on Rude. The top spun into position, a Ma-la canon not even his cryolite and shielding could resist. Rude changed course, running all out for the tank. He leaped right and rolled just as the canon fired. Immediately, Rude leaped left and rolled. He was far enough from the canon's slow swivel that he could run for the tracks. In his path was a bent fence pole. Rude rolled and came up with it in his hand.

A burly Enman appeared from nowhere and took a swing with a beefy bare fist. Almost instinctively, Rude jumped high, his somersault taking him in an arc over the Enman's head. The Sandman on his right fist unloaded into the Enman's neck. He had lost no speed; when he reached the tank, Rude jammed the pole into the tank tracks and rolled away. The tank spun to a stop. He ran behind the tanks, shooting at the feet of Enmen who followed. Suddenly, heroes surged through the smoke and ran headlong into the enemy. Rude left them the task. 

Rude found himself running through tracer rounds from the ships that crossed paths with Ma-la pulses from warehouse nests. There was nowhere for him to go but straight ahead. He leaped between the rounds and pulses; it was narrow. Thinking to roll and jump, Rude took a tracer to his cryolite armor. The explosive round put him in a bad spin. Suddenly, his three lives flashed before him. His roll impeded, he was in the open and at risk. In a desperate heartbeat, Rude came to his feet and ran crouched. He sensed the imminent impact of a Ma-la pulse.

He dropped and rolled, avoiding the Ma-la hit. Then, he was beyond the exchange, and running full speed into three unarmed Enmen. Still, they were armored, and even the smallest Enman was deadly with his solid arm shield. They had been known to crack cryolite helmets. Rude jumped into a spin, and as he did, he shot the right boot of the center Enman, and the left boot of the Enman on the left. That made a small space, as they tumbled away from each other, for Rude to hit the dock and roll into a run.

The bitter sound of Dingovan's voice calling Rude by name, and demanding obedience, goaded him. In his four years with the Consortium Armed Forces, Rude had known two kinds of people, Soldiers and friends. Marq was the last of the latter. His breathing ragged, Rude now faced an Enman raising a Ma-la in his direction. On the verge of using his second shield charge, Rude could not slow and was a second away from the working end of the weapon. He was glad to see Garcia from A Squad roll up in a Skat and take out the enemy with an arm cannon.

“Thanks,” said Rude. He turned and made an immediate right into Consortium-held ground.

Garcia whooped into Rude's internal speakers, calling loudly, “De nada!”

Rude had reached the area held by A Squad; B Squad was not much further. He could dance through the advancing A Squad to the water's edge and follow the pier north. They were taking heavy fire. Half wore a Skat, while a fourth of them wore Trashers, which allowed for long jumps and short flights. That left a fourth in regular cryolite, with little more than a Sandman or a Beezee.

There were only two things that Rude could accomplish; find Marq and kill Enmen. Still, the north end of the Naval Base was a long way off, and Rude felt his reserves fading fast as Ma-la cannons fired from the roof of a warehouse. A spread of three shots struck the dock where A Squad advanced. They had no RFMF to hide behind. The night turned bright as the shots gouged large fiery holes, and heroes tumbled into a pile. Rude went into a roll, taking a Ma-la from a dead Enman. He rolled up on one knee, set the gun on continuous loop, and took out the rooftop nest. Sergeant Rodriguez rolled up in his Skat, engaged his MaGS shield, and took a blast. Rude's internals registered a null for the Sergeant's vitals. He jumped to his boots, and ran forward, Ma-la and Sandman both active.

As Rude ran north, jumping, rolling, and firing both weapons, his squad sounded off under call. “Nguyen aye. Nelson here. Adams aye. Torrez here. Green present.”

“On your two,” said Dingovan. “Move out. Yavle, you jerk off! Where's Yavle? Anyone have eyes on that dick?”

Rude ran forward, heart banging between burning lungs. A blast came, fire billowed, and twelve Enmen ran from the smoke. Rude raked a continuous stream across their shoddy boots. As they fell, tracer fire hit them from the deck of an undamaged destroyer. Rude leaped across the bodies and kept his pace strong. 

Dingovan yelled, “Adams, Green. Go right. Three oh.”

Torrez called, “One charge left.”

Nelson called, “Save your shield, man!”

Incoming cannon fire suddenly screamed across his senses. It came from the warehouses and pinned him against shipping containers. There was half a heartbeat in which to act; Rude used the second charge in his MGS as he leaped forward. The blast sent Rude spinning out of control. The shield-up flash faded quickly, leaving Rude to tumble across the dock. Large containers fell around him, as he rolled from under a falling container by the skin of his teeth. 

Nelson called, “The Sarge is dead.”