The Price of Honor Read online

  THE UNITED FEDERATION MARINE CORPS’ GRUB WARS

  BOOK 2

  THE PRICE OF HONOR

  Colonel Jonathan P. Brazee

  USMC (Ret)

  Copyright © 2017 Jonathan Brazee

  A Semper Fi Press Book

  Copyright © 2017 Jonathan Brazee

  ISBN-10: 1-945743-14-X

  ISBN-13: 978-1-945743-14-6 (Semper Fi Press)

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Acknowledgements:

  I want to thank all those who took the time to offer advice as I wrote this book. A special thanks goes to beta readers James Caplan for his valuable input.

  Cover art by Matthew Cowdery

  Graphics by Steven Novak

  Dedicated to

  Private First Class Brian Abrams, USMC

  10-31-1969 to 6-2-1989

  RIP, Devil Dog

  KRAKOW

  Chapter 1

  Hondo

  “We know they’re out there,” Sergeant Hondo McKeever passed over the squad net. “It’s just a matter of time, so be ready for it.”

  Eight of Hondo’s twelve Marines, along with Doc Torrington, his corpsman, had never seen combat before, had never seen Klethos in the field, and he could almost feel their nervousness. The blinding snow didn’t help things. Each PICS had more than enough sensors to pierce the blizzard, but even the best composite image failed to create the same comfort level as actual eyes on target.

  Hondo had his squad positioned on both sides of a small gulch where a stream had worn through the rolling hills before funneling out into the vast, windswept plains. It provided the only cover for several klicks to reach the higher ground occupied by his Marines, so it was a logical avenue of approach . . . too logical, probably, meaning it might be avoided. Still, it offered the squad its best shot within its AOR.

  A stronger gust of wind hit him, making his PICS compensate with its gyros to keep him motionless, something he didn’t think he’d ever experience before. With the wind and minus 40-degree temperatures, a Marine not protected by a PICS wouldn’t last long. He subconsciously checked his readouts yet again. Hondo had molted twice during battles with the Grubs, which might be a record for someone who survived the experience. It was too damned cold for him to want to make it three times.

  A flicker on his display caught his attention. He increased the gain on the temperature gradient scan, trying to capture whatever was out there. The flicker could have been nothing, caused by a tiny fluctuation in his PICS electronics. It could have been a reading from one of the small mice that roamed in tunnels under the snow. But Hondo’s instincts screamed enemy.

  “Gradient array,” he ordered, then watched his display as his Marines went to their assigned bands, each PICS taking a narrow frequency as their sensors tried to pierce through the storm.

  “I’ve got something, Sergeant, at fifty-three thousand,” Private First Class Uriah Joseph passed, his voice filled with excitement.

  “Second Team, blanket the fifty-thousands,” Hondo ordered, then switched to 52,000-55,000 himself.

  Immediately, that flicker he’d seen before turned into eight ghost images, moving quickly up the right side of the ravine. If they kept up the pace, they’d reach the squad’s position in about five minutes.

  “Here they come. Remember, this is nothing. We’ve all done this before, so keep your heads in the game.”

  The problem was that most of his Marines hadn’t done this before, not against an actual opponent. Half of his squad had been civilians eight months ago, called up in the wartime draft. This was the first time in over three hundred years that the Corps was not 100% voluntary. Officially, the Marine Corps had not lowered its standards, but Hondo wasn’t sure that all of his Marines would have made it through boot camp before the surge.

  “Wolf, watch Pickerul,” he passed on the P2P.

  PFC Tammy Pickerul was one of the weaker members of the squad, and her pulse was racing. Hondo didn’t need the Marine to panic and expose them all to the advancing enemy.

  “Roger that. She’ll be fine,” Corporal Curtis “Wolf” Johnson, the First Team leader, replied.

  I hope so.

  Hondo switched his scanners back on the squad for a moment. There was barely a reading that there were 13 Marines and a Navy corpsman waiting in the snow. Hopefully, no one else would know they were there, either.

  He switched back. The “ghosts” were becoming more pronounced. There were eight of them, which was expected, moving quickly and using the weather as cover. Three hundred meters away, they were within range of the Marine weapons, but Hondo held off. He could employ his weapons systems without visuals, but he wasn’t sure how the blizzard would affect the light M99 hypervelocity darts or the M48’s target acquisition lenses. He wanted them in his kill zone so they’d have no chance to escape his ambush.

  Keep coming, he tried to will them along.

  He’d been concerned that with so much frontage, they’d pick another route to the high ground. But here they were, heading right into his trap.

  “Steady,” he passed over the net as the opposing forces reached 200 meters.

  This was in-your-face range on the modern battlefield. Hondo still held off, however. With the elements affecting them in ways he just couldn’t calculate, he wanted to leave nothing to chance. He’d risk the Marines being spotted first.

  The decision was taken out of his hands. On his display, he could see that the opposition force had broken into a run, charging the right leg of the ambush.

  “Open fire!” Hondo passed as he fired his M90, letting the scope AI target the still-unseen ghosts.

  All around him, Marines fired with hypervelocity darts, 30mm rockets, and 40mm grenades. Two Marines’ avatars grayed out, KIA, but five of the ambushees fell to the withering fusillade.

  We’re going to do it, he exulted as he targeted the left-most surviving Klethos.

  He poured over a hundred darts into her, trying to overwhelm her defenses, his inner warrior singing a battle cry. He knew he should hold back and direct his fire teams, but at this point, the team leaders should know what to do, and Hondo couldn’t restrain himself. He wanted to tally a kill.

  His incoming alarm shocked him out of his battle lust. He was being targeted. He superman-jumped to the right, landing in a deep pile of snow, and spun around. Four ghosts registered right behind him. Hondo switched to his grenade, but before he could fire, his display whited out, and all his weapons went offline.

  “Shit!” he screamed into his dead mic.

  A moment later, the display ghost coalesced into an actual Klethos warrior as she ran past him, intent on hunting more Marines.

  Where the hell did they come from? Hondo wondered. They had three quads? Klethos don’t do that.

  But they did. And they’d used two quads to spring the expected ambush, somehow sneaking in the third to ambush the ambushers.

  Hondo was KIA, out of it, but he could watch what was going on as both Marines and Klethos fell. As the squad leader, this was on him, and to be caught like that wasn’t going to stand him well. He’d fallen victim to over-confidence. He’d assumed that the Klethos would act in one way and ignored other possibilities.

  Wi
thin moments, two of his three team leaders were KIA as well. It was up to Wolf, Doc, and two Marines to take out the remaining two Klethos. Watching on his display, Hondo could see that the corporal was letting his Marines get maneuvered to the restricted ground higher up in the gully, and he let out a scream of frustration at not being able to send out a warning.

  “All hands, all hands, return to your camps immediately,” came over his comms. “This means humans and Klethos. I repeat, all hands, human and Klethos, cease training and return to your camps immediately.”

  Hondo’s PICS came to life, restoring all functions. He didn’t know what was going on, but orders were orders.

  “First Squad, the exercise is over. Form up on me.”

  On his display, he could see the two remaining Klethos continue their attack. he switched to the range freq, then keyed in the Klethos leader.

  “This is Sergeant McKeever. Did you get the orders to stop the exercise and get back to camp?”

  “Affirmative. I am retrieving our warriors,” she responded.

  Which was sometimes easier said than done. It could be difficult to regain control over a Klethos warrior in full battle fury. During exercises like this, the Klethos were not allowed to take their swords or pikes into the fight, and their rifles were simply turned off when the AIs determined they’d been killed. They might still be in warrior-mode, but there wasn’t much they could do to a Marine in a PICS.

  “Nice job, by the way. I never expected that you had three quads with you,” he passed to the Klethos squad leader.

  “We’re learning to be more devious,” she said with what Hondo could swear was a smug tone.

  Hell, I guess that’s good news, he had to admit, even if he was pissed to have suffered the brunt of it.

  Hondo didn’t know who would have won in the end, but he’d have bet on Wolf and the rest. But who “won” an exercise was not the issue; as the squad leader, he should have been better prepared for a flanking force. It was a lesson learned, but an embarrassing one.

  “Sergeant McKeever, return at Run Alpha,” Lieutenant Singh passed to him.

  “Roger that.”

  “Run Alpha” was the nickname for the fastest speed given the terrain, and in this case, the weather. Whatever was up, the command wanted everyone back ASAP. Hondo looked up to the sky, half-expecting to see the light spheres of descending Grubs. He’d been on Purgamentium when the Grubs had attacked, and he’d been lucky to survive. With fewer than 150 Marines on the planet, he doubted they’d be able to survive a Grub landing.

  “Let’s move it,” he ordered as the last of his squad reached them.

  In a loose column of twos, he led the squad back. He couldn’t see much, not even the ground in front of him, so he had to rely on the PICS’ ability to remain upright no matter the footing.

  “What’s up?” Sergeant Cara Riordan, the Second Squad leader, asked him over the P2P.

  “Don’t know. How far are you out?”

  “Forty-two klicks, and it’s snowing like a son of a bitch here.”

  “We’re in whiteout here, too. We’re sixteen klicks, though, so I’ll beat you back. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “We didn’t even see our Klucks. How about you?”

  “We’d just engaged when we got the recall. I think we would’ve won,” he said.

  Well, technically, we might have won. I don’t have to tell her about getting caught with my pants down.

  “Good on you,” she replied.

  “They’re learning, though,” he added, feeling a little guilty. “Gave us a good fight.”

  “As big and tough as they are, they’re still not Marines. Well, we’ve got a long ways, so I’ll see you in the rear with the gear.”

  “Roger that. See you.”

  Forty-two klicks weren’t particularly far. A Marine in a PICS could make that in less than an hour in good conditions. With the blizzard, however, Hondo thought it might take Second Squad almost two to get back. He and First Squad would be back long before that.

  He’d just settled into Run Alpha when Lieutenant Singh opened up the P2P and said, “I’m switching over to live-arms, Sergeant. I’m leaving the hot switch on, too, but giving you control.”

  Hondo nearly stumbled in surprise, his gyros whining to keep him upright and moving. During training, the PICS were in training mode, with energy beams barely registering at 1% output and slug-throwers simulated. Switching over to “live-arms” meant that the lieutenant was powering up the energy weapons and releasing the magazines for rounds. In three minutes, the PICS would be fully combat-capable, only needing Hondo to release each PICS’ AI to go hot.

  “What’s going on, Lieutenant?” he asked, trying to see through the blizzard to spot descending Grubs.

  His display lit up with each of his three team leaders trying to connect via P2P, wondering why their PICS’ weapons systems were powering up. Hondo ignored them for the moment.

  “We’ve got a problem back here,” the lieutenant said. “Pick up the speed. I need you here ASAP.”

  What kind of “problem?” You’re not telling me shit.

  There had to be a reason the lieutenant was being tight-lipped; Hondo just couldn’t imagine why.

  “Roger that. I’m going to go Risk Five.”

  “Go to twenty,” the lieutenant ordered.

  Twenty? This is serious.

  Run Alpha had a ten percent safety cushion. At a Risk 20, there was a realistic chance that he could lose a PICS by pushing the terrain and weather.

  “Roger, that, sir. We’re on our way.”

  He gave the order to the AI, and he could feel a tiny surge as each step he made covered slightly more ground.

  “First Squad, listen up. As you can see, we’re going live. I’ve still got the hot switch, but we need to be ready for something back at camp. Before you ask, I don’t know what’s happening, only that we’ll be the first ones there, so be ready for anything.

  “I’ve also gone to Risk Twenty on Run Alpha. Let’s all make it back without a breakdown, so, no chatter. Unless you’ve got a problem powering up, I don’t want to hear from you. Concentrate on your movement.”

  The AIs were handling the mechanics of the run back, but Marines weren’t simply passengers. They, not the AIs, fought the PICS. If staying alert could otherwise keep a PICS moving, then he wanted their full concentration on the run.

  That means you, too, he had to remind himself as his mind raced with possibilities.

  He reached the higher ground, and each stride lengthened. He was running at close to 40 KPH, which was pushing it given the conditions, but his PICS seemed to handle it OK. Halfway back to camp, the blinding conditions improved as the blizzard faded, and he could actually see the ground in front of him. He was tempted to goose up the risk limit, but he was already pushing it, and with only another six or seven clicks, saving a minute didn’t seem worth the risk.

  Ten minutes later, the camp’s expedition shelters loomed out of the waning snow.

  “I’m at the front of the gym,” the lieutenant passed to him. “Come in strong and meet me there. Do not go weapons hot, though. I want your impact, but no accidents.”

  It’d be nice if you told me what’s going on.

  “Roger that. We’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Hondo switched to the squad net and passed, “I’m not sure what the situation is, but the lieutenant wants us to make an impact. Form on me, squad wedge. First Team, right, Second, middle, and Third, left. Do it now.”

  Within moments, the Marines had shifted to the wedge. Hondo started to move out, leading the squad between the expeditionary shelters towards the big Class D shelter, a large expanse that housed supplies, the armory, and the PICS shack. The Marines had put together some field-expedient weights that were kept in the corner, and it also had the largest protected open space in the camp, big enough for a b-ball or rocket game. That was why they simply called it the “gym.”

  As they came around
the corner, Hondo could see the lieutenant and the staff sergeant, dressed in cold-weather gear, and two Marines in PICS. Facing them, ten meters away, were 15 soldiers, all bundled up in heavy cold-weather gear as well. Behind the visitors, a Malakh personnel carrier sat, its GET-70 gun almost, but not quite, pointing at the lieutenant. Hondo could feel the tension in the air.

  “Is someone else coming here for training?” Wolf asked, as Hondo led them well around the other soldiers to fall in beside the lieutenant and staff sergeant.

  “Not that I know of,” Hondo answered. “Can you tell who they are?”

  “Not with all the cold-weather gear covering their uniforms. But those are GE-55’s,” he said.

  “Which a quarter of all armies use, like the Malakh,” Hondo said before it dawned on him. “Shit, they’re Brotherhood.”

  “We’re not in—” Wolf responded, before the lieutenant cut him off over his personal amplifier.

  “I trust training was good, Sergeant McKeever?”

  Hondo knew that whatever was going on had nothing to do with their training. The Marines had been very careful not to get within ten klicks of the border.

  Krakow was a split world. The larger, less-populated continent was in the Federation, while the smaller continent was an independent protectorate of the Brotherhood. The battalion was officially on the planet for cold-weather training, but it was an open secret that they were there as a reminder to the Brotherhood and the rest of the cowards that there was a war out there, one that threatened all of mankind. They might be refusing to fight, but the Grubs wouldn’t make that distinction when, not if, they made it to human space.

  “Yes, sir, it was fine,” he answered, not quite knowing what his platoon commander wanted.

  “As I said, Lieutenant Singh, we don’t care about your so-called training. It’s the Klethos. With them here with you, they are in violation of UAM 12.06.14. So, let’s stop this charade.”