Garryll Gates slumped tiredly over the mounted gun position on the buggy. He’d gained the valuable skill of steady standing on the bouncy buggy months ago when the last dropship had fallen off the radar.

“THX, drive us closer to the Lancers!” Gates said, deciding to exercise his authority and at least pretend he had a plan, unlike the tactician who’d thought this was a good idea.

“Lancer lead!” Gates called to the other man at the machine gun on his buggy. “We will distract any forces heckling the platoon; you will punch a hole in the outer ring and extract them. By now, half or more of a platoon is dead. You’ll have no problem getting an extra one or two men per buggy. After you’ve picked them up, signal with a flare. We’ll link up...”

Gates consulted the paper map of the area he had tucked in his belt. “Here. It’ll get us back on the highway and is an excellent chokepoint. We’ll hold them there if they persist.”

“And here I was, thinking we’d be heroes...”

“I’m already a damn hero. I didn’t need deployment on this hellhole to cement that fact,” Gates returned. The Lancer squad leader was a lower rank than Gates, and he’d followed Garryll’s orders whenever they were given. This time, he chuckled at the words, though they both knew they were only half in jest.

Gates went over the shambled collection of weapons he currently had on his person. An E-11 was his main armament, and, despite the model being old as sin and his exceedingly low opinion of it, was the most reliable thing that could be found in Phoenix’s depleted armory. A heavy revolver rode his hip, but he only had a few reloads left for it. Specialized slug rounds like the ones required for the heavy hand cannon were few in coming in, and he’d used his status to grab a few when the last resupply had happened. His trophy Bowie knife, nicked and battered from extensive all-around use, stayed in the battered sheath on his shoulder.

His armor was heavily wind-blown, cracked, dented and charred in places from the frequent and incessant combat all over the landmass. The dead had contributed well to the suit, which was less his original suit than others’. Only a few broken red streaks marked him as Blackajack’s leader. Sand had smeared into the suit, turning the pristine whites and reds into broken shades of brown and grey.

“Final weapons check,” Gates muttered, holding up his gun and miming maintenance to it. The inter-comlink of their suits had long since run out of batteries, and an ad hoc combination of hand-signs and bawled orders when appropriate had evolved.

“Twenty seconds!” Gates yelled, holding up two fingers, then zero. He spread a hand and waved at the Lancers, away from him. “Lancers, spread out and hunker down! Move on your initiative! We will distract the enemy!”

The Lancer lead formed the standard “a-ok” signal, his index finger and thumb forming a circle while his other three fingers splayed out.

Over the hill, the sounds of combat could be heard. Staccato exchanges of gunfire formed the main noise, and the occasional wump of a mortar or two firing and the whistle and explosion of the small bombs hitting the ground.

“Sweep around to the west; we’ll take them from the opposite direction of Lancer.”

“Roger that,” THX said over his shoulder and turned the wheel. The buggy bounced over rocks in the sand, its large wheels uninhibited by the obstacles.

“Wait. Stop.”

A dip in the hill gave Gates a clear view of the battlefield. The majority of the gunfire was coming from the west and south of the remnants of the Imperial platoon, who were sheltered behind the burning hulk of an APC.

“Turn us around, and then disembark. We’ll be huge-ass targets in these things.”

OOC:

Disembarked, about to engage. The guerillas are entrenched in rocky, hilly terrain in a desert-like area. Lancer is to the east, we’re to the south west of the combat.

The last two mortars were the main problem, now. Unfortunately, the Blackjacks had lost the element of surprise with their attack. Gates slid behind a large boulder, lasers from the Republic skirmishers kicking up sand at his feet as they tried to pick him off.

“You can’t kill me!” Garryll laughed at their misses. “If six months of this planet haven’t killed me, you won’t be able to!”

A dead man in a ragged not-uniform sat next to Gates, his head tucked into the charred remains of his chest where a heavy laser had turned it into charcoal. His fist was still tight around the stock of his rifle, an old slugthrower. Gates took the weapon from the dead man’s grip and went through his pockets with a practice born from six months of hard combat and scavenging. He looped the E-11 he was using over his shoulder and popped up over cover.

“Blackjacks  - on me!” Gates bawled. The rest of his squad fell into cover, the battle truly joined. “Cover fire!”

Garryll popped up from cover and sprayed wildly with the captured rifle, emptying half the clip in mere seconds. “Moving!”

He’d planned his next move based on the brief view he’d taken over the rock, and sprinted a few meters to his left, sliding into the rock. He sprayed some more gunfire until the clip ran dry. He’d neglected to take the extra clips from the dead man, but realized that there was a grenade launcher underslung. With a quick aim and fire, the little explosive bomb flew halfway up the slope and blew up, sending a man screaming down the hill, filled with fragments.

Corvin moved up the hill, his heavy DH-17 banging heavily as he fired it from the hip. Saphira moved up after him, but slid in the slick gravel of the hill, crashing heavily to the dirt near Gates’ position, her breath wooshing out. Gates leaned over and snagged her by the torso plate and dragged her behind cover, moving instantly to save a comrade.

“Trying to cop a feel?” Saph joked. Gates shook his head in disgust, amazed and annoyed that her sharp tongue hadn’t been worn down after six brutal months. Every one in the squad had saved the others dozens of times in firefights, regardless of how their personalities grated one another.

“No. Cover me.”

“Yessir,” Saph said, her helmet long gone and the head-tails of her race hanging down her back.

Gates crashed into a shallow depression and peeked over the edge of his little trench. A half-dozen guerrillas were scattered around the top of the hill, only a dozen feet away from him. Gates wormed his way forwards, trying to get a little bit closer. His squad mates had the majority of the Republic soldiers’ attention, but Gates knew how fast the guerrillas would switch aim to a running target. The mortar was only a few feet beyond the peak of the hill.

Garryll sighed and pulled one of the few, preciously hoarded grenades off of his belt webbing. He yanked the pin and chucked it far to his left, where the greatest concentration of enemies seemed to be. The explosion spat fire and death, but didn’t kill anyone. It hadn’t been intended to, though, as Gates took off, arms pumping as he threw himself up the hill, calves burning as he practically fell up the hill. The mortar still banged every few seconds as the simple weapon thumped away at the platoon’s beleaguered position.

Gates rolled to his feet and levelled his E-11 at the mortar crew. The spotter wasn’t like last time. He was warily checking around, and aimed at Gates when he appeared. Gates was faster or at least luckier, and the man’s wild first shots missed as Garryll rolled. He managed to get a wild shot out and put several holes in the spotter, the man collapsing with three massive burns in his chest. The gunner and the loader reached for their rifles and dove away.

Gates tracked after the gunner, bolts spitting from his rifle and taking him in the chest. The man rolled off the hill, smoke rising from the injuries. The other man was trying to aim his weapon at Garryll when he was lined up in the Sergeant Major’s sights.

Blackjack’s SL pulled the trigger.

And then again. And again.

“Oh nads.”

The rebel looked as though some deity had smiled at him, and then he aimed his rifle. Gates threw the empty E-11 at the man, knocking his aim off enough to make the laser hit the dirt instead of his body. He tried to re-aim, but by then, Gates was all over him, bearing down on him with 90 kilos of lean muscle and dented plastoid. The blaster went off, and Gates felt the bolt slice through his battered set of armor and burn his side as it hissed past.

This rebel wasn’t a slouch, or he wouldn’t have lived this long, and he slammed the pistol into the side of Gates’ head hard enough to make the Stormtrooper see stars, and when his grip momentarily loosened, he kicked him hard in the gut.

Garryll’s armor took the brunt of it, but the lower torso armor was more flexible than stiff, and he still felt it in the pit of his stomach, and he reeled back to his feet. The rebel guerrilla aimed his pistol at him, but Gates stomped hard on his extended shin, hard enough to hear the snap. The man howled in pain and missed again, at point-blank range. His unbroken leg snapped at Garryll’s leg and made him stumble, long enough for the rebel to try to roll to the edge and escape, blood seeping from his injuries.

Gates regained his balance and ripped the 30-centimeter blade from his shoulder harness, and stomped on the rebel’s gunhand. The man howled in pain again, but that was cut off when Gates leaned over and slit his throat, arterial blood splattering all over his gloves, staining the once-pristine white with red-rust color. By now, the rest of Blackjack had neutralized the rest of the rebels or at least scattered them, and were making their way up to the top of the hill.

“One more down. One to go. Finish this last one and the Lancers can move in against infantry.”

"Got it, Boss." Corvin panted as he pulled himself up onto the hilltop, rifle held tightly in one hand. The words stung as they came out of his mouth, which was still slightly numb from his fall.

Squatting, he reached down and gave the Blackjack behind him a helping hand. The other stormtrooper took it and clambered up, then stood. Around them, the rest of the squad climbed up one by one. Corvin turned to face Garryll, ignoring the wind tugging at the cloth around his face.

Clouds of grit and sand swirled around the stormtroopers, shrouding them from view, as the wind intensified.

"Lancer'd b-"

There was a brief flash of light, and a nearby boulder exploded into hundreds of rock fragments. Corvin's goggles darkened automatically in response to the glare.

Every Blackjack trooper reacted instantly, dropping to the ground almost as soon as the shot hit. Six months before, Corvin might have yelled an alert or looked around for the shooter. Thyveck had taught him, and the rest of the squad, better.

"Sniper. Shot came from the mortar position." Garryll said tersely, lips moving as little as possible to avoid swallowing the wind-blown grit. "Four at my angle, right hill of the pair."

Another shot whistled by, this one going wide and detonating against another hill. A third shot whistled into the slope below. The sniper was getting frustrated, his vision obscured by the dust the wind had blown up, and was trying to flush the squad out of hiding.

Blackjack knew better than to respond.

Pressed flat against the ground, he carefully pushed his rifle forwards from where it lay under one hand, moving it into a firing position and pressing one goggle eyepiece against the rifle's scope. Corvin knew without looking that the other troopers were doing the same. His heart pounding in a rapid double-beat, he lay among the rocks and stones, watching, hiding.

Corvin let the DH-17's barrel drift to the right, left eye closed as he focused on the view through the sight. It was a familiar design, stripped from an E-11 by the rifle's original, native owner and crudely welded in place.

The local had grafted a folding stand behind the barrel, too, but 56 had pried that off again as dead-weight. Now, as he scanned the barren hills for the glint of metal or the distinctive curve of a mortar, Corvin cursed the man for it.

A stand would have made holding the weapon easier, would have helped him to get a more accurate shot off. One shot would be all he had, anyway, before the sniper roasted him with his return shots. Whatever the rebel had, it was a nasty piece of work.

Another shot hissed into the hillside, gouging a blackened crater into the dirt. The shooter was getting desperate.

From what it had done to the rock, it was definitely a military-issue weapon, perhaps even stormtrooper-issue. Corvin felt a brief flash of anger at the thought of one of Phoenix company's fallen being looted for weapons, his fingers momentarily tightening on the rifle grip before he forced the thought out of his mind.

There was a bright flash, partially obscured by the dust, in one corner of the scope's field of view, followed by a puff of smoke that vanished into the wind. Corvin looked closer, and saw humanoid figures moving along the rocks, along with a camouflaged mortar.

"Targets spotted." he announced, a note of grim satisfaction in his voice.

"Do you have a shot on the sniper?" Garryll asked. The E-11s most of the squad was toting were regular Army-issue and worn-out to boot. The DH-17 was the closest thing the squad had to a sniper rifle.

Corvin hesitated, index finger curled around the rifle's trigger. Then his aim wavered from side to side as the wind tugged at the barrel, and the decision was made for him.

"Negative on that. Wind's too strong for a killshot with this thing."

"Stang." Garryll sighed. "Looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way. The Blackjack way."

Flat behind a nearby boulder, THX groaned.

"We're out of time and options," Garryll explained grimly. "And Lancer's waiting. On my mark, make for the bottom of their hill. We'll try again up close."

The wind died down with a last, mournful howl.

"Move!"

OOC:

So the squad's currently running for the bottom of the hill they're on, up to the hill the mortar position is on, and taking it out from there, either through a firefight or another assault.

The buggy bounced across the wasteland, the pitch of its low-maintenance engine wavering with each pothole and bump. Corvin didn't like what that sound meant, and liked this Valthir's driving even less, but there was little he could do about either until they stopped again. 

Ghant had always been the Blackjack who got along best with the buggies; all of them had learned how to fix and drive them to some degree, but he'd managed to get the temperamental little machines to do things no one else, rebel or stormtrooper, could. Rohan Ghant was gone though, dead and stripped clean on the hillside miles behind them. He'd be missed for a while by the Blackjacks, then forgotten. What else could they do? It wasn't as though he was the first.

Reflexively, Corvin flexed his newly-armoured right hand. The gauntlet was a faded red, with a bare patch where Galth had blocked a knife last week. Corvin made a point of not looking at it, mind determinedly blank. It didn't take much of an effort, especially not after the desperate charges of the last firefight.

For now, Corvin simply held onto the machine gun's handlebars, as much to keep his grip as anything else, and dug his boots into footholds under the driver's seat. At his position next to the rear wheels, he felt each impact with painful intensity.

Corvin hated playing buggy gunner, especially for some outsider.

Strangely, Corvin felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at his irritation. He'd hated the damn things from the get-go, and he clung to the fact that this, at least, hadn't changed over six months and hells-knew how many skirmishes.

He'd been on the verge of cracking before Blackjack had come here. He'd started seeing things, making obvious mistakes, and, worst of all, had started to slip up and let the rest of the squad see just how deep the problems went. The leave hadn't helped much: it'd simply made it clear just how close he was to the brink.

Thyveck had probably kept him sane. Here, you had to be on non-stop combat readiness, and it paid to shoot first and check later. If it wasn't for the climate, and if there hadn't been so many beings out for his blood, Corvin might have been at home.

The wind had died down now, leaving an eerie near-silence. Thybeck was barren, with little or no native wildlife. As the group of buggies drove on, there was only the shriek of the buggy engine, the crunching of grit against its tires, and the clacking of pebbles against the sides. Occasionally, a pebble would clack off his armour or the buggy's wire frame.

There was a thump as Vathir's buggy bounced off the side of a particularly large rock, and Corvin grunted as he was thrown against the wire side frame. Strings of power packs and assorted supplies jangled merrily as they bounced off the sides.

"Where the hells did you learn to drive?" Corvin demanded, clinging to the frame with one hand as he spoke. Vathir ignored him, instead swinging them around to the right side of THX's four-man buggy. The man seemed to be in a constant post-combat slump, something Corvin was intimately familiar with after six months. It was the closest the squad usually came to proper rest.

The three buggies shot across the landscape, leaving a fan of powdery dust in their wake. Far behind them, another cloud was barely visible against the landscape. The squad was still being pursued.

Wrestling the gun around to the left as he turned, Corvin squinted at the scene, his goggles protecting him from the worst of the dust. There seemed to be four or five buggies following them, mostly the longer four-seat types. After their first rocket had misfired earlier, they'd evidently come back for another try.

As Corvin watched, there was a flash from the lead vehicle, followed by a streak of a black smoke and an explosion off to the left. One of the rebels had fired off another rocket, despite being far out of range, and it had spiraled off. Corvin might have found it funny at another time, but it only took one working rocket to ruin your day.

"Persistent frakkers." he muttered, turning the gun to point at the group full-on. He hesitated as he aimed at the group, thumbs hovering over the firing studs, but took them off after a moment's thought. They were still too far out of range.

Abruptly, Vathir jerked the buggy around in response to a shouted order from Garryll, tyres squealing in protest as the vehicle spun in circles. Corvin yelped in protest as he lost his grip, slammed into the rail, then tumbled over the side, head barely missing the rear wheel as he fell.

He landed heavily on the rocky ground, head jerking back with a crack. For the second time that day, Corvin wavered in and out of consciousness. Dimly, he heard a screech from nearby as Valthir's buggy came to a complete stop, followed by the sound of the other two stopping as well.

Gasping for breath, Corvin pulled himself up, relieved that he'd dropped his rifle in his fall. If he'd landed on that, he might have broken his back. Picking it up and standing, he stormed over to the three buggies.

Valthir was still sitting in his buggy as the Blackjacks set up around and behind the man-sized boulders scattered across this area of the wasteland.

"What're you playing at, you stupid frakking-" Corvin roared, raising his rifle as he shouted.

"Sarn!" Garryll yelled. "We don't have time for this! Get into position!"

Corvin hesitated, knuckles white around his weapon's grip, then lowered it and nodded.

"On it!"

"Positions, Blackjack!" Garryll yelled as the blurs that were the enemy buggies seemed to grow and grow. The buzz of their engines made itself heard, ringing in Corvin's ears. "You know the drill: launchers and gunners first!"

None of the troopers responded, but it was clear that they understood. Saphira swung herself up onto the vaccant gun of the third buggy, headtails flying from side to side as she expertly manned the heavy weapon. Finnegan Heth nodded to Corvin as he crouched behind the same boulder.

"Same old?" the red-bearded, scarred trooper said quietly, pushing a clip into a battered slug rifle as he did so. Corvin simply nodded. He never was quite sure how to answer Finnegan's questions.

Finnegan was an ex-Army trooper, and the latest to accompany Blackjack. The squad ran into them from time to time, deserters, troopers who'd gotten lost,and last survivors. Some tagged along with the "Ghosts" instead of going back, and if Command knew about it, they'd never raised the issue. Corvin vaguely liked Finnegan: the man was reliable, if a bit strange, and a decent shot for regular Army material.

"Here they come, all ahurry..." Finnegan muttered quietly, finger on his rifle's trigger and eye pressed against the glass sight.

A slugshot exploded into the sand as a rebel's shot went wide, and Blackjack opened up in response a moment later.

“Find cover and fill it up. Fire on my order only!” Gates said. After these brutal months of death and constant fighting, no one needed an explanation why. Munitions were always conserved unless otherwise ordered, and there was no occassion that extra ammunition would be expended in some pointless firefight like the one they were lining up for.

Gates was half-ducked, moving amongst the Blackjacks and their vehicles. The spot he’d chosen for their counter-attack was textbook; the sorry excuse for a road they’d been travelling on was the easiest way across the desert, and Lancer had passed this way on their way back to base. It tightened into a thin road that was bordered by rocky hills to either side. It was a defender’s dream and an attacker’s nightmare.

Blackjack’s buggies were parked behind larger rocks, their gunners leaning over their heavy slug-throwers, the fat, brass slugs on their feeds drooping off the weapons. The rest of Blackjack was sheltering in cover behind rocks or a short ditch that would serve as a trench.

“You, Valthir!” Gates barked, pointing at the new arrival. The man jolted, and turned to face the SL. He seemed a little more responsive now, at least. “Take your position if you want to survive this fight, trooper!”

Gates pushed the man into cover third in line. He neither knew nor cared why he was getting another body, but the man wore an Imperial uniform and he wasn’t fighting them, those were the things that mattered on this planet.

Bullets zipped through the air, poorly-aimed shots from the guerrillas that were rapidly approaching. Gates ducked anyway; better safe than sorry. Another rocket fell pathetically short, the explosion dozens of meters in front of the Blackjack’s positions. Garryll moved over to his own position, and braced his rifle on the rock. Pity Ghant wasn’t around anymore, but at least Blackjack’s SL wasn’t making do with the obsolete E-11 anymore, having replaced it with the deceased trooper’s slugthrower assault rifle. He flicked the safety off and to semi-automatic.

“Hold, hold hold,” Gates said, rangefinder in his scope ticking down. His eye followed the bouncing of one open-top two-seater buggy that was eager enough to be barrelling straight down the center of the road. The rangefinder beeped at two hundred meters, the maximum effective range of his rifle. Every real soldier worth his shoulder pips knew that maximum range was under optimum conditions. In a wasteland, dry, filled with grit and a rifle that was years old, that was not optimum.

“Hold...” Gates said again. Another rocket roared past, this time over their heads. The rebel with the rocket launcher hadn’t adjusted for the speed of his buggy and his second shot was as poor as his first. The lead vehicle crossed the 150-meter mark. Gates gave the order, “Open up. Single shots, ladies.”

The first volley was devastating. On Thyveck, the Imperial forces had had months to refine their combat skills; running and gunning, sprinting and fighting dirty came natural as breathing to them now. Set-position shooting was among the basics at the Academy, and the Blackjacks wiped out a half-dozen men with their first shots. The rebels had been driving in more-or-less straight lines and died for their haste and incaution. Gates’ own shot took his target - the driver of the lead buggy - in the upper right of his chest, causing the buggy to swerve and flip, snapping the gunner’s neck and spine, and killing him instantaneously. Other gunners slumped, and the rocketeer spasmed as he died, another missile flying into the air.

“These aren’t veterans,” remarked Finnegan, next to Gates’ ASL.

“No,” Garryll agreed. “Veterans never chase us Ghosts of Thyveck. They’ve learned not to mess with us ‘cause we’ll kill ‘em.”

He spoke dryly, matter-of-fact. No longer did he brag about his ability to slaughter his enemies; the planet had distilled his ego out of him, replacing it with efficiency and calculation. Gates re-aimed, but the surviving drivers began to wheel about at random, seeking to make themselves harder targets. “No matter,” Gates muttered, then raised his voice in order. “Fire at will. Send these poor bastards to hell.”

The group of buggies bounced down the rough-shod road. Gates was an indifferent driver, and had only been forced into the driver’s seat of the plethora of buggies for a few months. Blackjack’s LAAT/i dropship had been amongst the last to fall out of the sky, and they’d been ground-bound for only three months.

The road they were travelling on was a straight shot back to the local city, Krad, and its Imperial garrison. Gates double-checked it on the map just to be sure. According to the map, this highway was only a minor road, the only connection that some moisture farmers had to the Eastern temperate zone cities.

About ten klicks up the road, Lancer would be waiting, buggies pulled into one of the strategically-chosen caves that served as Phoenix company supply caches in the Eastern theater. They weren’t marked on any map, though all of the Phoenix company Stromtroopers who had served extensively in the east knew the coordinates.

The ten-kilometer drive took little time, their study little vehicles zipping right along the hard-packed sand that formed the highway. “Saph,” Gates said, passing his macro-binoculars to the Twi’lek gunner. “Are those raiders still behind us?”

“Nah. They cut off when they hit the massacre. Not to be screwed with, not us.”

“Good,” Gates said, pulling off the road. The ride became bumpier, but the buggy’s large wheels and heavy-duty shocks took much of the impact out of the off-roading. A cliff was only a half-kilometer off the road, and it was pocked with caves. One, at ground level, was well disguised with the artistic use of dirt, camo-tarps and rock, but was large enough to house a two squads’ worth of buggies and the squads and their gear comfortably. Gates slowed as he approached, finally rolling into the cave carefully.

Two of Lancer squad appeared, rifles in hand, but they relaxed at the familiar sight of Gates’ battered armor. “You made it, sir!” said one.

“Indeed we did,” Gates responded, pulling the buggy into the parking area and clambering out. “Help me with these supplies, corporal. Private, you go get the rest of the squad, spare anyone who can help us unload.”

The private nodded and withdrew deeper into the cave. Meanwhile, the other Blackjack buggies had rolled in, and their occupants had hopped out. “Unload the extra stuff, Blackjacks! See if Lancer needs anything we’ve got!”

A few more Lancers walked in, and the cave bustled with activity as they unloaded the buggies, sorted the supplies the Blackjacks had scavenged, and prepped for departure again. Lancer’s SL was next to Gates. Gates nodded deeper into the cave, where the the squads slept and where their small medical supplies were stored. “How’s the patrol looking?”

“They’ll all live once we get them to the Imperial garrison. Though we should leave soon, obviously.”

“Yeah. Oh, we found another long-range radio,” Gates said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “That makes three, finally. We can link this hub up with both squads, now.”

“Finally. I’ll leave three men here to make sure we can hold on to all this gear while we take the rest back to Krad.”

“Sounds good. Let’s load up and get back on the road right now, then,” Gates said, depositing the last box of cartridges in the pile. “They can store this stuff, too.”

He raised his voice. “Let’s roll out, Blackjack, Lancer!”

*** *** *** *** ***
An hour after the order was given, the two squads rolled into Krad. It remained a calm spot, firmly in Imperial hands. Imperial forces still patrolled the area, hoping to keep it from turning into another Juresh and being a hotbed of anti-Imperial activity.

The patrol’s leader, a First Sergeant, flashed his ID to the garrison gate guards, and were let through without further trouble. Blackjack and Lancer’s buggies rolled into the concrete enclosure. They parked in the vehicle area, and the patrol disembarked, nodding thanks to the Phoenix Stromtroopers. The main building’s door hissed open at the same time, and four men walked out. Gates looked up and removed his shooter’s glasses, cursing under his breath. He clambered out of the driver’s seat of the buggy and raised his index and middle fingers over his right shoulder and made a ‘come here’ gesture. Lancer’s SL and Corvin both climbed out of their buggies and stood at his shoulders.

“Second Lieutenant Shithead,” Gates said in greeting. “Where’s Captain Paige?”

“It’s Second Lieutenant Shindler, thank you, Second Lieutenant Gates,” responded the well-groomed officer. “Captain Paige is dead. Killed by a missile on her way to report to High Command at the Bastion.”

“So now you’re in charge?” Gates said, wincing. Paige had been a solid commander who had understood the extenuating circumstances of the planet and had turned a blind eye to the actions of Phoenix, though she had occasionally lent them supplies and intel, despite the protests of several of her junior officers. Shindler was amongst the most vocal.

Though they held the same rank, Gates held no respect for Paige’s Company Executive Officer; he’d earned his rank through merit and climbing the ranks from private; Shindler had nearly flunked out of Officer’s Academy and been gifted his rank by wealth.

“Yes,” Shindler said. “And there will be no further renegade forces in my theater of operations.”

“We’re not renegade. We’re outside the chain of command,” Gates explained. Dammit Paige, you picked a poor time to die.

“You remain Imperial forces under Imperial law and with Imperial duties," Shindler said, giving a textbook answer. "I’ll have you court-marshaled if you don’t come back under Imperial authority.”

“You mean yours,” Gates pointed out.

“In this case," Shindler admitted, "yes.”

“You seem to think that court-marshaling myself and my troops means anything to us,” Gates snapped. It would have meant everything to them only six months ago, but now, it was just words. “We’ll leave this planet without your commands, and we’ll be back in uniform and in the line of duty far sooner than you think.”

“I’ll send it right up the line, right up to Tadath command!" Shindler responded, raising his voice. "I don’t think even one of Phoenix’s precious alumni generals can turn his nose from a direct violation of orders!”

Gates gripped the man by his well-pressed grey uniform and lifted until he was standing on his tiptoes. “We are bound by duty. But our orders when we deployed on this hellhole didn’t involve taking orders from fools, like you and all the other goddamn officers on this planet.”

“Careful. You can’t treat your superiors like this,” Shindler said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

“Bullshit. You’re not my superior. Last I checked, my rank pins were the exact same as yours, and you’re only an XO. An XO’s a nothing."

“I can issue orders when the Command Officer cannot be located in the event of death, Gates.”

“Screw you, Shindler,” Gates spat back. “You don’t get it.” Shindler’s thugs, thick garrison troopers, hesitantly stepped forwards. Gates stabbed them with an icy look that brooked no argument, and the expressions of the Stormtroopers and even some of the army troopers agreed with Blackjack’s SL. He dropped Shindler and pushed him, making the man stumbled back, gripping the neck of his uniform.

“You’ll pay for that...”

“How?” Gates laughed. “How? Prison would even be better than this crap!”

“It doesn’t matter. Follow my orders and we’ll get along.”

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“Patrol Six -”

“These guys?” Gates pointed at the shot-up remnants of the squad they'd rescued.

Shindler plodded on, “- was intercepting a supply drop in the wastelands.”

Gates cut in again - “Big deal. There’ve been sympathizers in this sub-sector for months -”

“The care package was -”

“Did you say care package? What the hell does that mean, some kind of holo-game term?” the SL mocked.

“-intended for the Republic commandos that command says have been -”

“Corvin, he doesn’t even understand - wait."

“Ah, finally,” Shindler said, pleased.

“You said Commandos. We’re the only goddamn Ghosts of Thyveck. No one told me.”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“Where is it?” Gates asked, ice-calm. He hated being used this way. He hated it.

“So you’ll follow my orders-”

“Tell me.” His voice booked no argument.

Shindler wilted. “Co-ordinates sector 6, 15A-37E.”

“That’s the mountains. Shit.”

“So you’ll be following -” Shindler was interrupted again as he tried to regain the initiative.

“Screw you, Shindler. You don’t know how to soldier. We’ll show you how it’s done, so get out of my way. I’ve got so-called commandos to kill.”

Valthir watched the exchange carefully, dividing his attention between his SL and the other man, who appeared to be the new Company Commander. Garryll was growing increasingly furious while the other man seemed to keep relatively calm.

But he does look slightly nervous. He keeps shifting his balance from foot to foot and based on how his arms are moving every so slightly, he’s probably wringing his hands. Maybe he is afraid of Garryll, or of all of us combined. I assume that he has heard of the . . . reputation that we Ghosts have earned.

The conversation pushed on, with the Company Commander steadily growing visibly uneasy. It was turning into a verbal sparring match, with each participant vying for control. As each cut off the other, Shindler began to seem more confident.

Must have something to do with the direction the conversation is taking. Not a good sign, all things considered. But why does he keep switching emotions? It’s like he is going from one extreme to the other. Some mental disorder? Based on Garryll’s words to him, that very well could be a possibilty. Then again, he only seems to be doing at certain times. Odd.

“Patrol Six -”

“These guys?” Gates gestured off to the side.

Shindler continued, “- was intercepting a supply drop in the wastelands.”

“Big deal. There’ve been sympathizers in this sub-sector for months -”

“The care package was -”

“Did you say care package? What the hell does that mean, some kind of holo-game term?” the SL mocked.

“-intended for the Republic commandos that command says have been -”

“Corvin, he doesn’t even understand - wait."

Wait. Commandos? I thought there were only guerrillas and bandits out here. Not fully trained Republic commandos.

“Ah, finally,” Shindler said, pleased.

“You said Commandos. We’re the only goddamn Ghosts of Thyveck. No one told me.”

“You didn’t need to know.”

“Where is it?” Gates asked slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

“So you’ll follow my orders-”

“Tell me.” He voice left no room for resistance.

Shindler caved, a little too quickly. “Co-ordinates sector 6, 15A-37E.”

“That’s the mountains. Shit.”

“So you’ll be following -” Shindler was interrupted again as he tried to regain the initiative.

“Screw you, Shindler. You don’t know how to soldier. We’ll show you how it’s done, so get out of my way. I’ve got so-called commandos to kill.”

That bastard planned this. It’s all an act. Well, maybe not the commandos thing, but he definitely aimed this conversation towards that topic. He wanted Garryll to find out. He wanted us to go into the mountains to finish what that patrol couldn’t. We’re being used.

Without another word, Garryll turned away from Shindler and strode away. Forcing down a sudden strike of anger, Valthir turned and followed. They hadn’t even been back but fifteen minutes at the most and another mission had already been assigned to them.

Valthir jogged forward, catching up to Garryll, “You do realize he just manipulated you into taking this mission, don’t you?”

Garryll didn’t even bother to look at him, “Yes. I do. Now drop it.”

“As you wish.” Valthir nodded, dropping back into the midst of Blackjack.

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The mountains. As harsh and forbidding as the desert, the only redeeming quality was the lower temperature. The mountains were steep, almost making travel across it impossible. That barely even slowed Blackjack down. The buggies were made to be all-terrain and certainly showed it, climbing the rocky terrain with little difficulty.

As they rode on, the slope gradually flattened out, until it revealed a plateau. The hard ground was littered with rocks and boulders of various sizes, ranging from a fist sized stone to a boulder that could have engulfed five buggies with room left over. The field of rocks stretched across the plateau, with very few clear areas.

To get a quick read on their bearings, Blackjack paused, idling the buggies as Garryll checked their position.

“The care package should be . . . somewhere in that area.” Garryll pointed off to the right and swept his hand around in a circular motion.

“If those commandos haven’t gotten to it first.” Dante muttered.

“True. We still need to assume that they haven’t. Spread out and be on alert. We have no way of knowing what is waiting for us.”