Free Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1) by C.J. Carella Page A

no trauma.
    Gunnery Sergeant Obregon was mounting an impromptu rescue and the Embassy was trying to contact the Kirosha authorities to lend a hand. Problem was, the locals weren’t answering the phone and the Embassy remfies were dithering instead of authorizing the rescue mission. That kind of SNAFU wouldn’t be solved before the mob outside stormed the compound and slaughtered everyone inside.
    “Gunny, I authorize the rescue operation,” he sent out; his imp added all the requisite legalese that would turn the sentence into a formal command and would place all responsibility and blame squarely on Fromm’s shoulders. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pissed off assorted officers and gentlemen. The last time, he’d ended up assigned to Jasper-Five, and it clearly couldn’t get much worse than that.
    The Embassy woman was busy organizing the passengers as they disembarked from the bus. The Ovals from the surviving limo included three civvies in colorful robes of office, good only for catching rounds that might hit somebody useful, and a driver/bodyguard armed with a short-barreled combat laser, the kind of weapon the US still couldn’t afford to manufacture in quantity. The Oval and his ray-gun would come in handy.
    About two-thirds of the human passengers had some kind of weapon. Only about half the Rats, of course – corp-o-RAT, bureau-cRAT, city-RAT ; the immortal song’s lyrics flashed through his mind – but most of the passengers were miners or machinery operators, the kind of men and women who felt naked without something that could cut, bludgeon or shoot. McClintock directed the ones with handguns to take cover behind the vehicles scattered around the garage, where they could pick off anyone trying to climb over the razor-wire on top of the walls. For a Rat or even a spook, she was turning out to have the makings of a damn good sergeant.
    He looked around, studying the battleground at hand. The walled enclosure was a rough square, some sixty feet on each side. A cinderblock wall surrounded the perimeter, topped with the Ruddy version of concertina wire. Good enough to stop bullets and keep the rabble out, for a little while at least, although it wouldn’t prevent the mob from tossing things over it, anything from spears to hand grenades or Molotov cocktails. There were two buildings inside the perimeter, the larger one in the center; the other was a supply shack near one of the walls. The bigger structure was two stories tall, a box with a peaked roof. The upper level had a window overlooking the street.
    Fromm had his imp contact the Vehelian bodyguard, who promptly walked over to him. Ovals looked like what you’d get if you shaved a bear, replaced its head with an ostrich egg, and painted a face on its surface. The bodyguard was a particularly large specimen, a good seven feet tall and almost as wide; hopefully he’d be able to fit inside the building.
    “Follow me!” he sent out; the implant translated the order a couple of seconds later.
    “I will comply, Marine Captain,” the ET said in English.
    Fromm turned to the Ruddy driver. “Locquar, assist your boss. We’re seizing the high ground.”
    The Kirosha tilted his head sideways, his version of nodding yes. Fromm left him to it and headed for the main building, gun ready. The front door was open; Fromm took a quick peek inside. He felt horribly exposed – fucking naked –  doing a building entry evolution without backup other than an ET he hadn’t worked with before, and without grenades to clear the way. He went in, fully expecting to get shot.
    Nobody shot at him. The room had a glass counter with several auto parts on display, a couple of armchairs in a reception area, and a statue of a naked fat Ruddy riding some sort of dragon. There were no signs of life. He had to kick open a couple of doors before he found one leading to a set of stairs going up. The Oval behind him had to squeeze past a couple of tight spots, but was able to