Warsong (Hunter-Killer #2)

Chapter 13 - Trust, Respect and Dying

Ryke had a lot of anger to go around.

In the makeshift training area in the Ozzmar base camp he worked out as much of it as he could on the sparring models. Red impact indicators blurted readings as he twisted and dove through the customised assault course, slinging fists and feet left and right as he went. Always keep moving. Always keep striking.

Fighting a Scraegan bore little resemblance to fighting a human being, and the soldiers of Brekka had their own brand of martial techniques for close quarters combat. With a weight ratio that favoured their limbs, Scraegan warriors tried to gather a head of steam, each great barnstorming swing dragging them into the next with an evolutionary fighting rhythm. Hunter-Killer pilots fought to disrupt those rhythms.

He twisted and dodged as automated sparring dummies thrummed into motion, swinging solid padded arms in his direction. Ryke ducked under one and ripped a savage elbow backwards to hit the dummy's centre target. A shrill bleep confirmed his hit. He launched forward into a roll as the arm swung back around, avoiding the swipe and smashing a forearm into the head section of another target positioned diagonally across from the first.

A healthy pain reverberated through him as his limbs crashed into the unyielding pads. Sweat ran down his cheeks and his breathing became more and more ragged as he pushed further, blocking out everything else in the world. This narrow assault course enveloped him.

"Sarge!"

At first he ignored the voice, too engrossed in the flow of combat.

"Sergeant! Ryke!"

His name yanked him back to reality. Panting for breath, he skidded to a halt, taking a moment to steady himself before looking back in the direction of the voice. He saw Preese standing on the edge of the training area, beckoning him. Hands on hips, Ryke trudged back across the training field, bringing his breathing back under control.

"What is it?" he grunted, stopping in front of his squad mate.

"Thought you ought to know, our replacement pilots have arrived," Preese said, the other pilot's young features crinkling with unease. He glanced back over his shoulder with a sigh. "Thought it might be better if you meet 'em first before the rest of the guys."

Ryke nodded, a bitter taste on his tongue. "Let's go."

Preese ran the nails of one hand through his stubble of dark hair, let out a resigned sigh and turned to lead the way. The pair strode side-by-side through the training area, past groups of militia blasting at simulated targets, Scout Cadre troops running flight simulators and technicians who were tasked with maintaining the machines.

With the initial shock of the Scraegan ambush now receding, a sense of bloody-minded determination had begun to seep through the task force's soldiers. Ryke itched to get back out into the field and exact vengeance on the creatures that had robbed him of two skilled pilots, and two friends. The deaths of Norville and Marylee felt hollow right now. He needed to prove that they'd been killed for something bigger than a desert skirmish.

He followed Preese to the Ozzmar base's loading areas where heavy crawlers had been arriving from Brekka in a steady stream over the past twenty-four hours. Floodlights rebounded off of shiny uniforms and even shinier guns as new soldiers spilled from their transports. Scout Cadre skiffs fresh off the production line glided past, hulls gleaming in the light.

"Have you seen them yet?" Ryke asked quietly as they moved through the bustle.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Two newbies from Brekka." Preese winced, as though he didn't want to say any more.

Ryke eyed him dangerously. "What is it."