Dominant Species Read Free Page B

that'll punch a fist-sized hole through five meters of steel. Maybe more."
    A muttered "damn" slipped from Monster's lips.
    The discovery chafed at Ridgeway's mind as he shifted his weight and drew another deep breath. While the possible implications numbered too many to count, the first course of action was clear.
    "Accelerate the prep cycle. I want the armor in pre-fight as soon as we transfer. Head-to-toe diagnostics." Ridgeway's voice became increasingly businesslike as he snapped from one point to the next.
    "Full weaps check, double-down on the commo. Max all loadouts for firepower, that goes for Stitch as well."
    "I'm on it." Monster said sharply, but his gaze seemed to linger on the Detonex. The baritone softened as he added, "Where the hell are they sending us?"
    "I don't know," Ridgeway admitted softly, suppressing his own concern as he closed the lid. "But if this is the package, you can bet it won't be pretty."
    Monster shrugged as he turned toward Ridgeway, an unexpected wink only highlighting the gleam in his eyes. "If it was pretty, they wouldn't be sending us."
    "Damn straight." Ridgeway broke into a grin, easily drawn into Monster's esprit de corps. The Major raised fist to chest and banged knuckles with the ham-sized fist that mirrored the gesture. Beneath the stretched fabric of Monster's sleeve, Ridgeway could make out the lower half of the familiar initials. DTO.
    With a final grunt that doubled for hello and goodbye, Monster turned and strode purposefully toward the rows of armor.
    The Detonex weighed heavy on Ridgeway's mind as he cut between two stacks of strapped-down containers and paused at the improvised mess area. The kitchen-in-a-box consisted of little more than a power supply, a microwave oven, and a coffee pot. The lower compartment was crammed full of vacu-sealed plastic packets of every shape and description.
    Not exactly the Ritz, Ridgeway conceded, but with a bit of water they could produce a decent facsimile of coffee or scrambled eggs, topped off with strips of compressed protein that tasted vaguely of bacon. After six or seven trips in remote storage with nothing but MREs, the RATs had taken it upon themselves to improvise a minor concession to creature comfort.
    The thermoform container marked "Spare Parts" had been an innocuous part of their caravan for the last eight Waking Years. While a clear breach of Marine regs and most quarantine protocols, Ridgeway secured the modest luxuries for his team with neither recrimination or concern. Few benefits came from serving as a very secret unit, but at least nobody looked through your luggage. The boost to morale was immeasurable.
    Hell, what do they expect anyway, Ridgeway reasoned as he poured the strong black liquid, they trained us to improvise and overcome. This is just an occupational hazard.
    His state of mind improved greatly as the aroma of steaming coffee flooded his nostrils. With aluminum mug in hand, Ridgeway angled across the bay to his own footlocker. Rounding the well-worn box he eased himself down onto one of the cots that had been spot-welded to the floor.
    Ridgeway took another long sip before he opened the lid. The case, three feet long and two feet deep, was the only permanent home Ridgeway could remember since taking command of the RAT Squad. As a highly mobile force, the marines were called upon to move from ship to ship at a moment's notice. Everything that represented Ridgeway's private life existed within the case.
    Even by military standards, his locker was spartan. Aside from a small collection of casual clothes, such as the sweats he now wore, the footlocker contained only his toiletries, a first aid kit and a personal computer. That, Ridgeway thought as his attention shifted to the inside of the open lid, and the Three Moments.
    As always he thought of Grissom when he looked at the three artifacts taped conspicuously to the inside of the lid. Saul "Grizzly" Grissom had been his first battlefield commander and grew