The Drift Wars Read Free Page A

map.
    Peter
unlinked from Mickelson’s video feed and crept off to find a good
vantage point. Two GIs peeled off and followed him, his own personal
guard.
    More
likely , Peter thought, their orders are to recover my rifle
when I get shot.
    After
five minutes of scouting, Peter found a small boulder among some
scrub ferns. He had been warned not to use rocks as cover, but he
couldn’t remember why. Meanwhile, Mickelson berated him
impatiently. Absurdly, Peter was more worried about getting bawled
out than getting shot.
    Peter
motioned to his escorts, who took up positions on either side, far
enough that they couldn’t all be killed by a single rocket. Peter
clipped his pistol to his thigh, reached over his shoulder, and drew
his rifle from its protective case. He unlocked the gun’s barrel,
extending it from the stock until it was taller than himself, and
twist-locked it into place. He popped the rubber cap from the barrel
and inspected the lens. He withdrew the battery clip, checked the
contacts, and shoved it back in, seating it with a jiggle. This
would be a synchronized attack; there was no room for mistakes.
    Peter
popped the cap off the optical scope, leaned against the rock, and
raised the long gun toward the Riel stronghold.
    —   —   —
    Peter
bent his arm and locked his combat suit’s artificial muscles,
making his hand a stable pivot for the gun’s barrel. He pressed
his visor to the rubber cone on the back of the scope, tunneling his
vision down the gun’s sights.
    The
Gyrine officer had moved, but Mickelson still had eyes on it. An
arrow appeared on the left side of Peter’s visor, and he shifted
the gun up the walkway; he then centered on the Gyrine’s chest. A
second set of crosshairs appeared near the first—the battle
computer’s suggestion of where to aim. The computer took into
account everything it knew, from the video feed of every marine’s
combat suit to the atmospheric information gathered by the
satellites. Technically, the computer-generated crosshairs were the
more accurate of the two, but a good sniper could outshoot the
computer two to one. It was instinct, as all snipers have claimed
since the invention of the rifle. But Peter wasn’t feeling any
instinct, so he just split the difference between the computer’s
crosshairs and his own.
    The
Gyrine was restless, pacing nervously, as if it could sense Peter’s
gaze. No doubt it expected an attack—this operation was far from
covert—but it wouldn’t know where or when. The UF satellites
were flooding the planet with so much interference that a Riel
couldn’t detect a dog humping its leg, much less a small platoon
three thousand yards out.
    The
Gyrine’s black skin blended in the overhang’s shadows, making it
hard to track its movements. When Peter finally settled into his
target’s rhythm, he gave the trigger a light squeeze, signaling
that he was ready to fire.
    “About
time,” Mickelson snapped. “Fire at zero.” A countdown appeared
on Peter’s visor. Ten seconds.
    Nine.
    —   —   —
    Peter
would fire the first round, followed by Heavy Weaponry; their
countdown was just a quarter second behind his own. Getting the
first shot meant catching the enemy unaware, practically
guaranteeing a kill but also making his gun the first that the Riel
would register. He would draw most of the return fire.
    Getting
the first shot right was critical; the marines had to kill enough
Riel to offset the advantage of higher ground and protective
shields. And officers, like Peter’s target, were of particularly
high value.
    Something
is wrong , Peter thought. The countdown had stopped; the number
seven was frozen on his screen. He waited one second, two, but still
it didn’t change.
    He
tried to stay focused on his target, but his eyes were drawn to the
seven on his visor. He was holding his breath to steady his shot,
but his lungs began to ache. He took two quick tugs of air, and then
the number dropped: