‘I’ve got less than a magazine left,’ Patterson said quietly to Hoffmeister. ‘We need to get ammunition.’

Hoffmeister pinched his nose in frustration. This mission had quickly descended into being an utter shit show in his professional estimation. Still, there were missions in history which had gone a lot worse before they turned around. And there must have been a seriously good reason that they were sent into France to retrieve the chip that Salmon had.

But what the hell is on the chip I’ve got? He hadn’t told Patterson about what he had. The man was too squirrelly as it was. And if he even got whiff of something which might draw even more enemy troops onto their heads, then Hoffmeister didn’t want to think of what the man might do. Death can change a man.

‘Ammo count people,’ Hoffmeister said over the platoon channel. He had one magazine left for his shotgun, twenty rounds. A magazine for his battle rifle. Unlimited for his tomahawk. He chuckled at that last. Gallows humour. It seemed as though it was the only form of humour he had nowadays.

God I wish I was back in a nice, warm, hot house tending exotic plants and butterflies, he thought as the platoon reported their ammunition levels. Not that he really needed to hear them. If he and Patterson were so low on ammunition, then it was fair to assume that the rest of them would be just as low.

‘We need to get more ammo,’ he said to the other NCO. ‘Or fight until we’re out and then surrender.’

Patterson’s faced screwed up as he thought. ‘Surrender? We’ve killed so many of their people that I don’t think they’ll be too keen on taking prisoners. Although the thought of living the rest of the war out in a prisoner of war camp might appeal to some?’

Hoffmeister schooled his faced into stone. He knew what Patterson was suggesting, and he knew that if he agreed to surrender, then the record would show that it was the senior NCO – Hoffmeister – who gave that order.

‘We’re supposed to be a special unit, airborne, no doubt commando at some point,’ Hoffmeister looked down at the parachute badge on his right shoulder. ‘Surrender isn’t an option. And I’ve heard what the ChinKor do to prisoners. Not my idea of the good life.’

Patterson shrugged, acting as if he didn’t care, but Hoffmeister knew that he wouldn’t have suggested surrendering in such a roundabout way if he hadn’t wanted to.

‘We need to find an ammo dump,’ Hoffmeister said as he shared his tacmap. ‘One that’s not too far away from the EP.’

Patterson reverse pinched and zoomed the map into a spot three kilometres away. ‘From what I can tell, we’re in the 2nd Armed Police Mobile Division’s area of operations. They’re a Gendarmerie unit.’

A lightbulb when off in Hoffmeister’s brain. The enemy’s poor reaction was because they weren’t actual soldiers. They were a military force but with law enforcement duties. They were third-line occupation forces tasked with internal security.

‘These fuckers were expecting to fight resistance fighters and keep the NPCs in line. Not fight frontline soldiers like us,’ Hoffmeister said, slapping Patterson’s shoulder. ‘No wonder they’re so shit.’

‘How long until the real soldiers get here then?’ Patterson asked. ‘We’ve already been on mission for the last eight hours.’

Hoffmeister zoomed the tacmap out even further. ‘Even though the main retreat was through Dunkirk, we also managed to seize the ports of Calais and Cherbourg, as well as parts of Brittany. They’re still holding out, even after all this time. And given the amount of casualties we caused them, I reckon that the Gendarmerie having been left holding the fort.’

‘Fuck I hope so, I don’t want to face any hard opposition. I need those extra lives.’

‘Don’t we all,’ Hoffmeister said. ‘This is interesting.’

He didn’t speak for a while, zooming the tacmap in and trying several different types of resolution.

‘Well?’ Snapped Patterson, giving Hoffmeister a burst of amusement.

‘This is an old ECAF barracks and supply depot. What’s the betting our Gendarmerie have been left to guard whatever’s in there. And, given how fast we ran, I’d bet my lift savings that the place is still chock-full of goodies.’

‘Food,’ Patterson said, wiping at his mouth. They’d eaten their last rations hours ago, and those had been light. If the planners had made allowances for the worse to happen they’d have been issued far more than a few energy bars. Hoffmeister’s stomach rumbled in agreement. Whilst the average soldier was issued with field rations which equated to 4,000 calories per day, Gorillas were issued with 10,000 calories’ worth.

‘Okay, plan made,’ he said before opening up the platoon-wide channel. ‘Listen up people, we’ve found somewhere we can get more ammunition and food.’

*

Hotston looked around at the survivors of his scratch platoon. There were only fifteen left. After the ambush they’d been hounded away from the EP which had been a tantalising kilometre away at the time. Now they were three kilometres away, and utterly exhausted. All of them had some sort of light wound, those with worse wounds having been left behind. He’d left it to them as to whether they ate a bullet and respawned at the 49ers home barracks, or took the option of trusting the ChinKor troopers would take them prisoner.

He’d seen the fear in their eyes. They might have been rewarded the extra lives that completing the mission granted them, but the thought of killing themselves was still something many couldn’t face, even if they did know they were in a simulation.

‘There’s an old supply depot about one kilometre from here, slightly off course, but worth looking at,’ Watson said, pinging the location with a marker. ‘We’re all damned low on ammunition and I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.’

Hotston was bone-tired. Beyond yawning. It felt as though he was so tired he’d never be able to sleep again. And, if he did manage to sleep, that he would never wake up. It wasn’t just the physical combat stress getting to him. It was the thinking, the strategizing, and the worrying about his people that was causing mental stress as well.

How the hell does Clark cope with having to manage an entire regiment?

‘So? What do you reckon?’ Watson’s finger prodded his helmet. ‘You even awake?’

‘Stop that!’ he slapped her finger away. ‘I was bloody thinking.’

‘With your eyes closed,’ she laughed. ‘And your mouth open.’

He joined in, too honest with himself to be angry at her. Watson had a quality about her that not only made people like her, but they also trusted her. She was calm under fire, knew the strengths and weaknesses of the people under her, and used all of that to pull her squad together and get the mission done.

‘Fine, I’m a tad tired. And probably concussed,’ he said.

‘That’s what happens when you drop yourself on your head, Hottie,’ said Winnie as she joined them. ‘I’ve done the ammo count and everyone’s down to their last few rounds. No food either.’

‘Well, that decides it for us. We’re going to hit this base, get ammunition and food, and then fight our way to the fucking EP if it’s the last bloody thing we do!’