Syndicate Wars: First Strike (Seppukarian Book 1) Read online

  SYNDICATE WARS: FIRST STRIKE

  BOOK ONE

  Kyle Noe, George Mahaffey, and Justin Sloan

  SYNDICATE WARS: FIRST STRIKE

  The Team

  Beta Editor / Readers

  Robin Heath

  Trista Collins

  Holly Lenz

  Kelly ODonnell

  Alex Wilson

  If I missed anyone, please let me know!

  Editors

  Diane Newton

  Calee Allen

  Syndicate Wars (this book and all the books in the series) is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Complete Book is Copyright (c) 2017 by Kyle Noe, George S. Mahaffey Jr., and Justin Sloan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of above names.

  Chapter One: The Signal

  With every reason to suspect that this might be the last day of her life, Quinn adjusted her well-worn battle armor and shouldered her assault rifle, staring up at the billowing gray clouds of the early afternoon sky.

  There were no rays of light, no sign from the heavens, nor any other reason to be optimistic.

  Yet, somehow, she still possessed a modicum of hope, because she wasn't just readying to fight for herself. Hers wasn’t necessarily a personal battle for survival; rather, it was a fight on behalf of humanity against an invading force of aliens that might soon sweep across the Earth, ushering in a new age of extinction.

  Quinn had always thought that despondency arose out of having choices, and since there was only one option—do battle against the invaders and squeeze every ounce of life from their bodies—there was little reason to lose heart.

  A bemused smile danced across her lips, and she wondered how it had come to this. How a young woman from an Ohio backwater could enter the Corps as a means to support herself and her little girl and then, only a few years later, be on the front lines of what might be history’s last great stand. The battle to end all battles, the fight to save Earth from a powerful alien force that the Marines simply knew as the Syndicate.

  Soon they would likely see the first sign of what might bring their impending death. Quinn and the others in her squad, the thirty-six men and women of the Global Force Marines, were ready for whatever the day might bring, even if that meant their complete and utter annihilation.

  She had once heard somebody say that all of the old gods, except for the God of War, were dead. She thought that was about the truest thing she’d ever heard. Her squad didn’t just recognize the last living god, they bowed at his bloody altar. The Marines of the Global Defense Command were well trained and ready for action. They would gladly sacrifice themselves in defense of honor, their families and the citizens of Earth.

  Another scan of the skies revealed no fleet of alien ships. The anxiety causing the shooting pain in her chest was a mixture of excitement to be among the first to fight and die against this alien force, and horror at the knowledge that this morning's sunrise might be her last. Not that it wasn't a sunrise worthy of her last day. Streaks of red clouds lined the deep blue above, like fresh claw marks ripping open the sky.

  “This place is as good as any to hunker down and protect what’s ours,” Quinn said, dismounting the squad’s armored tactical vehicle, her eyes never straying from the sliver of sun that peeked up over the jungle hills. “Especially since we have no idea who they really are.”

  “Sergeant,” a corporal said, trying to get her attention. But Quinn couldn't even remember his name. He was a headquarters warrior. A scientist meant to give them a strategic advantage on the battlefield should he recognize a tech weakness in the enemy’s defenses. But so far, he'd proved worthless and took up valuable armor and gear that would have been more useful in the hands of a fighter.

  Especially considering no one really knew what they were up against yet. What Quinn wished was that Earth’s Defense Forces possessed the foresight to provide more Marines with proper combat training, instead of scientists that only consumed space and resources. However, fear about the unknown nature of the invasion force had gotten in the way of combat readiness.

  But Quinn wasn't about to let some corporal steal her last sunrise, so she ignored his call, instead staring at the sky. Behind her, the sound of more Marines dismounting clattered across the slab of rock that overlooked an immense sweep of jungle and the ocean that lay beyond it.

  Spring was in full bloom and the air seemed dense, perfumed from the flowers that bloomed across the jungle canopy. A mist from the ocean hovered over the jungle, swirling about the skirt of a rugged formation—their ultimate destination, a stratovolcano in the midst of Mount Tlaloc, a massive spit of rock that loomed over everything in awful majesty like some pagan idol.

  Finally, the sky lit up a bright pink that faded to orange. She breathed deep, taking in the fresh morning air and hoping her daughter back in the city was looking at that same sunrise. Everything had started for her little Sammy, only nine years old but so mature.

  Now, chances are they would all die, and Quinn would never see her daughter again.

  She closed her eyes and steeled her nerves for what was about to come, then turned to look at her brothers-in-arms, standing at ease, awaiting her command. Before making her move, she detached the top plate from her gunmetal gray, interlocking battle armor.

  “Alright, Devil Dogs,” she said, stepping forward and projecting her voice. “The daylight has snuck up on us. Do not allow the same of those godforsaken, shit-licking alien bastards who mean to see us annihilated. Suit up, prepare defenses, and, if it's your thing, say your prayers.”

  As they moved about their business, Quinn studied the other Marines, her eyes lingering on the four men she trusted most in this world: Milo, the rangy one with a stubbled face and strong cheekbones; the black, muscle-quilted Sergeant named Hayden; Giovanni, the world-weary sniper, who was bald as an egg and prone to communicating as much with looks and gestures as with words; and Renner, the short grenadier with a stocky build whose hands were as fidgety as a blackjack dealer’s.

  Renner caught her staring and said, “Yo, Quinn, tell Centcom I want mine over there.” He motioned to a section of flat earth covered in flowers.

  “Your what?” Quinn asked.

  “My grave,” he said, with a wink. “I plan on saving this planet, that's for damn sure. My payment? The most beautiful burial plot on this hill.”

  She rolled her eyes as the other Marines hooted and hollered.

  “Not a single Marine's crossing over to the other side without my say-so,” Hayden said. “In point of fact and until we have killed every last one of the Syndicate, you do not have my permission.”

  “Then why are our orders to head underground, Gunny?” Milo asked. "Shouldn't we be the first to greet the enemy when they arrive?"

  Quinn turned to Milo. He was the golden child of the unit, the one with the excellent hair and the looks plucked from a recruiting poster. He was the Honor Graduate at Boot Camp, the one who finished first in every goddamn physical training course the rest of the unit had slogged through, and came out the other side with a smile. She wanted to explain, but doing so could derail morale. The strategy was an old one. Let the first wave take out a less "vital" unit—fodder, a tactic the British Empire had used to perfection a
t its peak. Then unleash their best fighters as the enemy reloads.

  But before Quinn could respond, Hayden interrupted. “I get that you want to give your life for the cause, Corporal, but save your hero impulses for when our entire species isn't at stake.”

  Quinn shook her head and looked to the Marines. “I don’t care what it is you believe in to motivate you, just as long as you move forward. Am I clear, Marines?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” they shouted, in unison.

  “Considering we’re all dead anyway,” Renner said, nudging the corporal next to him with his elbow, “why don’t we simply party until they arrive, am I right?”

  A couple of the Marines cheered at that, but the majority glared at him, and then turned to Quinn to wait for a response.

  “Stifle that shit and do what the Sergeant said!” Hayden shouted, silencing Renner with a nasty look.

  Milo ignored the comment and moved toward Quinn, hoping for one last word before battle. The Marines filtered around him to the tactical vehicles as he got close to Quinn, who was refastening her armor.

  “Do we really have a chance, Quinn?” Milo asked.

  “You need to address me as Sergeant when others are around,” she said, glaring at him. "Just 'cause we went to Uni together doesn't mean we're still back there. We're Marines now. Act like one."

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He gave her a wry smile, edging close as if to make a move, but she'd stepped back.

  Quinn’s gaze smoked into his.

  “Milo, Milo, Milo.” She looked him up and down, then scoffed. “You wouldn't last one minute with me. And I'm not the least bit sad to say, you'll never find that out.”

  “If I were the last man on Earth?” he asked, not giving up. “You'd have to consider it then.”

  She shook her head, laughing. “Look, if you’re scared, you can hold my hand when the aliens arrive.”

  “Fuck you, Quinn.”

  “I'm pretty sure that's what I just finished saying no to.” She smiled, but there was no levity in it. She noticed Giovanni watching, and nodded in acknowledgment. He quickly looked away, so she turned and looked over the mixture of jungle and desert one final time.

  “In all seriousness,” Milo said, “I’m gonna be sad if this is all gone in a few hours.”

  She didn’t respond, just held her breath.

  “You're a mom, right?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “And moms are the nurturing, caring types, right?” Milo continued.

  “Some of them,” she replied.

  “So tell me something reassuring, momma.”

  “Violent change is the essence of human history,” she whispered, hating Milo at that moment for reminding her of her little girl Samantha… Sammy. She’d left her behind with her folks in the hinterlands of Ohio, everyone hunkered down in the family’s bunker-slash-bugout coop. She would never even consider changing the moment that brought her Sammy, but she’d learned the lesson that night, the lesson to never get involved with another Marine. They all left or died in the end, and now she was proving the same point to her daughter.

  Damn, she wanted to punch something. Instead, she just leaned over the drop-off and spat into the lush jungle below, hoping it hit some predatory dick-weed animal in the eye.

  Milo manufactured a smile, then started to turn away. “Yeah, so, that violent change stuff is totally not what I was going for, but thanks anyway.”

  “No worries, Corporal,” Quinn said. “We’re all feeling tense.”

  “Roger that, Sergeant. Locked and loaded,” Milo replied.

  Milo gave her a wink, then joined the rest of their platoon.

  Quinn watched him go, shaking her head. She hoped he’d make it through this day at least.

  It was, however, entirely likely that they’d lose—be overrun or outgunned in whatever battle would soon take place. Hell, there was no denying that they'd probably all be dead before they knew the full power of the Syndicate.

  She shouldn’t have been thinking that, but no one really knew how dangerous the alien horde was. Or if Earth even had the weapons to counter. They’d planned, but still. People like Milo deserved to make it, though. As for herself, she wasn’t so sure. She’d done enough wrong to justify getting a burial plot like Renner on the battlefield. Christ, maybe that’d be the best she could hope for.

  But her little Sammy deserved so much more than this, a world overrun by aliens. And what happened if the Marines were defeated? What would come next? Humans forced to live in ghettos or worse? Rounded up and placed in pens and fattened and slaughtered like cattle if they were lucky? Quinn wanted to believe otherwise, but had a sneaking suspicion that things were not destined to end well for her and the other Marines.

  Chapter Two: The Tunnel

  The Marines continued their journey, but it was another eleven hours before they completed their ascent and were driving through the colossal tunnel that had been drilled into the rear of the mountain. The tunnel had been built two years earlier, back when word of the Syndicate first arrived via SETI’s Alien Telescope Array.

  The news had been almost impossible to believe and was initially chalked up to yet another “fake news” story. But then the truth was revealed. An armada of alien craft had emerged from a globular star cluster known as M-25, traveling at speeds of what appeared to be a thousand miles per second, heading directly toward Earth.

  The first scientist to discover the craft, a man whose name was lost to history, described the spacecraft as moving in formation, as part of a team. He’d used the term “Syndicate” to describe the armada, and the name had stuck.

  Not surprisingly, word of the discovery soon leaked, and pandemonium ensued after all the world’s media outlets, both respected and conspiracy-driven, started breathlessly reporting about all of the world’s satellites going dark all at once and the end of human civilization. Why weren’t they reaching out? Why weren’t the obviously organized and technologically advanced ships attempting to make contact?

  There were endless meetings held at the United Nations, and eventually the United Nations Security Council passed resolutions that called for a kind of international Lend/Lease Act, whereby the world’s largest powers would manufacture all manner of weaponry to be stashed at strategic sites around the globe. The decision was made out of fear that the initial invasion would be overwhelming, so hiding the best-trained fighters and weaponry in preparation for an immediate counterattack was deemed the most logical military action.

  The Mountain of the Crouching Beast, Mount Tlaloc, was one of the selected positions, a remote area in southern Mexico near the Guatemalan border whose nearest city was Tapachula. SOUTHCOM, Southern Command, in coordination with the world’s leading scientists and wannabe space navigators, predicted that this would be the area where the Syndicate would likely make first contact, because it would provide a perfect launch site for any further attacks by air, land, and sea.

  From the Southern Hemisphere, they could reach anywhere easily and without detection. That was the best guess combined intelligence agencies could come up with as why here. Quinn didn't buy it, but she did believe a landing was coming.

  If the Syndicate ships had fired missiles and nukes when they entered the solar system, it would have indicated only an attack. But no missiles meant the Syndicate was invading because they wanted something on Earth, at least according to the intel Quinn was given, rather than invading only to destroy. Meaning a landing was inevitable.

  Quinn looked up and guessed the tunnel to the mountain base they’d just entered must have been fifty feet wide and a hundred times that high. For two years, government construction teams had labored on the site, boring into the mountain and essentially inserting the contents of a thirty-story skyscraper into a five-story slab of granite.

  There were five full floors of operating space, each floor the size of three football fields. On the floors were bullpens and war rooms and spaces filled with weapons and gear and food and vast stores of wat
er, everything connected by staircases and landings and ladders and catwalks, the walls and ceilings reinforced with pure titanium and ballistic cement. They’d been told that there were enough supplies to last a six-month siege. Quinn was hopeful and expected that they wouldn't need more than a few hours once the shooting started.

  As Quinn and the other Marines dropped down from their tactical vehicles, they could see the interior was a beehive of activity. On the left side of the site, additional Marines and support techs were visible, scurrying past, stacking ammunition and supplies, anxiously preparing for the Syndicate to arrive. On the right side were clusters of armored vehicles and drones of all shapes and sizes, including first-gen battle drones that stood nearly seven feet tall.

  Quinn had seen videos of the drones that, while shiny like the fender on a tractor-trailer, somehow also seemed eerily human. Draped in a new kind of composite armor called “Hollow-Core,” the drones operated electrically with hydraulic actuators, able to stand and move via titanium legs and wheels and capable of carrying surface-to-surface and surface-to-air rockets or Gatling-gun-style cannons.

  The drones had rolled off the assembly lines only sixteen months prior, and while rigorously lab-tested, had yet to see real combat. One of the drones jerked to its full height, and Quinn thought it looked like a Great Dane standing up on its hind legs. The machine turned and stared at her. Quinn, uneasy, looked away.

  Hayden signaled for the Marines to follow, and they did. First, they went to a mess hall, where everyone devoured corned beef and hash. Quinn glanced up from the food to see other soldiers sitting at different tables, chowing down. All ethnicities and both sexes were well represented amongst the other soldiers, and snatches of conversations could be heard in foreign tongues.

  “Who are they?” Quinn asked, bobbing her head in the direction of the other fighters.