Filson walked back and forth, hands balled into tight fists, mumbling to himself behind the cluster of officers staring at the tactical display.

  “Air extraction is going to take time. We don’t have enough armor in the AO. Havron ain’t gonna approve that, anyway. I don’t know how Wagner has kept his unit alive this far. Think, Don! Think! Think! Think!”

  As Filson paced, he tried to ignore Paredes and Merko. Standing with their backs to the other officers and the tactical display, they watched their commander. Filson could feel the weight of their stares. He knew what they were waiting for, what was expected of him.

  There were times Filson reveled in his reputation. Who wouldn’t? Known throughout the Regiment for his operational instincts and aggressiveness, he was the guy who always seemed to get away with it. No one called him lucky, though. He just had a way of seeing things. He could focus his whole mind on the shit sandwich fate was trying to shove down his throat and, somehow, every time, like pressure turning coal into a diamond, he would produce a plan that threw the plate of feces back into fate’s fat face—that saved the Raiders.

  His victories and close scrapes with Raider Company had even caught the attention of General Havron. The old man asked the brash major to join his staff.

  Filson declined.

  Times like this, though, that reputation was a burden. Its implicit question stalked him, constricting his chest and elevating his pulse. He tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the situation at hand, but he knew it was the reason Paredes and Merko were staring at him.

  Was this it? Was this the one that he wouldn’t be able to get his people out of? Would fate finally collect its pound of Raider Company flesh with Wagner and First Platoon?

  The radio calls and decrypted data bursts from the isolated soldiers grew increasingly urgent. They’d lost over half their soldierbots, and casualties were mounting. The PLA was pressing its advantage between the rivers.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Santiago sits in a basin between the Andes Mountains to the east and the Chilean Coastal Range to the west. The Mapocho River cuts through the middle of the city, and the larger Maipo bounds it to the south. General Havron came within a day or two of retaking Santiago. But the PLA was able to cling to the southern bank of the Maipo, behind a curtain of devastating terrestrial and space-based artillery. The American position solidified north of the Mapocho, and the section of the city between the rivers became a murderous contested zone ten to twenty kilometers wide. Neither side was willing to cede the terrain or to spend the human capital to take control of it, so for months the two armies threw jabs and feints in the stretch of abandoned city blocks as they plotted to upend the stalemate and waited for the right moment.

  It looked as if the PLA might be tired of waiting.

  Filson turned away from Paredes and Merko’s insistent stare.

  His eyes fell on LT Mauricio Rivas, Paredes’ executive officer. At 57, Rivas was the oldest officer in the TOC. Older than Akande, even. For the Chileans, the war against China was existential. Everyone was serving.

  Leaning over a large printed map he had laid out on one of the rear tables, Rivas was lost in thought. Short and chunky with a round head and grey beard, Rivas was a civil engineer before the war. He proved adept at logistics and planning during the trying months between the First Battle of Santiago and the Americans’ return. When the Lobos’ first executive officer was killed in action, Paredes promoted Rivas into the job.

  “Don, now would be a good time for one of your crazy ideas,” Commander Akande said loudly over his shoulder.

  Dropping his eyes from Rivas, Filson shook his head in frustration. “I got shit, sir.”

  “Dammit,” Akande muttered.

  A dread-filled silence settled over the TOC, magnifying Filson’s burden. Fourteen American Centaurs and forty-two Chilean regulars were about to get wiped out. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Goddammit, Don! Think!

  “Sir?” a soft voice with a Spanish accent said.

  Filson looked back at the Chilean XO. Rivas had lifted his head, but was still leaning over the table, holding the rolled-out map in place with one hand. With his other hand, Rivas pressed his index finger into the map, as if trying not to lose a precious location.

  “Commander Akande?” Rivas said a little louder.

  “What, goddammit?” Akande turned toward the voice. “Who said that?”

  The cluster of officers parted, clearing the commander’s line-of-sight back to the short Chilean first lieutenant.

  Rivas met Akande’s glare for a heartbeat, then looked down at his map. “I might have an idea.”