Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga) by Peter Grant Read Free Book Online

our last ten hours of movement will be at night. We’ll just have to hope the darkness serves to hide our coveralls, and keep our distance from anyone who might be able to tell the difference.”
    “Works for me,” the other acknowledged.
    In reality — to nobody’s surprise — things didn’t go as smoothly as they’d hoped. The swamp proved to be unusually wide, deep and muddy, thanks to recent rains upstream. Crossing it with all their gear proved to be an exhausting, time–consuming process, interrupted at frequent intervals by the most complicated tactical problems the imaginations of their instructors were able to devise. By the time they reached the far side it was early evening. They were filthy and worn out. They’d eaten all their food and run out of water purification filters. Tempers were flaring as Steve took over the platoon for the last ten hours of the exercise.
    He gathered everyone around. “Listen up, people!” he said, quietly but urgently. “We’re almost there. I know we’re all feeling ratty as hell, but this is where we show what we’ve got. Before Exercise Grindstone we were already ahead of every other platoon on points. If we do well now we’ll be Honor Platoon of this Boot Camp cycle for sure!” He could sense the weary, worn–out recruits responding to his words, gathering their energies for one last effort.
    “ We’re running late,” he continued. “It’ll take at least eight or nine hours to hike to our target, even if things go well. Any delay will leave us short. We’ve got to move faster. Any ideas?”
    Kumar raised his hand, and Steve nodded to him. “If we have to get there fast, we need wheels. The Marines must have transporters at their patrol camps. We might be able to get our hands on one and drive to our objective.”
    “Great idea!” Steve praised. “Who knows how to drive those things?”
    “ I can drive smaller civilian transporters,” Kumar offered, “but not the big, heavy cargo types. I don’t have a Fleet license, of course.”
    “ We’ll just have to see what we can find.” Steve looked around the platoon. “Who’s got hunting experience, particularly moving quietly through broken country to find game?” Three recruits, including Mendez, raised their hands. “Right, you three are our scouts. Gather round.”
    He unfolded his map. “Clean up and head out. Leave your kit here so you can move faster. We’ll bring it with us. There’ll probably be a Marine patrol base at or near this intersection.” He indicated a crossroads near a hill, five kilometers away. “It’s the logical place for one, commanding all the local roads. If it’s there, two of you keep watch over it and look for transporters while the other one meets us as we approach, to guide us in. If it’s not there, one of you remain behind to tell us while the other two scout ahead in the direction of our objective.” He pointed to it on the map. “Move parallel to the road, but stay off it. Keep your eyes peeled for a patrol base or any other potential source of transport. If you find something, one of you watch it while the other comes back to find us and lead us to it. All got that?”
    Three heads nodded.
    “ Right, on your way.”
    There was, indeed, a Marine patrol base at the crossroads. Steve had the platoon remain under cover in a copse about half a kilometer away while he and two of the other leaders went forward to join the scouts. The base was barely visible in the moonlight.
    “There’s two transporters back there under those trees,” one of the scouts pointed out, “but we can’t get to them without making a noise that’ll alert the Marines in those tents next to them. Tire tracks indicate at least two more transporters went that way.” He pointed down the road.
    “ Wonder where they were going?” Steve mused. “How many Marines down there?”
    “ I dunno,” the scout confessed. “I — ”
    He was interrupted by the swelling whine of a