The heavy high-pressure blast doors of the Forward Command Post hissed open, admitting a gust of freezing mist, sulfuric ash. The scent of imported bergamot cologne and ozone sanitizer.
Gideon Thorne stepped into the bunker as if boarding a private sky-yacht. His tailored greatcoat was spun from charcoal-gray vicuña wool, trimmed with silver piping that caught the flickering overhead buzzing white tubes. Beneath the coat, his high-collared silk vest was fastened with mother-of-pearl buttons. His calfskin boots were shielded from the trench slurry by disposable polymer spats. Flanking him were two ApexBio corporate legal adjutants carrying brass-cornered carbon-fiber briefcases. It was followed by three private security guards clad in spotless white high-speed back shell.
Every head in the command dugout turned. Grizzled frontier scouts in patched flak vests paused with grease-guns half-assembled. Radio workers with bloodshot eyes stared in quiet disbelief. And near the sand table, Captain Tanya Richter slowly tapped the ash from a hand-rolled cigarette into an empty steel ration tin.
Richter didn’t stand up. She sat perched on the edge of the map table, her mud-caked heat duster hanging open over scratched composite breastplates. A coarse wool scarf, stained with battery grease and sweat, was wrapped thick around her neck, hiding the jagged claw scar that ran from her left ear down into her collarbone. Propped against her knee was a tiny armor-piercing rifle mounted on a high-pressure bipod, its receiver worn to raw steel along the edges.
