Bullets whined along the streets of Periscope Harbor in the early morning dawn. The breeze had died down, leaving a heavy pall of smoke over the city that only grew thicker as the day wore on. Star Marines moved in a crouch, keeping close to the buildings; the streets had become deadlier than ever. Enemy hovertanks had moved up from somewhere in the direction of the harbor and were shooting at anything that moved. BC infantry fired down on the streets from high in the towers, and from the direction of the harbor the artillery had never taken a break. The morning air was filled with a steady thunder, the whoosh of missiles, and the shriek of heavy lasers.

Rico still had eight men in his squad—Chavez, the Foursome, Hamilton, Grove, and himself. His helmet radio no longer worked; that sexy bitch was still broadcasting, alternately playing sad songs and threatening them with death, then entreating them to surrender. He had to go looking for Capt. Connor and the rest of Delta, and it took an hour to find them.

“We’re dead in our tracks,” Connor told him as they crouched in the shattered remains of what had been a ground-floor restaurant. “Nobody’s moving forward anymore; they brought that armor up last night and we don’t have anything to use against it.”

“What about our armor?” Rico wondered. He’d seen light tanks the day before.

“Word is they’re all out of action. Most of our heavy stuff got shot down over the saddle. We’re on our own.”

Rico felt a cold hand grip his heart. Concussion rocked the building where he stood as a heavy laser flashed down the center of the street.

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