Rogers was a Marine Force Recon sniper specialist from way back and had been a career soldier all his adult life.

He dropped to one knee as Givens lay out prone near the edge of the roof. His rifle was the long variant of the MX-112, given to all the branches of the NAC military and its allies, and he’d spent many long hours learning every nuance of his particular rifle.

He casually flipped down the bipod and then flipped up the two reticule lenses of the rifle’s integrated long-range sight.

Only then did he lie out beside his spotter and turn his HUD over to accept the targeting information that Givens had been gathering while he prepared.

“What have we got?”

“Three Tangos pinning down survivors from a crash. Looks like some military, but they aren’t doing all that well against the Tangos, Sarge.” Givens said, lighting up the HUD icons.

Rogers grunted, noting the display and checking the scene.

“Looks like they got one,” he said, noting a downed Tango.

“Sure did, Sarge…But I think they hit it when they crashed the…whatever the hell that thing is,” Givens replied.

“Probably,” Rogers grunted, lining up his first target.

The Tango he’d chosen was making a real ass of itself, chewing through the cover that the survivors had fled to. In short order, it would probably open up the path; then those people would die.

Maybe in your next life, asshole, Rogers thought to himself as the reticle in his sights flashed red and he squeezed the trigger with the same cool, calm deliberation as he used on the range.

The long rifle bucked once against his shoulder, and it spat its heavy round out with the combined whine of its electronics and crack of the sonic boom.

The round left the barrel at three thousand meters per second, tearing through the atmosphere like the proverbial bat out of hell. Fifty meters from the rifle, the onboard rocket booster kicked in, and it quickly accelerated on target as a set of fins snapped out, stabilizing the round in flight.

It roared into the Drasin drone at over twenty thousand meters per second and still accelerating, the kinetic impact holing the hard shell of the drone just before its payload went off.

The Drasin stopped mid-motion, staggered to one side, and collapsed.

But by then, Rogers had already picked his next target and fired.

Sean Bermont glanced back at the two soldiers he’d selected for his team.

Russell Samms and Jaime Curtis were both drawn from the old US Army Rangers Corps, while Sean himself was a former member of Joint Task Force 2 from back before the Confederation.

“All right, we drew shit duty,” Sean told the other two with a wry smile that they could hear, even if they couldn’t see. “We’re going to get in close while the other groups cover us and make contact with the locals.”