Danger Close #3 Drop Trooper

by Rick Partlow

  “Are all of you ready to have those gold bars pinned on?” he asked.

  “Ooh-rah!” The reply was deafening, echoing off the walls of the barracks and Manzer seemed to lean back and let it wash over him.

  “Get ready, people,” he said, hooking a thumb back at the barracks door. “I want you all formed up in twenty minutes and looking sharp out there! What’s the best platoon in OCS?”

  “Fourth platoon!”

  “You’re damned straight it is!”

  He was still smiling when he came up beside me and leaned against the railing of the bunks.

  “Cam,” he said softly, “I know you guys are supposed to have a week of out-processing, but we got a request for expedited transport. Apparently, your unit’s about to move bases soon and they want you back before it happens. After the ceremony, you need to get your shit packed up quick. You’re hopping a transport heading for Hachiman in twenty hours.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, nodding. “Guess I won’t make the party at the O-club after.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said. He chuckled. “I owe you a drink.”

  “Me, sir?” I blinked. “For what?”

  “If you hadn’t come to me and asked for that extra training,” he confided, “I wouldn’t have gotten in deep shit with Major Brena, but I also would have been serving under him here for another two years. You met the man. You tell me, do you think he would have recommended me for the Officers Advanced Course and a promotion?”

  “Probably not, sir,” I admitted.

  “As things stand,” he said, “Major Blake has me to thank for his position as Brena’s replacement, and a colonel who’s about to be a general knows my name.”

  “It’s not all me, sir,” I insisted, a little embarrassed by the attention. “Things went right for you because you did the right thing.”

  “So did you, Lieutenant Alvarez.” He offered me a hand and I shook it. “And you weren’t afraid of the consequences. Whoever gets you for a platoon leader could do a lot worse.” He nodded toward the door. “I have to go get ready for the ceremony. Make sure your shit’s on straight. You’re an Honor Graduate, after all.”

  “Thanks again for coming with me to the shuttle,” I said, shouldering my duffle as the bus came to a jolting, squeaking halt. The bag was heavy but nothing felt as heavy as the subdued, gold bars on my shoulders.

  Holy shit, I’m a fucking officer now. Who the hell thought this was a good idea?

  Insects drawn to the interior lights flitted about us, tormenting the line of bleary-eyed Marines waiting to get off the vehicle.

  “You had to miss the party, man,” Fuentes said, rubbing a hand reflexively against the back of his shaven head as a mosquito tried to gain purchase on it. “Couldn’t let you slip away at zero-dark-thirty with no one to say goodbye.”

  “I wish you could stay longer, my friend,” Freddy told me, and I thought he’d been about to say more but the line began moving as the troops in front grabbed their luggage and headed down the steps to the pavement below.

  It was still early morning and 82 Eridani was hours from rising above the horizon, but it was still cloyingly humid and I thought again how happy I would be to leave this planet and never set foot on it again.

  “Do you two know what units you’re getting yet?” I asked.

  “I got my orders right after the commissioning ceremony,” Fuentes said. “I head out for Canaan in a week. 3rd of the 598th is settling in there for the rest of the war and Fourth platoon, Alpha Company needs a new LT.”

  “Congrats, Hector,” I told him. “I know you’ll do great.”

  And the lucky bastard probably wouldn’t see any combat for a while. I wish I could have said the same. It was probably heresy for a Marine to think, but I’d seen more combat than I ever wanted to and I would have been just as happy never to hear a shot fired in anger again.

  “I’m going back to my old unit,” Freddy said, brightening. “Not the same platoon, but the same company. They’re good troops.”

  The others from the bus milled around at the tram station, some squinting into the distance, looking for the open wagons that would take us out to our shuttles on the tarmac. Some of them, I imagined, would be going on my plane, heading up to the same transport, their destination Hachiman. There was a whole battalion of Drop-Troops there and another of Force Recon, as well as a few squadrons of Attack Command missile cutters. And they were about to move out.

  Where would we be going? Vicky thought we’d be pushing in on the occupied colonies, which probably meant we’d be withdrawing from the Tahni frontier, heading back into Commonwealth space. It was funny, the war had turned and we were taking the offensive…by moving backwards.

  “You have to promise me you will stay in contact,” Freddy said, jabbing a finger into my shoulder for emphasis. “I mean it, Alvarez. You have our ‘link addresses and I had better hear back from you.”

  “All right, I promise.” I raised my hands in surrender. “It’s…,” I trailed off, shaking my head. “It’s not something I’m used to. But I’ll do my best.”

  “Hey, man,” Fuentes said, “I know you said you don’t want to go back to T-A again, but in case you ever do, I know some guys. I could make some calls, see if I can get them to cool things down for you.”

  “Don’t put yourself in a hole for me, Hector,” I told him. “You can ask, but don’t call in any markers. If you wind up going back there after the war, you might need them for yourself.”

  “You know, man,” he mused, looking up at the stars in the early morning sky, “I think you might have the right idea on that. T-A is home, but there’s so much else out here. Not this fucking place.” He snorted at the idea. “But I seen a bunch of other worlds and I don’t know if I want to particularly live on any of them, but I wouldn’t mind finding a job that would keep me travelling around them. It’s too big a universe to be living in a hole under the ground, trying to claw my way to the top of the garbage heap to be the head rat.”

  “Not a bad thought.” I heard a commotion and glanced over to see people pointing at the tram approaching from the landing field. “Here’s my ride, guys. You should get back on the bus before you get stuck here for another half an hour, getting eaten alive by mosquitos.”

  I hadn’t expected the hug from Freddy, but I suppose I should have. He struck me as a hugger.

  “Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  Fuentes settled for bumping forearms, and then the tram pulled up, settling in with a squeal of brakes and a rasp of plastic tires against the pavement. It was operated by a fairly basic automated driving program and built low to the ground, with bare, plastic seats lacking any sort of safety restraints, designed to simply slow down and let the passengers pile off at their destination. I grabbed a seat and let my duffle bag ride beside me, then barely had time to wave a last goodbye to my friends before the tram rolled off again, continuing its cycle around the perimeter of the landing field.

  I’d woken up at 0200 local time and I wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to close my eyes and grab a catnap on the drive to the shuttle, but the tram didn’t announce stops and I’d have to keep my eyes open or else ride the damned thing the whole way around the edge of the field again. I tried to keep myself awake by swatting at mosquitos.

  “You here for OCS?”

  It took me a second to realize the question had been for me. I twisted around, cradling an arm over my duffle bag and met the eyes of the man beside me. He was generic in utility fatigues and a brimmed cap, the dim glow of the streetlights barely penetrating the shadows to give me a glimpse of a square jaw and a nose that had been broken a couple times too many. I eyed his rank and saw that he was an E5, a buck sergeant.

  I suppose I was too new to being an officer to be take offense at the lack of a “sir” at the end of his question, though maybe I should have said something. As I’d had to tell myself several times, you respected the rank, not the officer wearing it.


  But I was too tired to be outraged.

  “Yeah,” I said, not adding “sergeant” just to let him know I hadn’t missed his casual disrespect.

  “You think it’s a good idea?” he asked, and I could tell by the edge of skepticism in his voice that he didn’t. “I mean, I figure they can teach you how to lead Marines in combat in four months, sure…but isn’t there more to being an officer than just knowing how to run a platoon in combat?”

  “Like what?” I wondered, curious in spite of myself.

  He tilted his head and a single blue eye emerged from the shadow long enough to meet mine.

  “Like, they send ‘em to the Academy for a reason. They teach ‘em history and science and shit. I figure they don’t do that just because it’s always been that way, it’s gotta be important for something. Like, it’s gotta give them perspective, you know? On people, on what’s been tried before and failed. Maybe that’s just the little bit of extra edge you need when you have to make decisions you don’t want to have to make, right?”

  “You might be right,” I admitted. “But there’s more than one way to learn perspective. And there’s more than one perspective to have, you know?” I thought about Tijuana, about the death and chaos, about the Underground and the gangs and the cops.

  “You were what?” he asked me. “A corporal?”

  “E5,” I told him. “Same as you.”

  “And you really think you’re ready for this?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted. “But this whole war has been one thing after another I wasn’t ready for.” I saw the shuttle up ahead, knew it was mine from the tail number. I grabbed the strap of my duffle bag and was up and stepping off as soon as the tram slowed down. I threw an ironic salute at the mouthy E-5 as he passed on into the darkness and muttered the rest of the thought aloud, not caring he wouldn’t hear it.

  “Why should this be any different?”

  7

  I was never so glad to be cold in my whole life.

  Hachiman was a little too far away from its star to be called temperate. In fact, only the equator was ice-free year-round, and the only land at the equator was a few, small islands. I’d only seen them from the air, but even from a thousand meters up, I could tell they weren’t suitable for a military base. The Fleet had constructed the base on the southern edge of the largest continent and there were still glaciers only a few dozen kilometers north of it. Even the summers never got warm enough to venture outside without a field jacket, and the winters were four long, miserable months of sub-freezing temperatures and endless blizzards.

  And I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until I stepped off the ramp of the shuttle and didn’t begin sweating immediately. I’d neglected to check the local calendar on the flight from Inferno, but by the fact that the wind coming in from the north didn’t blister my uncovered face, and the fresh sprouts of flowering plants pushing out of the mud toward the late morning sunshine, I deduced we were in late spring.

  After the brisk rush of spring chill, the next thing that hit me was the noise. The spaceport at Hachiman was always active, Marine dropships or Fleet missile cutters or cargo shuttles coming and going at all hours. This was orders of magnitude different, an unending roll of thunder from cargo ships landing and taking off, served by a ceaseless swarm of freight trucks that seemed to be disassembling the base right in front of my eyes.

  Enthralled by the sight, I barely noticed the other passengers crowding down the boarding ramp around me, and didn’t even glance downward at the passenger bus pulling up to the base of the ramp until someone smacked me on the arm and told me to move my ass.

  “Oh, sorry, Lieutenant,” the Corporal corrected himself, finally catching sight of my rank. “I meant to say, move your ass, sir.”

  I didn’t recognize any of the other people on the bus. There was no reason I should have, but the whole flight back, I’d felt as if I were coming home, and it was unsettling to be in the midst of strangers while the whole place was torn down around my ears.

  The shuttle had landed near the far side of the port and it was a good three-kilometer drive just to get to the edge of the landing field, then four more to get us to the center of the base. Mud sprayed from the tires as the vehicle came to a sudden halt outside the admin center, a square, ugly, functional building for the ugly function of personnel allocation, and it was as close to a state religion as the Commonwealth military had. Anyone who reported to any base, even their own, had to stop at the admin center to make obeisance to the Gods of data processing, and newly-minted lieutenants were no exception.

  At least there wasn’t much of a line. I didn’t actually have to report to a human clerk—even the military wasn’t that inefficient. I just had to input my biometrics to one of a dozen consoles in the personnel office and then wait for the system to reward with me with a ping, a green flash of confirmation, and a message to my ‘link confirming my unit and who I should report to. Of course, there was always the possibility that the God of data would judge me a sinner, give me the dreaded red light, and be forced into another chamber of outer darkness while I waited for some ill-tempered Fleet functionary to come sort me out. Those were the sort of nightmares that could wake a Marine up from a deep sleep screaming in fear.

  I breathed a sigh of relief at the green flash of approval and turned back toward the door, and nearly ran chest-first into the Skipper.

  There was nothing physically intimidating about Captain Phillip Covington. He was lean and rangy, with a hawkish face and a coiled-spring stance, but so were a thousand other Marine officers. What marked him as different were his eyes, and not just the gun-metal-grey color, but the depth of experience stored up behind them. He was a man who was on a first-name basis with Death.

  I stiffened and nearly saluted him before I realized we were indoors and it wouldn’t be appropriate.

  “Sir!” I exclaimed, then adjusted my volume downward at the further realization I was no longer in OCS and didn’t have to scream the word every time. “I was just about to go report in…”

  “I got the notice you were arriving on the last shuttle,” Covington said. “I figured I’d catch you here.” He shook my hand. “Congratulations, Lt. Alvarez.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m glad to be back.” I blew out a sigh, showing more exasperation than I’d intended. “Very glad.”

  He chuckled, a harsh, knowing sound.

  “This iteration of OCS may be new,” he said, “but the idea certainly isn’t, and it’s never been a particularly pleasant experience. Although most candidates don’t wind up nearly getting their platoon trainer cashiered and themselves dropped from the course.”

  Ice crystallized in my veins and the words caught in my throat. I’d been about to ask him how he’d heard, but it was a stupid question. Covington had been in the Marines since the Pirate Wars, over twenty-five years ago, and had connections everywhere. Of course he’d be following a Marine he’d recommended for OCS, and of course someone would tell him what had happened.

  “Do you think I did the right thing, sir?” I was finally able to get out.

  “The right thing?” He shrugged. “Almost certainly. The smart thing? Oh, definitely not. Your job was to get your ass through OCS and get back here as the platoon leader I still need for Third Platoon.” An edge of anger had crept into his voice and I tried not to cringe. Making the Skipper mad was usually a horrible mistake, and most people didn’t make it twice. But the anger faded and he cocked an eyebrow. “But I suppose, knowing your history, I shouldn’t have expected anything different. And as usual, despite fucking everything up with your damned good intentions, you still got the job done.”

  I felt a sudden suspicion take hold and I couldn’t keep myself from blurting the question out.

  “Did you call Colonel Bell, sir? Did you know I was in trouble?”

  “Knowing you’re in trouble, Alvarez, is about as difficult as figuring out the sun is going to rise in the east.” He nodded toward the door.
“Come on, I brought a car to pick you up. We’ve got a shitload of work to do and the whole battalion is shipping out of here in less than seventy-two hours.”

  The groundcar was the basic, boxy, utilitarian military vehicle, but after months of riding packed busses and the back of cargo trucks in the sweltering heat, it was a taste of Heaven. I let myself sink into the plastic upholstery and blew out a breath as the driver pulled away from the curb and into the muddy streets. This was real. I was back.

  “Tell me something, Alvarez,” Covington said, and I sat up straight, paying attention. The Skipper was a fair man, but if you weren’t on your toes with him every second, you’d regret it. “I know OCS has a fair amount of worthless bullshit, but did you actually learn anything?”

  “You mean something they were trying to teach me, sir?” I asked. “Or at all?”

  That brought a full-throated laugh, something I hadn’t heard much from the Skipper.

  “Let’s start with what they were trying to teach you.”

  “Well, believe it or not, sir,” I said, almost feeling embarrassed to say it, “but the classes on finances and investment actually did seem useful. Not useful enough to spend two days on it, but honestly, I didn’t know shit about money or investing it until now.”

  He grunted, obviously amused.

  “Not what I expected, but I suppose. Now, what did you learn that they weren’t actually trying to drive through your skull with a sledgehammer?”

  “That’s easy, sir. I learned that being good at working a Vigilante isn’t enough. There’s a lot of Marines who can run a suit just as good as me, but they still get tunnel vision when they’re trying to see the big picture.”

  “What about you? Do you see the big picture?”

  “I can in a simulator, sir.” I spread my hands. “I guess we’re going to find out if that translates to real life.” I hesitated. “Sir, I got a message from Vic….” I closed my mouth, opened it again. “From Sgt. Sandoval. She said she was leaving for OCS herself. Has her transport left yet?”