War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  The numbers were there. This surprised Hella, who had heard nothing but horror stories about procrastination and willful incompetence regarding Stillwell. Erskin had always made him out to be a schmoozing social climber. If so, he has a lot to learn.

  “In short, sir, we should have all elements of 79th Division deployed within five days,” Stillwell concluded, beaming like a proud dad on his daughter’s wedding day.

  “Thank you, admiral.”

  “I’m certain this deployment will go off without a hitch, sir. Speaking of which, there are bound to be prisoners taken. Have you chosen a prison contractor yet, sir?”

  “I haven’t looked into a private prison contractor, admiral. My men can handle it for now.”

  “They might get swamped in a hurry, sir. General Hornish—you remember him, sir?—he’s on the board of Alliance Detention now. I can send him a transmission, have him set up—”

  “Master sergeant, do you have those figures on the bodies shipping in for 42nd Division?” Hella asked, cutting off Stillwell, who stood with his square jaw gaping for a few moments before sitting down. Hella had learned long ago that the best tactic for tearing the wings off a social butterfly was to gaff them off.

  “Three hundred from SOI, sir, ETA three weeks.”

  Three hundred boots. But he needed every single one. “Outstanding.”

  “And their breakdown, master sergeant?” asked Major General Brox, the weathered, sinewy CO of 42nd Division.

  “Two hundred to 9th Battalion and one hundred to 123rd, sir. I just sent the breakdown of MOSs to your tablet.”

  “Very good.” Brox didn’t complain about the fact that he’d requested five hundred men. He followed orders, took what he could get, and accomplished the mission with whatever he had.

  “We’re still working on getting you some NCOs from elsewhere in the fleet, General Brox,” Hella said. The mention—not the promise—of additional men would go a long way with Brox. Even obedient men needed to be placated sometimes. And I am trying.

  “We’re thin on officers at company level as well, sir,” Brox said.

  “Understood. After the meeting see Master Sergeant Rocco about getting those billets filled. I’ll get you whomever I can, but it will probably be a few weeks.”

  Brox nodded. “I’ll make do in the meantime, sir. Those boots will learn in a hurry.”

  “Class is in session down there already,” Hoffman said to the major general. “I just received an after-action report from 123rd Battalion. Looks like Kilo Company got into a scrap this afternoon.”

  “Sure does,” replied Brox, who received a message. He let out a deep breath before opening it. “Let’s hope the casualties are low.”

  Two killed and three wounded in an ambush near a suspected insurgent stronghold. A platoon commander was among the dead. Another company grade officer to replace. Some commanders would have shrugged it off, knowing it might have been much worse, as Hella appeared to do. In truth it alarmed him. A small-unit tactics instructor at the Academy had once told him, “Marines can win any war but that of attrition.” Engagements were growing more frequent. Even if most of those casualties returned to action within a few days, the losses would nevertheless multiply in a hurry. The Army could afford such losses on a daily basis; 42nd Division could not.

  We need to get this wrapped up. And quickly.

  CHAPTER 15

  Hydraulics whined as the loading ramp dropped. Searing sunlight gradually flooded the dropship’s cargo bay, along with a stench of rot and decay carried forth on a humid gust of wind. Rizer’s forehead immediately broke out in sweat.

  “Damn, who farted?” asked PFC Bach, one of the other replacement Marines from SOI assigned to 123rd Battalion, 42nd Marine Division, stationed at Camp Shaw on the moon Verdant. Of the twenty replacements, five others were bound for Mike Company with Rizer: Stubs, Hagel, Ward, Bach, and Farkas.

  Stubs waved a hand beneath his nose. “Fuck, it smells like Abek’s mom on a Sunday morning.”

  “Who’s Abek?” Hagel asked, donning his cruise bag.

  “Yeah, Stubs, enough with the bad memories,” Rizer said, ready to awaken from the nightmare of bootcamp and SOI. Nervousness clenched his gut. The fleet. He’d made it.

  “Move it, you fuckin’ boots,” said a sergeant behind them, the lone veteran on the flight, who had paid them no mind during the trip.

  Rizer grabbed his gear and headed down the ramp, eager to see where he would be stationed for his two-year deployment. He shielded his eyes from the white brightness of Tantus, the distant class-A star high in the sky. Lower on the horizon loomed the top crest of Tantus-4, the giant gas planet Verdant orbited every three and half days.

  Once his eyes adjusted, the first thing he noticed was a metal rack containing a dozen cylindrical pods on the forks of a hover loader parked nearby; the mist escaping them swirled about in the hot breeze. Rizer wondered what the olive drab pods contained.

  Having pushed his way through the boots, the sergeant walked slowly past the pods, reading the yellow letters printed on each. He lingered on one, shook his head, and walked on.

  And then Rizer knew. Shit, frozen bodies. The sergeant had been looking for friends who might have died in his absence.

  Rizer tore his eyes from the pods and scanned Camp Shaw. Prefab polymer buildings of various sizes, all a uniform tan color, sprouted like mushrooms from muddy red earth. Towering jungle hardwoods formed a thick canopy past the rooftops, but little vegetation grew in the camp. Streets had been laid in the mud with steel grating. A swarm of mosquitoes the size of fighter aircraft quickly formed about the boots’ heads.

  Another sergeant—tanned and towering, wearing a camo jumpsuit and a pistol on his hip—barked at them as they exited: “New 123rd Marines, form it up; let’s go!”

  They did as ordered.

  The sergeant produced a tablet and performed a roll call. Rizer noticed two-dozen Marines, mostly lance corporals with a few NCOs, sitting in formation nearby with their cruise bags. The oldest man had perhaps two years on Rizer, yet the dark hollows beneath absently staring eyes made him look at least forty. All had gaunt faces and sinewy bodies. They said little to one another as they waited to board the Condor, presently being loaded with the rack of cryo-pod coffins.

  “Listen up!” the sergeant said. “You replacements for Nightmare Company remain in formation. Those ordered to Murder Company will fall out at my command and form it up for Corporal Baltazar.” He pointed to a corporal, dun-skinned and dark-haired. A lance corporal stood obediently at Baltazar’s heels. A few of the boots muttered bewildered comments about Murder and Nightmare, though Rizer understood well enough. “Fall out!”

  The six bound for Murder Company, Rizer included, formed before Corporal Baltazar, who scanned them from cover to boot, shaking his head. “You’re all boots for Murder Company, right? Everybody’s in the right place?”

  “I’m not sure, corporal,” Farkas said. “We’re joining Mike Company.”

  The lance coolie, Stiglitz, started laughing.

  Baltazar stared at Farkas. “Right, Mike Company. We don’t really go by that around here.”

  “Murder is more appropriate,” Stiglitz said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Baltazar laughed. “Yeah, if they live that long.”

  Stiglitz cracked up. “Doubt it!”

  Rizer wanted to punch the blond kid right in his crooked teeth.

  “Anyway, I’m Corporal Baltazar, your squad leader. You clowns think you can follow me to the company area, or do I have to march you?”

  “Ooh, can I march ’em, Corporal Baltazar?” Stiglitz asked.

  “No.”

  Stiglitz snapped his fingers.

  “I think we can follow you, corporal,” Rizer said.

  “Maybe. But I’m gonna march you anyway, see if they taught you boots left from right on Forge.”

  He called them to attention and ordered them
to march. His halfhearted cadence hit the walls of buildings and perished. They marched past the combat veterans loading into the Condor, who directed haunted stares back to Camp Shaw and the jungle looming past the buildings. One man, his gaze a thousand kilometers away, noticed Rizer looking at him and offered a weary wave, not even appearing relieved at his departure. He’d doubtless left much behind. The gesture seemed to wish Rizer good luck, if such might be found on Verdant.

  The camp’s thoroughfares buzzed with activity. Baltazar marched them beside a grated street to avoid the traffic of hover and wheeled vehicles as well as marching platoons. They passed a platoon of Marines in power armor bound for the field, loading into a Scorpion infantry fighting vehicle with a turret-mounted plasma cannon on top. Stiglitz acted as unofficial tour guide, pointing out buildings of interest: chow hall, armory, supply, motor pool, company offices, a muddy PT field. Rizer spied a lone spire topped by an onion dome protruding above the buildings, along with a cluster of smokestacks belching orange fumes. He assumed those distant structures were in a nearby town.

  “That’s the battalion aid station, otherwise known as BAS.” Stiglitz pointed to a square building with a red cross above the door. “Some of you will spend a lot of time malingering there to avoid patrols.”

  “Shut your pork trap, Stiglitz,” said Baltazar, interrupting his cadence.

  Stiglitz laughed briefly yet obeyed.

  They halted and fell out before their barracks, a long, rectangular structure with two floors and a minimum of windows. Inside, wall lockers separated the ubiquitous open squad bay into cubicles sleeping four men. Several large display screens with duty rosters and briefing info hung on the wall by the front entrance. Power armor storage racks—which charged the suits and performed diagnostic tests on their operating systems—lined the other walls. The racks contained only a couple of suits at the moment. No other Marines were present.

  “This is Doom Squad’s area.” Baltazar pointed to a cubicle. “That one’s all open, so four of you in there. The other two can rack in there with Wexson and Brackman. They have the bottom bunks.”

  “I’d respect their space,” Stiglitz said. “Unless you wanna find your shit scattered all over the squad bay when you get back.”

  “Where are we going?” Rizer made the mistake of asking. The moment it took to ask was long enough for Ward, Bach, Farkas, and Hagel to claim the open cubicle, leaving Rizer and Stubs to bunk with the salty Marines.

  “Checking in,” Baltazar said.

  Rizer studied him, puzzled. They had checked in with admin on the fleet ship before descending to Verdant, and he said so to Baltazar.

  “Yeah, I know that. Now you check in with your platoon commander. I’d take you to the company commander, but he’s off post right now.”

  “Do we need to put on alphas?”

  Stiglitz laughed; Baltazar shook his head. “No, but you better get those uniforms squared away first. Lieutenant Dupaul is a stickler for military appearance. He’ll chew your asses if you show up looking like shitbirds.”

  “He’ll try to chew your asses, anyway,” Stiglitz said. “To the best of his ability.”

  Baltazar shot him a pissed-off glare. “You want a field day in your armor again, Stiglitz, with the power off?”

  “No, corporal.”

  “Get to the armory and check on the status of their suits. I don’t need you anymore.”

  Stiglitz departed with a jaunty wave at his new squad mates.

  They stowed their cruise bags and donned fresh uniforms. Twenty minutes later they stood at attention in the company office before Second Lieutenant D. Dupaul, a wiry man not much older than Rizer. The razor creases in his uniform and the flat, angular planes of his frame made him look as if he’d been smashed by a colossal iron. From behind his desk, Dupaul scrutinized them for a few moments before ordering them to produce the drives containing their orders and personnel files. He ordered them to stand at ease and spent several minutes glancing over their records.

  His eyes locked onto Rizer. “You attended a very prestigious university, PFC Rizer. Why did you leave? Was it too tough for you?” he asked without condescension.

  Rizer cringed inside. He’d joined the Corps to escape his past, yet it kept coming up. “No, sir, it was too easy.”

  “Really?” Amusement played at the corners of his mouth.

  “Yes, sir. I wanted to do something challenging.”

  Dupaul nodded. “That’s the sort of hard-charging attitude we like to see in Mike Company, Marine. We need more intellectuals in uniform.”

  I don’t know about all that. In Rizer’s vernacular, intellectual was a synonym for a communist student agitator.

  Dupaul peered at Baltazar. “These men look locked on, corporal. Have they met Staff Sergeant Len yet?”

  “No, sir. He’s on patrol with Ghost and the rest of Doom Squad.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, they should be back soon. Tomorrow morning, I believe?”

  “This afternoon, sir.”

  “Oh yes, outstanding. Let Staff Sergeant Len know I’d like their safety briefing to be conducted upon his return. I shall be there as well.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You Marines keep up on your appearance standards, especially hygiene. This environment is teeming with fungus, parasites, viruses. Stay clean.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the boots. Though the warning seemed prudent, Rizer thought it a minor point for a lieutenant to worry over.

  “Dismissed.”

  Baltazar marched them to the chow hall. The food was depressing, a pre-packaged tray of synthetic steak as bland and prefabricated as the chow hall itself. Rizer had many questions, but Baltazar obviously wanted little to do with his charges, so he didn’t bother asking.

  Better to just keep my mouth shut and absorb what I can.

  After chow, they spent the next three hours being issued gear: packs, field gear, and load-bearing equipment at supply; weapons and power armor at the armory. Only Stubs received a new suit of armor, likely because of his height. Rizer could tell that the other suits had seen heavy use, with many of the plates freshly replaced. He doubted the plates had become unserviceable from simple wear and tear.

  They stowed their armor in the barracks. Though officers and NCOs were allowed to carry pistols, weapons remained at the armory unless the Marines were going on patrol or the camp went on alert. In the latter case, all personnel would don full combat gear and weapons until the potential danger passed.

  Camp Shaw had yet to go on full alert according to Baltazar. “Attacking this base would require balls and coordination. They don’t fight like that.”

  “How do they fight, corporal?” Ward asked.

  “Dirty, but you learn to see ’em coming if you wanna live bad enough.”

  Their platoon sergeant, SSgt Len, had still not returned after gear issue. Baltazar ordered them to square away their combat gear until the safety briefing. He then went to his cubicle and left them alone.

  The four PFCs in the adjoining cubicle were soon joking and grab-assing. Though no warning came from Baltazar to tone it down, Rizer and Stubs kept their conversation low as they went over shiny spots on their supply gear with olive drab paint.

  The door flew open about half an hour later, followed by the clop of armored boots, raucous wisecracks, and laughter. Salty Marines of second platoon filed past the cubicles of boots, laughing at them and making snide remarks. Rizer and Stubs ignored them. The vets moved on, turned to removing their armor and placing the suits in the racks.

  Rizer and Stubs met their new cubicle mates a few minutes later. “Boy, get your shit the fuck off my rack!” shouted a tall Marine built like a juggernaut.

  Though Rizer had heeded Stiglitz’s advice, leaving the rack beneath his alone, Stubs had his gear spread all over the other bottom bunk in the process of organizing it. “Yeah, sorry, man—”

  “Fuck you! Fuckin’ boot come up
in here fuckin’ up my rack!” He grabbed Stubs’ backpack and flung it over the wall lockers.

  “Motherfucker!” Stubs said, and the two eyeballed each other, noses barely apart.

  “That’s right, I’m a muthafucka, muthafucka! What’s your boot ass gonna do about it?” He swiped another item off the rack to clatter on the floor.

  Rizer jumped off the top rack and moved to intervene. He doubted his body would be enough to separate the two huge men, but he had to try. As he stepped in, another Marine—shaved bald, broad shoulders, and heavily tatted—entered the cubicle and put a hand on his buddy’s shoulder, pulling him back.

  “Easy, Wexson,” said the bald Marine. “You don’t need office hours again.”

  “Fuck that! And fuck this fuckin’ new guy!”

  “Bring it, asshole!” Stubs said.

  Rizer got hold of his arm. “Back up, Stubs; don’t get started like this.”

  He and the bald Marine defused the situation as others watched from the cubicle’s entrance. Stubs moved his gear to the top bunk, though he refused to tighten up Wexson’s rack. Still seething, Wexson headed for the showers at the suggestion of LCpl Brackman, the bald Marine and fourth man in the cube. Rizer met Doom Squad’s other two members a few minutes later, Corporals Daz and Farik, who bunked with Baltazar and Stiglitz in the next cube. Since Doom had been short on men until the boots’ arrival, the returning Marines had filled out Ghost Squad for a short overnight patrol. They’d encountered no enemy, but they were tired, dirty, and pissed-off. Before Baltazar gathered the boots for the safety briefing, Rizer learned that second platoon’s other two squads were named Fury and Evil.

  Baltazar marched them back to the chow hall, empty but for Service Corps personnel cleaning and preparing for the evening meal. Wonder what tray that’ll be? Tuna mac, if his limited experience—it was exactly that, he painfully realized—could still be trusted.

  They didn’t hear the chow hall door open, only the heavy footsteps of the staff sergeant who entered. Dressed in muddy power armor, scratched and dinged, the impressive figure strode the length of the hall to stand before them. Rizer assumed this was SSgt Len. The armored man looked over his new Marines for a few moments before removing his helmet, exposing a shaved head. His features suggested Asian ancestry. He looked composed and hard, and Rizer sensed before Len spoke that he didn’t hold them in contempt as the other salty Marines did.