***
“Why the fuck am I here?” Rizer asked Stubs, his companion in the fighting hole atop hill 473.
War, a real firefight unlike anything he’d seen in training, raged at times in the valley below, explosions lighting the night as first platoon engaged insurgent elements. Stubs and Rizer listened to their radio chatter. They’d taken several casualties so far but scored confirmed enemy kills as well. Second platoon served as the force blocking the valley they’d patrolled earlier, in case the enemy sent reinforcements from that direction. The mortar section from weapons platoon was hard at work providing support; the machineguns were elevated and locked into position on tripods to rain fire down on key points. No one got comfortable; they might be ordered down the hill into battle if things got too hairy.
“It’s where we’re stationed; why else?” Stubs answered.
“Not what I mean, Stubs. I think you know that.”
“Eh, so you messed up today. There’s a learning curve for everything.”
Rizer shook his head. “I don’t get it though. Training wasn’t easy, but I kicked ass during the sims and live-fire exercises. Then I get the fuck out here and get a guy’s knee broken. What happens when I wind up down there?” He pointed to the valley.
Stubs said nothing for a few moments. “You adapt and overcome. You learn—we all need to learn.”
“Yeah, well, we’re bound to learn something surrounded by men who have confirmed kills. And here I have one rabsidar to my credit. And my platoon sergeant thinks I’m an idiot.” He shook his head.
“Don’t sweat it, bro. At least you have your first kill.”
Later on, Daz tried to put Rizer on watch again. “No,” Baltazar said. “Let him sleep tonight. He’ll pay when we get back to Shaw.”
Rizer fell asleep a short while later, exhausted from humping Farik uphill for several kilometers, a true test of his fortitude and power armor. Stubs stood watch in the hole all night while he slept.
They moved into the valley the next morning after the fight ended. In a clearing, several injured Marines loaded into a Condor for a fast ride back to Shaw. Two med bots jogged past carrying a Marine on a stretcher, his arm blown off at the elbow.
“Wouldn’t want to be that guy,” Bach said.
Stubs snorted. “Hey, at least he gets to go home.”
“Wrong,” said Brackman. “The only place he’s going is to a medical ship to get fitted with a prosthetic, just like Farik. He’ll work with the Service Corps while he’s in rehab, doing all sorts of shit details until he’s fit to come back to the front.”
“Seriously?” Stubs said.
Brackman nodded. “Yep. You either finish your two-year tour here or leave in a rubber bag. There’s a broad in first platoon who’s had two arms and a leg blown off, and she’s still a sniper. One guy made the mistake of getting a hand job from her. Let’s just say she has a hell of a grip.”
And I’m in one hell of a jam. Today’s advanced prosthetics were considered superior to real limbs; nevertheless, Rizer had grown attached to his and had no desire to make any trades.
“Shit, two fucking years,” Stubs said.
“Not quite.” Brackman smirked. “You boots only have… What is it now?” He paused to think. “Seven hundred twenty-eight more days! Don’t sweat it, after that you will likely rotate to another unit deployed to some other shit hole and do it all over again.”
Rizer realized he’d trapped himself into a situation far more ominous than a simple jam. I am fucked. We all are. He saw SSgt Len nearby, remembered that he’d survived two previous combat tours. Unless we watch… and learn.
CHAPTER 17
In the cramped room Captain Thomas Manahan shared with a fellow company commander in 35th Tank Battalion, he donned his tanker uniform, a suit of basic skins with minimal armor plating on the torso and joints. Though he was accustomed to working in tight spaces after nineteen years in the bellies of M-39 Maulers, he nevertheless found his tight quarters annoying. Of course, it could have been worse; his staff NCOs lived four men to the same sized room, just as he had on deployments during his time as an enlisted man.
As he geared up, he considered the briefing he’d just attended on the upcoming mission, Golf Company’s first major action since deploying to Verdant a month before. The situation was worse than he’d thought. Not the enemy—he’d yet to meet a foe he couldn’t best—but the ally, though he couldn’t quite call them that.
Employer is more accurate. Orders from corporate.
Manahan had been to war several times. He knew whom the military really worked for, though he had never seen it so glaringly expressed until this deployment. In his younger days he possessed neither the rank nor the need to know; now that he did, he didn’t wish to know.
His battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Keel, had made it plainly obvious: “Point of contact for any issues involving the civilian population is Mr. Wilcox, legal counsel for Babcock-Mauer Industries. You are to defuse the situation, nothing more. Let him handle the rest due to liability issues. Problems with the shipment—damage, theft, loss, what have you—are to be reported to Mr. Hedly of BM’s logistics department, who will serve absently as corporate convoy commander. You are to contact them first, higher command second.”
It shocked Manahan that directives from Babcock-Mauer executives took priority over those from regiment or division. And Keel… who would have thought he’d stand for this? Though far from the most efficient officer Manahan had served under, Keel had always demanded that his officers and men live by the core values of the Marine Corps, just as he did. That he accepted corporate control so readily surprised and disgusted Manahan. People change when careers and pensions are on the line.
Only three months shy of earning his twenty-year pension, Manahan could somewhat relate. That he might lose it for disobeying orders from BM suits was an inexcusable injustice. Three months, just deal with it. If he survived the Verdant deployment, he would probably retire to be home with his sons, who still had a lot of growing up to do.
Geared up but for his comm helmet, a lighter version of the infantry model with an over-sized visor for the HUD, Manahan checked himself over in the mirror. He wasn’t a stickler for military appearance when it came time for combat, yet he always strived to present his best image to his men. Age hadn’t played much hell with his body; the uniform sizes he’d gained over the years were due to added muscle, not fat. Time and stress had done a number on his face however. Its fissures and crags resembled a sat map of the deserts on Kaktus. His blue eyes formed twin oases in the ravaged waste; the deep scar on his left cheek, an uncrossable chasm. His red hair was cut high regulation, the sides of his head shaved to hide the gray around his temples.
He strapped on his service pistol and grabbed his helmet, ready to depart. Then he noticed the blue light blinking on his holo-pad, barely visible beneath a cover his roommate had carelessly tossed atop it. He shook his head. If Captain Ball’s men knew how sloppy their CO was, they would never field day again.
Manahan tossed the cover on Ball’s rack and checked the pad. His sons had left a message while he’d been in the mission brief. He sat at the room’s tiny desk and played the message, the grainy vid both heartening and heart-wrenching at once. Brax and Stev, ages nine and eleven, always got excited talking to their dad, even if they were only leaving a message. The younger had recently joined his brother in attending school, though they didn’t speak much about that. In fact Brax didn’t mention it at all, and Manahan had a feeling his black eye had something to do with that. A short kid for his age, Brax sometimes became a target for bullies according to Jeanie, Manahan’s estranged wife. Both of his sons took shit from other kids for having a jarhead absentee father, but Stev could take care of himself.
He checked his watch: 0837. He wanted to be at the motor pool by 0845 to oversee preparations for the mission, which would roll at 1000. You can be a couple minutes late. He composed his
thoughts before recording his reply, keeping things light at first before addressing the issue. “Mom’s told me about the kids at school, Brax. Don’t look for trouble, walk away if you can. But if they corner you, you hit the biggest kid square in the nose just the way I taught you. You guys are in the same school now, so look after your brother, Stev. You guys are a team.” He laughed briefly in spite of himself. “Yeah, I know you’re always at each other’s throats, but that’s how brothers are. We’re kinda the same out here, but we get the job done and look out for each other. You guys do the same. You’re blood—you stick together no matter what. Step up and be the men of the house until I get back. Mind your mom and don’t give her any crap.” He paused, looked away from the camera, betraying none of the emotions carving his insides. He considered leaving a vid for Jeanie yet decided against it. “Love you, guys. I’ll talk to you soon, and I’ll be home before you know it.” He ended the recording and sent it.
That’s one of the great benefits of being a Marine, he thought as he put on his helmet. There’s no lack of problems to distract you from the important things in life. The message had shaken him a bit, though a casual observer would never know. I need to get home.
He needed to survive the deployment first.
Manahan walked to the motor pool where the tanks and support vehicles of 35th Tank Battalion were stored and maintained. Even at the end of his career, seeing the massive Mauler hover tanks parked closely together, being swarmed over by their crews and mechanics, sent a shudder of excitement through him. All were painted in a splintered camo scheme to match the local foliage. Most still sat on parking pads, powered down, though a few running tanks hovered a meter above the earth.
Manahan considered the Mauler to be the finest main battle tank ever built, though he had a decidedly biased opinion—he’d never worked in any other tank. At over a hundred tons, bristling with weapons and sensors, each possessed enough firepower to destroy a small town. A 150mm A24-MXZ plasma cannon fed by an autoloader with sixty rounds of ammo and a range up to fifteen kilometers served as the main gun. It was capable of firing molecularly aligned cobalt plasma rounds as well as armor-piercing fin-stabilized discarding sabot rounds and high-explosive (HE) rounds. The main gun was backed by 100mm dual particle-beam cannons mounted on the turret flanks, with twin missile launchers attached to its rear. A M-361 plasma machinegun and a short-barreled plasma flamer for taking out enemy up close were mounted coaxially to the main gun atop and below the barrel. The gunner controlled the forward M-361, and a second 361 atop the turret could be fired remotely or by a man sitting in the hatch.
At its weakest points, no less than twenty centimeters of plasteel and multi-layer nanocomposite armor formed the Mauler’s sleek hull. The armor offered excellent crew protection, able to take multiple hits from most enemy main guns. The Mauler also featured an active countermeasure system for ballistic threats such as enemy cannon rounds and incoming missiles.
The tank commander could take control of any of the weapons at any time, though Manahan never did this unless one of his crew became injured. He expected each of his men to be an expert at their job, not merely proficient; technological supremacy and solid leadership meant nothing otherwise. Three men and one bot crewed the tanks: commander, gunner, driver, and mechanic.
The two sentries on the motor pool gate greeted Manahan with, “Good morning, sir,” but did not salute. Camp Shaw was considered part of the war zone, so the command had forbidden saluting, much to Manahan’s relief. Snipers loved guys with a little brass on their collar.
He encountered his Gunnery Sergeant Cormac and First Sergeant Becker before anyone else. Infantry, Becker had been with Golf for about three months. Manahan hadn’t ordered him into the field; first sergeants generally attended to enlisted affairs as opposed to taking part in missions. After exchanging greetings, Cormac, the tallest tanker Manahan had ever known, asked, “You mind if First Sergeant Becker rolls with me on this mission, sir?”
“Not at all. Glad to have you along, first sergeant. How are we looking, gunny?” Not at full strength, at least not at the moment. Of Golf Company’s fourteen Maulers, twelve were to be in service at all times, with two down for maintenance or held in reserve. Manahan counted only eleven operational tanks.
“One of the reactor relays on Fontaine’s tank is down,” Cormac said. “They’re working on it right now, sir. They’ll have it up by go time.” Manahan assumed Cormac had talked it over with the company maintenance chief, so he left it at that.
Some were not so trusting. “Sir, do you have a minute?” asked 2nd Lt Haverly, commander of second platoon, as he arrived on scene.
“Sure,” Manahan replied. “You have fifty-eight of my seconds left, lieutenant.” His deadpan response, combined with Haverly’s lack of experience, left the young lieutenant bewildered. They stepped aside to talk.
“I don’t know if Gunny Cormac told you we have a tank down—”
“He did. It’ll be taken care of.”
“Do you think an hour is enough time to fix it, sir?”
Calm down kid. Descended from a long line of military officers, Haverly had been educated at prestigious military academies throughout his life. But his greenness showed more and more as combat operations picked up. “More than enough time, Haverly. It’s under control.”
“Maybe I should order one of the reserve tanks into column, sir, just in case.”
“Not necessary, lieutenant. If Gunny Cormac says it’ll be up, it will be.”
“Sir—”
“There’s no sense having subordinates if you can’t trust them, and Cormac is my most trusted man. If we needed a new tank, he would have recognized that and seen to it.”
“But, sir, it seems like a rather involved problem.”
“Few of my men have ever let me down. And if it happens once, it damn sure won’t happen again. The gunny knows that. You’ll have your tank, just sit tight and supervise your men.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Haverly said, reluctance in his voice.
Still a boot but he’ll come around. And unlike some Academy-trained officers Manahan had known, Haverly would become a sound leader once he ditched the nerves and got some combat experience. Golf had done three security patrols since coming to Verdant but had yet to engage the enemy directly. This would be their first convoy escort mission.
Manahan inspected the tanks as his men prepared to move out. Sergeants commanded four of them; he paid the most attention to their machines. Not because he didn’t trust them but because they were still learning. Some asked his advice; others simply received it when Manahan noticed a discrepancy in their preparations. The downed tank became operational at 0925. Golf Company was on schedule for its 1000 departure.
He inspected his own tank last, the word Rooster stenciled on the barrel. “Chickens all present?” he asked, descending through the turret hatch to find his crew performing their pre-trip inspections.
“Coop’s full, sir,” responded his driver, LCpl Mitchell, from his station in the nose. He’d nicknamed their tank the chicken coop, and the name stuck. Though far from a stellar Marine, Mitch was one of the best drivers Manahan had ever known. He’d been a corporal until he assaulted a civilian while drunk back on Aldeb, forcing Manahan to take his rank. Mitch didn’t take it personally; his beefs were more with the Corps and life in general than with his CO.
“Weapons systems are good, sir,” said Sgt Pound, his gunner, as he divided his attention between Manahan, the console, and his HUD. He enjoyed his job and had eyes on becoming an officer down the road. “Locked, cocked, ready to rock.”
“Outstanding.”
He turned to his tanker bot, TB3988-2789, nicknamed Gina, who sat on a foldout seat performing reactor diagnostic checks. Only 1.2 meters tall, tanker bots served as onboard technicians, each programmed with comprehensive knowledge of the Mauler’s various electronic systems. Due to limited cabin space, tanker bots could fold up when not in use.
Their secondary purpose, rarely discussed among tankers, was to extricate their Mauler from the battlefield if the human crew died or became incapacitated. The tradeoff for their technical expertise was limited combat ability. They were programmed to use only the M-11 service pistol and only in an emergency.
“How’s she running today, Gina?”
“Tip-top, sir,” said the bot in a modified, electronic female voice. “You can fly her there if you want.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mitch said.
Manahan chuckled as he seated himself in the commander’s chair. The Mauler could indeed use its anti-gravity repulsors to fly for short distances at altitudes up to fifteen meters, but flying the ungainly tank was a risky maneuver, even for a driver like Mitch.
Manahan powered his comm helmet on. SYNCHRONIZING… read a flashing yellow message on his HUD, which disappeared when his helmet computer linked successfully with the tank’s mainframe. The trio of large three-dimensional display screens in front of him projected views from the tank’s exterior cameras and sensors, providing a 180-degree field of vision. He could alter the display on each screen to suit his preference, even change them to a 360-degree view, but this distorted the image enough to hamper visual navigation. Nevertheless, three-sixty viewing came in handy in tight situations. If those failed, he had a 360-degree set of vision blocks in the commander’s cupola that allowed him to view the outside world in several different spectrums. He mentally toggled the right display screen to systems and checked ammunition counts, fuel supply, reactor status, maps, and the intel Gina had downloaded specifically for this mission.
Once all systems were go, Manahan performed the mission briefing over the net: escort of a truck convoy carrying raw tridinium ore from a mine forty-eight klicks to the north, bound for a refinery near Darmatian. He went over callsigns, waypoints, and towns they would pass through, along with the chain of command—omitting mention of their corporate overlords, though his staff and officers knew—and warned them again of the dangers. “Do not get complacent just because we’ve yet to see the enemy. They’re out there—you’ve seen the wounded being brought in. This is the real deal. They may hole up when we do security patrols, but fifteen trucks of tridinium ore are enough to draw them out. Don’t let ’em sucker punch you. Are there any questions?”
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