The Soldier

by Terrance Mulloy

  “I haven’t seen you since I thawed. Where’s your bunk?” Matt asked.

  “Several dorms back. I tell you, man, I’ll be glad to finally get out of this tin bucket. Damn thing is seriously messing with my claustrophobic levels.”

  “You do know they put us in drop-pods before we break atmo, right?”

  “Yeah, but at least it’s a short trip down.”

  Matt chuckled and switched off the comms unit, swinging his legs over the edge of his bunk to stand. “I was about to grab some chow. Care to join me?”

  Pinehurst gave a carefree shrug. “Yeah, sure. You buying?”

  Suddenly, a klaxon started blaring throughout the ship, stopping everyone in their tracks. Every greenie just stood there like statues, unsure what was happening, listening intently as the alarm became an almost deafening wail.

  Matt watched as red warning lights began to pulse throughout the dorms and corridors, making him feel as if he was suddenly on watch duty inside a submarine.

  Pinehurst spun to Matt. “That sounds like a Stations Ready warning.”

  Frowning, Matt nodded in agreement, remembering the specific sound from the cache of audio files he was ordered to memorize after thawing from cryo. “I think you’re right,” he yelled in reply. “You should probably head back to your dorm.”

  Pinehurst gave a vacant nod, still listening intently. “Maybe something has malfunctioned on the ship.”

  Before Matt could entertain that idea, a Staff Sergeant entered their dorm. His beefy face, bathed in a red glow, was rigid with concern. “Listen up, greenies!” he yelled. “This is not a drill! I repeat this is not a drill! This is a Stations Ready warning! You are to grab your personal belongings and move to your designated prep-chamber immediately! Move out!”

  With the klaxon still droning, the entire dorm immediately sprang into action as everyone hustled back to their bunks to round up their belongings. The greenies already on their bunks, who seconds ago were stealing sleep, hopped up and began clearing their side tables of any items, shoving them into tactical haversacks. Some pulled on their thermal socks and combat boots, while others secured equipment. It was a rowdy, yet graceful ballet of controlled chaos.

  As Matt and Pinehurst brushed past the Staff Sergeant, Pinehurst turned and queried him. “Any idea what’s happening, sir?”

  The Staff Sergeant’s eyes snapped to him. “You know as much as I do, greenie.”

  “Are we under attack?” Pinehurst responded, knowing he was already on thin ice with this guy by the scowl etched into his face.

  Annoyed by the sudden inquisition, the Staff Sergeant shot him a hard glare. “Get to your station, greenie! You’ll find out soon enough!”

  “Yessir!” Pinehurst replied before turning to Matt and throwing him that trademark smirk. “See you down in the Bog, bro.”

  Matt returned the grin and nodded tautly. “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  Three

  With a bulging tactical haversack slung over his shoulder, Matt trudged through the labyrinthine starship, greenies crushing him on both sides, surging like a river towards the row of prep-chambers. The din was muted as everyone moved awkwardly from the weight of their combat armor and gear. Matt kept his helmet faceplate up as he craned his neck over the crowd, spotting the entrance to his designated prep-chamber ahead.

  He marched inside, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the iridescent half-light. It was a welcome change from the glaring red warning lights that continued to strobe the ship’s endless corridors.

  The first thing he noticed was a circular row of exojackets that lined the sparse plastic walls. Some greenies from his dorm were already getting fitted by three-man teams of Prep Officers.

  Each exojacket was a polycarbonate skeleton, custom fit with the soldier’s surname and USC ident stamped on it. The exojackets were worn temporarily, designed to be slotted into a special housing bracket that encased the interior of each drop-pod. They would dampen the impact of any hard landings, also providing an extra layer of cushioning for the soldier, like a NASCAR drivers’ roll cage.

  Matt looked around the room and spotted a few faces he recognized. Some greenies looked excited something was finally happening after many weeks of boredom. Others looked fearful as if they were being ordered to climb into some type of Iron Maiden device. The klaxon still droning in the corridor outside only seemed to exacerbate the nervous tension that was now bristling throughout this prep-chamber.

  “Private Reeves,” said a well-spoken female voice that was clearly British.

  Matt turned to see a young Prep Officer smiling politely at him. Fair-skinned, with rosy cheeks, blonde hair, and wise brown eyes, she looked to be late twenties.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Before we get you prepped, I’m going to need you to recite your enlisted ident and Oath of Valor,” she replied, tapping the screen of a small handheld device she was holding.

  “Orion Fury. Twenty-two-six-seven-three. Reeves, Matthew J.”

  “And do you hereby solemnly swear to uphold and defend the United Space Command’s constitution, creed, and defensive alliances with all nations of the Earth, so help you, God?”

  “I do,” Matt affirmed.

  “Excellent. Please put down your haversack and step in.” She motioned to the nearest exojacket. With her calm and polite demeanor, Matt thought she could have easily been ushering him towards a nice table at a fancy restaurant.

  Another two Prep Officers joined her, tapping away at data feeds on their handhelds. One of them began tinkering with a large feeder cable attached to Matt’s exojacket.

  Matt placed his haversack on the ground and carefully backed into the steel suit.

  “Perfect. Now, hold out your arms and keep them straight.”

  Matt obeyed her order. Hydraulics hissed smoothly as the exojacket began to click into place around his limbs and torso.

  One of the other Prep Officers lifted his haversack and placed it into a locker compartment fitted into the rear of the jacket. It appeared to be made of some type of heavy composite. Once it was secured inside, he stepped in front of Matt and scanned his eyes with a small penlight device. “Any dizziness, headaches, or nausea in the past twenty-four hours?”

  Matt shook his head, finding it a little difficult to swallow his dry throat. “No, sir.” He was anxious now and desperately trying to hide it.

  “When was the last time you ate something?”

  “I guess around three hours ago.”

  “How’s your electrolyte intake since thawing from cryo?”

  “I’ve been drinking one powdered packet in the morning with breakfast, and another in the afternoon around four o’clock.”

  “Probiotics and vitamins?”

  “Um, two tablets a day. Usually with food.”

  “When was your last bone density test?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “And the result?”

  “My T-score was 0.9.”

  Satisfied, the Prep Officer tapped something on his handheld device and stepped away. “Twenty-two-six-seven-three is ready for drop. Let’s get him racked and stacked.”

  The second he stated that a hydraulic rack lowered next to Matt’s encased left arm and snapped into place like it was an additional appendage to the exojacket. Mounted inside was Matt’s assault rifle; a standard-issue Vortex Meson 480-Z. It was a sleek assault rifle, with a fluted barrel made from a variety of lightweight composites. This weapon also packed a wallop, capable of firing up to nine-hundred jacketed plasma rounds per minute with minimum recoil.

  Matt’s eyes tracked the female Prep Officer as she crossed the room and retracted a small console screen out of a wall-mounted plinth next to him. “Hey, any idea why we’re dropping early?” he asked, trying to dampen any concern in his voice by sounding casual.

  Eyes still on her screen, she shook her head. “I’m afraid not, but you’re about to be briefed. All we know is it was an Excelsior-level orde
r, marked urgent.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means, it came directly from USC Command.”

  “On Epsilon or our fleet?”

  She looked up and met Matt’s eyes, folding the console screen back into its plinth. “Both.”

  As she stepped back, Matt could feel his exojacket starting to vibrate. His helmet faceplate also lowered automatically and sealed shut with a hard, plastic-sounding snap, a digital HUD flickering to life across it. Minimal data was being displayed, but Matt could see a ribbon of code cycling in his peripheral that indicated the operating system inside his helmet was powering up. There was also the whine of some unseen engine spooling to life above him. He now felt like a tiny cog in a giant machine. In many ways, that’s exactly what he was.

  “No matter what, just remember to breathe,” she said with a neutral smile. “Good luck down there.” She then turned and hurried off to join the other Prep Officers who were now clearing the floor to take position inside a small rotunda.

  Able to only turn his head, Matt traded nervous looks with the other greenies as a deep metallic rumbling started to envelop the chamber.

  Suddenly, the floor split open and folded back into itself. That was followed by a heavy jolt as they began descending through the floor like they were all part of some enormous factory conveyer belt.

  Connected to an automated turbo-lift mechanism, hydraulics groaned as they emerged through the ceiling of a huge, crescent-shaped briefing auditorium with hundreds of other exojackets. Everyone was racked and stacked into perfectly aligned rows, waiting for the show to begin. Matt knew the Intrepid was essentially a huge troop carrier, but he had no idea just how deep its belly was until now.

  A mix of high-ranking ASIF, AASOC, and ANOC officers sat at the front of the auditorium, and standing on stage in front of a vast, Imax-sized holoscreen, was Major John Barbee; a pock-faced piece of leather who was mean as piss. On his third rotation out to Epsilon, Barbee was currently the highest-ranking ASIF field officer on the Intrepid. But he was not the highest-ranking officer in this particular fleet.

  That honor went to Commander Scott King - whose granite features were emblazoned across the towering screen behind Barbee like a new carving on Mount Rushmore. Late-fifties, King’s pale-blue eyes bored into the crowd of nervous greenies like nails. This too was King’s third rotation out to Epsilon as a senior ANOC officer. He was about to brief these greenies in real-time from the USC Terigon; a smaller battlecruiser that had also deployed from Earth and was leading the fleet through hyperspace to their OSAD (Orbital Staging Area of Drop).

  Matt turned his head to see two more rows of exojackets drop into place behind him with a hard clang. He was certain one of the greenies at the far end of the line had been crying the whole time. At least it appeared that way. The kid only looked to be in his early twenties and was a waif in terms of height and build. Perfect cannon fodder, Matt thought.

  One of the older greenies next to him was angrily barking insults in Korean. Matt could see why. The poor kid had wet himself. He stood there, head bowed with shame as urine dripped down through the metal shins and plates of his exojacket, disappearing into the gear pit below. Some of the other greenies behind him also started mocking him, shaking their heads with disgust.

  Helluva way to enter a war, Matt thought as he turned and began scanning the auditorium for any sign of Pinehurst. After a good minute or two, he was still unable to locate him among the growing lines of heavy metal, figuring he must have been in a row closer to the stage with his back facing him.

  With the auditorium now filled to the brim with jacketed greenies, King waited for Barbee to finish arranging some holographic data on the glass table on stage, then cleared his throat and began his briefing. There was grave concern on his face, but it was masterfully tempered. “I’m sure many of you are wondering why you’ve been pulled from your dorms into deployment prep without warning, so I’ll make this as brief as I can: we have received word from Epsilon Command that our OSAD vector is no longer clear. The Wraith have compromised our original exit point. So, we will be deploying two days early, swinging around to the opposite side of the planet to initiate your atmo-drop. I will ensure the Terigon provides you all the support it can muster, but I’m not going to sugar-coat this - it will be a dangerous deployment. In addition to their ground cannons, the Wraith will most likely have ground forces waiting to intercept you once you reach the surface, so expect hard contact. When you see them in your sights, remember why you are here and what you are fighting for. Major Barbee will complete your briefing and provide further op details. Good luck, soldiers. Godspeed, and see you in the Bog.”

  If King and Barbee were expecting to hear a unified cheer, they never got one. Instead, a soft welter of nervous murmurs broke out among the greenies as King’s face disappeared from the massive screen, only to be replaced with the official USC seal and logo.

  Barbee’s expression was stoic as he swiped the glass table in front of him.

  The screen behind him suddenly flashed to a three-dimensional starfield, highlighting their new vectored course to reach Epsilon. They were currently traveling through the Cygnus constellation and were about to breach the outer rim of Epsilon’s solar system. From there, they would initiate one last jump to reach orbit. It was a smaller skip-hop maneuver known as a fold.

  “Our current position is here, relative to the Crescent Nebula.” Barbee’s baritone voice was also tinged with a slight Texan drawl. In many ways, that added an extra dimension to his larger-than-life stature, and the deep reverence he held aboard this ship. Much like King, Barbee was a man of war. A product of it. The result of someone who had spent years being forged through this war’s unforgiving crucible.

  Matt narrowed his eyes, carefully studying the imagery on screen. They were still traveling through the zero-field tunnel, but it was obvious the fleet could not perform the required fold maneuver until they had exited into real space. The problem was, the Wraith had positioned several mine clusters across their original OSAD. Exiting and attempting to fold in that orbital plane would have been nothing less than suicide.

  “Our new OSAD is in sector 2273, slightly above their equatorial band. We will fold into high orbit with Epsilon’s sun at our stern. Severe solar activity will provide some masking from any ground cannons, but USC elements have already indicated the Wraith’s long-range artillery will be able to geo-synch quicker than expected. That means our drop window is extremely limited. SAAC also advises that comms will be intermittent due to silicon-dense winds and grit-flares in the upper atmo, so you can expect an interesting ride to the surface.”

  When Barbee turned and zoomed in closer to their designated OSAD target, a dozen moons extended out from Epsilon like a string of pearls. Some were significantly large bodies with their own atmospheres, others were no more than tiny chunks of deformed rock a few miles across in diameter. Due to turbulent surface activity, some of the larger moons were uninhabited, but the Wraith had established colonies on most of them. Not that the greenies could see them from this computer-rendered imagery, but many of the surface structures had already been reduced to ruin. Since the arrival of the first USC armada, there had been extensive campaigns to destroy Wraith armament factories and underground mines on their moons, as they were crucial components in driving their war machine.

  In terms of our solar system, Epsilon was located at roughly the same distance between the Sun and Mars, but due to the reach and intensity of its Red Giant star, the planet had been baked into a hot and humid hellscape. Barbee tapped the graphical representation of Epsilon, and the image zoomed in on a surface region that was laced with jagged mountain ranges. He zoomed in even closer, where a green circle began to pulse in an area that was a shallow crater basin, indicating this was their DLZ (Drop-Pod Landing Zone). The circle ranged about one-to-two kilometers across in length.

  Barbee adjusted the image slightly with his fingers, giving the greenies a clearer view of
the insertion point from the Intrepid to the planet’s surface. “Primary DLZ call sign and coordinates are as follows: DLZ Pale Rider 1-6, grid 64750. I repeat, your grid will be 64750. Memorize it in case you are somehow knocked off your pre-designated vector. If your pod ends up in the middle of an enemy-occupied zone, and you have no idea where you are, it’s going to be highly unlikely anyone will ever see you again. I can’t stress this enough; memorize that grid. It could save your life and the life of your fellow soldiers. Once you have secured the DLZ, and all units are safely on the ground, you will hitch a ride with three incoming QRF units: Warlord One-One, Warlord One-Two, and Warlord One-Three. They will be your point elements to FOB Rhino – which is about a three-hour journey north. They are expecting some heavy resistance along the way, so enjoy the bumpy ride and watch that crossfire.”

  This was now real. After a full year of hurtling through space, it was finally happening. Matt was about to enter this war. Aside from his family, he had thought about nothing else for months. He could almost taste the fear and anticipation that now blanketed this vast room.

  Some of his fellow greenies looked pumped, ready to drop, hungry for blood, but many of the faces on either side of him also looked deathly grim. Some prayed silently, others prayed in juddering, nervous whispers.

  A greenie in front of Matt pitched his neck forward and made a strange gagging sound as if he were attempting to stop himself from puking. Despite Matt’s nervousness, he remained calm. He knew this was going to be a day to remember, but he also knew this day had been coming for a long time, so it was hardly a shock. And the fact that it arrived a few days earlier than anticipated changed nothing. He was here to fight. He was here to protect and defend. And he was also here to avenge.

  Barbee moved away from the table and allowed a moment for everyone in the room to absorb the briefing. “Any questions?” he asked, knowing there would most likely be none. He scanned the silent, untested crowd, knowing exactly what they were feeling. He’d been here numerous times himself, racked and stacked, waiting to break atmo. No matter how battle-hardened one was, atmo-drops were a terrifying thing to experience. “It may not look it, but I know exactly what each of you are feeling right now,” he declared. “And as I look out among you, in many ways, I see myself reflected back…” He moved closer to the edge of the stage, his eyes boring into the crowd. “But I tell you what else I see. I see men and women of all races, religions, and creeds, unified to embark upon the greatest crusade our species has ever known. You have striven towards this moment for many months, and the eyes of Earth are now upon you. Take comfort in knowing that the hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere travel with you into the furnace of battle. In company with our brave USC brothers and sisters-in-arms, you will play a vital role in bringing about the ultimate destruction of the Wraith war machine. Your actions will bring forth freedom and security for your family, your loved ones, as well as countless future generations. For the service you are about to undertake in this great struggle in which we are engaged, I give you sincere thanks.” He snapped to attention and made a rather unorthodox gesture of goodwill by saluting them. “Good hunting, greenies!”