Contact Front #1 Drop Trooper
Page 25
“Visiting a friend, Alvarez?” Covington asked me. The question was innocent, casual, but I could see the canny understanding in his eyes. He knew exactly what compartment I’d come out of, who was in it, and what our history was.
“Visiting a fellow Marine, sir,” I said.
He nodded, and I thought I saw approval in his look.
“Good job down there, by the way” he said. “I haven’t had the chance to speak to you, but I wanted to let you know.”
I felt my stomach constrict. I couldn’t listen to anyone else going on about how good a job I’d done.
“It wasn’t all me, sir. It wasn’t even mostly me. The civilian resistance down there did the heavy lifting. They laid down their lives for their home. I just launched the missiles.”
“You made sure the mission was accomplished,” he said, brooking none of my argument. “The mission, the troops, and you. That’s been the guidelines for every leader in every military since the Egyptians and the Babylonians.” He grinned, a wry twist to the expression. “And no, I wasn’t around for those wars, though First Sergeant Campbell may have been.”
I guess that was supposed to be funny, but I only had a vague idea who the Egyptians and Babylonians were, except that they were a long time ago. I thought they had something to do with the Greeks and Romans, but I couldn’t have sworn as to which one came first. I gave what I hoped was a polite chuckle, but it came out as even weaker than that.
“It’s not the troops that’s bothering you, though,” Covington deduced, decades of wisdom behind his grey eyes. “It’s the civilians, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted. A medic tried to weave between us in the passageway and I squeezed against the bulkhead to make way for her. Covington didn’t move, and I guess he didn’t have to.
“It’s something we’ve lost sight of,” he mused. “On Earth, anyway. People back there hear about colonists being killed by the enemy, but it doesn’t seem real. Wars don’t touch Earth anymore, and the only people who die violent deaths are the gangbangers in the Underground who no one cares about.”
My eyes narrowed, and I wondered if he was being sarcastic or simply trying to get under my skin. I decided on the former, since I didn’t want to take a dislike for the man on incomplete information.
“But this is a war,” he went on, all humor, dark or not, gone. “And civilians die in wars. For most of history, more civilians died than soldiers and sailors. Then things changed and the wars moved off Earth and so did the warriors, and all those pampered Earthers forgot the price. But people like you and I, we get to see it all, up close and personal.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen death up close,” I reminded him. I was sure he knew already. “I saw my mother die in front of me. I hid in a broken-down car in the desert heat and heard the screams as bandits killed my father and my brother. And it still hurts, sir. It still hurts just as bad.”
“I’ve seen quite a bit of death myself, son. It always hurts and it always will. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t be a Marine anymore, just a stone killer.”
“They’re recruiting us from the Underground,” I reminded him. “From criminals heading for a century in hibernation. You can’t tell me the Marines don’t have any use for stone killers.”
“We have a use for them,” he admitted. “They make great mine detectors.”
“Sir?” I asked, blinking in confusion.
“Sorry, old saying. They’re cannon fodder, the people you point at the enemy and set them off to trigger ambushes. What they’re not good for is making leaders, making trainers, making the Marines who’ll actually win this war for us.”
“You think I’m that?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“I think,” he told me, backing toward the lift banks, out of the sickbay, “that you’re going to have the chance to find out.”
EPILOGUE
The corridors of the Third Platoon area of Delta Company Headquarters were depressingly crowded with baby-faced newbies, wandering around with wide eyes and confused looks, all afraid to ask anyone above lance corporal for directions.
Which left me out, thank God. That and the bump in pay were the only good things I could think of about the promotion to E-5, staff sergeant. Two months of an accelerated NCO Academy certainly hadn’t been fun. Getting yelled at by pricks who’d never heard a shot fired in anger, having them tell me how to lead a squad in peacetime when we were in the middle of the biggest war in human history, having them teach me how to effectively yell at other people…none of that had been even remotely positive.
I thought of it as a ritual, like getting beaten into a gang, and made it through. Although getting beaten into a gang was one of the many things I’d sworn never to do when I left the group home.
At least this gang has the biggest guns.
The platoon sergeant’s office was tiny, though at least he had one. The squad leaders had to share an office nearly as small, with four desks crammed into it. Fortunately, we rarely had the chance to use them. Maybe that was the other positive about being an E-5, though only in comparison to being an E-6.
I knocked.
“Come!”
Scotty Hayes looked very much at home behind the platoon sergeant’s desk, though I noticed he still hadn’t done anything to personalize the office. He’d been closer to Gunny Guerrero than I was, so I didn’t give him any shit about it.
Standing in front of the generic, unadorned desk was a generic, unadorned PFC. He still had the shaved head of Armor School and the slight redness around his ‘face jacks of someone who’d only had them implanted a few weeks ago. He shared the slightly lost, confused expression of the other newbies, but there was something in his eyes, an animal cunning you saw in the Underground on the true survivors, combined with the spark of real intelligence behind it.
“Hey, Cam,” Hayes said. He nodded toward the PFC. “This is Private Thomas Henckel, one of our new Armor School graduates. I’m putting him in First squad to fill that hole in Alpha team. You want to take him back and show him around, get him settled into the barracks?”
“Sure,” I said. I offered Henckel a hand and he shook it a bit hesitantly, as if the gesture was unfamiliar to him. “Nice to meet you, Henckel. I’m Sergeant Alvarez, your squad leader. You got your duffle out there somewhere?”
“At the front desk,” he confirmed. His voice was strong, confident, despite being out of his element.
I waved at him to follow and pushed the door shut behind us, nodding to Hayes.
“Where you from, Henckel?” I asked him. “Do they call you Tom? Tommy?”
“I’m from Capital City, Sergeant,” he said, grabbing his duffel and tossing it over his shoulder. It looked heavy, but he was a broad-shouldered, thick-chested and didn’t seem to have a problem with it. “My Moms called me Tommy, but pretty much everyone else just calls me Henckel.”
“What part of Capital City?” I knew already, I was just curious if they called it something different there.
“The Underground,” he confirmed. “Jugghi Jhopri, the 3415.” His eyes narrowed and he regarded me sidelong as we walked. “You?”
“Trans Angeles. But sort of all over.”
He didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but it was the only one he’d get until I knew him better. We stepped out into the humid, dripping haze of late afternoon in Tartarus and I caught just a hint of discomfort in the way his mouth tightened.
“Don’t like it outdoors?” I asked, and he glanced over at me with suspicion in his expression. I chuckled. “Welcome to the club, Henckel. A lot of us are from the Underground. Did you ever even see the sun before you joined up?”
“I can handle it,” he insisted, teeth clenched.
I said nothing. He either would or he wouldn’t, but as long as he didn’t wind up ditching his Vigilante in a lake, it wouldn’t be a problem.
The barracks were nearly deserted this time of day. Everyone had gotten afternoon chow and s
ettled into maintenance for the day and I knew exactly where the last available rack was in the last available room.
“Now the fun part,” I told Henckel after he’d dropped his bag off on his bunk. “You get to link up to your Vigilante…and begin PMCS for the day.”
“Joy,” he murmured. He seemed about as awed and deferential as I’d been on my first day, which was not much. I wondered if he was actually that cool or if it was an act.
“Tell me something, Henckel,” I said, pausing to salute a passing Second Lieutenant before he got all butt-hurt. “How’s someone from the Capital City Underground come to join the Marines?”
He didn’t answer immediately, again seeming as if he didn’t quite trust my curiosity.
“You’re from the Underground,” he said, as if that explained it. “You know how it is there. Wouldn’t you have done anything to get out?”
“Most people are happy,” I countered, “with the free food, free housing, free entertainment, with never having to do a day of work in their life if they don’t want to. I’ve seen them. They’d kill you if you tried to take it from them.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think I had much choice.”
He frowned in disapproval when I laughed at that, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk heading to the suit storage bays.
“That’ll only get you so far, Henckel,” I warned him. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to figure out why you’re here.”
“I can kill Tahni for you. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s enough to make you a killer, not enough to make you the kind of leader who can win this war for us.” I was stealing shamelessly. I didn’t think the Skipper would mind.
“Is that what you think I am?” Henckel asked, boggling. “A leader?”
“I think,” I told him, “that you’re going to get the chance to find out.”
WHAT’S NEXT IN THE SERIES?
CONTACT FRONT
KINETIC STRIKE
DANGER CLOSE
DIRECT STRIKE
ALSO BY RICK PARTLOW
If you enjoyed Drop Trooper, you will love Wholesale Slaughter!
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FROM THE PUBLISHER
Thank you for reading Contact Front, book one in Drop Trooper.
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ABOUT RICK PARTLOW
RICK PARTLOW is that rarest of species, a native Floridian. Born in Tampa, he attended Florida Southern College and graduated with a degree in History and a commission in the US Army as an Infantry officer.
His lifelong love of science fiction began with Have Space Suit---Will Travel and the other Heinlein juveniles and traveled through Clifford Simak, Asimov, Clarke and on to William Gibson, Walter Jon Williams and Peter F Hamilton. And somewhere, submerged in the worlds of others, Rick began to create his own worlds.
He has written twenty-one books in six different series, and his short stories have been included in seven different anthologies.
He currently lives in central Florida with his wife, two children and a willful mutt of a dog. Besides writing and reading science fiction and fantasy, he enjoys outdoor photography, hiking and camping.
www.rickpartlow.com
Table of Contents
Contact Front
Contents
Copyright
WHAT’S NEXT IN THE SERIES?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
WHAT’S NEXT IN THE SERIES?
Also by Rick Partlow
FROM THE PUBLISHER
About Rick Partlow