“I’d rather say I’m spreading the experience throughout my division.” Bauer even almost believed what he said.
India Company, Fifteen Kilometers East of Millerton
Third Battalion had stopped on a rough line some distance east of Millerton, in an area that on Earth would be called a scrub forest; widely spaced trees that looked stunted, and thin undergrowth. The plain was scoured flat except for the boulders, some sitting higher than a human, some small enough for someone unobservant to trip over, and every size in between, that dotted the plain. The extensive boulder field gave clear evidence that Troy had suffered through at least one ice age; the boulders looked like they’d been carried here by ice sheets from distant locations and dropped in place when the glaciers withdrew. The Marines settled behind boulders and thicker tree trunks. None of them bothered to dig a fighting hole, or even scrape a shallow hollow to lie in. They waited for word of what to do next. When it came, it wasn’t anything they expected.
“First squad, on me,” Staff Sergeant Guillen shouted.
Lance Corporal Mackie looked around from his position on the platoon’s defensive line and saw the platoon sergeant standing erect about twenty meters behind the position. He gave a quick glance to his front, then at Adriance, who was already rising to his feet.
“Move it, people!” Sergeant Martin shouted.
“First fire team, up and at ’em,”Corporal Adriance ordered.
Mackie stood and reached for his pack.
“Weapons only, leave your packs in place,” Guillen shouted. “Get over here now!”
In less than a minute, the thirteen Marines of the squad were gathered in a semi-circle in front of the platoon sergeant. Second Lieutenant Commiskey joined him.
“By now you’ve probably heard about the missile strike on ARG17. They came from launch sites on Mini Mouse.” Commiskey paused for a few seconds while some of the Marines snickered at the small moon’s name. “The carrier Scott launched four squadrons to kill those launch sites before they could fire more missiles. The sites had defensive systems, and knocked down some of the Kestrels.
“There are Navy pilots on the surface of Mini Mouse. Some of them might still be alive. At the request of Rear Admiral Avery, Lieutenant General Bauer has tasked the 1st Marines with providing a squad as security for one of the Navy search and rescue teams going in to retrieve the downed pilots. You’re the squad.”
Mackie blinked at “retrieve.” You rescue live people, but you retrieve corpses.
He must not have been the only one who reacted to the word, because Commiskey quickly added, “‘Retrieve’ is the word the Admiral used. But as far as anybody knows, most—maybe all—of the downed pilots are still alive. Four squadrons attacked the launch sites, all four had losses. One squad from each regiment and one from the division recon company will go with the SAR craft on the rescue mission. Third platoon has been chosen as the 1st Marines’ SAR team. We don’t know what kind of ground defenses the enemy has for the sites, so we’ll essentially be going in blind. For this mission, we’ll be in armored vacuum suits.”
He paused for a moment before saying, “Remember, that even though armored vacuum suits give protection from all small arms in the NAUS arsenal, fragments from conventional explosive munitions, and limited protection from both stellar radiation and weapon radiation, they aren’t impervious to everything. We don’t know what kind of weapons the enemy will throw at us, or if they even have defenses against ground forces. Mini Mouse has an atmosphere so thin it’s virtually a hard vacuum. So whatever else you do, don’t let your suit get punctured.
“That is all. Staff Sergeant Guillen will take over now. Staff Sergeant, the platoon is yours.”
“Yes, sir.” Guillen briefly came to attention, but didn’t salute. They were in presumably hostile territory. A salute could attract sniper fire if any enemy were in the area, so Marines didn’t salute in the field.
Guillen watched Commiskey head toward the jumble of boulders where Captain Sitter had established the company headquarters, then turned to the men.
“When I dismiss you, return to your positions and resume your watch. When the word comes down, I’ll take the squad leaders to get the armored vacuum suits from supply. Any questions? Yes, Zion.”
“Ah, Staff Sergeant, when we go, is anybody going to relieve us here?” PFC Zion gave a nervous look over his shoulder at the ground the platoon hadn’t secured.
Guillen curled his lip before answering. “Zion, that’s above your pay grade to worry about. But, yes, somebody will relieve us in this position. Don’t ask who. ‘Who’ is above my pay grade.”
He looked from Marine to Marine with an expression that asked, Does anybody else have a dumb question? but nobody else seemed anxious to ask anything. “If there are no other questions, Sergeant Martin, get your people back in position and wait for further orders. Dismissed.”
Leaning close as they started back toward their positions, Adriance murmured, “Stand by for a head smack, Zion.”
“In stereo,” Mackie added from Zion’s other side.
“What’d I do?” Zion demanded indignantly.
“That’s two,” said PFC Orndoff.
“Two what? And how come you’re all ganging up on me?”
“Dumb questions, peon,” Adriance said. “And that makes three. Keep it up, and I’ll have to let Orndoff give you a head smack, too, because head-smacking you will be more than a two-man job.”
Then they were back at their position. Adriance sat with his back against a tree trunk. Mackie stayed on his feet, leaning over a chest high boulder. Orndoff climbed a tree, and Zion went prone next to a waist high boulder. They appeared relaxed and casual—to anyone who could make them out in their camouflage utilities—but appearances were deceptive. Their eyes were in constant motion, alertly searching the landscape to their front, checking their sides. Every few minutes Adriance slid his infrared viewer into place before his eyes to search for warm bodies that might not be noticed in visual light. And Mackie frequently checked the fire team’s motion detector, looking for movement that wasn’t vegetation shifting in the moving air—and was bigger than a mid-sized dog.
So situated, they quietly, alertly, waited for an hour. Then the word came: “Chow down. We go in thirty.”
En Route to Mini Mouse
A Navy chief petty officer met the Marines when the McKinzie elevator reached geosync; a squad from the 6th Marines, one from the 7th, and another from 1st Recon filled out the rescue security teams. The CPO was slender, dressed in greasy khakis, and had a headset perched behind his ears. Something that looked suspiciously like a half-smoked cigar but couldn’t possibly be—it couldn’t really be a cigar, could it?—stuck out of the corner of his mouth.
“Ah right, ever’body here?” he drawled. The question must have been rhetorical because he didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Chief Petty Officer Othniel Tripp, and I’m in charge of this here boardin’ station. Squadron VSFA 132 lost four fighter craft on their bombing run on one of the alien launch sites. We’ve got four Pegasus birds—that’s what we call our search an’ rescue birds, Pegasuses, after the flyin’ horses in the Grik stories—going in after ’em. Youse going along to protect the crews in case the aliens have infantry there what needs to be fought off. Our Pegasus crews are better’n anybody else’s at searchin’ and rescuin’, but they ain’t so great at rifle fightin’. That’s why you’re going along. I got four birds out here, you got four squads. That works out jes perfect, one squad one bird. That’s a lot better’n four squads an’ one bird. You’re gonna be pretty cramped as is in them suits youse wearin’.”
The Marines were very bulky in the armored vacuum suits that had been waiting for them at the foot of McKinzie —it turned out that they hadn’t been delivered to India Company’s supply sergeant. The armor’s weight—armor, no matter how light, is always heavy—was offset by servos in the main joints that not only allowed the Marines to move as easily as they would unarmore
d, but added to their strength.
“When your bird lands, the flight commander will tell you if he wants you outside or to stay in. If he tells you outside, be ready to fight right off. Now, you outta know, the flight commander is an officer, the pilot is a first class, the crew chief is a third class, and the—.”
Tripp suddenly looked away from the Marines, pulled his headset’s earpieces forward and rotated the mike to his mouth. He listened for a moment, murmured a reply, then looked back up.
“Ah right, who’s first? Pegasus One is docked and waiting for you.” His drawl disappeared and he became all business. He stepped to the airlock’s hatch, which was closed.
“First Marines, that’s you. Come with me.” Chief Tripp led them to the entrance to the docking chute.
“Line up by fire teams,” Sergeant Martin ordered his squad, and took a position on the other side of the airlock from the chief.
Corporal Adriance stood between them facing the hatch. Lance Corporal Mackie took position behind him, and glanced back to make sure PFCs Orndoff and Zion were in place.
“We’re ready, Chief,” Martin told Tripp as soon as the squad was in line.
Tripp tapped a three touch code on the hatch’s lock, and it slid aside. “Go!” he barked. Adriance stepped forward, and the rest of the squad followed. Martin brought up the rear.
Inside the Pegasus a crewman, anonymous in a vacuum suit with a reflective faceplate, directed the Marines to narrow benches along the sides of the cabin.
“No space between you,” he said. “We’re so tight some of you might have to sit on the deck. Close it up and keep it close!”
Mackie reflexively shook his head when he saw the interior of the cabin. It looked barely big enough to hold an armored vacuum suited fire team, much less an entire squad. “Are we really going to be sitting on each other’s laps?” he asked nobody in particular, then when nobody answered: “That’s what I thought.”
The Marines jammed themselves in. Six squeezed onto the bench along each side. They weren’t able to sit straight with their backs against the bulkhead, but twisted their torsos so they overlapped, one man’s shoulder in front of the next one’s. There was little space between their knees and the knees of the Marines on the opposite side. Martin and Private Frank Hill, the squad’s newest and most junior man, managed to find space on the floor amid the feet and knees.
“Hold on, we’re about to move,” the anonymous crewman alerted them from his station, which was out of sight from the main cabin. “Hold on tight so you don’t get banged around.”
“Hold onto what?” Orndoff muttered over the fire team circuit.
“Your ass, that’s what,” Mackie answered.
Adriance snorted, then ordered, “Shitcan the grabass, people. This is serious.”
But Orndoff was right; there wasn’t anything to grab hold of.
The search and rescue craft lurched, separating from the elevator airlock, throwing the Marines against each other. But they were already tight enough that nobody built enough momentum to injure himself or the Marine he bumped into. Slow acceleration eased Pegasus One away from the geosync station. There were no ports to look through, no display panels to show what was outside; no way to tell where they were, what direction they were headed, how fast they were going, how much time was passing. All the Marines could do was wait, with greater or lesser degrees of patience.
After an indeterminate length of time the anonymous crewman announced from his unseen station, “Halfway there.”
Wherever there was, and however far halfway might be.
Eventually a different voice came to the Marines. “We’re going down,” the voice—the flight commander?—said. “When we hit, the rear hatch will drop, and I need you to get out there instantly. It looks like bad guys are closing on Piranha 14’s position.”
When the voice—the pilot? the SAR commander?—didn’t say anything more, Sergeant Martin demanded, “How many of them are there? What direction are they coming from? Do they have armor or are they on foot or what? Come on, man, we need more data or we’re stepping into an ambush!”
“No time!” the voice said. “We’re down.” There was a jolt of impact as the Pegasus hit the ground. The hatch in the compartment’s rear dropped and became a ramp.
The major joints of the armored vacuum suits had servo motors, made necessary by the mass of the suits. The Marines had been sitting in cramped positions without being able to move. Third platoon’s first squad looked clumsy scrambling down the ramp, but without the servos, they couldn’t have even stood to shamble off until full circulation returned to their limbs.
“Where are they?” Sergeant Martin demanded as he looked around in attempt to find the foe.
“I’m sending you our feed now,” the unidentified voice said.
Martin put it on his HUD for a quick study, and swore. He began shouting orders.
Chapter Twelve
Mini Mouse, LZ 1
“First fire team, get to that Kestrel!” Sergeant Martin shouted. “Second and third, lay down fire on those vehicles!”
The downed Kestrel was a hundred meters away to the northeast. To the north-northeast, two vehicles of an alien design were bouncing toward them at a high rate of speed from less than two kilometers away.
“First fire team, let’s go!” Corporal Adriance shouted, and began the shuffling low-gravity walk men had used since Neil Armstrong first stepped on Earth’s moon centuries earlier.
Three crewmen from the Pegasus were already on their way, driving a motorized litter to carry the pilot back.
Second and third fire teams began firing on the approaching vehicles. The Marines’ rifles were loaded with alternating armor piercing and explosive rounds. The armor piercing bullets bounced off the armored fronts of the vehicles, the explosive ones barely pitted the surface. The enemy didn’t give immediate return fire; maybe they didn’t have a mechanism that would compensate for the bouncing.
First fire team reached the Kestrel just as the rescue men were loading the unmoving pilot onto the litter; the Marines couldn’t tell if he was conscious or not, or even if he was still alive.
Adriance saw how ineffective the fire from the rest of the squad was, and knew that adding fire from four more rifles on their fronts wouldn’t do anything to stop the alien vehicles. He decided to do something else.
“First fire team, try to ricochet your rounds to the undercarriage of the one on the left,” he ordered, and began firing into the regolith in front of the vehicle, sending fragments of stone bouncing into its lower front and underneath it. In an instant, the other three Marines began firing the same.
“Our armored vehicles have their strongest armor on their fronts,” Adriance explained absently as he maintained steady fire, “and the weakest on the bottom. If these bad guys build theirs the same way, we might be able to break through.”
Maybe, maybe not, but it was worth a try—and it was. Something broke in the vehicle. Gases began venting from its bottom. It slewed to a stop, turning its side to the Marines. The vehicle on the right had to swerve violently to its left to avoid running into its damaged mate, throwing up a curtain of dust and gravel before pointing back toward the humans.
Sergeant Martin saw what first fire team did. “Second and third fire teams,” he shouted, “did you see what they did? Do the same thing—bounce your rounds underneath the one that’s still coming at us.”
By then, the occupants of the first vehicle, a dozen of them, had scrambled out of it and were charging in high, jinking bounds at the Marines by the Kestrel. The shape of their vacuum suits would have stunned the Marines had they not already seen the vids and stills brought back by Force Recon, and sent during the original alien attack on Troy. The legs were long, and bent the wrong way; the arms were too short; forward-jutting heads stuck out on very long necks. A large bulge on the rear of the suits counter-balanced the heads. They ran bent at the hips almost parallel to the ground.
The chargi
ng aliens were firing rifles, but their shots were wild and none seemed to come near the Marines. They were closing fast, their run was much faster than the Marines’ shuffle, but they didn’t seem to be as well trained at low gravity movement. Or maybe their jinking wasn’t suitable for rapid movement in low gravity. They kept stumbling and tripping.
The Marines of first fire team took advantage of the stumbles and trips to take aim during the brief seconds their targets were relatively motionless. The armor piercing bullets mostly glanced off the aliens’ armor, but some of the explosive bullets punctured them, venting air.
“First fire team, get back here,” Martin ordered when the litter was halfway back to the Pegasus.
“Let’s go!” Adriance repeated the order to his men. He looked to see that they were obeying. “That includes you, Zion.”
But Zion didn’t move; he was half sitting, folded over his rifle.
Adriance swore. “Mackie, check Zion!”
Mackie had already began the shuffle-run back to the Pegasus and had to turn back. Adriance didn’t wait for him, he was already kneeling over Zion when Mackie reached him.
Adriance’s face was barely visible through his faceplate when he looked at Mackie, but his expression was grim. Not all of the aliens’ shots had gone wild.
“Marines don’t leave their dead,” the fire team leader said, thick-voiced. “Give me a hand.”
When the two of them raised Zion, Mackie saw where a hole had been punched through the neck of the other’s armor where it was jointed to his chest plate. Air had vented explosively, blowing the hole much larger. Blood had vented as well from a wound in Zion’s throat, staining the edges of the hole red. They draped his arms over their shoulders and ran, with Adriance carrying Zion’s rifle.
By then, fire from the rest of the squad had crippled the second vehicle, and the Marines were firing at the bounding, jinking, stumbling aliens. Only a dozen were still making the mad charge. But not all of the dozen who were down had been hit; at least four of them had gone prone to give aimed return fire.
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