Miraculously, he was still being held to the deck by the ship’s artificial gravity.
“Do you have a light, Sarge?” he asked, turning around to look at Quinn.
Quinn patted at his vacuum suit. “Can’t find one,” he said; his voice was weak. “What’s there?”
“A big chunk of the ship’s simply missing. But there might be a way forward. If I had a light I could find out.”
Quinn’s voice was suddenly more confident; the LT sounded like he knew what he was doing. “I think I saw lanterns in that empty compartment we checked out. I’ll take a look, Sir.”
“I’ll be here.” Then he had to hold tight again as the air in the next stretch of passageway evacuated past him.
When the buffeting of escaping atmosphere stopped, Greig tried his comm again. This time he thought he heard fragments of voices in the static. That encouraged him to try to raise somebody.
“Anyone who can hear, there are survivors on the Juno Beach. I’m Lieutenant Theodore W. Greig, Alpha Troop, First of the Seventh Mounted Infantry. My platoon is intact. I haven’t been able to make contact with anybody else on board the ship, but my platoon sergeant and I are attempting to find other survivors. Any station, do you receive me? Over.” He listened as intently as he could, but didn’t hear anything that sounded like an attempt to reply to his transmission, not even when he repeated his message.
A bright beam of light suddenly flashed past Greig, illuminating the darkness beyond. He turned to see a grinning Quinn hustling toward him, a headlamp on his helmet and another in his hand. The one he wore was lit.
“I found two of these, sir!” Quinn stopped in front of the lieutenant and handed him the other lamp.
“Thanks, Sarge.” Greig took the offered lamp and put it on before turning back to the void beyond the hatch, careful not to step through the opened door.
Whatever had been to the port side of the passageway was completely gone. The lantern showed jagged, bent edges of metal around the massive. . .”hole in the hull” seemed an inadequate description of the vacancy where just a couple of hours earlier compartments had existed, keeping the emptiness of space at bay. The gap extended to high above and halfway down, the strike must have come in from above the level of the passageway. It extended a full hundred meters beyond where Greig stood. A narrow ledge ran sporadically along the right side of what had been the passageway. Bits of the overhead were still there, similar to the remaining pieces of decking. Chunks of conduits and ductwork still hung onto the right side wall, but what had been on the ceiling was gone. The right side of the passageway wasn’t intact; it was bowed away from the blast in places, and frequently holed. The wall on the far side of the gap was the same, deeply dented and holed.
Greig swallowed to moisten a suddenly dry throat, he doubted that anyone who might have been in the holed compartments had survived, not unless they were in stasis units. Even vacuum suits might not have saved them when the atmosphere blew out and slammed them through the holes, maybe shredding their suits on the jagged metal edges.
“What do you think, sir?”
“I think we can make it across there.”
“Are you sure?” Quinn sounded doubtful.
“It looks like there’s enough of the decking left, and we can hold onto the conduits to keep from falling away. So, yes, I think we can make it.”
“Ah, LT? I’m surprised we’ve still got gravity here. You think there’s gravity out there?”
Greig hesitated, then admitted, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“We better find out before we go walking along.”
“Right.” Greig pulled himself fully into the doorway and extended a foot to the nearest piece of left over decking on the right wall.
He had to push his foot down to make contact, there was no gravity to pull him to it.
“It’s pretty much free fall out here,” he told Quinn. “Navy engineering is even more unbelievable than I imagined. How on earth do they manage to have artificial gravity in intact spaces, when it’s missing in the next, holed space?”
“Got me on that one, sir.” Quinn sounded like he thought Navy engineering was irrelevant to their situation.
Keeping hold of the frame over his head with his left hand, Greig reached for a conduit with his right and gave it a tug. It held. “I’m going to try. Watch me. Follow if it seems safe.”
“Shouldn’t we have a rope of some sort, tie ourselves together?”
“That’s a great idea, Sarge. But I haven’t seen anything that looks like a rope. Have you?”
“Sorry. No I haven’t. Be careful, sir.”
Greig glanced out through the gap. Lights still moved around in the distance; what he thought were SAR teams rescuing survivors, just like before. And, the same as before, none were moving in the direction of the Juno Beach.
Making sure his right hand grip was firm, Greig reached with his left. He wanted to shuffle along, hands at shoulder level, feet on the remains of the deck, but the lack of gravity forced his legs to drift outward so he was angled away from the bulkhead rather than flush against it. He’d have to travel only using his hands. Unless he could find footholds along the way.
Ten meters along, he reached a punched hole that looked big enough for him to get though without catching himself on a jagged edge. It was.
Before entering, he looked at a sign on the wall. It read, “A-43-P.” It was the troop compartment his platoon had been in. If he hadn’t moved them to the stasis station, they’d all be dead now.
He decided not to mention that to Quinn. Bunks, lockers, cabinets, and other minor furnishings were jumbled about, funneling toward the opening. Everything was slowly settling to the deck. Personal belongings that had been left behind unsecured during the rapid abandonment of the compartment were mixed in with everything else. Greig felt a slight downward tugging, as of a very weak gravity field. Amazing, he thought.
“What do you have in there, sir?” Quinn asked, sounding worried.
He realized he had to tell his platoon sergeant. “This used to be our platoon’s compartment.” He hurried on before Quinn could react to the news. “I’m going to search, there might be something we can use. Maybe a stronger comm than the one I have.” He didn’t find a comm unit, but he did find a spool of electrical cable.
“Sarge, I’ve got something we can tie off with.” He kept looking, now for something to use as a hook on the conduits, but came up dry.
A minute later, Quinn gingerly pulled himself through the opening in the bulkhead. They tied the cable around their waists with a ten meter length between them.
“Now if one of us goes, we both go,” Quinn said.
“You’re so encouraging, Sarge.
Quinn barked a short laugh.
Greig was surprised to find that he felt more secure tied to Quinn. If he lost his grip and drifted away the other could pull him back. Just as he could pull Quinn back if he lost his. But if they both somehow let go at the same time, or if something violently shook the ship and broke their grips, then they’d drift until someone picked them up. If someone picked them up. And if they were still alive.
Feeling more secure, he crawled faster along the wall, and it was only a few minutes before they reached the far side of the gap. The first hatch was broken, pushed in from its frame. It didn’t take much effort to push it farther to admit them.
“The strike must have come from aft as well as above,” Greig said. “That would explain why this wall and door are battered, but they’re intact from the other side.”
Quinn grunted. The direction the missile had come from was obvious enough it didn’t need commenting on.
Twenty meters farther on they came to the end—the entire forward portion of the Juno Beach was missing, blown away by missiles that had zeroed in on the ship’s bow.
“I’ve got a feeling we won’t find anybody up ahead,” Greig said to himself. He did his best not to show his dismay to Quinn, who was silent himself. He gathered
himself and tried his comm again, beginning with identifying himself.
This time, he got an answer.
“Lieutenant Greig, this is Captain McMahan, Foxtrot, Second of the Tenth. Where are you?”
“Sir, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear your voice!”
“That’s nice, Lieutenant, now where the fuck are you?”
“Yes, sir. We’re on, on—. I don’t know what deck this is, it’s the one First Battalion was on. We’re at what is now the forward edge of the Juno Beach...” His voice caught on that. “The wh-whole front end of the ship is missing.”
“All right, I know where you’re at. Now, you say ‘we.’ Who’s we?”
“That’s my platoon sergeant and me. The rest of the platoon is still in the stasis chamber. I left them in stasis while Sergeant Quinn and I try to find out what’s happening.”
“Have you located anybody else from your troop?”
“No, sir. We haven’t seen anybody, and you’re the first person to answer any of my comms.”
“What stasis station is your platoon in?”
“We’re in Alpha one dash fifty-three slash Sierra.”
“You must have that wrong. Either that or you aren’t as far forward as you said. Dash fifty-three is farther to the rear.”
“Sir, we’re as far forward as we can get—there’s no ship in front of us.”
“Wait one, I’m almost at the forward edge of what’s left of the ship.” A moment later Captain McMahan said, “I’m there. Go to the edge and look down. If you’re all the way forward, you should see me two decks below you.”
Greig took two steps to reach the end of the ship, grabbed something, and leaned out to look down.
“I see you, sir,” he said and waved at the figure he saw leaning out two decks below.
“I see you too, Lieutenant,” McMahan said. “Not far aft of here there’s a big chunk blown out of the port side of the ship. The stasis station you said you came from is on the other side of it. Care to give me a different station number?”
“Sir, I know about the missing area. We were able to negotiate our way along a narrow strip of decking. Well, mostly we went hand over hand along conduits.”
Greig could make out McMahan shake his head. “You’re either very brave, or incredibly stupid,” the captain said. “You think you can make it back to your station without killing yourselves?”
Greig looked at Quinn, who nodded.
“Yes, sir, we can do it.”
“Then go there and wake your platoon. Right before I heard you, I made contact with SAR. They have us on their list and will be here in a couple of hours. So be ready to be rescued.”
Greig and Quinn grinned at each other, relieved to know that someone knew where they were, and was coming for them.
Chapter Fifteen
Jordan, Eastern Shapland
During the SAR mission to Mini Mouse, 3rd Battalion, 1st Marines, moved to Jordan, one of the areas where Force Recon had encountered the aliens. India Company’s third platoon was held in reserve pending the return of its first squad. With the squad suffering two dead and three wounded out of its thirteen-man strength, third platoon remained in reserve for the time being. Kilo Company was in positions on the north and west sides of Jordan, Lima Company on the south and east. Their lines were punctuated and backed up by the heavy weapons of Weapons Company. India Company was billeted inside the small city.
“Mackie, Cafferata,” Sergeant Martin called out when he rejoined his squad after the squad leaders’ debriefing that was held immediately after the return from Mini Mouse, “on me.”
The two lance corporals heaved themselves to their feet from where they had been resting in the shade of a building on the south side of the town, and joined their squad leader. Neither was feeling very enthusiastic about anything, they didn’t even feel relieved to be out of anything remotely resembling a defensive position.
“What’s up, honcho?” Mackie asked flat-voiced when he reached Martin.
Cafferata didn’t say anything, he just gave his squad leader a blank stare. The fight on Mini Mouse had been the first combat for either of them, the first time they’d lost men they knew. The experience was preying on them.
If Martin was depressed or upset by the casualties in his squad, it didn’t show on his face or in his voice. “Both of your fire team leaders are out for a while with their wounds, but I guess you figured that.”
Mackie mumbled an indistinct “I know,” and Cafferata nodded dumbly.
“That means the two of you are acting fire team leaders, until Corporals Adriance and Button return to duty.”
This time Mackie nodded dumbly, and Cafferata mumbled, “Yeah, I figured.”
Martin looked closely at them, but neither looked back—or even at each other. Their eyes were down and to the side, not looking at anything in particular. He had to break them out of their funk before it got worse and paralyzed them.
“A-ten-hut!”
Startled by the unexpected command, the two came to attention, though not as sharply as they would have in garrison—or even before the fight on Mini Mouse.
“What i—?” Mackie started to say.
“Did I tell you to speak, Lance Corporal?” Martin snarled, thrusting his face into Mackie’s. He shot a glare at Cafferata, warning him to keep quiet. “Well?” he demanded when Mackie didn’t say anything.
“No, Sergeant,” Mackie said, clench jawed. His eyes were fixed straight ahead.
Martin took a step back and looked from one to the other before saying, “Listen up, you two, and listen up good. Do you think you’re the First Marines to lose buddies in combat? Every Marine who’s gone in harm’s way has lost buddies. I have, Sergeant Johnson has, and Sergeant Mausert has. And you better believe Staff Sergeant Guillen has! Some of the corporals in this platoon have lost buddies in combat. I know it’s shitty, but shit happens, particularly in war.”
He stopped and looked aside for a moment. When he began again, his voice was thick. “I just lost two more Marines, men I was responsible for.” His voice harshened. “If you feel like hell, how do you think I feel? Zion and Porter were my men, my responsibility. That weighs, that weighs heavily. Heavier than what’s got you down, believe me.
“But if I let it weigh me down too much, it’ll make me screw up somehow the next time we meet those aliens, and more Marines will get killed. Then it won’t just be because shit happens, it’ll be because I screwed up. Their deaths will my fault. I can’t allow that to happen. And I can’t allow you to feel so sorry for yourselves that you screw up and get good Marines killed. So shape up! Do you understand? Do you?”
Mackie swallowed rather than say anything. Cafferata mumbled, “Yes, Sergeant.”
Martin again shoved his face to Mackie’s. “Do you hate me, Mackie? Is that why you aren’t getting with the program?”
Mackie worked up a mouthful of nervous saliva, then swallowed it. “No, Sergeant, I don’t hate you. I’m thinking about the squad, how we can function when we’re short so many men.” His voice was clear, although not as strong as he would have liked.
“Oh?” Martin said, taking a step back. “Do you have a suggestion, Lance Corporal?”
“Ah. . .” Mackie looked around, thinking.
“I’m waiting, Lance Corporal.”
“Well, we’re down five men. That leaves us—you—with seven men. Wouldn’t reorganizing the squad into two fire teams be better?”
“You mean with me as one fire team leader and Corporal Vittori as the other?”
“Yes, Sergeant, sort of like that.”
Martin slowly shook his head. “No, for a couple of reasons. First, our wounded will be coming back fairly soon, and I don’t want to have to keep reorganizing the squad. Second, I want to give my lance corporals a bit of experience as fire team leaders—.”
“But first fire team is only me and Orndoff! Third fire team is Cafferata and Hill. And what about experience for Garcia, he’s a lance
corporal, too.”
Martin nodded. “That’s true, all of what you said. But you and Cafferata only having one man each limits how much you can screw up. And getting Garcia some experience is my problem, not yours, so don’t worry about it. Do you remember that exercise in Hawaii, when you wound up being an acting fire team leader when I was a simulated casualty?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Mackie swallowed again.
“That was training. This is real. It’s different. Do you understand?”
Mackie’s eyes widened. “Yes, Sergeant.”
“That’s better. Now, are you ready to take on a little responsibility?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“What about you, Cafferata?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I am.” Cafferata beamed.
Satisfied that the two had no further questions, Martin called out, “First squad, on me!” In a moment the other five members of the squad were standing in front of him. He briefly updated them on the condition of their three wounded Marines and told them how he was reorganizing the squad.
“It’s only temporary,” he finished. “Corporal Vittori is the senior man, both in rank and experience, so make no mistake, he’s second to me in the squad’s chain of command regardless of who’s first fire team leader. Any questions?”
The question was almost always rhetorical, and was so this time as well—nobody had any questions.
“All right, then. The situation remains the same; India Company is in reserve for the battalion, second platoon is reserve for the company, and first squad is the platoon’s reserve. We’ll be the last ones committed if, and I emphasize if the aliens attack here.”
“I have a question now, Sergeant Martin,” Mackie said.
“You couldn’t have asked it before?”
Mackie shook his head. “Before was about the squad’s reorganization. This is about our reserve status.”
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