Operation Sierra-75

by Thomas S. Gressman

  “Rick, I’ve got a track here.”

  Dade stepped over to where Black crouched at the base of a pale orange building. In the thick mustard-colored dust drifted against the structure’s curving wall was a large, shallow depression.

  “Footprint?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Black replied, gesturing at the track with her Ka-Bar. “See the shape? Here’s the heel and the toe. It’s been here a while though. Look how eroded the edges of the print are. I’d say it’s at least a day old, maybe two or three.”

  “Could one of Cabot’s crew have made it?”

  “Maybe, but it looks like whoever made this track was barefoot. I can’t say that for certain. It’s just my gut instinct.” Black sheathed her knife and looked up at her partner. “This is the first solid lead we’ve had. See if the boss wants us to keep up the search.”

  * * *

  “Negative, Falcon.” Captain Taggart replied to Dade’s request for more search time. “I trust Black’s instincts. If she says it wasn’t a survivor, we’re gonna have to move on. Romeo-Tango-Bravo.”

  “Falcon copies Lion,” Dade answered. “Return to base. Will comply. Falcon out.”

  “Sorry, Krista, no go. The old man wants us back at the shuttle ASAP.”

  “Well, one thing’s for certain anyhow,” Black said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Survivors or no survivors, we aren’t alone on this rock.”

  6

  * * *

  C aptain Taggart gripped the back of the sensor operator’s padded seat, looking over the woman’s shoulder at the softly glowing display.

  “Are you sure about this one?” he asked the technician.

  “Yessir,” the tech drawled, the piney woods of east Texas plain in her voice. “That last target was just a power source. We had no indications of large masses of metal, nor nothin’ like that. Now here?” She pointed at the display. “Look here. That’s a MAD trace, a fair-sized one. And this?” She tapped a control, bringing up another sensor display. The image was that of a fuzzy, slightly bent arrowhead amid a jumble of small fuzzy dots. “This is ground-scan radar. We’re having a hard time resolving the image, but that might be your missing survey ship.”

  Taggart straightened and rubbed his eyes.

  “Uh-huh,” he said skeptically. “Why did we miss it on the last pass?”

  “Hard to say, sir,” the tech shrugged. “Could be any number of reasons. My guess is something out there is messing with the sensors.”

  “Even if we did miss it before, we found it now,” Levi Tamm put in. “ According to the scanners, we’ve got a large metallic object, with a mass, composition, and general outline that suggest that what we’re looking at here is Cabot.”

  Taggart shrugged in response. A computer-generated map display showed the location of this most recent possible crash site. The blinking white dot indicating the contact’s position was centered in what appeared to be a range of hills about one hundred kilometers northeast of the abandoned city. The scanners suggested that the hills were high, steep, and rocky, which would make traveling difficult. If Cabot had indeed gone down in those hills, and if any of her crew survived, it was better than even money that they’d still be at the crash site.

  If it was the crash site.

  When his platoon returned to the Gallatin after failing to locate Cabot or her crew, the mood of the rescue mission had darkened. The reports filed by his scout team had inevitably filtered back to the rest of the platoon, and thence to the rescue cutter’s crew. Sierra Seven-Five was not so uninhabited as they had been led to believe. The evidence of an alien race on the planet added a thread of apprehension to the crew’s frustration. Many of the rescuers, spacers, Marines, and medics among them were skeptical about the reports and briefings they had been given regarding alien races. The strange, abandoned city provided irrefutable proof that nonhuman creatures did indeed inhabit the Maelstrom.

  Then, there was the indication that the rescue party was not alone at Sierra Seven-Five. Dade and Black were firmly convinced that someone, or something had removed the stone wedging the sculpture’s works. Whether that had been the Neo-Sovs, or some alien creature, they were staying remarkably well hidden. An unseen enemy is always a source of fear.

  “Well,” the Marine captain said at last, “we can’t pick and choose our contacts, now can we? All right. Gunny Frost, assemble the platoon. We’re going out again.”

  * * *

  The Type 60 assault boat lurched, catching a downdraft as it crossed a jagged, gap-toothed ridgeline. Half a second later the shuttle pitched again as an updraft flung it skyward.

  Strapped into the observer’s seat on the boat’s small flight deck, Taggart fought his stomach as the cursing pilot fought the controls. Though he was an experienced combat Marine officer, there was little he could do to control his own physiology. He gulped down a large draft of air, willing his rising gorge to settle down. Beside him he heard a soft feminine chuckle. Apparently, Dr. Lieutenant Rebecca Cortez, who seemed to be immune to the stomach-churning effects of the pitching assault boat, was taking a perverse delight in his intense discomfort.

  “Sorry about that, Captain,” the pilot, a chief petty officer named Marco Foy, said as he got the ship back under control. “Damn winds are worse than any I’ve ever seen. Feels like I’m flying inside the granddaddy of all cyclones.”

  “That’s okay, Chief.” Taggart could not quite bring himself to smile, nor could he quite believe what he was about to say. “Can you take her back across the site one more time?”

  “Sure thing, Cap,” the pilot said breezily. “Question is, can you and your people stand it?”

  “Just overfly the sight again, Chief, and never mind us.”

  Foy nodded, and pulled the Type 60 around in a broad arc. Though he gave the impression that he looked upon the unpredictable winds as the perfect flying weather, he was an experienced enough assault boat pilot to know that the rapidly shifting air currents made even the most basic maneuvers difficult and the more complex ones downright dangerous. As if to punctuate the hazards of flying one of the boxy assault craft under such conditions, a sudden gust jolted the ship as she pulled out of her turn.

  “There she is, Captain,” Foy said, pointing through the boat’s heavily glazed windscreen.

  Taggart craned his neck to see over the shoulder of the men in the pilot and copilot’s seats. Cortez did likewise.

  Lying to one side of a deep, steep-sided valley was the off-gray-painted shape of a Union spaceship.

  “Bloody hell,” Taggart cursed softly. “Her whole aftersection is gone.”

  “Yeah,” Cortez agreed. “And there are no signs of survivors either. Not that we’d be able to see them from three thousand meters. Can you take us any lower?”

  “Sure I can take us lower,” Foy said with a grim humor. “I can take us lower, right into the ground. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but, if I get too much lower and we catch a downdraft, or a wind shear in this valley . . . Well, they’ll have to send out a rescue party for us.”

  “Does that mean you can’t set us down at the crash site?”

  “That’s exactly what it means, Lieutenant,” Foy told her. “I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my day, but I’m not so crazy as to try to land this pig in that valley, not under these conditions.”

  Another jolting gust of turbulent air hit the assault boat as though to punctuate his statement.

  “Maybe if we had good weather, and calm winds, then maybe, maybe, I’d try it. But even then, that valley is awful narrow. The book says I’m not supposed to land this ship in an area less than four hundred meters by sixty, and that’s with a Pathfinder already on the ground. Like I said, if we had calm winds, I might give it a shot, even without a Pathfinder. But in this? Not a chance. I’d likely kill us all if I tried it.”

  “I think you’re right, Chief,” Taggart said, taking a last look at the downed ship. “We’re gonna have to find a safe place to land
and hump our way overland to the wreck.”

  He looked at the chart the assault boat’s computers had created based upon sensor readings taken during their overflight of the wreck.

  “How about this flat ground about seven kilometers to the east?”

  “Well, that’ll do for a landing zone,” Chief Foy agreed, glancing at the spot Taggart was indicating on the map. “But it looks like there are some steep hills between there and the crash site. It’s gonna be tough going for your rescue team.”

  The ship gave a final lurch as Foy pulled it up into a gentle climb.

  “That’s okay, Chief,” Taggart replied. “You just get us on solid ground, and I’ll be happy to carry the team the rest of the way in.”

  * * *

  The assault boat landed fifteen minutes later. Chief Foy brought the blocky, fifteen-ton ship down on its powerful V/STOL thrusters with only the gentlest of bumps.

  As soon as the ship had pulled up out of the valley, the turbulent winds began to diminish, almost as though some malevolent force had been creating them and was satisfied by the rescue team’s withdrawal. Here on the plain beyond the hills only a gentle, intermittent breeze stirred the long, turquoise-colored grass. But another type of storm was brewing.

  “Listen, Captain, I don’t think you appreciate the situation.”

  “You better believe I do, Doctor,” Captain Taggart snapped at Cortez. “We’re seven kilometers from our objective. We’ve got a range of steep, rocky hills between this LZ and the crash site. I think that sums it up pretty well, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think so, Captain,” Cortez shot back, heat creeping into her voice.

  “No? Well, let’s go a bit farther then.” Taggart jerked a thumb in the direction of the hills. His tone began to be infected by Cortez’s anger. “Those seven kilometers between the LZ and the wreck are some of the worst terrain I’ve ever seen. Weren’t you looking when Foy brought us in over those hills? God in Heaven, woman, they’re straight up and down in places. It’s going to be difficult, hazardous going, and it’s probably going to involve at least some mountaineering. Are your people prepared for that?

  “Let my people go in first. We’ll make good time to the site if we don’t have your medics in tow. Then, if we find any survivors, we can call you in. I’d rather not risk you and your people on another power-generating station or an alien art gallery.”

  “Is that the real reason?”

  “What?” Cortez’s muttered response made it difficult for Taggart to be sure of what the doctor had just said.

  “Listen, Captain,” Cortez went on as though neither of them had spoken. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate your concern, but we have to go. If that is Cabot over there, and if there are survivors, they’ve already gone without medical attention for several weeks. If there is anyone left alive at the wreck, what little hope they have lies with my medical team, not your Marines.”

  “Sir, as much as I hate to contradict you, I have to agree with Dr. Cortez.”

  Taggart turned to gaze in surprise at Gunnery Sergeant Frost.

  “You do, Gunny?”

  “Yes, sir,” Frost replied coolly. “I understand your position. I don’t like the risk of getting noncombatants greased any more than you do. But, for all we know, we’ve got a dozen survivors over there who may not last until we get there. Even if they do, I doubt they’d last long enough for our people to get back here and fetch the doctor and her people.”

  “Thank you, Gunny,” Cortez said with a note of triumph in her voice.

  “I’m not doing this for you, ma’am.” Frost’s voice was even and inflectionless. “It really galls me to have to go against my captain, a man I’ve know his whole career in the Corps. It especially galls me because it seems to support whatever agenda you’ve got going here. But our first concern has to be those survivors. You two officers can argue things out to your hearts’ content, after we complete this rescue, but until then, we’ve got to work together.”

  “I don’t have an agenda, Sergeant,” Cortez shot back. “Or if I do, it’s simply to do my job and rescue those survivors.”

  “If you say so, ma’am.”

  “Take it easy, Gunny,” Taggart said, laying a hand on Frost’s shoulder. “All right, Doctor, maybe your team had better come along. Get them prepped and ready to move out in one hour.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Frost, I’d like a word with you, if you please.”

  Taggart turned and walked away from the doctor, moving away from the bulk of the rescue party. He didn’t look back to see if Frost was following him. He knew she would be. When he’d gone a few dozen meters the captain stopped and turned to face his subordinate.

  “Gunny, what the hell was that all about?”

  “Sir?”

  “First off, I really don’t appreciate your contradicting me in front of Cortez. We’ve got enough problems on account of her attitude without you giving her any more ammunition.

  “Second, your reasons for supporting Dr. Cortez’s wanting to go along on this little hike were good enough. I understand that. But why did you feel it necessary to cut her a new belly button? She may be S-Corps, but she’s an officer, and I damn well expect you to treat her with the respect her rank deserves.” When Frost didn’t answer, Taggart laid a gloved hand on her shoulder, and said quietly, “Look, Onawa, I know something about Cortez has been bothering you from the minute she was assigned to this mission. What is it?”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “You know you don’t have to ask that, Gunny.”

  “Sir, it isn’t so much that I don’t like Cortez, as it is she doesn’t like you,” Frost answered. “The minute General Andrews introduced her, I could see that she was carrying around a king-size chip on her shoulder, and most of that attitude seemed to be directed at you.”

  “Yeah, I kinda noticed that,” Taggart said quietly.

  “I can’t say for certain, sir, I think it might be that ‘reverse bigotry’ thing again. When you said that her medics aren’t welcome on this little hike, she hears you saying that she isn’t welcome on the hike. The whole thing kinda confirms her mistaken notion.

  “And, pardon me for saying this, sir, you have been kinda rough on her, maybe not in fact, but in attitude at least.”

  Taggart stared at the noncom for a long moment, his mind reviewing the limited contacts he’d had with Dr. Lieutenant Rebecca Cortez. Frost was right, Taggart realized. He had avoided Cortez whenever possible. He usually referred to her as doctor, rather than calling her by her rank. In his heart, Taggart knew his attitude stemmed, not from racial bigotry, but from the knowledge that he had spent four years in Annapolis and six years in the field to gain the rank of captain in the United States Marine Corps. Cortez, on the other hand, had been given the rank of lieutenant, the naval equivalent of a Marine captain, when she joined the Union Navy, simply because she was a doctor. He had never reckoned on his dislike for “ninety-day wonders” being mistaken for racial prejudice.

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right, Gunny,” Taggart said at last. “Maybe I have been a little rough on her. Let me ask you this, do you think it’s because she’s Mexican?”

  “No sir, I think you dislike her for the same reason I do,” Frost replied. “She got the rank just because she’s a doctor.”

  Taggart nodded. “Well then, Gunny, I guess we’re both going to have to watch our attitude toward the good doctor, eh? And if she doesn’t like us, well, I guess that’s her own lookout.”

  7

  * * *

  C aptain Maxwell Taggart sat on the lower coaming of the hatchway leading to the assault boat’s flight deck, studying a hard-copy map spread out on his environment-suited knees. Occasionally he looked up as a good-natured curse or bray of laughter echoed in the boat’s troop bay.

  The terrain mapped out by the Type 60 assault boat’s sensors had been rendered into a rough topographic map. In some ways the chart reminded Taggart of the old
, hand-drawn maps he had seen reproduced in some of his textbooks back at the Academy. Many areas of the chart were blank. The rugged hills were drawn in a sketchy fashion, with contour lines beginning and ending for no readily apparent reason, giving the map a ragged, unfinished appearance. There did appear to be long stretches of clear ground in the hills. In these places the contour lines bent uphill toward themselves in a way that, on a good topographic map, would suggest a watercourse. If there were streams in the hills, there might well be trails along their banks, or if the watercourses were dry streambeds, then the empty channels might serve the rescue party as well as a beaten track. Twenty kilometers to the south of the platoon’s landing zone, near what appeared to be a dry lake, an irregular oval labeled “LZ 2” marked the rescue team’s fallback position. Taggart knew that the assault boats would abandon the primary landing zone only if forced to do so. The secondary position was only a precaution.

  Carefully folding the map, Taggart slipped it into a pocket of his combat environment suit. A variant of the standard Union combat fatigues, the CES had been developed specifically for combat activities in low-pressure or hostile atmospheres. The original versions of the suits had been issued to the Army forces garrisoning the various lunar bases. Later, improved variants had been constructed. These were tested by, and later issued to, the Third Marine Division. On this particular mission, both his Marines and Dr. Cortez’s medical team would be wearing the bulky protective outfits.

  The suits were coverall-type garments constructed of heavy, tear-resistant cloth, in standard camouflage patterns, lined with a protective layer of kevlon armor cloth. At the collar and cuffs, the suit was equipped with pressure fittings that allowed it to be mated with specially designed boots, gauntlets, and helmet. When the whole suit was properly worn and fitted, it provided its wearer with a completely sealed barrier against a hostile environment. The helmet, again a variant of the standard-issue kevlon pot, was fitted with a movable visor, and could be mated with a respirator, filter, or combination mask. If circumstances called for operations in a low-atmospheric-pressure environment, or where pressure might be lost, such as shipboard combat, the whole suit could be fitted with a small, backpack unit that could pressurize the suit in less than a second, assuming, of course, the wearer had all the parts and pieces in place and properly sealed.