“Fast, fierce, efficient, and mean, that’s how I like my platoons.”
“I’m guessing the ARC suits take a little more finesse,” Smith argued.
They talked for nearly half an hour, before Angel excused herself and went looking for her platoon. She found them all in the ready room they had been assigned to. Everyone was getting along, it seemed. The lab techs were teaching the senior airmen and Chief Warrant Officer Beemus about the ARC suits. Cashman’s squad were working on weapons that had been laid out on the workbench.
“What’s going on, Staff Sergeant?” Angel asked.
“We’ve been discussing what firearms would work best with the ARC suits,” he said. “Looks like we’re going with the Tragger P51s.”
“They look small,” she replied.
“They are small, but more importantly they’re light,” he said, handing her one of the rifles, which was only as long as her forearm. “They have adjustable fold-out stocks, but we removed them. The barrel is air cooled, and we’ve added forward pistol grips and computer aiming nodes that link to our smart helmets. They fire caseless soft nose bullets, which aren’t as accurate at a distance but perfect for close combat, which is what the suits are made for. This tether will keep the rifle connected to the suit, and also power the electric firing switch, so there’s no need for gas canisters.”
“It feels like a toy,” Angel said.
“It’s anything but,” Cashman said. “They’re tough, durable weapons that are ideal for close combat.”
“I doubt we’ll be seeing combat,” Angel said.
“Why’s that LT?” Hays asked. “They hear that Ruiz can’t go ten feet without falling on his face in an ARC suit.”
“Shut up, you hillbilly,” Ruiz said.
“No, but we can’t do what the suits were designed to do. Not yet at any rate, so the colonel and Major Dixon have assigned us to guard duty well away from the fighting.”
“That’s bullshit,” Bolton snapped.
“From what I hear all the spec ops teams are on guard duty and reserves,” Cashman said.
“That’s right. Rogue Company is sitting this one out by the looks of things.”
“Well that just figures,” Vancini said. “I mean who would want the best fighters to actually engage the enemy?”
“It’ll be a frenzy,” Cashman said, trying to calm his marines down. “Just massed fire into the swarm. There’s nothing to it.”
Angel gave the techs and airmen a training schedule. They would help the marines into the ARC suits and back out several times, as well as running diagnostics checks and ensuring that they all had full charges. Angel didn’t want the lab people Commander Sozu had sent along on the mission to actually leave the ship. They were navy and would observe from orbit, while the airmen went down with the fire team to help with the ARC suits.
“I also want to continue training,” Angel said. “They have mats up on Alpha deck in the big fitness area.”
“I’ll reserve a block of time,” Cashman said. “There’s a range simulator near the hangar. I would suggest we all work with the Tragger P51s before we reach Neo Terra.”
“Excellent, count me in,” Angel said. “In the meantime, I’m going to catch a little rest.”
“Let’s meet back here at 0700 Zulu,” Cashman suggested. “We’ll have everything squared away and ready by then. I’ll message you about the PT.”
“Thank you, Staff Sergeant. It’s good to see you have everything in hand. Carry on.”
The truth was, Angel felt almost useless. The major didn’t want her special platoon in his company. The colonel didn’t want them in the assault on Neo Terra. And even Cashman didn’t seem to need her input with the platoon. The man was organized and efficient. She was grateful for him, but at the same time she felt even more like an outsider.
As she walked toward her berth she thought about the dinner she had shared with Lieutenant Smith and Captain Reynolds. They were friendly enough, but they had a shared history together, and not just because they had obviously known each other outside of the task force, but because they both came from the same place. They had completed the full basic training, the regular officer training. Both had almost certainly led platoons of regular marines, before being promoted to special forces where they underwent even more intense training and had probably even seen combat. Angel was a gymnast with an expensive, experimental squad. She felt like a babysitter that wasn’t needed, or like a child pretending to be a grown up.
When she reached her room, which was only slightly bigger than her office, with a bed, a recycled steam shower, and toilet, she couldn’t hold back the tears. She dropped onto the narrow bunk and let all of her feelings come flooding out. In her mind, there was nothing worse than uncontrolled emotions. Her years as a gymnast had taught her that. She never let anyone see her anger over a bad score, or her fear about doing a complex maneuver on the competition floor. When she clashed with other competitors, she never let her emotions show. And the need to keep herself in check was even more important to her in the Colonial Space Fleet. She didn’t want the professional warriors she was surrounded by to see that she had any weaknesses, but she did.
The biggest chink in Angel’s armor was uncertainty. She really had no idea why she was there. Why had Jakobson recruited her? Why had someone chosen her to lead the squad in actual combat? What would she do if they were called into action? She couldn’t answer any of the questions and the lack of certainty made her feel weak. After letting the worst of her emotions out, she scrubbed her face in the tiny sink, and put the rest of her belongings in the tiny closet at the foot of her bed. The room had a video screen that was scrolling through images of Earth and the colony worlds. They were captivating photographs. She pulled off her uniform and got into bed where she watched the pictures. She realized what the others were fighting for. The pictures were a reminder of how far the human race had come and the great treasures they were working to hold onto. But she knew that things were different for her. She wasn’t fighting for humanity, or for the colony worlds. The only thing she was battling for was a place to belong. She had to prove that she could lead, that she was worthy of the commission she had been given and the squad she was in charge of. For Angel, nothing else mattered as much as being seen as a capable, skilled officer who was an asset to the service.
28
C.S.F. Apollo, task force Olympus
Hyperspace
Angel awoke with a new attitude. She ate her breakfast, and then met the rest of her platoon in the ready room. Petty Officer Daniels helped her pull on the tight-fitting ARC suit, as the airmen did the same for Cashman’s squad of special forces veterans. The thrusters had been removed from their suits, and they didn’t bother with the helmets as they made their way up to Alpha deck where they had the wrestling mats reserved for an hour of PT.
They stretched, then started with shoulder rolls. The seven member squad stood out in the unique ARC suits, and they were quickly surrounded by a crowd. They did cartwheels, dive rolls, front handsprings, roundoffs, and eventually aerials. The crowd was watching, laughing, and some were even jeering.
“Going to a tea party next?”
“Staff Sergeant, where’s your tutu?”
“Are you marines or ballerinas?”
Angel ignored the taunts, but she could see the members of the fire team starting to get angry. It took considerable control to hold the ARC suits in check. The reflexive fibers in their palms and on the soles of the feet made them want to jump much higher and race across the small practice space, but Angel reminded them to stay in control. She knew what they needed more than anything else was practice doing the moves, which would help their inner ears to adjust to the rapid movement without causing dizziness or vertigo.
“How much longer are we going to listen to this shit,” Ruiz said angrily.
“I wouldn’t mind showing them what these suits can really do,” Hays added.
“We can’t do that in this sma
ll space,” Angel said. “But I do have an idea, if you’re up for it, Staff Sergeant.”
“Will it shut these creampuffs up?” Cashman asked.
“Yes,” Angel said. “I believe it will.”
She turned to the crowd and raised her hands. Most of the onlookers were enlisted men and women, and almost exclusively marines. They quieted down.
“I need a couple of volunteers,” she said. “Can the two strongest among you step forward.”
There was more jeering and taunting, but it only took a few seconds for two huge men to move to the front. They were taller than Angel, and looked more like body builders than marines.
“Excellent,” she said. “Staff Sergeant Cashman needs to test the close quarters combat element of his suit. Would the two of you mind attacking him?”
“Oh, thanks,” Cashman said. “Very professional of you.”
Angel smiled and stepped back. The crowd was cheering for the two men, who stalked forward.
“Don’t rush it,” Angel called to Cashman. “Let them see what the suit can do.”
Staff Sergeant Cashman had been in his share of fights. He didn’t mind sparring or practicing jiu jitsu, but when he was in a real fight he preferred to end things quickly. The first of his opponents, a huge private, took a clumsy swing at his head, which Cashman easily avoided. When the second man, a sergeant, lunged toward him, trying to grab him up in a bear hug, Cashman fell backward, rolling over his shoulder and onto his feet. Then he jumped upward arching toward the surprised private and sergeant. He caught the private’s shoulders with both hands and flipped himself over, letting the reflexive fibers in the suit boost him like a spring board. He landed softly, and turned quickly, throwing his foot out in a side kick that caught the sergeant just as he was about to charge.
The big NCO was knocked off his feet and nearly flew off the wrestling mats. He landed with a thud and rolled onto his side, struggling to catch his breath. The private launched a flurry of blows, punching and kicking but Cashman dodged them all. The crowd was screaming for the private to land a punch and when they finally reached the edge of the mat Cashman stopped dodging and held out his arms to welcome the next blow. The private drove his fist hard into Cashman’s stomach, and the crowd screamed with satisfaction. Very few people understood with that first punch what the ARC suit could really do. The private’s eyes went wide, but Cashman nodded encouragingly. The impact-resistant fibers had absorbed the blow. The private hit Cashman again and again, as if he were a heavy bag, as the crowd fell silent.
To withstand one heavy blow from the private was understandable. A tough veteran could probably do it under the right circumstances, but six hard shots in a row had yet to wipe the smile off Cashman’s face, much less take him down.
“Sorry about this,” Cashman said, just before he shoved the private.
The staff sergeant’s palms engaged much more kinetic energy than he should have been able to muster, and the private flew across the mats like a rag doll. The fitness area, which was only a moment earlier a noisy crowd, was suddenly dumbstruck into silence. The fallen sergeant, having caught his breath and gotten back to his feet, charged at Cashman. He was like a roaring bull. Cashman could have avoided the charge, but instead he lowered his own shoulder into the man, who bounced off the staff sergeant as if he’d tried to tackle a tree. The big man went down hard and didn’t get up, while Cash stood seemingly unaffected, the big sergeant hadn’t even been able to knock Cashman back one step.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Angel said. She could see the satisfaction on the faces of Cashman’s fire team, even though the staff sergeant didn’t seem as pleased.
“We could get into trouble for this,” he said in a quiet voice as he approached her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Take the squad down to the firing range. I’ll join you there shortly.”
Angel and a few others checked on the big men. The private was surprised and winded, but not hurt. The sergeant on the other hand looked as if he might have a concussion. She had a few of his platoon members help him down to sick bay, then went to join her squad.
The firing range reminded Angel of a carnival game. The Tragger P51 was so light it didn’t feel like a real weapon in her hand. They were using specially made training weapons that had lasers in the barrels to simulate where a shot should go, and recoil generators to simulate live fire.
Cashman was waiting to explain the weapon to her.
“It’s simple really. Normally you would fold back the stock and get a solid grip on the weapon to minimize the recoil,” he explained. “But we don’t need that. The suit will bear the brunt of the recoil and should allow you to hold it steady. You’ll be shooting from the hip, aiming with the aid of the HUD. It’s a big difference from the rifle you shot in basic, but it won’t take long to get used to.”
They didn’t have their smart helmets, which the practice weapons wouldn’t link to at any rate. So they stood in the small booths, just getting a feel for the guns. The Tragger P51 took a standard magazine, not unlike a pistol, and with the forward grip it reminded Angel of a tommy gun from the 1930s. She worked the lever, switched it to semi-automatic, and fired a round. She could feel the gun jump in her hands, but the suit absorbed the movement, allowing Angel to hold it steady as she fired. They were aiming at targets just fifteen meters away, and while her aim wasn’t perfect it wasn’t difficult to hit the simulated bad guy on her screen.
She practiced for an hour. The training program simulated jams in the mechanism, which she learned to clear quickly. The rifle was easy to use and she could see why Cashman had chosen it. The gun was so light it wouldn’t affect their speed or ability to maneuver, and while the stripped down version would normally be difficult to control and fire with any accuracy, their ARC suits and smart helmets eliminated both of those problems.
They were just leaving the range when her flex pad vibrated in her pocket.
“Is that Major Dixon?” Cashman asked. “It was only a matter of time.”
“You think he’ll be angry?”
“I think superior officers look for reasons to be angry,” he said. “But we gave him one. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but that sergeant looked rattled.”
“Nothing permanent I’m sure,” Angel said. “And it was necessary.”
“You really think so?”
“Yes, I really do. Everyone on this ship thinks we’re a joke, even Major Dixon. He respects you and your record, but the ARC suits and me are the work of a clever researcher fostered on them by an administrator who has never left atmo. We need to change that attitude.”
“I’m not sure hurting one of our own was the way to do it,” Cashman said.
“Well, that wasn’t the intended outcome, and I’ll take full responsibility for that. But Dixon needs to see what we can do. Maybe this will help.”
“Better you than me, LT.” the staff sergeant said. “I’d rather face both those goons without my ARC suit than take an ass chewing from a man I can’t argue with.”
Angel smiled. She understood the sentiment, but she had years of experience being shouted at. It would have been nice to get out of the ARC suit, shower, perhaps have lunch, before having to write up reports on the incident in the fitness area, but she had already pressed her luck by going straight to the firing range.
She slipped into her office and pulled out the flex pad, which she kept stowed in a small compartment on her upper thigh of her ARC suit. It fit neatly into the dock and powered up the video screen. The first message was a high priority order to report to Major Dixon, which was exactly what she expected.
“Is he ready to see me?” Angel asked Staff Sergeant Callahan.
“Oh yes,” she replied. “It’s a good thing you’re still wearing your super suit.”
Angel left her tiny office and proceeded into her superior’s larger one. He was sitting behind the desk, a fat little cigar clenched between his teeth. Smoking was prohibited on the CSF nava
l vessel, but Angel guessed like most rules, it was broken if a person knew the right places to indulge without getting caught. Dixon looked up at Angel with unconcealed vitriol. His face was red and his eyes were pinched into thin slits. Angel braced herself as he took a deep breath, stood to his feet, and started screaming.
29
One kilometer north of the colony town Springdale
Neo Terra, Tau Ceti system
“We have incoming!” the staff sergeant shouted
“The swarm is closing on the ambush zone,” the surveillance plane radioed to the marines on the ground. “Prepare for bombardment.”
“Duck and cover!” the big NCO shouted. “Ordinance inbound. Duck and cover!”
The bombs fell in perfect precision from two unmanned drones, fifty thousand kilometers high. They hit at the flanks of the massive swarm, pressing them closer together and shaking the ground for kilometers in every direction.
“Whiskey Company, you are cleared to engage,” Admiral Beauregard ordered from the bridge of the C.S.F. Ramses in geosynchronous orbit above the planet. “I repeat, you are cleared to engage.”
From trenches dug into rocky soil directly in front of the onrushing horde, a platoon of sixty marines popped up. Their assault rifles on full automatic fire, they began to spray the alien creatures. The horde reacted instantly, their lines opening up to dodge bullets, and creatures from just behind the front ranks began leaping high into the air. The marines didn’t need orders to start targeting the jumping creatures that looked like strange insects the size of large dogs. The effectiveness of the massed gunfire was quickly subdued as the marines tried to shoot the flying creatures that were soaring toward them. The aliens in the air were much harder to hit, and the sixty marines who could spray wildly with their assault rifles at their enemies rushing along the ground, were suddenly firing in three directions at once.
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