First Casualty

by Mike Moscoe

  Mattim glanced around his bridge. Ding and Guns took the question for a joke. Mattim knew Sandy was serious. “Yes.”

  Sandy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she mashed her comm button. “Comm, send my board to flag, with the captain's compliments.”

  * * * *

  Sergeant Mary Rodrigo slipped past the hospital's front desk. They were busy, and Lek had told her which room the LT was in; Lek'd even hacked his medical charts. Reading was not the same as seeing, so the platoon had asked her to check up on him. Everyone hoped he was getting better treatment than they were.

  The people passing Mary in the halls, whether patients or staff, all wore cloth. Since the hospital was buried fifty meters under the crater's floor, she guessed they were safe. Still, she was in battle armor, helmet under her arm. She'd learned not to take chances.

  She also hadn't had a bath since the battle. People passing her tended to speed up, even those hanging onto intravenous packets on rolling stands. Since Mary had a map of the hospital layout, she didn't ask directions. Since the people were nonthreats, Mary ignored them. Crashing relativity bombs and sparkling lasers—those she paid attention to. What could not kill her, she ignored. It was amazing how simple life became.

  She paused before a closed door. For a moment she froze. What if” the lieutenant had forgotten them, like some in the platoon said? What if they were a part of his life he wanted to forget as quickly as he could? The rest of his life was going to be screwed up. She hesitated, but only for a moment. You don't read your mail, you never know what's happening.

  She slipped through the wide door.

  The LT sat in bed, his nose in a reader. He glanced up. “Mary!” His broadening grin left no doubt she was welcome.

  “Hi,” she answered, giving him the best salute she could.

  “Don't waste that on me.” He tossed it off with a wave of his left hand. “Save it for some dumb lieutenant who still thinks it matters. Tell me, what's the platoon up to?”

  “Not much, sir. No colonials have tried to take our pass. We're doing what we're told.” No need telling him what that was. “What's been happening with you?”

  “I got my first lieutenant promotion.” He beamed. “And the Navy Cross, or so they tell me.” Mary glanced at the sheets covering him; his body under them stopped too far from the foot of the bed. She didn't know what to say; the LT helped her.

  “They couldn't save the legs. Too much damage and too long before the docs got me. But I'm getting a new set real soon. In a month they'll insert neural leads in both stumps, then attach prosthetics. I've seen vids. I'll be good as new.”

  Mary didn't hear much depth in his cheerfulness. “Will you be coming back to the platoon then?” she asked.

  “No. Worse luck. It's staff duty for me. Just because a Sthet can run doesn't mean they want you in combat.” He scowled and looked away. When he faced her again, he'd round his smile. “So tell me, what's the platoon been up to? They got you and Cassie out telling everyone how it's done. Lek a warrant officer, running battalion communications. Talk to me.”

  There were too many things Mary couldn't say, so she mumbled. “We're doing okay, sir. Some of us missed you, and they wanted to know how you were doing. I hitched a ride back on a supply run. I got to be getting back or they'll leave me.”

  As she talked, the lieutenant's eyes went from crinkled smile to hard and angry. “Damn it, woman, don't start treating me like some stranger. You folks were there for me when I was up to my neck in dirt and bleeding to death. I may have been a standard issue shit-for-brains second louie most of the time, but I got my act together that day. So did all of you.” His voice ran down. “Don't start treating me like I don't exist.” He glanced around, seemed to take in the whole hospital at a glance. “There're enough people doing that. Don't you do it too.”

  Then he looked her hard in the eye. “Something's wrong.”

  “Not really wrong, sir. Just everything back to normal, I guess. The whole company's up and we're kind of under-strength what with you gone and others. We got the detail of cleaning up the mess we made, collecting the busted-up rolligons, artillery, that stuff.”

  “You didn't have to bring in the bodies?” the LT whispered.

  “Somebody had to. Captain said we should since the other platoons were on full alert.” The first night after the battle had been bad—on Mary and a lot of others. After looking the corpses in the eyes, lugging them to the trucks, Mary wasn't the only one who took herself off net each night. No need to wake everybody when she came awake screaming.

  “Mary, let me see the back of your helmet,” the lieutenant said softly. She flipped it over; he glanced at it. “You've still got NCO markings on it. I put you in for a battlefield commission. They haven't given my platoon to another LT?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Is Captain Spoda including you in staff meetings?”

  “Staff meetings, sir?”

  “Okay.” The lieutenant glanced away, fixed his eyes on the picture on the wall. Mary stared at it; ocean waves rose up and tumbled onto yellow dust. She'd seen vids of oceans; all that water made her uncomfortable. She looked away. The LT got her attention when he mashed a button beside his bed.

  “Yes, sir?” came a cheerful woman's voice.

  “Doctor Mardan should be about through his rounds.

  Could you ask him to drop by my room? It's a matter of urgency.”

  “Yes, sir. Uh, your vitals are a bit elevated, but nothing to set off alarms, sir.”

  “This is a military matter, not medical.”

  “Yes, sir.” The voice clicked off, sounding puzzled.

  “Sir, I really have to get back to the supply truck,” Mary said, edging toward the door.

  “Mary, you and I both know a supply run never arrived back on schedule. And now that I know what you people were scrounging, I'm damn glad of it. Whatcha after this time?”

  “Anything we can lay our hands on. Pickings are getting slim, and it's kind of hard to find good trading stock. Dumont always had the best luck when he took a few of the younger girls in the platoon. But lately ...”

  The lieutenant chuckled. “I heard someone ran a ship in here loaded with booze and women and set up shop.” He studied Mary for a moment. “Haven't any of you had a shower in the last month?” Mary backed away; she hadn't meant to bother him.

  “No, no, you get back here, woman. I spent a week on jungle survival, and boy, did I stink. What is happening to you? The platoon's got a support van assigned to it. You can get a hot meal and a shower. Why aren't you?”

  “The captain's got us in reserve. We're back a couple of klicks from the pass. The other two platoons are dug in close. We dug the command and support vans into the rim. They're solid, but ours is sitting out in the open. Ain't nobody getting out of armor, not even Dumont 's kids, no matter how horny they get.”

  The door opened; a gray-haired man with a silver oak leaf on one side of his collar and a medical insignia on the other came in. His nose wrinkled, but in a second it was replaced by a smile. “Morning, Lieutenant. How you feeling?”

  “Hanging in. Commander, I'd like you to meet Sergeant Mary Rodrigo, the fightingest marine in the corps and the reason you aren't in a colonial POW camp.” Mary turned red, wondered if she should have saluted this doctor-officer. She was starting to when he held out his hand. She shook it.

  “Glad to meet you, Sarge. You need anything, it's yours.”

  “We're fine, sir,” she stuttered.

  “I disagree with the sergeant,” the lieutenant said and quickly filled the doctor in on what he'd extracted from Mary.

  The doctor's smile quickly turned into a glower. He shook his head as the LT finished. “I've spent forty years attached to the corps, patching up you boys and girls that refuse to grow up. This is about the most childish stunt I've heard of. You put her in for a commission, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. The originals are on the hospital computer in my personal fi
les, along with a recommendation for the Silver Star.”

  “Mind giving me a hard copy? I'm playing poker tonight. Commander Umboto usually shows up to lose a few bucks. Tomorrow night I'm sharing supper and Shakespeare with Captain Anderson. I think both of them would enjoy hearing about this.”

  Mary was on the verge of panic. “Sir, I don't want... I don't mean ... The boss man'll...”

  The doctor didn't seem to understand a word she was saying. The lieutenant waved a hand. “Mary and a lot of her crew had twenty years mining asteroids before they joined the corps.”

  The doctor nodded. Then the crinkles around his mouth and eyes turned into a smile, warm as the sun and understanding as a proud mother. “I imagine you heard in boot camp that there's the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.”

  “Often, sir.”

  “Well, you are about to see that applied in spades. Don't worry, Sergeant. I've worn this uniform for forty years and never lost a patient to bureaucratic ineptness.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mary didn't know the Navy or Marine way all that well. She did know basic physics. Shit rolls downhill.

  She doubted even a doctor who was a commander could change that.

  “I really have to get back.” Mary needed away from these people. Nice was something she could only take in small doses, especially from strangers like the doctor ... and the LT.

  As she edged toward the, door, the doctor's hand closed on her elbow like a vise. “Even with your suit's biocleaners, if you haven't had a bath in a month, you're a first-rate candidate for skin disease. While you're soaking, we'll get your suit cleaned and liner recharged. It's the least we can do for the people who keep us in business.”

  Six

  “Captain, live message from the flag,” comm said.

  “Put it on screen,” Mattim ordered.

  “Squadron Fifty-three, the marines are in trouble,” the man wasn't smiling. “We are going to their aid. Together, we'll show those colonial amateurs how a real Navy fights. Squadron will stay in formation behind me, use only passive sensors. Good luck, men.”

  The screen went dead.

  “Not even a thank-you for us,” Sandy pouted.

  “Suddenly he's spoiling for a fight,” Mattim mused.

  Guns shook his head. “His stateroom's full of history books, real ones. Maybe too full.”

  “General quarters,” Mattim ordered. “Today, we find out.”

  Settled into his captain's chair, Mattim allowed himself a moment's reflection. Guns and Ding were visibly excited, ready to put years of training to the test. Ivan and Sandy hated the war, but they'd followed him. Followed me where we could all get killed. Am I leading them right?

  His five years skippering the Maggie had seen the red Unity flag with its lightning bolt shoot through the sparsely populated colonial worlds. One by one, his ports got new harbormasters; his contacts changed from working folks to Unity henchmen who bought for monopolies and held their paws out for “donations” and “special considerations.” Mattim missed the traders and factory managers who took him home to meet the family. The Unity bullies' idea of a fun evening usually involved someone weak getting hurt.

  Mattim suspected that boatload of Economic Reformers they blasted was crewed by Unity punks eager to cut out the middle man. At thirteen, Mattim had shipped out with his dad. This wasn't the same universe.

  So now I'm heading into a battle to help people I've never met. Mattim, are you getting a late-blooming case of chivalry or whatever it is that causes a guy to get himself killed at midlife? Getting killed was low on his list of things to do today. Yet he wanted to charge through that jump, guns blazing, and save the poor doggies. This was crazy. I think they call it war.

  On the flag's orders, the squadron passed through the jump at a few thousand meters per second. It should have been an easy jump, but the ships came out scattered. Despite the flag orders for tight communications, the admiral was quite liberal with irate orders to re-form. Sandy just shook her head. “This jump point is all kinds of flaky.”

  Mattim had other worries; where were the colonials? Passive sensors drew a blank. “Must be under EMCon,” Ding concluded. “Don't use search radars and lasers, and no one can follow your signals back to you.”

  “Sandy, do a visual search on every inch of space between Alpha jump and the marines. Somewhere are glowing engines.”

  “They're decelerating engines away from us,” Sandy said.

  “So maybe it'll reflect off the next ship in line. This armor reflects lasers. Maybe it reflects other things.”

  “Optimist. Me, I bet they're in echelon toward us, reflecting away from us,” Sandy chided him, but went to work.

  An hour later, Mattim got his first hint of what lay ahead. “Captain, comm here. We've picked up a message tight-beamed from the Ninety-seventh to the flag. It's probably in response to something from the flag, but we didn't get that.”

  “I'll take what I can.”

  His station quickly displayed the answer to the admiral's unknown question, ENEMY FORCE IS ESTIMATED AT 5 DDS AND 6 CCS, GUNS VARY FROM 6” TO 9.2”. ETA HERE IS 22 HRS 18 MNTS. THANKS FOR COMING.

  “Let me guess, DDs are destroyers, CCs are any kind of cruiser. Right?” Mattim asked Ding.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So how do they know? Ninety-seventh isn't emitting anything.”

  “Ship makes a gravitational pulse as it exits a jump. The bigger the ship, the bigger the pulse. In their first action, the Ninety-seventh spotted five DDs, nine CCs and transports. No transports today. They're just here to pound the poor joes.”

  “Sandy, you got anything?”

  “Nothing. They're dark as space.”

  “Sandy, we know where they came from and where they're going. Find them.”

  Four hours later, she did. “Matt, I got 'em. Guns and I got those puppies. It's beautiful.” Ding was at Mattim's elbow a second later as they hovered over Sandy 's shoulder.

  “Visuals was a waste. They heard us come in. They knew how to hide. So I gave up on eyeballs,” Sandy ran on. “Ships are big, but with that big gasbag's gravity well, I couldn't get shit out of the gravity anomaly detector. So I tried electromagnetic. There the gasbag helped. It's emitting across the spectrum like the biggest radar ever turned on.”

  “Yes,” Ding cut in, “but they'll be operating in stealth mode. You won't get any radar bounces off them to pick up.”

  “Right.” Guns grinned. “That's what Sandy went looking for. Those turkeys are a hole in the radar return.”

  “Look there.” Sandy pointed. “Five holes, then six bigger ones. Five destroyers, six cruisers. You can hide, but you can't hide the hole you're hiding in.”

  “God damn,” Ding breathed slowly. “She's got them.”

  “Wait 'til the admiral hears this,” Sandy crowed.

  “We're under radio silence,” Ding said.

  “They heard us come in,” Mattim snarled. “What you want to bet they've been following us visually? Once we flip, we'll be brighter than a star. If the admiral has a battle to plan, he'll want to know this. Comm, get me a tight beam to the flag.”

  “You got it, Captain.”

  “Sheffield to Reply .”

  “Sheffield, you are under EMCon One. Use of tight beams toward the enemy is not permitted. Cease your transmissions at once.”

  Mattim went doggedly on. “This is Captain Abeeb.”

  Again he got the same lecture, only louder; Mattim gritted his teeth. “We have located the enemy electromagnetically.”

  “You couldn't have” was followed by the same lecture, now at the top of someone's lungs.

  Mattim cut his comm. “Guns, I need advice on how this Navy way works. So, what is this shit from flag?” Mattim regretted his loss of control. Still, it felt good at the moment.

  “I didn't recognize the voice, but you can assume the admiral approved cutting you off. I expect sensors on the flag is desperately trying to duplicate Sandy 's achievement an
d assuring the admiral since he can't do it, no accountant can.”

  “No use trying again?” Ding concluded.

  “No, ma'am. Late in my Navy career I concluded you can't teach pigs to sing, at least not those sporting more gold braid than you. Do merchant sailors learn a similar lesson?”

  Mattim chuckled. “Last few years, it was becoming apparent I should. So far I avoided it.”

  “Congratulations, sir. You will have to decide for yourself whether to follow my experience or your own lead.”

  “Tight beam coming in, Captain, from the Aurora .”

  “That's Buzz's ship. Let me see it.”

  “Congratulations, Matt. No surprise Sandy did it. I've got a Navy type on my sensors. She swears it can't be done. I told her if Sandy did it, she can. I owe you all a round. When the boss lets us communicate, tight-beam me the full story. Burka out.”

  “Captain, we got message traffic from all the reserve cruisers. Do you want to see it?”

  “How many of them offer to buy the first round?” Mattim grinned at Sandy . She preened.

  “Uh, all of them, I think.”

  “Boy, Saturday night's gonna be fun,” Sandy crowed.

  “Enough, Commander O'Mally. Guns, could having the enemy track help the others develop a firing solution?”

  “No, Captain, we're hours away from a shoot.”

  “Then no more communications until it's authorized. Guns, does this tell you anything about what the enemy's up to?”

  “Yes, sir. We're in no danger, for the moment.”

  “And how long will that good fortune follow us?” Mattim got ready for another educational experience.

  Guns fingered the display. “They came out of the jump headed for a fast pass on die marines. About the time we jumped in, they sheered away. They're headed around ELM0129-4 and will meet us head-on over the marines. We'll have shoots twice an orbit until one of us breaks for a jump. They've rigged it so they can bug out without us observing them.”