The First Casualty

by Mike Moscoe

  “Yes!” hissed from a dozen lips.

  “You gonna turn me in to the admiral?” Mary asked. “Shoot me for him?”

  “No! No way, Mary. You may be an old lady, but you’re us. Gang don’t turn in a sister. Marines don’t shoot marines.”

  That got an enthusiastic response from Dumont’s choir.

  Mary weighed what Dumont had given her. Marines don’t kill marines. Good start. But half the platoon wants done what the other half wants stopped! How do I make everyone happy this time? Guess this is what the corps calls a leadership challenge. How do I lead troops in both directions?

  Mary spoke slowly. “Okay, Du, here’s where you and your kids get to show us how good you are. The miners are going to try to stop the bombing. You catch one of them out of line, I take them off the duty roster and lock ’em down here. Admiral don’t have to know why. Same for Navy types. Turn them in to me and I’ll see they get put under hack.”

  Dumont looked around. There were a lot of smiles from his kids. “Mary, we been joking with the man’s stuff on the streets for years and none of us got caught. We’ll spot you first try.”

  “I don’t think you will, but we’ll know tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Mary, this has got to be even up. Half the admiral’s guards are from my side, and we shoot to keep him safe. I want most of the guards on the magazine and the launcher to be my people. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Mary said.

  Her comm link beeped. Everyone in the room quit breathing. Mary let it ring. On the third, she slapped the key. “This better be fucking good,” she growled sleepily, “’cause he was the best dream I’ve had in months.”

  There was a long pause, “Ah, Captain, the camera is out in your bunk room,” the admiral said slowly. “I just wondered if anything was wrong.”

  “Damn thing fell off the wall a while back when we hit a bump. We were all half asleep. Damn near shot it to pieces. If you want, Admiral, I’ll leave my mike open and you can listen to us snore,” Mary added helpfully.

  “No! Not necessary.” Whitebred tumbled over his words. “Everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.” His line died.

  “You want that for a friend,” Lek observed dryly.

  “Never had a suit for a friend. Don’t know what they’re good for,” Dumont answered slowly.

  “A billion dead people,” Cassie snapped. Mary shot her a glance. They can’t hear you on that one, old girl. We got what we want. Don’t push.

  • • •

  “Captain”—Thor breathed a sigh of relief—“you ask me to do that again and I swear, I’ll get out and walk home.” The bridge crew laughed; they’d done good. Sheffield’s nose ice was down to millimeters. Engineering had red-lined the engines for the last hour, pushing them toward the planet they’d missed by a fraction of a heartbeat. Dozens of people could have ended the mission with one slip-up. No one was suicidal.

  “We’ve done great, folks, so let’s get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another busy day.” We kill a billion people, or we don’t. No ties allowed.

  As he entered his quarters, his chair beeped. “Kids have not bought in. Consider all young marines hostile. However, the admiral is out of the loop. If one of your people is tagged, you must take her off the watch. Call me if you want more info.”

  So, no more people get killed. Some marines were friendly, some were not, and Mary hadn’t had time to give him a program. For what he had in mind, he didn’t need one. He used channel Lek 23 to call Chief Aso.

  “Chief, we’ve got an oversight here. Bomb and loader were all designed for twelve gees—assuming a five hundred pound bomb. We got five thousand pounders, and at three gees we’re in trouble. We reinforced the magazine, but I’m not satisfied with the work on the loader and the bomb thrower. You got a welder you can trust in some heavy work?”

  “Dan from the Maggie signed over. What you got in mind, Skipper?”

  Mattim told him. The chief beamed.

  • • •

  The phone in their room rang as Ray finished his oatmeal. Rita tapped the speaker phone. It was not the colonel. A major general beamed at them. “Major, you are included in today’s briefing. It will begin at thirteen hundred hours. Be early. The president is very interested in what kind of fight the forces of Wardhaven will give the Earth invaders. Please include a full table of organization and deployment.”

  “Yessir,” Ray snapped.

  “See you then.” The general switched off.

  “Today,” Rita breathed.

  “Captain.” Ray was all mission. “We have the required data?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Let us redo our briefing,” Ray sighed as if it mattered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rita went to lay out his uniform…and hers.

  • • •

  Mattim called damage control first thing next morning using Lek 23. “We’ve reinforced the magazine, and it’s taken the pounding. You’ve done some work on the loader and accelerator. I’d like to reinforce that. A two-and-a-half-ton rock loose is a hell of a lot of damage to control.”

  “Yes, sir,” Commander Gandhi said. “I’ll put a work chit in right away with your priority on it.”

  “I’d rather my name wasn’t on the chit.”

  “No problem, sir.” Tina didn’t bat an eyelash. “I like a skipper who lets his people do their job.”

  “Thank you, Commander. One more thing. Chief Aso handled my toughest welding problems on the old Maggie. I don’t think gunnery would mind you pulling him off for this.”

  “What with all the high gees and bouncing the Sheffield’s been taking, I can use all the help I can get. Will do.” If the commander was part of a conspiracy, she hadn’t showed it. Nor had she missed a line.

  “Have at it, Commander.”

  • • •

  Mary worked up the Order of the Day for her detachment with Dumont at her elbow. She would assign one, he would assign one.

  “I get command at the rock slinger,” Dumont said.

  “We share that one.” Mary finished the list. “Assignments are for all day. Chow will be catch as catch can.”

  “We’re gonna stop you.”

  Mary pursed her lips. “We’ll see.”

  • • •

  Mattim did a morning walk-about. The crew was nervous.

  “Is it true, sir, our armor ain’t no thicker than frost on the freezer?” Hassan asked as he gave Mattim two pancakes.

  “Never saw any frost on your reefer, you old belly robber.” Mattim dodged the question. As he made his rounds, matters did not improve. The Sheffield showed the effect of high gees and close encounters. The crew went about their duties slowly, as the three gees required, tackling the worst of it. No one met his eyes. He almost skipped the launcher bay, but he always stopped there, and today could not be an exception. Mary’s cart was parked in the center of the bay, the young sergeant who’d shot Guns at her elbow. Around the bay, six teams of marines traveled in pairs, one young, the other showing a touch of gray, the beginning of a paunch. So that’s the way it is.

  “Got everything Under control, Captain Rodrigo?”

  “Yessir.” She saluted. So did the sergeant. His eyes were hard, measuring, as if he expected Mattim to produce a wrench and unbolt the launcher. Mattim ignored him and turned his cart in a slow circle, taking in the work crews scattered around the bay. “Lot of maintenance will need doing when this is over. We can’t wait to fix this.”

  “Your crew better be fixing what they touch,” the sergeant growled. “I got marines looking over every shoulder.”

  “Good.” Mattim smiled. “Better job you marines do, the less the admiral will worry. And I don’t like worried bosses.” Still smiling, Mattim ended his circle facing the sergeant. Let the poor bastard figure out what’s coming down. I ain’t paid to teach. Turning to leave, he had to fight to keep the smile on his face. A bunch of Navy security guards escorted in a work team. The tiny middie rolled up the rear. How’d she
get out of the brig? What’s she doing here?

  She glanced his way…and winked.

  “Captain.” Mattim’s comm snapped in the admiral’s voice. “I want you in my quarters. Immediately.”

  “Yessir.”

  • • •

  At exactly 0945, Ray was uniformed, bemedalled, and shined. The batteries in his walker were fresh, and the briefcase waited in Santiago’s hands. The official limousine arrived on the dot.

  The sergeant driver opened the door…and then closed it. “My orders are for two officers. Who is she?” Ray could not tell if the driver’s disapproval was for Rita, or the tight cut of her uniform. Ray opened his mouth, but Rita got there first.

  “I am Senior Pilot Officer Mrs. Longknife. I will accompany my husband. And while I may have to wait in the car with you, Sergeant, I’ve just got to be there to hear everything he has to say after he meets the President.” The stiff officer segued into a gushing girl that got a smile out of even the sergeant.

  “Well, I guess it’s okay.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Ray said.

  As the limo moved off, Ray leaned back in the plush seat. He was prepared to meet the President—and any other god who took an interest in today’s hard duty.

  • • •

  “Captain, despite what you may think of me, I am not totally lacking in human qualities. I just sent a message to the rebel forces on Wardhaven inviting them to surrender. I informed them if they do not, we will destroy all major cities on Wardhaven no sooner than twelve hours from now.”

  “They’ve already refused to surrender,” Mattim risked.

  “And their government will refuse this one. They don’t think we have the guts. That will be the last-miscalculation they ever make. But”—Whitebred shared another smile with Stuart that made Mattim’s skin crawl—“it will be upon their heads. I offered them peace. They spurned it.”

  “Some colonials may not see it that way,” Mattim risked.

  “There’re always some who can’t get with the program. Dinosaurs die, Captain. Pity, but they die. Dismissed.”

  Mattim returned to the bridge. “Anything, Ding?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle, sir.”

  Mattim rolled up beside her. “You’re making me feel unneeded, Exec.”

  “I never noticed that captains were all that needed. Ship’s holding up, but we’ll need some major yard time when we’re done.”

  “We all will.” Mattim glanced at a new clock; counting down, it changed—eleven hours, forty-one minutes.

  • • •

  The limo passed several outlying checkpoints before rolling up to a block of stone buildings fit to house the temples of many gods—or one very big one. The driver brought them to a halt in the courtyard. A security guard in a midnight black uniform opened the door. He was backed up by a dozen more in fixed positions and armored vehicles. Everything from assault rifles to laser cannon covered them as they dismounted. Ray had faced these withering shows of disapproval before; he tried to look bored…and prayed Rita would not crumble.

  She helped him from the car, then clung to him. He noted every guard—all males—paid far more attention to her than him. She stood tall to kiss him on the cheek. “I wanted you to meet our President with a smile on your lips. My husband, I am pregnant,” she crowed. From the guards there was a cheer.

  Rita blushed, and Ray felt a warmth in his cheeks. Life and death twisted in his belly—and his gut knotted. When Rita stepped away, he faced the captain of the guard.

  “Congratulations, Major. May all wounded war veterans be as successful in their recovery as you.”

  “And may their brides be more modest in announcing their accomplishments.” Ray frowned at his wife, but her smile was contagious. One grew on his face, and others on most of the guard detail.

  A guard technician cleared his throat. “We seem to have a problem, Captain.”

  The guard captain immediately turned to look over the technician’s shoulder as the man pointed to an elevated line on his screen. “Ammonia,” the tech whispered.

  His heart pounding, Ray tapped the metal walkers under his uniform trousers. “They’re hell on my skin. Need an ointment. Rita, did you bring it?” She produced a tube from her purse.

  The guard captain passed it to the tech. Together they studied their machine. “Identical,” the technician said.

  The captain handed the tube back to Rita. “I will advise the other guard posts. However, Major, I must see the inside of your briefcase.” Santiago opened it and spun up the computer. As he was about to close it, the comm unit beeped.

  “Major, this is the Oasis’s captain. We are in receipt of a message from Wardhaven.”

  “Make it quick, Skipper. I’m passing through security for the President’s briefing.”

  “Excuse me, sir. The enemy flagship has transmitted an ultimatum. If the planet does not surrender unconditionally in twelve hours, they will bombard all major cities.”

  “When was this given?” Ray asked.

  “One hour ago. The flag has swung around the sun and Pico and is now on course to Wardhaven at point-oh-three of the speed of light.”

  “That sounds fairly slow.” The guard captain tossed the statement off.

  “A five-hundred-pound bomb”—Rita spoke through gritted teeth—“will hit with the power of a quarter million tons of explosive.”

  “Oh.” The guard captain was impressed.

  The Navy captain ended his message with a plea. “Please, Major, explain our situation to the President. We cannot defend against this attack.”

  “I will do what I can do, Captain. Longknife out.”

  “Only a coward fights like that,” the guard captain snapped. “Honorable men face each other on the field of battle.”

  “With artillery and tanks,” Santiago drawled.

  Ray studied the guard officer. His tunic was full of ribbons, none of them for combat. “Let us hurry. Maybe the President can spare a moment before the briefing.” Ray had eleven hours to swap a planet’s rendezvous with death for his own.

  • • •

  “Captain, follow me,” Whitebred shouted, bolting from his quarters. “I want that man shot.” Mattim followed, not knowing where they were going or who was to be shot.

  The admiral gunned his gee cart at full power. Mattim had put miles on his and had trouble keeping up. When he pulled into the launcher bay, Whitebred was already shouting, “Sergeant, shoot that man. He doesn’t belong here.”

  “What man?” Mary and Sergeant Dumont echoed.

  “That man.” The admiral struggled to raise his arm. At three gees, all he succeeded in doing was a wave that covered half the work parties in the bay.

  “Who, sir?” the sergeant asked again.

  “See down the launcher path. There’s a chief near two welders. He doesn’t belong here. I want you to execute him, now. I want everybody to watch this.”

  “Sir,” the sergeant said with just a hint of derision, “at this acceleration, I can’t draw my pistol, much less aim it.”

  “Helmsman, slow the ship down,” the admiral snapped.

  “Helm,” Mattim quickly cut in, “belay that order.”

  Whitebred whipped his cart around to face Mattim. “Is this mutiny? Sergeant, if he says yes, shoot him.”

  Eyebrows raised in question, the sergeant wheeled to face Mary. “Can we slow down and figure out what’s happening here?” she asked.

  “He countermanded my order,” the admiral shouted.

  “You can’t give the helm vague orders like that,” Mattim said slowly. “Do you want to slow acceleration, or actually slow the ship? That would involve flipping the ship and staying at three gees or higher to actually reduce the ship’s speed.”

  Whitebred glanced at his shadow. Stuart gave a tiny but quick nod of agreement. “Oh,” the admiral said. “Take us to one gee.”

  “Helm, this is the captain, I have the conn. Maintain course and take us smartly to one-gee
acceleration. Have the bosun advise the crew. Wait one.” Mattim turned to the admiral. “Will we be at one gee long enough for the crew to get cleaned up?”

  “No. Just long enough to execute that man in cart G61.” This time the admiral did manage to communicate that he wanted Chief Aso. Two marines tooled off to collect him.

  “What’s going on here?” The damage control officer arrived. “Captain, is there a problem in my spaces?”

  “That man is in the gunnery division,” Whitebred snapped. “He doesn’t belong here. I want him shot. Somebody get a vid hookup here. Sergeant, as soon as the captain can get us to one gee, shoot that man.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said with a lot less enthusiasm than he’d had with Guns.

  The damage control officer rolled his cart right up to Whitebred. “Admiral, that man belongs here. I asked for him and got him assigned to my work parties. He’s a damn good ship maintainer and I need him, what with the way we’ve been hotdogging around space. With our armor down to icing, all the gunnery department can do is sit around on their duffs. I got real work to do and I want that man doing it.”

  Whitebred grew dangerously quiet.

  “You got a work order to support that?” Stuart asked.

  “Yessir. Let me call it up. Just a sec. Here it is. I’ll transmit it to your unit.”

  Stuart and Whitebred gave it a sour stare. “Got the commander’s chop,” Stuart observed. “Looks okay.”

  “I want to see what he was doing,” Whitebred demanded.

  “Yes sir. Right this way.” Gandhi led off, the admiral right behind her. It was quite a parade. The welders knocked off as the damage control officer explained. “This launcher is stressed for six gees using a five-hundred-pound round. That translates to just one-point-two gees for the round we’ve got now. We’re doing three gees.”

  “But it’s been worked on before,” Stuart pointed out.

  “Yes, sir, in stages to give us the safety margins I wanted. First we rebuilt the magazines up to three gees for those new two and a half ton bullets, then upped the launcher to two gees. Then we redid the magazine to six gees where I wanted it. Now’s the loaders turn. I do what I need when I need it. And I keep this ship undamaged, which is the best damage control you can ask for.”