Noah's Story: Marine Tanker (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 3)

by Jonathan Brazee

  Explosions started to land around them as they reached the trail and Lewis started accelerating up the incline. The same tiny rockets that had knocked out the Federation tanks’ Hashers in the first battle flew at the two tanks in waves, but with them at close to 70 KPH, none of the rockets hit their mark, instead flying past or impacting on the polycero armor without effect.

  The Anvil’s IA deployed twice, but Noah barely noticed as he started putting out rounds, simply aiming them as area weapons.

  “Back off ten KPH,” the gunny told Lewis.

  Shit! Noah thought as he fired off another shot, his instincts screaming to speed up, not slow down.

  He’d used 12 rounds without a confirmed kill, so he switched to the M104 and sprayed the hillside. A tank was not the best weapon of war against disbursed troops, so he thought his 104 might be a little more effective.

  “Start the smoke,” she passed to Staff Sergeant Patel, the Evangeline’s TC.

  Noah couldn’t help but to glance back where a cloud of smoke started streaming from the back end of the tank.

  Something hit the Anvil with a clang, but she never faltered. Along their entire left flank, the forest was swarming with what had to be at least a hundred soldiers, all converging on the two tanks to cut off their route of escape.

  And two M249s opened up, raking the hills with 20mm rounds. Lewis spun the Anvil to a stop, facing the hillside as two PICS Marines rushed past them and on into the trees. Noah could see the smaller figures of straight-leg infantry as they advanced to meet the Peters.

  Noah finally let out a huge breath of air. Their job was done. They’d suckered the Peters into an ambush. Tanks were not the best choice against a disbursed infantry force, but nothing was better against a foreign infantry than a company of infantry Marines. Or at least a company minus. One platoon of Kilo was over the line of hills and would now be converging on the weapons systems at the cleft. Here, in the valley, a platoon of PICS infantry, the remaining straight-leg rifle platoon, and the weapons platoon were taking it to the numerically larger, but far less capable Pytor Velikiy unit.

  “You can turn off your smoke now,” the gunny passed as the little generator on the back of the Evangeline kept spewing out the smoke that Pure Dick had rigged up to simulate a damaged tank, one that the Peters could kill if they just pushed a little harder.

  The smoke was now settling around them, blocking visibility. Their role as bait was over, but they were supposed to be in support of Kilo now.

  Not that it mattered, in the end. Noah never fired again. The Peters, intent on catching the fleeing Davises, must have been shocked by the sudden appearance of the infantry. Noah would have been, too. Who would have thought that the infantry would have infiltrated in three days prior to take positions, dug into spider holes and covered with tarnkappes? Who would have thought that a platoon of PICS Marines could get their combat suits into position, and then lay flat, for three days, not moving?

  Well, the Marines would have thought it, but evidently not the Peters.

  The plan was that the ambush would have been sprung the day before, but the Peters hadn’t cooperated. They had today, though.

  Noah almost felt sorry for the Peters. If he’d had to sit in a spiderhole for three days, if he’d had to lay down inside a PICS for three days, he’d have been ready to unleash holy hell on the reason for that.

  Noah had popped open his hatch when the first of the prisoners, nine of them, were escorted back to the trail. Several glared up at him as if this was all his fault, which he easily shrugged off. He kept his 90mm pointed at them, but that was mostly for show. They’d surrendered, and the Peters had kept to the Harbin Accords so far, so the Marines owed them the same.

  All told, 31 prisoners were taken, eight of them wounded and being treated by the corpsmen. Another 40 or so Peters had been killed, while the rest had managed to escape into the hills. Another 12 had been captured up in the cleft with 3 KIA. All at a cost of three Marine WIA.

  Those numbers were astounding, to Noah. They’d had three KIA alone from the platoon in the first fight while only achieving about the same kill numbers against the Peters. Noah was proud of being a tanker, and he was a firm believer in a Davis’ capabilities, but this only cemented his deep-set belief that the right weapon had to be used against a specific enemy. A tank might have problems against a well-trained, disbursed infantry, but it could take out a fighting position with ease that might hold up an infantry platoon for a day.

  The Marine Corps was not considered a combined arms unit for nothing, after all. Now if they could only get the politicians to understand that.

  Chapter 25

  Noah tried to pull himself forward, but with his legs doubled up, it was hard to get leverage. He took a deep breath, readied his left hand, then pushed, jamming his body under the MGS’ undercarriage to the point where he could just reach the access port. He touched his handheld to the port’s interface, and a small beep acknowledged the transfer of data.

  Now to get out of here.

  He’d pushed himself in, but he couldn’t push out. Squirming like a beached fish, he slowly edged back until he could grab the PSC-44’s vertical handle and use it to extract his body. That wasn’t what the handle was designed for, but he had to use what was available to him.

  “Gunny, why the heck do they put these ports and readouts in so many grubbing hard-to-reach places?”

  “For the same reason I told you three days ago. Simply because.”

  Noah shook his head. It made no sense. All of the displays and ports should be in easy-to-access places. It took a frigate’s captain less time to get his ship’s readouts that it took the three of them to get the Anvil’s.

  He glanced at his handheld’s display.

  “Right at 120. Perfect, just like every check for the last five months.”

  “As it will be for the next five months,” the gunny said.

  Noah’s heart fell.

  “Five more months? You heard something, Gunny? We’ve got another five months?”

  “No, I haven’t heard anything, Noah. But we were supposed to be relieved three months ago, and that didn’t happen.”

  “Do you think it’ll be that long, though? I mean, aren’t the negotiations about over?”

  “You must be mistaking me for some First Ministry hack. I’m just a lowly gunnery sergeant, keeping my head down and trying to do my job.”

  Noah didn’t feel mollified. The idea of sitting on the planet for another five months was frightening, and he didn’t think she should be joking about that.

  The last five months had been a long, boring, exercise in wasting time. After the counter-ambush in the hills, the Pytor Velikiy command had agreed to a cease-fire. The task force had thought they would be recalled, and they’d even received a tentative date when an FCDC battalion was to relieve them. But the battalion didn’t come, and they were extended on planet. So, for five months, they went out on patrol every three days, then sat back at camp for two. There weren’t enough makeshift gyms they could build, enough books and flicks they could watch, that could fill up the time and keep their minds off home. Marines were dedicated hard-chargers, but they fared best when actively taking it to the bad guys. They were not a good police force.

  More than a few fights had broken out, and the task force commander, a major from the regimental staff, had been busy with non-judicial punishment on close to a daily basis. Time-filling classes were now the norm for the grunts, and for the tankers, it was maintenance, maintenance, maintenance.

  Noah’s PA buzzed for attention, and he pulled it out.

  “The first sergeant wants to see me,” he told the other two.

  “Well, then, I guess you’d better go see her. She’s not been in a mood, you know.”

  “Oh, I know, Gunny. We all know.”

  It was true. As the time slowly fragged on, she was becoming more and more of a, well, asshole would be an appropriate term. Nothing she did was wrong, per se, and all
was according to regs, but she kept demanding stricter compliance with the skipper’s orders, letting nothing slide.

  Noah wiped his hands on his overalls, then looked down at the grime that left behind. He momentarily considered changing into his other set, newly cleaned, but then shrugged that off. He was a tanker, and they were on the ramp. Being dirty was part of the job description.

  The company office was only 40 or 50 meters from the ramp, and it took him only a minute to reach the igloo. There was no knocking on the hatch as when back in civilization, so he simply walked in.

  The new igloos were impressive, he had to admit. Shipped folded up and fitting on a single pallet, when inflated, the outer skin foamed up, becoming hard within a few minutes. Air was filtered in by some sort of osmatic process, but noise was effectively blocked. After clanging around the ramp, inside the igloo was quiet and cool. If they could only get more of them for berthing, life on Novyy Ural would be much more comfortable.

  “Sergeant Lysander, the first sergeant’s waiting for you,” Corporal Wythe, a driver from Third who had the company duty for the day said.

  “I can see him, Wythe,” the first sergeant said from her open office, which consisted of a partitioned-off section of the rear of the igloo. “Come on in, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, First Sergeant? You wanted to see me?” he said as he entered her office.

  “We just received word from the Naval Hospital at Tainio—”

  “About Miriam? Is she OK? What happened?”

  The first sergeant held up a hand to stop him, saying, “She’s fine, she’s fine. And Chance is fine, too.”

  “Chance? Who’s Chance?’ he asked, confused.

  “You son? That Chance?”

  “My son?”

  Noah sank onto one of the two chairs in front of the first sergeant’s desk.

  I’m a father? he asked himself. I am a father!

  Noah had been expecting this, but not for another week-and-a-half, and it hit him hard. It was difficult to fathom.

  And Chance? he wondered as the name sunk in. What happened to Ryck?

  “He’s your first, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, First Sergeant. I thought we’d be back by now, and I’d be there.”

  “Doesn’t always work out. I wasn’t there for my first two,” she said.

  “Really? How did you handle it?”

  The first sergeant looked at him as if he was an idiot, then said, “Uh, Sergeant Lysander, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman? You know, as in I’d have had to be there?”

  Noah looked at her, trying to make sense of what she said before it sunk in.

  “Oh, yeah. Of course, you were there. Sorry.”

  “I was just trying to lighten the mood, but you new fathers can get so discombobulated when you get the news. I was there, but Fierdor wasn’t. He was deployed.”

  It took a moment for him to realize that Fierdor must be the first sergeant’s husband’s name.

  “Uh . . . how did he take it?”

  “Don’t know. I wasn’t there with him. But first, congratulations. Second, the skipper’s getting a line back. Go to the comms shack, and you’ll be able to talk to your wife.”

  “But’s it’s just after zero-two-hundred there,” Noah said.

  The first sergeant just let out a single laugh, then shook her head before saying, “She just gave birth, Sergeant. She’ll be up, believe me.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess so,” he said, then as it all started to sink in, he started feeling excited, and he said, “I’m going over there now. Thanks, First Sergeant!”

  He ran out of the company office and over the last of the six igloos.

  The skipper was coming out as he rushed up, and he said, “Congratulations, Sergeant Lysander. I’ve cleared a line back for you. Mr. Drury said he’ll have it in about five.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Noah said, barely waiting for the skipper to clear the door before he entered.

  Mr. Drury was a retired Navy communications specialist, now working for the Corps. He and Staff Sergeant Oscar Lenz were the entire communications detachment for the task force. Noah barely gave a glance to the stretched-out figure of the staff sergeant, snores emanating from under a blanket, as he ran in.

  “Congrats, Sergeant. Just hold on a second while we’re routing.”

  Interstellar comms had been an issue since mankind started exploring the stars. The solution was hadron communications, where twinned receptors created by split-manufacturing allowed for instantaneous comms. The expense and requirements for military-only secured lines meant that a small task force such as this one had only two lines back to division. They could hook into the planet’s commercial communications nodes, and for a call about a new child, that should be good enough, but their orders had been to limit all comms to the official military lines.

  Noah waited impatiently until the routing was done, and Mr. Drury pointed to the small desk. Noah jumped up and sprinted to it.

  “Miriam! How are you?” he asked her.

  She smiled and said, “Tired, but happy. I’m glad I did it this way.”

  “This way,” he knew, meant without drugs, a practice that had been becoming more popular over the last decade or so. She looked tired, though, her hair a mess, her face still a bit flushed, but she was smiling and seemed at peace with herself.

  “Uh, where’s, uh, Chance?” he asked, stumbling over the name.

  She let the pickup pan down, and a small, very red body was at her breast.

  “Say hello to Daddy, Chance,” she said.

  Noah didn’t know what to say. That little guy was his son, and a feeling of protectiveness flowed through his body. It killed him that he was on some far-off planet, doing nothing, while his son—and wife, of course—were so far away.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Miriam. I wanted to be, you, know.”

  “I understand, honey. It is what it is. Mann and Val were here, so it was OK,” she said, panning the pick up to where her friend Mann and his wife, a staff sergeant with 1/11, were sitting.

  Both waved and said “Hi, Noah,” in unison.

  Noah felt a small pang of jealousy. Mann and Val lived in the same complex as they did, but Noah hadn’t really gotten to know either one of them well, yet both of them had been at the birth of his son.

  “Thanks for being there with Miriam,” he said, pushing his jealousy back.

  “No problem. We love her,” Mann said. “And she’d do the same for us.”

  Miriam panned the pickup back to her chest where Chance was suckling.

  It was probably his first meal, he realized. I wonder how many other firsts I’m going to miss?

  “What do you think? Isn’t he beautiful?” she asked him.

  “He sure is. Chance. I didn’t know we’d considered that,” he added, wondering if should even mention it.

  “Oh, you know how it goes,” she answered, seemingly unconcerned. “I know we mentioned ‘Ryck’ and a few others, but we never really decided on anything. And when they asked me here, I had to give them something, so I just told them Chance. Chance David Lysander, my little man.”

  Noah didn’t know what to say, but he was a little hurt, and that dampened his joy at becoming a father. As he remembered it, they’d pretty much decided on Ryck. He’d told Miriam it was up to her, but that was him trying to be the understanding husband. He hadn’t expected her to pick something entirely new.

  I’m not going to let that spoil the moment, he admonished himself. And Chance isn’t a bad name. Kind of a strong name, in fact.

  “Chance is fine, and I can’t wait to see him.”

  “When are you getting back?” she asked.

  “Who knows? Soon, I hope.”

  Even if this was a secure line, deployment dates were never discussed in a call like this. But Noah hoped “soon” was OK to say.

  “Oh, he’s asleep,” Miriam said, pulling Chance back and turning him around. “Here, look at his face.”

&n
bsp; If he’d felt the tug of fatherhood before, the minute he saw Chance’s face, that tug became a tsunami. He wanted to reach into the screen and take his son into his arms.

  He knew they weren’t going home today. They weren’t going home tomorrow. But they’d better go home soon or he was going to go UA and get back somehow to see his son, Marines be damned.

  QUINTERO CRAG

  Chapter 26

  Noah stood on his seat, half of his body out of the hatch as Llanzo turned the corner in trace of the Gunny. The Boudicca II was barely a month old, and she still smelled of the factory, but Noah wasn’t jealous. He was happy to be with the Anvil.

  “Keep it tight. We’ve got eyes on us,” he told his new driver.

  “Roger that. I’ve got it.”

  Knight Lewis had gone with the gunny as the driver of the new Charlie-One-Four, which had been his original position on the Ba-Boom. Sergeant Llanzo Shearer had been with Third Platoon, but with the personnel shortage, he’d been pulled to bring the Anvil to a combat-ready status. Technically, Noah was still the gunner, but he was also the acting tank commander.

  Noah was tail-end charlie for the platoon, but the platoon had the position of honor, leading the rest of the company after the skipper. As the company commander, in his Eruption and the first tank in the column, turned through onto camp Tainio’s parade deck in view of the stands, the crowd erupted into cheers. The grunts were already in formation, five of the division’s nine battalions, but even with the PICS Marines, they didn’t offer the same visuals as the Davises did. Noah felt a surge of pride, and he tried to keep a stern visage, regardless of the fact that in the back of the division formation, he’d be a good 300 meters from the stands.