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

by Jonathan Brazee

  It didn’t matter. A few moments later, four FCDC V-33’s flew overhead, trailing flares like Tenth of August fireworks. Relatives jumped up, and newsies scrambled for their holocorders as the V-33’s banked around the church and flew out of sight.

  Deep explosions sounded from the direction of the two main gates into the city, and Noah’s display lit up. As a tank commander, he couldn’t delve too deeply into the details, but he needed to know where friendly forces were, and blue avatars pushed through the gates while others appeared as their aircraft landed where they could.

  Sasson’s voice pierced the general commotion as he screamed, “They’re killing our people in the church!”

  Noah could hear the sounds of firing and muted screams from over the wall, and he stood on top of his commander’s seat as if that would help him see better. Less than 200 meters away, Federation citizens were being murdered.

  “Get back, get back!” one of the FCDC troopers was yelling, something that barely registered as his mind faded out, trying to put together the pieces of all his thoughts over the last few days.

  And it suddenly gelled. He realized all along that he knew what had to be done.

  “Get out of the tank!” he yelled at his two crewmates, then turning, “Sasson! Sasson! Tell your sister to make a break for it to the wall!”

  The man paused from where he’d pushed through the barrier, one of the troopers trying to hold him back.

  “The wall. Tell them to head to the wall, but hold back!”

  Understanding seemed to take over him, and he waved and nodded. He grabbed his throat mic and started talking.

  “Get out? Why?” Llanzo asked.

  “I’m taking over, now. There’s no time!”

  As if to emphasize his point, the firing at the church rose to a crescendo. Both Marines looked from Noah to the wall and back to Noah again.

  “You’re right, no time,” WB said. “Let’s go.”

  Noah hesitated only a split second. He didn’t want to put them at risk, but by the time he’d have gotten into the drivers’ seat, how many more would have died?

  “Petal to the metal, Diego!”

  The Anvil jumped forward like a Jaguar X-20, pushing Noah back into his seat.

  “Button up!” he shouted.

  Corporal White Bear smashed a line of bushes, crushed a statue, and bounced over a walkway as he accelerated 40 tons of polycero armor, fusion generator, and gun turret forward. Noah watched the wall getting bigger and bigger through his vision blocks.

  “Miriam!” he shouted as he hit the fire control foam.

  White embraced him an instant before the Anvil hit, 4o tons of tank at a single, concentrated point. The shock knocked him senseless. A second, a minute, he didn’t know, but he suddenly realized he couldn’t move, but was amazed to be alive, as the Anvil shook and jerked him around him with some sort of impacts.

  He tried to yell out, to see how Llanzo, how WB were, but as he opened his mouth, it filled with something heavy, something he pulled down into his lungs. He instinctively reached for the emergency release, his arm barely obeying his commands, but the hatch would budge.

  He needed air, his body screamed for aid, but with each gulp, his lungs took in something heavy. He coughed, but if anything came up, it was immediately replaced with more. He was suffocating.

  Noah fought—he’d expected to die, but now that he’d somehow survived the impact, he wanted to live. Chance and Hannah needed him. His future child needed him. But no matter how hard he struggled, it was a losing battle. Within moments, darkness replaced the white foam that had him entrapped.

  QUINTERO CRAG

  Chapter 40

  “Why don’t you just come home, now?” Miriam said. “No one expects to see you now.”

  “Yeah, daddy. Come home,” Chance chimed in.

  “I’m only going to be a few minutes, honey. You can wait here if you want.”

  “A few minutes? More like a few hours.”

  “Come on. I’ll be home soon, and I’ve got a week off, with only a final check on Wednesday. Give me this, OK? Please?”

  Miriam frowned, then said, “I can’t have you moping about all week. OK, do what you have to do, but be back for dinner. Fierdor and Eve are bringing something over.”

  “With their kids?” Noah asked.

  He was feeling better, but he wasn’t sure he could handle seven kids at the moment.

  “No, just them. I told them they can stay half an hour, no more.”

  “Oh, good, and that’s why I love you,” he said, leaning over to give her a kiss. “I promise, I’ll be there.”

  He got out of the car, feeling only a twinge of guilt as he waved at Chance. He’d just been released from the Naval Hospital, and the first thing he was doing was going to the platoon. It might be screwed up, but he needed it.

  His stay in the hospital had been short, only four days. And since he’d been in stasis ever since they’d dragged him out of the Anvil, for him, the fight on St. Gallen had only been four days ago. He’d seen his family every day in the hospital, and most of his fellow Marines had stopped by to see him, but he still didn’t have a firm grasp of all that had happened, only hearing some of the basics. The rescue had gone about as well as could be hoped, he knew. Over 5,000 hostages had been killed, but that meant that 10,000 had been saved. And when Noah had ordered the Anvil to breach the wall, 1,314 of the hostages had managed to escape through the opening they’d made. One-thousand, three-hundred, and fourteen. That number, at least, had been cemented into his brain.

  Crashing the Anvil into the wall hadn’t been a sure thing. The Anvil, which had been written off as a total loss and had been left on St. Gallen at their request, had hit with enough force to penetrate the wall, but not bring it down, at least not immediately. The mass of wall had stood for close to a minute before tumbling down, burying the Anvil and her crew, but leaving a large gap over which the hostages could scramble out. The terrorists had pursued, shooting some hostages even after they had reached the other side before the FCDC troopers engaged the terrorists in a fierce firefight.

  He hadn’t yet seen a recording of the crash, but Lessa had told him it was pretty spectacular. The commonly held opinion was that without the foam, none of the three would have survived. The foam had acted as a cushion.

  Technically, none of them had survived. Diego, who as the driver was located at the furthest point forward in the tank, had been killed upon impact. Noah and Llanzo had survived the impact, but suffocated after; however, the fire foam had been designed to take into account that a tanker might not be able to exit a tank after the foam had been activated. While a human could not breath the foam (oxygenated foam wouldn’t put out fires, after all), it was treated to help prevent cell trauma to the lungs as well as lower the activity of brain cells. It had taken almost six hours to dig out the Anvil and retrieve the three Marines. Six hours was longer than what was recommended for a body before it could be put into stasis, but for Llanzo and Noah, the foam mitigated the delay. Even with Diego, the foam had lessened the trauma to his body. He was still in regen, but the docs expected a full recovery.

  And that’s about all Noah knew. But he needed to find out more before his enforced week-long vacation at home.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” Lessa said as Noah entered the office.

  She stood and came to him, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Is that Sergeant Lysander I hear out there?” the lieutenant shouted from his office.

  “Yes, sir, it’s me.”

  “Well, get your ass in here!”

  The lieutenant met him halfway around his desk, hand out to shake, saying, “Good to see you’re back, but I didn’t expect to see you for another week.”

  “Just stopping by, sir, to get up to speed.”

  “Good on you. Do you want to make your report now?”

  “Well, sir, I’m supposed to be on light duty, and I just came in to check in—”

  “Of co
urse,” the lieutenant said, holding up a hand to stop him. “We’ve got plenty of time to get to it when you’re back on full duty.

  “The CO, that’s the battalion CO, wants to see you ‘as soon as that young man gets back,’ as he said, but I think that can be next week, too.

  “Actually, I’d love to talk to you, too, but I’ve got a maintenance meeting with the Four[10] in a few minutes that I can’t miss.”

  The lieutenant had seen him every day while he was at the hospital, but they’d almost assuredly been told to steer away from “serious” conversations while he recovered.

  “Gunny Chimond,” he told his PA, then as she picked up on her side, “Gunny, we’ve got our prodigal son here. Why don’t you stop by and pick him up?”

  “Roger that, sir,” she replied.

  “Look, sorry to run, but I’m going to be late. Stop by again before you go, OK?”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  As the lieutenant left, Lessa came strolling in, her hand in a fist and rubbing her nose in the space between her folded forefinger and thumb, coughing out “Brown-noser, brown-noser.”

  Noah gave her the finger.

  “So, now you’re a zombie,” she said, sitting on the corner of the platoon commander’s desk.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, realizing it for the first time.

  Being resurrected was an exclusive, if not desired club. To Noah, a zombie better referred to someone like WB, or his father, for that matter. He and Llanzo had merely suffocated, and with foam that was designed to act as it did. Since coming to in the hospital, he hadn’t really considered the fact that he’d “died.”

  “So, how did it feel? I mean, what was it like?” she asked, her eyes bright.

  “I don’t know. Like I went to sleep on St. Gallen and woke back up here.”

  She seemed a little disappointed he hadn’t anything more profound to say, but he hadn’t really considered it much until she’d mentioned it.

  They chatted about their respective families while waiting for the gunny. One thing that wasn’t mentioned was Staff Sergeant Cain. Aside from a single thanks hurriedly given on St. Gallen, it wasn’t mentioned between the two of them. And that was more than fine with Noah.

  “Sergeant Lysander, coming back to the scene of the crime?” Gunny Chimond asked, stepping into the office.

  Somehow, she and Noah hugged, something that had never happened before. It was short, quickly broken off, but it was a hug, nonetheless.

  “How’s your family?” she asked as if trying to change the subject. “I’m surprised your wife let you come in.”

  “It was touch and go with her, Gunny. But I promised to be a good boy until next week if I could just stop by.”

  Both Lessa and Gunny laughed at that, and if the gunny hadn’t been there, Noah was pretty sure Lessa would have had a dismissive, if profane, comment about him being “whipped.”

  The gunny pulled out her PA, touched the screen, then held it out to Noah, saying, “We weren’t supposed to show you this while you were in the hospital, but you’re out now, so here it is.”

  Noah took a look and saw a frozen image of a tank, an open area, the city walls, and the church. He immediately reached forward and hit the play command.

  It seemed weird to watch, the image, a tank that was the Anvil, but didn’t feel like it to him, race across the parkland, picking up speed, then slamming into the wall with a cloud of dust. The Anvil slowly appeared as the dust cleared, three-quarters of the way through the wall. People started running out of the church, most headed for the wall, which still stood. They slowed, and some started to change directions when slowly, ever so slowly, the wall started to lean before collapsing in a shower of rubble, burying the Anvil from sight. Within moments, the people started scrambling over the rubble and emerged on the outside of the wall, running to meet the other people who were rushing forward.

  Noah turned off the recording. He knew that the terrorists would appear and start killing the people before the FCDC troopers took them down, and he didn’t need to see that.

  “Pretty fucking awesome, huh?” Lessa said.

  Noah shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  “At least this time, we’ve got proof of someone destroying Marine Corps property,” the gunny said, lightening things up.

  “Oh, yeah, Gunny. My man Noah’s going to have his pay docked for a hundred years. What’s a Davis worth these days?”

  “Heck, I wasn’t driving. It was WB!”

  “You were the tank commander, Sergeant.”

  “Temporary, Gunny. Don’t forget that.”

  “OK, OK, you win!” the gunny said, accepting defeat.

  All three laughed, and it felt damned good. It brought a sense of normalcy to him, a reset. He’d been feeling a little off, as if the universe had been skewed by a few degrees, and now it suddenly clicked back into place.

  “If you’re up to it, how about coming with me to the ramp?” the gunny asked.

  “Sure, but I’d like to know more about what happened. I know the big stuff, but what about the other Marines? Even the troopers we had with us.”

  Lessa was a font of knowledge, which she spewed out like a mini-volcano as they walked to the ramp. From the Marine point of view, there had only been eight WIA’s and five KIA’s, the Anvil’s crew being three of them, and the other two were also in regen. That wasn’t too surprising. Marines were professionals, after all, and terrorists generally weren’t.

  The FCDC had suffered more, with over 50 WIA and 35 KIA—ten of the KIA were too far gone for resurrection, to include Spec 5 Nelson, who’d been killed protecting the hostages fleeing from the church.

  That piece of news sobered Noah. He hadn’t been too impressed with the specialist, but evidently, the soldier had stepped up, and stepped up big.

  She was still relating all the facts she could dredge up when they reached the ramp, and almost all of the Marines there gathered around and welcome him back. The hug-fest continued with most of them grabbing and enveloping him. Noah wasn’t anti-hug, but this was something new to him.

  He kind of liked it.

  Then as if they were the Red Sea parting, the gathered Marines stepped aside to where Pure Dick, Pop, and Gretchen were standing up against a brand new Davis, so new he could still smell the polyurethane coating that was sprayed on every tank before it left the factory.

  Despite the gunny’s affection for the maintenance chief, Noah was still not overly fond of the man, but he could greet the man. He stepped forward, hand out to shake.

  “Try not to break this one, Sergeant,” Pure Dick said.

  Noah faltered, his hand half-lowering.

  “What?”

  “I said, try not to break this one. We can’t just keep going back and getting new ones every time you decide to smash one into a wall or something.”

  Noah turned around to the gunny, confused.

  “He’s right. She’s yours, so yeah, try not to break her.”

  “But—”

  “Unless you don’t want her. I’ll have to tell Sergeant Shearer that he’ll have to find a new TC. He’s already claimed the gunner’s spot.”

  Noah had less than a year on station, and he was supposed to spend that behind a desk in the Three shop. He certainly hadn’t expected to be back in a tank. And with the Anvil gone, there weren’t any openings, either. Until now, he realized, looking at the tank with covetous eyes.

  He knew he should say no. He knew Miriam expected him to say no. But he looked around at the rest of the Marines, almost the entire company, and there was only one thing for him to say.

  “Oh, I want her.”

  “I thought so,” the gunny said. “And one more thing. The skipper said you’re the tank commander. No more temporary, so if you break this one, you really will have to pay for her.”

  Epilogue

  “You hanging in there, WB?” Noah asked.

  “I keep telling you, I’m fine,” the corporal said as
he shut down the tank’s motor.

  “Yeah, I know you did, but it still took me a few days to get my rhythm back. Same with Llanzo.”

  Noah had been surprised when Corporal White Bear had returned after less than three months. In Noah’s experience, most people who underwent regen took nine months or longer to return to duty. Knight Lewis was still in rehab, for example. Doc Anders told him that WB was back because while he’d suffered skull fractures when the Anvil had hit the wall, his cause of death had been a severed carotid. He’d bled out. The regen techs had regrown his blood vessels, which evidently was not a lengthy process. It has taken longer for his brain to knit and then for him to undergo cerebral rehab. The bottom line, though, was that his driver was back. He had to let Corporal Lin go, which hadn’t been fun to do, but she’d known her position had been temporary until White Bear returned.

  Noah looked at his driver for a moment, trying to see if the corporal seemed at all woozy. He looked fine, and if his driving over the last four hours was any indication, he was fine.

  “OK, let’s get her cleaned up,” Noah said as he hopped out. “I think we can go right to the power-washer,” he added after checking the tracks, which were mud-free.

  That’s one benefit of all this dry weather we’ve had lately, he thought.

  “I’ve got it,” Llanzo said, walking into the gear shed.

  Noah conducted a simple walk-around, inspecting his tank. As usual, he stopped as he got to the front, and then reached out, touching the gold Anvil II painted there. He wasn’t sure why he did that, but it had become a habit.

  “So, what do you think of the power?” he asked WB as the corporal started uploading the data from the morning.

  “Me likey. Very much.”

  The Anvil II was the first tank in the battalion with the new Springer 405 motor. The fusion generator was still the same and so put out the same amount of power, but the new motor was supposedly 18% more efficient, could create more torque, and was supposed to last up to 30% longer than the older motors. But like any new innovation, factory numbers were not always replicated in the field, so the Anvil II, along with eight other tanks throughout the Corps, were the final field trial for the new Springer. And that was why uploading the data back to the Marine Corps rep at the Springer plant was so important.