by P. A. Piatt
“Then you’re dismissed.”
Fortis jumped to his feet and stood at attention. He saluted Captain Reese, who returned the gesture with a half-hearted wave.
“Carry on.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Fortis did an about-face and exited the captain’s office, where the same smiling staff sergeant met him outside.
“How did it go, LT?”
Fortis gave a nervous chuckle. “Great, I think. In less than two days I’m dropping onto Pada-Pada, and I haven’t even met my platoon yet. Can you point me to the XO’s office?”
The sergeant’s smile grew wider. “Don’t worry, LT, I’ve got it all handled for you. I’m Staff Sergeant Cruz.” The two men shook hands. “Anything you need from company HQ, I’m your man. Nothing happens around here without me knowing about it, and, most of the time, I’m the one who makes it happen.” He retrieved a sheet of paper from his desk.
“Here’s a checklist of everybody you need to see in the next twenty-four hours. You’re the new leader of Third Platoon. Corporal Ystremski is your Platoon Sergeant.”
“Corporal?”
Cruz nodded. “Don’t let the stripes fool you, sir. He’s a good Marine. Anyway, after you meet the XO, your next stop should be the armory to draw your battle armor and gear. At 1600, you and the XO are scheduled to meet with the battalion intel officer. At 1900, there’s a full mission brief.” He pointed to the checklist. “I listed everything you need to do along with the times and locations. If you get lost, don’t ask a Fleet swabbie which way to go or you’ll wind up in a trash compacting space or the wastewater purification plant.”
Fortis arched an eyebrow at this, and Cruz shrugged. “We fuck with them, and they fuck with us. It’s all a game, sir.”
* * * * *
Chapter Two
Fortis rapped three times on the door marked “Foxtrot Company XO,” waited a beat, then entered the space.
The XO’s office was a third the size of the CO’s, with a gunmetal gray desk shoved against one bulkhead and a straight-backed steel chair bolted to the deck beside it. A dented metal filing cabinet squatted on the other side, and two baskets on the desk overflowed with paper. The tiny space was lit by one small light mounted above the filing cabinet. An officer was sitting at the desk with his head in his hands, massaging his temples with fingertips. He barely reacted to Fortis’ entry.
Fortis attempted to salute and report according to ISMC regulations, but the officer seated at the desk waved him into the steel chair.
“Sit down, Fortis. Forget all that parade ground stuff right now, my head is killing me.” He extended a hand, and Fortis shook it. “I’m First Lieutenant Baker, the XO. Welcome aboard.”
Fortis sat still and waited for the XO to speak. Finally, Baker rubbed his face with his hands and sat back in his chair.
“I apologize for the reception, but I’ve got a massive headache and a million things to do before we drop on Pada-Pada. You all set with berthing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Stop and see Staff Sergeant Cruz at the CO’s office, he’s got a checklist for you that should help you get squared away.”
Abner waved the paper he’d gotten from the orderly. “Yes, sir. I have it right here.”
Baker groaned and went back to rubbing his temples. “Great. Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes sir, I do. Why does the CO refer to the company as ‘Pig Dogs?’ When I researched the company, I didn’t find a nickname associated with it.”
“Captain Reese nicknamed Foxtrot Company the “Pig Dogs” the day he took command. It was the nickname of his company at Fleet Academy. Don’t worry, it’s not popular with the men, and he’s the only person who uses it. Anything else?”
“No, sir. I’m good to go for now.”
The XO waved a hand at Fortis. “Okay then, carry on.” He rolled his head on his neck and grimaced. “We’ll have plenty of time to play getting-to-know-you on Pada-Pada, so don’t worry about that. Right now, focus on getting your gear squared away. You’ve got Third Platoon. Ystremski is your platoon sergeant; he’ll help you out.”
“Thank you, sir.” Fortis stood and started to salute, but the XO already had his eyes closed as his fingers kneaded his temples, so he left the space and pulled the door shut behind him without a noise.
Now what?
He had two hours before he was due at the battalion intelligence office, so he decided to take Cruz’s advice and search out the battalion armorer.
* * *
Fortis found the company armory one deck below the drop-ship hangar bay, aft of the main engine room. Someone had painted a pair of crossed antique cannons on the hatch and above them the word “Gunners.”
Inside the workshop, a pungent mix of oil, grease, ozone, burned plastic, and welding assaulted Fortis’ nostrils. Suits of body armor hung from a massive rail system and suit components in various states of disrepair covered nearby workbenches.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, pal. Watch your eyes.” A Space Marine in greasy coveralls working at a bench across the space snapped a welding mask down, and a brilliant flash stung Fortis’ eyes before he could cover them. After a few seconds, the flash disappeared, and the welder stripped his mask and gloves off.
“Sorry about that. I’ve been chasing that damn joint for the last hour and finally got it where I wanted it.” He stuck out a large hand and then his eyes caught the gold bar badge on Fortis’ chest. “Sir, my apologies. I didn’t recognize the lieutenant. I’m a little flash-blind from all this welding.”
“I’m Second Lieutenant Fortis; just checked in.”
“Sergeant Coughlin, sir. Foxtrot Company armorer. Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you.” Fortis looked around the space. “Some workshop you’ve got here, Coughlin.”
“This is where the magic happens, sir; that’s for sure. What can I do for you?”
“I’m dropping on Pada-Pada with the XO tomorrow so I need a set of body armor.”
Coughlin picked up a clipboard and gave it a once over. “Your platoon sergeant sent down a list of stuff you’ll need. You’re in luck, LT. I have everything on this list and it’s all in working condition. It’s used, but it’s as good as you’ll get out here.” He chuckled. “I’ll be right back.”
Fortis looked around as Coughlin disappeared among the racks of body armor. He noticed a metal bin full of burned and twisted armor parts, and when he approached it he caught a sour whiff of sweat, blood, and… something else.
Pain?
“Hey, don’t worry about that stuff, sir.” Coughlin hoisted a pile of armor onto an empty bench. “The weapons platoon likes to test out new stuff and sometimes we play rough. Anyway, here’s your suit.”
Fortis frowned at the pile of armor sitting on the bench between the men. Most of the plates were dented or scorched, and several deep gouges adorned one of the shoulders.
“This is standard ISMC Lightweight Battle Armor, or LBA. The hard titanium shell is ballistic proof, and the joints are ballistic resistant. The shape of the shell plating is designed to deflect rather than absorb and disperse kinetic energy.
“The armor shell rides on a hundred micro-layers of woven polymer that will disperse the energy of high-velocity projectiles across a broad area. If you take a direct hit it will still hurt, but you’ll probably survive.”
Coughlin chuckled at the dismay on Fortis’ face.
“Relax, LT. It’s not much to look at, but it’s the best LBA in the Corps. Much better than the junk you wore in training.”
Fortis ran his fingers along an unfamiliar ridge that ran from the atmospheric manifold located between the shoulders to a plate on the back of each arm. “What’s this?”
Coughlin nodded his approval. “Good catch, sir. That’s a field modification available only in Second Battalion. I re-routed the upper extremity temperature control loops out of the armpits. They don’t get beat up as much when you move, which makes them less likely to fail. It’s also easier
to fix ’em if they do.” He lifted his T-shirt and Fortis saw a mass of scar tissue from his armpit to his waist. “Best of all, no more chemical burns.”
Fortis looked over each piece carefully. Dents and scratches marred the armor, but it all appeared intact.
“Did you wear your skin, sir?” Fortis nodded. “All right then, strip down and let’s get this fitted.
“Skin” was the custom-fitted olive drab body suit Space Marines wore under their armor to wick sweat away from the body and provide a minimal last line of defense against projectiles. Fortis had slipped his on as an afterthought before heading for his appointment with the CO. Now he was glad he had.
Fortis stepped into the LBA bottoms and pulled the suspenders over his shoulders. He jumped up and down a couple times before tightening the suspenders until the bottoms rode uncomfortably close to his crotch. It was a minor discomfort compared to the agony Fortis would experience in his neck and shoulders after hours of wearing the weighty armor if it was too loose.
Coughlin held up the LBA tunic and Fortis slipped it over his head. Once they adjusted the tunic, Fortis jumped up and down again and made some minor adjustments. The LBA wasn’t comfortable, but once it was properly adjusted, it was tolerable.
“What size helmet do you wear, sir?”
“I wore a nineteen in training, but it was a bit loose. You have any eighteens?”
Coughlin retrieved a helmet from a shelf behind him and passed it to Fortis, who jammed it over his head.
“Looks a little snug, LT.”
“Yeah.” Fortis pulled the helmet off and passed it back to the armorer. “Looks like I have a size eighteen and a half head. I don’t suppose…”
Coughlin chuckled. “Zero chance, sir. Grow out your hair and wear a bandana, and if that’s not good enough, well, DINLI.” He put the eighteen back and retrieved a nineteen. Fortis slipped it over his head, buckled the chinstrap, and nodded quickly.
“Exactly as I remember.”
Coughlin retrieved a pair of armored gloves from a bin under the helmet shelf and slid them to Fortis. “Pada-Pada sucks, but at least you’re going with Gunny Hawkins and Gunny Ystremski. Those guys know how to keep their Space Marines alive.”
“Gunny Ystremski? I thought he was a corporal.”
“Ah, shit, I forgot. Old habit.” Coughlin waved at the armor. “Go ahead and strip off that armor and I’ll get you set up with weapons.”
The weapons Coughlin laid on the counter were in no better shape than the armor. The metal was worn bare in places, and the stock of the rifle had a deep crease in it. Fortis looked at the weapons askance, and Coughlin laughed.
“LT, they might not look like much, but they’re better than anything you’ll pull out of a crate straight from the factory.” He worked the charging handle of the rifle and peered down the barrel before handing it over. “They’re clean, battle tested, and smooth as a virgin’s thighs.”
Fortis repeated Coughlin’s motions and took note of the trigger action as he put the rifle to his shoulder, aimed down the length of the armory, and squeezed the trigger. It was smooth. The pull was a little tight for his taste, but still…
“Corporal, are you sure we’re dropping with ballistic weapons?” he asked as he set the rifle down and picked up the pistol. It was also clean and well-cared for.
“Orders came down from the CO himself, sir. Foxtrot Company burned through a lot of plasma last month and somebody from battalion bitched about it, so Captain Reese decided the Pada-Pada drop would be all ballistics. It’s no big deal, sir. Ballistic weapons kill bugs as well as plasma; you just have to reload more often.”
Coughlin agreed to have Fortis’ armor and weapons delivered to the dropship hangar when he moved the rest of the Pada-Pada force equipment.
Fortis left the armory in search of the battalion intelligence officer.
* * * * *
Chapter Three
“Pada-Pada is a hell hole.” Major Anders, the Battalion Intelligence Officer leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “That place is proof that God is real, and He hates Space Marines.”
Fortis struggled to control his expression, but some of his consternation leaked through. The intel officer laughed and leaned forward.
“I’m just fucking with you. It’s not that bad.” Anders knotted his eyebrows and considered Fortis. “You’re not leading the detachment, are you? Where’s your XO?”
Good question.
“Sir, I don’t know where Lieutenant Baker is. I haven’t seen him since I checked in with him a couple hours ago. He had a bad headache though.”
The intel officer, a major with gray flecks in his crewcut and deep lines in his face, shook his head.
“Wherever he’s at, I’m sure it’s important. Let’s move on; you can back-brief him later.”
Fortis nodded, and the major hit a key on his computer. A three-dimensional hologram of a green planet appeared above the desk between them and started to rotate.
“Everything we know about Pada-Pada we learned from the GRC. They filed a claim on the planet almost as soon as it was discovered twenty-two years ago, and they’ve been mining the place ever since.
“Pada-Pada is a jungle planet in the Maduro Sector. It’s about half the size of Terra Earth, with gravity of 1.5 Gs. The atmosphere is similar to Terra Earth, and it’s safe for humans to breathe. There are two major geographic features, the Southron Ridge and the Mineral Sea. Other than that, it’s a bug-infested jungle.”
As Major Anders talked, the various features lit up on the hologram. The Southron Ridge ran from north to south and dominated the bottom of the planet, while the Mineral Sea took up a third of the northern hemisphere.
“When Pada-Pada was first surveyed, one of the great mysteries of the place was how a planet smaller than Terra Earth had such a strong gravity field. The GRC recognized the potential of what that might mean and staked their claim to the place. Then they announced their big discovery: helenium.”
Helenium was one of the great scientific discoveries of the last hundred years. It was lightweight, malleable, and nearly impervious to radiation, which made it an excellent material for spacecraft construction. It was also extremely rare, which made the mining colony on Pada-Pada very valuable.
“They established the mining colony and set about making their investment pay off. The GRC attempted to extract the helenium using traditional mining methods, but everywhere they sank a mine shaft they hit a bug colony. They were saved by a volcano.”
The holo view zoomed in on the Mineral Sea and Fortis saw a volcano rising out of the depths.
“The pressure of the molten core periodically vents through this volcano and two things happen when it does. First, molten helenium sprays all over the jungle around the Mineral Sea. Second, it releases a cloud of poisonous gas that blankets the planet. They call this a burp and GRC volcanologists can predict when the volcano will burp with surprising accuracy.”
The major tapped his keyboard and the planet holo was replaced by a boxy ore carrier.
“After the atmosphere clears, the miners emerge from the colony GRC blasted into the slopes of the Southron Ridge and collect as much helenium as they can. They load it into boxcar transports that carry it into orbit for transfer to an ore carrier like this one.”
“What do they need us for, sir?”
“Good question. Since they discovered the helenium, GRC leadership has aggressively diversified, and they’ve been wildly profitable. One of their major initiatives has been to create artificial soldiers, some kind of super trooper. Seven years ago, they fielded their first generation of these artificials for testing against the bugs on Pada-Pada. The UNT sent a company of Space Marines to train and observe—”
Suddenly, Fortis remembered where he’d heard the name Pada-Pada before. It was on a plaque in the chapel at the Officer Basic Course.
“Bravo Company. First of the Fourth, if I’m not mistaken.”
The int
el officer referred to his screen and cracked a wry smile. “Very good, Lieutenant. It was Bravo Company. One hundred percent KIA, along with a thousand GRC soldiers. I guess they picked a fight with the wrong bug hole.”
“This doesn’t make sense, sir. We lost an entire company last time, so this time we’re going in at half-strength?”
The major shrugged. “Lieutenant, if you can make sense out of why we do most of the things we do, you’ll be on the fast track to general, or the mental ward on a hospital ship. The rest of us just salute and DINLI.”
Fortis nodded. “DINLI.”
* * *
“Attention on deck!”
It was 1912 hours, and Fortis popped tall, along with the rest of the officers and NCOs assembled in the briefing room.
Captain Reese strode to the front of the room, his customary scowl stamped on his face. First Lieutenant Frank Baker followed Reese and took his place behind the captain.
“Seats.”
Fortis sat down and opened his notepad, ready to copy down everything the captain said. It was a reflex that marked him as a recent graduate of the ISMC Officer Basic School and Advanced Infantry Officer Course. That, along with his new fatigues that stubbornly resisted his best efforts to break them in.
“Listen up, Pig Dogs.” It was an unnecessary order. Every eye in the room was focused on Reese. “Thor has given us a mission.”
Fortis knew “Thor” was the radio call sign for Major General Rajpit Gupta, commanding general of the ISMC Ninth Division, to which Foxtrot Company belonged.
“Tomorrow, First and Third Platoons, led by Lieutenant Baker, will board a Fleet transport and proceed to Pada-Pada for a bug hunt.”
Nobody moved or made a sound. Fortis glanced at the platoon sergeant from Second Platoon and saw a faint smile on the man’s face, but when he looked at Baker he saw his face was pale and drawn.
“The First Sergeant will stay with me. The company gunny will go with Baker. An element of four mechs will insert with you, along with a handful of techs and mechanics.”