The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Blue stared into Esther’s eyes as if hoping to burrow into her very soul, and Esther blandly looked back, trying to exude confidence, something that she lacked.

  After what seemed to be forever, Comrade Blue nodded and said, “Follow me, please. Comrade Brown will want to talk to you.”

  Esther nodded, only letting out a long breath after Comrade Blue had turned to lead her on, three of the six soldiers at the fore, three behind her. She felt relieved to get this far. Yes, the Federation had been invited, but still, she was an infantry Marine, combat-proven, but not some Four operator. Technically, with her APOC orders, she reported directly to the chairman himself, but she knew “Four,” the Fourth Ministry, had their fingers all through this type of thing. She figured Four had thousands, if not tens of thousands, of operators who were better trained and more suited for this, but someone thought her the best person for this mission, her first since leaving Recon. It might be a softball thrown her way to get her feet wet, but it was still a mission, one for which she felt she was unqualified.

  The eight of them walked up a narrow jungle path, almost overgrown in a hundred subtle shades of darkness. The smell in the still air was part freshness and life, part decaying death. Esther wasn’t gagging, but the dichotomy confused her senses. She considered activating the face shield on her helmet, but she knew she was being observed, and if the insurgents could handle it, she could as well.

  As they climbed a small rise in the trail, the path turned slippery, and Esther had to concentrate on keeping her footing. It wouldn’t make a good impression for her to fall on her ass and knock down a few of the soldiers behind her like bowling pins. She managed to keep on her feet until the jungle opened up into a small clearing, the light of the planet’s single moon providing enough illumination to give them some better visibility.

  Esther relaxed ever so slightly just before the impossibly bright flare of an energy weapon lit up the clearing in stark relief. The point man was enveloped in a corona of blue light as Esther and the rest dove back into the minimal cover offered by the trees. A burst of automatic fire cut through the night air, the rounds splintering the trunk of the tree Esther was using for cover, sending splinters flying into her unprotected face.

  She had left her Brockmaster in her thigh scabbard as a show of good intent, but it was long past time for that. She released the catch and brought it forward, her finger reaching for the safety as she hit the cheek pad, bringing down her face shield and activating the night vision mode.

  Comrade Blue was yelling out orders to put fire on the ambushers. Two meters to Esther’s right, one of the soldiers was attempting to comply while still hiding face-down behind a tree, holding his ancient Gescard out with one hand and blindly firing it. Rounds were hitting the tree immediately in front of him, and several looked to hit the body of the first soldier, still out in the clearing.

  Both sides seemed content to merely fire at each other from 30 or 40 meters apart, all with minimal effect. If the soldier to her side was any indication as to the rest of both ambushers and ambushees, then Esther understood why. But even a blind squirrel can find a nut every once in a while, and with the number of rounds and the blasts from the energy weapon, given time, people were going to die. Esther was tied to the insurgents, so if she wanted to make sure it was the ambushers on the dying end, she had to act.

  The Immediate Action drill when ambushed was to assault through the killing zone and take it to the ambushers. With the wild firing—from both sides—Esther thought a direct assault could result in her taking both enemy and friendly fire. Her bones inserts should be able to stop any of the kinetics she heard being firing, but the energy weapon, which she was pretty sure was a high-joule plasma rifle, would cook her just as it had cooked the un-armored point man.

  Flank them it is, she told herself.

  Her command mind started to shout out orders, forgetting for a moment that her companions were not trained Marines, and they did not seem to want to stop hugging the ground. She knew this was on her shoulders.

  “I’m going to illuminate with my helmet torch, so don’t fucking shoot me!” she shouted out as she stood and darted backwards.

  “No! Stop her!” Comrade Blue shouted out.

  Esther ignored him, and no one followed as she ran down the slope 20 meters, then made a hard-left turn, circling around the clearing. It was dark as Hades under the triple canopy, dark even with her night-vision app, but the sound and sights of firing were her guide. Every ten or fifteen seconds, the plasma gun went off, momentarily lighting up the jungle and giving her a target.

  Like a wraith, Esther moved back up the slope, this time approaching the far side of the clearing. Branches and wait-a-minute vines reached for her, but she pushed through, her focus locked onto the enemy. With the night vision activated, she could see what was in front of her, but her depth perception was essentially gone, which made engaging a target more difficult.

  And then she saw it, the tiny spark coming out of the muzzle of a rifle, her helmet’s night vision blowing it up almost into a flare. Esther cut the night vision and hit the helmet torch at the same instance, catching a prone soldier in the beam. He turned to his side, one hand up to shield his eyes as Esther put three rounds into his chest.

  A round hit her in her side—her left side, the side towards her contacts.

  Friendly fucking fire! I told them I’m illuminating my torch!

  The STF[34] armor, her “bones,” stopped the round, but she didn’t need to be taking fire from both sides. If they were aiming at her torch, then it was better off, and she cut it.

  Someone ahead of her shouted out, and Esther bolted to her right, then forward, almost stumbling on a prone figure. She didn’t cut on her helmet torch but put two rounds into his back before he could react.

  A blast of light almost blinded her before her helmet killed the NV. The air around her crackled, and her left thigh blossomed in pain, almost dropping her to the ground. The plasma gunner had engaged her, but too early. The trees, some now with flames reaching out from the trunks, had absorbed most of the blast, shielding her. If he’d waited until he’d had a clean shot, she’d have been toast.

  Ten seconds!

  She should have timed the gunner’s previous recycling rate, but it had to be at least ten seconds. The Confederation’s P-Series Normans could recycle in seven seconds, but she didn’t think whoever was out there would have one of those.

  She flipped on her torch, and with her leg screaming in protest, bolted forward, knowing she had to find the gunner before he could fire again. She swept the beam from her torch back and forth, spotting another soldier who swung his weapon around to her. She snapped off a quick shot, but she couldn’t spend any time on him. She had to get the plasma gunner.

  Three, maybe four rounds slammed into her—whether from the ambushers or her own insurgents, she didn’t know nor cared at the moment, trusting her bones to keep her safe. The plasma gun, on the other hand, would cut her down, and if hit in the head, beyond hope of resurrection.

  Frantically, with the torch on spread, she swept the area as she ran forward. The tiniest whine reached her, barely a tickle in her right earphone. She dove to the ground, swinging to the right. A soldier was kneeling, five meters away, an immense plasma rifle to his shoulder. Her torch beam, even spread out, caught the soldier in the eyes just as his rifle charged, making him flinch.

  That was all Esther needed. She snapped off two quick shots. The first .30 caliber “Concave” assisted round hit him just above his right eye before keyholing. It must have hit the back of the soldier’s helmet and ricocheted forward because almost instantly, the front of his face exploded outward. Her second round probably hit as well, but she couldn’t tell—nor did she care.

  She swung around to the soldier who had fired at her a moment before, but to her surprise, her snap shot had taken him out.

  She turned back and was immediately hit once more on her chest, which meant there was an ambus
her deeper into the tree line. She switched back to night vision, turning off her torch, and taking a quick two steps to the dead plasma gunner. Just ahead, a soldier was standing behind a trunk, barely peering around it in the general direction of where Esther had been.

  The tree was giving him cover, and Esther couldn’t get in a kill shot. She did have a target, though.

  The Brockmaster was not a sniper rifle: it was designed for quick employment and close-in work. Still, the soldier was only about 15 meters away. She could pull out her Ruger and hit him, but she wanted something with a bigger punch. Flipping up the digisight, she brought the barely-glowing crosshairs to bear and fired off a single round, hitting the soldier’s protruding ass and dropping him. His screams filled the night like a banshee seeking revenge on humankind.

  Ignoring him, Esther pushed forward, but the outgoing rounds began to peter off, and a moment later, the sound of retreating feet reached her. With her wild up, it took her a moment to realize that the ambushers had broken and were running for their lives. Esther didn’t think the fleeing soldiers knew that she was in among their lines. More likely, the screaming of the ass-shot soldier, along with the silence from the plasma gun, had convinced them that their cause was lost.

  Esther was fine with letting them get away. She wasn’t on a kill mission.

  Another round hit her, this time in the back. Her insurgents were still peppering the trees, most of the rounds going high, but at least one at her level.

  Esther dropped down to a crouch and screamed out, “Cease fire you fucking morons!”

  Oh, great diplomacy, Esther.

  There was a short pause, then the firing started again.

  “I said, cease firing! We are clear over here!”

  There was another pause, then a voice called out, “Who’s that?”

  Mother Mary and the ass she rode on!

  “It’s Es . . . it’s Rey Alamosa! I’ve cleared the ambush.”

  There was yet another pause, and she heard some mumbling. She turned up her helmet gain, but she still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Come on out into the open with your hands up!”

  Esther was tempted to clear them out as well, but she took a deep breath and shouted, “You’ve already hit me half-a-dozen times, so, no, I’ll pass on that.”

  She knew she should just comply, but the adrenaline of the fight was still coursing through her, and she was not in a forgiving mood.

  “We’re sending over one of us,” the voice called out after a 20-second break.

  “Roger that.”

  Esther moved to the edge of the jungle and waited. A moment later, a soldier crept out, Gescard at the ready and looking very nervous. He slowly edged his way across the opening, stepping over his dead companion and continuing to the edge of the jungle.

  “Are you there?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  “It’s me,” she said, stepping out while taking off her helmet and turning the torch on low and pointing it to her face.

  She could see him startle, then as he recognized her, he turned and shouted out, “It’s her!”

  Four soldiers slowly appeared and walked across the opening until they had joined their companion.

  One of them raised his rifle at her and demanded, “Where did you run off to?”

  The oldest-looking soldier pushed down the muzzle of the first one’s rifle and said, “Use your eyes, Gerry. She was clearing out the milties.”

  He turned to her and asked, “How many did you get?”

  She did a quick head count, then said, “Four, I think. There’s another one dead over there. I think one of you got him. Then there’s our friend back there,” she said, thumbing her hand over her shoulder.

  The screams had faded to moans, but there was no mistaking who she’d meant.

  “And where’s Comrade Blue?” she asked.

  “Dead,” the older soldier told her. “And that’s Elvin, dead behind us.”

  “So, what now?”

  The man hesitated, then simply said, “Gerry,” while pointing behind her with a tilt of his head.

  Esther flinched, but then with a force of will, didn’t object. As a Marine, whether on this mission or not, she was bound by the Accords. A wounded enemy had rights. But she’d been briefed on “interfering” with breaches in the Accords by others, even to the point that a lawyer assured her she’d have no legal liabilities if she had no authority over someone breaking the Accords. That didn’t make her feel any better.

  She stood there her heart pounding, refusing to even look in that direction, as the crying man’s moans were suddenly cut off, to be replaced with the sound of a struggle, and then, silence. She’d just killed four men on her own, but to know that the man she’d wounded had just been executed hit her hard, and she had to swallow down the gorge that threatened to come spewing out.

  A moment later, Gerry joined them again. He didn’t say a word but simply nodded at the older insurgent.

  Forcing herself to maintain her composure, she asked again, “What now?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, to be honest. We’re just grunts here. But I’m thinking that if you’re still willing, we take you to Comrade Brown.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, so lead on.”

  It took the five soldiers a few moments to reorganize and step off. Esther fell in behind the second insurgent, but this time, she had her Brockmaster at the ready.

  She tried not to think of the bodies they left behind. She’d been in battle before, and she’d felt the thrill of victory, she’d felt relief at being alive, she’d felt sorrow at fellow Marines lost. What she’d never felt was dirty.

  Until now.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty six hours later, her mission completed, Esther stepped through the doughnut. She trusted the Federation’s ability to defeat the scanner, but she half-expected to hear the alarm and for the “milty” police to swarm her.

  Instead, the AI’s generic school teacher-like voice said, “Gate 103, Mz. Alamosa. Have a pleasant journey.”

  Esther had been on Winsted for 31 hours, but “Rey Alamosa” was leaving Winsted, after a three-day business trip. There was a trail of her arrival, her hotel stays, her food and drink bills, and everything else that evidently passed the government’s security system. None of the subterfuge really surprised her—she’d been weaned on Hollybolly flicks which made these types of capabilities the expected rather than the amazing. But she still didn’t understand how her face passed surveillance. She’d had no modifications, yet the doughnut accepted her as Rey instead of Esther Lysander. The chip part was easy, but her face was her face. That boggled her mind, frankly, and scared her, too. If the Federation could do that, then she was sure other governments could as well.

  Not for the first time, Esther wondered if she should have accepted her APOC orders. The Marine Corps was so straightforward. Missions were taken head on, and for the most part, the enemy’s capabilities were understood. All of the shadows of her present job didn’t leave her a chance to get comfortable—and as Mr. Vox had told her during her training, “comfort” would get her killed. She could never afford to let herself become complacent.

  Esther shouldered her pack and followed the signs to her gate. She’d just missed the last shuttle, so she had 47 minutes before boarding the next one. In another three hours, she should be on the AR Scally and leaving the system first to the Confederation’s Falstaff Station, then from there back to Mars. There was a bar next to her gate, and for a moment, she was tempted to take a seat and grab a drink, but she hadn’t bothered to ask if Rey Alamosa had hit the bars during her stay. The chances were a million to one that even if the electronic trail didn’t show a bar for the last three days, her ordering a drink would raise a red flag, but that was one chance too many. Instead, she sat down, slouched into her seat, and closed her eyes as if napping.

  She’d given her initial report at the safe house three hours earlier. She’d assum
ed that her mission had been a success. Comrade Brown had agreed to open a line of communication—and material goods—with the shadow company set up by the Federation. There hadn’t been much of an attempt to hide just who was behind the company, but forms had to be followed.

  She’d also given a full account of the ambush, to include the execution of the wounded government soldier. Her report had been accepted without comment, and she was given her itinerary and told to proceed with her return to Mars. There would be a full, in-person debrief upon her return, and she was still not comfortable with the thought of that. How does a person, a Marine officer, tell someone she allowed a prisoner to be executed? In the Marine chain of command, that would be a career-ender, probably prison time.

  The thought of getting into trouble, though, was minor compared to her self-image. Esther had always thought of herself as one of the good guys. She hewed to all the 12 leadership traits as taught to every Marine. Number one on the list was “honor,” and the lack of legal ramifications did not alter what the word meant.

  Something landed on her foot as a voice said, “Oh, sorry ma’am!”

  She opened her eyes to see a young—very young—man in his Legion Tenue T22’s, pulling up his seabag which had fallen onto her foot. His shoulder epaulet was bare, meaning he was a Legionnaire de 2e Classe, or someone right out of basic training.

  Winsted was an independent world, so, young men and women who wanted a broader military experience enlisted in other larger forces. Some joined the Federation Navy or Marines, some the Confederation Army, but the Foreign Legion tended to be a popular choice.