Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  The 33rd Star Marines landed at a large installation in the southern hemisphere called simply Fleet Base 49. It was a new facility, built less than four years earlier on the outskirts of a sizable city called Lucaston, located at the intersection of two rivers that flowed toward the Syracuse Sea some six hundred miles distant. Lucaston boasted a population of nearly two million, and was home to two fighter bases; the second, about twenty miles to the south, was also under attack, by the 51st Star Marines.

  Standard military doctrine called for major attacks to be launched at dawn, to take advantage of as many daylight hours as possible. In a planet-wide assault, such timing was useless, for the dawn line lay across a very narrow slice of the planet's surface. The assault on Lucaston arrived in midafternoon, just two hours before the end of the business day. Civilians in the city were close to panic; even though Fleet Base 49 had been bombed nineteen hours earlier, few had imagined that a massive landing would follow so quickly. Hysteria ensued.

  The fighting remained outside the city itself, but terrified civilians killed each other as they stampeded for safety, hovercars crashing to the streets in tangles of flaming wreckage. Many managed to escape the city on surface highways, streaming out in every possible direction, but even they suffered their share of losses as they reacted to the horrific spectacle of QuasarFighters crisscrossing the sky. It was unfortunate, as Alpha 2 was a Federation ally, but it couldn't be avoided.

  Within an hour of the first touchdown by the Star Marines, the ground fire sweeping the runways was silenced. Commanders and squad leaders, separated in many cases from their own troops, organized any troops available and assaulted the buildings from which the fire stemmed, killed the defenders, and spread out across the base in a hasty effort to occupy it before dark.

  Rico Martinez and the group he was with captured the base hospital, after shooting a dozen defenders off the roof. A Sirian doctor was killed when he tried to draw a sidearm, but he was the only casualty inside the building. Darkness had fallen by the time the facility was secure, and the lieutenant in charge of the assault force ordered his men to remain inside the building until commanders higher up the line could sort things out. Rico was placed in position on the roof with about thirty other men, and enjoyed a spectacular view of the entire base. Fires burned in every direction, and he could hear both small arms and heavy weapons fire from the direction of the river.

  He wondered where Delta Company was.

  The landers had stopped coming for about an hour, then began to arrive again. Streaming in out of the night sky, their underbellies gleaming orange from the fires around the base, they landed thousands of Star Marines and tons of equipment, including portable antispacecraft (ASC) lasers, portable rocket launchers, and light hovertanks.

  Around midnight Rico realized he was starving. Too wired to think about sleep, he ate ravenously from his field rations without even noticing the taste. As the hardware continued to drop out of the sky, accompanied by wave after wave of escorting fighters, he began to feel more secure. They still might not pull this off, but they'd at least reached the ground, and in force. He hadn't seen a Sirian fighter all day.

  The Star Marines had come to stay.

  Wednesday, 16 September, 0229 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  "Ensign, perhaps you should get some sleep."

  Rear Admiral Henri Boucher stood in front of him, looking concerned. Wade pulled his eyes away from the holomap with difficulty, and looked up at the senior planner. Boucher's face crinkled in a gentle smile.

  "It's only been thirteen hours," Wade protested. "The Sirians are almost certain to counterattack!"

  Boucher shrugged with typical European fatalism.

  "And you per'aps can stop it?"

  "No, of course not …"

  "There is much warfare a'ead. We will need you then, rested and alert."

  Wade started to protest further, but the admiral cut him off.

  "This is an order, Palm-air. Go 'ome. Sleep. Do not come back for twenty-four hours, unless I call for you."

  Wade rubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt as if it belonged to someone else. His eyes were burning. He nodded reluctantly, and stood up wearily. He was four inches taller than Boucher.

  "Yes, sir," he sighed.

  Boucher laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "You should be very proud, Palm-air. The operation is working. It is un'eard of for a junior plan-nair to accomplish what you 'ave. You 'ave done a wonderful job. Magnifique!"

  "Thank you, sir."

  Wade left the War Room alone, unnoticed by anyone but Boucher. The others were busy watching the progress of the Alpha 2 landings, adjusting schedules as necessary, making decisions. Wade hadn't been involved in any of that; although he'd drawn up the broad invasion plan, including as many details as he had time for, he had no experience in real-time planning, the hard decisions that must be made as the battle was being fought. The senior staff was doing that.

  General Willard had kept the timetable a secret, but as the plan began to mature under the combined heads of Boucher, Kamada, and Palmer, the senior staff had been given enough details that they could familiarize themselves with it. They all thought it was Willard's own plan, never guessing the true identity of the designers. Twelve hours before the first fighter squadrons launched, Willard had brought them all together, laid the final plan on them, and told them it was about to begin. They'd been shocked, but if any of them was the leak, they had no time to advise the Sirians of the new developments.

  Once the operation began, Wade Palmer was outside the loop. But he'd remained in the War Room and watched, worrying and chewing his nails, praying silently and cheering each positive communication, until Boucher sent him home.

  He left the Polygon on foot, planning to walk the six blocks to the BOQ. He frowned as he saw the gaggle of people on the sidewalk, men and women and children, nearly a hundred of them. Anti-war protesters, religious zealots who believed for some unfathomable reason that the Federation was somehow immoral for defending itself against foreign aggression. Wade had seen them before; the movement had existed since the war began, and every few weeks they mobilized to picket the Polygon and various military bases around the planet.

  They were a seedy looking bunch, singing some obscure gospel hymn as they marched in a loose circle carrying placards.

  THOU SHALT NOT KILL.

  WAR IS MURDER.

  JESUS DIED FOR SIRIANS, TOO.

  Two bored looking cops stood nearby, in case the demonstration got out of hand. A holonews crew across the street was interviewing a spokesman. Wade steeled himself to walk past them, aware that the news of the Centauri invasion had probably brought them out; also aware that they would view his crisp white uniform as a red flag.

  "Stop the war!" a man shouted at Wade as he approached. "End the killing! Usher in the age of peace!"

  Wade scowled and walked on past. A woman rushed at him next.

  "Murderer! He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword!" Her voice was shrill, grating his nerves like a laserblade on Solarglas.

  He brushed past her, but was instantly surrounded. He stopped suddenly, not really afraid because they were supposed to be nonviolent, but annoyed beyond belief. They shouted at him in a chorus of discordant voices, a wave of sound that he couldn't sort out. He was dimly aware of the two cops elbowing their way toward him.

  He held up a hand, and their voices trailed off into expectant silence.

  "If you don't believe in the war," he said calmly, "no one is forcing you to fight it. But if you don't like the way things are now, they'll be a lot worse if the Sirians win."

  "Peace, brother!" the man nearest him shouted. "Peace and dialogue! Let the voices of reason prevail! Stop the killing!"

  Wade just shook his head. "Tell that to the Sirians."

  "Murderer!" the same shrill woman shrieked again.

  The cops reached him then and forced open a path for him to get through
. He broke free of the crowd and continued on his way, a sick feeling in his gut. Today of all days! The invasion forces were down at Alpha Centauri, for which he was thankful, yet these malcontents had managed to spoil his elation.

  Murderer, indeed! As if he carried a rifle. He'd never met the enemy, never fired a shot in anger.

  He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought.

  Chapter 30

  Denver, CO, North America, Terra

  Angela Martinez left home as usual that morning. As a single mother her routine was always hectic. After getting Johnny out of bed and into the shower, she laid on his breakfast and hurried into her bedroom to get ready for work. When she returned, he was lingering over his oatmeal, manipulating a holo-toy of a QuasarFighter that soared and swooped about the room. She scolded him and told him to hurry, then rushed him off to his room to get dressed. Minutes later she hustled him out the door and into the company hovercar.

  The Denver rush hour was a nightmare on a good day, but with Johnny out of school for the last week of summer holiday, Angela had to drop him at his grandmother Lincoln's, which meant she had extra miles to cover. She usually kept the car radio tuned to a news station in case of war developments, but today Johnny wanted to listen to Supernova Rock, so she let him change it. There hadn't been any war news for months, so once couldn't hurt.

  She hit the northbound interstate, swooping around cargohovers, and tried to make extra time. But the hover lanes were crowded, and she saw a police car riding above the traffic to discourage jumpers.

  "Mom, I want to learn to fly," Johnny said suddenly, catching her completely unaware.

  "What?" She glanced at him in horror. "You mean, airplanes?"

  "Yeah. Gramps says I can."

  Angela made a face; she would have a word with Gramps!

  "You're only eight," she told him. "That's much too young to learn to fly."

  "How old do I have to be?"

  "At least twelve."

  "Can I learn to fly when I'm twelve?"

  "No."

  Johnny's face turned petulant.

  "Aw, Mom! Gramps said my dad started flying when he was old enough."

  "That's why you're not going to learn," Angela said firmly.

  "Aw, Mom! Please?"

  "Listen to your music. I've got heavy traffic and I can't talk right now."

  He subsided, playing with his holo-toy. It took Angela forty minutes to reach LincEnt, twenty miles north of Denver. By the time she did, the traffic was starting to thin, and she made the turn toward the Lincoln mansion, a further twelve miles into the mountains. Shortly she was at the front door, quickly kissed her son and turned him over to Rosemary Lincoln; ten minutes later she entered the security gate at LincEnt.

  She was six minutes late.

  Angela parked the hovercar next to the executive building known as the Tower, hurried inside, and took the lift to the top floor. Two people were already seated in the reception area, looking impatient, and she threw them a nervous smile. Stowing her purse behind her desk, she took her seat, switched on her electronic systems, and inserted her remote headset.

  "I'm sorry I'm late," she told the visitors. "Can I take your names, please?"

  Both were waiting to see her boss, Oliver Lincoln III, and as soon as she had their names she punched his intercom.

  "Yes?" Lincoln growled.

  She spoke briefly, telling him about the visitors. To her surprise, he didn't answer immediately. Then,

  "Angie, step inside, will you?"

  She entered the office immediately, puzzled and a little frightened. Rarely did Lincoln call her in for a private conference, and when he did it was usually something momentous. He was looking at her curiously, his weathered face unreadable.

  "Sit down," he said, and she perched on the edge of a chair, her dark brown eyes wide with growing apprehension.

  "What's wrong, Mr. Lincoln?"

  He peered at her a minute, then leaned back in his chair.

  "You were late this morning."

  She flushed. She'd been late before, and he never made a big deal of it.

  "I'm sorry. Your grandson dawdled over his breakfast."

  His eyes softened and he shook his head.

  "No problem, Angie. But I really didn't know if you felt like coming in at all. If you want the day off, it's yours."

  She frowned, puzzled. "Why?"

  "You mean you haven't heard?"

  Fear clutched at her heart. What was he talking about?

  "Heard what?"

  "I thought you listened to the news in your car. It's all over the holo and the microwave."

  "Johnny was listening to music this morning … Mr. Lincoln, what's happened?"

  "The Star Marines hit Alpha Centauri last night. Altair, too, but your brother's division is on Alpha. They landed in the first wave."

  "Oh!" Angela felt suddenly dizzy, and gripped the chair arm.

  "There's no bad news, Angie. Just that they went in. I expect Rico's right in the middle of it." He peered at her closely.

  "I'm sure he is," she whispered.

  "Are you all right? Do you need some time off?"

  She forced her eyes to focus and center on his face. For five seconds she didn't answer, then managed to shake her head.

  "No. If I go home I'll just worry. I'd rather be busy."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes. Thank you. I'm all right."

  Lincoln nodded slowly. "If you change your mind, let me know."

  "I will."

  "Okay. Send Burgess in, will you?"

  Angela pushed herself to her feet and headed for the door. Before she reached it, she crossed herself.

  Lucaston, Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System

  Rico had no idea what was going on. The Centauri night seemed to last forever, but time was relative. Shortly after stuffing himself from his rations, with sporadic firing still audible in many directions, he spotted a gunsled approaching. He might not have seen it except it was firing at something on the ground with a light laser weapon. The streaks of laser fire flashing downward told him it was Sirian; the briefing on board the transport had made it very clear that the only lasers the Star Marines would be using were ASC batteries — anything smaller would be the enemy.

  Rico's heart pounded and he brought his Spandau to his shoulder, picked up the approaching sled in his night scope, and tracked it as it came closer. It was still several hundred yards away and stationary, tipping slightly as it turned now and then to line up more targets. Rico saw tracer fire reaching for it, but the hull was apparently armored, and even machine gun fire bounced off.

  "Gunsled!" Rico called out to others on the roof, and a dozen men scrambled to the edge of the building to rest their rifles on the ledge, sighting in on it.

  "Jesus!" somebody muttered. "That thing must be murdering those guys on the ground!"

  "Anybody got a missile tube?" Rico asked.

  No one did. He took a deep breath and held it, adjusted for the range, and took careful aim. He couldn't really see the men on the sled, but there had to be two of them, a pilot and a gunner. He squeezed the trigger, spitting a stream of 11mm slugs toward the sled. Nothing happened, as far as he could tell, except the laser stopped for a moment. The sled began to move, angling away from its present location, and Rico thought he might've hit the gunner, but then it stopped and the laser flashed downward again.

  "Fuck! Okay, guys! Let's take that thing out!"

  Rico fired again, his rifle chattering as it vibrated against his shoulder. He fired three long bursts, then stopped and slapped in a fresh magazine. On both sides of him, others were doing the same, but none of the Spandaus were loaded with tracer, so it was impossible to tell how close their shots were coming. Rico slammed his rifle to his shoulder again and took aim, but just as he was about to fire, someone on the ground beneath the enemy sled let fly with a portable missile tube. The sled flashed a brilliant white and exploded, spinning out of control toward the ground.


  The men on the hospital roof cheered.

  After that it was quiet for several hours. Rico was too wired to sleep, and the night seemed to drag interminably …

  He woke with a start. Someone had kicked his boot, and he scrambled to his knees in confusion. The night had given way to dawn; Alpha Prime was just peeking over the horizon. The air was acrid with smoke from the previous night's fires. His mouth tasted gummy and rancid. He looked up to see who'd kicked him.

  "What's your unit, Marine?" the strange sergeant demanded.

  "Delta Company," he replied.

  "What the fuck you doin' here?"

  "I dunno, sergeant. Everything got mixed up when we landed. I just ended up here."

  The beefy sergeant merely grunted, then turned and pointed.

  "See that bridge abutment at the edge of the river? Delta's over there. Watch yourself, there's stray Sirians all over the place."

  "Aye-aye." Rico scrambled to his feet, picking up his pack and rifle.

  "What's your unit, Marine?" the sergeant asked the next man, but Rico didn't hear the reply. Without another word, he headed for the exit leading down into the hospital, and five minutes later was on the ground outside the building, heading toward the river.

  Everything was a shambles. Star Marines were visible everywhere, light tanks were parked in the shelter of buildings, and infantry hovers skimmed along twenty feet above the ground. A pair of QuasarFighters streaked overhead, jets throttled back and drag flaps fully extended, looking for targets. Here and there a building still smoldered. He passed a field kitchen and resisted the temptation to stop and get in line. The river was nearly a mile away, and he kept going in that direction, watchful for stray Sirians, hoping he wouldn't encounter any. He passed the body of a Star Marine lying facedown in the grass, as if merely resting. A hover ambulance coming from the river passed him, and he saw three men lying flat, with a corpsman bending over them. In the distance he still heard small-arms fire, but it was intermittent, apparently cleaning out pockets of resistance that had managed to survive the night.