“One more detail, which may or may not have an impact on Company L: One platoon from the infantry battalion will be selected by lot to go planetside with the Brigadier and the Commodore as color guard.
“That is all.” Conorado turned his head toward Myer. “First Sergeant, the company is yours.”
“The company is mine, aye aye, sir! Comp-nee, a-ten-hut!”
Conorado strode off the platform and exited the room, with the other officers trailing behind him.
Myer mounted the platform while Thatcher moved around it and closed the door by which the officers had left.
The First Sergeant began pacing side to side across the platform, glaring out over the company for a moment before shouting, “Seats!” He stopped pacing once the Marines were seated and quiet, watching him.
“I know what you’ve been thinking,” he said in a low growl. “You’ve been thinking that the intelligence we have says the Skinks aren’t on Ishtar. Many of you remember the birdmen of Avionia, and you’ve gotten the idea that we’re going to have a cakewalk when we make planetfall.
“Well, you’re wrong!
“We’re Marines, going in harm’s way, and there ain’t no such thing as a cakewalk when Marines go in harm’s way. As soon as Marines start thinking a mission is a cakewalk, Marines start making mistakes, stupid mistakes. And when Marines make stupid mistakes, Marines die.
“You just know that if any swinging dick in this company makes a stupid mistake that gets Marines killed, I’m going to follow him all the way to hell and make him pay!” His voice started off low and reached full roar by the time he reached “make him pay!”
“We don’t know that it’s not Skinks on Ishtar, so we have to be ready for them. You might be right that it’s not Skinks down there. But I guarantee you, whoever’s there, they aren’t like the birdmen. The birdmen’s most advanced weapon was a pellet thrower. We know whoever’s on Ishtar has much more powerful weapons. The birdmen had hollow bones, they were physically weak, as those of us who went hand to hand with them know. The creatures on Ishtar are supposed to be miners. Miners are strong.
“Maybe we’re going to be facing Skinks. Maybe someone else, someone strong, with advanced weapons. Either way, they’ve been able to take on and beat mercenaries.” He paused while a wave of snickers went through the company. Mercenaries were men who couldn’t make it in the military, is what most of the Marines thought. “Don’t forget, most of those mercs were special forces of one sort or another,” Myer said firmly. “Some of them may have been former Confederation Marines. They weren’t pushovers.”
He gave the men of Company L a hard look. “And neither are we!
“So be ready for a tough fight!” He looked grim and finished: “The old U.S. Marines used to say something when people asked them why they joined the Marines. It was ‘I joined the Marines to visit exotic places and meet exotic people—and kill them.’
“Now stand by to do exactly that.”
He turned to leave the platform. Gunny Thatcher opened the door through which the officers had left, and followed Myer out, with one last scowl at the Marines in their seats.
Company L’s third platoon won the color guard lottery.
CHAPTER TEN
An Essay with three Dragons launched from the CNSS Grandar Bay and dove planetward in a plunge of the kind that no one on Opal had ever seen, the standard Marine combat assault landing. One of the Dragons carried Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon and Commodore Roger Borland, with selected members of their staffs. The other two held Company L’s third platoon. Borland had selected formal whites for himself and his staff, with all the gilt they could pile onto their uniforms, and every decoration, medal, ribbon, and badge each of them could claim. Brigadier Sturgeon and his Marines were splendid in dress reds, with even more decorations, medals, ribbons, and badges than the navy officers.
Not that any of the Marines ever carried their dress reds on combat deployments. But the Commodore thought it was important to impress the locals with splendiferous uniforms, so he’d put the Grandar Bay’s tailor shop to work making dress reds for the Marines. The starship’s store had enough copies to go around of every campaign and expedition medal the various Marines had earned, even the lower-ranking decorations for heroism. All the medals and decorations were on loan, of course. A few of the officers and enlisted personnel of the starship had earned personal decorations that they were willing to loan the Marines. At some time that he swore was in a past life, a chief petty officer had earned a Gold Nova and was cajoled into lending it to Lance Corporal Schultz for the occasion. The one thing the starship’s store didn’t have was Marine marksmanship badges, but the machine shop was able to knock out reasonable facsimiles.
When the plunging Essay reached the part of its descent the Marines called “high speed on a bad road,” the part of the descent that felt like a road that had potholes deep enough to swallow an Essay whole, Sturgeon looked across the aisle and grinned at Borland, who was firmly secured in the web landing couch. Sturgeon had made so many combat assault landings that he’d long since lost count, but this was Borland’s first. The Commodore looked distinctly “green around the gills,” as a fisherman might put it. Sturgeon looked toward a retching sound forward and saw one of the navy staff officers disgorging his stomach’s contents.
“You clean that mess up, sailor,” Sturgeon bellowed. “And do it most ricky-tick, before it stains your uniform!” He studiously avoided looking directly at the man. He didn’t want to know which navy officer couldn’t control his digestive tract during a combat assault landing; if he did, he’d certainly say something later that would embarrass the man. Or was it a woman? Unlike Marine combat units, the Grandar Bay had a mixed-gender crew.
Whoever he—or she—was, the sick officer either didn’t hear Sturgeon’s order or didn’t know how to clean up the mess. Fortunately, there was a petty officer third class crewman in the passenger compartment who did know. The third class was already unstrapping himself from his webbing before Sturgeon shouted out his order. Freed from his secured position, he swiftly but carefully pulled himself through the Dragon to the stricken officer, where he reached to the overhead and withdrew the suction tube that was installed above each position. The third class’s hand on the tube wasn’t as skilled as it might have been—the Essay’s passengers were normally Marines, who knew how to clean up after themselves, so he didn’t have much practice at cleaning up somebody else’s mess. He nonetheless managed to get all of it before any splattered on the sparkling white uniform. He made it back to his own webbing and strapped in just in time for the Essay to break into the velocity-eating spiral that would ultimately land it safely in Opal’s ocean.
Opal had strong similarities to its twin planet, as well as striking differences. Like Ishtar, Opal had no permanent polar ice caps. Where Ishtar was three-quarters land, Opal was 80 percent ocean. Opal’s sole continent, unimaginatively called Mainland, was roughly the shape of a gnawed jelly bean, slightly more than 3,500 kilometers in its greatest length, and a bit less than 2,500 kilometers along its greatest north-south axis, and straddled the equator. For the rest of it, there were forty islands between 200,000 and 800,000 square kilometers in area, and a plethora of other islands of more than 25,000 square kilometers. There was no significant aggregation of land at either pole, nor was either polar area ringed with landmasses that restricted water movement in and out—which accounted for the lack of permanent polar ice caps despite the planet’s relatively low mean temperature. There were no significant volcanic ridges such as were common on Ishtar, but the mountains and rifts on Mainland and the larger islands, along with numerous steam vents and hot springs, gave mute testimony to the planet’s ongoing tectonic activity.
Again, like Ishtar, the indigenous life was primarily flora, with no fauna bigger than a medium-size dog, and a fair percentage of the insectoids, reptiloids, and mammal-analogs burrowed. However, in the case of Opal the burrowing was more to reach succulent roots t
han for protection from the sun and heat. Similar to Ishtar, much of Opal’s fauna was venomous. As on Ishtar, Earth-evolved animals didn’t survive exposure to the flora and fauna of Opal for long. That didn’t create any particular dietary stress for the human colonists; most of Opal’s fauna was edible, and nutritious, even if some of it required processing to remove toxins before being consumed.
The human population, some 30 million people, was concentrated on Mainland, with self-sustaining populations on most of the larger islands, and smaller populations on many of the midsize and smaller islands.
As always with Marine landings, the Essay set down on the ocean’s surface, over the horizon from the selected landing beach on Mainland. The Essay rolled gently on the swells as it lowered its front ramp and opened its doors. The navy crewmen in the Dragons got out and unlatched the Dragons from their firmholds, then rapidly retreated to the Essay’s cabin. The Dragons drove out to bob in the swells, their air cushion fans throwing up great sprays of water, until all three were out and in formation. On command, they raced toward the distant beach. The Essay closed its hatches and ramp and waited for the Dragons to reach a safe distance before firing its engines and heading back into orbit.
The three Dragons roared ashore on the popular recreation beach at Berrican, the capital of Mainland and of all Opal. Prime Minister Duane Foxtable and his cabinet, all looking exceptionally well fed, stood on a flagstone terrace some five meters above the beach, dressed in their finest garb, with all their sashes and badges of office and recognition—including some they’d made up for the occasion. Like Commodore Borland, the PM and his cabinet wanted to present themselves in the most impressive manner possible.
A crowd officially estimated at more than two hundred thousand but closer to forty thousand was held back from the terrace and landing beach by police guarding hastily erected barricades. Most of the people closest to the barricades evidently were at the beach for recreation at least as much as to see the offworld visitors; they were dressed for bathing or other recreation—some hearty souls were nude, or close enough that it made little difference.
Two wooden staircases with broad steps led from the sand of the beach to the flagstones of the terrace where the local dignitaries waited. The Dragons with third platoon sped ahead and came to an abrupt, sand-blowing halt to the sides of the stairs. The drivers throttled back and gently set their armored amphibious vehicles on the sand. Everybody waited for a long moment for whatever was going to happen next, the crowd expectantly, the dignitaries nervously.
The drivers gave the blown sand time to settle, then simultaneously dropped their ramps, and the Marines marched out and around the Dragons to the stairs, holding their blasters across their bodies at port arms. The ten Marines of first squad mounted the left stairs; second squad mirrored them on the right. They halted one pair at a time, the last Marine stopping on the bottom step, each man ahead halting two steps above. Lieutenant Bass, leading first squad, and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, leading second, stood on the terrace and about-faced to look down at the Marines standing at attention on the steps.
“Squads,” Bass bellowed, loudly enough for his voice to reach nearly everyone in the surrounding crowd, and loudly enough that some of the dignitaries flinched at the volume, “Face, center!” As one, the two squads of Marines pivoted to face the space between the staircases. Their boots thudded on the stairs.
The gun squad, meanwhile, had formed a single line between the Dragons that had brought the platoon. The gunners bore sidearms rather than the blasters carried by the others. As soon as third platoon was in position, the third Dragon eased forward and lowered its ramp.
Brigadier Sturgeon and Commodore Borland stepped out, side by side, followed by their staff officers. Sturgeon went around the Dragon’s left, Borland to the right. The gun squad saluted them as they passed.
As the two flag officers approached the stairs, Bass commanded, “Squads, sa-lute!” The Marines on the stairs sharply shifted their blasters from port arms to rifle salute, holding their weapons vertically in front of their bodies.
Sturgeon and Borland kept pace with each other as they mounted the stairs. On the terrace they exchanged salutes with Bass and Hyakowa, then advanced to the local dignitary standing in the middle of the line of besashed and bedecked people, the one who was also wearing the broadest sash and most badges and medallions—and happened to be the fleshiest. In the background, Bass commanded, “Order, arms!” and each of the Marines snapped his blaster down, butt on the stair next to his right foot, aligned with the middle of his leg.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I presume?” Borland asked.
“Y-yes,” the dignitary croaked. The entrance of the Marines had been rather more impressive than he’d expected.
“I’m Commodore Roger Borland, Confederation Navy, commander of the CNSS Grandar Bay, which is now in orbit around your planet. This”—he indicated Sturgeon—“is Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon, Confederation Marine Corps, commander of Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team, which is aboard my starship.”
“I—I’m pleased to meet you, sir, ah, sirs. I’m Duane Foxtable, Prime Minister of the independent world Opal. And these ladies and gentlemen are my cabinet.” He stumbled through introducing his companions, most of whom looked as impressed by the navy and Marine uniforms as he was.
“You said,” Foxtable said when he was through with the introductions, “that your mission here has to do with Ishtar?”
“That’s right, sir. May we retire to someplace where we can discuss the matter?”
“Oh, certainly! And and would you care for some refreshments? For your, ah, entourage?” Foxtable asked, nervously eyeing the Marines of third platoon.
They met in the Cabinet Room. Prime Minister Foxtable sat in the middle of one side of the conference table. The ten members of his cabinet were crowded by occupying one side of the table that they normally sat around. Far less crowded on the other side of the table were the six members of the delegation of the Grandar Bay. Porcelain dishware, a linen cloth, and silver setting was in place before each chair. Platters filled with what the visitors assumed were local delicacies were placed along the table’s midline. Waiters moved about, filling glasses with sparkling water, and offering local caff and teas.
“Please, gentlemen,” Foxtable said, waving a hand at the platters, “help yourselves. You must be hungry after your long journey to our humble world.”
“Thank you, sir, but we dined before we made planetfall,” Commodore Borland answered with a nod and a smile. He hoped Lieutenant Commander Gullkarl’s stomach wouldn’t rumble and make a liar out of him—he knew which of his officers had lost it on the plunge from orbit.
Foxtable blinked owlishly a couple of times, then said, “But, sirs, these are the finest delicacies Opal has to offer. They’re sure to delight the most discriminating palate!” When nobody from the delegation reached for any of the food, he raised his hand to signal the waiters to remove the food. But he stopped when he saw the Minister of Exploration and the Minister of Arts and Crafts already filling their plates. He sighed.
“As you said, sir, we’ve come a long distance. Can we get right down to business?” Borland asked, looking pointedly along the line of ministers.
“Oh, of course, sir. Excuse my poor manners, we aren’t accustomed to receiving visitors from the Confederation of Human Worlds.” He haltingly made his introductions.
“To my right,” Borland said after the cabinet members had been named, “is my orbital weapons officer, Lieutenant Commander Gullkarl. To his right is Lieutenant (jg) McPherson, surveillance and radar division. You’ve already met Brigadier Sturgeon.” He looked to the Marine.
“On my left,” Sturgeon said, “is Commander Daana, Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team’s intelligence officer. Beyond him is Captain Chriss, FIST operations.”
Foxtable nodded and repeated the names as the officers were introduced. “I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” he said with a slight tre
mor in his voice. “But I’m sure you know that Opal is an independent world, not a member of the Confederation. No offense meant, but you have no legal standing here.”
Borland’s face crinkled with a wry smile. “Under normal circumstances, Mr. Prime Minister, you’d be absolutely correct. However, when the security of the Confederation of Human Worlds, or any of its members, is at issue, a Confederation Navy warship not only has legal standing, it has jurisdiction and war powers.”
First squad stood at parade rest, erect, feet at shoulder width, left hand in the small of the back, blaster butt next to the right foot and held forward and out by the right hand gripping the forestock, facing the Cabinet Room from the other side of the corridor. The rise and fall of the Marines’ chests with their breathing and their eyes shifting from one to another of the local guards facing them were their only movements.
The six guards, uniformed members of the Opal paramilitary, tried to look relaxed by slouching against the wall. But they were entirely too unnerved by the silent and still men facing them. Those Marines might have been dressed as gaudily as calico tanagers, but they radiated strength and threat, as though the slightest wrong move would spark them into instant, deadly violence.
Meanwhile, second squad and gun squad were enjoying an hour’s liberty, restricted to Government Plaza, a largish square in front of the Stone House, the main offices of Opal’s administration. The similarly named Government Square, alongside which the planetary legislature was housed, was a kilometer and a half to the west. Government Plaza was lined with intimate eateries and trendy shoppes—all of which were quite happy to accept Confederation military scrip in lieu of local currency; the restaurateurs and shoppe keepers knew they could resell the scrip as novelties for more than the official trade rate.
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