Neither man was what could be called approachable. But with the two Marine armorers having just left for chow, if he wanted to get the knee checked out beyond his meager capabilities, it would have to be Mr. Coulter.
Maybe I should just wait until later.
He didn’t want to do that, though. This was only their third day at Dixie, and they had a night exercise scheduled in a little over six hours. He wanted his PICS to be in tip-top shape for that. Noah had been steadily gaining in skill with the PICS, and his performance numbers were continually in the upper third of the platoon. His goal tonight was to have the highest numbers in the squad, if not the platoon, and he didn’t want any sort of PICS glitch to slow him down.
No one seemed to consider Noah particularly skilled as a PICS Marine, and even Turtle seemed surprised when the numbers were promulgated, but the facts were that he was developing as a Marine. He may not be a super hard-charger whom everyone looked up to, but he was an effective cog in the platoon.
And, to his own surprise, he was feeling more confident in his own abilities. He did not feel like a liability anymore. Only part of that was his performance, though. He knew dating Miriam was also contributing. It was as if her choosing him validated his self-worth.
Growing self-confidence or not, he was not ready to tackle Mt. Coulter. He tip-toed around the man, to be honest.
Noah looked around the large armor maintenance shed. Over 40 meters long and 20 wide, it was actually an expeditionary hangar; but after some 19 years, it had lost its “expeditionary” or temporary status. Along with its twin that actually function as a hangar, the two looked like a cylinder split in half length-wise, with each half becoming a facility. Neither was fancy or high-tech, but they did the job. With rising O2 levels in the atmosphere, neither even had to be pressurized anymore.
The armor shed housed the PICS storages racks and maintenance bay on one side, and three Mambas and their associated maintenance bays on the other side. The three Mambas were training units that stayed on the planet. When the tank sections of 1/16 or 2/16 arrived for training, they left their Mambas behind and fell in on the training vehicles. Deploying units with the M1 battle tanks brought in their own vehicles when they arrived for training, but they often took the opportunity to train with the smaller, nimbler Mambas as well.
Two people were working on one of the Mambas. Sergeant Phong and Mz. Vitterly were looking at a readout and animatedly discussing it. Some of the basic components between PICS and Mambas were the same, and others worked in the same manner. Noah wondered if either of them might have some input for him, but he didn’t want to interrupt them. Looking back at the still mumbling Mr. Coulter, however, made up his mind. He left his PICS in the cradle and wandered over to the two.
“That’s a plus or minus .3, right? That’s too much!” Sergeant Phong said, her voice rising in her excitement.
“Too much for an initial assessment. But you are forgetting the degradement schedule. One-zero-zero-three’s been here for 16 years. Look up your schedule,” Mz. Vitterly said.
“Sixteen freaking years? That long? Well, hell,” she said as he punching something in her PA. “Damn, you’re right. Point-three-four is within tolerance. I guess we’re good to go tonight. I’ve just never seen anything older than five years.”
“Most of the M1-5s are newer, but this is one case where the FCDC gets the newer chassis.”
Noah had no idea what the two were talking about with the numbers, but he did know that the Mamba was actually an FCDC asset. The Marines had put in a side-buy for some of the assault tanks for units were the larger battle tank did not make sense or were too large for the situation.
Both women looked up as Noah reached them.
“What do you want?” the sergeant asked.
“I. . .well, I know you were in PICS, Sergeant. Today, I felt a slight hitch in my stride, and I’m getting some weird readings on my knee assembly. I was wondering if you might have any suggestions.”
The staff sergeant made a pointed effort to look past Noah’s shoulder back to the PICS maintenance bay and asked, “And you didn’t want to ask Mr. Curmudgeon?”
“Let me see your readout,” Mz. Vitterly said, holding out her hand.
Noah gave it to the young woman who barely glanced at it before saying, “You’ve got a faulty H-23 unit.”
“An H-23? But that’s in the upper nexus,” Noah said, confused.
The upper nexus was located just under the chest carapace, not in the leg.
“And what does in control?”
“Uh, movement synchronicity,” he said.
“At least he knows that,” the sergeant told Vitterly.
“And. . .” she prompted.
“Ah, this isn’t a problem with the leg itself. It’s the controls!” he said as realization hit him.
“There you go. That’s a Class B repair, so get Sergeant Olov to fix it before you go out tonight if you don’t want to ask the Curmudgeon.:
“Curmudgeon.” That’s pretty good, Noah thought, trying not to smile.
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
“If you don’t get it done tonight, that’s OK. It’s not enough to downcheck your unit. But get to it sometime. It’ll only get worse over time,” Mz. Vitterly said.
“I will,” Noah said, his eyes drifting to the Mamba in front of him.
He’d see them, of course. He’d been “killed” by one of them the first time he was on Dixie. But he’d never gotten a really close look at one.
“Sweet machine, huh?” the sergeant said, pride evident in her voice.
“Yeah, it is,” Noah said, meaning every word of it. “I got killed by one the first time we were here.”
“Really?” Sergeant Phong asked with a laugh. “I think that was my first training operation with the section. It felt pretty copacetic mowing you guys down.”
“That was your first time? I figured you’d been in tanks for longer than that.”
“Nope. I was with 3/9, PICS, just like you. I’d just gotten here from the Itch a couple of months before, too late for the previous Dixie training.”
The “Itch” was Itzuko-2, an arid mining world belonging to the Itzuko Daihatsu. The Marine Corps leased facilities and training areas from Itzuko to train both tankers and pilots and to develop and train units in combined arms operations.
“Why did you switch from PICS to tanks?” Noah asked before realizing he might be out-of-bounds, a lance corporal asking a sergeant like that.
He needn’t have worried. Sergeant Phong was more than willing to respond.
“I loved being a PICS Marine. But look at this baby! How could you not love something so powerful?”
She stroked the polycero latticed armor side, like a lover stroking her partner. That struck Noah as weird—but somewhat intriguing.
“You want to see inside?” Mz. Vitterly asked.
“Really? Sure!”
Noah had clambered over an M1-5 during boot camp, but he’d been one of a couple of hundred recruits, and he hadn’t really absorbed much. He’d never been this close to a Mamba at all.
Both women hopped up on top the tank. Noah, easily 20 centimeters taller than either, was a little clumsier as he joined them.
“This is our Bambi,” the sergeant said, patting the short, stubby gun tube projecting out of a slot in the top armor.
The BMB-60 was a 60mm, smoothbore gun, capable of firing any number of rounds. It was smaller than the 90mm gun on the M1-5, but it packed a big enough punch to knock out pretty much any vehicle on the battlefield. It was a little harder to depress for closer-range shots given that the Mamba didn’t have a turret per se, but it was still a wicked-fierce weapon.
The top hatch was on the tank was open, and Noah peered inside. It looked surprisingly simple, almost Spartan, and nothing like the old-time tanks he’d seen in the flicks.
“Can I get in?” he asked hesitantly.
“How tall are you, Lysander?” Sergeant Phong asked.
“Uh, I’m 185.”
“Ooh, just snuck in under the wire,” Mz. Vitterly said.
Noah was aware, in a general sense, that tankers, like PICS Marines, were limited in how tall they could be. He didn’t recall what the limits were, though.
“Under waiver, if his legs and torso match,” Sergeant Phong said, then to Noah, “The height limit is 182 with waiver to 186 after a fitting.”
I just want to see what it’s like, not transfer! Noah thought—not that he could even make the choice until he’d had at least a year as a lance corporal, and was approved for the lateral transfer.
“So I can get in?” he asked.
“Sure. Don’t hit the red button that says ‘Fire!’” the sergeant said.
What? This thing is armed? he thought, looking up in alarm, only to feel his face redden in embarrassment as the two burst out into laughter upon seeing his expression.
OK, OK, you got me, he thought as he lowered himself into the driver’s seat.
It was cramped, and with a helmet on, his head would be close to hitting the hatch when closed. Still, it felt right. Noah loved being in a PICS, but this was another level up the pyramid of fun. He’d give anything to be able to take the tank out for a spin.
“Pretty freaking copacetic, huh, Lysander?” the sergeant said, crouching over the still open hatch.
“Yes, sergeant. Pretty freaking copacetic.”
REQUIEM
Chapter 30
Esther
“What do you think?” Sergeant Kinder asked his three team leaders as they glassed the processing plant on the valley floor below them.
“Can we get another scan from the Kearsarge?” Esther asked.
“I don’t know. She’s pretty locked tight with the rest of the company.”
Well, ask, why don’t you? All they can say is no.
Esther knew that they weren’t the point of main effort, and the Kearsarge would be in full support of the bulk of the company at Lassiter Crossing. Still, even if the ship was only a schooner, she carried much more scanning gear than the company’s assets.
With only drones, electronic scanners, and aircraft, the Marines relied heavily on the Navy for intel, both active and passive. Since Esther had been with the battalion, both ships assigned to her two missions had been schooners, the Navy’s bare-bones, low-cost men-of-war. It hadn’t mattered that much for the re-taking of the Excavator King, but here, with an actual ground mission, a more powerful platform would be making things easier for them.
The operation on Requiem was one of those mission-creep assignments that her father had detested. Rio Tinto, the same corporation for whom her platoon had recovered the Excavator King, and Excel Sun both held concessions on the planet. The two corporations had split the original terraforming costs, but over the years, their relationship had become contentious, and that had spilled over into open conflict as to mining rights. Both sides had hired “security teams,” and when the teams had expanded to battalion-sized forces, that had not surprisingly broken out into violence.
When mercenaries fought, the Federation often turned their collective eyes, letting them achieve their own resolution. That was when civilians wouldn’t become collateral damage, however. On Requiem, more than 300,000 civilians were in harm’s way on the southern continent, civilians only recently re-located to the planet after Callet rejected its terraforming. Over a hundred had been killed from artillery fire, something both mercenary companies blamed on the other, and Bravo Company had been deployed as a buffer to stop the fighting and allow the FCDC forensic teams to investigate the tragedy.
Normally, when the Corps or Navy was to be interjected into a situation, opposing forces went into a flurry of activity to consolidate their position before the Federation forces took over. And while probably neither side wanted to formally take on the Marines, they wouldn’t let small units or individual Marines get in their way in the rush to strengthen their position before a cease-fire was eventually called.
Which Esther expected at any time. A representative of the Third Ministry at that moment was negotiating with Rio Tinto and Excel Sun somewhere in orbit. Like most Marines, Esther didn’t understand why the Federation was negotiating. Excel Sun’s headquarters was in Alliance space, but it had huge assets within the Federation, its share in Requiem being just one. Esther felt that the Federation should just simply make a decision and demand compliance.
And so, while the negotiations dithered on, First Squad was overlooking an Excel Sun processing plant two klicks away. There weren’t any overt signs of activity among the jumble of machinery and buildings, but Esther would have preferred to have the Kearsarge conduct a full scan of the place.
Don’t be too cautious, she admonished herself.
She’d been nervous as they had approached their last objective, a joint chemical warehouse back along the main highway. Five employees, three from Excel and two from Rio Tinto, had met them and bemusedly watched as the squad had searched the facilities. If the tension between the two corporations had affected the five, they certainly hid it well from the Marines.
Still, something about the processing plant below her didn’t feel right to Esther. The warehouse, placed far away from population centers due to the volatile nature of the chemicals, only had five employees. The processing plant, while automated, should have more than a few workers moving about, and there should be some sign of people among the small gathering of buildings outside the front gate to the compound.
“Maybe they all evacuated,” Telly Eason said as if he could read her thoughts. “I don’t think I’d want to be in there, or anywhere near, if it got caught up in the fighting.”
“Maybe,” Sergeant Kinder said, his voice not sounding that confident. “But, we’re behind schedule. We’ve got two more places to hit before nightfall, so let’s head on down. Squad “V,” Second Team back, First and Third up—and watch your dispersion!”
Esther half-listened as the sergeant reported back to the lieutenant, who responded back with a deep-into-the-weeds transmission on keeping alert and staying safe. She tuned him out—not that what he was saying was wrong, but because they all knew the drill.
Esther didn’t feel comfortable simply sauntering down the slope, but this was not a fight yet, and hopefully, it wouldn’t erupt into one. Appearances mattered. Going in too aggressively could trigger a fight with nervous mercenaries.
In training, she usually knew who was the enemy and simply reacted to the changing tides of battle. Here, in real life, she didn’t know if this would be like the chemical warehouse or something more challenging.
“Get ready. We’re going on down there,” she told Maltese, Yadry, and Wells. “Squad V.”
“Just like that? In the open?” Maltese asked.
Despite his less-than-stellar start in the fire team, Maltese had developed into a better-than-average Marine, and his mind was constantly churning. Esther was developing a degree of affection for him that she’d never had for the other two Marines in the team. It wasn’t as if she disliked the other two—they were simply part of the landscape in some ways, although she took the responsibility for their wellbeing to heart. But she felt more than that for Leroy. In so many ways, he and she were nothing alike, but in a few important aspects such as considering the ramifications of their actions, they matched.
“Just like that. Let’s hope anyone there is as complacent as at the chemical warehouse. OK, let’s get ready. We’ve got the asshole,” she said, referring to the position in the rear of the formation.
First and Third teams were already moving over the crest of the ridge, spreading out as they descended. Esther waiting until both teams were a good twenty meters away before she gave the signal to move out.
The hill was covered in the small scrub and grasses
favored by terraforming teams to help keep the atmosphere in check. Tough and wiry, the low-hugging plants were not nearly as impressive as trees, but they established quickly and created more biomass given the same amount of land. That didn’t make logical sense to her, but too many engineering and nature shows on the holo had driven that piece of knowledge into her brain housing group.
But what the groundcover didn’t provide was concealment. To approach the factory unseen, they’d have to be on their bellies low-crawling in some sort of sniper stalk. That wasn’t happening, though. They were just walking down as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Esther felt naked and exposed.
Her senses were on high alert, and she scanned up and down her AI’s meager capabilities. There were a few of what might be ghost images, but nothing substantial. The expected incoming of enemy fire never materialized, however, and the squad entered the small settlement outside the factory’s gate.
“First, take the two-story. Second, you’ve got the pink house, and Third, you take the white and silver buildings,” Sergeant Kinder said. “Keep on the alert and give me feeds if you see anything.”
Squad leaders could only track one subordinate extra feed at a time, unlike platoon sergeants and higher who could scan and pull up any Marine’s helmet feed. Esther had never understood that restriction, but it was something she was used to. Still, it was one of the many things on her list she’d change when she played her private “If I Was the Commandant” mental game.
Excess hubris was not one of Esther’s problems.
“Let’s go,” she passed to her three Marines.
Legacy Marines (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 1) Page 18