by Jay Allan
All works in this collection are copyrighted by their respective authors.
Published by Steel Magnolia Press.
MARINES
JAY ALLAN
PENNSYLVANIA
MICHAEL BUNKER
OMEGA RISING
JOSHUA DALZELLE
THE FOREVER GATE
ISAAC HOOKE
THE EMPIRE’S CORPS
CHRISTOPHER G. NUTTALL
REBEL
EDWARD W. ROBERTSON
DARK SPACE
JASPER T. SCOTT
THE TERRAN GAMBIT
ENDI WEBB
THE SYNCHRONICITY WAR
DIETMAR ARTHUR WEHR
GALACTIC EMPIRE WARS
RAYMOND L. WEIL
MARINES
JAY ALLEN
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BONUS!
“THE GATES OF HELL”
(Prequel Novella III)
MARINES:
CRIMSON WORLDS: BOOK 1
JAY ALLAN
Copyright © 2012 Jay Allan Books
All Rights Reserved
_o0o_
There are only two kinds of people that understand Marines: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion.
—General William Thornson, U.S. Army
CHAPTER 1
Landing Bay 3
AS Guadalcanal
In orbit above Epsilon Eridani IV
“Ninety seconds to launch. Activating final lockdown procedures now.” The mechanical voice of the assault computer was deafening as it reverberated in my helmet. Almost as loud was the metal on metal sound as the locking bolt on my armor clicked firmly into the steel frame of the landing craft. I was now held securely in place—between the bolt and the sheer weight of my armor, I couldn’t have moved a centimeter if my life depended on it.
I’ve always been claustrophobic, and standing there held rigidly in place was starting to get to me. It was more than just the closed in feeling, though. To tell the truth I was scared to death. It was cold enough in the launch bay to make the metal of my armor uncomfortable where it touched my skin, but I still felt a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead. I kept trying to concentrate on the launch procedure and put everything else out of my mind. That’s what they teach you in training, but I can tell you it’s pretty damned difficult when you’re bolted into a landing ship waiting to get blasted out into the upper atmosphere of an enemy planet. Especially the first time.
I guess everybody feels pretty much the same right before his first assault. You’re waiting for the launch you know is coming. You’ve done it a dozen times in training, but this is for real. A few thousand kilometers down there are real enemies waiting to kill you. Ok, got to get that out of my mind right now, got to concentrate on the launch. It’s a job, and I’m a trained professional.
Actually, that’s not really true—you don’t have to concentrate on the launch. It would be a lot easier if you had something to do to keep busy, but the truth is everything is pretty much controlled by the ship’s computer until you hit ground. Nothing to do but stand in the harness and count off the seconds. And think about what was waiting down there.
“Sixty seconds to launch. Activating armor power circuits.” There was a loud whine as the nuclear power plant on my back kicked in and fed juice into the circuits of my armor. I could see the green light on the display above my visor indicating that all systems were fully powered and functional. Of course the indicator was of minimal importance—the relevant flow of information was between the microprocessors in my suit and the ship’s assault computer.
It didn’t make much difference anyway, not a minute before launch. All of the suits go through a full diagnostic check right before an assault, and any that don’t pass 100% are red-flagged. No malfunction can slip through this failsafe procedure, at least theoretically. In actual practice it does happen occasionally, and when it does it usually means serious trouble. Any problem discovered this late was just that much tough luck for the wearer. There was no way to get you out of the harness in a malfunctioning suit. Not in 60 seconds. And you can be damned sure they weren’t going to postpone an assault because one grunt’s armor was on the fritz. So the best you could do is stand there motionless and reflect on the greatly increased odds of your turning up KIA on this mission.
With the suit power activated there was at least some relief from the crushing claustrophobia. I still couldn’t move, but the unrelenting feeling of more than two metric tons of dead weight around me was gone. The neural impulse sensors of the suit are tied into the servo-mechanical systems that move the armor just like a human body. Once on the ground and unlatched from the landing craft, you move just like normal. Walk, run, jump, whatever—you just do it and the suit goes along. Of course the armor is a lot stronger and faster than you are, and it takes some getting used to before you are comfortable running 80 kph and jumping 10 meters straight up. You can lift at least 500 kilos in your arms and you can crush an unarmored person like so much overripe fruit. If you’re not careful you can kill yourself walking across the room.
I was pressed hard against the front of my suit as the Guadalcanal’s braking thrusters fired. Sub-orbital insertions can make for a pretty rough ride, as the ship executes a series of abrupt maneuvers to position itself for the launch. After about ten seconds of rapid deceleration we went into free fall. I had undergone intense conditioning during training and been given the normal drugs and the standard 36 hours of intravenous nutrition prior to launch. I knew that it was almost physically impossible for me to get sick at this point, but that didn’t stop the bile from rising at the back of my throat as we plunged toward the launch point.
When the dull roar of the ship’s engines died down there was an almost eerie quiet in the launch bay. There was a very faint buzz; I think it was coming from the lighting track on the ceiling. A couple of guys were talking softly to themselves. I thought I could make out a few words of a familiar prayer.
There was a red tint to everything from the battlestations lamps in the launch bay. The naval personnel had all left about 5 minutes prior to launch and we were alone—2nd Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion, 3rd Regiment, 1st U.S. Marine Division—and ready to go.
The launch bay was sealed off from the rest of the ship, but there was still a heavy smell of burnt machinery in the air. The Guadalcanal had taken at least one hit on its approach. The sailors didn’t seem to be concerned, so the damage must not have been too bad. Stunk up the place, though.
“Thirty seconds to launch. Transferring life support function to Marine armor.” My visor clicked down automatically and there was a whooshing sound as my suit replaced the Earth-normal air of the Guadalcanal with the oxygen rich mixture designed to maximize alertness and physical endurance during combat. My armor was now 100% operational and could keep me alive, even in deep space.
With my suit sealed and the blast shield down over my visor I couldn’t see or hear anything going on in the bay. But I knew from training that exactly 5 seconds after my visor clamped down, the bay of the Guadalcanal was depressurized to match the atmospheric density of the launch point. Five seconds after depressurization our suits were pressure coated with a special foam designed to absorb the intense heat of the atmospheric entry. Then the hatches would open.
The TX-11 Gordon atmospheric assault craft is designed to accept modular armor plating panels that effectively make it an enclosed ship rather than an open la
nding sled. However, the panels severely reduce its speed and maneuverability. The armor was effective against small arms fire but useless against the SAMs and other ground to air armaments that were the biggest threat during an assault landing. These weapons were best countered with the enhanced maneuver capabilities of the light, unarmored ship.
“Ten seconds to launch. Good luck Marines!” The skipper’s voice had replaced the coldly mechanical tone of the assault computer. By tradition the ship’s captain delivered the final pre-launch announcement and wished the assault team luck.
I counted down in my head, five, four, three—I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the shock of launch—two, one…
I felt the jarring in every bone in my body as the catapult accelerated the assault lander down the launch track and out into the upper atmosphere of Epsilon Eridani IV, commonly known as Carson’s World. By the time the assault ship cleared the hatch and fired its own thrusters, our velocity was 1,200 kph. The G forces caused by the launch would have killed an unprotected man, but with my fighting suit on I only lost my breath for a few seconds.
With the blast shield down I still couldn’t see anything outside, but the monitors in my helmet activated automatically, feeding me all sorts of information—altitude, velocity, armor skin temperature, heart rate, and a dozen other informational tidbits of questionable usefulness. I pressed the small button under my left forefinger and the deployment display was projected on the inside of my faceplate. I could see 50 tiny green dots in ten groups—the entire platoon in ten landing craft. It looked like our formation was perfect (though as the junior private in the squad my only real concern was my location and that of my fire team leader). I knew the 1st and 3rd platoons were scheduled to launch 20 and 40 seconds after we did, with the company command and heavy weapon sections right after them. I had no reason to believe they hadn’t launched as planned, but their assigned position was considerably outside the range of my deployment display, so I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t need to know.
The Gordon is a five-man disposable sub-orbital insertion vehicle designed to rapidly land attacking powered infantry forces onto a hostile planet. Actually, “vehicle” is a strong word—it’s really just an open steel frame with a large triangular heat shield in the front. The entire thing looks a little like something you could build out of a child’s erector set. With 5 armored Marines bolted to it.
The ride down started to get pretty rough as we entered the denser levels of the atmosphere, and the lander’s thrusters fired to lessen the angle of descent. Despite this maneuvering, and the protection of the forward heat shield, the status display indicated the external temperature of my suit was rising as the protective foam coating burned off. The readings were well within the expected mission parameters, so I felt pretty confident that I wouldn’t be incinerated during the landing. Unless we were hit, of course.
The comlink crackled to life. “Altitude ten kilometers, retract blast shields and prepare for landing.” The lieutenant’s voice was calm and steady—I doubt mine would have been so reassuring. Fortunately, no one was waiting for instructions from me.
I depressed the small lever under my left thumb to retract the blast shield, and with a loud click the steel plate slid up over my helmet, and I could see. Mostly I could see the back of Will Thompson’s helmet. As the squad’s junior member (and only new recruit), I occupied the last position on the assistant squad leader’s lander. Will was the senior private in the squad—traditionally the one given the task of babysitting new guys—and he was positioned right in front of me.
I was still locked in place on the lander and couldn’t even turn my head to look around. It was just about dawn over the landing site, and even if I could have taken a look, the visibility in the early morning light was pretty limited. I did have a peripheral view of the lander’s top-mounted point-defense laser turret (there was a bottom mounted one as well, though it was well out of my field of vision) as it whipped around and fired at something off to the right. I didn’t see any explosion, but we weren’t hit by anything either, so the laser must have been on target.
Fleetcom had told us to expect minimal ground-based fire during landing. There had been a few orbital platforms hastily positioned by the enemy, but the navy had blasted those long before we stepped into the launch bay. We had total local-space superiority, a prerequisite to any landing that wasn’t going to be a bloodbath.
According to Fleet, there were no ground-based installations whatsoever, so any surface to air fire would be from hand-held rocket launchers or maybe a light vehicle or two—nothing the Gordon’s onboard point defense couldn’t handle. Of course, no one from Fleet was bolted into a lander right now, so I suppose all of us were a little more concerned about it than they were. I certainly was. It didn’t make me feel any better when an instant later the top laser turret whipped around to the left and fired twice within two or three seconds. Only the onboard tactical computer knew whether there were two incoming targets or if the first shot was a miss.
I rolled my eyes up to check the status monitors. Our altitude was just under 6 kilometers, a bit high to be taking this much fire from hand-held rocket launchers. According to the training manual, most hand held surface to air weapons had an effective range of around 3 km against a point defense equipped target, though the theoretical maximum ranges were far greater. Most likely there was some kind of vehicle mounted SAM down there. Not a huge danger if there weren’t too many of them—the Gordon’s point defense was state of the art. Besides, the SAM couldn’t fire too many times without moving. The Guadalcanal was still monitoring the landing area and would provide suppressive fire if the launcher gave up its position.
The lander’s thrusters fired again, and we banked sharply to the left. I couldn’t see any of the other ships, but a quick click of my finger brought up the deployment display again, and we were still in perfect formation. Our altitude was 3.5 km and descending rapidly. The comlink crackled to life. “Four minutes until touchdown. Landing proceeding according to projection. The tactical plan is unchanged … I repeat, the tactical plan is unchanged.”
Every specific aspect of a planetary assault is thoroughly planned before a single Marine enters the launch bay, but with so many variables it’s crucial that modifications can be made at any time. If any of our landers were off course, or if the resistance on the ground was substantially stronger than expected, the battle plan could be altered in response to the change in conditions. Our platoon commander remains in constant contact with the company CO, who himself is tied in directly with tactical support services on the Guadalcanal. If changes are required, he can revise the plan, and the new instructions are downloaded into the squad leaders’ personal AIs. After a briefing by the platoon commander, the squad non-coms would then be responsible for transmitting revised orders to their own troops.
With the landing going as expected, the mission was to proceed as planned. The entire population of Carson’s World lived in a cluster of small mining towns in the southwestern section of the single major continent. The Central Asian Combine had sent in an invasion force about three months before and had taken control of the developed areas. With no regulars stationed on the planet to support them, the local militia had been unable to hold their towns against the CAC assault troops.
Intelligence reports indicated the militia, rugged miners all, had hurt the CAC regulars badly though, before they withdrew into the hills with much of their strength intact. Based on these reports, Fleetcom had decided to launch an immediate counter-invasion with a single understrength battalion rather than wait for more units to arrive.
“Two minutes until touchdown. Power-up weapons systems.” I clicked the levers under my right middle and forefingers. There was a series of loud clicks as the autoloader fed five grenades from the magazine on my back into the launcher on my left arm. My AI could have done that for me, but I felt better feeling the switches under my own fingers. It gave me something to do beside think about
how scared I was.
“Squad two, weapons check. Report status.” The voice on the comlink had changed. It was Sergeant Harris, our squad leader. One by one the members of the squad sounded off. “Jenkins operational. Kleiner operational…”
I glanced up at the status monitor. The two green weapons control lights indicated that my AI had successfully completed a full diagnostic test of armaments. My grenade launcher and auto-rifle were loaded, charged, and ready. As the only raw member of the squad, I had not been outfitted with any other weapons, though my armor could have carried and powered at least two additional systems.
“Thompson operational.” The rest of the squad had sounded off; it was my turn. My throat had gone dry, but I managed to croak out the required report. “Cain operational.”
The second squad was ready. Although I couldn’t hear it on my comlink, I knew the squad leader was reporting this status to the lieutenant over the command circuit. Weapons power-up was our last procedure prior to landing. I couldn’t speak for the other three squads or the command group but our two fire teams were ready.
The lieutenant’s voice came over the comlink again. “Touchdown in one minute. Squad leaders initiate tactical plan upon landing. Good luck, Marines!”
Even from my closed in position I could see the ground now. We were landing in an area of rugged, sparsely wooded hills, about 10 km west of the nearest settlement. We were to establish contact with and rally the local militia units believed to be dug-in up in those hills. Once we linked up with the locals, we were to evaluate the situation and, if command gave the go-ahead, drive toward the built-up areas. The assault was to be coordinated with the attacks of the rest of company A—they’d be moving in our direction from their own landing points along an arc stretching 20 km northeast of our position. Company B and the heavy weapon section would move toward us from 50 km south. If all went according to plan, the CAC troops would be caught between us and penned in. If the plan went awry Company C was still in reserve, buttoned up on their ship and ready to launch on short notice.