The Fleet05 Total War

by David Drake (ed)

  Glassman paused just inside the control deck. He was sweating constantly now, the salty water running down over his face and eyes, stinging, making his eyes blur. He could feel his heart pounding away, and he was starting to have real trouble getting enough air into his lungs. He began to suspect there was something terribly wrong with his battle suit.

  Still, he was killing Khalians—faster and more easily than he ever had before. He knew it must be because of that stimulant the medics had hit him with. That was some stuff. He began to think about ways he might get some for recreational use—there was that little bosun’s mate in medical stores . . .

  * * *

  Admiral Fursom spoke up for the first time. “Let me get this straight, Commander. You’re telling us that you used a Marine boarding group as guinea pigs for some sort of superstimulant your science boys dreamed up?”

  Rodman had been waiting for this, and smiled at the admiral. He knew the older man had never been within thirty light-years of any conflict, and had attained his rank through twenty-five years of errorless paper-pushing. Rodman’s bosses had briefed him on what to expect from Fursom—and what he was to do about it: “That’s right, sir. And I think you’ll find all the paperwork was properly cleared through Fleet HQ.”

  “But why, Commander? The Khalia are beaten. Most of them are on our side now.” That from Admiral Dunsal.

  “The Khalia are not our sole problem, Admiral. As you well know, the Syndicate tamed the Weasels centuries ago. How do we know they don’t have some other, even nastier, biological tricks up their sleeves? Our forces had more than enough problems handling the Khalia. Isn’t it our duty to make sure they are prepared for their next challenge?”

  * * *

  The Khalian bridge was deserted. Most of the controls were smashed beyond repair. It was clear that the command crew had fled, probably back to the boat decks.

  Glassman was glad of that. He was having even more trouble seeing now; his helmet had begun fogging over from the heat and humidity inside. He knew the atmosphere outside was unbreathable, and yet . . . he was mightily tempted to pull his helmet off and wipe his face off. He had to cool down!

  He caught himself as his hand started to reach for the quick release—he knew he had to stay in control now, work his way back to the boarding tube and the frigate—cool off there. It was the only way.

  He began to shuffle back down the corridor. He did not notice that Verzyl had slumped to the deck behind him and was not moving at all.

  * * *

  “By the end of the first half hour, Marine raiders had penetrated to all target points on the Khalian vessel—including the bridge and fire-control centers.” Rodman’s graphs were rapidly flashing now, showing very high readings in all Marine medical telemetry. Here and there, battlesuit cameras showed Marines on the deck, helmets off. Their faces were red and soaked with sweat. “However, the first problems with our drug also began to show up . . .”

  * * *

  Glassman could see the end of the boarding tube only a few meters away. He could barely breathe now, his panting growing faster and shallower by the moment. He had to get air—cool air. And soon.

  He bumped into the side of the tube, barely managing to keep his feet—just a little farther . . .

  * * *

  The monitor screen showed Glassman as he reached the end of the boarding tube and collapsed into the arms of the waiting corpsman. All his suit monitors were in the red now. As the officers watched, brain activity flat-lined.

  “It was here we realized that we had some problems with the drug we hadn’t foreseen.” Rodman indicated the medical telemetry. “Marines given the Scalosian serum began to collapse—heat prostration in most cases, although some did experience coronary problems.”

  Admiral Grissom didn’t like the sound of that, he knew what Marine screening was like. “Marines don’t have heart attacks! “

  Rodman grinned wryly. “Absolutely right, sir. But Marine hearts, stout as they may be, are usually not asked to beat more than two hundred fifty times a minute—and never for this extended a period of time. We had never anticipated that as one of drug’s effects, or that the human body would have so much difficulty dissipating the internal heat the increased activity and speed would engender.

  “Autopsies on the raiders were performed immediately, of course, and showed that all deaths were the result of two causes: heart failure caused by stress to the overall cardiovascular system; and brain shutdown caused by the tremendous heat generated by the body’s increased activity.”

  “How many casualties?” Admiral Fursom was deviating just a little from his script—couldn’t be helped.

  “Twenty-four Marines died in this action, sir.”

  “And how many were involved?” Grissom was looking a bit sharper now, Rodman thought. He’d caught the scent. The admiral had always had a bloodhound’s determination, it was Rodman’s job to make sure he sank his fangs into the proper arteries.

  “There were thirty-six Marines in the boarding party, sir. Twenty-four of them were given the Scalosian drug. All twenty-four died as indicated.”

  “One hundred percent casualties?!” Even Fursom looked surprised at that—maybe his briefing hadn’t been as complete as Rodman had believed.

  “That’s correct, sir. All the Marines testing the drug died from unforeseen complications.” Rodman had new graphs and charts up on the monitor screens now. “However, I must point out that not a single casualty was the result of enemy action. No Marine was so much as scratched by a Khalian fighter. All the deaths were caused by the drug. We believe that this is a remarkable statistic.”

  Admiral Dunsal stood up, pacing behind the table. “So. You want us to convene a court on the scientists who dreamed up this stuff? Killed a couple of squads of Marines with their test?”

  Rodman turned to his controls for a second, calling up a new menu of charts and battle tapes. The screens went blank for a moment, then started showing a new series of scenes. “Not exactly, sir—watch this for a moment.”

  * * *

  Corporal Jane Martini rubbed her arm, even though her battle suit prevented her from feeling the motion. She had never figured out how the medics could do it—all those hypersonic injectors, high-speed syringes, all kinds of technology and they still couldn’t give you a shot without it hurting.

  She shook her head, no time to worry about it now. Worry about the Weasels—and about this drug they put into you. Supposed to make us as fast as the Weasels. Well, she’d see. Probably before she wanted to.

  Martini shifted her slug thrower down into the ready position and gave her squad a quick hand signal. The boarding tube was about to open, and they’d better be frosty when it did.

  * * *

  “So what!” Admiral Grissom’s deep bass cut through the lounge like a machete. “You going to show us more Marines dying of your damned drug? I’ve seen enough of that! Let’s get on with . . .”

  “Just a moment, sir. I think you misunderstand. This is the control group—they have not been given the Scalosian drug; the shot they got was glucose and water—just a placebo to make them think they’d gotten the same drug as the others. “

  “But they’re moving like . . .” Grissom was sputtering now, completely confused.

  “Just keep watching, sir.”

  * * *

  Martini’s squad had been assigned the escape-pod bay. They hurried down the mapped corridors, knowing that they needed to get into position before the fighting started around the control areas. Martini was already sweating heavily, the water starting to trickle into her eyes. Was the damned drug causing her to overheat?

  She took a sip from her water tube and shook her head to clear her eyes; no time to worry about that either. She made a quick hand signal to her squad and they broke into double time. Behind them, the sound of slug throwers began to echo back a
long the ship’s corridors.

  * * *

  “You will note that Admiral Grissom is quite correct. This Marine squad is moving no faster than an average group moves.” Rodman indicated a register on one of the monitor screens surrounding the main array. “And keep in mind that they know that the Khalians will be rushing toward the position they’re supposed to hold. I think we can assume that they are doing the best they can.”

  Grissom was near his rather low boiling point now. “What is all this driving at?”

  “Be patient, sir. Just be patient.” Rodman restarted the main data flow.

  * * *

  Martini stopped her people just before they reached the escape bay entry. There was always the chance the Weasels had beaten them there.

  She motioned Karp forward. He had the heaviest weapon and was the best shot. They’d worked together for long enough that he knew what she wanted.

  Karp planted himself at the edge of the bay accessway and set up, planting his bipod for greater stability. Finished, he looked to Martini, waiting for her to make the first move.

  Martini took a deep breath, checked the safety on her weapon, and did it, bolting into the escape bay, eyes searching for any kind of cover even as the rest of her body cleared the edge of the entrance way.

  * * *

  “Indications are that the Khalian officers all moved to the escape bay as soon as they saw they couldn’t outrun or outgun the North.” Rodman was back at his desk now, running the show like some tri-d technician. “We think they had some sort of rendezvous planned and left their warriors to cover their escape. Whatever their reasons, they reached the escape bay well in advance of our Marine squad.”

  * * *

  Martini found herself in the middle of a storm of firepower. Slugs, darts, even the occasional bolt of an energy weapon, washed around her. She hugged the scant cover she had found and waited for the rest of her squad to make their way in. Maybe this drug they’d gotten would make a difference. She hoped so. It didn’t look like she had a chance otherwise.

  * * *

  “Note the medical telemetry on the Marine squad at this point.” Rodman pointed at the appropriate screen, which he highlighted from his control panel. “You see that all the readings are at just the high side of normal. Keep an eye on them over the next few minutes.”

  * * *

  Martini saw Karp come sailing into the room, slug thrower blazing on full auto as he dodged behind one of the escape pods. The Khalians started to move then, their weapons ready, zigzagging at incredible speed toward the two pinned Marines.

  Martini knew they’d had it. There was no way she and Karp could handle that many Weasels moving that fast—just no way—unless . . .

  Even as Martini began to fire, the Weasels began to slow down, almost as if a switch had been pulled. It’s the drug! Martini thought. It must be the drug finally taking effect! The damned thing works!

  Martini got to her feet then, calmly using her weapon the way she’d practiced for so long, placing her shots just where she wanted them, knocking down Weasel after Weasel. To her side, she could just see Karp doing the same thing, mirroring her own success.

  From her rear, she caught hints of other flashing movements. The rest of the squad had come into the escape bay. Their weapons had no trouble finding targets.

  * * *

  “You see the biometry readings?” Rodman punched them up so they flashed golden on the screen. “Heart action, lungs, EEG, all are less than half what we saw on the Marines injected with the Scalosian drug—yet this squad is performing at about the same level of effectiveness as the others. In some cases, even faster!”

  * * *

  Just about all the Weasels were down now, piled on the deck where they’d fallen—almost at the feet of Martini and Karp.

  No member of the squad had been hit.

  “What a high!” That from Kanoche, as usual, the last man into the fight. “This drug is something else! I wonder who we see about getting more of it.”

  “Enough chatter.” It was time for Martini to regain control, past time, really, but the reaction was just starting to wear off. “Let’s check this place out and make sure no other Weasels are hiding out. Fast or not, we don’t want to get hit from behind, now do we?”

  The squad took her meaning. They spread out and started a search pattern through the pod bay deck. Karp and Zalewski had set up a little barrier facing the entrance door and to make sure no Weasel got in or out that way. Martini started a little prowl of her own, determined to make sure that nothing and nobody was missed.

  * * *

  “You will note that this Marine squad operated at nearly two hundred percent efficiency during this action—much higher than can be accounted for by adrenaline surge or any other stimulant we can think of.” Rodman was highlighting all sorts of medical data now. “Further, they actually engaged more Khalians in this action than any other squad involved in the experiment! And their success rate was also one hundred percent! Now, watch this final sequence . . .”

  * * *

  Martini had just passed the farthest pod on the starboard side of the bay when she saw the Weasel. He was about twenty meters in front of her and doing his best to stay in shadow. He had a spacesuit on and was less than five meters from the manual bay controls. If he reached the evac button . . .

  Martini raised her rifle. She had to ice this guy before he evacuated the bay—her people had battle suits on, but if they were vented out into space, the frigate’s automatics would assume they were targets and fry them before they had time to yell!

  Her sights centered on the Weasel’s head, Martini squeezed the trigger—and nothing happened! She cursed and dropped the useless hunk of metal. Only one chance, she pulled her battle knife and charged . . .

  * * *

  “Now, you will note that the Khalian is only some four meters from the control panel when the Marine makes her move. And she is more than twenty meters away.” Rodman had the main screen in slow motion now, so everyone could see what was about to happen. “As some of you may know, the Alliance record for the forty-meter dash is in the area of four point four seconds . . .”

  * * *

  Martini knew she had to move fast—faster than she ever had before. Maybe the drug would give her the edge she desperately needed in this situation. . . .

  She kept the K-bar up in front of her and as she got within five meters of the Weasel, she launched herself straight at his body, praying she could get her point in before he reached the controls . . .

  * * *

  “This Marine covered that distance in less than two seconds flat! Even the Khalia cannot maintain that sort of speed. Her momentum was such that . . .”

  * * *

  Martini’s K-bar flashed through the edge of the Khalian’s pressure closure and the neck beyond it. When she finally came to a stop against the bay wall, the Khalian toppled at her feet. Its head had been nearly severed from its body.

  Martini lay for a second, panting, then dragged herself trembling to her feet. “All right! Who was supposed to cover the starboard side!” Someone was going to get peeled for this screwup!

  * * *

  “I don’t understand.” Grissom was truly puzzled now. And his face told Rodman why so many officers enjoyed poker nights in the admiral’s quarters. “If these Marines didn’t have the drug . . .”

  Rodman had finally gotten to his objective, if he could only hold these men for a few more minutes . . . “That’s the whole point, sir. If these Marines could self-induce the sort of reaction they did without access to the Scalosian drug, the High Command has to ask: why can’t they fight this way in normal combat?”

  “Are you trying to say . . .” Dunsal was trying to put it together.

  “What the Judge Advocate General’s office has instructed me to point out, sir, is that there
must be a reason that Marines cannot achieve these results in ordinary combat.” Rodman knew it was time to make his point now. “This experiment has shown two things: first, that it is within our ability to create a drug that will increase the efficiency of the human fighter by two to three hundred percent—assuming that we can find a way to eliminate a few unsatisfactory side effects.”

  “Like the Marines dying.” Rodman had always known that Grissom was going to be the tough one.

  “Yes, sir. But we’ve also seen that Marines who only thought they had been given the drug were able to operate at the same high level of efficiency—without any side effects! The question we must ask is . . . why can’t they put out that sort of effort all the time?”

  “Dammit, Commander . . . !”

  “No, sir. Think about it. Is it not the duty of the Marine command staff to insure that their people operate at peak efficiency at all times? And if they have not accomplished that—is it not our duty to punish their lack of competence?”