by Tripp Ellis
As massive as the bullets were, they did little to the armor plating. They pinged off the composite material, merely leaving dents and chipped paint.
“As you can see, it's an ineffective weapon against a heavily armored tank. But it's fantastic against soft targets. It will rip an enemy soldier into shreds.” Diesel had a devious glint in her eyes.
“Let's try something with a little more punch," Zack said. He switched to the plasma cannons. He lined up the tank in his sights and fired. Two blue plasma bolts from either cannon rocketed downfield. The projectiles exploded in a fury as they impacted the armor plating. The massive cannons incinerated a section of the hull, leaving blackened score marks.
Zack hollered with excitement.
“A much more effective weapon," Diesel said.
“You've got rocket launchers mounted on either shoulder. Why don't you give those a try?”
“With pleasure."
Zack targeted the tank once again. Seconds later he launched a Hell-Storm missile. The guided smart rocket spit fire and propellant as it raced across the field. It slammed into the tank with a brilliant explosion. An amber ball of flames billowed into the sky, followed by thick black smoke. When the chaos cleared, Zack could see the turret had been severed from the body. The rust bucket smoldered in ruin.
"Now that's what I'm talking about!”
“Okay. I'll admit it. You're pretty good with stationary targets. But let's see what happens when things start moving,” Diesel said. "I'm going to activate some holographic targets, and we’re going to switch to simulated weapons fire.”
“Where's the fun in that?"
"It will hone your skills and it won't cost the taxpayers quite as much. Just one of those Hell-Storm missiles cost 243,000 credits.”
Zack's eyes bulged out of their sockets. "That's not going to come out of my paycheck, is it?"
41
Zack winced, rubbing his temples. His head throbbed with every pulse. He sat on his rack trying to concentrate on anything but the pain. It was all consuming.
Magnum smirked. "You've got an ice pick, don't you?”
Zack squinted at him in agony. “What?"
"An ice pick. It feels like an ice pick is jamming through your skull, doesn't it?”
“Worse.”
Magnum laughed.
“You got any Neuromodix?”
“No. And if I did, I wouldn't give it away," Magnum said. "You need to go see a corpsman for that."
Diesel strolled up to his rack. "I told you to go easy out there today."
"It's not that bad, really,” Zack said, doing his best to hide the pain.
Diesel grinned. "You newbies never learn." She sauntered away and both Magnum and Zack couldn't help but watch. She had mesmerizing assets.
“You get some of that today?” Magnum muttered.
Zack almost looked confused. "No.”
“Are you not into girls, newbie? I mean, that's cool and all, but… I’d be all over that.”
“We trained at the weapons range."
“I’d like to instruct her on a few things," Magnum said with a lascivious glint in his eyes.
“Besides, I sort of got a girl back home."
“You either do, or you don't. And if she's back home, you ain’t got her no more."
Zack's face tensed, and his cheeks were turning red.
By the look in his eyes, Magnum could tell it was a touchy subject. “Ease up there, Champ. I'm just messing with you.”
“She's on Crylos, and I haven't heard from her since the attack.”
Magnum realized he had put his foot in his mouth. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Bro.”
Zack exhaled and calmed down a little bit.
Magnum gave a somber pause.
Zack made a trip to the med center, but didn't find much relief.
“No. I’m not giving you Neuromodix,” the corpsman said. "It will take away all of your pain, but that stuff is highly addictive, and you'll develop a tolerance quickly." The corpsman stared at his PDU, looking over Zack's file. He reached into a cabinet and pulled out a sample blister pack and handed Zack the pills. “Try this and see how it does. Take two every six hours, not to exceed six in a day.”
“What is it?”
“Zotrix. It's a mild pain disrupter. Not habit-forming. Just take it on a full stomach.”
Zack looked at him skeptically. "So take six every two hours?”
The corpsman laughed, “No. Two every six hours.”
“More is better, right?" Zack said with a sardonic grin.
“More is not better. Now get out of here."
Zack grabbed a glass of water from a nearby cooler, popped out four pills from the blister pack and gobbled them down. After 45 minutes, they had barely touched the pain. It was just something he was going to have to deal with, and hope that it would lessen over time.
For the next several weeks, he honed his skills on the weapons range. His maneuvers became precise, and his accuracy impeccable. He spent every free moment training. And when he wasn't in the cockpit of a Maverick, he was either in the gym, doing his best to bulk up, or doing conditioning runs around the base.
Zack was able to drive and fire the MAV by himself with greater accuracy than most two-person teams. And his performance didn't go unnoticed.
“I've never seen anything like it," Diesel said, watching from an observation tower on the weapons range.
“The boy’s got a gift, that's for sure,” Willoughby remarked. “Training and simulations are one thing. How do you think he’ll perform under pressure?"
“I haven't seen anything to indicate that he would fold. He's mentally tough."
“The only thing I care about is whether or not he's an asset or a liability on the battlefield,” Willoughby said.
“Put it to you this way… I wouldn't want to go up against him. And he's only been at this for three weeks." It was high praise coming from Diesel. Not too many people managed to impress her.
When Zack was synced with the Maverick, he was free of the crushing pain. But within minutes of disconnecting, the agony returned. The longer he spent connected, the deeper the pain and the greater the duration. It wasn't lessening up either. The pain usually diminished within a few weeks for most MAV jockeys. But not for Zack. He wasn't sure if the headaches would ever relent. It seemed his hyper compatible brain structure came with a price.
42
Zack stood on the tarmac, gazing up at the Tarvaax mech. He jumped up and grabbed ahold of the lowest rung on the torso. He climbed into the cockpit and put on the interface helmet.
In basic, he had taken several classes on enemy vehicles. The recruits learned to identify the silhouettes and were given a cursory overview of their functionality and capabilities. Marines needed to be able to distinguish friend from foe on the battlefield, especially if the computer assist was unavailable.
The recruits had also been taught the basics of the Tarvaax language. It was essential to be able to communicate basic commands with prisoners of war and to read common terms that might appear on weaponry or vehicles.
Zack was able to power up the mech. The massive engine wound up, and the cockpit came alive with glowing displays. The Tarvaax were physically larger, and the cockpit felt cavernous compared to that of a Maverick. Zack felt like a little kid playing in a grown-ups’ vehicle.
He took a moment to familiarize himself with the controls. The layout was different, but the concepts were the same. He could read most of the labels, but he wasn't sure about a few of them. When he felt comfortable, he took a deep breath and activated the sync interface. It was like connecting with a Maverick, but way more powerful. The rush of sensory input was overwhelming. His ears rang, and his vision whited out. He felt like he was falling, spiraling into an abyss. It was like his brain had short-circuited. He could barely form a thought, other than this was a bad idea.
After a moment, his vision and hearing returned. The dizziness faded. He regained his composure and
looked over the controls. The heads up display indicated a successful sync. Zack was a little surprised.
He decided it was time to take his first step in this alien vehicle. The mech listed forward, unsteady. Zack shifted the vehicle's weight to the other foot, and the massive vehicle teetered to the opposite side. He countered with another step, but dragged the foot. The metal behemoth tripped, falling face forward, crashing against the tarmac. The impact rumbled through the entire base. It wasn't long before Zack had unwanted attention.
Zack struggled to get the unit back on its feet. By that time, he saw Sergeant Willoughby marching toward him, yelling. Zack couldn't hear what he was saying. He powered off the device and opened the cockpit. Willoughby's booming voice came roaring through.
“What in the hell are you doing, Salvator?”
“Just seeing if I could get it to work, Sarge.”
"Get out of that cockpit now!”
“Aye, Sarge. Do you want me to put it back into position?”
“I don’t want you to take another step in that thing. It hasn’t worked out for you that well so far."
“I've taken more steps than anybody else,” Zack added boastfully.
“You’ve also crashed more than anybody else. Now get down here. We’re going to be Oscar Mike shortly.”
43
Somebody yelled, “Attention on deck!”
The platoon snapped stiff like boards. 2nd Lieutenant Sutton had entered the barracks. “Our orders just came in. We’ve been mobilized. I need every mechanized unit we have prepped, loaded, and ready to transport to the USS Endeavor. This is what we've been waiting for. Operation Steel Fury. It’s time for a little payback. We’re going to liberate Crylos 9 and send those slime-bags back to where they came from. Let's get a move on people. I want to be wheels up by 1400 hours."
The platoon scrambled to prep their gear. One by one, Mavericks were loaded into MLVs (mechanized landing vehicles). They were modernized versions of the old Gators. An entire mechanized platoon could fit in the cargo bay. The front ramp opened like mammoth jaws, allowing Mavericks to rapidly deploy into the field.
They were slow, lumbering behemoths, piloted from the rear. They were heavily armored, but their size and speed made them particularly vulnerable during insertions. Heavy plasma cannons mounted fore and aft, each manned by its own gunner, provided some degree of protection. Launched from the flight deck of a star destroyer or super-carrier, they were the Marine Corps's only method of terrestrial landings for the mechanized infantry.
“It's too bad we've got more mechs than pilots," Willoughby said.
Zack stood next to him on the tarmac watching Cosmo march his mech backwards up the ramp and into position inside the cargo hold of an MLV.
Zack hustled to his Maverick and stowed his gear in the storage compartment. A boatswain’s mate was painting Zack’s name across the torso, near the cockpit, putting on the finishing touches. He completed the last stroke and climbed down.
“How does it look, Lance Corporal Salvator?”
“Outstanding.” Zack squinted his eyes for a closer look. It was painted in a classic handwritten font. It looked so perfect, it could have been laser etched. It read Lance Corporal Zack “Ice Pick” Salvator.
Zack shook his head. Ice Pick was his callsign, and he was stuck with it.
He pressed a button on his wrist remote, and the giant beast squatted before him. He climbed up the rungs and hopped into the cockpit. He put on his helmet and strapped himself in. He closed the canopy, and the seal sucked shut. He stepped the MAV to the ramp, and waited for his turn to load into the MLV. He marched the Maverick backward up the ramp and got in line with the rest of the platoon. An automated harness extended from the roof deck and latched on to the Maverick, securing it in position for the flight.
When the last of the MAVs were loaded aboard, the massive jaws of the landing vehicle slammed shut. The thunderous clank reverberated through the cargo hold.
It was almost pitch black inside. The only light came from the glowing cockpits of the Mavericks. Each Marine stayed in their vehicle for the duration of the flight. It was like being cocooned inside a giant coffin. It reminded him of the elevator in his apartment complex back home. He hated the feeling of being closed in, but he was adapting. That's what Marines did.
The military was all about hurry up and wait, then move fast. Carry out orders with explosive action. Then wait, and wait, and wait. It seemed like they sat on the tarmac for an hour, snug as bugs in a rug. Finally, the MLV's engines rumbled to life, and the craft lifted off the ground. Zack felt the craft pitch and roll, then angle for the upper atmosphere. They went through a heavy patch of turbulence, which made Zack feel uneasy. He had lost all sense of direction, unable to see the horizon line. The MLV dropped when he thought it would rise. It shifted left when he thought it would shift right. It threw off his equilibrium.
Zack's stomach rumbled, and he could feel the sour juices climbing their way up the back of his throat. It took everything he had to keep it in the proper place. Slow and steady breaths. The last thing he wanted to do was spew in the cockpit. He’d never get the smell out.
After a few minutes, the turbulence stopped, and the ride became as smooth as glass. He felt the weightlessness of space as he lifted slightly in his harness. The sensation was a welcome relief.
The USS Endeavor was in a low orbit above Avlaar 7. Within a few minutes, the MLV was landing on the flight deck. The jaws opened, and the ramp lowered. Zack squinted as the bright light from the flight deck cascaded into the dim cavernous cargo hold.
The flight deck was a beehive of activity. Flight crews in multicolored uniforms scampered about, prepping attack fighters and drop ships, loading ordnance, and topping off fuel cells.
Zack activated the canopy. Pressurized air rushed out as it slid open. He unlatched his safety harness and climbed out of the vehicle. With the Maverick standing fully upright, the bottom rung was almost 10 feet off the ground. Zack hung from the bottom rung, his feet dangling 4 feet from the deck. He dropped the rest of the way and marched down the ramp with the rest of the platoon.
The officer of the deck greeted them on the quarterdeck.
“2nd Lieutenant Elwood Sutton. Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted," said the OOD. “Your platoon’s birthing quarters are on 2nd Deck, Section 125-L. I sent the specific compartment assignments to your platoon’s PDUs. Colonel Matthews has scheduled a mission briefing at 1900 hours. If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask. Welcome aboard the Endeavor."
“Thank you, Lieutenant," Sutton said.
This was Zack's first time aboard a super-carrier. He glanced around the flight deck in awe. It was a well oiled machine, and the slightest screw up could cause a catastrophe. Fighters and transports were constantly landing and taking off. The air was filled with the rumble of engines, the clatter of crews scurrying about, and the smell of steel, grease and ion exhaust.
The platoon marched into a corridor, heading for their quarters. It was a maze of passageways that all looked the same. You could spend days on a carrier, wandering the hallways if you got lost. If you knew the labeling system, it was relatively easy to navigate.
The hallways bustled with activity. Sailors coming and going, moving with a purpose. It was like a living breathing organism. Like a hive of bees, everyone had their purpose, all in service to the captain.
The atmosphere was electric. There was always something going on, and everything was urgent. It was the kind of place that took some getting used to. There was never a moment of absolute quiet. There was always the dull rumble of the engine, and the constant clatter of activity. Footsteps traipsing up and down the corridors. But once you got used to the bustle, you missed it any time you were away from it. Like you were missing out on the action, and you probably were.
Zack followed Willoughby and the Lieutenant. He would never have found his compartment on his own. There were six racks in his berthing
compartment. They were 2.5 x 2.5 x 7, and the passageway between them was, at most, 3 feet.
The platoon stowed their gear and hit the 2nd Deck mess hall. Might as well go to war on a full belly.
44
Zack's heart sank when he saw the image of Crylos on the display screen in the Ready Room. The planet was surrounded by enemy warships, dominating the orbit around his home world.
Lieutenant Colonel Kubiak, the battalion commander, addressed the packed room of Marines of the 1st Mechanized Battalion. “Operation Steel Fury will be the most ambitious offensive ever undertaken by the UPDF. Together with the USS Tempest, the Iron Heart, the Thrasher, the Intrepid, the Freedom, Gladiator, and the Normandy, we will emerge from slide-space at Crylos 9 and engage the enemy in a coordinated attack. The Tarvaax dominates the skies. The Navy will do what they do best and disable the enemy’s fleet. But make no mistake about it, this battle will be won, or lost, by what we do on the ground. We will punch through their defenses, and take back our cities one by one. Our primary objective is to establish a forward position capable of withstanding any counterattack, then reinforce and expand that position. We will accomplish this through landings at multiple insertion points near the south side of Utonia. This is where we believe their defenses to be the weakest.” Kubiak took a deep breath. "I'm not going to sugarcoat this. Many of you are not going to come back. But what we do here today will affect the sovereignty of the Federation forever. The Tarvaax will not stop until they have exterminated, or enslaved, all of mankind. Good luck. And may God be with us all."
The UPDF fleet had emerged at a rendezvous point a short distance from Crylos 9. From there, it was a short slide-space jump to the battlefield, no more than 15 minutes.
Crusher Platoon marched across the flight deck to their MLV. Dozens of other units scurried across the deck, preparing for the offensive.