“Oh, is that one of your tanks?” the prime minister asked as they walked up on the Peacemaker.
Uh, big metal vehicle. Big gun sticking out. Yep, it’s a tank, Ryck thought.
“Yes, sir,” he said instead. “This is the Peacemaker, and that’s Sergeant Menendez, the tank commander.”
Menendez was a devout Roman Catholic, and his tank probably had the least provocative name, so he had been assigned the position at the edge of the LZ.
The prime minister reached up a hand, and Menedez had to take off his commander’s helmet and climb down to reach it.
“Can I, you know, can I get on it?” the prime minister asked, obviously excited.
“Sure. If you want, sir. Let me help you,” he said, giving the heavy-set man a boost.
It took both Ryck from below and Menendez from above to get the prime minister up. Here’s where Çağlar would have been helpful, but Ryck didn’t think mixing his sergeant up with the Ataturk bigwigs was a good idea. His shadow was waiting for them back in the conference room.
Sergeant Menendez immediately went into his spiel. The guy was a natural. Ryck just happily watched from below. They’d been briefed by the advance team that the PM’s schedule was pretty tight, so the more time he spent out looking at the Marines and their equipment meant the less time Ryck would have to brief him.
When the prime minister asked Menendez if he could try on the commander’s helmet, one of the company security detail hopped up to the tank to check it, only to be chastised by the PM.
“What, you think this Marine has booby-trapped his own helmet in an effort to take me out?” he asked facetiously while rolling his eyes.
Even Ryck had to laugh at that. Ryck hated these dog-and-pony shows, but he was beginning to warm up to the prime minister. He seemed like a kid on a trip through the toy store.
When Menendez offered to let the prime minister sit in the commander’s cupola, the man’s eyes lit up. Ryck was worried that his bulk would be too big for it, but Menendez’ eye was accurate, and the man slipped in. It was a tight fit, but the government’s public affairs team went crazy, recording the event with every device known to man.
It wasn’t just the Ataturk government, though. A sailor from the Derne was also dutifully recording. Ryck was sure this was going to get splashed through the Undernet. Menendez would get his 15 minutes of fame. Or five minutes, if that.
After reluctantly heeding his secretary’s requests, the prime minister climbed off the Peacemaker and moved on to the next stop. He climbed in one of the Armadillos, looked at the guidance array of the 155 howitzer, and talked to a few of the Marines from Fox. He was suitably impressed with the three Marines from Golf in their PICS, having his public affairs team taking holos and pics of him standing between the PICS Marines.
“He’s probably not often dwarfed by others,” Sams whispered in Ryck’s ear while Ryck tried not to laugh. “Makes him look positively svelte.”
The governor seemed interested in all the facets of the Marines and their equipment. His Ph.D. was in microeconomics, but Ryck would have thought he was an engineer based on his fairly in-depth questions.
With the secretary constantly urging him forward, the party finally made it to the conference room. Once they were seated, Ryck took his place at the podium. The secretary pointed at his watch and made the “hurry up” sign for Ryck to keep it short.
“Well, sir,” Ryck began. “We don’t have a lot of time to go over our disposition here at the school and up north, but we will try to give you the basics, at least. First Lieutenant Wharton Po, my S2, that is my intel officer, will give a short brief on what faces us across the border, then Major Sandy Peltier-Aswad, my operations officer, will go over some basic possible scenarios. After that, I’ll wrap it up and take any questions.
“We have some refreshments in the back of the room. Nothing much, but SSgt Ekema, our food services chief, can make some mean canapés, so I urge you to try them. We’ve got coffee, water, and juice as well.
“So, in order to save time, let me get Lieutenant Po up here while anyone who wants to gets a drink and a snack.”
Of course, the VIP party didn’t have to get up. SSgt Ekema had set up both drinks and canapés in front of them. Ryck was surprised at first that the ever-present security detail that kept hovering around like gnats just let the great man grab a crostini. Then he realized that every bite most assuredly had already been scanned with every tool at their disposal.
Ryck stared at the crostinis. Although fabricated and not handmade, they looked mighty good, but they were just out of reach from him at his seat near the podium, and he was not going to interrupt Lieutenant Po, who was obviously quite nervous.
Ryck still hadn’t made up his mind about his intel officer. He had served an uneventful tour in a line platoon before Ryck took command. Lieutenant Po was quiet and unassuming. He didn’t have the force of will that was common in most Marine officers. Still, he’d been an infantry sergeant before getting selected for NOTC, so someone, at least, thought he had what it took.
The XO was also a big supporter of the man. As part of the Bravo Command, the two Marines had spent quite a bit of time together during the workups, and the XO assured Ryck that Po was up to the challenge. Ryck had initially had a low opinion of Sandy when they’d first met, too, until Sandy had proven the temper of his steel, so Ryck knew he could be wrong about Po as well.
Lieutenant Po turned on the 3D map that projected from the middle of the conference table. It covered about 800 square miles of the valley floor. Avatars for units, both St. Regis and Marines popped up, and a banner floated above them all with the St. Regis order of battle.
He had just made his opening introduction when a loud, piercing siren interrupted him.
“Hans, the prime minster!” Ryck immediately shouted at Sergeant Çağlar, who’d been standing at the back of the room.
Çağlar didn’t hesitate but grabbed the prime minister and bodily lifted the man to his feet.
“Everybody, out!” Ryck shouted as the XO and the rest of the Marines were already moving.
Every Marine and battalion sailor had a battle station in case of an attack, and they reacted instinctively. The civilians and Derne sailors didn’t though, and that made them vulnerable. The alarm was for incoming. And as Ryck glanced at the map on the table, he could see lines arching up from the St. Regis battalion’s gun position. The little display AI gave Ryck how long they had until splash: 37 seconds.
“Captain!” Ryck shouted, pointing to one of the three security guards who was moving to intercept Çağlar and the PM.
Captain K nodded and interspaced himself between the guard and the PM.
The St. Regis battalion would have eyes on the Marine camp. The fact that they’d waited until now to fire told Ryck that the conference room was the target, or rather, the prime minister was the target, and the conference room was their best chance to get him with their howitzers.
“Out, out, out! We’re targeted!” he shouted again, trying to will the civilians to move.
A 125 mm shell is not the most powerful round available, but for a school building, it was more than enough to level it. The AI suddenly projected that the target was, in fact, the building with a 72% probability. Ryck didn’t need the AI to tell them that. He knew it in his heart.
Suddenly, the Marines’ own 155s opened up.
Eight seconds, not too shabby, he thought with pride despite the confusion.
Gunny Tambone was on the ball, and within a few more seconds, each of the four Marine guns had fired. Ryck was physically pushing people out the hatch, but he looked back to see the blue lines of outgoing fire begin their trace.
Hecs joined Ryck as they urged the 15 civilians out: 25 seconds left.
Ryck couldn’t see Hans and the Prime Minister, but he trusted the big Marine to get the PM under the nearest tank. When they had rehearsed that yesterday with Çağlar and others in the various stages of the tour, Ryck hadn’t
thought in his wildest dreams that they would actually have to do it. Now he wished he would have had Çağlar practice it more. But he trusted the man to get it done.
What the hell is Cennet thinking? Is this war?
“Eighteen seconds! Get out and lay flat!” he shouted as the first of his group ran outside.
The Sibleco point defense system opened up. The system was pretty effective against missiles, but an incoming artillery round was a pretty hard target. Even if it hit, the incoming round was still a hunk of metal hurtling to an impact. The rounds were semi-smart and had some degree of course correction, so unless the round was destroyed or hit close enough to the target, it could correct for being knocked off course for its intended point of impact.
In orbit, the Derne had some pretty robust weapons, but this was really too short a time period for them to power up and put enough energy through the atmosphere to destroy a kinetic round.
“Twelve seconds! Find a spot and hug it!” Ryck shouted.
He burst through the hatch with Hecs, lifting one of the company reps and carrying him along. Around him, the Davises opened up. Their 75mm rail guns generated a lot of power, and a direct hit would destroy any incoming shell. But that was a tall task in targeting.
Above him, the sky reverberated with an explosion. At least one of the shells had been hit. Then another.
Off to his right, one of the tanks was firing, crack, crack, crack, one round after the other, faster than the cyclic rate of the gun. Another explosion erupted, just above the camp.
“Time’s up! Down!” Ryck yelled as he and Hecs dragged down their civilian and covered the man with their bodies.
A heartbeat or two later, the building behind them exploded. Immediately, a burning spike ran up Ryck’s left butt cheek. Another explosion sounded on the other side of the building, and the screeching siren finally stopped.
Ryck reached back to probe his butt. The hot wetness was all he needed to know, but he still brought his hand forward to see his fingers covered in blood.
“Grubbing hell!” he muttered to himself.
He pulled out his PA, which had been in his back pocket but was luckily unscathed, and called up Çağlar.
“Where are you?” he asked when the sergeant came online.
“Under the Beserker. The PM’s fine,” Çağlar answered.
Ryck looked up, and 40 meters away, the Berserker stood. Ryck could see movement from underneath it.
“Hecs, check on our guests,” he said, rolling off the civilian and standing up.
He winced as the pain shot through him, but he pushed that away and jogged to the tank. The first man out from under was one of the Ataturk security team members. He spoke into his shoulder mic, and more men converged. Another security man, one of IGA’s, came next. Then, a little more laboriously, the prime minister, his bulk barely able to fit under the tank. He seemed unhurt. As the security team helped him up, Çağlar crawled out.
Dr. Şerif brushed off his front, then looked around, only then taking in the burning building.
“That was for me, wasn’t it?” he asked quietly.
“We don’t know that—” one of his team started to say when Ryck cut him off.
“That’s a pretty good guess, sir.”
“Is anyone hurt?” the PM asked.
Ryck checked his PA. All Marines and battalion sailors had healthy blue avatars.
“Not in the battalion, sir. But we need to check your people.”
“Are you bleeding, Colonel?” the PM asked.
“Yes, sir, but it’s no big deal. Just a scratch, really,” Ryck said.
“But you need to get it taken care of.”
“I will sir, but after we get you out of here,” Ryck said.
“Sir, he’s right,” Agent Wyatt or Wimat or something like that said. “We need to move now.”
“Are we still in danger?” the prime minister asked.
Ryck looked at his PA. The ship’s surveillance was reporting the three St. Regis tubes were destroyed, and there was no movement of St. Regis ground troops.
“It doesn’t look like it, sir. The Regis arty is destroyed, and we don’t see any movement from them. But Agent, uh, your agent here is right. We need to get you out of here. It’s too dangerous,” Ryck said.
“And what are you going to do about them. I mean, they attacked us!” the prime minister said, outrage beginning to seep into his voice as he brain began to make sense of it all.
“Sir, I’ll be reporting back to fleet, and along with the Marine command, I am sure we will get orders. But for the moment, unless we are attacked, we are not authorized to cross the border,” Captain K said as he walked up.
“But we were attacked!” the PM sputtered, his voice getting louder and more strident.
“Yes, sir, we were. And we responded, destroying the gun section that fired upon us. Don’t worry, sir, something will be done,” the captain said.
“Well, I’m sure IGA will have something to say about that,” the PM said, slightly quieter, but not sounding very mollified.
He turned around as the hatch on the Beserker opened as Sergeant Bergstrøm poked his head out. The PM only then noticed the tank’s 75 mm gun that was looking decidedly off-kilter as heat waves radiated up through the air. At the base of the gun, the liquid nitrogen nozzles sputtered and fizzed.
“I knew it,” Bergstrøm muttered before noticing the men standing around his vehicle.
So now I knew who was firing beyond the cyclic rate, Ryck thought.
He checked his PA for a readout and whistled. The chances of a tank knocking out an incoming arty round were pretty small, but somehow, Bergstrøm and his crew had destroyed two of the six rounds the Regis battalion had gotten off. With that kind of success, Ryck wouldn’t care if he burnt out the entire tank.
The PM sniffed, his face wrinkling up as the heavy ionization odor hit him.
What happened here?” he asked.
Sergeant Bergstrøm started to answer, but Ryck held up his hand. “What we have here, sir, is the Beserker. Bergstrøm’s Beserker. Sergeant Bergstrøm is the tank commander, and somehow, he and his crew knocked out two of the six rounds launched at us. What you smell, though, is the Berserker’s main gun. I’m not sure how up-to-speed you are on rail guns, but the round is so fast that the guns build up a tremendous amount of heat, turning the inside of the tube into plasma, the same thing as what’s fired by a plasma cannon. We’ve got nitrogen jets to cool the tube after each round, but that takes almost ten seconds before the gun is ready again. I’m gobsmacked how he was able to bypass the cyclic rate, something I intend to find out later, but this sergeant might have saved our asses. A lot of our asses.”
“Well, I’m impressed. Thank you, Sergeant,” the PM said, finally sounding calm again.
“Sir, I think you need to come here,” Hecs passed to Ryck through his PA.
The exterior speakers were on, so the others looked at Ryck with interest.
Ryck turned to spot Hecs and others standing some 30 meters away. At their feet was a body. Ryck’s heart fell.
“Excuse me, sir. We’ve got a casualty,” Ryck said, leaving the group.
But the group didn’t leave him. With the prime minister following him, his entourage had no choice but to tag along as well. Ryck’s ass was throbbing, but he tried not to limp as he crossed over the open area. The body had on an IGA shirt, he could see, but the face and head were a pulpy mess.
“Who is it?” he asked Hecs as he joined the group.
“He wouldn’t lie down. He just stood there, and then his head was hit when the building blew,” one of the IGA men said when he spotted the prime minister.
“It’s Stevens,” Hecs told him. “They managed to take out the president of the company operations here.”
All lives were equal to their loved ones. But the reality was that some lives were more equal than others. And in Ataturk, Nicholas Stevens was about as VIP as it got.
If Ryck had though
t that this stupid incident would be ignored as far as the Marines went and left to the diplomats, given the lack of friendly injuries and the destruction of the Regis tubes, those thoughts has dissipated like a mist in the breeze. IGA was not going to allow it.
The Fuzos would be going on the offensive.
Chapter 15
“Keep the feed going,” Colonel Miller said from back on Tarawa.
It was 0200 at headquarters, but the regimental commander and his staff, along with members of the division staff, had gathered to observe the assault. Gunner Barnhouse had hooked up one of the battalion’s hadron communicators on Ryck’s command Armadillo-C, complete with visuals. Ryck was the ground commander, and the assault was his to fight, but still, Colonel Miller was his commanding officer, and if the colonel made a suggestion during the assault, Ryck would be smart to at least consider it.
It wasn’t as if the CO was a combat neophyte, either. He’d been a staff sergeant before getting commissioned, and he had two more battle stars than Ryck. Ryck was more decorated, but the CO had seen combat more times.
“Roger that, sir,” Ryck said. “We’re about ready to cross the LOD[7], so I’ll sign off now.”
Good luck, not that you need it. Make us proud, though,” the colonel said before Ryck turned off his externals.
Gunner Barnhouse had offered to hook up a link between Ryck and the regimental CO over the hadron comms, but that was the last thing Ryck wanted. The thought of the colonel being on a direct link with him in his PICS was a sobering proposition. No, let them observe, but let Ryck fight the battle.
“You sure you don’t want a ride, sir?” Corporal Throckmorton asked with a smile from the back ramp of the command Armadillo.
“Not on your life!” Sams answered for Ryck. “You keep that belching beast in back of us.”
“Ah, Top, I’ve gotten better. It’s a pretty smooth ride now,” Throckmorton said, patting the side of the Armadillo proudly.
The corporal was right. It was a better ride now. The company technical rep and Captain Christophe’s maintenance platoon had made some adjustments, and maybe Throckmorton had gained some skill. If he had to now, Ryck thought he could conduct a fight from inside of the thing.
Lieutenant Colonel (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 6) Page 8