War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “I just looked at your cam footage. That was one ugly turn you pulled. The maintenance chief isn’t going to be happy.”

  Borland gulped. “Sir, I—”

  “Calm down, I didn’t say I didn’t like it. Just make sure those newbs don’t try anything that fancy too soon, not that you’ll be training them much longer.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve been informed you have new orders coming down; you’ll be leaving in a few days.”

  “New orders, sir? I’m not going home?” Her family lived on Aldeb-3, home to one of the largest naval stations in the galaxy. Hopes of being with her children again—and her husband, she supposed—melted into stomach-roiling bile.

  “I’m afraid not. You’re being assigned to a new fighter wing that will deploy in support of a Marine Expeditionary Force, destination classified at the moment.”

  “Sir, I put in a request and was assured I’d be rotated back to Aldeb.”

  He regarded her with olivine eyes that belonged on a jaguar. “There are no assurances, Borland, and your duty station is subject to the needs of the Navy. You’ve been around long enough to know that. Fact is I recommended you for this posting. I don’t know any details, but it sounds like things might be getting hot with the Union again. I’ve been ordered to give up two experienced combat pilots, and one of them is you.”

  You wrinkled old reptile! Crawford knew damn well she hadn’t been home in months and that her request for Aldeb had been granted. Since he’d volunteered her, it made her wonder if she’d done anything to make it onto his shit list, a lengthy document even on a good day. Does it really matter? Orders were coming and she was going, like it or not. She thought of her kids, quickly growing up billions of miles away, even as she considered how to make the best of the bad news.

  “Will I be in a command position, sir?” Maybe I’ll finally get XO.

  He shook his head. “Flight leader.”

  The news brought boiling blood to her brain. “Sir, with all due respect, that’s a lieutenant’s billet.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “With twelve years in and confirmed combat kills, I should be looking at XO.”

  “Should you?” He turned his computer so she could read the holo-screen. “See these? They’re training reports written by other officers. You haven’t submitted one in four days.” He scrolled through them, then opened another file. “And here’s a maintenance request submitted to you by that kid Johnston the other day for work on his bird. Again, you never submitted it, so the damn thing’s been sitting out in the hangar gathering dust instead of down in maintenance getting fixed. He had to take out another fighter for your games today. But don’t worry, I have Commander Hagen taking care of it now. And here I always thought that shit was supposed to roll downhill.”

  Borland sighed, looked at the ceiling, and then back to Crawford. “Sir, I promise you, I was getting—”

  “Getting to it is not good enough, Borland. I’ve been around twenty-five years, and you’re one of the best fighter pilots I’ve ever seen.” He pointed at her. “But in a command role, you need to be on top of everything. There’s more to being a flight officer than shooting down the enemy. Presuming you want to keep climbing the ladder. Because, unfortunately, your performance record on the admin side just doesn’t cut it.”

  “Sir, I can do better if you give me another shot. Recommend me for XO with this new unit, and I’ll prove it.”

  “I won’t do that. I’d stake my reputation on your fighting skill any day, lieutenant commander. But I won’t gamble on your weakest aptitude.” He jerked his thumb at the holo-screen. As she stared at the display his expression softened. “Listen, it also doesn’t help your career that you have turned down orders to every school or B billet that doesn’t involve flying. If you really want to get promoted, you need to balance out your skills.”

  She nodded slowly. “Understood, sir.”

  He was right. As much as she hated him for not recommending her for XO, she grudgingly understood why. Many salty commanders like Crawford would have told her to suck it up without offering any explanation.

  “Very well then. You’re dismissed, Borland.”

  ***

  “You’re serious? You’re not coming home?” asked the handsome hologram of Stephen Borland, Sandra’s husband. As she lay on her bed in her quarters, Steve’s ghostly blue face spoke to her from atop the nightstand.

  “Nope, doesn’t look that way.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Steve, and just as pissed about it as you.” Well, probably more pissed than you.

  There was a brief lag despite the faster-than-light comm feed.

  “But the kids… You talked to them but didn’t tell them.”

  “You’re there; you need to tell them. You think they want to hear it from my hologram?” But it should be from me. Still she couldn’t bear to break the news to them. She hadn’t been home in nine months and had no idea when she might see them again. Her kids were her joy, the only priority she put before flying.

  “Okay… I’ll let them know in the next couple of days.”

  “Thanks.” She wiped away tears before they started flowing.

  Sandra and Steve had grown distant over the years, constantly forced apart by postings on starships or obscure planets the Navy chose for tactical reasons. Were it not for the kids, their marriage would have ended long ago, though they acted out a happy charade during the rare times they were together. Steve, a successful OR surgeon, couldn’t travel with her. She might have brought her children, but she preferred they have a stable upbringing on Aldeb as opposed to being constantly uprooted.

  “So where are you off to this evening?” she asked, since he wore one of his nicer suits. Current time on Aldeb was 1917 according to the hologram.

  “We’re going to a fundraising dinner for ambient radiation awareness. Boring as hell, but it should raise a lot of money.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Tom and Shannon bought plates too. I’m going with them.”

  “Stag, I take it?” She gave him a sardonic sneer.

  He broke eye contact, but she heard him out anyway. “No. I’m taking Heather, one of the scrub techs.”

  “Ah. Well, say no more. I hope you have a good time.” Her words held only minor sarcasm. To fault her husband’s infidelity was to proclaim herself a hypocrite. Her curvy good looks, especially as a younger pilot, had helped her earn the call sign Vixen. However, she had gained a reputation over the years as a woman who wasn’t afraid to pursue extramarital interests.

  He nodded. “I’ll break the news to the kids. Keep us posted on your situation. Good luck out there.” Oddly enough, Steve sounded almost choked up.

  Sandra felt roughly the same. Somehow, she still loved the doctor she’d married fifteen years ago, even if only law and children still bonded them. That’s the weirdest thing about a sham marriage. “Thanks, I’ll let you know. Good night.” She clicked off before he could respond.

  For a while Sandra needed to forget the bad news about her new posting. Steve had Heather, whoever the fuck she was; Sandra had Lieutenant Simms, who flew in another squadron. What about Walker? She knew little about the guy but wanted to learn more. He might be at the officers’ club, getting acquainted with his new squadron mates. Wherever he was, Borland could find him. The ship was only so big. As to his potential interest, she couldn’t say.

  “Nah,” she muttered, “go with what you know.” She called Simms and invited him over.

  CHAPTER 5

  Despite excruciating days that seemed never-ending—including some that bled into the next without sleep—the first eight weeks of bootcamp passed in a blur. Dead wood continued to drift away on brutal, unfortunate currents both fickle and predictable. Forty-seven recruits remained in Platoon 2084, a little over half of its original strength. The weak had vanished, their bodies and minds finally crumbling under pressure. Deezeman and another recruit w
ere dropped for attempting suicide. The strong took hits as well, largely due to injuries, a couple of which were gruesome affairs.

  Despite the hardships and attrition, Rizer gauged that they were getting nowhere. The constant routine of physical training, classroom instruction, and DI hazing had grown painfully repetitive. He had signed up for the galaxy’s finest fighting force, yet he’d picked up no weapon more deadly than a fork in the chow hall.

  That changed in the ninth week, starting with the issue of their basic armor suits, referred to as skins. Constructed of a pliable, anti-ballistic material, the form-fitting skins featured integrated light-armor plating and were compatible with their standard-issue load-bearing equipment. A helmet with a full face shield, built-in comm gear, and heads-up display—which featured range-finding, magnification, night vision optics, a broad spectrum sensor suite, target acquisition technology, and an ammunition counter linked to all the user’s weapons—topped off the suit. Unlike the advanced power armor worn by Marine infantry and special ops, recruits’ skins were not powered but for the helmet display, nor did they feature attachments to take on jet packs or increase the user’s strength as power armor did.

  Recruits fortunate enough to finish bootcamp would spend their careers in skins. Rizer, who had signed an open contract leaving his MOS to be determined by the needs of the Marine Corps, had no idea which suit he would be wearing in the fleet. Whatever the case, he felt equal measures of excitement and satisfaction when finally donning a real combat uniform.

  Two days later they received their most crucial piece of gear: the M-17 power rifle. The skins made the recruits look like Marines, or reasonable facsimiles, but rifle and marksmanship training would teach them to deal death like Marines, the endgame for those who completed bootcamp.

  They took their rifles wherever they went. And woe to the recruit who left his weapon sitting adrift somewhere for a DI to pick up, for then they would have to buy it back, which involved intense physical torture limited only by the DI’s imagination.

  Not surprisingly, they spent the first week with their rifles learning to break them down for cleaning until they could do it blindfolded and drilling movements to march with them in formation.

  With the issue of their weapons and skins, the boring preliminaries appeared to have ceased. Finally, they would begin combat training with a trip to the firing range. But the games, of course, were never ending.

  “They’re gonna be soft on you at the range,” Mack explained before they stepped off on the forced march. “Your tender little brains need to concentrate on shooting, so I’m not supposed to fuck with you as much out there. So I’m gonna give you maggots something to remember while you’re lying on your bellies snapping in tomorrow.” She’d then taken off at a pace that seemed impossible to attain, let alone maintain, under the weight of full gear.

  As in all matters, the platoon was kept in the dark regarding the march distance. Rizer figured they must have humped at least twenty klicks already as he splashed through deep puddles on a muddy road, the muck slowing his every step. The waterproof qualities of the skins provided some relief from the near-constant rain and chill on Forge yet did nothing to relieve the aching shoulders and inflamed feet caused by his heavy burden.

  Several recruits dropped out from the fast hump, but the clatter of gear from behind, accompanied by splashing water, signaled another man down, one who’d fallen instead of quitting.

  “Boy, get your ass up!” Sgt Burrmaster said to whoever it was. As the platoon marched on, Burrmaster’s shouts continued as he thrashed the dropper on the spot, standard procedure on this hump.

  “Let’s go! Step it out now!” Mack called from the head of the platoon.

  “Aye, ma’am!” The recruits sounded weary, a sound not lost on Mack.

  “Halt! Just fucking stop right now!”

  The platoon jerked to a splashing halt, some of them plowing into the backpack of the man in front of them. “What’s the matter, Eighty Four? Do our feet hurt today? Can’t walk a few klicks in the rain?” An uneven chorus of no ma’ams followed. “You chumps are pathetic! The Marines who fought at Kordant humped over fifty clicks under constant enemy harassing fire. But that’s fine; we’ll just give your little tootsies a rest. On your faces now! Start pushing!”

  Rizer assumed the position in several centimeters of muck. Pushing down the world instead of pushing himself up, his arms sunk nearly to his elbows. His rifle, slung over his shoulder, shifted and slid into the mud. Something came down on his backpack an instant later and drove him downward with great force into the mire.

  When Rizer extricated his face from the mud, Alpha yelled, “Yeah, let your rifle fall in the slop, Rizer!” The bot turned. “Pushups, not stand-ups, Stubneski!” He stepped on Stubs’ pack and stomped him into the mud.

  “You fucksticks haven’t learned anything about fortitude.” Mack paced, shaking her head. “I am so disappointed. Now who wants to show me they have what it takes to be hard-chargin’ infantryman in my Marine Corps?”

  Naturally, they all did.

  “On your feet now! Keep up with me, and you can rest when you get to the range. Fall out, and not only will I thrash you till you die, but you’ll spend all night cleaning the winners’ weapons. Let’s go! Step it out!”

  She launched ahead at the speed she’d maintained all day—a few steps later she took off running.

  Fucking insanity! Rizer galloped through the slop to keep pace.

  Most of the recruits who dropped did so literally, right on their faces when they stepped in a hole or slipped on a rock. The formation devolved into a mob of filthy people struggling to stay with Mack. As always, she and Sgt Burrmaster seemed unphased by the physical exertion. Rizer thought, not for the first time, that they might be undercover androids.

  About to quit from sheer exhaustion Rizer spotted some low hillocks of uniform size in the mist ahead. A few steps later he noticed steel doors embedded in concrete entrances at the base of each hill. A sodden platoon guidon hung limp before one of the doors.

  Yes, this is it!

  Belzer, Coltin, Garwood, and Carelli ran alongside SSgt Mack toward the third hill. Rizer, Stubs, and several others trailed by a few meters. They halted before her. Rizer thought he might drop on the spot, but Mack wasn’t even breathing heavily.

  Rizer took stock of the remaining platoon members. Abek had made it—shit!—but Vanhoven and Melchor hadn’t. Either one of those assholes can clean my rifle.

  “Give me a count, Garwood,” Mack ordered. “How many maggots could keep up with me?”

  “Sixteen, ma’am!” he said a few moments later.

  “Sixteen out of forty-seven! Pathetic as always! Well, what the fuck are you dipshits standing around for? There are recruits strung out behind you for two klicks! Marines don’t leave anyone behind, not our dead and surely not our living. Get back out there and start collecting them!”

  The winners turned and started backtracking to recover their comrades.

  I’ve wound up in hell.

  Not a believer in religion, Rizer suspected that maybe the followers of the Light of the Universe understood something about evil. SSgt Mack needed only a pitchfork in hand to make a believable devil. “Faster! Get fucking moving!” she yelled with maniacal fervor.

  Abek, moving too slowly to please her, fell on his face when Mack kicked him in the ass for motivation.

  The recruits spent the next hour on the road, collecting the slow and the fallen. Marines won and lost, lived and died, as a team, so of course there were no winners. The platoon spent nearly the entire night cleaning their rifles and gear. SSgt Mack put them in their racks at 0345.

  Reveille sounded at 0430.

  ***

  The platoon sat in a classroom before the Marines responsible for their marksmanship training that would transform them into true killers.

  “Recruits, my name is Gunnery Sergeant Harvey,” said the tall, rangy man sta
nding on a dais before them, a black viewing screen at his back. “And this is Staff Sergeant Birch.” He pointed to an equally tall man next to him, who looked older than Harvey or any of the other staff NCOs Rizer had encountered. “We are your primary marksmanship instructors, PMIs for short.

  “We are not drill instructors; it is not our job to thrash you and play games. But your DIs are always close by; remember that. Fuck off in my class, and I’ll call them in for a refresher course in discipline. It’s nothing personal, mind you, just professional. We have a lot to cover in a very short period, and we won’t tolerate any bullshit. If you find yourself getting tired, stand up, and go to the rear of the class. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” the platoon shouted.

  “Outstanding. This is the most crucial portion of your training because, as you’ve been told countless times, every Marine is a rifleman. Your standard-issue M-17 is your most important item of gear. We make our living with this weapon, so treat this training in the only logical and acceptable manner: as if your life depends on it. Now let’s get to it.”

  Rizer found the gunny’s composed demeanor a welcome departure from the usual mania and a bit disarming after being shouted at since day one. Let’s hope nobody fucks up this vacation.

  Harvey continued: “I know your drill instructors have been pounding the specs for the M-17 power rifle into those grapes of yours. Now we’re gonna see who’s been paying attention. Who wants to give me the basic specifications?”

  A few hands shot into the air, though Rizer remained motionless.

  “You.” Harvey pointed to Rizer’s left. “What’s your name?”

  “Recruit Belzer, sir!”

  “You can sit down, Belzer. And no need to sound off in here. Tell us what you know.”

  “Sir, the M-17 is a 10-millimeter, air-cooled, battery-operated, magazine-fed directed energy weapon capable of both semi, burst, and automatic fire.”

  “That is correct. The M-17 is a directed energy weapon, commonly referred to as a plasma rifle or plasrifle. It operates by converting metallic atoms directly into plasma energy. This is accomplished by the application of focused energy through a precisely aligned magnetic field. The word rifle dates from ancient times and refers to grooves inside of a weapon’s bore that cause propellant rounds to revolve during flight, a necessity for accuracy at the time. Technically, the M-17 is not a rifle, for it has a smooth bore, but out of tradition we still often refer to it as a rifle due to the weapon’s length and caliber size.