War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  He set his helmet on a table, then spoke in a deep voice that rang from the walls: “Marines, I am your platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Len. Welcome to Murder Company. You’ve been assigned to fill out Doom Squad, and from what I’ve heard you’ve already met your new brothers.”

  Brothers? Rizer didn’t consider the salty men brothers, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.

  “I’ve also heard it was a cold reception for some of you. All I can tell you is suck it up for now. Your parents might be proud of you for becoming Marines and graduating SOI, but around here it doesn’t mean much. Respect only comes with experience, and that only comes with field time. Once you’ve gotten some under your belt and proven yourself, you’ll be accepted by your fellow Marines. If they treat you like shit, it’s because you haven’t seen what they have. You are an unknown quantity—you need to earn their trust.

  “Beyond that perimeter fence is a real war, gentlemen. Call it peace keeping, call it a police action, call it what you will. It will kill you all the same. A large portion of the indigenous population wants this backwater rock for themselves, and they are willing to spill blood, your blood, to achieve their aims.

  “As your platoon sergeant, it is my job to keep you alive. I may not succeed. I have tagged, bagged, and cryoed more Marines than I wish to remember. If you want to avoid becoming a cold statistic, I strongly advise you to listen to the veteran Marines in your platoon. Take a lesson from their experience, and you might just survive the next two years. It can be done. I’ve completed two combat tours on other worlds, and I’m starting my third here. No deployment is without its risks, but we don’t sweat that, because it’s what we train for. Preparation is key, starting right now.

  “I know you were likely briefed on the basics during jump in, but I’m going to give you the lowdown. This moon is a primary source of tridinium; for those of you who don’t know, that makes jump reactors go. The insurgents are part of the VLA, the Verdant Liberation Army. They want to seize the tridinium mines and refineries—they get them, they control the moon, and Governor Misawa is out. If that doesn’t sound too bad, keep in mind that intel has confirmed the insurgents are funded and armed by the People’s Galactic Union—Verdant once belonged to them, and you can bet they’ll seize control again if the insurgents defeat us. That puts a major trade route in danger, and the Alliance could lose control of this entire sector.

  “The Verdant insurgent combatants we are fighting, or Vics as they are more commonly called, are not to be underestimated. They are ruthless, tough-nosed sons of bitches that have lived a hard existence their whole lives. They would slit their own momma’s throat if that was what it took to win. And they know how to fight. Experts in guerilla warfare, many of them have been fighting for independence before the Alliance ever came here. This is their home; don’t forget that.

  “Generally speaking, the insurgents are not as well armed as we are. Most are not in power armor, though we’ve encountered more and more who are. There may be Union advisors or troops out there as well; we’ve been told to watch for them but have yet to encounter any.

  “The insurgents aren’t your only concern out there. You may meet other unfriendlies, some of whom are on your side. The moon’s standing army is known as the Verdant Guard. I haven’t worked with them yet, but the reports are not encouraging, and a couple instances of green-on-blue attacks have been reported. If you have to work with them, watch your back. Same goes when dealing with civilians you encounter in the field or out in town. Just the other day a Marine from another battalion was found in Darmatian hanging by his thumbs in an abandoned building, with his guts spread all over the deck. So always stay with your battle buddy, and be watchful and wary, no matter where you are.

  “You will encounter mercenaries while working in the field. Some are employed as private security by the mining companies; others work directly with us. Some are professionals, others are nothing more than hired thugs. Just stay out of their way and let them do their thing. They’re not held to the same standards as you, remember that.” Len betrayed emotion—disgust—for the first time. “And likewise, do not drop to their level.

  “The enemy loves to litter the jungle with mines, IEDs, and other nasty surprises. You’re on point, you move slowly; it’s not a fucking race. Two of the Marines you’re replacing found that out the hard way. One is dead and the other has prosthetic legs now. Don’t make the same mistake.

  “Those are the basics, men. I could lecture you all day, but you won’t get the full picture until you’ve been around awhile. In the meantime, keep your mouths closed and eyes open. Watch your squad mates. They know what they’re doing. You may not like them yet, but you’ll bond soon enough. Are there any questions?”

  Ward asked about patrols. “Patrols can run anywhere from a few hours to a couple of weeks. The longest we’ve been out so far is ten days; that was at platoon strength. But it’s going to be different every time.”

  There were no further questions. Len came to attention, ordered, “Attention on deck!”

  The boots rose to attention. Lieutenant Dupaul entered and stood next to Len.

  “At ease,” Dupaul said. “I’d like to expand a bit on Staff Sergeant Len’s brief, mainly in dealing with the local civilian population. Darmatian is the closest town, about three klicks away. You may go there on liberty, but do not travel alone! I cannot stress this enough. Always go in the largest group possible and stick together. You are free to patronize any of the stores in town, but most of the bars are off limits. Staff Sergeant Len will provide you with a list of off-limits businesses which, by the way, includes all of the brothels, bot and human. Again, I cannot stress it enough. These are breeding grounds for STDs, and several Marines have been robbed in those establishments. Stay out of them, period. Don’t think you can’t be put in the brig while we’re at war. That goes for any infraction. Maintain the standards of a United Systems Marine at all times—uniform, physical fitness, shaving, and hygiene. Are there any questions?”

  There were none.

  Hygiene again… Rizer decided the lieutenant might be a germophobe.

  ***

  Tantus-4 hung large and low in the night sky, half its surface in light and half in shadow. Singled out. It had become an old story to Rizer: standing watch after a long day, when all he wanted was a full night’s sleep.

  Stiglitz put an end to that dream several hours before, informing Rizer that he had perimeter watch from 0000 to 0600. “Better get some sleep,” he’d advised with a laugh. The time had been 2150, just before lights out at 2200.

  “What the fuck?” Rizer asked. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the FNG, boot.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Fucking new guy,” Brackman answered from the rack below. “Jesus, get with it, Rizer.”

  Rizer never did get to sleep and now paced a trench at the edge of Camp Shaw. The base was built on a low and relatively flat hilltop. The lights of Darmatian shone over the next low ridge, eclipsing the stars, which held sway in unchallenged brilliance across the rest of the sky. Occasional rumbles and flashes of light could be seen in the distance, the noise competing with the sound of jump ships coming and going from Camp Shaw.

  A mist rolled in. The pall of humid night air seemed to press him down. The skin in his power armor suit featured climate control when not sealed, including microfans in his helmet and torso, but it hadn’t been enough to keep him cool, so he’d put the suit in pressurized mode. He didn’t even have to breathe the stinking air, other than his stale body odor, and the battery had more than enough power to keep him comfortable for the entire shift.

  Why the fuck am I out here? Who’s going to risk attacking this base? He stared out over the twin grips of the tripod-mounted heavy plasma machinegun. He couldn’t envision the insurgents being so stupid. Even if they tried, passive security—cameras and infrared sensors, along with laser beam trips—would provide plenty of w
arning. A tactical bot patrolled the perimeter fence line at the end of the kill zone, a clear-cut area extending some two hundred meters in front of Rizer. He decided his presence in the trench was mere formality.

  He raised his face shield for a minute to scratch his cheek. “Fucking bullshit,” he muttered aloud.

  “What was that, Rizer?” asked a deep voice from far too close.

  Rizer whirled, started to raise his rifle.

  “Don’t bother; you’re already dead,” said SSgt Len, who suddenly materialized in his power armor.

  “Staff sergeant…” Rizer gulped. “I wasn’t—”

  “Expecting me? That’s about par—most Marines don’t die when they’re expecting it.”

  “I… I was watching the tree line, staff sergeant. I thought it was safe to the rear.”

  “It is. I came from out there, checking some sensors. Didn’t you hear the call on the radio.”

  Rizer stuttered a moment, then said, “No, I didn’t hear it on the platoon net. But how? I didn’t see you.”

  SSgt Len shook his head. “Didn’t they teach you guys anything in SOI? You need to be on the base security net.” He keyed a couple buttons on Rizer’s wrist computer entering the freq, “My suit was in predator mode until you turned around. Why isn’t yours? You’re an easy target for a sniper in the tree line.”

  “Nobody told me. I didn’t know I could.”

  “This isn’t Forge; you don’t need permission to wipe your ass around here. Now get your suit into predator mode before you get your head shot off and make sure you are answering your hourly check-ins on the net. And get your suit out of life support mode. It will switch on automatically if there is any type of NBC threat. It eats up power in the field and fatigues you more quickly. You’ll have to sweat and deal with the jungle stench, but it beats the shit out of leaving here in a cryo-pod.”

  “Aye aye, staff sergeant.” He switched his suit to predator mode and disappeared into a finely digitized projection of what was behind him, his suit emitting an energy field that refracted the light around him.

  “Make sure you are scanning your flanks. Think like the enemy would; they wouldn’t come waltzing across this open field.”

  Rizer peered up and down the trench line, looking a bit sheepish.

  Staff Sergeant Len nodded. “Lesson learned. If I surprise you again, we’ll have a problem. I have enough of those already. I like it when shit flows smoothly, understand?”

  “Yes, staff sergeant.”

  He nodded and moved on down the trench.

  CHAPTER 16

  Zombified after a sleepless night of pacing a trench and watching a tree line, Rizer returned to the barracks and stowed his power armor. As he headed to his cube to undress before a much-needed shower, Murder Company’s three platoons came pouring out of the rec room, all dressed in camo jumpsuits. Rizer assumed they were going to chow; he also assumed he would be excused from joining them after standing night watch.

  “Let’s go, Rizer; get in formation outside,” said Corporal Baltazar when he glimpsed Rizer ducking into his cubicle.

  “For chow, corporal? I can eat later; I just want to—”

  “Patrol, dumbass, the company’s going out after chow, 0800 departure. Now get your ass in formation.” Rizer stood dumbfounded, refusing to believe. “Move!”

  He left the barracks, fell into Doom Squad next to Stubs.

  “Fuck, they’re sending you out?” Stubs asked.

  Rizer sighed, shook his head. “Sure as fuck looks like it.”

  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  SSgt Len called the platoon to attention, cutting off Rizer’s response. Not a single fucking wink. He had the aching head and dragging limbs to prove it.

  They marched to the chow hall and filed in by squads; Doom Squad was technically third squad in second platoon. The murmur of conversation, the clank of forks on aluminum trays, and the noisome odor of powdered eggs annoyed Rizer almost to the snapping point. When do I stop getting shit on?

  And then, as if to pound home his nobody status, a female in soiled blue coveralls with a matching cap cut in front of him in line. “Sorry, I gotta get to work,” was the only explanation she offered.

  Though the move was pushy, her face was not. She even smiled at Rizer for a moment before turning her back on him. Whoa… She had great eyes, the sapphire blue of the moons back home on Arcadia. Her dirty blond hair, streaked with black, looked dull in comparison. She wore a name tape—though he hadn’t noticed her name—but no rank. Must be some kind of civilian contractor.

  “Hey, what gives?” Corporal Daz asked her. “Squad integrity, lady, get to the back of the line.”

  “I don’t think so,” the woman said. “I have a priority pass, and I gotta get to work, unless you jarheads don’t want your broken gear fixed. Now suck it up and quit your bitching.”

  “Daaaamn!” Wexson said with a laugh.

  A couple of other veterans joined him, though Rizer kept a prudently straight face. Daz scowled at her before turning to get his breakfast. I guess she told you. Rizer figured Daz was accustomed to female revulsion.

  As she picked up her tray, Rizer admired her figure from the rear: slim yet well-padded in the proper places. He stood there nervous, bewildered, sapped of energy as he tried to puzzle out the smile she’d thrown him. Just smoothing her way into line? Or maybe she’s interested? He had no idea, and she gave him no further clues.

  Lost in thought, Rizer grabbed his tray of green Fovark eggs and soy links, turned to continue down the line, which had stopped while he wasn’t paying attention. His tray glanced off the woman’s arm and tilted. He lost his grip, spilled his meal. The tray hit the floor with a loud clatter, followed by laughter and clapping.

  Fuck me!

  The wisecracks flew downrange in nanoseconds. Baltazar: “I didn’t do it!” Daz: “Boot comin’ through!” Wexson: “Janitor up!”

  “Nice fumble, Rizer! What do you use for lotion, butter or bacon grease?” Stiglitz laughed at his own joke, but nobody really joined him. They were too busy laughing at Rizer.

  The woman took note of Stiglitz’s comment however. “You must know from firsthand experience, Lance Corporal… What is it?” She craned her neck to read his name tape. “Stiglitz? Now that’s a funny name!”

  Stubs and several others laughed. Rizer forgot about the spilled tray, even as the squad and onlookers forgot about him. Male Marines tended to ignore one another when females became involved.

  Stiglitz directed a hostile sneer at her. “Ah, I see how it is. But you have the right name, Vex, because you’re kind of irritating.”

  She nodded, half smiled. Rizer noted her nametape did indeed read VEX, just above a company name and logo on her pocket. “I’m surprised you know what the word means.”

  “I’m full of surprises, baby. Why don’t you let me show you sometime?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. It’s really not a surprise.”

  Stiglitz blinked in confusion. “What isn’t?”

  “That you have the tiniest cock on Verdant.”

  That line brought the house down. Stiglitz stood there, face reddening as his brothers ripped into him. Rizer almost pitied him. They won’t forget this anytime soon. He smiled at her, both grateful and interested in getting to know her. She raised her eyebrows, smiled back, and then walked away.

  Rizer wanted to join her, not an option. Squad integrity and all, he thought, rolling his eyes. He grabbed another tray, leaving his mess behind for the Service Corps to clean up. He sat down with Stubs and Ward and reveled in the squad busting Stiglitz’s balls until they burst. And for a few brief minutes, the boots became participants instead of punchlines.

  ***

  They sat in power armor for the briefing, helmets on their knees, rifles attached magnetically to their backs. Apparently each squad would be assigned a different mission, for they sat before separate holo-screens. Cor
poral Baltazar stood by the center screen to kick things off. Though they sat indoors within a vehicle maintenance bay to better see the holo-screens, the overhead door was open, the heat stifling.

  Rizer jerked up with a start after his eyes drooped shut.

  A contour map displaying a hilly area appeared on the board. Baltazar began: “Okay, we’re going on a sweep mission today, boys. All four squads of second platoon will be patrolling this valley between hills 471 and 472. The rendezvous point is atop hill 473 at the head of the valley.” Red arrows appeared: one each sweeping the top of hills 471 and 472 and two more working upstream in the valley below on opposite sides of a river. “Evil and Fury Squads will sweep the hills; Ghost and Doom will cover the valley.” Each arrow flashed as he mentioned the squads. Doom would sweep the river’s eastern shore.

  “There are two mission objectives: one, locate a security contractor missing from a mining camp on hill 473. Two: destroy any enemy encountered while sweeping our sector. Intel reports insurgent activity in the area, so we’ll likely see some action. Insertion method is via armored personnel carrier. Distance is about thirty-five klicks, so we’ll have a long ride. We will be dropped at waypoint alpha here on the…”

  The potent cocktail of breakfast, fatigue, nerves, and the heat made Rizer’s eyelids feel heavy as sandbags. “Rizer! Open your fucking eyes!” Baltazar shouted, glaring at him as he shook awake. “Go to the rear and stand up. Try to pay attention so you don’t get us all killed.” The inevitable boot cracks followed him as he headed to the rear.

  “After completing our sweep we’ll link up with the other squads on hill 473. We’ll have a mortar section from weapons platoon attached to us, along with four combat support bots to provide fire support for first platoon when they reach their objective: this valley beyond hill 473. They’re gonna sweep it clear overnight. Sparky will move with first fire team, combing for IEDs and mines as per SOP.”