Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series

by C. J. Carella

  And it was about to suck even more. For the Eets, at least, although there was plenty of suck to go around.

  Setting up the ALS-43 took a few seconds. Russell was ready long before the assaultmen were, but he held his fire. The first volley had to count. The Vipers’ sensors should have picked them up, but there was so much shit flying around that the Marine flanking force had managed to climb a small mountain without drawing anybody’s attention. It helped that most of the alien grunts were dumb as rocks, of course, and that a lot of their computer minders and their few normal-brained war leaders had been sent to Jesus, leaving the few survivors in charge of a lot more troopers than they were able to handle. All of which had allowed a squad of heavily-armed Devil Dogs to outflank a battalion-sized force. Pretty neat, until they made themselves known. He didn’t think they’d brought enough guns to take out a whole battalion.

  “Everybody ready?” the Gunny asked. Everybody sent back an acknowledgement. “Let them have it!”

  Twelve Marines poured it on, their coordinated volleys tearing holes in the area force fields and hitting the field generators themselves. The last two gennies went up in smoke, killing dozens of enemies and leaving hundreds more protected only by their personal shields and the grace of God. And God wasn’t in a gracious mood just about now.

  The two surviving hundred-mike-mike mortars in the rear had been waiting for this. The quick-firing tubes emptied their fifty-bomb magazines in five seconds, targeting the unprotected areas with a combination of plasma and fragmentary bombs, with their last two thermobaric charges for a chaser. The pass disappeared in glowing mass of hellfire. Russell and his fellow Marines checked fire; their sensors couldn’t find targets, and dropping grenades or missiles would only waste ammo without doing much more than add insult to injury.

  When the smoke cleared, most of the stick figures were gone. A third field genny in the rear was also out. After that, it was a massacre. A few Vipers tried to return fire, but the Weapons Platoon was in a perfect position to spot and engage them before they could hit anything important; the remaining survivors ran until they slammed into their follow-up forces, stalling the entire advance.

  I guess we did bring enough guns for a whole battalion, Russell thought. How about that.

  That had gone was well as it could have, but from that height Russell could see the rest of the Vipers surrounding their position, well over three thousand in number, which was plenty enough to go through them. His heart sank. They’d killed maybe two thousand aliens during the last two attacks, and it wasn’t going to matter. The mortars had shot off all their special munitions in that final volley and the weapons squads on the ridge had burned through two-thirds of their ammo. That was it. They were done.

  “Listen, maggots. Check your new aiming vectors,” Gunny Wendell said, acting as if they weren’t all dead men walking. “When they enter the pass, we will engage their generators, just like before. Two LAVs are going to move forward and plug the gap down below, so watch out for them. Any blue-on-blue hits and I’ll fucking blue and tattoo your asses.”

  That all sounded great, if one didn’t know that those LAVs were the last ones left in working order, and that they would last all of five minutes before Viper rockets hammered through their defenses and turned them into scrap. Or that the weapons platoon just didn’t have the firepower to take out another field genny. They’d blown their load and it was all over but the shouting.

  Russell still sent a dutiful acknowledgement. If you had to go, might as well go with your hands around the other bastard’s throat, figuratively speaking. He spent a few seconds wishing he’d found out the name of the witch; sending her a goodbye email would have been nice, even if chances were the transmission would never be received or passed on.

  The Vipers took a while to deal with the influx of survivors from the shattered attack. Some of the runners didn’t stop until they were shot down, which finally convinced the rest to rally. All their obedience got them was the dubious honor of being in the front lines of the new assault. Russell could almost sympathize with them. Life as a grunt sucked, whether you had skin or scales.

  The reorganized aliens began to push forward. They didn’t have any artillery or even mortars anymore, but Russell could see plenty of rocket launchers among them. More than enough to do the job. This wouldn’t take long.

  “Wait for it,” the Gunny ordered. “Wait for…”

  A FLASH message stepped on the transmission. ENEMY SPACE FORCES NEUTRALIZED. FRIENDLY AIR SUPPORT INCOMING. REPEAT. FRIENDLY AIR SUPPORT INCOMING. DO NOT ENGAGE AIRBORNE ASSETS.

  Airborne? Shuttles could do assault runs, but the Vipers’ rocket launchers were perfectly capable of going surface-to-air, not to mention all the heavy energy weapons scattered around the valley, which could range all the way into space. A shuttle attack would get slaughtered without accomplishing anything. What the fuck were they talking about?

  A few moments later, he had his answer.

  The weird-looking vehicles materialized from the twisted-space shimmer of a warp jump. A dozen of them appeared over the sky and opened fire with something bigger than a Stormin’ Norman’s main gun and a bunch of smaller energy weapons, tearing into the largest Viper concentrations around their position. The attack lasted maybe two seconds all told before the flying cannons disappeared back into warp, but that was enough. That single volley obliterated all enemy force fields and consumed half the ground forces around them.

  Maybe a regiment’s worth was able to run away.

  Russell didn’t know what those things were, but he cheered them at the top of his lungs. They all did.

  Eighteen

  Parthenon-Three, 165 AFC

  “Carrier Strike Group One,” Morris Jensen muttered, tasting each word like one would a new, exotic dish.

  “Whatever the hell they are, they sure came in handy,” Lemon said as they enjoyed the rocky ride inside the wheeled truck taking them to New Burbank. The converted cabin had bleachers attached to its sides and a few straps to keep the twenty grunts inside from bouncing from the walls, but that was about all the comfort they provided. Despite that, about half of the Volunteers inside were fast asleep. It’d been that kind of day.

  “Blew the Vipers clear off the system,” Lemon went on. He’d gotten the straight dope from his buddy the former Chief, who’d survived the battle and gotten back in touch with him. The aliens had lost all their capital ships and all but a handful of cruisers, something like seventy percent of the tonnage they’d started out with when they invaded. Sixth Fleet had chased the survivors all the way into Heinlein, where a few thousand Americans still lived; it turned out the aliens had brought all the troops they’d been using there to Parthenon, figuring on coming back later and finishing the job. Now they’d been booted out of there as well. And those space fighters had been the reason why. Good old American know-how had won the day once more.

  “Wonder if I’ll be able to collect any insurance,” Nikolic wondered out loud. When he wasn’t playing around in the militia, he owned and ran a hardware and small-fabber store in town. The fabbers had been requisitioned and carted away before the battle, and he’d hopefully get them back in the same condition they’d been in; the rest of his business had gone up in smoke.

  “If not, there’s always grants and emergency loans.”

  Morris’ farm had been in the path of the Viper advance; he hadn’t bothered checking on what they’d done to it. There would be plenty of time for that later.

  The truck ride became smoother as they reached the city proper, which had been hardly touched by the battle. A few missiles and beams had made it through and there’d been casualties, of course: over three thousand dead and twice as many injured, but a quick peek through the ubiquitous public cameras on every city corner showed most of New Burbank stood untouched. Lucky bastards.

  They spent the last fifteen minutes of the ride through town in companionable silence. Morris almost nodded off, but he was afraid of falling
asleep. The dreams had been bad, especially the ones where he was back on top of the burning bus. It was going to be a while before sleep came easy to him, if ever. But there was something he knew would make him feel better.

  Finally, the truck stopped and someone banged on the outside, letting them know it was time to get off. The tattered remains of Second Platoon, F Company, Volunteers Regiment, stepped out into the morning light. A small group of cheering civilians waited for him. Friends and family from Davistown. Someone had made a banner: GOD BLESS YOU. WE LOVE YOU.

  As soon as Morris was out, a small figure disentangled herself from the neighbors who’d been watching over her and came running towards him. He knelt down just in time for Mariah to barrel into him like a soft, towheaded missile.

  “Grampa!”

  “Here I am, pumpkin. Here I am.”

  It’d been worth it, all of it.

  * * *

  “Corporal Edison! Front and center!”

  Russell froze in mid-stride and suppressed a curse. He’d been headed towards New Burbank’s red-light district, three months’ pay burning a virtual hole in his pocket. Ninety-six hours of liberty beckoned, and he’d already burned two of those visiting Gonzo in the hospital. It’d been rough; Gonzo had taken the news about Nacle very hard. Russell was just beginning to process the loss, and it’d be a good while before the whole thing ran its course. He’d been through it enough times, burying his buddies, and he knew how the aftermath worked, not that it was always the same. His gut feeling was that this one was going to be worse than most. And getting drunk and laid would help; a little bit, but it would help.

  He turned around and stood at attention, facing the Navy officer who’d stopped him in his tracks. The female Navy officer. At first he didn’t recognize her. Her face was the same, though, even with the unfamiliar military hairstyle and white officer’s hat. His mouth twisted in a nervous half-smile.

  “Congratulations on your promotion,” Lieutenant Commander Deborah Genovisi said. Her smile was anything but nervous; the last time she’d seen that grin, that and her long hair had been all she’d been wearing.

  “It ain’t official yet, ma’am,” the soon-to-be-minted non-com said; he’d get his extra stripe when he was back from liberty. It didn’t matter much either way. He’d been a corporal before, and chances were he’d end up busted back to lance coolie soon enough. That was how he rolled. “Pleased to finally learn your name, ma’am.”

  “At ease, Corporal. We’re both off-duty.”

  “Of course,” he said, forcing himself not to add ‘ma’am’ at the end.

  “As you can see, I’ve been reactivated. Looks like I may be trying my luck aboard one of those new warp fighters, now that the Navy has decided it wants in on the action. We couldn’t let you Marines have all the fun, could we?”

  “I guess not.” Hearing those flying guns that had saved Russell’s bacon were property of the Corps had been a very pleasant surprise. He’d been looking forward to rubbing the fact in the noses of any bubblehead he ran into, from here to eternity. Except the Navy would probably steal the whole thing. It wouldn’t be the first time the Marines got screwed.

  “I have quarters not too far away, if you wouldn’t mind a night cap and some company.” Her voice softened. “I think we both could use it.”

  Fraternizing with an officer was a bad idea, even one outside his chain of command, but Russell had never been afraid of bad ideas. That was how he rolled. And maybe it was only fair for a Marine to do a little Navy-screwing of his own.

  His smile grew wider.

  * * *

  “That’s the last of them,” Lieutenant Hansen said, highlighting the spots on P-3’s map where the final mop-up operations had just wrapped up. He was still in the casualty list, but he could handle doing the paperwork entailed in the aftermath of the battle. “All alien forces on the planet are accounted for.”

  He was mostly right. All major Viper concentrations on Parthenon-Three had been exterminated, but scattered individuals still remained, hiding out in squad-sized groups or even individuals. Hunting down those remnants would take weeks, or the month or so before the aliens’ consumables ran out and they died of natural causes. Vipers could find no nourishment in human friendly worlds, or breathe their atmosphere for that matter. Fromm figured the militia, Guard and Army units tasked for that purpose wouldn’t wait for starvation or asphyxia to do the job, though. They had acquired a taste for Viper blood.

  The aliens had come to exterminate humanity, and were quickly learning such behaviors could be easily reciprocated. One would think the fate of the Snakes and the Gremlins would have sufficed to teach that lesson to every Starfarer in the known galaxy.

  If the US won the war… The three enemy empires comprised slightly over fifteen percent of all known sophonts in the galaxy. If it was a fight to the death, humanity would be wading in oceans of blood.

  Fromm went over the casualty lists one more time. They’d lost a few more people during the march back to friendly lines. An enemy without the option to surrender died hard. Mercy under the circumstances was suicidal, though. It’d still been hard, firing upon helpless enemies who’d exhausted their ammo and were no more dangerous than wild animals.

  He shrugged. You could repent and mend your ways later, or your children and grandchildren might, as long as you survived. If he had any tears to shed, they were for the men and women who’d lost their lives stopping the invasion force. His company had been worse than decimated: even after all the wounded were fit to return to duty, he was going to have to rebuild the unit almost from scratch. There would be plenty of manpower available now that full mobilization was underway, but turning those individuals into a fighting force would take a good deal of work.

  The 101st MEU and the rest of Expeditionary Strike Group Fourteen would be heading back to New Parris for rest and refit. Fromm didn’t think he would have as much time as he had after the actions at Jasper-Five. His guess was that the US would take the war to the Vipers and Lampreys now that their fleets had been savaged and humanity had a new weapon to make up for its numerical inferiority. Going into the offensive had its own risks, of course. Fromm remembered the field exercise against Viper defense forces, which weren’t comprised of half-sentient clone soldiers but smart, dedicated and well-equipped professionals. Those troops would be defending their homes, and wouldn’t go down easily.

  The war would go on.

  The thought filled him with dread, intermixed with a sense of eagerness that made him hate himself.

  Trade Nexus Eleven, 165 AFC

  Guillermo Hamilton was watching the latest news report from a passing American vessel, enjoying it in its full holographic glory, when Heather McClintock all but ran into the office.

  “There you are,” he said. “Have you seen the footage from the Battle of Parthenon? It’s…” The look in her face finally sunk in. “What’s wrong?”

  She was already transmitting a set of instructions to all the systems in the alleged trading post. Hamilton’s eyes widened in shock when he saw the self-destruct codes flash before his eyes. “The fuck is going on?”

  “Hope you had your bug-out bag packed up,” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here in the next hour, or we’re in deep shit.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked after her while she ran upstairs towards her bedroom. He’d tried to invite himself in there a couple of times and been politely rebuffed. Now, he followed her in. It was much as he expected; the only decoration in sight was a holo of some guy in a Marine officer’s uniform. The 3-D image flickered as Heather threw it into a duffle bag that was mostly packed already. Having a bug-out bag was a standard procedure.

  “My criminal contacts paid off again,” Heather told him. “The Boothan Clan owns a handful of security officers in the Nexus. A set of sealed orders came in via courier this morning, addressed to the Vehelian Guard Commandant. One of the corrupt cops hacked into the system and took a gander, just in case it
was something important. It was. Paying for it cost me a good bit of coin, but it was more than worth it.”

  “So?”

  “All humans in TN-11 are to be detained and handed over to the Imperium. The Ovals are waiting for a regiment of Spaceborne Infantry from their sector fleet to arrive before they start rounding us up; they are due in an hour. Figure another hour to deploy and coordinate with local security forces, and then they’ll start picking us up. We need to be off this station before that.”

  “Dear God. That means…”

  “War. War is what it means. The Ovals are joining the Alliance. Or, at best, they’ve caved to the Alliance’s demands and are just going to step aside and let us get slaughtered. At least they want to keep us alive, for now. They’re following the Imperium’s lead.”

  “That’s plenty bad. Are you sure?”

  “I hacked into the Nexus’ space traffic control system to look for confirmation. Two Oval planetary assault ships are inbound, ETA sixty-four minutes. Guess how many troops they can carry.”

  “A regiment.”

  Heather nodded, throwing a couple of additional items into the bag. She removed a handful of beamer power backs from a side compartment and stuffed them into several pockets of her jumpsuit before giving him a sidelong glance. “Better get packing.”

  He did. “The official bug-out plan isn’t going to work,” he pointed out while he opened a closet in his bedroom and pulled out his emergency bag. That procedure required at least twenty-four hours’ advance warning, not two.

  “I know. Nobody expected the Ovals would switch sides, let alone this suddenly. Luckily, I’m used to improvising on short notice. An American-flagged freighter, the Maffeo Polo, is currently docked on Level Sixteen and is due to leave in fifty minutes.”

  “They aren’t going to let us go!” Guillermo protested. His bag was mostly prepacked, out of habit more than anything else, but it lacked a few personal things he had to jam into it in a hurry. From the way Heather was looking at him, he’d better hurry or she’d leave him behind. “They’ll just refuse to clear it for departure.”