by Rick Partlow
To my surprise, Sandoval raised her hand.
“Yes, Lance Corporal?”
“Sir, they got to have a shitload of air defense around there, probably outside the deflectors and camouflaged.” She shook her head. “How’re we gonna get through that in the drop-ships?”
“You’re exactly right, Sandoval,” Covington said, a very thin, barely-noticeable smile creasing his face. “You may have noticed we’re carrying a company of Force Recon on this ship.”
Oh, boy, had we ever. Top had pounded it into us with the decibel level of a sonic stunner that if any of us got into it with the Force Recon troops, she would cut our guts out with a rusty knife. And it was so damned hard to keep my mouth shut when the pricks called themselves “operators,” as if they were some sort of Fleet Intelligence spooks instead of just straight-leg foot-soldiers.
“Yes, sir,” Sandoval said, her cheek quivering slightly, as if she was clenching her teeth not to say anything else. “I noticed.”
“They’re going to HALO in with glider chutes and take out the air defenses to let us insert low enough to drop.”
Shit. I didn’t say it, but I was thinking it, and I heard a couple people actually curse softly at the news.
“At ease!” Top growled and the murmuring ceased.
“You’ll get a detailed op order from your platoon leaders,” Covington continued, ignoring the exchange, “but this is the basic plan.” Another tap on his ‘link and a diagram popped up in mid-air above the projector. The town, the fusion reactor complex outside its boundaries and the shielded emitter of the defense laser were all actual stock images from just after their construction, but the deflector dishes and the transmitter array beneath them were all computer simulations.
“We’re dropping in as close as we can, less than five kilometers away unless we’re facing untenable ground fire. They’re sure to have dug-in bunkers and weapons turrets guarding the approaches to the reactor complex, so we’re going to have to distract them, get their attention. Fourth and First platoons are going to provide the distraction. You’re going to circle around and come in from the south, from the city side of the complex, draw fire that direction, while Third and Second approach from the northeast and northwest. Second will suppress the enemy bunkers while Third takes out the communications array.”
He motioned expansively.
“Once the deflectors come down, we need to un-ass the area, because the proton cannons aren’t going to cease fire, they’re going to take out the barracks, the laser, and anything else that happens to be in the area. Are we clear?”
A chorus of voices responded in the affirmative. He cocked his head to the side.
“I said,” he repeated, “are we clear?”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
That, apparently, was better, and he nodded satisfaction, touching his ‘link one last time. The map was replaced by a file photo I’d seen in Basic, and again in AOT. It was a full-body shot of a Tahni male dressed in what passed for a utility uniform for their military. He was broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with arms that seemed long for his torso and fingers almost like a human’s but with extra joints.
The face was what always got me. Like the hands, so close to human, too close for it to be an accident, or at least I thought so, and I wasn’t the only one. Close enough that if I saw one on a dark night or from far enough away, I might mistake it for a man. The jaw was too big, though, like a steam-shovel, and the brows were heavily-ridged, the doll-black eyes barely visible beneath them. The ears were broad, and flat against the side of the skull and the skin was a dark tan, though that varied between individuals, or so I’d been told. The hair was cut into a mohawk that ran all the way down the back of his thick neck and then trailed into a long queue wrapped around his throat. Someone had told me only their blooded warriors wore it that way.
“This,” Covington said, “is the enemy.” A low murmur went up and a few wisecracks quickly shushed by the platoon sergeants. “Most of you haven’t been told much about the Tahni other than where they’ve invaded and what sort of weapons they use, and I think that’s a mistake, so I’m going to tell you right now what we know about them.”
Now, I was interested. I’d been trying to look up information about the enemy but it seemed like everything was classified.
“The Tahni Imperium has been around in one form or another for about four thousand years.” He eyed us all significantly. “Four thousand years. It conquered the entire planet a thousand years ago, hundreds of years before the Tahni even achieved spaceflight. For the last thousand years, they’ve shared the same government, the same religion, the unshakable belief that their Emperor is the living embodiment of their god.
“They also believe they are the living extensions of their god, His hands in the universe. That’s why they don’t use AI-controlled weapons or autonomous drones. Hell, they don’t even like to use remotely-fired weapons if they can avoid it. To them, the closer they can come to killing the enemy with their bare hands, the closer they are to their god.
“To us, their society, their religion, their biology would be considered insane. They go into rut when their females are in season and lose all reason. The only way they’ve been able to maintain an orderly society is to keep their females totally separate from their males and only come together for prearranged marriages purely for procreation.”
“No wonder the fuckers are always trying to fight someone.” I didn’t know who said it, but it caused a general chuckle through the company and Covington didn’t clamp down on it, though he didn’t laugh.
“Among other reasons,” he agreed. “And that fucked-up religion of theirs tells them that all the habitable planets in the galaxy belong to them, and anyone else is trespassing. That anyone else being us. Do not make the mistake of thinking the Tahni will ever give up on this war. It’s part of who they are, part of who they believe their god is, and the only way we’ll ever force them to come to Jesus is to beat them so bad we rub their noses in their own shit like a bad dog.” He tapped his ‘link to shut down the projection. “That starts now. Ooo-rah?”
“Ooo-rah!” The reply was deafening, echoing off the bulkheads, and I was as loud as anyone. I knew it was a psychological prop, but sometimes we need psychological props.
“Platoon leaders, see to your platoons. We drop in sixty hours, so I want everyone familiar with the op order and rehearsed till you can do you part of the mission and your leader’s part, too, in your sleep. Dismissed.”
“Hang out here a bit, Third,” Ackley told us as the others began to filter off to wherever their platoon leaders were going to take them for their individual briefings. “Take a knee.”
I bit down on a sigh and kneeled down with the rest of the platoon. Taking a knee was a military tradition I’d never understand. It’s no more comfortable than standing up and everyone looks like a complete idiot. But I suppose officers got taught in the Academy that it was more intimate and personal than standing around, so we all went down on a knee in the middle of the damned hangar bay.
Lt. Ackley waited until they were all out of earshot before turning back to us, kneeling down herself.
“We’re up front again,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she was bragging, exulting or lamenting the fact. “The Skipper is putting his trust in us and I don’t mean to let him down.” She turned to Scotty Hayes. “First, you’re on point.”
“Jesus, ma’am,” Hayes said, laughing softly. “I can’t tell if you’re rewarding me or just trying to get me killed.”
Ackley smiled, a genuine smile and not the put-on, bravado-heavy grin some officers tried to use to make themselves look all tough and nervy.
“You know what the reward is for work well done, Sgt. Hayes,” she told him. “More work.”
“I’ve heard that, ma’am,” he admitted. “I just never thought I’d experience it.”
“The op order will be available on your ‘links and I expect you all to be familiar with it before we
launch, but it’s pretty straightforward stuff. We’ll drop and then cover as much distance as we can in the air without overheating, try to stay out of the firing arc of their ground bunkers until the cover platoons can begin laying down suppressive fire on their positions. We’re going in platoon column.”
I nodded. That made sense. Platoon column had the individual squads in wedges, one right behind the other rather than spread out. Spreading the squads out would just give the weapons turrets in the bunkers a bigger target to shoot at.
“Stick with your squad, but there’s no finesse about our role in this operation. First squad puts missile fire into the communications array until the damned thing blows up, and the rest of us make sure no one shoots them in the back until they’re finished. We back each other up in Third Platoon, am I clear?”
Her eyes flickered toward Cunningham and I pressed my lips together to force back the twisted grin trying to break through.
“Aye-aye, ma’am!”
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Because, boys and girls, when it comes down to it, we can’t count on anyone but each other. Whether you love your buddy or hate him, he’s still your buddy. You still have to look out for him and hope to hell he looks out for you. I know we’ve seen combat now, and some of you may think it wasn’t that hard, that it’ll be easy, that the enemy’s a pushover. Well, I don’t have any more combat experience than the rest of you and I can tell you that’s horse shit, and it’ll get you killed. The only easy day was yesterday, and the only good time was last time. Brigantia will be harder than Bluebonnet and what comes after Brigantia will be even harder than this, until we invade the Goddamned Tahni homeworld.”
She smiled wanly. “And I know that’s not an ooo-rah thing to say, but it’s something you need to hear. We’re here to win the war, but if you want to live to see the end, you need to keep your eyes open and look out for each other. Ooo-rah?”
“Ooo-rah, ma’am.” The reply was subdued, but sounded more heartfelt.
“We have sixty hours,” she said. “Let’s get in the simulators and work the mission.” She snorted. “And hope the damn straight-leg Recon pukes do their job.”
19
The armor wrapped me in the cold embrace of the dead.
It took the space of two or three breaths before the systems booted up and the Heads-Up Display alleviated the total blackness inside my helmet. Some people had a tendency towards panic in that moment of darkness. The ones who lasted through Armor school learned to endure it. I’d learned to appreciate it. It was peaceful, a womb, a fort made from chairs and bedsheets by a child, a shelter from the harsh emptiness without.
The insistent, annoying nasal tone of the drop-ship flight crew ruined the mood.
“Separation in five, four, three, two, one…launching!”
The jolt slammed my head into the helmet’s interior padding as the docking mandibles cut loose and the dropship’s maneuvering thrusters pushed us away from the monolithic mass of the Fleet Marine Transport Iwo Jima. Muted cursing crackled on the squad net and I saw on the IFF display it was from Betancourt.
“Take your finger off the transmit key, newbie,” I snapped at him, hoping he wouldn’t make me look even worse by saying he was sorry.
The last sixty hours had been absolute hell, one drill after another, one ass-chewing after another because Betancourt kept fucking up. The guy was scared, and while I didn’t blame him, I also had no idea what to say to him. I’d tried to talk to him anyway, and so had Scotty Hayes, but there hadn’t been the time for any psychological counseling, so I’d just had to hope he’d get his shit together.
And hope Cunningham didn’t stab me in the back, and hope the Force Recon boys got the job done and…
I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to hope. Hope was counting on shit I couldn’t control, and that had never gone very well for me.
“Ignition in five seconds,” the same relentlessly cheerful crew chief announced from the cockpit. “Prepare for acceleration.”
I rested my head against the padding at the rear of the helmet and sucked in a deep breath just in time for the crushing press of six gravities of boost. I wasn’t linked into the lander’s exterior cameras this time, mostly because I’d decided I didn’t want to see death coming if I couldn’t do anything to stop it, but I knew there would be a sun-bright flare from the boat's drive bell, taking us down to the southern continent of Brigantia just as fast as they could.
Even six g's couldn’t outrun a missile, but there were ECM and chaff and automated CWS for that. The heavy boost and the frequent jinking and deking were to keep the ground-based lasers from swatting us out of the sky. Theoretically.
The fist squeezing my chest let up and I realized we were leveling off. I figured we were maybe five minutes out from the drop zone only seconds before the warning light flashed in my HUD and let me know I was right. I pulled up the mapping software, getting interested in where we were if not what was coming up to meet us. Lt. Ackley was gabbling about something, but I shut it out for the moment. Not that she wasn’t competent, but I’d noticed she was talking to hear herself talk just before the drop and if there was anything really important, she’d cast the frag-o onto my HUD. I was trying to get my head right before I had to start worrying about everyone else.
Our target glowed with a red halo a few kilometers outside the city of Gennich, but nothing on the map told me whether the Marines had done their job and taken out the anti-aircraft batteries. They only needed to miss one…
We were low now; I knew it without looking at the instrument readings. There was a thickness to the air, a shudder in the wings, a deeper register of the engines. Not low enough for the drop yet, still another few hundred meters to go, but I started running system checks on my jump-jets. I snuck a peak out the exterior cameras and still saw nothing. It was night on this side of the planet.
Night, again. It was always night.
“We drop in thirty seconds,” Gunny Guerrero announced over the platoon net. “Keep your intervals, hundred meters between you, and no one stops moving until we’re at the target. First squad…”
Whatever he’d been about to say vanished in a flash of light and the agonized shriek of metal ripping, and the very fist of God shaking the dropship’s fuselage mercilessly. I didn’t have the time to deliberate, didn’t have the luxury to speculate, I only had instincts borne of endless repetition.
I dropped. I didn’t remember hitting the control, but the external deployment hatch had popped. I’d cut loose the magnetic locks holding my Vigilante in the drop carriage and I was falling free with the dropship close, too damned close above me when it exploded. The moment seemed frozen, as if I suddenly had all the time in the world to think now that the decisions had been made and my fate sealed.
The bird had taken a hit from a coil gun; it was the only thing that fit. A missile would have killed us all instantly, a laser would have given us a moment’s warning before it was able to burn through the hull. It had taken us in a wing and the ship had torn itself apart in less than a second, and when the engines had cut loose from the fuselage, it had exploded. One other suit was silhouetted against the blast…no, two others, blown free of the ship.
Then the moment was over and time was moving on and the glowing ball of gas and debris that had been our dropship was tumbling forward with its leftover momentum, and I was falling, way too high and way too fast. We were over a thousand meters up and still traveling at 700 kilometers an hour, and the jump-jets in my suit didn’t have nearly enough power to slow down 600 kilograms of armor, weapons, isotope reactor and very fragile human flesh to a survivable landing in that distance.
But seeing as how I don’t have any other choice…
The flare of the jets was a faint glow in the night sky, but it made me feel obscenely exposed, a thermal “shoot me” sign hung around my neck for the Tahni gunners to see, and it was all for nothing because I would still plow into the ground at…
No, not the ground.
The lake. My HUD map showed it. Water would be as hard as concrete from this height, but if I could minimize my surface area when I hit…
I had ten seconds and the black, featureless surface of the lake was screaming up at me; it was now or never. I gave the jets a long, continuous burst and stood the armor vertically, its arms tucked in, joints locked in place, then bit down on the mouthpiece built into the helmet. I’d been too busy to be afraid till now, but in those last few seconds I had the time…and still felt no fear. It surprised me.
So did the impact. The interior of the suit was lined with foam cushioning for just such an occasion, but the designers apparently hadn’t planned on the armor going quite this fast when it hit. There was a dull, concussive pain, the sort of feeling I remembered having the morning after a beatdown, and when I opened my eyes, I was fairly confident I’d passed out; everything was black, my helmet systems were down, and though not a drop of water made it through the seals, I had the unmistakable feeling that I was sinking fast.
The emergency ejection switch was inside my right gauntlet and it ran from its own, integral battery. I whispered a prayer that it hadn’t been damaged, sucked in as much air as my lungs could hold, and squeezed the control. Explosive bolts blew with a chest-deep thump, there was a tug against my temples as the interface jacks yanked out of the implant sockets, and the armor fell away around me. I was swallowed up in a cold so bitter and sudden that I very nearly gave in to the compulsion to gasp the carefully-hoarded breath out of my lungs.
Up. Have to go up.
I couldn’t see a damned thing; the water was just as black as the inside of my dead helmet had been. But I had a sense, something gut-deep, of the way the suit had gone when it had disappeared beneath me and I kicked desperately in the opposite direction. Pressure squeezed at my chest and the cold leeched the power from my arms and legs and I felt a soul-deep conviction that I wasn’t going to make it to the surface before my air ran out, yet still panic eluded me. I longed for it, wanted an excuse to give in to the cold and exhaustion dragging at me, to let the carbon dioxide burning inside my lungs escape and accept the frigid water in its place.
