Starship Insurgent (The Galactic Wars Book 6)

by Tripp Ellis

  Dugan marched up and down examining their form. After they completed the task, Dugan yelled, “Recover!"

  The class jumped back to their feet and stood at attention.

  “Let’s try that again. Drop!”

  “Drop!” the class echoed and hit the deck.

  “Give me 50. Push’em out.”

  “1,2,3…”

  Dugan prowled through the class again, looking for anyone struggling. It didn’t take him long to find someone to harass. “My God, Milton, you’re weaker than my sister.”

  Milton’s form had gone to shit, and his mid section was sagging.

  “All the way down and all the way up, scumbag!” Dugan screamed at the top of his lungs, millimeters from Milton’s ear.

  He continued to scour the class for slackers. It wouldn’t take Dugan long to size up the group. By the end of the day, he’d be able to guess, with good accuracy, who was going to survive First Phase, and who wouldn’t.

  Ryan stared at the concrete as he pushed out the reps. He could see Dugan’s boots approaching out of the corner of his eye.

  “What the fuck is this?” Dugan said with his eyes bulging out of their sockets. He was hovering over Spaceman Gavin Kirby. He was pushing out reps next to Ryan. The two had met during RTC and had become fast friends, and they were bunking together.

  Gavin was an outgoing guy, good sense of humor, always quick with a joke. Always had an angle on things. Cocky, but not in a douchebag kind of way. He was a strong Reaper candidate. A little impulsive though, and sometimes that got him into trouble.

  Dugan squatted down beside him and lifted up his shirt sleeve to see his tattoo. Dugan’s face tensed with anger.

  After a night of drinking, Gavin had decided to get a Skull & Scythe tattoo on his arm. It was the Reaper logo. It was a no-no for recruits. Only people who had earned the title deserved to wear the logo.

  “You are one dumb son-of-a-bitch. You know that tattoo is against regulations. I can have you dropped right now.”

  Ryan cringed because he had one too. They had gotten them at the same time.

  Dugan’s eyes were drawn to Ryan’s tattoo like a magnet. “Holy shit, we’ve got two imbeciles.” He got in Ryan’s face. “You trying to pass yourself off as something you’re not?”

  Ryan could feel Dugan’s spit spray on his cheek as he yelled in his ear. “No, Chief!”

  “You’re gonna look real silly with that stuck on your arm when you wash out of here.”

  “I’m not going to wash out, Chief.”

  Dugan burst out into laughter. “Let me guess. You two morons got those after graduation from RTC?”

  “Yes, Chief,” Ryan said as he pumped out push-ups.

  “Went out and got drunk and did something stupid. I’ve got half a mind to take my knife and cut the skin right off your arm.”

  “If that’s what it takes to become a Reaper, do it, Chief.”

  Dugan pulled his tactical knife from its sheath. He taunted Ryan with it. “You’ve got six months here at BSCT. Then you’ve got another six months of Reaper Qualifying Training. If you get through that, then you get your pin. Then you can call yourself a Reaper.” He paused for a moment. “I think I’m going to leave you with your tattoo. It’s going to be more painful for you to keep it. Every instructor here is going to be gunning for you because of it. You just made the impossible even harder for yourself.”

  Ryan cringed with a heavy sense of dread.

  “From now on, I’m gonna call you two Dipshit and Dingleberry. You like that?”

  “It’s got a nice ring to it, Chief,” Gavin said.

  “I can’t wait to hear you ring out.” Dugan sneered and stood up. He continued prowling.

  Gavin was trying not to laugh.

  “This is your fault,” Ryan muttered.

  “I didn’t make you do it,” Gavin said with a grin. Nothing seemed to rattle him. “You want to get mad, get mad at the tequila.”

  “Recover,” Dugan shouted after the class had pushed out 50.

  The class launched to their feet again.

  “Except for Dipshit and Dingleberry,” Dugan pointed to Ryan and Gavin. “Drop, and give me another 50. You know what, give me 100.”

  They hit the deck and started pushing.

  Dugan let the rest of the class watch to add insult to injury. Then he moved on to the next evolution. "Because I'm in a good mood, we're going to start out with something easy. 500 yard swim in 11 minutes. It's something all of you should be able to do."

  Ryan had no problem with the swim portion of his PST. He didn't think this was going to be a big deal until Dugan pointed out the part about making the swim in boots and pants.

  Soaked with water, the extra weight of fatigues and boots made the experience considerably more difficult. Most of the candidates knew there was going to be a lot of water training and had spent time in the pool before arriving at BSCT. But those who hadn't conditioned themselves were already struggling.

  Ryan had done some competitive swimming in high school, so he was comfortable in the water. Even still, it was difficult. And the added push-ups hadn’t helped. He could tell he wasn't going to make the swim in the 11 minutes allotted. He had practiced the combat sidestroke before he left for boot camp. He thought he had gotten pretty good at it.

  Dugan didn't think so.

  "That's pathetic, Dingleberry. You look like a wounded sea gull flopping around in the sand!” Dugan shouted from the edge of the pool. “I’ve seen rocks that swim better than you.”

  Ryan kept pulling himself through the water. He wasn't breaking any speed records, but he wasn't the worst in the class either. He figured Dugan was just trying to ride him a little, see how he'd handle the pressure.

  “Don't drown, Dingleberry. That would be a tragedy.” Dugan harassed him for a few more moments, then moved on to another candidate. "What's the matter Forsyth? You trying to drown on purpose so I'll give you mouth-to-mouth? Think again, scumbag. From now on, you’re name is Pansy. You like that?“

  “No, Chief,” Forsyth gurgled.

  “How about Dick Sucker? That suits you.”

  Forsyth learned quickly his nickname would only get worse if he protested.

  There were safety divers in the pool ready to rescue anyone that was in real trouble. But you weren’t considered in real trouble until you were lying on the bottom of the pool with your lungs full of water.

  Some swimmers were obviously failing the swim portion and couldn’t hack it. They weren’t ever going to hack it. Dugan didn’t even waste his breath on those candidates.

  Ryan finished the swim in 12 minutes and 15 seconds. Faster than most, but not fast enough. The entire class got a healthy ass-chewing.

  "Feet!" Dugan yelled.

  The waterlogged class stood at attention.

  "That was embarrassing. I know Girl Scouts that have more endurance and stamina than you. You realize we're training you for actual combat, right? This isn’t paintball. We don't hide behind computer screens and send drones to do our dirty work. This isn’t a fucking video game. Tell you what, I think all of you should just walk across the Pulverizer right now and ring the bell. Save yourself a lot of pain."

  The Pulverizer was the well-deserved nickname for the asphalt square in the center of the complex. It was where Reaper candidates spent an inordinate amount of time doing PT. If it ever became too much, all you had to do was ring the bell and you were out. If you came to BSCT from the fleet, they’d send you back and you’d have to wait 18 months to try again. If you came in on a Reaper Challenge Contract, you went home.

  "Do I have any quitters?”

  "No, Chief!"

  Dugan smirked. "Give it time."

  There was a sense of dread among many in the class. Sometimes the anticipation of the next evolution was worse than the evolution itself.

  "Because you have put me in a bad mood with your horrendous performance, our next evolution will be something I like to call Water Bonding.” Dug
an had a devious glint in his eyes.

  It was an insidious evolution where you positioned yourself on your back at the edge of the pool deck, tipped your head back into the water, then flooded your dive mask. Water swamped your eyes and nose. At this point, you probably got a rush of fluid down your nostrils and started to choke, letting even more water down your esophagus. If you were still alive and hadn’t drowned yet, you pulled your head out of the water and did flutter kicks on the side of the pool with your mask on. Trying to breathe and keep water from flooding into your nose was a challenge. And even in this stage, it caused many to panic.

  But this was just the beginning.

  After twenty minutes of poolside flutter kicks, Dugan ordered the candidates into the water. They were instructed to form a circle and pass a cinderblock between them, all while treading water. The fluid-filled mask limited vision, and you were almost certain to get a lung of water. This was where the real panic set in. Waterlogged, and unable to breathe through their noses, candidates began to flail about, making the situation even more chaotic. The pool was filled with splashing, gurgling, and gasping. It sounded like the class was drowning, and many of them were.

  Three more candidates dropped during the evolution. It wasn’t even 0700 hours yet. They had a full day ahead of them.

  16

  Walker

  Two Marines stood guard outside the President's quarters, as well as two Secret Service agents. One of the agents stopped Captain Walker before he could get within 10 feet of the hatch.

  “I'm here to see the President.”

  “You have an appointment?"

  Walker sighed. He was getting tired of going through this ritual every time he wanted to see Aria. “No. I don't have an appointment.” He leaned into the agent and spoke in a low snarl. “I'm probably never going to make an appointment to see my fiancé.”

  Walker was an imposing man. 6’4”, 250 pounds, and solid muscle. A Navy Reaper. A trained killer.

  The agent gulped, then stammered, “Sorry, Captain. Just doing my job.”

  Walker’s eyes narrowed at him.

  “I'll let her know you're here." He tapped his earbud. "Madam President, Captain Walker is here to see you. …Yes, Ma’am.”

  The agent stepped aside. “The President will see you now.

  Walker scowled at him and marched to the hatch. He pressed a button on the wall and the hatch slid open. When he stepped into the compartment, the agent followed behind him.

  Walker clenched his jaw.

  Slade's eyes lit up when she saw him. She could instantly see his frustration with her security detail. Thanks Edward. I'll be fine. You can wait outside.”

  “Yes, Madam President." The agent slipped back into the hallway and shut the hatch behind him.

  Slade slung her arms around Walker and planted a fat kiss on his lips.

  “You know, I like dating the most powerful woman in the free galaxy… But can you get these guys to give it a rest?”

  Slade smiled. "They're just looking after me."

  “You and I both know you don’t need anyone to look after you.”

  "True. But it makes them feel useful. Come on, it's only for four more years. Maybe eight,” she said with a wink.

  "We should've gotten married before the inauguration."

  “Yes, but then would I be President Walker? President Slade-Walker? President Slade?” She was teasing him.

  Walker rolled his eyes.

  “And what would they call you? The First Gentleman?”

  “You’re not getting cold feet are you?"

  “My feet are very warm, thank you very much.”

  “Just checking. It's not too late to back out.”

  “Nobody is backing out. A deal is a deal. Let me get through this transition period, then we can set a date and make this thing official.” She gave him another kiss.”

  Her full lips felt like heaven. The scent of her strawberry shampoo filled his nose. Walker's pulse began to rise. "Don't start something you can't finish.”

  “I’m the President. I can do anything I want.” She had a sultry glint in her eyes, and her words were like velvet.

  "I just don't want the Secret Service breaking down the hatch if things get a little… crazy.”

  “I’ll let them know that if they hear me screaming, you’re not trying to kill me.” She planted her lips on him again.

  Just as things were heating up, Glassman’s voice crackled in her earbud. “Madam President, we need you in the Situation Room.”

  Slade pulled away from Walker and sighed. “What is it now?”

  “We’ve had another incident.”

  “I’ll be right there.” She tapped her earbud and ended the communication. Her concerned eyes found Walker’s. “Rain check?"

  “Absolutely.”

  “Come with me."

  Slade stormed out of her quarters and marched down the hallway to a makeshift Situation Room. The Secret Service agents guarded in front and behind.

  “I really wish you’d take a position in my administration," she said to Walker.

  “I’m up to my ears in paperwork as it is. And I hate sitting behind a desk. I'm tempted to punch a superior so I can get busted down in rank and get back in the field. But since I keep getting promoted, I'm running out of superiors.”

  Slade would have chuckled if the situation weren’t so grim. She knew bad news was waiting for her in the Situation Room, and indeed it was. The room was chaotic when she entered.

  “There's been another attack," Glassman said in a panicked voice.

  Slade’s face tensed. Her eyes flicked to the monitors that displayed the carnage. Black smoke and smoldering ruins. Blood-soaked survivors screaming and whaling. News anchors pontificating and postulating.

  “Where?”

  “The Thomas D. Sparling Spaceport. We don’t have a death toll yet, and no one has officially claimed responsibility. But we’re picking up a lot of chatter indicating Saav Krava. We’re expecting Ragza to make a statement soon.”

  “Where are his transmissions coming from?” Slade asked.

  “He delivers pre-recorded statements to media outlets.”

  “Can we lean on them to reveal the source?”

  “He’s likely hacked into UPDF transmitters, then routing through multiple relays,” John Graham said. “That’s what I’d do. Use the system against itself.”

  “You find this ass-clown, and I’ll lead a team myself to take him out,” Walker said.

  All eyes darted to him. The room was silent a moment as his words hung in the air like smoke.

  He said what everyone wanted to hear, but it was the official policy of the United Federation and the UPDF not to target specific individuals for assassination—though it had been happening covertly for decades. It was something that was usually discussed in ways that afforded everyone plausible deniability. But Walker had just thrown it out there.

  “I’ve got an agent in route to Aldebarn Minor as we speak,” Graham said. “We believe there is a high probability that Ragza may have his base of operations there. The minute my agent reports back with a concrete lead, perhaps we can revisit this topic?”

  “I consider these attacks an act of war,” Slade said. “I am willing to pursue any and all means necessary to bring them to a halt and the perpetrators to justice, provided we stay within the confines of the Galactic Convention.”

  17

  Ryan

  “Get wet and sandy,” Dugan yelled.

  Cold wet and sandy was a condition that the trainees would spend most of their time in. Every evolution had to be executed with violent action. There was no lollygagging around. You did everything as fast as you possibly could. Upon hearing the command, the class raced toward the surf.

  The crystal blue water at Black Rock Island looked like something from a postcard. But this time of year, the water was freezing. Ryan felt like his heart was going to stop when he hit the water. Goosebumps instantly rose on his skin. He fel
t like a plucked chicken. He darted out of the water and sprinted across the white sand to the berm. He, and the rest of the class, rolled around covering every inch of their body and uniform with the sand, then ran back to Dugan.

  He eyed them like a hawk, making sure they had covered every inch of themselves. His eyes went wide at the site of Forsyth. “What the fuck is this?”

  Forsyth had a spot of clean skin on his cheek.

  “When I say wet and sandy, I mean cover yourself from head to toe. Is that clear?

  “Hooyah, Chief.”

  “Try it again.”

  Forsyth sprinted back to the surf and dove in. He ran back to the berm, rolled around in the sand, and made extra certain to cover every inch. Then he fell back in line with the rest of the team.

  The wind was gusting off the surf, sending an icy chill down Ryan’s spine. He wasn’t a particular fan of being cold, but he was going to have to get used to it. And quick.

  “Okay, dirtbags. 4 mile timed run. You have 32 minutes. Last one runs it again.”

  “Hooyah, Chief,” the class shouted in unison.

  “What are you waiting for? Go!”

  Ryan took off running with the rest of the class. He wanted to start out strong, but was mindful to pace himself. The wet sand was finding every nook and cranny. It felt like sandpaper against his skin.

  Ryan tried to find that perfect sweet spot between the surf and the fluffy dry powder of the berms. Finding solid sand to run on was the fastest path, and the way to expend the least amount of energy.

  Dugan climbed onto a hover bike and trailed behind them. He shouted insults at the stragglers through a megaphone.

  Ryan quickly emerged at the front of the pack. Forsyth was hanging toward the front as well. He was a skinny little guy, maybe 5’6” in boots. He was proving to be a stronger runner than he was a swimmer.

  The extra exertion was offsetting the cool air, and the run actually felt good. Ensign Parkes was breezing through it, putting most of the guys to shame. Ryan watched her stride past him. He increased his pace to keep up, running side by side. She intentionally picked up her pace and pulled a few steps away.