The kid nodded emphatically in response, then flashed a half-hearted thumbs-up.
“Good enough.” Tyco moved on, turning to stare at a big, burly brute of a man currently engaged in strapping a machete against his side. This was Ringo. A veteran of a half-dozen ground conflicts, he had joined the Orbital late in his career. As he had explained it, the thrill of basic combat had worn off, and it was time for something new. No one knew how many drops Ringo had gone on – he didn’t even know, because he didn’t count them. But his kills, those were marked clearly, in small, checkered death’s heads carved into the body armor of his suit with the sharp point of his jungle knife.
“That’s still not regulation.” Tyco said, nodding at the machete strap. Ringo stared back, baring his teeth.
“So?”
“Kinda looks like a purse.” Tyco grinned. Had he been anyone else, Ringo would have buried the blade in his neck, but he just grunted instead, and smiled back easily.
“Real funny.” He said. “See you planet-side.”
“Yes you will.” Tyco responded, turning back to the others: “This is a basic search and neutralize, so let’s do this like the drills. Hit the ground running, find the rendezvous, and form up. Coordinates will appear on your weapon monitors.”
“What are we neutralizing, Cap - ?” Ringo called out.
Tyco didn’t answer, but he smiled as he continued through the troops. “Final objective is classified until rendezvous. That means need to know, which means don’t ask me. Speed saves, so get to that rendezvous as fast as you can. We’ll be out before they knew what hit them.” Tyco stressed each element: Coordinates. Rendezvous. Need-to-know. They were standard terms, but they needed repeating every damn time. Someone always forgot, fucked it up, and mistakes meant death. That’s why the final objective was classified until they had reached the staging area, even for Tyco: if they were captured early, the ultimate mission remained unknown, safely beyond their knowledge. It made sense, but it didn't exactly inspire confidence at the outset. “Maintain radio silence until you reach rendezvous or I give the ok. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir!” They responded, as one, and he nodded, hearing them fall in together. They would have to be, to get through what was coming.
Ghost stared quietly at Tyco, smiling as he went through his preparations. He met Tyco’s eyes, tapped his chest, and nodded; it was his version of a salute, an acknowledgment that he was here, and ready to go. Ghost was a veteran, focused and intense; he rarely spoke, rarely needed to, but always did what he had to. Tyco needed nothing more. Tyco nodded in response and swung on.
“Let’s be fast, let’s be clinical, and let’s be clean.” He shouted, raising his voice as he reached the end. “Remember, Soldiers.” He called, turning on his heel to face the waiting troopers. “We don’t make mistakes. We fix them.”
That got a few loud grunts of acknowledgment from the veterans. The rookies nodded nervously, a bit more emphatically than was natural, but that was alright too. Anything that loosened them up would do.
Tyco turned to finish his rounds and found Chip staring back him with the cold, malicious eyes of a confirmed sociopath as he reached for a cigarette from his pocket. The resident sniper, Chip had lasted longer than everyone but Hog and Tyco, and was friends with no one. From what Tyco could figure out, he’d just never seen the point of making friends.
“Wait ‘til we’re out of pressure to light that.” Tyco said, and then regretted it immediately. Chip’s fragile psyche was the difference between a quiet entry and an all-out firefight; it meant that critical quarter-inch of aim between forehead and thin air, and it wasn’t worth chancing it on a casual, off-hand comment.
“I look like a greenhorn to you?” Chip growled back.
“Nope.” Tyco said evenly, staring straight back at Chip’s blank expression. “Just hoping you don’t run out this time.”
Chip smiled, and Tyco sighed inwardly. All clear, then. “No shit.” Was all Chip said, but it was alright. He would be ready.
And then Tyco saw her. An unknown, a new face, just another greenhorn in a cargo bay half-full of greenhorns. Except that she wasn’t. She was new to the unit, Tyco was certain of that, and green as the unblemished paint of her camouflage, but her eyes were clear and uncompromising, steady even as she fumbled with the workings of her suit, and Tyco couldn’t look away. He could not place her, did not recognize her from training or transport, and that surprised him. At this stage, he usually knew all of his troopers.
She stared back at him shyly, alert and overeager as if waiting for an order. He nodded and looked away, momentarily disquieted.
The siren sounded deafeningly in the tight jump bay, bringing him back to the matter at hand. Tyco looked up at the spinning red light and nodded, feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins. The countdown had begun.
“One minute!” He shouted. In sixty short seconds, the doors would open and they would walk out into the thin flames of the cargo bay, making for the pods that would ferry them to the planet surface in accelerated free fall. “Suit up, troopers! Positions!”
A flurry of rattles, snaps, and clicks echoed through the heavy air as the veterans strapped down their jumpsuit armor in unison. Helmets clicked and locked into place, sleeves zipped and went airtight, and every weapon in the room was loaded and cocked, safeties carefully flicked on. Tyco snapped his helmet into place and turned to face the launch bay door. He watched the red light carefully, waiting for it to turn, timing its blinking as he tapped one finger against the door controls. The last minute of the wait always seemed unbearably, painfully infinite, even for Tyco after all of his drops. For the greenhorns, it had to be torture.
Tyco watched as a handful of troopers downed small grey pills. Reflex enhancers, double and triple doses in some cases, he had seen it before. Tyco didn’t trust them, didn’t trust anything that could wear off mid-mission, but some of the troopers swore by them, and he knew better than to gainsay their preparations now.
Glancing down at the readout on his wrist monitor, Tyco breathed a sigh of relief, calming the accelerating drumbeat in his chest and focusing on the mechanics that would see him safely through the next thirty seconds. It was time.
Without turning, he raised five fingers in the air, preparing to count down as he had seen the Captain do on the Huxley years before. He folded a finger. Four. Three. Two. One.
The door slid open, revealing the launch bay at last. It was a deceptively small chamber hanging in open space, its floor crisscrossed by a grid of metal restraints. The bright green planet below shone through brightly, shimmering ephemerally around the forty-one drop pods hanging in the thin air. The first time Tyco had stepped out onto the metal decking, he had been surprised to find his helmet misting as the tears formed in his eyes. Even now, the sudden shock of beauty was magnificent and startling, and he had to force himself onwards, towards the pod racks ahead of him. In these cramped, howling confines, there was not a second to lose. With a last look at the world below, he lowered his head and bulled his way across the metal decking towards his pod.
The thin atmosphere of low orbit rubbed the air electric. Flames sprung up and danced on every surface, licking across the brushed metal of Tyco’s suit. He ignored them, pushing on insistently, hoping the greenhorns behind him would take their cue and follow. There was no hope of coaxing them on at this point: the roar of the wind tunnel created by the wide-open drop bay was deafening, even through the thin glass of his helmet. Any attempt to use the comm would be futile. To a novice, the short walk across the open bay was a fiery, deafening hell, but Tyco knew it was only the calm before the real storm that awaited them below.
Tyco threw a quick glance over his shoulder, checking in on his unit. The greenhorns had fallen behind, wasting precious seconds staring down at the planet, or at the flames playing on their suits. Poke was laboring, pushing past the others, fighting the slow roll of the cruiser as he came. It was hard work, very hard until you got used to
it enough to take it in stride. The second wave of veterans which Tyco had placed purposefully behind the greenhorns pushed through the younger troopers, forcing them forwards along the ramp to keep them moving. Ringo’s proficiency with hand-to-hand combat, derived from a childhood of bar fights and usually turned against enemies, was equally devastating – and effective – here. Even encumbered by his atmosphere suit, he plowed through the slowing greenhorns, the force of his motions rippling ever farther through the ranks. Poke stumbled forwards and caught himself against the safety bar, dragging himself forwards hand-over-hand on while trying desperately not to look down.
Tyco was nearly at his pod when the flash planet-side caught his eye. Too bright to be an impact, the rising smoke trail surged upwards with horrifying speed. Tyco recognized it with instant dread: it was a rocket, planet-to-orbit, standard defense model. The kind that wasn’t supposed to exist on this planet, or the cruiser would never have come this close to the planet surface, and their mission would never have been ordered. Admiralty intelligence at work, Tyco thought, and tapped his comm, turning to wave furiously at the troopers behind.
“Incoming! Let’s move, troopers!” Despite the din, the screamed instructions were obvious. The bright missile contrail speeding through the sky was large and growing, its light grey smoke standing out against the planet below the pods.
Hog picked up the pace immediately, focusing in on the pods in front of her. Chip, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth inside his visor, didn’t. Missile be damned, he couldn’t be bothered to rush it. Tyco glanced back at the world, eyes tracing the rising smoke trail. It was closing fast, much faster than he’d thought.
A handful of troopers had reached their pods, clambering up over the safety railing and onto the boarding platform. They were the first, the fastest, and still Tyco knew – if that missile was accurate, even they wouldn’t make the drop. Their pods would never fire in time. With a direct hit, they were all done for, sitting ducks at 150 miles high. Tyco forced himself up over the railing, continuing on towards his pod. Death might be inevitable, but there was no point in waiting for it.
The missile roared past overhead, fiery exhaust blinding the troopers in a bright white flash. Tyco shielded his eyes and stared upwards, expecting the shudder of impact at any second. It didn’t come.
Tyco exhaled sharply, letting out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He reached down and pounded his pod door release, simultaneously tapping his comm with a newfound urgency.
“Drop at will!” He shouted. “Drop at will! Let’s get fucking planetside!”
Chip strode past Tyco wordlessly, clambering over the rail and dropping into his pod. He moved freely and easily, unhurried but with exact, well-considered precision. No sooner had he dropped into his pod than the red light over its door switched green, marking it ready to fire.
To Tyco’s left, Hog and Ringo were boarding as well. He took one last look before dropping into his pod, checking the unit’s readiness. Half were at their pods, another third a mere step or two away. And then there was Poke, and the greenhorns, laboring down the gangway, testing the upper limits of the burn shield on their drop suits.
An even brighter flash came from the other side of the ship, followed by a hard rumbling. The cruiser listed dangerously, sliding sideways and falling off-course as the shockwave rolled through it. The missile may have missed its mark, but its effects had not: the detonation rolled through the ship like a wave across the ocean, slamming the cruiser and sending it into a spin.
Tyco couldn’t wait any longer. He dropped into his pod and sealed it, slamming his fist down and initiating the launch protocol as the Cruiser roiled above. He glanced up through the pod glass at the landing, dreading what he would see. The greenhorns were strung along the landing, some near pods, others father away. Poke had one foot up on his pod and was awkwardly loading his rocket launcher into the weapons cache when the ship rolled violently, throwing him through the air and against the launch bay wall. He collapsed in a crumpled heap, legs going limp.
“Come on Poke…” Tyco breathed to himself, staring out at the unmoving greenhorn. Powerless to help, he gritted his teeth in angry frustration.
“Ten…nine…eight.” The automated launch control voice interrupted him, warning of the borderline lethal forces Tyco was about to incur from the pod’s imminent, abrupt acceleration through the atmosphere. The pod next to his fired, the reverberations rumbling through the grid and shaking Tyco against his restraints. He kept his eyes focused on Poke, willing him to stand, to get back up. The schematic in front of Tyco blinked and beeped, its colors shifting red to yellow as troopers strapped in, agonizingly slowly. A handful of pods blinked green, representing the mere few that had fired successfully.
The ship’s slow spin gathered speed quickly. A larger explosion rippled through the ship – a systems malfunction, a failed thruster, an over-heated cooling system, who knew, but it was enough to seal the cruiser’s fate. Tyco felt the crack before he saw it. He watched in horror as the ship came apart at the seams above him. He tapped his comm once more, desperate to save his troops even if he knew they wouldn’t hear him.
“Mission critical!” He shouted hoarsely. “Launch now! Launch now! She’s coming apart –! “ He was cut short as his own pod thrusters fired on, slamming the craft against its restraints and knocking the breath from his lungs. Tyco took one last look at Poke, struggling to his feet against the ship’s spin, and then at the ship above. The hull had cracked open, leaking pressure and atmosphere into space through ruptures spreading down the cruiser's length. Never get attached, he thought grimly, taking a deep breath to brace himself as the pod’s restraints slipped away. The pod lurched as its rockets fired, and then he was catapulted towards the planet surface, jolted feet-first into a dizzyingly accelerated free-fall. He stared straight up at the disintegrating launch bay, watching as it erupted into a bright, horrible fireball. He exhaled slowly against the hard acceleration, groaning inwardly at what he had witnessed. The first confirmed casualty of a mission was never easy to take. Poke would not be the last.
Tyco’s pod blinked green on his schematic, confirming its successful separation from the cruiser, and not a second too soon: the cruiser was rolling now, lumbering towards the planet in free fall, giant spires of flame playing across its fractured surface. The fires burning through its hull threatened to erupt at any second.
More pods fired from the cruiser’s hold, but it was too late, much too late – the ship’s spin had thrown it fatally off course. The pod launch headings were now uncorrectable, beyond the abilities of their tracking computers to bring them back on course. The tiny craft fired in bursts, at crazy angles, rocketing at steep angles into the atmosphere, towards oceans, mountains – or worst of all, careening horizontally, bouncing out of the atmosphere, denied entry and consigned to the whims of endless, unforgiving space.
The cruiser exploded, at last, erupting outwards in a massive, soundless cataclysm high above him, catching and swallowing the pods that had not launched soon enough in its wall of flame. In different circumstances, if his troopers had launched successfully, Tyco might have been grimly amused at Lieutenant Sorenson’s white-gloved, ceremonious demise, but now, watching half of his unit destroyed in a fiery split-second, he could not have cared less. The loss of his men and women left him numb and bitter.
The schematic in front of Tyco told the whole story: a quarter of the forty pods blinked red, never occupied, their passengers stranded somewhere on the flaming platform. Another quarter blinked yellow, but even as Tyco watched, these gave way to a dull grey, the schematic reading, grimly an irrevocably ‘SIGNAL LOST.’ The remaining twenty had launched, blinking green, though god knew how or to what coordinates. A handful of them now turned grey as well, dropping off the grid forever. Tyco had enough time to draw a deep, unhappy breath.
And then the shockwave hit, catching and flinging Tyco’s pod mercilessly through the atmosphere, rocking it sidew
ays and sending it lurching unevenly as it rocketed through walls of clouds. Flames crept up along the sides, encasing the metal in a tunnel of fire.
“Critical heat warning…” The automated voice chimed in Tyco’s helmet. “Shields at 60 percent…”
Tyco breathed out, riding out the turbulence, staring at the chaotically flashing display. The heat shield metal glowed a bright red at his feet. Strapped in and powerless, he prayed it would last just long enough to see him through. An automated countdown cycled down, dropping abruptly into single digits and cycling down to zero. Tyco took another deep breath, bracing himself for the jolt to come.
The rocket cut out above him, leaving his pod in gut-wrenching free fall, lurching against the staggering wind sheer.
“Critical heat warning…Shields at 40 percent…” The voice came again, and Tyco cursed inwardly. It was too early in the day to tempt fate.
He fought the rocking pod and the mounting g-forces, raising his hand as he counted down manually. It was a ritual, now, well-ingrained and thoroughly worn in: launch, ride out the rocket, count to thirty, prep chute, deploy retardants, and pull. Tyco breathed evenly, pacing himself for the last ten second, and yanked the release lever. He breathed in sharply as the pod lurched back, then breathed out slowly, mechanically, exhaling for the full fifteen seconds until the parachute flared open. The pod lurched back harder still, slamming against his restraints and knocking the wind out of him until his lungs burned.
The warning voice died away abruptly, leaving Tyco alone in the silent pod, surrounded by the howling wind outside. He leaned back, breathing easier, and looked down.
The ground rushed up below him, rising much too quickly despite the pod’s countermeasures. Tyco closed his eyes, letting the voice guide him in.
“Impact in five, four, three, two…”
And then everything went black.
Hard Drop Page 3
