Gott Mit Uns (Terran Strike Marines Book 5)

by Richard Fox

  “No, baby. But Phoenix is the top target and—”

  “Daddy!” squealed several children as several smiling faces crowded the screen.

  Max fought back emotion as he looked at his family. The kids shouted questions all at once and Max chuckled as he waved to the screen.

  “Stop for a second, everyone. Just wait. I don’t have too much time. This is a special call,” he said. The children buttoned up. Max, a communications specialist, had taught his family that sometimes he’d be able to make calls when he wasn’t supposed to, using a backdoor to the telecom systems that the techs had built in for certain occasions.

  “I’m on a ship,” he said, “with my Strike Marines and we’re doing just fine. I wanted to call and…and just say how much I love you all. OK?”

  “Daddy, did you get shot again?” Lenny, age five, asked.

  “Shut up!” His eldest daughter slapped Lenny on the back of his head.

  “No. I’m a hundred percent A-OK, just like always. Don’t worry about me.” He made an exaggerated glance to either side. “Tell you a little secret…Daddy’s going to be with armor.”

  “Whoa,” Lenny said, his jaw dropping. “Like from the big square in the city?”

  “Same ones. So don’t worry about me. OK? You all just be good and do what Mommy tells you. Understand?”

  “Can we go back to Ha-why-wee again?” Daisy, age six, asked.

  “Sure thing, sugar. Soon as I get back.”

  “When?” His wife took over the screen. “When…could you say?”

  “I can’t. Not really. Just keep an eye on the news. You’ll know when I’ll be on my way back.”

  An alert box blinked on the screen. The ship’s data crawlers had noticed the unauthorized usage. He had less than a minute before he’d get into real trouble, a buffer worked in by other commo techs.

  “Got to go, my kiddos. I love you all. Be good. Gina, love you too. Keep strong, OK?”

  Gina wiped a tear away and the kids broke into sobs.

  Max ended the call and slammed the tablet against the deck. He leaned forward and buried his head against his knees, his heart roiling.

  After a minute he looked up and found Steuben standing in the open doorway. Max reared back, smacking his head against a control panel.

  “God damn!” Max rubbed his scalp furiously. “Don’t you make noise…sir?”

  “Only when I need to,” Steuben said. The Karigole rubbed talon-tipped fingers down his jaw. “Smoke line?”

  “Roger,” Max said, standing and pocketing the tablet. “How’d you know about it?”

  “I have worked with Strike Marines with little respect for rules and regulations before. One named Standish. Though I never got him as…red-handed.”

  “Breaking commo blackout.” Max nodded. “Violation of Standing Order 33—”

  “Your family is well?” Steuben asked.

  “It’s…hard to be a father from orbit. Checking in on the down-low. I miss them. They miss me. Life in the Corps.”

  “Return to your duties.” Steuben opened the closet door.

  “Really? I thought…I mean, yes, Mr. Steuben. Right away.”

  “What? You think my ass is not hard? My ass is very hard, Max. Like granite.”

  “OK, sir. I don’t think you have the phrasing down just right to—”

  “But I am old. My ass can be…what are the words? Soft. In places.”

  “Please stop.”

  Steuben snorted and stepped back into the hallway. “Do not mention this to anyone. They will expect similar leniency or use of your smoke line.”

  “I will never admit this conversation ever happened,” Max said.

  ****

  Duke, in armor and carrying his helmet, walked down a passageway, Ice Claw on his back. A bare-headed Garrison and a shorter Strike Marine, helm on, followed. Their boots sounded against the deck, mingling with a low chanting coming from beyond a cracked-open door.

  “You’re sure about this?” Garrison asked.

  “This is the big one,” Duke said. “Crucial mission. Lots of risk. You want to spend the last hour before load-up farting around playing Savage Wars on VR or you want to petition for a little extra something from Saint Kallen?”

  “I’ve not gone to a service before.” Garrison shrugged. “Don’t think you have either. It’s not that I think it’s a bad idea. It’s just…” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the third Marine.

  “It’ll be fine,” Duke said, his tone lacking confidence.

  “But if it’s not fine, then what’re we going to do?”

  “They can’t UCMJ us an hour before jump,” Duke said, leaning over a trash can and spitting out a wad of dip. “Probably.”

  A hatch opened behind them and a group of sailors filled in behind the Marines.

  “You know how that thing works?” a petty officer asked Duke, jutting his chin at the door behind them.

  “Instructions aren’t written in crayon.” Duke opened the door, took one step inside and froze.

  At the far end of a small cargo bay was a suit of armor. It was on one knee, both hands gripping an Armor sized scaled sword. The tip stabbed into the deck and the armor’s head bowed in prayer.

  Loose rows of Rangers, Marines and crewmen knelt before the armor as the ship’s chaplain walked across the front of the supplicants, a smoking censor swinging before him.

  “Oh…” Duke’s nose scrunched. “I didn’t know there’d be—”

  Garrison gave Duke a gentle shove and the sniper meandered over to a space where a group of sailors had just left. The sailors went to the armor and rapped their knuckles against its metal before beating their chest over their hearts.

  Duke swung his sniper rifle off his back and snapped it together. He went to one knee and did his best to mimic the armor’s pose. Garrison and the helmeted Marine knelt on either side of him.

  Duke bowed his head, listening to the crew as they repeated the Templar prayer. He didn’t know it, but he hoped an earnest attitude might be enough to appease Saint Kallen, the armor soldier that sacrificed herself in the battle for Mars during the Ember War.

  The armor in the cargo bay with them stood in as an icon for Kallen. Duke had heard through the rumor mill that there hadn’t been many armor to step into that role for months, much to the dismay of the faithful. That one was here now…

  The chaplain paused in front of the Strike Marines. Duke twisted his sniper rifle back and forth rapidly and waved to the man. The chaplain called over an assistant, who continued wafting the censor back and forth across the congregation.

  The chaplain made his way down a gap in the rows and leveled a hand…at the helmeted Marine.

  “Do not cover your head here,” he said gently. “The Lord and Saint Kallen must know your face.”

  “I told you,” Garrison muttered.

  The helmeted Marine gripped his helm and lifted it off with a snap. Gor’al’s quills spilled out and the Dotari cocked his head at the chaplain. The man took a half step back, surprised.

  “No disrespect intended,” Gor’al said.

  “This is…providence,” the chaplain said. “Welcome. You are welcome here.”

  “Blessing?” Duke asked, tapping the butt of his rifle against the deck.

  The chaplain reached for the twin vanes of the sniper rifle, but stopped his hand a few inches short as Duke’s face hardened.

  “Heavenly Father, grant your strength to this weapon. May it strike straight and true as this warrior protects your people. Protect this weapon and her bearer. Grant them your favor and may Saint Kallen receive them in honor if that be your will.” The chaplain removed a small silver flask from his belt, flipped the cap off and flicked the opening at Duke, sprinkling him and Ice Claw with holy water.

  “Amen,” Duke said and the chaplain returned to the censor.

  “We…done?” Garrison asked, red-faced.

  “Are you? Jesus Christ—you’re emb—sorry. Sorry, Lord,” Duke whisp
ered.

  “Let us move out, yes?” Gor’al said.

  Duke stood, carrying his rifle across his waist as they went to the armor.

  Duke rapped the armor’s leg and then his breastplate, recognizing the name stenciled to the armor. Santos. One of the Iron Dragoons they’d trained with. Duke moved almost past the armor when he heard servos whining.

  “Breitenfeld,” Santos said to Gor’al. “Good to see you.”

  “Yes.” Gor’al knocked on Santos’ flank like he was trying to wake up someone sleeping in a room. “Cod mittens to you.”

  “Gott mit uns,” Santos said.

  “Yes. Cod mittens,” Gor’al kept knocking.

  Garrison grabbed the Dotari by the ring of his neck armor and dragged him out of the cargo bay.

  “So close, Dotty,” Garrison said once they were clear of the ceremony and on their way back to Marine country. “You were so close to getting us out of there smoothly.”

  “Stow it. That went better than I thought it would.” Duke stopped and disassembled Ice Claw.

  “What did the chaplain mean about ‘providence’?” Garrison asked.

  “The last battle of the Ember War,” Gor’al said. “You know your lore? The armor held back the Xaros until the annihilation device could activate. Two of the armor were Dotari. Caas and Ar’ri. Orphans. Low-listers who were nothing to our society. Those two were there at the blessing before the battle. This manner of religion has not…caught on amongst my people. But we respect your beliefs.”

  “So if we need a miracle during the mission, it’s on you to deliver it,” Garrison said, nudging Gor’al.

  “Perhaps I should go back and knock on the armor some more…”

  “No,” Duke said and waved them forward. “If we’re a second late for load-up, Gunney will take our ammo and just use us as meat shields. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 4

  Hoffman walked up to the Tactical Insertion Torpedo, which struck him as a miniature version of the first rockets to send men into the void. Nearly fifty feet long and nestled into the launch carriage, crewmen finished final checks around the missile.

  Opal shifted from foot to foot, the doughboy’s eyes on open hatches toward the fore of the torpedo.

  “No like,” he mumbled.

  “No one likes being ordnance, Opie,” Hoffman said, patting the doughboy on the back. “But we’ve done it before. Remember?”

  Opal sneered, turned his head slowly to Hoffman, then looked back at the torpedo.

  “Fine. Call me out.” Hoffman turned to greet Steuben as the Karigole came over with the rest of the team.

  “Who’s ready to be a baby?” Garrison asked.

  “No one say anything,” Booker said. “I caught him rehearsing this.”

  “Because we’re going to be hanging onto that TIT like it’s—”

  Steuben’s arm snapped out and his cybernetic hand closed over Garrison’s mouth.

  “I don’t understand,” Gor’al said. “According to the database, a tit is a small bird native to the North American continent and weighs…Booker is rolling her eyes again. Does this mean I have provided too much information again?”

  “Let me handle this one,” Duke said, raising a finger.

  “Team inspected and ready for deployment,” Steuben said. “The…ordnance chief assured me we can load up on schedule.”

  Garrison tried to speak, his words lost to the muzzle of Steuben’s hand.

  Hoffman tilted his head slightly to the breacher and Steuben released him.

  “Hammers,” the lieutenant began, “you were there when the admirals spoke. You know what’s at stake. The war against the Kesaht is not…we’re not winning. This is our chance to knock them out of this fight once and for all. Our first mission is to destroy their flag ship, the Last Light. Then we go head-hunting.”

  Steuben touched the handle of a short scimitar strapped to his back.

  “This is critical,” Hoffman said. “That’s why Command gave it to us. That’s why we’ve got armor with us. We know the drill.”

  His team nodded slightly, no false bravado to cover up the all-too-real anxiety.

  “Steuben, you’re super old, right?” Garrison asked. “You ever get shot out of a ballistic missile?”

  “No. Only humans could think up something so insane,” he said.

  “And I thought I was the only one with any sense,” Gor’al chirped.

  “Then why…why not suggest something less crazy?” Booker asked. “Command would listen to you—Ember War hero and all.”

  “Because that mammary gland of a death trap will get me onto a ship full of Toth. Then I can kill them,” Steuben said.

  “I can’t fault that logic,” King said. “All right, Marines. Time to make the Breitenfeld proud.” He tapped his ship patch. “We’re still Valdar’s Hammer. Never forget it.”

  “Payload!” A sailor waved to them from atop the torpedo. “Load up!”

  “I wish he wouldn’t call us that,” Garrison said.

  Hoffman locked his helmet on and was the first up the ladder leading to an open hatch next to the sailor. The helmet blocked out much of the ordnance-bay noise, leaving him with just the sound of his breathing. His mouth was dry and his arms felt cold—the same pre-mission jitters he always got.

  “Sir with me?” Opal asked through their suit-to-suit IR comms.

  “Always, Opal.” Hoffman walked off the top of the ladder and peered into the open hatch at the acceleration seats jammed together within. He glanced around and saw more TITs. Four suits of armor, limbs folded and tucked against their bodies in their rectangular travel configuration, were hoisted off the deck and loaded into their torpedo like bullets into a magazine.

  “Everything checks out,” the sailor said. “But you’re still going to get some serious g’s in this thing.”

  “I know,” Hoffman said, slapping Steuben on the shoulder as he dropped into the hatch. “We’ve done this before.”

  “I know Strike Marines are a little off most days but…damn.” The sailor shook his head.

  “Valdar’s Hammer,” Hoffman said, beating a fist to his chest and looking over each Marine as they went in.

  Garrison kept tapping his satchel, checking for the umpteenth time that his explosives were there.

  Duke spat out a wad of chewing tobacco and pressed it against the hatch. “For luck,” he said, wagging a finger at a disgusted-looking sailor before he climbed down.

  “You don’t hear the armor complaining about this,” Booker said to herself as she put one hand to the edge of the open hatch and swung her legs into the opening. “Nope. These things were designed for them. Not squishy little people like us.”

  “They live in those coffins, the ones they got inside the armor,” Max said. “Doubt they can tell if they’re in their battle suits or in these monsters.”

  “But if a tit is really a bird,” Gor’al said, tapping a finger against his visor, “then why would Steuben call this a ‘mammary gland’? Earth birds resemble Dotari to a degree, but—”

  “Have Booker show you!” Garrison called up. There was a bang of metal against metal. “Hey, no kicking! I’ve got explosives, you know.”

  “Some things can remain a mystery,” King said as he waved Gor’al into the hatch and looked to Hoffman. “You’re last man, sir?”

  “I am. After you, Gunney,” the lieutenant said.

  “Semper Fi, do or die. Oorah oorah!” King stepped into the opening and landed with a clang.

  “Big guy’s got his own acceleration seat,” the sailor said. “Had to fabricate it special.”

  “Dark.” Opal’s hands clenched. “Going dark.”

  A blade of ice pierced Hoffman’s chest and he grabbed Opal by the head and twisted his face toward his. “What? What did you say?” Hoffman looked hard into Opal’s pupils, watching to see if they fluctuated.

  He’d heard ‘going dark’ from too many of his doughboys over the years. The battle constructs were not d
esigned to last forever, and when their programming began to fail, a loss of eyesight signaled a system collapse.

  “Dark in there, sir,” Opal said and pulled back. “Sir go. Opal protect.”

  “Yeah, of course. You get in. I’ll fix your straps.” The dread in Hoffman’s heart subsided, but some remained.

  Hoffman followed Opal into the ordnance compartment. Normally, denethrite high explosives would be in the compartment, meant to annihilate any ship it hit. All that had been replaced with acceleration couches that squeezed around the Strike Marines where they stood, like they were swaddled infants in a carriage.

  Hoffman adjusted the straps over Opal’s large frame and the couch’s padding squeezed around the doughboy.

  “How the hell do the armor do this all the damn time?” Garrison asked from his spot, squirming slightly. “What if…what if something itches?”

  Hoffman stepped into the last frame and the sailor got him situated quickly.

  “You mean you never tried out to be armor back at the in-processing station?” Duke asked.

  “Hell no. I heard you have to live in a box full of water for days. Then they stick a spike in your skull,” Garrison said. “So I went Strike Marines. Where they strap you into an actual missile and shoot you at the enemy. Like a…meat bullet.”

  “Good luck!” the sailor shouted from the hatch and slammed it down, throwing the Marines into complete darkness. Small red lights lit up.

  Hoffman, nearly immobilized in the couch, tapped his fingertips against sensors in the padding, pulled up the ship’s command feed and shared it with the rest of the team.

  The Ardennes and the rest of the fleet, hundreds of warships strong, steered toward the Crucible jump gate. A timer started at the top-right corner of his vision.

  “Hurry up and wait,” Duke said.

  There was a clang of metal and Hoffman felt the torpedo move, sliding into the firing tube.

  “We’ve got time for a story,” Garrison said. “Who’s got one? Duke. We had some R&R time back on that mission to New Bastion. Did you try and make nice with one of those Shadoor. Tell us everything, you dirty old bastard.”

  “How about no?” Duke asked.