Gott Mit Uns (Terran Strike Marines Book 5)

by Richard Fox

  “Brag all you want. That’s not an answer.”

  “True…the Ember War was a great filter, Hoffman. When the Qa’Resh probe landed on Earth and convinced me to help it save humanity and win the war against the Xaros, it said we had sixty years to get ready. Sounds like plenty of time, but it wasn’t. At all. It was one show string tackle after another to get the tech set up to have the one fleet survive the initial invasion and then retake Earth and prep for round two with the Xaros.”

  “Still not an answer.”

  “Guilt. There. Happy? I felt guilty that I couldn’t save more of humanity. All that survived was the old Atlantic Union Fleet and the Western culture it carried. I was an idiot college student when I set off to save us from extinction. Cultural relativism was a particularly nasty intellectual cancer sweeping education back then. I considered coopting the Chinese, the Russians…starting my own country floating in the ocean or on the Moon. But I needed fighters that could see beyond that shock of the first fight to retake Earth. We had to beat the Xaros masters, not just their drones. It wasn’t enough to take and hold Earth. The Xaros were without number. We could never have matched them, even with the procedural tubes.”

  “You needed a military that could see the far enemy and beat it,” Hoffman said.

  “And that wasn’t most of the planet. You ever hear about Zheng He and how the Chinese Emperors decided they were top dog of the planet? They had it pretty good until the English showed up and wanted tea.”

  “It was the Crusade, wasn’t it?” Hoffman asked.

  Ibarra tapped his nose and pointed at the Marine.

  “America always got around to doing the right thing in Europe, even if it was years late and they paid more in blood than needed. Volunteer armies liberated a continent. Again. No real threat to the US mainland, they had quite the moats.”

  “There was some English prime minister,” Hoffman stroked his chin, “said that there are only two people that offered to die for strangers. Jesus Christ died for your soul and the American soldier died for your freedom.”

  “Your attribution is a little off, but you get it,” Ibarra said. “The Atlantic Union fleet I ensured would survive the Xaros invasion would carry the fight to the end. The Armor at the last battle, you know them? Iron Hearts from central Europe. Hussars from Poland and Templar from America. They knew the price of victory would be their lives. I was there, son. Heard Elias tell another Strike Marine serving aboard the Breitenfeld to get back to the ship and live.”

  “Captain Gideon he…” Hoffman looked away. “I don’t know if he was forged from the same iron.”

  “Ibarra Nation Armor are all Templar for good reason, son. You have a moral compass and it keeps you from straying too far off the straight and narrow,” Ibarra looked over both shoulders quickly, “but if you can move the needle just a little, it’s amazing what you can get people to do.”

  “What?”

  “Oh nothing.”

  Hoffman didn’t comment. The man did nothing without a dark, ulterior motive. He hadn’t forgotten Opal, or Diamond, or all the other doughboys. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you brought up the IR comms.”

  “Well, of course you’re right,” Marc said. “Just keep that little feature in mind. Every dock and space station has at least one antenna array that’s vulnerable—not just here, but throughout the Ibarra Nation and the Terran Union. Always be looking for opportunities to disrupt communications and supply lines, my dear boy. We can harden the system defense guns, but everything else is vulnerable—especially to a bunch of Strike Marines who like to break things. It might be good to shut off their communications when we can. Welcome to the Liberty system. My gut tells me we’re going to do great things here!”

  Chapter 15

  Hoffman scanned his holo screen, taking in basic information about the system. It was all routine, as familiar as the first part of any mission. “Looks like there’s a heavy defensive network for a prison planet.”

  “It’s not a prison planet,” Ibarra said. “I thought I explained that.”

  “You’ll need to do all the talking,” Hoffman said. “The ship’s being hailed by system defense units. I can listen in with my translation software, but that won’t work if I have to talk to their controller.”

  “Of course, dear boy. Why else did you bring me along? It sure wasn’t my witty personality. Trust me and the IFF transmitter,” Ibarra added. “There is nothing to worry about. I’ve got this. I’m a master of deception, remember?”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better, given the circumstances,” Hoffman said, hoping his team wasn’t as worried about the very real chance Marc Ibarra would betray them the first chance he got.

  Ibarra gave him a sly look then faced the comms station. "System defense, Alpha Niner Bravo, this is the Keyser Soze. Are we clear for approach?"

  "Reading you loud and clear, Alpha Niner Bravo. Something is strange with your clearance code," a voice answered.

  "Oh my, I hope you don't think we're spies," Ibarra drawled in Basque.

  The voice sounded amused. "Wouldn't that be nice? I could use some entertainment."

  "Agreed," Ibarra said. "In all seriousness, we are on a mission from the Lady. Simple transport, but I don't want to be the one to let her down."

  "Dropping off or picking up?” the system security officer asked.

  "Picking up. There's supposed to be some artifacts on this planet, nothing useful in our war against the Terran murderers, but interesting to her.”

  “You are not on the schedule,” the SSO stated.

  “Not really my problem,” Ibarra said. “What is my problem is doing the Lady’s will. She will treat me very harshly if I come back empty-handed.”

  "Expanding her art collection? That doesn't sound right. Also, we're not supposed to allow unnecessary access to Liberty. It'll mess up the control subjects and invalidate the experiments the scientist types have been working on for years."

  "Understood, sir. We have very strict orders not to contact any of the residents. We’ll be quiet as church mice,” Ibarra said.

  "Just let me check these codes one more time,” the SSO demanded.

  "You know where to find me. Try not to take too long, if you don't mind." Ibarra ended the communication.

  "What if they realize it's a stolen code?" Hoffman asked.

  "Let's hope that doesn't happen. I'd hate to be locked into a cell. Again."

  "I thought you said they don't have prisons," Booker said, “since your perfect little society doesn't have crime."

  "Well, that may be an overstatement. And I was a special case. Not to worry. I'm sure everything will be fine. What's the worst that could happen? They stall until they can get a strike cruiser in range to blow us to hell?"

  "System defense to Faben, you’re clear for approach. Keep security protocols in mind and don't interfere with the experiments in progress on Liberty."

  “Absolutely, my dear sir. We totally understand. What kind of commando team would announce their arrival before stealing all of Our Lady’s secrets or executing some foul sabotage?” Ibarra muted the mic. “I told you I could handle this. There was never even one tiny little doubt in my mind."

  Hoffman leaned toward the view screen. The Breitenfeld was there, docked within the small station in a locked orbit over the dark side of Liberty’s moon.

  “The sight of her always fills me with hope,” Max said breathlessly.

  “You need a hug, Max-y?” Garrison asked, and everyone on the team glared at him. He shrugged in embarrassment. “OK, fine. The Breit does it to me too. I can’t believe the Ibarrans moored her to this moon like that. Doesn’t seem right.”

  “Ships always look bigger in dry dock to me,” Booker said.

  Hoffman felt the same way. Recovering the ship suddenly seemed like another impossible job his team would accomplish or die trying. Pride filled him. Even without Opal, his Strike Marines were the best the Terran Union had.

  Marc Iba
rra spoke quickly to the Ibarran SSO, rushing his words while Hoffman and his team were distracted by the sight of the legendary ship.

  Hoffman watched him carefully, apprehension and dread filling him. He tapped his translation gear.

  “What’s wrong?” King asked.

  “My translation gear isn’t translating the Basque dialect they’re speaking,” Hoffman said quietly, forcing King to lean closer.

  “Neither is mine,” King advised after double-checking his connection.

  Hoffman snapped his fingers to get Max’s attention, then pointed at Ibarra. The commo specialist frowned, realized his translator wasn’t working, then moved closer to the chrome betrayer’s conversation.

  “I don’t know that much Basque—don’t listen to Garrison. It was just something to do on the longer stretches of the voyage,” Max said.

  “Do what you can,” Hoffman ordered.

  Time passed. The untranslated conversation between Ibarra and the system security officer wound down.

  “Anything?” Hoffman asked Max.

  “Not sure. I think Ibarra is just screwing with the guy. Making dumb demands about R&R and resupply,” Max said.

  Ibarra leaned back from his communication station, then noticed the Strike Marine conference. “What is it, team?”

  “You tell me,” Hoffman demanded.

  “Didn’t your translators pick that up?” He reflected on his recent conversation for a second. “Hmm, I think I see the problem. The man slipped into his natural dialect. Might have given your translators a hard time until they’ve been exposed to a large enough sample of the language variation.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “I made him promise to give us real food, not prepackaged voyage rations. It really was an unreasonable request, but I needed to be a pain in his ass to be convincing. Right now, he’s bitching about my demands for grass-fed beef instead of double-checking the IFF codes we sent him,” Ibarra said.

  “Try to keep the dialect neutral next time, at least your part of the conversation,” Hoffman said.

  “Not a problem, Lieutenant,” Ibarra said. “Not a problem at all.”

  Chapter 16

  Duke controlled his breathing, feeling more tense on the bridge of the Scipio than he would in the middle of a Kesaht-dominated battlefield. The ship had made the Crucible jump without difficulty and dropped the team on Liberty without incident. Lack of direct communications with Hoffman gave him an itch he didn’t like. Running his own operation, like on Koen, was fine. Remaining on a ship while they were mucking around in a twenty-first-century world without their full load-out of gear made him nervous.

  Getting onto the Breitenfeld where she had been stashed would be the hardest part. His job was to was make sure Marc Ibarra didn’t mess up and that the famous ship was ready for the admiral when the rest of the team rescued the hero of the Ember War.

  “You see there,” Ibarra said. “We’re making progress. I told you I knew what I was doing.”

  “I never doubted, you, Mr. Ibarra,” said the Scipio captain, acting as professional as ever despite the strange man’s eccentricities. “I can’t believe they have only a single cruiser to defend this entire system. Very low profile.” She paused. “I wish we could keep better tabs on it. A cruiser could cause a lot of problems for us when we liberate the Breit. We won’t exactly have her at ideal staffing levels.”

  “Have a little faith, Captain. Everything’s going according to plan,” Marc said.

  Duke wanted a dip so badly, his body ached. The captain of the Scipio, however, had strict rules about nicotine products on the bridge. Something about if her crew needed stimulants, a medic would administer them.

  On top of that, Gor’al was watching him. He’d told the Dotari Marine that abstaining from nicotine was just a matter of willpower.

  There was no reason for either of them to be on the bridge, but he wanted to see as much as he could of the Breitenfeld before they boarded her.

  Duke didn’t get butterflies. Sure, he had nearly pissed his pants a few times, but something about this mission was different. Valdar’s legacy would be chronicled for future generations. Duke didn't want to be forever known as the one who failed the admiral.

  He imagined a scene at a future sniper school where the instructor played a video that demonstrated every mistake that led to the mission’s failure and then said, “So remember, class, it’s all about breath control. One shot could have saved humanity, but this sniper, whose name shall never be mentioned again, tensed up at exactly the wrong moment.”

  “It’s time for me to play the captain again,” Marc Ibarra said.

  The captain of the Scipio nodded reluctantly and vacated the command chair. To the woman’s credit, she managed to appear inconspicuous at one of the navigation terminals. The bridge wasn’t large and was often crowded. Hopefully, the guardians of the system wouldn’t be suspicious.

  “Liberty Security One, for unidentified craft, maintain orbit and do not approach. Failure to follow these instructions and you will be fired upon,” said a man whose voice sounded like he’d just woken up—or was on his third pot of coffee. “Failure to comply will result in activation of station defense batteries. The Labourd is patrolling within reach as well. Her captain will be more than a bit peeved if she has to babysit your hunk of junk.”

  “This is Commander Faben of the Keyser Soze. I sent you the proper code when we left the Crucible,” Marc Ibarra drawled in Basque. “I can’t see you. Are you getting my visual feed?”

  “Negative, Keyser Soze. Video feeds are down. That’s one of the reasons your approach is not authorized,” the security officer said.

  “Well, then it’s not me. I had perfect video at my last port of call. I’m not sure why we should suffer from your technical glitch,” Marc Ibarra complained. “We really do need to proceed. The Lady commands it.”

  Duke studied the Breitenfeld where it was moored on the dark side of the moon. “They could at least repair her,” he murmured quietly, not wanting to draw attention from Ibarra’s new friend. The sight of the legendary ship that had helped win the Ember War sent a chill up his spine. He still couldn’t believe Admiral Valdar had chosen his team for so many critical missions.

  Marc Ibarra continued nattering at the security officer over the audio channel. “Well, sir, that’s not really my problem, now is it? How could I be responsible for your communication issues? The Lady sent us to do a job, and in my experience, it’s best to fulfill her will quickly and without error.”

  “We’re not going to argue about this, Keyser Soze, because the fact of the matter is there is a problem with your security code,” the security officer said.

  “Problem?” Ibarra said with high-pitched indignation in his voice.

  Duke thought the man was overacting, but everything about him was strange. Just the sight of his chrome visage was enough to make Duke check for a fallback position and tactical options. Sure, despite his many sins, he was responsible for humanity’s survival, but he wasn’t right in the head.

  Duke looked around the room, noting that Gor’al was also preoccupied with the sight of the Breitenfeld. Now that he was confident there was no video and the crew of the Scipio were occupied, he thought he could risk a dip.

  Keeping the can low to his side, he pinched a generous wad of tobacco and stuffed it into his lip. When he closed the can, brown flakes scattered across his lap and onto the floor. He brushed them off in a very non-sniper-like panic.

  When the can was secured in his side pocket, he retrieved a small water bottle with a screw on cap from the other leg pocket and scanned his environment. No one was paying attention. He spit into the bottle and lowered it quickly, keeping it out of sight as much as possible.

  As relief spread through him, he knew he’d probably get caught. But it was worth it. No matter how many people told him nicotine was bad for him, that he was weak for not being able to quit, a good dip had gotten him through several impossi
ble missions. His critics should try to go eighteen hours without food or water, low-crawling through snow with gear powered down to avoid IR detection, on a mission that would cost thousands of lives if it failed.

  He wasn’t about to give up the one thing he enjoyed during that whole process.

  “So it’s a bad code?” Ibarra asked indignantly. “You’re calling me a traitor! I’ll have you know, I serve the Lady! We’re close, very close. You might say we’re family! My mission is simple. I must survey the Breitenfeld before she’s destroyed.”

  “It’s not slated for destruction.” The security officer on the other end of the IR audio link was getting frustrated.

  “But it is!” Marc Ibarra’s personality was starting to show through his perfect Basque accent. “We are the demo team. I’ve brought several experts and put up with them for this unnecessarily long voyage. Have you ever drunk from a coffee cup that someone who chewed tobacco had spat into? I bet you haven’t! Perhaps you should contact the Lady and explain why you’re causing me so much grief!”

  “I didn’t say your code was a forgery. I only said there is a problem with it and you must maintain orbit until we can check it out,” the station officer said. “There are procedures that must be followed.” He paused, probably frowning, before adding, “I should also point out that nicotine products are restricted to lozenges and only with the express permission of the duty officer. I’m just doing my job.”

  “I’m just doing my job!” Marc Ibarra started to pace, really getting into his role as an unappreciated ship captain, despite being invisible to his audience.

  “Why are you yelling? I’ve never met a ship captain with so little self-control,” the security officer said.

  “Fine, I’ll tone it down a notch,” Ibarra said. “I’ll say this again, in case you missed it the first five times: my orders come directly from the Lady herself. You want to tell her why I’m getting so much flak from a mid-level functionary who was probably sleeping when we arrived?”