Luna Marine

by Ian Douglas

  “This area is restricted!” Avery snapped. “Authorized military personnel only!”

  “Fine. But I suggest, Colonel, that you order the crew to take us down. The government shipped me all the way out here at considerable expense so I could take a look at any alien ruins at Tsiolkovsky. Your superiors aren’t going to be happy if you just loop me around the Moon and take me home!”

  “That is none of your concern! I have to keep the Ranger intact, in case the attack fails!”

  Seventy-five kilometers.

  Alexander jerked a thumb at Rob. “Your people have to stay polite, Colonel. Military protocol and all. They also have to watch what they say to the news media. Me, I don’t have that worry. Seems to me that Triple-N might be real interested in a story about a Marine colonel who left his people on the ground without adequate space support. And the wounded. You’re making them wait for three days while transports come out from Earth?”

  “Damn you, Alexander!…”

  Rob saw Avery’s face reddening, saw the clenched fists. For a moment, he thought the man was going to attack the archeologist. Worse, Alexander’s attack was stiffening Avery’s resolve.

  Maybe, though, if Avery had a soft way to come down…

  “You’re right, Colonel,” Rob said. “It’s your call. But let me say this before you decide. More military leaders have been damned for doing nothing than were ever damned for doing something!”

  Avery swung his head to stare at him. He seemed about to say something, then to think better of it.

  “If our people win down there, you’re going to look damned silly…unless there are wounded we could have pulled out. Leaving them would be criminal. And…one more thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “We’re Marines. We don’t leave our own!”

  Avery opened his mouth one more time, then closed it with a snap. Turning sharply, he slapped the captain of the Ranger on the shoulder. “Okay, Commander Kieffer. Take us down!”

  “Yes, sir!” Kieffer cast a glance back over his shoulder at Rob and the civilian. “You two gentlemen, grab some deck and hang on. This is gonna be rough!”

  “Firing sequence laid in,” the pilot said. “Range to target thirty-six kilometers. On your command.”

  “Shit, that’s tight! Okay, we’ll go in five…four…three…two…one…ignition! Deorbit burn commence!”

  The deck caught Rob hard on his legs and the seat of his pants. Carefully, he lay down as the acceleration increased, climbing to two Gs…then a bone-rattling three.

  He wondered if they’d already waited too long….

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  MONDAY, 10 NOVEMBER 2042

  PFC Jack Ramsey

  Tsiolkovsky Base

  0103 hours GMT

  Jack ducked through the aft airlock hatch and jumped, landing on the Moon with a slight jar to his knees and a puff of scuffed-up dust around his boots. I made it! I’m on the Moon! I’m actually on the freaking Moon!…

  But, damn it, there was no time to enjoy the fact. In eerie silence, space-suited figures ran, bounded in long kangaroo leaps, or spun and fell as gunfire or lasers cut them down. Wyvern rockets streaked across the sky, explosions flashed…and all in an utter, death-still silence that lent a touch of the surreal to the scene as it unfolded beyond Jack’s helmet visor. Radio chatter alone filled the Lunar night. “Chicago!” some Marine shouted over the combat frequency. “Remember Chicago!” And then everyone was shouting it.

  As he’d been ordered, Jack dropped to a crouch in a depression just beyond the grounded LSCP, and Diane crouched with him. The scene was so chaotic, he couldn’t make sense of it at first. He saw the UN spacecraft that was their goal perhaps a hundred meters ahead, rising from within the embrace of a red-and-white-painted gantry and the caress of harsh worklights. He saw the Quonset-hut shapes of the base proper, tucked away in the shadow at the base of the central peak, which towered above the entire area, vast and brooding.

  Jack switched on his tagger and studied the symbols that appeared on his HUD. The nearest troops all carried the green symbols indicating friend…fellow Marines. The few he could see without flags, on the mountainside or high up in the gantry, were far enough away to pose no immediate threat. He would wait and let the experienced hands take care of them.

  One of the unflagged figures was leaning over a catwalk railing up near the top of the gantry, though, and appeared to be firing at Marines working their way up from below. He decided that he wouldn’t be breaking orders if he took the guy out…and he might save some Marine’s life.

  Plugging a connector from his rifle into his suit, then switching on his ATAR’s sighting system, he waited until a green crosshair appeared on his visor, then carefully moved the rifle back and forth until the crosshair centered on the enemy. Range figures flickered on the side of his visor: 156.3 meters. At that range, Jack could just make out the guy’s UN-blue helmet. With the ATAR set for a three-round burst, he depressed the firing button. The weapon cycled with a swift, short vibration; the M-29 ATAR’s rate of fire was so fast that the third round left the barrel before the first round’s recoil had knocked the weapon off target.

  He couldn’t see the target now. He’d looked down at his HUD, distracted, and missed it. Had he hit him? Was the UN soldier down? Damn! He hadn’t even seen what had happened!

  In Siberia, Jack had never even seen the enemy…an invisible foe who dropped high-velocity shells on the Marine camp from over the horizon or rushed the perimeter at night, a half-glimpsed green-and-yellow shadow in an IR headset. Here, he still couldn’t tell what was happening…but the fighting was far more immediate, more real.

  And more deadly. A hit to arm or leg that would simply sting on Earth could be fatal here, in hard vacuum. Jack found he was shaking and couldn’t stop.

  He hoped no one else could tell how scared he was.

  The other LSCP had touched down fifty meters away. As Marines spilled from the aft end of the vehicle, four suited figures lumbered across the plain toward Jack and Diane. IFF tagged them as Gunnery Sergeant Bueller, Bosnivic, and two Second Squad Marines.

  “You two okay?” Bueller called. “Okay! Let’s rock!” Turning, he trotted toward the gantry, leading the way. Rising from the depression, Jack and Diane followed.

  Moving on the moon, Jack found, took a knack…one easily acquired, though it was hard work to get up to speed. He found a gentle lope, half skipping, half kangaroo hop, carried him across the lunar surface at the ground-eating pace of a running man.

  He found himself wondering if he’d just killed someone up there on that steel tower.

  “Okay!” Bueller called. “Tomlinson! Jakosky Take point! You three follow. We’ll bring up the rear! Amphibious green blurs, now! Go! Go!”

  Jack grabbed a rung and started climbing right behind Corporal Jakosky. He’d expected the climb to be harder than it was, but even with his suit, weapon, and backpack PLSS, he still weighed only about twenty kilos. He could pull himself up, hard, and before he stopped moving upward, he could reach up, grab, and pull again, with his feet providing only occasional guidance and support.

  At the top, several blue-helmeted suits lay sprawled about like limp rag dolls, while the two Marine escorts and another Marine, with a Second Platoon shoulder patch, waited, ATARs at the ready.

  Someone had already blown the ship’s airlock hatch, which gaped open. The inner hatch was closed, but a bulkhead panel had been torn open, and a hot-wire box clipped on. Jack had seen the device demonstrated and explained at Quantico; rather than cycling a few people through at a time, the outer hatch would be kept open, with the inner hatch safeties overridden. Each time someone wanted to pass through, the inner hatch would be opened; the ship would lose some more air each time, and eventually be left in vacuum, but the method was a hell of a lot faster than the depressurization-repressurization cycle they would have to use otherwise.

  “How many inside already, Marine?” Bueller asked the Second Platoon
guard as he mounted the catwalk.

  “Four, Gunnery Sergeant,” the man replied. The name on his chest read NARDELLI. “Lieutenant Garroway and three others. It’s…it’s all that’s left of us!” His eyes were wide and frightened behind his visor.

  “Hold your post, Marine. Rest of you, with me!”

  A puff of vapor exploded from the torso of Diane’s suit and she toppled backward, dropping her ATAR. She almost went over the edge, but Jack reached out and grabbed her arm, hauling her back from the edge and lowering her to the catwalk. “Sniper!” Jack yelled, pointing in the direction from which the laser shot had come…high up on the flank of the mountain, above the base. Nardelli, Bueller, and the others opened up with their ATARs, firing full-auto, but Jack couldn’t tell if they could even see the target.

  Dillon stared at him from inside her helmet, looking very frightened. “I…what happened?…Jack?”

  “You took a laser bolt, Diane,” he told her. The hole, just below her left breast, was only as wide as a pencil, but blood was bubbling through, steaming and freezing at the same time as it hit vacuum. He decided to lie. “Doesn’t look bad.”

  He fumbled in an external pouch for a slap-stick patch and brought it down on the hole, sealing it over.

  “It…hurts.”

  “Ramsey!” Bueller shouted. “Let’s move!”

  Nardelli held up a morphine gun. “I’ll take care of her,” he said.

  “Do that!” He patted Dillon’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay!”

  “Crack the fucking code, Jack,” she told him, clinging to his arm with a gloved hand. “You and Sam…crack the fucking code!”

  “You got it! I’ll tell you all about it when I come back!”

  Rising, he hurried after Bueller, who was waving him on from inside the airlock.

  When all four Marines were ready, Bueller pressed the hot-wire box, and the inner hatch slid open. Air burst from within, a hurricane that threatened to sweep all five of them out of the lock and back onto the gantry at their backs, but Bueller leaned against the gale and waded in, as loose papers and a copy of Playboy in French whirled past and into the night.

  Inside lay the body of a Marine, PFC Juarez, his helmet shattered.

  Jack wondered how many Marines had been killed or wounded already in this impossible, insane attack…and how many were left….

  Général de Brigade Paul-Armand

  Larouche

  UNS Guerrière, Tsiolkovsky Base

  0110 hours GMT

  In another few moments, it won’t matter. General Larouche dragged back the charging handle on his MAB-31 autopistol and set the selector to full automatic. He heard a loud thump and the clatter of metal on metal below the small bridge. They would be here, soon. But the ship knew what to do….

  He hadn’t heard from d’ André in a long time. He’d sent him aft to organize a defense of the main locks, but that line of defense had obviously failed. Three times, the bridge alarms had gone off, warning of dropping pressure as the enemy breached the main lock, then resealed it. Air pressure aboard the Guerrière was down to about half normal, and the sounds picked up by his suit’s external mikes had a curiously flat and tinny quality to them.

  He exchanged a glance with the other two space-suited men in the compartment, a pair of North Chinese special forces troops who’d taken refuge on the bridge a few moments ago. Unfortunately, Larouche did not speak Mandarin, and they seemed to speak no French, German, or English. Their dark eyes, deep within their black helmets, gave nothing away when they looked at him. He wondered if they knew what he’d done, that there was no hope now for any of them.

  A stream of positrons, released from the alien generator but not focused and directed by the main weapon’s magnetic channels, would destroy the entire ship…and probably a fair portion of the base as well. The countdown had already begun. He checked his helmet time readout. Four minutes, forty-eight seconds. No, not much longer at all….

  The hatch leading aft was circular and set in the middle of the bridge deck. The three men had positioned themselves around the hatch, weapons aimed at it. There was no place to hide, and nowhere else to go.

  He thought he heard…

  With a high-pitched bang, the hatch flew into the air, struck the overhead, and fluttered down slowly in the Moon’s weak gravity. A small, dark olive cylinder flew up after it. “Don’t look!” Larouche shouted, turning his head inside his helmet, slamming down his outer sun shield, and squeezing his eyes shut.

  The crackling chain of explosions was deafening…though not as bad as they would have been in a one-bar atmosphere. The strobing light was literally blinding, but he’d reacted quickly enough to avoid the effects. When the last explosion faded to a shrill ring, he opened his eyes again and raised his MAB pistol.

  Someone below the open hatch thrust the muzzle of an ATAR rifle through, swinging it around to use its optics to scan the bridge. One of the NCA troops brought his weapon up, then pitched back against the pilot’s seat as the ATAR barked. The other Chinese soldier had been slow when the flash-bang had sailed through; he was stumbling about wildly, arms groping, obviously blind.

  Larouche stepped forward, planning on firing directly down through the hatch, but a man in a suit reflecting the grays and blues of the ship’s interior compartments exploded up into the compartment. Larouche fired…but too late. The grenade launcher attached beneath the ATAR’s muzzle gave a heavy chuff, and a beehive swarm of fléchettes tore through his lightweight pressure suit, mangling his right arm and part of his chest.

  Pain and shock drove him back a step, then the compartment tilted crazily as he dropped to the deck. A second Marine in reactive camo armor came up through the hatch and shot the blinded NCA spec forces trooper with a single 4.5mm ATAR round.

  The first Marine took three steps toward Larouche and gently kicked the MAB machine pistol away from his gloved hand. It was, he could see now, a woman. The name stenciled on her suit read GARROWAY.

  Garroway. Wasn’t that the name of the Marine who’d overturned the French-UN military op on Mars a couple of years back? He thought that had been a man.

  It was getting hard to breathe. His suit no longer held pressure, and he was gasping in the thin air left aboard the Guerrière.

  His helmet HUD was still working, though, and showed there were only three minutes and fifty seconds to go. He wondered if he would be unconscious by then. He didn’t want to burn, didn’t want to feel the radiation sleeting through his body at the end. When he’d set the timer going, he’d planned on cracking open his helmet and putting a bullet painlessly through his brain just before the explosion. Now he couldn’t.

  Well, a matter-antimatter explosion should be as quick as a bullet. What he wasn’t sure about was how much antimatter would be reacting, and how quickly. He was picturing the blast less as a single, devastating explosion, and more as a rapidly accelerating meltdown.

  Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison. Lord, don’t let me suffer.

  He waited to die….

  PFC Jack Ramsey

  UNS Guerrière, Tsiolkovsky Base

  0112 hours GMT

  “Okay!” Bueller said. “Bridge is clear, you two. Hit it!”

  Jack and Bosnivic had been waiting in one of the Guerrière’s passageways for what had seemed like hours. Jack felt completely disoriented. He’d expected the interior of the UN ship to be more or less the same as the Ranger, but the design was totally different, without the US space-craft’s modular design. The passageways were cramped and oddly twisted, the bulkheads and overheads covered by snaking bundles of naked conduits, wires, and piping; the Marines had been ordered to use only their M-440s and fire fléchettes while on board, to avoid puncturing a bulkhead, but it looked like more damage could be done with a beehive round to all of those exposed wires.

  The Marines, he noticed, had been switching freely between their ATARs and the shotgunned fléchette bundles, depending on the situation. Heavily armored troops cou
ldn’t be hurt much by fléchettes in any case, so they’d been saving the beehive rounds for targets wearing light pressure suits only. With the rest, they used 4.5mm ATAR rounds and simply made sure they didn’t miss.

  As he scrambled up the ladders connecting two more decks, close on Bosnivic’s heels, Jack passed several examples of Marine accuracy in close-quarters combat. How many UNdies were left alive on the ship? He didn’t know, and that wasn’t his concern. The bridge was clear now, and he had a job to do.

  Squeezing through the final hatch, he stepped onto the bridge, a dark and claustrophobic place only six meters across and already crowded by Bueller, two Second Platoon Marines, and three UN bodies. Bosnivic was already moving to the computer station, and it didn’t look like there would be room there for two at that console.

  Well, if Bos didn’t succeed, Jack thought, maybe he and Sam would still get a shot. He wanted to know how Sam would stack up against the vaunted NSA nutcracker. He stepped back, standing between the Second Platoon Marines, Lieutenant Garroway and Sergeant Kaminski. “About time you fellows showed up,” the lieutenant told him.

  One of the bodies on the deck was moving.

  “Watch out!” Jack yelled. “On the deck!”

  It happened too fast to follow. Two of the dead UN troops wore the black helmets of Chinese special forces; the third wore a lightweight, bloodied white suit with the characteristic blue UN helmet, and he was the one who’d just risen to hands and knees and flung himself across the deck, almost under Bosnivic’s feet, snatching up an ugly little pistol with a large magazine in front of the trigger and rolling over, aiming up at Bos.

  Jack brought his ATAR off his back, but Bos was in the way, his feet tangled with the UN man’s legs. The UNdie gripped the machine pistol in both hands, jamming it straight up, almost against Bosnivic’s groin, and pulled the trigger. A stream of explosive rounds blasted through his torso, as chunks of armor and bloody flesh sprayed the compartment.

  Kaminski and Lieutenant Garroway both reacted faster than Jack could, pivoting and raising their ATARs in the same instant and blasting the UN soldier with a snapping burst of high-speed fire.