by W. C. Bauers
“That’s true, Kathy, but that’s not the point of the exercise.” Promise turned back to her target. “Frog-firing teaches you to flash-sight moving targets. In battle, your targets don’t stand still either, or say, ‘Hey—kill me first.’ F-sighting is a critical skill, and one not easily mastered.”
Kathy raised a scoring optic to her eyes and nodded in approval. The optic was linked to the morphs and Promise’s pulse rifle, and had recorded every hit and miss. “Not bad, Lieutenant. Tight groupings. Though we’re in close and I know you can do better. Let’s take the range out a bit, ma’am. Okay?”
Promise quick-locked a holographic scope to the rail of her rifle, and left the “irons” up to cowitness, and stabilized the rifle on the bench rest. Distance-to-target floated in her peripheral vision. When the targets hit fifty meters she raised her right hand over her shoulder and waved downrange. “Come on, Kathy, at least try to make it challenging for me.”
“All right, ma’am. How about seventy-five?”
“That will do.”
The pie plates retreated to their new positions and began to move in a line, more slowly this time as they shuffled in concert from side to side. Promise squeezed her right eye and her scope zoomed until the disks appeared to be no more than seven meters away. The plates morphed and stretched. Circles became squares and then rectangles with necks. Now three heads-on torsos floated before her reticule and each had a set of eyes glowing bright yellow.
“How about the cross-fire drill, ma’am?” Kathy raised two fingers to her temple and began outlining the exercise along the plane of her body as she spoke, top to bottom and shoulder to shoulder. “Noggin, nads, beater, breather. On my mark. Three, two, one…”
I hate this drill, Promise thought as her trigger finger took up the slack.
“Mark!”
Just before Promise fired, her first target jerked to the left and her shot went wide. Promise could have sworn it ducked its head too … if that was even possible for a morph. She supposed it probably was, and then tapped out four follow-up shots.
“Three out of four isn’t bad, ma’am.”
“Did you do that?”
“Do what?” Kathy cleared her throat. “Battle is unpredictable. The target ducked on its own.”
“Right. Let’s go again.”
“Roger that. On three.”
Promise bounced from cutout to cutout, four quick taps apiece. She took a bit more time on the brain to guarantee the kill, and quickly blew through the beater, breather, and balls. Then she set the rifle down and pushed back from the bench, pleased with her work.
“Not bad, ma’am.” Kathy racked her hands on her hips. “Okay, say your rifle just jammed. You’re pinned down with no way out.” The three silhouettes quickly shrank back into circles, canted forward like they’d dug in imaginary heels, and rushed Promise’s position. Then they multiplied and three became nine. “Here they come, ma’am. They are returning fire. You’re running solo. Help is three mikes out. What do you do?”
Promise didn’t hesitate. She drew her backup, racked the slide, and sidestepped the bench as the plates hit sixty meters. She advanced on the targets at a quick step with both eyes open and locked on the front sight. When the range dropped below fifteen meters, she opened up from left to right. Each disk shattered upon impact. The booms shook the firing range and hammered Promise’s eardrums. Then she realized she’d been had. She looked down at her senior in her hands and shook her head, partly because she found the humor in the situation and partly because she should have known better. And her ears were ringing. The slide was locked to the rear and small flecks of gold littered the ground. She turned around to find a newly assembled group of smiles and frowns, and kicked a stray shell out from underfoot before walking back to the line. The warning signs posted in multiple locations across the range could not have been clearer. ENERGY WEAPONS ONLY.
“I hope y’all enjoyed the show?” “Y’all”? My birth world is bleeding through. It happened, just not often, and Promise intended to keep it that way.
Victor Company’s platoon sergeants and senior noncoms had assembled at a respectable distance. They were early, which made Promise wonder if something was afoot. They were her aces in a house of flexi cards. She caught the eyes of her second-in-command, Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel, and shrugged her shoulders while mock-offing herself with her off hand. The gunny was leaning against a post underneath the range’s portico, arms crossed, face wrapped in a look that was coldly aimed at Lance Corporal Kathy Prichart. Ears smoldering.
“Stunts like that get people killed, Lance Corporal,” Ramuel said as Promise walked up.
Kathy blanched but didn’t break away. Nodded. “Gunny, I was only trying to have some—”
“Next time, don’t. Understood?”
“Yes, Gunny.”
“Go easy, Tomas, I’m just as much at fault. I knew better,” Promise said as she stepped underneath the portico, racked the slide of her GLOCK, and holstered the weapon.
“Ma’am, at least get a mini pulser fixed to the rail of that … antique.” Emphasis on “antique.” It was not a real weapon in the gunny’s estimation. He’d said so as diplomatically as a gunny could. “That thing is dangerously underpowered. It won’t serve you in a stand-up fight.” The gunny went to say more but decided against it and clenched his jaw.
“Noted, Gunny. That’s not a bad idea. I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to my GLOCK.” Promise pursed her lips. “I’ll consider it. Okay?”
The gunny dipped his head.
Well, Tomas isn’t too happy. I don’t blame him either. I’m not too happy with myself. Or my guardian. Kathy and I didn’t display proper range etiquette. Not by a long shot. This could go in my jacket.
Promise carried her senior whenever she could, which wasn’t often, because of the Regs. For starters, her GLOCK-27 subcompact semiautomatic was about seven centuries out of date. It wasn’t even considered a firearm by any modern definition of the term. It predated the Projectile and Pulse Weapon Proliferation Act of 2633, which meant her senior was exempt from most regulations. But it was still potentially lethal and it could still kill. Promise had no intention of ever testing the limits of that law, which meant she carried her senior on the range and in the privacy of her quarters and that was about it.
Her GLOCK was an old-world semiautomatic pistol made in pre-Diaspora times. It was a dirty weapon that fired bullets that blossomed, fueled by antiquated powder that stained the hands. Many generations of the women in her family had owned and operated the smooth black relic. When her mother died young, the semiautomatic became Promise’s. It was about all Promise had left of her mother’s things, and wearing it settled her nerves; connected her to her ancestors and robbed life of some of its uncertainty too. Promise was grateful for its presence now as she appraised her Marines. They had a very long day ahead of them and she was about to drop a bit of news she knew they wouldn’t like.
Lance Corporal Kathy Prichart stood at the center of the group of Marine noncoms. She wore a tank shirt and running shorts, exposing sinewy arms and legs. The ankle of her left leg reflected sunlight, metal and polymer from toes to shin, a souvenir from the Battle of Montana because she didn’t regenerate. Her ocean-colored eyes were impossible to miss, just like the hair on her head, which changed color depending upon the lance corporal’s mood. Today, it was morphing-target-yellow. Kathy held a power stick in one hand and quickly raised it to her lips.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Prichart said, mouth half full yet again. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“You have that right.” Promise spoke as sternly as she ever had to her guardian. “Kathy, I just drew my senior without thinking, on an E-only range. I’m going to be busy this afternoon with the accidental discharge report. The ADR won’t get done until the range master is through ripping my head off, and those practice plates are coming out of my meager pay!”
“No worries, ma’am. I’ve got you covered. I worked it out
with the range master ahead of time,” Prichart said. “See.” The range master’s white booth stood in the distance like a small pillbox. “Staff Sergeant Heckler wanted to see your senior in action. You know how rare those things are.”
Promise turned around as the door of the range master’s booth opened. A Marine dressed in utilities stepped out and waved back at her. That must be Heckler. Even though the staff sergeant was a good ways off Promise could tell the woman was smiling. Then she gave Promise two vigorous thumbs up before disappearing back inside.
“We’ll, she’s heard my G-Twenty-Seven’s report,” Promise said. “Why don’t you invite her to the range tomorrow? Say eight hundred hours … for a private shooting lesson. Please ask her to be early. The antique ammo is on the RAW-MC. You may go replicate me some more.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am. That’s very generous of you. The staff sergeant will be thrilled.”
“She will owe you one, no doubt.”
“Something like that, ma’am.” Prichart looked like a Marine caught with contraband.
“Mm-hum, why does this feel like a setup?” Promise asked.
“Said the target to the sniper.” Sergeant Maxzash-Indar “Maxi” Sindri, one of her platoon sergeants and closest friends, stood next to the gunny. Maxi just reached the gunny’s shoulder, and barely measured up to the Marine Corps’s minimum height requirements too. He had a big, hidden temper that emerged when someone tried to kill him, or wound his pride. Unless you were inside his circle of friends, or you didn’t know any better, you kept your mouth shut about his height. “Maxi, wear extra socks so you can see out the visor of your mechsuit” or “Maxi, I said ten-hut!” He’d give you that smile, and knock you to the ground. Maxi and Promise had noncom days to fall back upon, and Promise could have gotten away with more than most if she’d wanted to. There were moments when Promise regretted the distance her commission had created between them.
Next to Maxi stood Sergeant Richard Morris, an unremarkable-looking man with brown hair and brown eyes. Morris would have made a good spook, because his face was utterly forgettable. Morris was a good man. He’d fought hard on Montana, and Promise trusted him with her life.
Beside Morris was Lance Corporal Nathaniel Van Peek. The lance corporal was as tall as the gunny, only thicker in the back and shoulders. Van Peek had almost bled out on Montana. He was, in many ways, a walking miracle.
Maxi, Kathy, Nathaniel, Richard, and Tomas made up the old guard from Promise’s pre-Montana days. Her Montana Marines. They had fought and bled together on Promise’s birth world, and owned the wounds to prove it. Some wounds, like Kathy’s ankle, were more visible than others.
On the opposite side of Kathy were four newcomers to Victor Company. Four women as different from each other as light and dark, and all of them were wolves. Blooded. They’d all killed in combat before joining V Company, and Promise needed their experience badly. Their faces showed a mixture of genuine surprise, uncertainty, and condemnation over the range incident involving Promise’s GLOCK. Firing rounds on an E-only range was a serious infraction. At the moment Promise couldn’t recall which number. Maybe the twenty-first. Regardless … All ranges had five-meter-tall earthen berms for absorbing beams. The berms were equal to the task for bullets too, but sensitive Marine ears were definitely not, and the Corps went to great lengths to protect them. That, and a round might ricochet off a target plate or the ground, and create a friendly-fire incident.
“Relax, sisters,” Prichart said. “No one’s getting thrown in the brig today. Look around. There’s no one here but us. I reserved the range ahead of time. And those were not standard E-range pie plates either. The lieutenant just destroyed a trio of breakaways.”
Understanding spread across the lined face of Staff Sergeant Gail Ghorn-Oguomalandashi, the seniormost newcomer to V Company. She nodded gravely, dark eyes shifting from Kathy to Promise. Then a tight smile crept across her mouth. “Try that on me, Lance Corporal, and you will be incarcerated.”
Prichart stiffened and looked straight ahead, nodded sharply. “I’ll remember that, Staff Sergeant Ghorn-Oguo … ah…”
“See that you do,” the staff sergeant said. “The range master and I go back a ways. Staff Sergeant Heckler has always been a trickster. She got me once, got me good too, back when we were lowly PFCs on our second tour in the verge. Mine was a dummy walkie-talkie. It ran right up on my six and through my legs. Turned around and started squawking in Standard. I jumped on top of it to save the Marines beside me but it never went off, and then it spoke words I will never forget. Someday I might tell you what it said, maybe after I’ve had a bit too much to drink.” The staff sergeant looked mildly amused. “It seems the two of you have a similar sense of humor, Lance Corporal. Please call me Staff Sergeant Go-Mi. It’s easier.”
And a bit self-serving, Promise thought. To be fair, the staff sergeant wasn’t coming across that way, and the woman had a point.
Kathy met Staff Sergeant Go-Mi’s gaze directly and realized she was being toyed with … partly at least. The other part of Go-Mi was dead serious. Kathy dipped her head in defeat. “Yes, Staff Sergeant Go-Mi. If I ever do play a trick on you, I’ll make sure to wipe my tracks completely.”
“Be sure to do that, Lance Corporal. Payback is sweet.” Go-Mi nudged the pale-looking sergeant at her shoulder. “Portia, I believe we’re going to fit right in here.”
“Yes, Staff Sergeant, I believe you’re right.” Sergeant Portia Dvorsky spoke with a heavy accent and lively blue eyes. Her PT uniform hugged her womanly frame, and her standard-issue tank shirt was barely adequate to the task. Porcelain pixie features betrayed an Old Earth Russian heritage. Next to her stood Sergeant Carol Keys, a broad-shouldered woman with a plain face and large hands. Beside her stood Sergeant Hema Lu. Lu’s blond hair contrasted sharply with her bronzed skin and brown eyes.
Promise motioned to the waist-level ferrocrete table situated behind the firing line. “Circle up, Marines. We’ve got a lot to cover.”
Twelve
APRIL 23RD, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1449 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
MARINE CORPS CENTRAL MOBILIZATION COMMAND
RED FIRING RANGE (ENERGY WEAPONS ONLY)
Promise set her minicomp in the center of the table and lightly touched the opaque screen. A short sequence of commands brought up a holographic map, which blossomed above the device, consuming about a cubic meter of air. At the center of the map rose a tall snowcapped mountain carpeted in lush green up to the tree line. The mountain’s base flowed outward toward a ring of sandy beaches, and dropped below ocean level into a shallow walk-up reef. One side of the mountain was blown out. Tense eyes absorbed the dormant volcano. Promise heard a throat clear, a sharp inhale, and a not quite subvocalized profane invocation.
“Yes, Marines, it’s that mountain.” The volcanic peak was called Mount Bane for a reason. For decades it had served as the principal assault testing ground for frontline RAW-MC units. Mount Bane had humbled the most adept Marine company commanders. One-hundred-percent unit casualties weren’t unheard-of. And that scares the mess out of me. Promise continued, “Victor Company’s scheduled for a surgical strike on the island.” Promise cleared her throat. She reached into the map and grabbed the leeward face of the mountain, slid it left to expose the volcano’s interior. The cross section showed over a dozen levels. “The command center is located here. As you can see, the entire island is heavily guarded by Android Enemy Soldiers and surface-to-air platforms. The beach is a kill zone. The sky is a kill zone. But, the water is perfect for swimming.”
Promise looked up at the gunny and nodded. Ramuel grunted in response and shook his head no, giving her a look that said, You’ve got to be kidding me.
“I’m deadly serious, Gunny.” Then Promise scanned the faces of her Marines, one by one, until her eyes came to rest upon Maxi’s. He was on the opposite side of the holomap and turned slightly toward her, so the unit patch on h
is utility shirt was clearly visible: a snake coiled around a warship, crushing it to death. “Pythons, it’s our turn. I realize tomorrow’s exercise is just a training op. I know you will give it your best. The women and men under your command, particularly our greenhorns, may be inclined to slack. Don’t let them. Tomorrow, we go to war. We are going to run the operational plan for the rest of the afternoon, and then run it again as a full company later on tonight, down to the smallest detail. Let’s win this one now. It’s going to be a long night and an even earlier morning, and tomorrow will kick with a vengeance. Time to love the suck.”
“Operation Doomtouch,” said Sergeant Morris wistfully. “If you make landfall, you’re a lucky jane or jack.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Sergeant. Success hinges on our planning and preparation,” Promise said in a neutral voice. “I suppose providence has a hand too.” Promise reached into the map and collapsed it. “My goal—my expectation—is zero-failure. We all make landfall together. We all come home. Questions?”
“If you say so, ma’am,” Morris replied.
Promise had fought beside Morris on Montana and they’d barely survived, and then they’d buried the rest of Victor Company together. Morris knew firsthand what a no-win situation felt like, and Operation Doomtouch had all the hallmarks of a royal FUBAR. Not on my watch, though. Not if I can help it.
“Ma’am, I’m with you—you know that,” added Morris after a long moment. “But, this operation rubs me raw. It’s designed for failure. What good is running an op that’s unwinnable?”
“Just because it hasn’t been done before doesn’t mean it can’t be done, Sergeant.”
“Ooh-rah, Lieutenant.”
“That’s the spirit, Lance Corporal Van Peek,” Promise said as she turned to the much larger man standing beside her and reached up to slap him on the back.
“I assume you’ll want a HALO drop?” The gunny brought them back to point, arms crossed as he scrutinized Promise through the holographic display from the opposite side of the briefing table.
