by W. C. Bauers
“Yes, with a splash at the end.” Promise smiled with her eyes.
“I was afraid you’d say that, ma’am.”
Promise parroted the gunny’s body language. “Don’t give me that look, Tomas. That’s what tanked air is for. We can walk the bottom and swim the pipes. No one’s tried it before. The powers that be won’t be expecting a blue space approach.”
“Yes, that’s true, Lieutenant, they won’t expect us in the blue. But walking in drink will slow us down considerably. If we’re detected, we’re bait.”
“That’s why I brought this.” Promise looked over her shoulder. “Stevie?”
Promise’s Mule hovered over on a plane of countergrav and handed her a nondescript box with a serial number stamped on both sides. The close infantry-support platform was dressed in desert camouflage and fitted with webbing on its front and back.
“Thank you, Stevie.” Promise gave her Mule a gentle pat and shooed it off.
Staff Sergeant Go-Mi looked at Promise strangely. Sergeant Maxi was standing opposite Go-Mi and read her expression, started to laugh, and raised a hand to his face to clear his throat. “She goes easy on her Mules, Staff Sergeant. Actually, Stevie is her first issue—her one and only—and that was six standard years ago. The two are attached at the hip.”
“I’m rather proud of that fact, Sergeant,” Promise said with an edge that didn’t match the twinkle in her eyes.
“I know, ma’am,” said Maxi, who turned and winked at Promise.
“Wow, I’m on my seventh Mule with twelve standard years in the service,” said Staff Sergeant Go-Mi. “Ma’am, with all due respect, is Stevie humping your gear or is it the other way around?”
“Told you,” Maxi said.
“And Sergeant Sindri is on his sixth Mule and it only took him six years to beat the living daylights out of the first five,” quipped Promise.
“What?” Maxi said with perfect innocence. “Mechs were designed to grunt it out for us.”
“Didn’t the Corps put you on notice? Next one is on you if it doesn’t last through Christmas, right?” Promise said.
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Thanks a lot.”
“That’s why I’m here, Sergeant.”
The gunny’s sigh brought the conversation to a halt. “All right, boys and girls, shall we get on with it?”
Promise nodded. “The gunny’s right. We drop tomorrow and we’re dropping into blue space.”
“This just gets better and better,” replied Gunnery Sergeant Ramuel.
“Come now, Tomas. You aren’t afraid of a bath, are you?”
“I don’t like the idea of not being able to swim. Mechsuits don’t have fins, ma’am. They don’t float either.”
“I know, which is why, before I was so rudely interrupted, I brought this.” Promise held up the box that her Mule had humped over for her. She set it on the table, cracked the top, and pulled out a metallic disk that looked like a giant-sized egg separator. “This is a multidirectional hydrodisk.”
The gunny looked unconvinced.
Promise set the disk on the table and activated it. For a moment nothing happened. A soft hum grew into a ramping sound followed by several clicks. Four rungs deployed and the disk enlarged to twice the size it had been moments ago. “The handholds and outer ring make up the M-HYD’s base.” Promise grabbed both to demonstrate. “The inner circle is tethered to four retractable tow cables. When deployed underwater, the M-HYD’s forward assist advances several meters ahead of the user, and generates propulsion. We will slave these to our AIs. All we have to do is hold on while they pull us through the water.”
Staff Sergeant Go-Mi cocked her head. “Ma’am, I would love to know how you got your hands on forty M-HYDs without tipping your hand. Tomorrow’s assault will be carefully monitored and those are not standard issue.”
“That is a superb question, Staff Sergeant. Turns out some brass will be monitoring our drop too.” All eyes were on her now, wide as saucers. “Sergeant Sindri, would you care to answer the staff sergeant’s question?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Maxi turned to Staff Sergeant Go-Mi. He made a show of stretching to his full height and grew uncharacteristically serious.
“The explanation you seek, Staff Sergeant, won’t be found in the good old RAW-MC.”
“You went off-grid.”
“I would never, Staff Sergeant. I simply went off-base and into town. Deep Sea Six was having a sale on thermal suits and rebreathers, and ten percent off everything else.”
“And you blew all your pay,” Promise said.
Maxi looked guilty as charged, and shrugged. “Um, DSS really does have everything. You should see the place. The cathedral ceiling is breathtaking, with a top-rate holosphere. I literally walked through the jaws of the Devil Dog on my way to the men’s.” The Devil Dog was a famous constellation faintly visible from the surface of the planet Hold, and across the planet’s solar system. The view from Hold’s only moon was particularly gratifying. The constellation consisted of ten stars, the nearest being twenty-two light-years away. Drawn together, they outlined the profile of a fierce canine (assuming you filled in the teeth with foam and drool, and added flaming eyes and a snarl).
“Just off the men’s is the longest row of poles and tackle in the ’verse. Even the literature says so. I picked up a sonic spear—the Mac-Seven—perfect for the modern underwater enthusiast.”
Promise felt a headache coming on. A few standard years ago she’d pushed Maxi to invest a portion of his monthly pay into a multisystem index fund. Thankfully, he’d heeded her advice and his portfolio had grown consistently, even beating the market most years. Without Promise, he would have been a very broke sergeant.
“I placed the order for the hydrodisks too, on the lieutenant’s orders. They arrived four days later via jumpship, which is stellar service by any standard.”
“And how did you … how did we … how did the company pay for forty hydrodisks?” asked Staff Sergeant Go-Mi.
“We didn’t. Deep Sea Six donated them to the RAW-MC, specifically to our company. DSS has a large parent company with a significant R-and-D department, and its weapons division is courting BUWEPS.” Maxi nodded to the hydrodisk before them. “That there is the M-HYD Model A, and we will be testing it in a simulated combat environment for some very senior brass.”
“You’re leaving something out. Do tell, Sergeant,” said Staff Sergeant Go-Mi.
“Ah, well, I suppose I should mention that my great-granny sits on the board. She’s RAW-MC too, First Sergeant Ahana Sindri, retired in 53 A.E. She will be observing the op tomorrow.”
“That bit of information is need-to-know.” Promise swept the faces of her platoon sergeants to make the point clear. “It will just make our cubs anxious so we’re not telling them. Clear?”
Verbals and nods all around.
“Crystal,” said Ramuel.
“During the last few days, you’ve all stepped up, trained hard, encouraged and pushed and prodded the greenhorns to step it up too. We’ve made real progress and you are to thank for that. Even Private Atumbi is showing promise.” The looks she got back told her her platoon sergeants needed some convincing. “All right, point taken. He will get there.” I hope.
“Tomorrow we deploy as a full company and find out if all the hard work has paid off. I know we will do ourselves proud. Mount Bane is designed to teach Marines to face the very real possibility of failure. Complete, utter failure. We all know a traditional assault on the island sets us up to fail by the numbers. We have to think differently, and train our least-experienced boots to expect the unexpected too. Teach them to adapt, and flex under pressure.”
Promise looked around the circle and locked eyes with each Marine in turn. Nodded to, reassured, and challenged every one. “We can do this. It will be fun.”
“Are you bringing your senior, ma’am?” asked the gunny.
“Of course, Tomas. Regulations allow good-luck charms on an op. Don’t worry. I’ll have a s
tandard-issue sidearm on me too.”
“I wear a cross, ma’am.” Ramuel let himself smile. “Don’t you think you’re stretching the Regs just a bit?”
“No. Why?” Promise feigned innocence. “Did you know GLOCKs can fire underwater?” she replied without missing a beat.
Thirteen
APRIL 24TH, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0530 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
PUGILIST SEA, CORREGIDOR ISLAND WARFARE TRAINING CENTER
Lieutenant Promise Paen stood near the rear of the forward compartment of the Maku-class light attack craft and watched the chronometer on the forward bulkhead wall tick down to “drop.”
“Ten mikes out,” she barked over a sea of noise: mechboots shifting on the deck plating, mechsuits jostling in webbing, raucous humor, and the hum of the LAC’s dual fusion engines.
Promise strode through her Marines, steadying herself on the overhead racks as she threaded the aisle, to counter the rough turbulence battering the LAC’s hull outside. The maglocks in her boots were engaged to keep her anchored to the deck. A tropical hurricane had decided to vent its fury along their approach to Mount Bane, and the pilot had taken full advantage of the storm to mask the LAC’s signature from the island’s scanners, which meant flying through soup. After a brief, peaceful stint in the eye of the storm, they’d plunged into 150 kph winds that were giving the LAC’s countergravity matrix a workout.
In the midst of a particularly rough patch, Promise dropped onto the empty bench next to Private Ed Kartoom, to help him fix a feed problem with his standard-issue FS-7.77 or “Triple-7” Carbine. Like all of her Marines, Kartoom wore the RAW-MC’s standard-issue Kydoimos-6 Mechanized Infantry Combat Battlesuit, or mechsuit: the interlocking plates of peristeel molded to the wearer’s body, flexed where necessary like the skin of a snake. Ergonomic compartments along the thighs and forearms housed spare cells, clips, throwing grenades, and snacks. An external mount on each hip took a sidearm. Every spare millimeter of internal capacity was crammed with enough tech to prosecute a small war.
“It won’t cycle, ma’am.” Kartoom stabbed the small display mounted to the carbine’s frame, directly above the trigger. “I’ve run all the diagnostics and can’t find the problem.” Kartoom looked about ready to break the carbine over his knee.
“Here—hand it over. Forget the screen. Use your head for something besides a helmet rack.” Sharp words, she knew. She tempered them with humor and smiled at Kartoom as they bit into his hide. “See.” Promise popped the clip and pulled the charging handle. She saw the problem at once. “I believe you have a bad magazine. Uh-huh, like I thought. See, the casing is bent inward at the top where it fits into the mag well. It’s not seating properly, so your penetrators aren’t feeding up the ramp like they should. Toss it and grab another. Safety on, Private.” Promise pointed to her head. “Remember, tech is only as good as you are.”
A bit farther down the aisle Promise spotted Private Mary Chang. Chang was looking paler than usual, and sweat dripped from her nose. “Chang, get your head down … between your knees. Now.” Promise grabbed an empty crate from an overhead smartrack and tossed it on the deck, and then kicked it hard toward Chang. “Incoming!” Several outstretched boots quickly pulled back as the crate screeched across the LAC’s deck plating, showering sparks in its wake. Staff Sergeant Go-Mi stuck out a mechboot to apply the brakes while Sergeant Sindri pulled out a smoke and made a joke of lighting it. A ghost-stricken Chang lunged for the crate, cheeks bulging with spew.
“Nice save, Lieutenant,” said Staff Sergeant Go-Mi. “We’ve all been there, Chang. Hang tough. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh.”
“Ain’t that the truuu—” Chang said before heaving again and again and again.
“Feel better, Private?” Promise disengaged her maglocks and took a knee beside Chan, and then looked up into the young woman’s stricken face. She’d smelled worse in the barracks, which didn’t say a whole lot for Marine hygiene. “You just need to get your drop legs underneath you. They’ll come in time. Swallow. Good. Now, stick out your tongue.”
Promise popped a hatch on her thigh compartment and withdrew a stim. “Hold still, this will sting a bit. And don’t bite me or you’ll break a tooth on my gauntlet. There.” Promise thumped Chang on her shoulder plate. “You’re already looking like yourself, Marine. Don your helmet and have your AI check your vitals. Keep your faceplate up, in case…” She was already moving when she heard Chang’s helmet lock tight.
Just then the LAC dropped suddenly, and it was enough to break the pull of her maglocks. Promise instantly thrust her hands up to prevent her skull from rapping the LAC’s overhead.
“See,” said Kathy. “If you won’t strap in at least don your helmet.”
Promise fumbled with the helmet latched to her waist, finally got it unhooked, and pulled her head through the collar. She flexed her jaw to equalize the pressure in her ears while her HUD spooled up. Flipped her externals to on and said, “Happy?” Then she headed toward the front of the compartment.
With her armor on, she grew about twenty centimeters boot-to-crown. She was less than a meter across at the shoulders, thick in the waist, and heavy as a small boulder. Armor and an EMP-hardened mesh and triage capabilities and synthetic muscles all had to go somewhere. Promise had never cared much about the way she looked up-armored. She’d never understood the janes who obsessed about how their derrieres looked in mech—nothing in the ’verse could help her flat aft anyway. Promise had modified her mechsuit to accommodate her senior and three spare clips inside the right thigh compartment, and if she was going to have one pear-shaped hip she figured she might as well have two, so she’d thrown extra cells in the left compartment and a couple of walkie-talkies. The “run-baby-run”s were a lot of fun to throw and if your trajectory was off, the grenade would stand up on its own and sprint toward the target before going boom. Because she was flat on top, she’d shaved the chest cavity down a bit too. It was a small price to pay for a smaller side profile while maintaining her suit’s ability to shrug off damage. She reached the bulkhead door to the LAC’s cockpit, which was sealed for flight, and pivoted on the balls of her mechboots, grabbed an overhead rung for stability, and sized up her command.
“All right, Pythons, drain it, dump it, pack it up, wolf it down. We go in five mikes.”
Thirty-nine heads turned to face her. Her order simultaneously traveled over the company net, resonated in the mastoid implant of every jane and jack in Victor Company. Powered gauntlets and helmets locked and sealed, weapons racked and cycled, fingers flexed, and more than a few Marines blacked out their visors and said a hasty “thank you, Jesus” in the privacy of a vac-and-sound-sealed suit as they took care of business and grunted out a load.
Promise made a point of tapping her visor, which turned clear, so her people could see her smiling eyes as they bounced through atmo in the minutes leading up to drop.
At T minus three mikes to drop, she barked out, “On your feet, Pythons. Take a rail. Double-check your gravchute and your buddy’s. Private Atumbi, sound off.”
Atumbi stepped out of line and waved from midway back. “Here, ma’am.”
“Private, please tell me you brought your rifle to the big show?”
The battlenet lit up with cackles and colorful metaphors. “Bet he brought his gun too,” said Sergeant Sindri.
“I’d certainly hope so or the private will need a medic,” Promise added dryly.
“Both are racked and ready, ma’am,” said Atumbi.
“More than I need to know, Race. Finger off the trigger, okay?”
“Roger that, ma’am.”
“Platoon Sergeants—roll call and report, by toons.”
One by one, the boots of Victor Company pinged the battlenet and reported in, green to go, first to their respective platoon sergeants. One by one each platoon sergeant reported to Promise directly. When all of the all-present-and-accounted-fors wer
e received and dutifully logged, Promise slaved the company battlenet to her heads-up display for a final review of the operational plan. A small 2D aerial map of the island and the surrounding waters appeared on her heads-up display and on the HUDs of very boot in Victor Company. Promise dropped a ring around Sector 53 and a ring around their current position, and tasked Bond to track time-to-target in real time.
“Remember, we are dropping to two-zero thousand meters, seven klicks out from our target. We will fall to one-five-hundred meters before deploying gravchutes. Your bubble will activate immediately once you clear the LAC’s drop ring. Until we hit the drink, you are to maintain comm silence.”
Promise pinged Private First Class Jupiter Cervantes and gave her the deck. “Jupiter was jumping long before she joined the Corps. Family business and such. She’s already logged more drops than most of us will in a full career and she recently made Senior Parachutist. Before joining Victor Company, Charlie Battalion, she was with Whiskey BAT—the Demon Wings—where she logged over thirty-five HALO combat drops, and five orbital insertions. She is our acting jump master for today’s op. Jupiter, please give us a one-mike rundown on the gravchute and the bubble.”
Private First Class Cervantes chimed in. “Aye, aye, ma’am. The bubble is your run-of-the-’verse null field. Cancels all comm traffic in and out, and masks your signature. Once it’s penetrated, either by incoming fire or returning fire, there’s no going back, and you’re roscado—screwed. Mount Bane’s ground cannons will take you out in the span between two heartbeats. Keep your pie hole shut and your pads off the trigger and let the bubble mask your sig while you’re in free fall. Next comes the gravchute. It’s a whole other animal. It’s touchy at higher altitudes. Keep a light touch and no matter what you do pull your chute before minimum ceiling. Pass it and your chances of survival drop precipitously. Wait too long and it’s hasta la vista, chiquita.”
