Wainwright failed to follow suit; he hadn’t corrected everyone’s impression that he was just another grunt with a broken communicator yet, but even so he was a full bird Colonel and outranked the Major by two steps. That said, he was interested in hearing what the Major had to say before he broke up this little mutual admiration society and got back to the real business of running the Brigade.
The fact that he was still getting his breath back and recovering after being thrown about and knocked around like a man three-fourths his age also had something to do with it. Regardless, this little excursion fantasy as just another one of the boys was about to come to an abrupt end.
As the only one not standing at attention, the Major gave him a hard look but let it slide for the moment, no doubt the fact they were in a war zone and had just gone through combat had something to do with that. His busted up, blacked and damaged to the point of near non-functionality combat suit probably had more. For all Gaspard had to know, the insolent marine in the damaged suit wasn’t being insolent at all; with his cracked visor and battered suit, Wainwright might have been suffering from a concussion or head wound.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Major Gaspard began, turning away from considering Wainwright’s battered vista, “so listen good.” The Major paused again for effect.
“There’s been a change in our orders and Mission Profile,” Gaspard said flatly, causing the Marine Colonel to stiffen in surprise, “By Hidden Directive, a Secret Order available only to the Commander of this Brigade and his Executive Officer Lieutenant Colonel Kyle Riggs designated Proclamation 41889z has now taken effect.”
Colonel Wainwright growled with outrage. He was unaware of any hidden orders, and as the Commanding Officer of this Brigade he should have been the first to know, not his Executive Officer who was also doubling as the 1st Regimental Commander.
“What’s the Proclamation, Sir,” Sergeant Kopenhagen inquired hesitantly, after the Major failed to continue.
“This Brigade is to no longer consider itself attached to Admiral Montagne and his so-called Confederation Fleet,” he said with ringing finality, causing Wainwright to frown. These orders were starting to sound both more and less plausible.
“Our new orders are to seize control of these pirate battleships and place ourselves under the orders of Captain Vaughn Heppner and our Duly Appointed SDF Superiors,” the Major Gaspard said flatly.
“And if our former allies, the Lucky Clover Lancer contingent should object to us taking the prize ships, to say nothing of the pirates we are still busy dealing with?” the disguised Colonel demanded stepping forward.
“Our orders are clear, anything and anyone that gets in our way are to be dealt with using maximum force,” Gaspard replied evenly, his eyes flaring as he glared at the single visible eye of the marine in the battered power armor and shattered helmet visor. “Now lock it down and get back in line, Marine. Those jumped up natives posing as Confederation Lancers have done nothing to earn either our loyalty or our respect. I, on the other hand have,” the Major finished with a silent, thousand meter stare.
Wainwright’s muscles tensed. Being stared at like that might have intimidated another marine, but not only was Wainwright a Superior Officer, he was too old and too experienced to melt in his boots over a simple look. He may have been shuffled off to a support unit for longer than he cared to remember and not participated in live combat for even longer, but the day a look caused his knees to buckle and the iron in his stomach to turn to water was the day he placed a sidearm to his head and retired early.
“Just one last question, Major,” he said in a gravelly voice designed to mask his identity, “you said that Colonel Wainwright is aware of and agrees with these orders.”
“Not that it’s any business of your, Private,” Gaspard snarled, marching into his personal space and shoving his nose into Wainwright’s battered visor.
Wainwright held his ground, refusing to take action until he was totally certain of just what exactly was going on. Gaspard might be an overbearing officer both up and, as apparent from this little display, down the chain of command, but the Colonel had to make sure he understood exactly what was going down before he took a position and potentially kicked off something he didn’t want in his worst nightmare.
“That said, your—” Gaspard snapped, and then hesitated glancing at the men and women around the disguised Colonel before continuing, “that said, the Colonel, Space Gods rest his hard-charging soul, not only knew about the orders; before he perished in the initial attack wave, he personally signed off on them before we ever left Caprian space!”
Colonel Wainwright stood paralyzed for a moment, his blood suddenly turned cold and then rose to molten fury. He wasn’t worried about Gaspard. He’d had his eyes on the little weevil ever since he’d been assigned to the Brigade. Now he’d shown his true parliamentary colors, his loudly proclaimed loyalty to the Royal Cause worth less than the spit which flew from his lips as he did so.
Most likely thinking he’d cowed the busted up Marine in front of him, Gaspard turned and marched down the line of assembled Marines who’d taken Engineering.
“That’s not true,” Colonel Wainwright said slowly and evenly.
“Shut up, Stupid,” Buck Sergeant Kopenhagen hissed at him from two marines down the line. “Lock it down before you get—” she broke off as Gaspard turned back from
“What was that,” Gaspard demanded, placing a hand on the blaster rifle slung over his shoulder and handle hanging down within easy reach, ready for a quick grab-and-shoot if the moment required it.
“I said that’s a lie, cut from whole cloth no doubt, you miserable sack of excrement,” the Colonel replied, fingers releasing the catches holding his helmet in place. The one side was sticky, and unfortunately it was the side with the locked up hand, so it took a few moments to fumble it free.
“I’d be well within my rights to shoot you where you stand for insubordination,” the Major threatened, a savage feral gleam entering his eye, “retract it and agree to accept administrative punishment from my hands at a later date and we can let the matter pass,” he ordered, his voice lowering and his pupils dilating.
“That’ll be the day,” said Wainwright as he pulled up on the helmet, breaking the seal and then lifting it.
“What did you say—” the Major’s words cut off abruptly, his voice terminating in a choking cut off sound.
“I said that’d be the day you disloyal, mutinous dog,” Colonel Wainwright reiterated, slapping his Ion Cannon down from his shoulder and catching it on his bad hand for support.
Around the Major, Marines leveled their blasters at him and then goggled moving their weapons ever so slightly to the side as recognition formed.
Hand frozen with his finger on the trigger of his blaster rifle but the barrel of his weapon still out of position, Gaspard glared with silent, mounting fury at the still very much living Brigade Commander standing in front of him. “You,” he hissed, the corner of his mouth turning down in barest the hint of a sneer.
“I see a lot of 1st Regiment, 2nd Battalion men standing around you Major. Whatever happened to Battalion Commander Cuisini?” Wainwright said in a raised, but deadly voice. “He have a mysterious case of suddenly finding himself dead?” the Colonel demanded, ignoring the weapons pointed at his side and back from the scratch squad
“The Kernal,” he said in that atrocious Stonelander accent of his, “seems to have come unhinged from his sudden and abrupt reentry into line command and then finding himself cut off and back in the heat of combat.”
“I was in combat, handing the enemies of Capria their heads before you were born,” Wainwright scoffed, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw the questioning looks from the members of the scratch squad. He frowned “Once a line beast, always a line beast; as events can bear out I can handle being on the tip of the spear,” he finished evenly.
“Stupid?” Sergeant Kopenhagen asked tentatively moving forward half a
step, just enough to see him in profile, “Colonel?” her eyes widened ever so slightly.
“With the deaths of so many fellow marines on his conscience,” sneered Gaspard, “after allowing himself to become distracted by the thought of a return to glory and significant prize money from this fool’s attempt to storm the pirate citadel, it’s no wonder our Commander now wants to deny he ever had any orders to follow other than those of the School-boy Admiral,” Gaspard spoke quickly, yet with all the force of his snake-like deadly personality behind it, “Which orders I might add would have preserved our Brigade in its entirety, instead of scattering us all over the various hulls of this pirate Battle Station!”
The 2nd battalion men standing behind him started muttering and several blaster rifles reacquired his position.
“I rode a screamer down onto the hull of this ship to protect your miserable life, among others vastly more worthy of their position in this Marine Corps,” Wainwright added quickly, seeing the negative response starting to form in the eyes of the 2nd Battalion men, “and you have the audacity to accuse me of being some Montagne Lapdog,” he finished with a roar. He was their C.O., not this parliamentarian snake in honorable marines clothing.
“Men,” Gaspard shouted, “The Colonel’s clearly become unhinged from combat exhaustion, just look at his armor! NO! We must take him in for a full medical evaluation!”
“Only the Executive Officer can temporarily remove the C.O. from command for a medical evaluation and only three Brigade Doctors working in concert can do so during a combat situation!” Wainwright retorted, his voice rising until it resembled nothing more than the bark of an angry attack dog just challenged for leadership of the pack by an interloper.
There was the sound of additional power-armored feet trotting down the hall in quick order and Wainwright knew he had to do something fast or he was going to lose the initiative.
“What’s the meaning of this,” called a clear, carrying and most importantly, female voice with ringing authority. Wainwright knew all the top female officers in the Brigade and this wasn’t one of them.
“Now that his puppet is in trouble of losing the Brigade Command he just used to get a lot of good Marines killed, that Montagne whelp sends his woman to prop him up,” cried Gaspard motioning over his shoulder.
“Surrender or be slaughtered by my Lancers,” snarled the female voice.
Gaspard opened his mouth and Wainwright could see eyes hardening on the Marines facing him, the marines from the 1st Regiment. Whatever else the Major had to say to try and make the situation worse, Colonel Wainwright wasn’t interested in hearing it. He’d spotted something in the traitor’s eye that told him the other man was about the make a move.
He watched, carefully tuning out the hubbub breaking out around him, and then acting simultaneously with the Major when Gaspard started to lower the barrel of his blaster rifle, the Colonel pulled the trigger of his Ion Cannon.
Shot right in the face at point blank range with a crew served Ion Cannon, the right half of the Major’s face turned into cooked meat as blood and other particles exploded out of the left side of his mouth, his right eye melting instantly.
Several bolts hit Wainwright in the chest and shoulders in rapid succession, even as he raised his bad arm to cover his face from the hail of blaster fire that soon followed.
“He killed the Major, take him down,” screamed a 1st Regiment Sergeant.
“Mutiny in Cold Space,” roared Wainwright like some kind of angry wounded lion, as blaster bolts struck the arm covering his face. Depressing the trigger of his ion cannon, he fired wildly, blasting a line up the floor and then across the ceiling more than anything in between as he was now forced to use the Ion Cannon one handed. Each shot tried to jerk the oversized weapon out of his single still functional hand, “The Major’s a treasonous Parliamentary dog who just fragged a fellow officer for command of the 2nd and then tried to kill me, his Commanding Officer, as well,” he said forcefully, staggering to his knees under the force of the blaster bolts hitting him, not sure if he was right or wrong about the fate of Cucini, but certain it was probably true and could only help right now.
There was a yelp beside him, “Hey you’re firing at us, you Jackanapes!”
“Get 'em lads,” he screamed, pointing towards the 2nd Battalion, “Don’t stop until you link up with the Lancer reinforcements, or they throw down their weapons and cease fire!”
There was a longish pause. “You heard, Stupid… I mean the Colonel,” Melissiandra’s clear, biting voice broke the silence, “For the Colonel! For the Crown,” she screamed, and a few blaster bolts started striking out from the Marines beside and behind him. That trickle soon turned to a hail and the 2nd Battalion men fire concentrated in earnest at the rest of the Marines around him.
From the hall behind the 2nd Battalion, the Marine Colonel could hear strange battle cries in even more strangely accented voices. Calls of “Messene!”, “a-Clover!” and “For the Hold Mistress,” echoed down the hall, accompanied by blaster and plasma rifle fire as well as the metallic clang of hand held vibro weapons on duralloy strong powered armor.
From what he could hear, other than being overly vocal, this Lancer Contingent which Suffic had been training seemed to have enough follow-through to qualify as fighting men.
Then a pair of vibroblades cut a man-size shape through the corridor bulkheads and plasma grenades started going off at close quarters right in the middle of the 2nd Battalion Marines, while a new set of Lancers screamed, “a-Lyca”, “a-Lyconese!” and “Jason Montagne!” Just as quickly, a flood of Lancers came pouring into the recently cleared space from the hole in the wall even before the last of the grenades had finished going off, as evidenced by a couple of battered and blacked old style Caprian battlesuits staggering against the wall, that’s when Wainwright knew the entire contingent were stark raving loonies.
The old Royal Lancers, back when they still existed and perhaps they would once again under King James, were known for being more than a bit mental. According to his file, this newly minted Colonel Suffic of the Confederation Lancers was a tried and true former 1st Lieutenant of the selfsame crazy and deranged Royal Lancers. But these new Confederation Lancers took things to whole new realm of lunacy.
For a moment, Colonel Wainwright was halfway jealous. Then he frowned furiously and tried to get to his feet, only to hear his battered suit give one final squeal and lock up solid. Blast it, he was stuck! Since all he could do now was watch the battle rage around him, he took another long look at the hole in the bulkheads and vowed that as soon as they had some down time, his Royal Caprian Marines were going to start practicing the same trick! There was no way a defunct organization, manned by a bunch of illiterate primitives and officered by a former Royal Lancer was going to show up a highly trained formation like his Brigade, or else he wasn’t a Colonel in the Caprian Royal Marines!
“Traitors to the Crown must die,” screamed Wainwright from within his temporary prison of useless power armor.
Chapter 36: A Ride to Remember
“Yeah,” yelled Hansel Suffic, as the jump seat he was strapped into rocked from side to side from a near miss and the sound of atmosphere escaping through a leak in the hull sounded throughout the troop bay. He pumped a fist in the air.
All around him Lancers, both native and Starborn (the term his unit had selected for those members of the contingent not from Tracto) gave him sickly or in some cases stoic looks.
“You are insane,” Akantha said to him shaking her head.
“I don’t think so,” he laughed as the Shuttled jerked, the sound of its onboard engine changing to a high-pitched whine.
“The man who our warriors wager could not smile if his life depended on it is now laughing and grinning like a jester,” Akantha challenged.
Suffic punched her in the side of the arm.
“You,” Akantha started with a snarl, turning on the Lancer Colonel with rage on her face.
“Call
me a jester in front of the men again and you’ll be the last one off the transport, Hold Mistress,” he growled, pushing his helmet right up against hers and glaring through the visor. Seeing her face was still stiff with anger he added, “And that’s if I don’t confine you to the shuttle until the ship is secured!”
“You would not dare,” she retorted, rearing back.
“I never take off in the same shuttle unless I’ve got a few hardcore Lancers ready, willing and eager to sit on top of a high and mighty Hold Mistress, if the need arises,” he shot right back.
“You would dare,” Akantha cursed, knowing he probably would, “World of Men, but you Starborn males can be a burden intolerable at times!”
“Right back at you, My Lady,” Hansel chuckled, sounding distracted at the same time. He was looking toward the pilot’s compartment, which caused Akantha to do the same.
“Is there a problem?” she demanded after a moment’s silence.
Suffic shook his head irritably. “Some of these pilots are little better than civilians,” he grumbled under his breath. “Local reservists are fine for shuttling troops and gear into or out of atmo, but show them a hot LZ and things are liable to go pear shaped.”
“Are they incapable of executing their charge?” she asked.
Suffic shrugged. “Their skills aren’t in question, My Lady,” he explained, “it’s what’s between their ears that kept these boys from combat missions. Combat pilots are some of the steadiest, most dependable men you’ll ever meet.”
Akantha was alarmed, but she kept her features neutral. “What happened to our usual pilots?” she asked.
His face darkened and he met her eyes meaningfully. “Some unusual personnel transfers, including more than a few suspicious last minute medical cases,” he explained in a low voice.
Akantha’s eyes narrowed. “Do you suspect treachery?” she asked sternly.
Suffic’s gaze swept back to his men. “It’s a question for a different time, My Lady,” he said with finality. He slapped the button over his chest, releasing the restraints keeping his power armor from being knocked around with every jig and jag the pilot took them through.
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