by Jason Kent
“Ian,” Jennifer said, leaning close, “This was not your fault.”
“I know,” Ian said quietly. He shrugged. “I didn’t even know his name. Didn’t even care what his name was, until now.”
“A lot of other people are alive today because of you.” Jennifer squeezed his arm. She emphasized, “I’m alive because of you.”
Ian looked up when the Marines drifted by, pulling and pushing the newly filled body bag along the corridor. “It’s not that,” Ian said. “I just feel…so guilty.”
“Don’t…” Jennifer began.
“I feel guilty because I’m actually glad it was someone else,” Ian interrupted.
“Ian, its okay to be glad you’re alive. It’s only natural.”
“Not me,” Ian said, shaking his head, “you.” He looked up to meet Jennifer’s gaze.
“In that case, I’m glad you were wrong,” Jennifer said.
ST-47A Drop Ship
Saturn Space
Ian looked up and down the cargo section of the ST-47A drop ship. Designed to hold twelve fully armored and armed space combat troops, the bay looked decidedly empty with just seven.
This peculiar ST-47A belonged to the 712th Special Operations Space Wing, or SOSW, US Space Corps. It had shown up at the L5 VAS just in time to be loaded onto Cheyenne for its sprint out to Saturn. The 712th had thought to include a qualified pilot for the mission.
Right now, Ian wondered if he might be better at piloting the SOF drop ship than Captain Chet “Val” Valiant. The man seemed to take delight in performing the most gut wrenching, puke inducing maneuvers possible in the 47A. That was saying a lot since the ship could turn on a dime. The other SOF troops cursed the pilot every time he zigged, zagged, or rolled. At least Ian was not alone in his assessment.
“Okay,” Major Taylor said, “We go in two groups. Marines…”
The two enlisted Recon troops called out, “Oorah!”
“And FACS.”
The three Forward Aerospace Controllers called back, “Spear tip!”
“Lieutenant Langdon will be our back-up,” Taylor finished.
Ian tried to think of something cool to call out but came up blank. Instead he just waved his gauntleted hand.
The Marines across the aisle stared back at Ian.
“Suit up and check your seals,” Taylor said.
Ian managed to get his helmet in place but could not quite get the collar seal to mate properly. He had the sudden vision of the bay doors opening and him sucking vacuum.
A pair of hands reached over and gave Ian’s helmet a hard twist and push. The locks clicked into place and the telltale in the corner of the face plate turned from red to green. Ian twisted to find Tech Sergeant Anderson somehow managing to stand despite the pilots trick flying.
“Better, sir?”
“Thanks, Anderson,” Ian said. Even in his own ears he sounded nervous.
“Breath LT,” Anderson said and knocked Ian upside the head. “These suits can take anything thrown at them. You got nothing to worry about.”
Ian nodded but just managed to hit his forehead on his faceplate.
“Got it.”
Anderson took his place beside Ian as Taylor sent over the final plan on the Ops Net. Ian let the image play over the front of his face plate. It was a computer generated representation of the alien ship, hereafter known as ‘Objective’, and their drop ship.
“Like I said,” Taylor briefed as the drop ship closed in on its target in the display, “the two groups will split and head for your assignments on the objective’s hull. Val will drop all of us here.” A red ‘X’ appeared on the forward hull of the alien ship. “FACs will move to the bow to investigate the battle damage. Cheyenne put a drone in close just a few hours ago. It looks like there is a good sized hole, read entryway, there. If you can’t get in that way, your secondary entry point will be hull charge wherever you deem prudent. You all have the scan data.”
“Yes sir,” Captain Rucker said.
“Marine Recon will move aft to this point,” Taylor continued. A second ‘X’ showed a point on the side of the curving hull. “The big brains back home think this is some sort of hatch.”
“If it’s not, we’ll make one,” Gunnery Sergeant Michael “M&M” Murst said.
“Brilliant plan, M&M,” Lance Corporal Howie “The Hulk” Bealeman replied.
“Intel has not been wrong, yet,” Taylor said.
“Yet…” Murst muttered.
“Can it, Gunny,” Taylor said, “Or I’ll take the LT instead of you.”
“You can keep Murst,” Rucker said. “FACs will look after Langdon, he’s with us.”
Ian was not sure if he should be proud the Captain claimed him or if he should feel like the kid picked last for basketball during gym class. The thought was driven from his mind when the ST-47A pulled a hard yaw and fired its breaking thrusters located on the top of the craft.
“Okay sardines,” Valiant called out over the common net, “you got thirty seconds before we reach the drop point. Major, you’re team set for decomp?” With decompression, all the air would be sucked from the drop ships cargo bay.
“Verify suits!” Taylor called out.
“Newbie’s good!” Anderson pounded his hand on Ian’s helmet.
Ian turned to check the shielded telltales of Anderson’s suit. “Anderson’s good!”
The others in the bay also checked in for their buddy.
Taylor reported, “Seals good!”
“Initiating decomp,” Valiant called back. “Drop point in ten!”
Ian could hear the air rushing into the storage tanks as Valiant decompressed the cargo bay. Then he looked down at his feet to be sure he was on his mark. Although the seven passengers had entered through the rear hatch, it was the ceiling and sides which would serve as their exit point. Ian faced the wall as the others were doing, again checking his mark. This had been drilled into him over the past few days as the SOF guys had practice exiting the 47.
In combat situations, the drop ship was capable of allowing a fully loaded bay with twelve troops to exit all at once. If anything had been learned from the earliest days of space warfare, it was that one hatch was not enough. A team exiting a boat one at a time had a good chance of being picked off one by one or the shuttle could be destroyed before they all could disembark.
“Okay boys, ready to become a target?” Valiant asked.
“FAC us! Oorah! Do it!” The SOF troops shouted in turn.
At least morale was not a problem, Ian noted.
A large green light came to life at the end of the compartment.
“You are ten meters above the hull,” Valiant reported. “Give ‘em hell.”
The ceiling swept back to the center line of the ship while the wall in front of Ian flipped down and away.
Up was a relative term in space. In this case, the shuttle was oriented so that when the top and side doors clam-shelled open, all the armored troops had to do was push off to the alien spacecraft now situated above their heads. In this case they would have a little help.
Ian braced himself.
“Three, two, away!” Valiant called out
The mark on the deck plating was the cover of a spring loaded ejection system. Ian and the others were pushed up from the floor of the drop ship directly at the objective above their heads.
The six Special Forces veterans reoriented themselves expertly. Part of the training Marine Space Recon and Forward Aerospace Controller troops included situations where they would be required to adjust to changing frames of reference without experiencing disorientation. In this case, each man had blanked out their current orientation relative to the drop ship and made the objective their new ‘down’. One of the interesting side effects of this training was each member swore as soon as they did a kick-off, they felt as if they were going to crack their skull on the hull of whatever it was they were heading for. Yes, it was their new down, but they were now upside down. With their training,
the assistance of their jet packs, and experience, each SOF troop flawlessly performed their flip and perfectly choreographed landing.
The SOF team members planted their boots in unison onto the hull. Each landed facing a different direction, their weapons pointed outward. The hull, already determined to be a metallic alloy compatible with the team’s magnetic boots, allowed for an excellent landing zone.
Ian had been told all this and knew how the maneuver was supposed to work. Still, when the drop ship doors had opened, he could not help but think, ‘Crap, Six is right there!’
The spring eject platform had nearly thrown Ian into Anderson.
Must not have been right on mark after all, Ian thought as he used his jets to compensate. Ian had crossed five meters of space before he got around to initiating his roll.
Throwing his leg out to his side, Ian managed to make contact with one boot while the rest of his body caught up. By the time Cordella and Anderson turned to look at him, Ian had both his feet on the alien hull and even had his weapon most of the way up.
Cordella motioned silently with his hand for Ian to follow.
Anderson gave Ian a thumbs up.
“Stay sharp, people,” Taylor said quietly over the combat net.
Ian turned enough to see the three Marines jetting for the hatch around the curve in the hull. Leaning back, he found the drop ship, now a small toy in the distance. Valiant had wasted no time before dusting off.
When Ian looked back at the FACs, they were already well along the way to the front of the ship. Rucker, Anderson, and Cordella were taking long strides, letting their backpack jets keep them close to the surface of the hull. Ian had no desire to go flying off the hull so he took deliberate steps, always keeping one foot on solid footing. It may take longer, but at least I won’t have to call Valiant in for a rescue op. The 47 pilot would simply love that.
Ian caught up with the three other troopers at a two meter hole in the hull.
“This is what a rail gun exit wound looks like,” Anderson said as he pointed at the metal hull plating blossoming outward.
Cordella was leaning over the hole pointing the light attached to the side of his weapon downward.
Ian could not help but look. Twisted metal formed a clear corridor into the heart of the ship.
“Entry points probably not much bigger than the slug,” Rucker noted.
“Made a mess along the way,” Anderson said. He took a reading with his rifle targeting system. “Hole goes down three meters to an open area.” He turned to face Rucker. “What do you think, sir?”
Ian looked from one man to another when a thought struck him. Rucker, Anderson, and Cordella represented exactly half of the space qualified Forward Aerospace Controllers in Space Corps. Cripes, the US was so not ready for an alien invasion. He almost laughed at that. Thinking it was too bad the guys in charge did not watch more Sci-Fi movies. Ian also realized something else as he looked back down at the hole.
“The Schriever did this,” Ian said.
“That’s what airpower will do for you,” Cordella said and straightened up.
“Space power, Chief, we’re space power now,” Rucker said.
“Space Corps’ is still part of the Air Force, so it’s ‘airpower’ to me,” Cordella replied.
Anderson moved to the edge of the hole, shining his light all around the sides the tunnel. “Chief?”
Cordella was watching Anderson’s light. “Cover me.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Ian asked. He took a half step forward intending to grab the Chief before he could do something foolish.
Ian was too late.
Cordella took a small leap over the jagged rim of the hole. He then managed a neat zero-gee flip and used his jets to send him into the ship, his M-25S held in front of him.
Ian leaned over the hole. He could see Cordella’s armor in the wash of his and Rucker’s light as he performed another turn and stopped himself deep inside the ship. Cordella took a moment to turn in a complete circle, his rifle always at the ready.
“It’s safe,” Cordella reported back over the net. “Get your ass down here Anderson. Captain Rucker, if you would care to join me, I’d most appreciate it.”
“After you, sir,” Anderson offered, waving an invite in Rucker’s direction.
“Hold up here, Langdon,” Rucker said. Without another word, the Captain stepped out over the opening and jetted down to join Cordella.
After a moment, Rucker called, “it’s okay, Anderson, the Chief was right. It looks safe enough even for you.”
“Smartass…sir,” Anderson muttered. He stepped up to the hole then looked at Ian. “Keep an eye out for little green men.”
“You’ll run into them before I do,” Ian joked. He hoped.
“Yes sir,” Anderson said. He gave a half salute and followed the other FACs.
Ian looked from the hole to the hull he was standing on. The Marines were out of sight. He looked down the opening. He could see the beams of the FAC’s helmet and weapon lights playing around the chamber.
Oh good, Ian thought, now you’re all alone standing guard on the hull of an alien ship. He looked up at Saturn hanging over the curve of the ship. The rings were tilted presenting an awesome view of one of the solar systems most spectacular wonders. It merely added to the effect of weirding Ian out.
Ian’s thoughts were interrupted by Rucker’s voice on the net.
“Come on down, Langdon.”
Ian tried to catch his breath, he was sure Rucker was calling him for backup. Ian gripped his rifle. “There in a sec,” he called out. Ian stepped carefully over the edge of the hole and ordered a short burst from his thrusters.
“Just plain weird,” Ian breathed. He took one more look at Saturn before dropping into the alien spacecraft.
“We’re in.”
The news came over the common ops net. Lance Corporal Bealeman and the two senior Marines received the news as they were examining their assigned hatch at the side of the alien ship.
Major Taylor replied, “Copy. Stay sharp.”
“Figures the FACs got inside first,” Murst grunted. “Hope they don’t find any Grays before we do.”
Taylor switched to the Recon Ops Net. “They got the hole that was already there, Gunny. I didn’t want you to have it too easy.”
“Guess it also means they get eaten first,” Murst said, a smile evident even over the net.
“Any suggestions, Hulk?” Taylor asked
Bealeman was lying on the hull of the ship, his face plate up close to what appeared to be some sort of control mechanism. “You sure? Okay, we’ll figure something out.” Realizing his fellow Marines had only picked up one side of his conversation with the engineers and specialists back on Cheyenne, he said, “That was the support guys.”
“And did they give you the magic code to get this thing open?” Murst asked.
“I sent them all the readings the suit sensors and monitors could pick up, Gunny,” Bealeman said.
“And they had no clue, right?” the Gunnery Sergeant said.
“Pretty much.”
“Blow it,” Taylor said.
“Shouldn’t we just go in the same way as the FACs?” Bealeman asked.
“Yeah, but that wouldn’t be nearly as fun, would it, Hulk?” Murst said as he pulled out a small spool from a hip pouch on his armor. Murst knelt down and laid out a line of shaped explosive around the hatch. He attached a small detonator to the cord and backed away. “Besides, if we get into trouble in there, I want my own exit.”
“Agreed,” Taylor added. “Clear the area.”
Taylor and the two other Marines turned and took a few steps away from the mined hatch.
Bealeman twisted to get one final look at the door. He also did his own check of the area to be sure none of the FACs, especially the fill-in LT, had wondered back around the hull. They might need to wreck the ship getting in, but they sure did not need to get anyone killed on a little blow job.
&nbs
p; “Fire in the hole,” the Gunnery Sergeant grunted.
Bealeman turned enough to see Murst double click the small handheld transmitter with his armored hands. He involuntarily winced as he watched the feed from the drop ship hovering two hundred meters from the alien ship. The tiny heads-up display in the corner of his visor showed a brilliant white flash as the cord detonated.
The only physical indication to Bealeman that anything had happened was a quick shudder which ran through the hull and up his legs. Turning back to the hatch, he aimed his rifle into the now-open doorway. Bealeman swung his light back and forth.
Together, the three Marines gazed down.
“No decompression,” Bealeman noted.
“Maybe the whole ship lost its atmosphere after the Schriever shot it up,” Murst said.
“That would explain why nobody has tried to move this thing since it got out here,” Bealeman said. “The crew must all be dead.”
“That’s a shame,” Murst said. He snapped several high-intensity light sticks, activating the chemicals inside, and sent them spinning down the hatch with a flick of his wrist.
Bealeman watched as the sticks bounced off the rounded walls. One lost its momentum and floated more or less at what appeared to be some sort of junction directly below them. Two others spun off in different directions of a corridor. Something occurred to Bealeman then.
The Major noticed the same thing.
“There’s no inner airlock,” Taylor noted, carefully leaning further over the hole to examine the oddly textured walls.
“Less to blow up,” Murst said.
“True, Gunny, true. It also means this was not a lock, air or otherwise. Guess the name really depends on what these things breathe,” Taylor said. “I bet this spaceship can land on a planets surface and just pop its door open.”
“Or this is a cargo hatch,” Murst said. “Maybe we’ll find another lock elsewhere on board this fine ship.”
“One way to find out,” Taylor said. “Bealeman, you have point. Gunny, watch our backs.” The Major leaned far enough back to catch sight of the drop ship. “Keep the skies clear, Captain.”
“Got’cha, sir,” Valiant responded over the Ops net. “I’ll keep your seats warm.”
