by Isaac Hooke
Snakeoil seemed embarrassed. "Shucks. Only doing my job. Y'all would have done the same thing for me any day of the week. Definitely not something worth a medal. All I can say is I'm proud to have you as my commanding officer, Facehopper."
The leading petty officer nodded. "Not as proud as I and the Teams are to have you."
In the next berth, we met Trace and Ghost. "These guys are our snipers. Ghost is the one who looks like a pale demon, and Trace is the mean-looking East Indian. Trace can take out a target at five klicks with ninety percent accuracy. What do you think of that?"
I nodded my head. "Impressive."
"You may or may not remember him from training. He often helps out with the Combat Resiliency Qualification."
"I do," I said. "He was the one who shot me."
Trace broke into a grin. "I shoot only the best."
His movements were as calm and self-assured as ever. Facehopper had said he was East Indian, and I believed it from his darker complexion. I checked his profile and saw that he hailed from Bengal.
Trace pursed his lips. "You got fifty percent accuracy at a range of five klicks in training?" he said, obviously viewing my own profile. "That's nothing to scoff at. I bet you're going to be platoon sniper for your first few deployments."
"Thank you sir." Though I really wanted to be an ATLAS pilot.
"Ghost here, in addition to sniping, is our Interrogator. I'm sure you can guess why."
Ghost bowed his head and touched the tip of his navy cap in greeting. He was a tall, warrior albino, and with his white hair, red eyes and pale face, he reminded me of an elf from some fantasy or science fiction novel. An evil elf at that. I definitely wouldn't want to be interrogated by him.
Facehopper led us on, and when we entered an office area I knew we'd moved on to the upper echelon of the platoon. I felt a surge of trepidation, as I always did when I met the people who were ultimately responsible for the direction my life took.
We entered one of the smaller offices. The UC flag hung limply in the background. On the far bulkhead, between several framed certificates and degrees was the portrait of a sailor from old times, dressed in a bright blue uniform and white navy cap. An empty bottle of whiskey sat on the desk. There was a starship model inside, dreadnought class. Beside the bottle were three figurines. The first figurine was obviously old, judging from the faded paint, and it depicted a sailor with ridiculously huge forearms crushing a can labeled 'spinach.' The second figurine was of a panting dog in an orange life vest. The last figurine depicted a realistic-looking MOTH, complete with jumpsuit, jetpack, and combat rifle.
Behind the desk sat a grizzled man, his dark, tilted eyes seeming to judge my every movement. The skin of his face was weatherworn, and he had a hooked beak of a nose above his thick, gray-specked mustache.
"This is Chief Bourbonjack," Facehopper said. "Our fearless leader. Got more body parts shot off than anyone I've ever met, and he's been awarded more medals than most admirals. He should be a Navy Captain by now, but the Chief has forever refused advancement. Didn't want to go back to school I guess. Or just likes to fight."
The serious expression left the Chief's face, and he broke into a grin. "Right on both accounts!" Chief Bourbonjack got up and gave me a combination handshake and one-armed hug. "Greetings!" He shook my palm warmly. A good, solid grip. The hand felt almost real, but the texture was slightly off, a little like corrugated cardboard. The Chief must've seen the expression on my face, because he shrugged. "That's right. 3D bio-printed! Weren't you listening? I've had more body parts shot off than most admirals. I'm almost an Artificial. Ha!"
"If they could build an Artificial with the character of this man, we'd be out of a job," Facehopper said.
"Well thank you, Leading Brown-nose Officer!" He gave Facehopper a mocking nod. "Anyway, glad to have you boys joining Alfa. The detailer sent your profiles a few weeks ago and I just knew we had to keep you three together. When I find a group of men that work well with each other, I don't see the point in separating them. Makes them less effective, in my experience."
"Thank you, sir," I said.
Chief Bourbonjack's gaze snapped to my face. "So you're the spokesman?"
"Uh, I guess so, sir."
"Good. Every group has a spokesman. Lets me know who I should talk to when I need something, and who I should chew out when that something doesn't get done. I'm not sure if Facehopper here has gone over any of the rules, but all I care about is that you do your time, on time. While not on deployment, you'll be expected to show up at 0600 each morning, and stay until 1800 at night. Most of us go home at the end of the day. The three of you have no dependents living in the country, so it's up to you if you want to live in the barracks or not. If you live off base, you'll collect BAH." Basic Allowance for Housing. "You'll still have a barracks berth of course, but you just won't stay overnight. Anyway, Facehopper here is hopping on his toes, so I can see he's eager to introduce you to the Lieutenant Commander."
"Among other things," Facehopper said.
"All right then, get on with it." The Chief folded his hands on his chest. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you boys real soon!"
Facehopper led the three of us into an adjacent office. "And finally, I present to you Lieutenant Commander Braggs, the officer responsible for Alfa and Bravo platoons."
The Lieutenant Commander reminded me of a younger version of Chief Bourbonjack. He was about fifteen years older than me, but there wasn't an inkling of gray in his brown hair. His face was all hard planes, and though he wore a long-sleeved service jacket, I could tell from the way he moved that he still had the body of an athlete despite his rank.
The Lieutenant Commander stood up and towered over all of us. He was just as tall as Fret. He reached over the desk and shook my hand. His grip was in the medium range of the MOTHs I'd met so far today, not overly hard, but just enough to give the bones of my fingers a good grinding.
When he had shaken each of our hands, he sat back down. "Have a seat."
We sat down in the three empty chairs that were conveniently arrayed in front of the desk.
The Commander's office was positively spartan compared to Chief Bourbonjack's. Other than the UC flag situated near the far bulkhead, all the Lieutenant Commander had on his desk was a portrait, facing outward, presumably of his wife and son. People who spent a lot of time in their Implants didn't really have much use for material objects, I supposed. Or maybe he just didn't use his office very much.
"Mr. Galaal, Mr. Eaglehide, Mr. Mondego. The Teams are an elite unit, the best the Navy or even the entire military has to offer. Sure, other branches have ATLAS mechs and support robots and all the other wonderful assets that go along with a platoon of course, but their training doesn't hold a stick to our own. Which is why my expectations for you three run so very high. However, don't let those expectations interfere with your duty. I'm all for a little friendly competition, but remember, we're brothers here. Most of us have been through hell and back together. The life of your brothers comes first, above everything else, except maybe the mission objective. We'd all fall on a grenade to save the man beside us. Heck, I'd fall on a grenade. That sense of brotherhood makes us who we are.
"We've got an almost insanely competitive drive within us, a drive tempered with the care we feel for our brothers, a drive honed by the endless hours of training. We've taken that drive, and used it to forge ourselves into some of the most ferocious, unstoppable fighters in the galaxy. Most of us have, anyway. Whether or not you display that drive remains to be seen."
He glanced at Facehopper. "Could you grab the utility tape, LPO? And tell the Chief to bring in some of that excellent bourbon of his."
"Now, sir?"
"Well, why not? I figured I might as well get my turn in while I have some time."
"Yes sir." Facehopper left.
Smiling widely, Chief Bourbonjack came in and set down three shot glasses on the desk. He filled them with bourbon.
"Drink up, boys,"
the Chief said. "This here is the best whiskey Bourbon County has to offer."
"What about you guys?" I said, feeling a tad guilty. Not to mention suspicious.
"Ha!" Chief Bourbonjack said. "We're on duty!"
"But aren't we—"
"Drink!" The Chief got in my face. "Before I ram the drink, shot glass and all, down your freakin' throat!"
All three of us took the shots.
"What's this?" the Chief said to Tahoe. "You're sipping your shot? Sipping?"
Tahoe quickly downed the rest of his glass.
I had this queasy feeling in my stomach, and not just from the liqueur. It felt like I'd dropped back in time and was in First Phase all over again.
The Chief refilled our glasses. "Again."
We ended up having six rounds each, and by then I was really plastered. Never could hold my liqueur.
Facehopper finally came back and proceeded to tape the three of us to the chairs.
"What's going on, sir?" I said, my voice slurring.
But I knew.
We were being hazed.
Facehopper unbuttoned my shirt.
"Did you bring ice?" Lieutenant Commander Braggs said.
"Roger that," Facehopper said, grinning. He handed the bucket to the Lieutenant Commander.
"Uh, I thought you said you'd fall on a grenade for us, sir?" I said.
"And I would." Lieutenant Commander Braggs smirked. "But this isn't a grenade." He shoved a handful of ice down my pants.
I started shivering right away. Damn, it was cold. I had flashbacks to sea immersion.
"You're not some kind of substandard graduate, are you Mr. Galaal?" Lieutenant Commander Braggs said.
"No sir!"
"Well, good. You can never tell these days, what with the duds they've been sending us."
He stuffed ice down Alejandro's and Tahoe's pants next.
"Welcome to the brotherhood," the Lieutenant Commander said. He, Chief Bourbonjack, and Facehopper grabbed felt markers and proceeded to draw graffiti of a highly sexual nature across our faces and chests.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Go go go!" Facehopper shouted over the comm line.
In my rifle's scope, I kept an eye on the building Facehopper was leading his fire team into. I was on overwatch position on the third floor of an apartment across the street. I lay by the window, on an upturned nightstand. I'd put a bedroll from an adjacent room on top, making the setup semi-comfortable.
Outside, the buildings were made of either stucco, or bricks. Two to four stories tall, the rows of boxlike, squat houses were broken only by the occasional colorful monastery or school. Two- or three-story apartments stood at every street corner. A towering statue of Buddha covered in a green patina dominated the center of town; the statue had one palm upraised as if it were trying to stop the war that swept the country.
I heard gunshots on the comm, then "clear!" I kept scanning the two different exits to the building. No targets came out.
I moved on to the next house in my range, and watched a Marine fire team sweep the building. Still no targets. I moved on to the next house. A division of Centurion robots dressed in Army camos emerged. I saw a basketball-shaped drone hover down from an open upper floor window—an HS3 (hover squad support system) drone. We'd been using the things to help us map out the city, and to sweep through buildings we'd already cleared. Unfortunately, the insurgents had been shooting them down constantly. Either this was one lucky HS3, or we'd received a fresh supply of the things. Anyway, still no targets for me.
Too big for the buildings, a couple of ATLAS mechs roved unopposed between houses. The fanatics had figured out a while ago that four or five rockets launched from behind were the best attack against the mechs, so our platoons often used the ATLAS 5s as bait to draw out the rocketmen for our snipers. It wasn't a tactic that was approved of by the Brass, and if the Lieutenant Commander had known we were using the multi-billion digicoin mechs as bait he would've probably shat his pants. Nevertheless, the ATLAS boys sure seemed to be having fun down there.
A gunship strafed a smoking target in the distance. Far above, a Raptor circled unchallenged, ready to provide heavy air support. Both aircraft sent a clear message to would-be attackers: We rule your skies.
My platoon was working with the Marines in the contested zone in Khentii Province, Mongolia. The Russians, our allies, were trying to take back New Baganuur city. Most of the fanatics who had taken over the city weren't even Mongolian. Sure, there were the small groups of Mongolian guerrillas who didn't want to return to Russian rule, but for the most part the fighters were foreigners. Basically anyone who wanted to kill Russians or members of the UC had come to this city. You had your Chechen rebels, your mujahadeen, your kashmiri separatists. And while Sino-Korea wasn't directly involved, there were a fair share of Sino-Korean fighters who'd joined in, just because. Ex-military, judging from the armaments and equipment they'd brought along with them.
Why the big deal with Mongolia? This small country that sat smack-dab between Russia and China was home to thirty percent of the world's Geronium-275, precursor to Geronium. Starship fuel.
You'd think with all the colonies we had out there on other planets that this wouldn't matter.
It did.
So far, in all the systems we'd gone to, no other planets containing any form of Geronium or its isotopes had been discovered, save for the deposits detected beneath the metallic hydrogen core of a gas giant in Gliese 581—of which there was no economical means of harvesting.
So Mongolia was just a little important to us.
Alejandro turned over, stifling a yawn. He was taking a rest on the floor beside me, while Tahoe was guarding our backs with his heavy gun. Like everyone else on this deployment, we were wearing trimmed down, planet-side jumpsuits, with ordinary helmets. No facemasks, but we still had SCBAs we could don in case the enemy decided to launch chemical weapons.
The suit exoskeletons were still strength-enhancing and had jetpacks of course, and provided protection against shrapnel and lesser bullets. Didn't really help all that much when half of your opponents used thermobaric grenades and armor-piercing rounds though.
I waited a few more minutes, passing my scope from house to house, until finally the frustration of having no targets got to me.
I turned to Alejandro. "Well, it's been about three hours. Your turn big boy."
Alejandro rubbed his eyes. "How many did you get?" he said.
"Nada. Haven't seen an engageable target the entire watch."
"Mmm." Alejandro took my place, and relaxed into a sniping position on the bedroll, eye on his scope.
I lay back on the floor and closed my eyes. After about ten seconds I heard him fire.
"I hate your guts," I said.
Irritated, I scratched my beard with my free hand. It was getting pretty itchy. Everyone on the team had a thick beard by now. Only spec-op soldiers were allowed facial hair, mostly because we were the ones given the hardest operations, the ones where you had to sit motionless in the field for days at a time and where it was physically impossible to shave, or the missions where shaving would give away the fact you weren't a native. Anyway, the guys considered beards a badge of honor. We grew them mostly because we could.
Alejandro and I had pretty fancy beards by now but Tahoe unfortunately was incapable of growing anything more than a thin mustache and a soul patch beneath his lower lip. Anyway, we made fun of his lack of beard quite often.
Speaking of which...
"Hey Tahoe," I said, sitting up. "I've been thinking about your beard. Or rather, lack thereof. Maybe I should snip off a piece of mine for you? What do you think? With some glue and a little creativity we could get you a decent facial rug. You'd look very manly."
Tahoe didn't say a word, not looking back from his defensive position by the doorway. I should probably leave him alone, let him do his job. I laid back and closed my eyes.
"You know, I'm kind of glad this deployment is on Ear
th," Tahoe said suddenly.
I glanced at him. His back was still to me, his eyes on the hallway, his rifle pointed out the doorway. Good.
Alejandro fired off another shot.
"Lucky puto," I told Alejandro.
"What was that, Tahoe?" Alejandro said. "I couldn't hear over Rade's whining."
"I said, I'm glad we're still on Earth."
"Why, hombre?" Alejandro sounded tense, as he usually did when he was concentrating on finding something to kill. "I thought a big reason you crossed the border and joined up was for the chance to go into space? Mr. Astrophysicist and all..."
"That was part of why I joined up, yes," Tahoe said. "But you know what? Being a father changes everything. I don't want to be away from my wife and kids for more than eight months at a time. If we go into space, it could be up to two years. Or longer. It's just not worth it anymore, for me."
"You know it's inevitable that we're going into space, right?" I said. "This is just the beginning. This is our training ground. You better get used to the idea, Tahoe. You're going to be away from your wife and kids for long stretches of time."
He didn't answer.
"Straight up, I'm not looking forward to space deployments all that much either," Alejandro said. "I kind of like my planet."
Alejandro let off another shot.
"Damn you," I said. "I think I want to go on overwatch again."
"No way jose."
"That's already, what, two? And you only just started."
"Three," Alejandro said. "I don't know what the big deal is anyway. See those ATLAS mechs down there? I'd rather be piloting those."
"At least you're getting kills," I said.
But he wasn't the only one who wanted to pilot an ATLAS. Most of the platoon did, but there just weren't enough mechs to go around. At first I had thought it a little unfair. My ATLAS aptitude scores were the highest on the team. But I had to give our designated pilots Manic, Lui and Bomb some credit: they had actual field experience. Eventually I decided to accept whatever role the Chief gave me. If he wanted me to be a sniper, I was going to be a sniper. If he wanted me to be a corpsman, I was going to be a corpsman. And not just any sniper or corpsman, but the best this team had ever seen. Which is why it pissed me off so much that Alejandro was getting all the kills.
