by Jay Allan
“Fritzie…”
“Yes, Captain.” The reply was sharp, but he could hear a commotion in the background. Dauntless had left so quickly, they’d only had time to do the bare minimum before getting underway, and that left a lot of work for the ship’s engineers.
“What’s the status down there, Fritzie?” He paused then added, “The truth Fritzie.”
“Those base techs tore apart half my systems, Captain. And they put it back together like shit. I’ve got to rip half of it out and redo it all. If I work my teams hard, I can have everything fully operational in two days…maybe three.”
Barron sighed. He had some idea of what Fritzie meant by working the crews hard, and he felt a fleeting moment of sympathy for her engineers. But he might not have more than three days.
Assuming you even have three days. If you’re facing an invader at Santis, you’ve got the time. If they’re still heading this way, maybe not…
“Fritzie…” He lowered his voice, regretting that he hadn’t gone to his office before calling his engineer. “…I’m concerned we might have a nasty fight ahead of us. I don’t know for sure, and maybe it will be nothing. But if we do run into something tough…”
“Understood, Captain. I’ll get everything at one hundred percent. Two days.” She sounded determined, but there was still the slightest hint of doubt in her voice. “Two days, sir…I’ll get it done somehow.”
“Thanks, Fritzie.” Barron cut the line, and returned his gaze to the main display.
Two days…we’ll be ready in two days.
But ready for what?
* * *
“So, he’s looking at me across the table, trying to stare me down. The guy’s huge, two meters tall if he’s a centimeter. And a nasty son of a bitch…even for a Marine. So I stare right back at him, and I shove all my chips into the center of the table…”
“Are you telling that story again, Raptor?” Kyle Jamison stepped into the wardroom, a shit-eating grin on his face as he walked up behind Stockton. “I’m surprised you found anybody who hasn’t heard it. Or at least hasn’t heard it enough times to run for it the minute you open your mouth.”
“Sir!” A ragged chorus went around the table. About half the pilots present were new enough, raw enough, to suspect that normal military protocols were in place. But the pilot’s wardroom was behind Bulkhead Eight, deep in the fighter wing’s territory, and the unique culture of the Confederation’s attack squadrons was in full effect, including what looked like a disturbing lack of propriety when it came to senior officers.
“C’mon, Thunder, give me a break…” It was common behind Bulkhead Eight to refer to pilots by their call signs. Stockton turned and looked back toward Dauntless’s strike force commander. The two were buddies, but they were pilots too, and friendship didn’t prevent them from giving each other shit whenever possible.
Jamison smiled and moved his eyes over the pilots at the table. They were mostly from Green Squadron. “I guess you bored Blue Squadron to death already.” Stockton was the Blues’ commander.
Stockton frowned, but he didn’t respond.
“Did he get to your people yet, Ice?” Jamison turned and looked across the room. Lieutenant Tillis “Ice” Krill was sitting—more accurately, he was lying—on a small couch, watching a vid.
“No way, Thunder. I’m not letting him anywhere near my Yellows.”
Krill and Stockton were rivals in Dauntless’s fighter wing, and they were the two best pilots as well…though which was number one and which was number two was a contentious subject. It was a rivalry that had spread to their respective Blue and Yellow squadrons.
Jamison laughed. Then he walked over and sat in one of the empty chairs. “Seriously, guys…I’m a little worried about this run we’re on. I don’t know what’s out there, but I do know Dauntless is the only warship worth the name within fifteen jumps. So, whatever we run into, we’re going to be alone. I need your squadrons sharp, ready for anything.”
“My Blues were born ready.” Stockton’s voice was cocky, but Jamison knew for all the pilot’s wild behavior, he was one of the best squadron commanders in the fleet. If he said his people were ready, they were ready.
“Ice?”
“Yellow Squadron is in good shape. We got a lot of exercise time in while we were deployed on the border. Even the newer guys are looking good.” A short pause. “Sharp enough to match Blue Squadron any day.”
Stockton turned, but Jamison interrupted before he could respond. “Not today, guys. Let’s put a hold on the back and forth.”
“You’re really worried, aren’t you, Kyle?” Stockton’s voice was earnest, all the arrogance gone.
“I just think we need to be ready for anything. I had a talk with the captain, and I could tell he was really on edge.”
The door opened up, and a tall, slender woman with short, spiky brown hair walked in, her uniform spotless. “You wanted to see me, Commander?” Olya “Lynx” Federov commanded Dauntless’s Red Squadron.
“Yes, thank you…come in and have a seat.” Jamison’s eyes glanced over toward the other pilots in the room, mostly the ones who had been listening to Stockton’s story. “If you all don’t mind, I’d like to have a chat with the squadron commanders.”
The pilots responded with a bunch of nods and a ragged series of, “Yes, sirs.” Jamison watched silently as they filtered out of the room.
“I don’t want to overreact,” he said, just after the door slid shut. “I don’t have any specific knowledge…and for that matter, I’m pretty sure the captain doesn’t either. But he’s worried…and that has me worried.” He moved his eyes slowly from one of them to the other. “I want all of you to do everything possible to make sure your people are ready. Maximum simulator time. I’d even like to try to turn routine patrols into training exercises. Try to assign less experienced pilots with some of your veterans…or better still, go out with them yourselves when you can.”
“Certainly, Commander.” Federov spoke first, her tone rigidly professional as always. There was a certain freewheeling culture in the fighter corps, but Federov was atypically formal in her bearing.
“Maybe we can run some extra patrols too.” Stockton was businesslike now too, all hint of the undisciplined bad boy gone. “It would be some extra flight time, at least.”
“We might be able to do that, Jake…though we’re accelerating hard toward the transwarp link, so there may be limited opportunities.” He paused. “I just want to be sure all your people are ready.”
The three officers nodded.
Jamison knew their three formations weren’t the problem. Dauntless carried four squadrons. The Blues were the best, though he suspected Ice would have argued that point. His Yellows were close behind. Federov’s Red Squadron had a higher proportion of newer pilots, but he knew the gifted officer had forged her people into a capable unit.
Green squadron was the problem. The Greens had lost their commander a few months before, to a transfer thankfully and not in action. Lieutenant Hogan had gotten a promotion to lieutenant commander and an assignment to take over Defiant’s fighter wing. The Greens had been the least experienced formation already, and Jamison hadn’t considered any of its officers ready for a jump up to squadron leader. He’d held off naming anybody, and he’d filled the role himself. But even with his personal attention, he knew the Greens would have a hard time if they ended up facing veteran pilots.
“I know we just came off the border…and I know we were all under a lot of stress. I know you had your leaves ripped out from under you…but I need you all to be razor sharp now. As dangerous as it was waiting for the Union attack, at least we had the fleet behind us there. We’re alone out here—weeks, even months, away from any possible help. Whatever’s out here, it’s Dauntless’s problem. And that means it’s our problem.”
He sighed softly, watching as the three officers nodded. He knew his people would be there, that they would do whatever he needed them to do. He was prou
d of the job he’d done molding them into what he—and Captain Barron too—considered the finest fighter wing in the Confederation.
No, the problem won’t be my people.
It will be whatever is out there waiting for us…
* * *
“Again, Rodrigues. Maybe I didn’t mention it, but this isn’t a fucking picnic. Now do it once like you give a shit!” Sergeant Ernesto Billos stood along the edge of the small gymnasium, scowling at the three men and one woman standing in front of him. “You all looked like crap, but congratulations, Rodrigues…you were the worst. I wouldn’t even give a shit, but when you bring that piss poor effort into battle and get yourself scragged, I gotta fill out the forms…and the captain’s got to write the letter to your folks, so save us both the hassle and just pay fucking attention.”
Billos was a Marine. Career. Every word that came out of his mouth, the way he stood, his bearing…it all screamed Marine. And he knew there was only one way to handle the men and women in his charge. Push them. Harder than last time.
The Confederation had been at peace for most of the last generation…and that meant the Marines had one job. Getting ready for the next war. The one that could come. The one that would come. And he wasn’t about to let anybody coast…and especially not now, when Dauntless was racing out to the frontier to deal with some kind of crisis. If whatever was out there was on the ground then the Marines would earn their pay.
Billos was the senior non-com among Dauntless’s Marines, and one of three who were old enough to remember the last war against the Union. Despite his caustic style, he was proud of the ship’s Marines—most of them, at least. But he never forgot that for all their training, few of them had seen real combat. And just as bad, Dauntless’s contingent was understrength. The ship had been designed to carry two full companies, but the deployment to the Union frontier had been an assignment unlikely to result in any kind of ground combat, so she’d shipped with a single company plus a few extra specialists. Dauntless had been scheduled to pick up a fresh batch of Marines to bring her complement to full strength, but they hadn’t arrived yet, and with the concern over activity on the frontier, the Archellian command had declined to spare any of its own garrison to supplement the skeletal contingent.
“C’mon, Sarge…we’ve been at it for two hours now.” The whole squad was staring back at the veteran platoon sergeant with various exhausted expressions, but Rodrigues was the only one with the guts to actually complain. Billos was going to hammer him for it…but he would also remember who’d had the balls to stand up to him, and who didn’t.
“I’m thrilled to see you can count to two, Rodrigues. But what do you say we try something new? Let’s pretend I’ve got the sergeant’s marks on my shoulders, and you’re a one-stripe puke barely out of boot camp.”
Billos heard the door behind him slide open, and he could see from the way the Marines looking back toward him jumped to attention that one of the officers had come in. He turned, snapping to himself, with greater precision than any of the others.
“Captain Rogan.” He saluted.
“At ease, Sergeant.” Rogan looked across the room. “All of you.”
The Marines started to relax, but then they saw a figure following Rogan, and they whipped back into rigid postures.
“Please…” Barron walked into the gym, gesturing with his hands for the Marines to relax. “I’m not here to interrupt your workout. I just stopped by to see Captain Rogan, and he invited me to come along for a chat.”
Billos had to force himself to relax. Captain Barron was being informal with them, but he was the absolute master of Dauntless, and Billos knew damned well the officer didn’t need an invitation to do anything he pleased on his battleship. Barron wasn’t as aloof as some other ship commanders, but he didn’t spend a lot of time down in Marine country either. Dauntless’s ground forces were housed in the ship’s lower aft, where there was room for their training facilities and armory. It was about as far from the bridge—and the ship’s officers’ quarters—as a place could get, outside of the reaction chambers and the launch bay.
“Sir,” Billos said, realizing he probably looked comical trying to appear relaxed when he was anything but.
“I mean it, Sergeant—all of you—please relax. This is an informal visit, so at ease.”
Barron stepped into the room. He turned toward Rogan then back to Billos. “Sergeant, the captain and I have been discussing our current mission.” He paused, letting out a brief sigh. “The truth is, I have no idea what we may be facing…but I’m…concerned it might be something significant and dangerous.”
Billos thought the captain almost said, “I’m afraid” instead of “I’m concerned.” He wasn’t sure, but it gave him a chill anyway. He’d never seen Barron look even rattled before.
“Yes, sir.” Billos was focused on the captain, the other Marines standing around, watching, listening.
“I don’t know if we’ll have need of your particular talents on this operation, but I want you all to be ready just in case. I know you’re understrength…” He paused. “…and that most of you have seen limited action. Not you, of course, Sergeant.”
Barron hesitated again. “I just wanted all of you to know…” He looked over at the silent Marines standing around the workout equipment. “…I may ask a great deal of you before we return to Archellia. There are colonies out on the Rim. Small ones, mostly mining facilities, but they are home to Confederation citizens, and it is our duty to protect them. No matter what threatens them.”
“I have assured the captain he has no cause for concern. The Marines will be ready to do whatever he requires.” Rogan’s tone almost dared one of the Marines to disagree.
Billos found himself nodding, almost involuntarily. Then he said, “Certainly, sir. Captain, I can assure you your Marines will be ready to do whatever you need.” He paused for just an instant. “Whatever the cost, sir.”
Billos understood the captain’s visit now. The sergeant was junior to the contingent’s three officers in rank, but he was the most experienced Marine aboard, and Barron wanted him to get the rank and file in line, ready to do whatever had to be done. Ready to die, if necessary.
He stared back at the ship’s commander. Then he simply said, “You can count on me, sir. And on all the Marines. I will help the captain get them ready.”
Barron nodded. He was about to answer when one of the Marines on the other end of the room spoke up.
“Yes, Captain…you can always count on the Marines.” It was Rodrigues. “Whatever you need, sir, we’ll be there for you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Message from Unidentified Marine to his Mother
(Played for Each Class of New Marine Boots)
We’re trapped, Mom, all of us. The Union forces are all around, and there are just too many. We’ll fight…we’ll fight like hell, but we ain’t gonna make it. I don’t know if this message will get to you, but if it does, just do one thing for me. Don’t cry. I know you’ll be sad, Mom, but remember I died as a Marine, with all my brothers and sisters. I died fighting for my country. I died with honor. And there are a lot worse ways to go…
Near the Ruins of Base Tom Wills
Planet Santis, Krillus IV
Alliance Year 58 (307 AC)
“I want the patrols doubled. Every millimeter is to be searched, out to a hundred kilometers from base. I want those Confeds found!”
“Yes, Praefectus. Immediately, sir!” The officer stood at attention, unmoving.
“That will be all, Optio. See to it at once.”
The officer thumped his fist against his chest in the Alliance salute. Then he turned and walked swiftly to the door, opening it and stepping out into the swirling snow.
Millius sat at his makeshift desk, and he shivered as the door swung open. The small portable shelter wasn’t what he would have called toasty, but it was a major improvement over the frigid conditions outside.
The commander of the Allia
nce ground forces had been reviewing the latest casualty reports. He’d landed with two hundred eighty-six stormtroopers, including himself, but not including the technicians assigned to take over tritium production and storage. Now, less than a week later, he had ten KIA, and sixteen wounded and in the field hospital. He was sure his people had drawn blood too, though he’d only been able to confirm two kills. Whatever other Confeds had gone down in the fighting—and he was sure at least some had—their fellows had dragged off the bodies.
He was surprised at the ferocity of the enemy, at their combat effectiveness. He’d never considered the Confeds to be the pushover some in the Alliance did, but he was shocked at the capabilities of the warriors he was facing. They were outnumbered nearly ten to one in actual combatants, at least if the data his people had extracted from the prisoners was accurate. And he was sure it was. His inquisitors had gotten the same information from multiple captives. Their methods had been harsh, and for the most part, the Confeds who had surrendered had broken quickly.
It didn’t make sense. How could some of the enemy be so weak, and yet others could take to the hills, endure the brutal conditions…and fight his veteran troopers to a standstill?
What kind of society is this?
The Marines out there hadn’t so much as lit a fire to ward off the frigid nights, nothing that could give their positions away.
Whatever the Confederation may be, these warriors are not to be underestimated…
Millius reached down and pulled his com unit from the small folding table.
“Optio,” he snapped.
“Yes, sir!”
“Forget my order to double the patrols. I want them tripled.”
“Yes, Praefectus.”
“And all forces are to shoot on sight, regardless of position or numbers. I want those Marines eliminated…whatever the cost!”
* * *
“Quiet, all of you.” Hargraves turned his head, looking at the thin column lined up behind him. He had ten Marines with him, and three civilians, techs who knew their way around the tritium tank farm.
