Exodus: Empires at War: Book 05 - Ranger

by Doug Dandridge

  “He was fucking militia, if you could believe that,” said Preacher, thinking back on the young man he had met in the jungles of Sestius. “He had some experience as a hunter, but that was about it.”

  “Where is he now, sir?” asked Narovicki.

  “He’s in Regular Basic, if you can believe that,” said Preacher. “He wants to become one of us, and I think we’ll be very lucky if he makes it through training. Otherwise, the regular infantry will get that killer.” Just keep your shit together, Cornelius, he thought, picturing the intense young man in his mind. Just keep it together, and nothing will stop you.

  Chapter One

  A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon. Napoleon Bonaparte.

  PLANET RUBY, SUPERSYSTEM, MAY 20TH-JULY 20th, 1000.

  “One, two, three, four,” sang the men and women as they ran under the desert sun. That globe had just risen above the horizon an hour ago, and it was still cold as shit outside. Ruby was already a cold world, the fourth planet out from a K class star that was the fourth body out from the central black hole. And winter was coming.

  Sure beats the heat, thought Private First Class Cornelius Walborski, running at the front of his squad of trainees. The gravity was a bit lighter than Sestius as well, though sometimes it was hard to tell with all the gear they were loaded down with.

  Camp Determination was over eight hundred thousand square kilometers of military reservation, most of it desert, but also with substantial grasslands and some forest. No real jungles, but there was another planet in the system for that kind of training. Determination was a place to train soldiers in the basic military skills they would need to build on, and to toughen them. And toughen them it did. In his two weeks here Cornelius had put on five pounds of muscle, and while still not the strongest man or woman in the platoon, he definitely was the most determined.

  The Drill Sergeant looked back at the platoon, his critical eye going over each man and coming to a rest on Walborski. You’re not going to break me, you SOB, thought the PFC, glancing back at his own squad to make sure that they were all keeping up. He was already somewhat of a celebrity with the Drill Sergeants, having been in more combat than most of them, and being a recipient of the Imperial Medal of Heroism for his part in the resistance on Sestius. Even if I did abandon my unit, he thought, before falling in with Preacher and becoming a one man wrecking crew in the jungle. Having a pregnant wife to take care of made the desertion an easy decision. Unfortunately she died, right after giving the farmer a son. Now there was no one alive who knew about his indiscretion except for Preacher, and he wasn’t talking.

  “Bergstroms’s started to fall behind again, Walborski,” said the man just behind the PFC.

  “Christ,” cursed Cornelius under his breath, jumping out of line and trotting to the back of his squad rank. Sure enough, Michelle Bergstrom was again struggling. She was the smallest person in the platoon, and was always having trouble carrying her weight, much less the equipment they piled her down with. When they got to powered armor training her lack of strength would not make that much difference. Here, it was killing her.

  “Come on, Bergstrom,” said Walborski, putting the woman’s arm over his shoulder and helping her along. “You can make it.”

  “I can’t,” complained the woman. “I’m going to fall out.”

  “The hell you are,” yelled Cornelius, pulling her along. “You volunteered for this shit, and you are going to make it through.” Walborski looked ahead at the rest of the platoon that was opening the distance. They need people, he thought, keeping his own breathing under control as he moved the puffing woman along. They’re going to have to start a draft going soon, but right now the volunteers are flooding the training facilities. But even with a draft they’re going to need a lot of people. Millions. Hundreds of millions.

  What to Walborski had been an easy run was now hell, him pulling another trainee along with him. He wondered when the run would be over. Only the Drill Sergeants knew for sure. They called the shots here, not a PFC, no matter his record. He could feel the sweat pouring down his face now, despite the cool temperature. We’re going to make it, he thought. Just to the next curve in the road. “We’re going to make it, recruit. You hear me?”

  The woman nodded her head and kept going. “Just to the next curve in the road,” said Cornelius, shaking his head to fling the sweat out of his eyes. They reached that curve and kept going. “Just one more, Michelle. Come on. You can make it just one more.”

  Before they got to that next curve the platoon stopped and people started dropping off to the side of the road. Some fell right on their butts, others walked for a moment to cool down. They were still ten kilometers from the barracks, so Cornelius was sure the morning ordeal was not over yet. After a few minute rest Drill Sergeant Martinez called everyone back into the ranks.

  “Forward, march,” yelled the Drill Sergeant, and the platoon started to walk forward at a quick pace. “And I don’t want to see any of you pussies falling out. This ain’t no fun run or hike.”

  Cornelius kept waiting for the command to double time. He knew he could handle it, but he wasn’t so sure of Bergstrom. Nor was he sure that he could continue to carry her along. It might just be best to let her wash out, he thought, then shook his head at that notion. His job as squad leader was to look after his people. If he couldn’t do it then they would put someone else in the position. Not something he wanted.

  “Column left, march,” ordered the Drill Sergeant as they came up on a dirt path leading off the road. There were vehicle tracks all through the dirt, showing that this way had already seen much use. The platoon marched for about two kilometers and around a hill side until the red flag with black square in the center as visible.

  All right, thought Walborski as he recognized where they were. Maybe not the exact location, but the range flag was something that he was familiar with from his time in the militia.

  “Today we’re going to familiarize you trainees with the basic infantry rifle,” said the Range Sergeant as he walked up to the column of troops. “Have any of you ever fired a military class mag rifle before?”

  Cornelius raised his hand, along with a couple of others that he knew had taken some Military Scout training in secondary school. Cornelius stared as Drill Sergeant Martinez whispered something in the Range Sergeant’s ear. The man’s eyes grew wide as he looked at Walborski, then he nodded his head and waved some more range personnel forward.

  “You will follow the instructions of the range NCOs to the letter,” said the Range Sergeant. “First squad, move to the firing line and receive your weapons.”

  Cornelius moved up with his squad, taking the position to the far right. Everyone here had already fired the weapons in the simulation chambers, so all knew the drill. But for everyone else in his squad firing a real military class weapon was a first. Walborski took the rifle that a Corporal handed to him, making sure to keep the weapon pointed down range.

  “Everyone more to the firing line and assume the prone position.”

  Cornelius did as ordered and was soon laying down with the rifle into his shoulder.

  “Load a magazine into your rifle and set the acceleration for one thousand MPS.”

  Cornelius loaded and set the weapon with an expert’s hand, looking over to see that Bergstrom had performed the maneuver to satisfaction, while some of the others were having trouble seating their magazines or setting their rifles. The range personnel ran from position to position helping the trainees that needed it while making copious references to the intelligence or ancestry of the people in question. The Range Sergeant took a quick look at Cornelius’ weapon and nodded.

  “On single shot, take the targets that appear under fire. The range is now hot.”

  Several mag rifles fired, sending their supersonic rounds downrange. Unfortunately, there were no targets yet making an appearance, and those who fired impulsively were again castigated by the range personnel. Cornelius waite
d patiently, rifle to his shoulder, eye to the iron sight. A man sized target rose two hundred meters away and Walborski squeezed his trigger, sending the seven millimeter round into the center of its head. The target fell and another rose, this one a bit to the side at three hundred meters. He sent another round into the head, the target fell, and another rose, this time much closer.

  Cornelius glanced to the side and saw that Bennett was also hitting every target, if not in the head, at least at center mass. That could not be said for everyone in the squad. Walborski knew that the real weapons they would carry into battle would be much more accurate, and have various aiming and stabilizing systems that would make them much deadlier. But the idea was to make the soldiers as accurate as possible without aids.

  Cornelius kept knocking them down, and the Range Sergeant walked by and looked down at the PFC. “You’re supposed to be aiming center mass, trainee,” said the Sergeant.

  “I’m making sure they’re dead, Sergeant,” said Cornelius. The NCO shook his head and walked away.

  The next target to pop up was at five hundred meters. He knocked it down in an instant. Targets kept coming up, the ranges kept increasing, until Cornelius was hitting them through the head at twelve hundred meters.

  Then it was the turn of the other squads, as Cornelius and his squad field stripped and assembled their weapons after learning these would be theirs for the rest of Basic. The Range Sergeant approached Walborski after the third squad finished shooting.

  “You’ve a hell of an eye, Walborski,” said the Sergeant, smiling. “And I know from your record that you wouldn’t flinch if you had to take out an enemy. Have you ever thought of going to sniper school?”

  “I want to be a Ranger, Sergeant,” said Cornelius, seeing the suggestion as something that might sidetrack him.

  “The Rangers need snipers too,” said the Sergeant, nodding. “And if you get through Ranger school, sniper school will be a snap.”

  “Anything that lets me kill Cacas,” said Cornelius, staring into space.

  “You scare the hell out of me, son,” said the Range Sergeant, looking down at his feet, then back up at Cornelius. “And with the shit coming down the pike, that’s a good thing. We’re gonna need scary bastards for what’s coming.”

  Cornelius reached up and grabbed the chain than hung around his neck under his shirt. His fingers played with the wedding ring on the chain. It had been his. Katlyn’s had disappeared with her body. It was the only reminder he had of her, beside their child. And it reminded him of why he hated the aliens, and why it was so important to make them suffer for what they had done.

  Air transport took them back to the barracks, where they ate lunch and then did some more time on the simulators. Cornelius liked jacking into the machines, playing the part of an infantryman in combat. The machines sped them through twenty hours of real time simulation in an hour, then switched over to hand to hand for another hour. After that was an hour of real hand to hand, training the muscles to do what the mind had already mastered.

  No one wanted to spar with Walborski, so again he found himself sparring with the instructor. The man handled the trainee easily, though Cornelius did get in a few licks from sheer aggressiveness. He welcomed the bruises he picked up, knowing that sparring with an expert would make him that much better at what he wanted to get better at, killing Cacas.

  Before dinner came weight training, after the next in the series of booster nanite shots that were helping to put muscle on all the trainees. Cornelius found himself working out with Private Markeith, the strongest man in the platoon. Cornelius couldn’t do the number of reps that the bigger man performed, but he could handle the same amount of weight for fewer repetitions.

  After dinner it was more training, including another run and some calisthenics. When it was time for lights out all of the trainees fell into their racks and passed out from exhaustion. All except Walborski, who, like most nights, was still of a restless state of mind despite the physical fatigue. Katlyn was still on his mind, his childhood sweetheart and the love of his life, the mother of his son. Killed by the Cacas on Sestius, and still his only reason for living. His only purpose, revenge.

  That was the last thought on his mind as he fell into a deep sleep. He had a few dreams, mostly from the implanted routines the Army used to train their minds even while asleep. He was field stripping a heavy beam weapon when Drill Sergeant Martinez strode into the barracks and knocked the two cans together that roused the soldiers from bed. Cornelius jumped out of his rack ready to face a new day, one more getting him closer to his goal.

  * * *

  A month into training came their first introduction to powered armor. Cornelius had worn the militia version on Sestius, a sorry form of protection thirty years behind what the Army wore. Externally the Mark XII light combat armor was not the newest thing. It was last decade’s armor, but with nano-upgrades it was internally as state of the art as any suit in service.

  Drill Sergeant Martinez came striding out onto the parade ground wearing the very same armor they were being introduced to. He moved easily, like a man who was wearing a normal nanoweave uniform, and not fifty kilos of armor and servos.

  “Most of you will be wearing this form of armor in the near future,” said the Drill Sergeant, looking over at the standing trainees. “Those of you going on to combat arms training will also be introduced to the other armors, the medium and heavy suits. But for those who are assigned to light infantry units, as well as most supporting roles, this will be the armor you wear. Those of you unfortunate enough to become REMFs may be allowed to work most days sans armor. It would behoove you to make sure that you are up on your skills with this armor. There is no telling when an enemy may force you to don your suits and go into combat. Against our current foe you are very likely to find yourself in a battle situation. Even if you are assigned to a position here in the Supersystem. Even if you are assigned to a position on Jewel.”

  The Drill Sergeant jumped into the air, going high enough to dunk a basketball if a net had been near. He landed and turned back to the trainees. “Without armor, in modern combat you are dead irradiated meat. This armor will give you limited protection against light amp and projectile weapons, as well as battlefield radiation. It is still a good idea to not present oneself as a target. Limited protection means just that. A long enough blast from a laser, or a heavy enough round travelling at a high enough velocity, and you are dead.”

  “What about particle beams, Drill Sergeant?” asked one of the trainees with a raised hand.

  “The best defense against a particle beam is not to get hit,” said Martinez, the mask on his suit lifting and showing his face. “The suit will protect you against a near miss, but a direct hit by any military class particle beam will fry your ass. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” yelled the platoon in loud voices, as they had been trained, the hard way, to do.

  “Now the suit carries its own weight as well as your own, and will allow you to pick up an additional two hundred kilograms. It is incorrect to say that it will double your strength. If you are exceptionally strong it will not double that strength. If you are exceptionally weak,” said Martinez, looking pointedly at Bergstrom, “it might quadruple your strength, or more.

  “To me, the most amazing thing about the suit is how it enhances your senses. Hearing range and sensitivity increases, though loud noises will be damped before they get to dangerous levels. Vision range is increased, delving into both the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums, and you can zoom your sight as if your eyes were twenty power lenses. When you are in a hostile environment,” the mask came down on the helmet and sealed, “the suit will provide breathing gas. It will also seal punctures, in its skin and in yours, and the autodoc feature will provide medical care, up to and including stasis shots. If you are killed the suit may save your life, allowing for later resurrection. Don’t count on that, though. Secession of life functions is never a good thing.”

/>   The Drill Sergeant took off in a run, moving much faster than a normal human being. The Sergeant ran around the barracks, then jumped over a bench before coming to a stop in front of the platoon. “Now, I want everyone to get into their suits and we will run the obstacle course. Myself and Drill Sergeant Hazard will check you out before you are allowed to do anything with them. So get into the suits and back into formation. Five minutes trainees. Fall out.”

  Cornelius took off for the barracks, where the suit cubbies had been installed near their racks. He hit the panel on the front of the cubby and the doors opened, then folded back. Walborski looked over the suit for a moment, his critical eye not finding anything wrong. With a nod of his head he stepped into the suit, remembering the difficulty of strapping on the militia armor that had been his only experience so far with battlefield augmentation.

  The suit closed up around him like a second skin, the seams closing to form unitary armor that was difficult to penetrate. The helmet closed around his head, all but the faceplate, which stayed up. His implant linked with the suit and his smile widened as he noticed how much his hearing had improved. He ordered the mask to close with a thought. The dark room was now lit up like a spotlight had been shone into a window. He looked at a spot on the wall and the image jumped out at him of a smudge, so sharp he could make out the fingerprint whorls.

  With a yell Cornelius ran out of the barracks, faster than he had ever moved before. He had an urge to continue out into the desert, but a glance at the two Drill Sergeants made him consider the wisdom of that. They told us to get into formation, and when they say that shit they mean it. So Walborski went to his position at the lead of his squad and snapped to attention. The suit locked in place, and the PFC felt he could stand there all day, the suit supporting him.

  The Drill Sergeants came around and checked their suits. Walborksi was glad to see that Michelle Bergstrom passed inspection with ease. She’s a smart woman, he thought, watching as one of the athletes of the squad failed his once over. Cornelius shook his head as the trooper was made to open is suit and get back in it, then close it up properly. The man was then sent on a run around the barracks as punishment. Many laps around the barracks.