Exodus: Empires at War: Book 05 - Ranger

by Doug Dandridge

  And they would have gotten belly aches from his proteins, thought the child. Earth life was not nutritious to Azure forms. Which wouldn’t prevent the dumb animals and plantimals from devouring any they could get their eating orifices on.

  “Come here,” said her dad, holding out his arms. She ran into them, and he held her in a tight hug. “I don’t know what me and your mom would do if anything happened to either one of you.”

  After her father left she decided to jack into the planetary net for a moment before going to sleep. Most of the news was about the war, and almost all of it was conjecture and guesswork. They knew the old enemy was back, and that systems had fallen in their Sector, IV. Otherwise it was the same old propaganda about how they were not in danger and the military would protect them. Does that include my dad, she thought, remembering that he was a member of the reserves. He hadn’t been called up, yet, but there had been many conversations about that possibility around the dinner table.

  Rebecca crawled into her comfortable bed as soon as the clock hit her bedtime. It had been an exhausting day. She set her wake up time in her implant, then set her reticular activating system to put her into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Three

  Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head. Euripides.

  PLANET RUBY, SUPERSYSTEM. JULY 21ST-SEPTEMBER 20TH, 1000.

  Camp Furious was almost indistinguishable from Determination at first look. Same vastness of desert and grasslands, with a bit more forest. Same barracks buildings that looked like they had been put up several centuries before, probably because they had been. Cornelius’ curious eyes picked out some of the differences as the air transport came into the landing field. There was a vast vehicle park to the north of the infantry training center, and to the south was some of the most chewed up landscape he had ever seen. It reminded him of the blasted lands that populated the surface of Sestius IV when the Ca’cadasans came.

  One more stop, he thought as the air bus came in for a soft landing. He grabbed his duffle bag and followed the men and women from the forward seats out the door and into the cool air. More than a score of air buses were on the field, men and women coming out of all of them, bags on their shoulders. Sergeants started to yell, and the walking turned into running. Other NCOs stood at different spots on the tarmac, holding up guidons. Walborski glanced around until he saw one that was blinking red, meshing with the program in his implant to show him where he was supposed to be.

  He ran over to the Sergeant, coming to a halt in front of that man. “Infantry?” said the man, looking Walborski over closely, then down at the flat comp he was holding. “Walborski,” said the man as Cornelius gave him a loud acknowledgement. The man looked at him more closely, and Cornelius knew his fame had preceded him.

  Maybe when I get to Ranger school the looks will stop, thought Walborski, who wanted nothing more than to be just another one of the troops.

  More people started gathering around, and the Sergeant pointed them to a line and ordered them to form up. Walborski saw other people running to the other positions, people who would be training for armor, artillery or some of the different combat support jobs. Walborski saw some of the other people from his old squad go to those other formations. Some people from his platoon came over to the infantry group, and overall they were the biggest grouping. More sergeants seemed to appear by magic, and they started motioning the newly arriving people into more formations, until a dozen platoons were formed.

  Air buses took off, and more landed, and the groups grew. This happened several more times, until what looked like a battalion was formed up by the infantry guidon.

  When everyone was formed up to the Drills Sergeants’ satisfaction they started to march, every man and woman with their duffle bags on their shoulders. When they walked through the gate to the landing field they executed a column left, then march on for a half kilometer, which Cornelius figured was what it took to get the entire battalion out of the gate and onto the road heading toward the barracks.

  “Double time,” yelled the Senior Drill Sergeant, a tough looking man by the name of Master Sergeant Francois, identified on Cornelius’s implant, who walked at the head of the line. The man turned slightly as he called out the order, and Cornelius was thrilled to see the Ranger tab on the NCOs shirt sleeve.

  The run was almost fifteen kilometers, and many of the soldiers were huffing and puffing by the end, most holding their duffles by the handles and dragging them along. Cornelius was breathing hard, but was by no means out of breath. And he balanced his duffle on his shoulder still. Master Sergeant Francois looked back at Cornelius with an expression of approval, but didn’t say a word.

  Cornelius’ platoon continued straight ahead, followed by three more platoons, while the other companies turned off to head for different barracks. With a command the company slowed from double time and walked the last hundred meters to the small drill field in front of a quartet of barracks buildings and a headquarters’. At the proper spot they were ordered to stop, then to execute a right face.

  “Drop to pushup position,” yelled out a Sergeant First Class who Walborski’s link identified as Fukojima. “Now give me a hundred, troops.”

  Cornelius got down into position and started executing pushups to the count of the Company Senior Drill Sergeant. Men and women were puffing away, some groaning. A man to Cornelius’ left started to vomit on the ground, then fell from the pushup position.

  “What are you doing puking on my drill field,” yelled a short woman with first lieutenant bars on her collar. “Get your ass up and run around the field until you’re told to stop.”

  The man stammered and choked, but struggled to his feet and started jogging around the field, while the rest of the soldiers continued to do pushups. By eighty over half the platoon had stopped doing the pushups, most unable to push themselves up one more time. By ninety only a half dozen men and one woman were still pushing. By one hundred it was Cornelius and three other men. Everyone was ordered back to their feet, and the running man was ordered back into the ranks.

  The barracks were duplicates of the ones at Camp Determination, same racks, same wall lockers. There were cubbies by each rack that were locked, and Cornelius was sure there were suits of light combat armor in those lockers. A bed flashed red and Walborski headed for it, wondering at the efficiency of the whole process.

  “Get your shit stowed away like they showed you in basic, then fall back out,” yelled a Staff Sergeant that the link identified as Ferguson, who was obviously in charge of this platoon. “Five minutes.”

  Cornelius needed three and a half to put up his clothing, then ran outside, pleased that he was the number two soldier out the door. Others ran out, most of them within the time limit, some over. The latecomers were sent on running missions around the drill field, while the rest lined up in front of the headquarters building and went through the time honored military tradition of hurry up and wait.

  There were new uniforms issued, these infantry skinsuits much different from their basic issue, as well as other gear. Cornelius was one of the first through, but then had to wait outside till the rest of the platoon was finished. Then it was back to the barracks and putting up the gear, followed by an inspection. Cornelius had some gigs, as did everyone else, and more pushups were doled out. Finally it was over, and the soldiers were dismissed to get cleaned up and to bed.

  “I thought we were through with this chicken shit,” said one of the trainees, a dark skinned man whose nametag said Abdulla.

  “This is still training, trainee,” said a woman named Nguyen, who looked like she could take on any man in the barracks and win without breaking a sweat. “They get to heap the chicken shit on you as deep as they want until you graduate and get to your assignment. And then those people get to screw you.”

  “Lights out in five minutes,” yelled Drill Sergeant Ferguson, striding into the large common room. “When the lights go out there will be no talking until wakeup. You’re
going to need your energy, troops. Sunup comes early, and you’ll be up to see it.”

  The Staff Sergeant walked out of the room to total silence. The groans started as soon as he left, and Cornelius wondered if the trainers were listening in. He decided it wasn’t worth risking, so kept his mouth shut.

  His last thought that night was Katlyn, as it was most nights. He played with the ring on its chain. It won’t be long, honey, he thought, laying back in his rack. It won’t be long, before I’m out there killing the bastards that took you away from me.

  * * *

  Training was conducted for the most part in light combat armor, getting the men and woman used to wearing the ubiquitous suits. There were some days when they worked in soft uniforms, at times when the armor would just get in the way, or when conditioning was desired.

  In basic they had learned individual and team tactics, how to more as a unit of one, or fire and maneuver in a pair. Now they learned to move as fire teams and squads, and more often than not Cornelius found himself as the team or squad leader. At first the maneuvers were with simulated weapons, lasers, mag rail and particle beams in name only, firing a low intensity laser that interacted with the suits.

  Cornelius did well in these maneuvers, far superior to most of his classmates. He also learned that he was not invulnerable, laying on the ground with his suit locked up after a hit. At times he felt the fear return that had lived with him when he had fought the Ca’cadasan landing, the terror of the retreat, the rage of the hunt through the Sestius jungle. He learned to control those feelings, to use them to his advantage.

  Then came the live fire day, after weeks on the range firing the real thing. Cornelius waved his A team to the right, while he used the B team to provide cover fire. He knew the situation was somewhat contrived, as the Drill Sergeants tried to keep everyone out of the line of fire.

  Remote controlled mechs, using low energy lasers, opened fire on his A team, and two of the icons flashed with damage. “Bring those bastards under fire,” he yelled through the link, and his B team obeyed, letting loose with a barrage of fire that shredded a trio of the machines. The machines fired back, and Cornelius tried to keep his men in the battle without losing any. One of his gunners was exposing himself, and only the fire coming at the mechs was keeping them from getting the man. Cornelius ran over to the man, trying to stay low, then depending on his speed to get him there. His mistake, as a wave of cold plasma washed over him and the other man, making them kills. His suit froze in place, making him a trapped spectator. Even his com link went down. He was seething in rage, telling himself he wouldn’t get caught like this again.

  He saw the B team start to maneuver as the remainder of the A team laid down covering fire. The men in the B team started to dart and weave, and Cornelius could see it coming before it happened. One of the men got up to run, and wandered into a particle beam that was sending an angry red line into the enemy. There was a loud scream and the man’s left leg separated from his body. He fell to the ground, and everyone’s suit stopped in place, frozen by the Drill Sergeants.

  An aerial ambulance was there in minutes, and the man and his severed limb were loaded into the vehicle, while the Drill Sergeants called everyone from all the squads over to a conference. Cornelius watched the ambulance lift before he started over to the gathering, breathing a sigh of relief that the man was not killed. Such happened every training cycle, sometimes soldiers even dying permanently, too badly damaged to be resurrected.

  “This is a dangerous job,” said Drill Sergeant Ferguson, looking from face to face as the soldiers sat there with retracted helmets. “It’s a very necessary job, especially with the war we’re in now. You men and women are going to win or lose this war. You may die, but don’t make it easy for the enemy. And damned sure don’t get killed by friendly fire. That’s just adding insult to injury.

  “Now, second squad, line up. It’s your turn.” Those soldiers started for the firing line, the range sergeants looking them over. “Walborski, over here,” said Ferguson, waving for Cornelius as he walked toward one of the covered rest areas that the trainees weren’t allowed to use.

  Walborski looked at the shelter, there to keep people out of the rain or snow, or the sun on one of the occasional hot days. And why in hell don’t they let us use them, he thought of the useless structure.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing out there, Walborski?” said Ferguson as soon as they stepped under the roof.

  “I was trying to get one of my people to take cover, Drill Sergeant,” said Cornelius, not needing Ferguson to explain what he meant.

  The Drill Sergeant looked at him for a moment, shaking his head. “Son, you are one of the most amazing soldiers I have ever seen. I would take you into combat with me at this moment. Hell, you’ve probably seen fiercer battles than I have. I only had to face the Lasharans, and from what I hear, compared to the Cacas those skinny fuckers are children. And you have something special in you. You’re a natural born leader, and those are more important than a dozen killers. But that was plain, outright stupid.”

  “But, Drill Sergeant. He was about to get shot.”

  “And you really accomplished a lot. Instead of him getting shot all by himself, you joined him in getting hit with plasma. Luckily for the both of you it was cold plasma. In the future it might just be a couple tens of thousands of degrees. And then you’re in a world of hurt. There’s no resurrecting you if you’re broiled at the cellular level.

  “Another thing, son,” said Ferguson, looking straight into Walborski’s eyes. “As squad leader you are more important than any of the soldiers under you. You are the one who best understands the mission, and is best at controlling your squad’s fire and maneuver. You try keep your people alive, but not at the sacrifice of your life, understood.”

  Cornelius nodded his head. He could understand what the Drill Sergeant was saying. He was the brain, the squad the body. They could go on without him, but with a lesser brain.

  “And if you weren’t frozen from being hit you might have kept your squad member from being injured.” The Staff Sergeant looked away for a moment, then back at Walborski. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to demote you to team leader. Chesters will move up to squad leader, and you’ll take his team.”

  Walborski stared at the Sergeant for a moment. He wanted to protest, to tell the Drill Sergeant it wasn’t fair. But life isn’t fair, he thought, remembering all he had lost on Sestius. “I understand, Drill Sergeant,” he said.

  “You’ll be an officer one day, Walborski. And may God have mercy on your soul when that happens. But learn your lessons here, because they become a lot more expensive out in the real world.”

  * * *

  Medium armor was a different animal altogether. They could actually fly in the armor, at least to a limited extent. Cornelius looked over the ground from the height of twenty meters, cruising at the head of his team as they moved over the harsh terrain that had been torn up by countless artillery barrages.

  “Down,” came the order over the platoon net, and Cornelius’ HUD arrow shifted to the right, where another team was coming under fire. He cut his grabbers with a thought and fell toward the ground. The units cut back in when he was five meters up, slowing him enough for a landing the suit could take up on its servo powered legs. He found cover immediately, jumping down into the hole and checking on the rest of his team on the HUD.

  “Dammit,” he cursed, as he saw that one of his team was more than fifty meters to the side. “Gonzalez,” he whispered over the com. “Get your sorry ass over here. And for God’s sake stay low.”

  He picked up the red icons of advancing enemy on the HUD, the OPFOR coming out to play. With another thought he launched one of his dozen drones from the top of his backpack and sent it into the air. The view came in immediately, and he could see the troopers in medium suits coming his way, their cammo fields making them damned difficult to see. In fact, if he wasn’t expecting them he might not have
seen them at all.

  Cornelius sent the signals to the rest of his team, then signalled up the line to the squad leader. That should still be my position, he thought with a flash of anger, then got back to business. The only way he was going to get the job back would be to prove himself a superior team leader.

  The drone went off the link, knocked out by the enemy. Cornelius thought for a second about launching another, then decided against it, sure it would give his position away. He had a pretty good idea where the enemy was coming from, and he planned his attack, then kicked it up to the squad leader. Approval came down rapidly, the squad leader really afraid to overrule the one man in the squad who had seen actual combat.

  “Now,” whispered Walborski into the com, at the same time raising his suit on grabbers and bringing his rifle to his shoulder.

  There was an entire squad of medium infantry approaching, and they were also ready for action. Still, all of Cornelius’ troopers got off a first shot. Mag rifles sent out subcaliber rounds that hit enemy armor and registered a kill, as if they had been full velocity regular sized projectiles. The grenade launcher sent a stream of microgrenades flashing over three of the enemy, while the particle beam gunner took out another three with a sweep of his underpowered weapon.

  After counting to three the team dropped back, except for the one rifleman who had been declared a kill. Ten of the eleven OPFOR soldiers had been splashed. And the HUD showed the lone survivor making his way off the zone.

  I love this armor, thought Walborski as he ran through a quick after action diagnostic. It had twice the strength of the light suit, twice the sensor suite, and three times the protection, with a built in electromag field that was both protection and camouflage. He knew it had some flaws, one being that it put out a lot of heat and electromagnetic bleed. It was not really a stealth platform, though it was enough of one to protect an individual soldier from a few enemies, at times.