Bayonet Dawn (SMC Marauders Book 1)

by Scott Moon

  “I seem to remember a certain cocky young private, who could be a private again if he doesn’t do his job,” Lacy said. “And to answer the question you posed to 1st Platoon with no possibility they could answer it, you have the highest rating in the entire Starship Marine Corps for planetary drop-ship landing.”

  “Mon dieu,” Frenchie said. He faced the platoon as he might a group of confidants. “She insults me, compains. Recon does not use drop-ships. I am Recon, am I not? Mon dieu, mon dieu.”

  “Is that an actual question?” Kevin asked.

  Foster snorted.

  Frenchie pointed a long, elegant finger at Kevin. “You are the worst of them.” He looked furtively over his shoulder, then back at the platoon. “Listen to me, compains, I will teach you, but you must keep my secrets.”

  “What secret is that?” Foster asked.

  “Why, that I am French, of course!”

  Lacy and Priest laughed, seeming as though they were getting along.

  “Listen up, Marines,” Frenchie said as he paced with greater authority. “The SNC has sent detailed reference guides to your T&T jumpsuit hoods and arm sleeve tablets.”

  Kevin resisted the urge to check his left sleeve screen.

  “The most useful will be the short, step-by-step document titled ‘safety checklist,’ so make sure you can find it. Do it now.”

  Kevin found the short, concise list of drop-ship procedures, noticing the ticker at the bottom was flashing an alert. Rarely were news alerts allowed during training. He knew there had been two or three but could not remember previous messages.

  Public News: Status unclassified: Status galactic security: Message to follow. The Coalition of Worlds establishes that the use of Void Troll mercenaries constitutes an act of terrorism authorizing counterforce measures up to and including nuclear weapons.

  Kevin read the message several times, then used his mother’s tip that often helped him decipher meaning — skimming as fast as he could.

  “Who uses nuclear weapons?” Foster muttered.

  Lacy stepped forward and took over the class. “No one,” she said. “The universal authorization of nuclear weapons is nothing more than a political message. This is an important training mission. Focus. I am disabling all non-essential communications until you are back on the ship.”

  Kevin didn’t care about news, but he saw most of 1st Platoon grumbling at this declaration. Not everyone in the platoon was a replacement. Some were veterans that had probably been landing on strange planets before Kevin was born and were included in AIT for the express purpose of setting good examples. The high quality medical care that came with military service reduced aging, providing a soldier could avoid traumatic or fatal injuries.

  He tried not to think of Joii, or the twins, or his parents and grandparents.

  “We are wearing armor for this mission, so pay attention. Move forward by fire teams to the armory and stand by for instruction,” Frenchie said.

  Several veteran marines and navy petty officers supervised each member of the platoon. Kevin wasn’t sure, but he thought Lacy, Priest, and the other sergeants were happy with what they saw.

  “You did well, Priest,” Lacy said as she and the gunnery sergeant passed by.

  “We did well,” Priest corrected.

  “I wasn’t there for the same reasons you were there. I got demoted, remember?” she said.

  Kevin concentrated on donning the armor, forcing back thoughts of Foster’s speculation about 8970 being recruited in mass for the 343rd Marauders. Step by step, he entered the age of modern warfare. Training armor was the same size and shape as combat-ready versions and even had mock weapons systems.

  “Pew, pew,” Foster said as he gunned down Edwards and Chaf.

  “Mon dieu,” Frenchie said. “Stupide. Stop that right now, compains.”

  It was hard to evaluate the seriousness of his friend’s expression through the armor faceplate. Kevin guessed Foster was barely maintaining the act of penitence. Sure enough, he heard one last “pew.”

  Frenchie formed the platoon into squads, then signaled Lacy, who inspected them with careful attention to detail. “All right, 1st Platoon, mount up.”

  Kevin and the others filed into the drop-ships. These were the Thunderbolt models, large enough to carry a squad of armored marines or army soldiers.

  The ride to the surface of the Glendale Combat Training Moon was rough. Veterans napped or read from forearm screens. Frenchie mouthed the words to a language learning program.

  Kevin leaned back once to close his eyes. The shuttle bucked his helmet against the wall. Wide awake, he surveyed the Thunderbolt interior.

  A rough-looking corporal with the name McCraw stenciled on her armor chomped pink glowing gum as she stared at the ceiling.

  “Ma’am, can I ask you something?” Kevin asked.

  She blew a bubble and popped it. “Christ, I knew you were going to talk to me. What’s your question?”

  “Is it normal for privates still in AIT to train with veteran combat marines?”

  “In AIT? Shit, you’ve barely started AIT. Answer to your question… it’s called the Dynamic Mentorship and Integration Program. Personally, I resent the shit out of suffering through basic training again.”

  “This is Advanced Infantry Training…”

  “It’s basic to me and the rest of the Marauders. Shit, Priest has done a thousand UHALOs, that’s ultra-high-altitude low-opening, in case you didn’t know.”

  “I read about it.”

  “Yeah, great. That’s better than being completely clueless, I guess. Put it this way, Gunny has more combat drops that most marines have shits and showers in their entire careers.”

  “That doesn’t sound right,” Chaf said.

  McCraw looked at him, then at Kevin. With slight jaw pressure against the high neck of her armor, she activated her helmet to close with a snap. A second later, the visor changed from clear to opaque.

  “Nice. That was real professional. We are on the same team, Corporal McCraw,” Kevin said.

  Laughter came through McCraw’s speaker. Somehow, her armor looked as rough as she did. “You might review your safety list and your ‘first steps of planetary deployment’ document.”

  “Listen up, Marines,” the pilot said over the intercom. “We will touch down and drop the ramp in thirty seconds. You’ve been warned. Have fun storming the castle.”

  Kevin skimmed the list, checking life support systems, faux ammunition profiles, and the training-safe Military Standard Rail Gun snapped onto his back. He was fairly certain there wouldn’t be an actual castle.

  The Thunderbolt hit the surface hard, throwing open the rear hatch and dropping the deployment ramp. Not wanting to look like a rookie in front of McCraw and the other veterans in the squad, Kevin rushed to his position on her right and covered his zone of fire as he ran down the ramp behind her and to her right.

  Blinding sun pierced his eyes like a sniper round. He staggered, only staying in formation by using the green dots on his heads-up-display.

  “Thanks for the warning!” Kevin shouted.

  The moon was stark despite its breathable atmosphere and Earth-similar gravity. It was also covered with snow all the way to the horizon. He suspected the pilot had put them down exactly where they would have the sunset reflecting off the snowfield into their faces.

  “You should have darkened your visor like Corporal McCraw suggested,” Chaf said.

  “She didn’t suggest anything!” Kevin shouted. Adjusting his visor helped, but his vision was full of glare streaks.

  Other Thunderbolt drop-ships streaked to the surface and landed so abruptly Kevin thought some of them had crashed. Marines, old and new, swarmed out. Most had visors darkened against the glare.

  McCraw moved close enough to bump him with her shoulder as she kept her eyes on her area of responsibility and the weapons of her armor facing that direction. “You can adjust your visor darkness manually or set it to automatic. If y
ou trust the computer, it may be slower than the setting sun, which will make everything seem dark for about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Kevin said. “How do you set yours?”

  “I am switching mine all the way to clear right about now. Personal preference.”

  Kevin followed her example. It was bright at first, but the sun was already gone — glowing over the horizon, a mixture of orange and purple fire.

  “Advance by squads,” Lacy ordered over the 1st Platoon communication link. “Squad leaders, maintain line of sight with me. Part of this drill will simulate loss of comms. I hope everyone remembers SMC hand signals.”

  Kevin forgave McCraw her dirty trick and disrespect. This was what he’d been looking forward to since his grandfather taught him to patrol the GKC park with toy guns made from soap.

  That night, they dug foxholes and slept in them. The next day, they expanded and fortified their camp, clearing landing zones for Thunderbolts and larger craft. Breakfast was paste sucked through a feeding tube. Lunch was a cold Meal-Ready-to-Eat. Dinner was in a climate controlled cafeteria tent that took half an hour to set up and half an hour to stock from cargo drop-ships.

  Each day, they started with physical fitness training and stood without armor in the freezing cold as Major Nowakowski lectured them on SMC traditions and told jokes about the SNC, SAC, and SPC.

  “We have our own pilots for most things like the Thunderbolts for troop movement and Hellfires for close air support, so don’t worry about getting hung out to dry. The Pilot Corps only handles larger, multi-branch operations like a full scale planetary assault or system defense,” he said.

  “I heard the final event of AIT will be a training scenario against the SAC and SPC,” Chaf said.

  McCraw laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Foster asked.

  “Cake walk,” she said. “Now shut up.”

  Seconds after she finished talking, the captain of Zulu Training Company walked down the line inspecting each of the platoons under his command.

  “That was close,” Chaf said. “I didn’t hear the captain’s name.”

  “Stick with me, kid. I know the way,” McCraw said. “You won’t see the brass much during AIT, so don’t sweat it.”

  “So far this feels a lot like Basic, but with less classroom and more talking between drills,” Kevin said.

  “That’s about right. There will be some tough shit, especially if you didn’t understand the theory they taught you in Basic. Lieutenant Lacy put out a call for her veterans to help train AIT 8970 1st Platoon and we all came, every one of us who’s alive. We’ll get you right with the Marauders.”

  “What about Recon?” Kevin asked.

  “Doesn’t work that way. You got to have some time in rank and there aren’t any privates in Recon. I’ll go back there soon, but you all need to earn it.” She paused. Her expression softened even as her eyes remained hard. “You will be assigned as 343rd Marauder replacements, which is an elite division, but you won’t be Recon. I’ll see you around, I bet.”

  19

  Zulu Infantry Company

  KEVIN treated space travel like a nightmare that had to be faced, put aside, and forgotten. Ship quarters made his home in TB 595 feel like a spacious palace. On the upside, climate control, chow, and security were ten times better than where he grew up. He missed the hectic training schedule on the UNAS Courageous Roger despite memories of Joii.

  He didn’t miss SNC Captain Moresby and his unnecessarily dangerous training drills that got people killed.

  Kevin and the rest of 8970 were on to the next thing.

  AIT was over and they had yet another platoon leader to make happy.

  “I guess we are lucky to be in this unit,” Foster said.

  “Yeah.” Kevin sat on the edge of his bunk, trying not to crack his head in the tight space. “You are definitely the guy I wanted to travel with in this shoe-box.”

  “I sense sarcasm,” Foster said.

  A chime sounded on the intercom as Priest took a position in the tube-like hallway that connected the barracks of Zulu Infantry Company, his stance relaxed and balanced for the unnatural feeling of the gravity wheel holding him on the floor. His days escorting 8970 to their new unit were coming to a close. “Fifteen minutes. Then report for Zulu assembly. Try to look like you belong in the SMC.”

  Kevin listened to the veteran noncom moving to each berth repeating the command, adjusting time with each stop.

  “I tell you he was scouting for talent,” Foster said as he slipped from the top bunk and pulled his SMC shirt over his undershirt. Still talking, he tied his boots without watching his hands — no small feat because it had to be done exactly to avoid complications during armor suit-up. “All the stories I have heard say the same thing. The 343rd Marauders were hot shit before they got decimated on Brookhaven and then trapped on Red 042.”

  “I talked to McCraw about that early in AIT. Some kind of mentoring program to better assimilate replacements. Don’t overthink it,” Kevin said.

  Foster shook his head. “Have you seen the videos from Brookhaven? That was a firefight from hell.”

  “No matter how you talk it up, we were put in the worst unit in the Starship Marine Corps. Even the army grunts laugh at the 343rd now,” Kevin said once he was ready to step into the micro-hallway.

  Foster followed him out. “Just doesn’t make sense. The 343rd is still designated as an elite unit, even with two thirds being green replacements — I’m talking about you and me and everyone we know.”

  “It’s a shit unit that started believing in their own fame and got wiped out,” Kevin said as he ducked into the next section. When he looked up, Priest was staring at him.

  Not knowing what to say, Kevin focused on the hallway and continued to the converted storage bay that was the general assembly area of the UNAS Marauder Transport 01.

  “Nice,” Foster said once they were out of earshot.

  “Kiss my ass,” Kevin said.

  “Blame it on the screwy gravity,” Foster said, standing straight and walking toward the ZIC muster. “I am ready to get on a planet and feel my feet.”

  “Thanks for mentioning it,” Kevin said.

  “At least you’re not Chaf.”

  Kevin looked around for the big private. Despite being strong and even-tempered, Chaf suffered a multitude of intestinal issues the moment the ship gravity came online. Green privates and veterans alike teased him every chance they got. He had eventually adapted to space travel in AIT. Now he was starting over like everyone else.

  Lieutenant Keper Lovejoy inspected 1st Platoon, looking about as happy as a power drunk with a hangover despite his reputation for extreme sobriety. He stopped and stared at Kevin, then glanced at his clipboard. “K. C. Connelly? You have family in the SMC?”

  “Sir, my grandfather served,” Kevin said.

  The lieutenant cut him off. “I don’t care. Says here you gained twenty-five pounds during basic training. Are you a fat ass, K. C. Connelly? Don’t answer that; it was a rhetorical question. I assume you had some kind of eating disorder, which is passing strange for a young man wanting to fight aliens and conquer worlds.”

  Kevin remained at attention.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Lovejoy asked. “Don’t answer that. It was an actual question, but I’ve decided I don’t care.”

  He paced up and down the line just as lieutenants were doing in other platoons. From time to time, he interrogated one of the replacement privates. Long before the other platoon leaders finished their inspection, Lovejoy positioned himself at the head of 1st Platoon and shook his head impatiently, clearly frustrated with the other officers.

  “Listen here, platoon. I don’t feel like causing further damage to my voice — so fucking pay attention and don’t make me yell. I don’t care who the flying-fuck tells you the 343rd is broken. We took a lot of casualties at Brookhaven. Got dumped on Red 042 while a bunch of other classified shit you aren’t authorized to know abo
ut or equipped to understand happened. But now we — God bless blueberry pies and virgin unicorns — have you as replacements. Since we have some time while my contemporaries count the shoelaces and pimples on their units, I will give you a pep talk.”

  Lovejoy looked again at the other platoons in the company. Professionalism and thoroughness seemed the order of the day for everyone except Kevin’s new officer. He missed Lieutenant Lacy already and wondered if she was already back in Recon with McCraw and Frenchie and all the others.

  “Fuck this,” Lovejoy said. “Gather around and have a seat. I will not ask you twice.” He sat on a supply crate at the edge of the bay while 1st Platoon sat cross legged on the floor facing him. Feet wide, the man looked as casual as any officer Kevin could imagine.

  “Let’s talk about Brookhaven. There was supposed to be a small contingent of Void Trolls. Who has seen a Void Troll?”

  None of the replacements raised a hand. A few of the veterans, pale-faced and grim, raised hands or stared across the assembly area without focus.

  “The Sirens call them Rock Trolls, which is what we should call them. Their skin is hard as hell and their organs are deep. Funny thing is that most of their organs are multi-purpose. The scandal-shows you’ve watched before enlisting always claim the monsters have two or three hearts. Not true. Functionally, it’s the same thing, I guess. Point is, Brookhaven was the hardest campaign I’ve ever fought, and you won’t find many platoon leaders who’ve survived as long as I have in Combat Arms.”

  He looked and saw the other officers were done, standing at attention and waiting on him. “I’ve never been Recon or Armor or one of those flying marines. Do what I say and we will get the job done. If you die, I’ll send a nice letter to your mother.”

  Kevin’s face burned.

  “Except for you, K. C. Connelly. I suppose your letter goes to your brother,” Lovejoy said. “When facing Void Trolls, remember they are faster than they look. Estimates of their intelligence are a matter for debate. In battle, count on them being plenty smart enough to kill you. They are big and primitive, just like their weapons. The Dissident Union is the only space-capable force using them after the Coalition of Worlds authorized the use of nuclear weapons on anyone who uses the brutes as muscle.”