by Scott Moon
An invisible breeze moved around the edges of the light, causing Danzig to reach for the concealed weapon under his fatigue jacket. Ford turned in a circle to search for the threat, fists ready for action, stance ready to move or kick.
“You brought me to a haunted museum. Thank you, Admiral Robedeaux,” she said with the uncharacteristic tension of fear in her voice.
“Beware the Dream-rider,” whispered the presence.
Danzig released his weapon and allowed his hand to fall, although he remained alert and continued to face the presence he could sense only on a gut level now.
“We have to report this to the Admiralty,” Ford said when the presence vanished. “The Guide appears nowhere other than the bridge and only before initiation of the Alcubierre Drive.”
Danzig faced her. “We will tell no one.”
“The entire fleet could be compromised,” Ford said.
“The fleet is always compromised. We are at war. There are a billion tons of outdated, supposedly decommissioned and recycled war machines hidden on my ship without my knowledge. Who, or more specifically, what organization do you think uses untraceable mega tanks?”
Ford paced, shaking her head and clenching her fists tighter as she swore under her breath.
“Why would they be hidden on my ship, keeping in mind I am the most unpopular officer in the entire fleet?” he said. “I cannot believe we are the first UNA ship to be used as a smuggling platform for these brutes. Nothing but a carrier class ship could transport these things.”
Ford remained silent for a moment, opened her mouth to speak, then stopped.
“What’s on your mind, Ford?”
Blood drained from her expression and she looked sick. “There were a lot of carriers used during the first time we assaulted Brookhaven — new models that weren’t needed for the mission. Test runs, they said. Admirals and captains showing off their big toys.”
When they left Storage Bay 27, Danzig wasn’t thinking about the monstrous war machines or his career. He thought only of the Guide and the Dream-rider, whatever that was.
22
Return to Brookhaven
PRIEST didn’t understand why he was so nervous. He’d done more planetary assaults than anyone in the 343rd Marauder Recon Unit. And that meant he had done more than anyone and the entire Starship Marine Corps. Years ago, Frenchie, McCraw, and Avon had competed with statistics until the sheer numbers of missions caused the measurement to lose meaning.
Their numbers were half his numbers.
The Excalibur class drop-ship vibrated as it entered the atmosphere. There were no windows in the assault vessel, which was good. He didn’t want to look at Brookhaven. The planet occupied too many nightmares.
It was good to be back with his old team. With Frenchie on his left and McCraw on his right, he thought he could handle anything, even with Natalia Lacy leading Recon 1st platoon. The company commander was someone he didn’t know but had heard of in countless shipboard discussions en route to this planet — grunts called him Iowa Bill, which was close to his real name, he thought. There was a lot of downtime during transport even with the busywork the SMC and the SNC threw at them.
They talked a lot about missions and leadership, avoiding the disastrous first episode on Brookhaven. Every Marauder understood Void Trolls were dangerous. The Dissident Union were a bunch of assholes for using them.
Priest closed his eyes and all he saw was that final battle, heard the explosions, felt the weight of Lacy across his shoulder as he ran for the SNC corpsmen and the medical tent.
“Snap out of it,” McCraw said.
Frenchie muttered a prayer and crossed himself.
Surprised, Priest looked at the man. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”
Frenchie smiled but looked embarrassed. “It isn’t very good French,” he said in his best accent. “I have been taking language courses. And maybe someday I will go to France. I hear the weather is nice.”
That was all it took to send Priest and McCraw into uncontrollable laughter.
“Mon dieu,” Frenchie said. “You must be serious, compains. Soon the drop master will turn on the light.”
Priest regained his composure and tried to enjoy the camaraderie. He caught his breath and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Even as he did this, he looked at the light-emitting diodes above the ramp, waiting for signs of touch down. On a drop-ship, he wished he was doing an ultra-high-altitude low-opening parachute insertion, and during a UHALO, he wished he was on a drop-ship. There was no good way to put boots on the surface of a hostile planet.
The Excalibur class drop-ship wasn’t Priest’s favorite deployment vehicle. He preferred the Thunderbolt class, but then again, he always liked being in a squad — his squad, the people he trained and trusted. Four of the larger drop-ships could put a company down close together with little fuss. Despite their size and heavy armor, the Excalibur class was vulnerable and never used without a distraction created for the enemy or some other situation that provided a stealth deployment. Today, the distraction was heavy orbital bombardment about one hundred and fifty kilometers from their landing zone.
Zulu Recon Company, always considered the tip of the 343rd Marauder spear, was fully staffed for the first time in history. Other than peacetime training deployments, this never happened. During the command staff briefing to Recon, up-to-date maps and intelligence were promised.
“Listen up, people,” Lacy said over the platoon link. “I’m looking at the ship sensors and it seems the weather is great for a nice little vacation. This may be the first time in military history everything goes according to plan.”
Priest and the others groaned.
Lacy came back on the intercom, laughing. “Don’t tell me you people are superstitious. We’ve all been here before. I know as well as anyone how dangerous this planet can be. One thing is certain, there will be members of the Dissident Union Army and their Void Troll mercenaries. I don’t know about you, but I have unfinished business with some of these losers. Recon!”
Shouts resonated through the interior of the Excalibur drop-ship. Marines banged helmets shut and slapped each other on the head with gauntlets. Some stomped their feet. Others prayed. Some stomped their feet, prayed, and sweated into perspiration-recycling layers of their armor. Moments passed before the entire platoon was ready for business.
Lacy’s voice sounded on the platoon link, picking up speed and intensity. “I pulled strings and we’re hitting the ground first. Soon as the ramp opens, move to positions and secure the LZ for the rest of the Recon Excaliburs.”
“Oorah!”
Priest was the first out of the ship, bolting down the ramp and slowing as his feet touched the soil of Brookhaven. He wanted a smooth yet mobile shooting platform should the enemy attack despite the best preparation and assurances of military intelligence. His heads-up display showed his squad deploying. McCraw and Frenchie led squads to their places on the perimeter. The drop-ship looked even larger from the outside. He ignored it and pierced the haze of Brookhaven’s morning with his sensors. Technology helped, but knowing what to look for was what would keep him and his squad alive.
“Alpha squad, report,” Lacy said over the platoon link.
“Moving forward fifty meters to a defensible position,” Priest said.
“Roger that,” Lacy said. “Bravo, have you made it to the edge of the clearing?”
“Bravo in position,” McCraw said.
“Charlie in position.” Frenchie forgot to emphasize his faux accent.
“Delta, same,” Hammer, the new guy — a relative term in Recon— said.
Priest checked each member of his unit, adjusting positions to account for information he had as a squad leader that not every marine needed to know. Lacy was a good platoon leader in that way, he thought. She trusted her sergeants and never left them in the dark. Once he tapped each member of his squad on the shoulder as was his tradition, he checked the rest of the platoon on his he
ads-up display and then other units in Zulu Recon Company.
There was more chatter than he was used to on the company link. Captain Billy Iowa — also known as Iowa Bill or Billy Badass — did not seem to like guesstimates or slang. Priest listened as Lacy provided 1st Platoon’s position in field-manual perfect language. Something about the exchange made Priest uneasy. Nothing ever happened like the manual said it would. He knew the captain was experienced, but something happened to officers as they climbed the ranks. It was like their brains only functioned for so long before they ran out of common sense juice.
“All right, Recon,” Captain Iowa said on the company link. “Prepare to move out by squads. This will be a slow roll. We don’t want to be seen.”
Four drop-ships lifted straight into the air, turned in different directions, and sped away, making enough noise to alert every single creature on the planet that a stealth mission had just begun near Hill 425.
Priest watched the contrails of the Excaliburs approach several positions and make fake landings. He looked across the lake-like estuary to the south and watched the sun come up over water that remained turbulent after a night of orbital bombardment. In the distance, along the shore perhaps two hours of hard marching in the direction they would not travel, there was a series of massive waterfalls. He’d seen nothing like it next to a body of water of this size.
Captain Iowa came over the company link. “First platoon, Charlie Squad, you are in-line with our objective. Lead off.”
“New captain is stepping on Lt’s toes already,” McCraw said on the platoon link, watching Frenchie move Charlie from a nearby position of concealment.
Priest waited until it was his turn, then moved Alpha to support the others. The captain and other staff officers could listen to platoon links but usually didn’t. Of course, this company commander had given a platoon level order, specifically the direction of Charlie, when it wasn’t necessary. He could’ve ordered 1st platoon to move and Lacy would have handled the details. Some captains did that. It had been a long time since a captain in Recon had done it, Priest thought.
An hour later, the company established its direction of march, 2nd and 3rd platoons moving in paired columns while 1st and 4th provided flanking and scouting for the heavier units. Third platoon, led by Lieutenant Avon, Corporal Avon’s uncle, was the weapons platoon. By regular infantry standards, they were still light and fast. With Recon veterans behind the heavy machine guns and shoulder rockets, 3rd Platoon was ready for a serious firefight.
Priest saw an icon illuminate in his heads-up display, then answered Lacy’s direct call. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“I have just received confirmation of Order M392. We are to secure a suitable landing zone for Cyclops Company. As discussed in the briefing, this is need-to-know only. Your people only need to understand the basic parameters for the LZ. Prepare hardened defenses for the contingency that Cyclops Company deploys to the surface. Please acknowledge the order,” Lacy said.
“Order received and understood,” Priest said. He moved to the edge of his squad as they traversed difficult terrain and made eye contact with McCraw. She moved closer without a word.
“Did you get the mandate from the boss about Cyclops?” he asked.
She nodded, stopped, and turned in a half circle to survey her squad and its area of responsibility. “I got it. Still never seen a Cyclops, but my curiosity is piqued.”
“Roger that. Same here. Can you have a face to face with Frenchie and make sure he understands the orders?” Priest asked. “As I understood the Cyclops Project, they don’t really need an LZ, but this is a high priority order.”
McCraw nodded as she moved away, speaking through the squad leader talk-around link without looking back. The terrain was rocky in this area. “I can do that, no problem. I’m always hopeful we wouldn’t be the poor fuckers stuck with the Cyclops Company.”
Of all the other noncommissioned officers, he knew McCraw understood how he felt on this issue. Technology saved lives. It also got people killed.
Lacy came over the platoon link. “New priority orders from Command. Once we have established the LZ, Alpha and Bravo squads will seek and observe the Dissident Union base of operations on Hill 498. This is a priority one mission as is the establishment and defense of the Cyclops LZ.”
“Roger that,” Priest said. He assisted the rest of the platoon scouting and then digging in around the LZ. Weary but eager, he left Lacy in command and took the two squads on the secondary mission.
Taking control of the landing zone without drawing attention and setting up defenses had taken all day. Priest and his team were tired but continued as darkness fell on Brookhaven. This was a good time to move. Animals created noise. If the Dissident Union soldiers were like many he had encountered in the past, they were still thinking in terms of daytime tactics. Their eyes and their vision enhancements might adjust immediately to the dying day, but there was more to making the transition to night war. Veterans understood the difference.
“Let’s take a break twice an hour,” Priest said. “We’ve been at it hard all day and I don’t want mistakes.”
Corporal McCraw, in charge of Bravo Squad, acknowledged.
They worked methodically toward the objective until they reached Hill 498. At that point, the squads separated to their maximum effective range of mutual support and set up observation posts.
Priest could not believe what he was seeing. Everything was going perfectly on this mission, including the weather. The base of operations, which he thought was a forward base by the supply line stretching away from frenzied building and patrolling activity, was nearly division strength. Hill 498 was a large sloping area well suited for a staging area. There were more defensible positions he had marked but none that would accommodate so many troops.
“I have eyes on an armored column approaching from the rear of Hill 498,” McCraw said.
23
Mother’s List
KEVIN went through lists and backup lists that would have made his mother proud. Nothing was as he imagined it. He’d expected his grandfather to be the ghost in his mind. With so many pieces of gear covering the dented and stained table, his mother’s method seemed like a good idea.
“One thing at a time.” His mother’s voice, indistinct yet perfect in memory, soothed him. “One list. Everything goes on it. Remember to write ‘family’ at the top.”
“You got a breath mint?” Foster asked from his workstation.
“Not on the list,” Kevin said.
“What?” Foster stared at him, hands shaking, and took a small tube of mints from Chaf.
“Nothing,” Kevin said. “You have a date or something?”
Foster shook his head, already working on the first mint. “Some guys told me it might help me not puke. Combat drops shake people up, they say.”
Chaf stopped what he was doing and watched Kevin.
Foster, a beat slower, put down his work and leaned on Kevin’s desk. He worked on the mint, nearly chewing it. “What list are you talking about? Didn’t your mom make a bunch of lists?”
Kevin smiled and tilted his head for a second. “She always told me there can be only one list. ‘Family’ had to go at the top.”
“Where are we?” Chaf asked.
Foster raised an eyebrow and spread his hands.
“You guys are at the top,” Kevin said.
“Knew we were.” Foster turned to his gear.
“Right under family,” Kevin said.
“Ah, man. I was all warm and fuzzy for a second. So since I ain’t family, you got any sisters?” Foster asked, breaking open his helmet to check it a third time.
“One sister. She’s too young for you and don’t forget I can kick your ass,” Kevin said, reassembling his armor, weapons, and survival gear a final time. He couldn’t see other areas of the ship, but it felt as though everyone was slipping into armor, checking weapons, and using humor or profanity to deal with stress.
“SER
GEANT on deck,” Chaf warned.
For an instant, Kevin thought he recognized one of their DIs from BTF 029.
“I am your squad leader, Sergeant Davis,” the new man said, striding around the cavernous room with his chest pushed forward. “You may have seen my twin brother during basic training. He’s a decent DI, or so I’ve been told.”
The high ceiling of the launch bay caused voices to echo. Other squad leaders addressed their marines and SNC corpsmen in the large assembly area full of ugly drop-ships.
“I am not accustomed to so much space,” Chaf said. He stretched both arms over his head.
Edwards and Foster stared at the superstructure. Kevin craved open areas and wanted to see the transport ships, but Sergeant Davis stirred memories of Training Platoon 8970, which meant Joii, which reminded him of his ultimate quest — find the twins and get home.
He tried to focus on the moment.
Despite the pre-assault tension, everyone was in a good mood. This close to the center of the carrier, gravity was just strong enough to keep everyone on the floor.
Davis summoned his squad to a section staging bay, an area delineated from other work and deployment sections by scuffed yellow lines and battered transport crates. Hash marks and arrows had looked like an ancient language to Kevin the first time he saw them. Now it was just the floor. He stood clear of ships, heavy machinery, and veteran soldiers preparing to follow Recon down to the surface of Brookhaven.
A complement of SMC, SNC, and SAC soldiers entered through a huge pressure door Kevin had never seen open. One man, possibly a casually dressed Starship Pilot Corps officer or civilian scientist, followed their armored security presence. Moments later, the semi-civilian waved a hand to summon the rest of the unique procession.
“What the hell?” Chaf said.
Kevin looked at Davis for information. The sergeant’s face was grim.
A mechanized creature surrounded by mobile curtains came next, then another multi-service guard detail.
“What is that, Sarge?” Kevin asked.
