Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  It was a lousy way to fight a war.

  Carson peered out the cockpit window to his left and felt sweat run down inside his pressure suit. Carrington and McGarrity were struggling with the access hatch on a QuasarFighter that had been riddled by laser and left spinning slowly as it circled the planet. The ResQMed couldn't establish a link with the QF's computer because the comm antennae were gone, so they couldn't read medical data on the crew. There was no way to know if the pilot and gunner were still alive. Worse, the port hatches had been fused by laser, and without knowing if the wounded crew still had pressure in their suits, they were reluctant to decompress the ship to get at them. The problem was, the fighter was in a decaying orbit. Not even the ResQMed’s tractor beams were powerful enough to pull it away from the approaching atmosphere.

  "Goddammit!" McGarrity's voice came through the cockpit speakers in spectacular profanity. He was losing patience, which was a statement all by itself — McGarrity was one of the coolest spacemen Carson had ever met.

  "What's the situation, Gunny?" Carson asked into his throat mike.

  "The fuckin' door is completely fried, Kept'n! I don't see any wye in except the Butcher!" The Butcher was a device that would fasten over the hatch and burn a circular hole through the hull, letting the cabin decompress.

  "Then you've got no choice, Gunny. Use the Butcher."

  "Kept'n, if I do that, and they got holes in their suits, the poor buggers'll pop. If they ain't dead already, they will be. We don't have time to build an airlock." He paused. "It's your call, sir."

  Carson grimaced. He hated to be left with such a decision; given enough time, there was almost always another, safer alternative. But not this time. He glanced at his copilot.

  "How's their orbit?"

  "They should already be kissing the atmosphere, Captain," Ho told him. "They're going to start heating up any minute. When they do, we've got to release them." Ho's tight almond eyes were almost round with concern. "It's now or never, sir."

  Carson shook his head. "Fuck!"

  "Wot was that, Kept'n?" McGarrity was waiting.

  "It may kill them, Gunny, but when they hit that atmosphere they're gonna die anyway. Cut 'em outta there!"

  "Aye-aye."

  McGarrity and Carrington returned to their jetsled and hauled the Butcher off the bottom where it had been secured. Working quickly yet carefully, they maneuvered it over the gunner's hatch and held it firmly in place. Carrington twisted a knob to the left and the six adjustable legs burned themselves into the hull, fusing instantly. McGarrity set the radius at twenty inches, then spoke briefly to his partner. Carrington acknowledged that he was ready, and jetted out of the way, making sure his umbilical was clear. McGarrity set the timer for ten seconds and moved clear in the other direction. He counted under his breath.

  The lasers began to burn, turning in a circle as they cut through the metal around the hatch. Molten metal flowed out and hardened in the cold vacuum of space, then suddenly air began to shriek out of the grooves cut by the laser. Neither man could hear the shriek, but they saw the water vapor, saw the edges of the metal vibrate powerfully under the pressure. It lasted five or six seconds, then the laser continued its circular cut, and when the hole was complete, a seventh leg extended to the center of the cut and locked onto it with a magnet. The seventh leg withdrew, pulling with it the disk that had been cut free. A forty-inch hole had appeared between the six legs.

  As McGarrity quickly moved forward to remove the Butcher, he felt the damaged fighter begin to vibrate, and ice water flooded through his veins.

  "Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "We're hittin' atmosphere! Dennis! Hurry!"

  McGarrity quickly removed the Butcher by pressing the button that had fused the legs to the ship. The same act reheated the metal and he was able to pull it free. Heedless of normal procedure, he flung the Butcher over his shoulder and released it. There wouldn't be time to use it for the pilot. Carrington crawled quickly into the hole and examined the gunner. McGarrity held onto the edge of the hole as the fighter began to shake harder. He felt a tug around the outside of his suit. It was almost the most frightening thing he'd ever experienced.

  "She's gone!" Carrington said in his headset. "AI shows zero vitals on the pilot, too. They're both dead."

  "Get out, Dennis!" McGarrity said quickly. "We got to get back to the ship!" He was already hauling himself around the fuselage toward the jetsled. The tug of air was palpable now, and he knew the fighter would begin to lose speed as they sank lower. The tractor beam would lose its grip, and the ship would then sink even faster. They had to get clear before that happened.

  Dennis Carrington was right behind him, and less than a minute later they were both hanging onto the sled. McGarrity activated it and they rode it back up the umbilical to their own ship. McGarrity could actually hear the wind on his helmet now. As soon as he'd released the umbilical, he closed the airlock.

  "Clear!" he shouted. "Let 'er go!"

  Space First Willie Wolters killed the tractor beam, and Carson released his breath explosively, unaware that he'd been holding it. He was also feeling the tug of atmosphere against his ship, and rotated the nose upward twenty degrees.

  "Captain to crew — everybody hang on, I'm doing a short burn. Five seconds. Four, three, two, one — here we go!"

  He touched the thrusters gently, not enough to kill anyone who wasn't belted down, but enough to nudge the ship away from the atmosphere. He let the rockets fire for three seconds and killed them. He didn't worry about wounded, for none were on board. So far they'd picked up one crew, but neither member was hurt. They were resting in sickbay, counting their blessings to be alive.

  "Okay, Charlie," he said to Lt. Ho. "What's next?"

  Ho transferred his display to a monitor Carson could see. A blinking yellow light on the screen indicated another transponder beacon. This one was out away from the planet, nearly fifty thousand miles distant.

  "Put it on the Heads-Up. Lay in a vector." While Ho worked he spoke to his crew again. "Okay, people, settle in. We've got another one, ETA about forty minutes. Stand by for standard acceleration."

  Standard acceleration for the ResQMed was a steady, even thrust of the nuclear engine. Once forward momentum had been established, the crew could walk about until deceleration began. Carla Ferracci had even performed surgery under standard thrust.

  They reached the next victim right on schedule, and began deceleration in a steady series of short burns from the nose nacelles that jolted everyone a bit. By the time they reached the fighter, they had matched velocity with it. It was another QuasarFighter, and had been pulling away from the planet when it was hit. Losing power, it had continued in exactly the same direction, slowed gradually by the planet's gravity well, but still traveling at several thousand knots.

  Carson peered at it with a certain amount of apprehension, as he always did. You never knew the condition of the people inside, physically or mentally; mental was often more important. This one was rolling slowly along its longitudinal axis, a sickening ride for anyone inside who happened to be alive and able to see out. He adjusted his drift minutely three or four times, until he was reasonably sure he had a parallel course.

  "Okay, Gunny! She's yours!"

  Carson continued to watch as McGarrity and his crew went to work. Lt. Ho kept his eye on the threat screen, for Sirian fighters could appear out of nowhere. Wolters applied his tractor beams and worked with them for two or three minutes, stabilizing the wreck.

  "We got a pair of live ones, Kept'n!" McGarrity told him then. "Pilot's hurt, but the gunner seems healthy enough. We're goin' out now."

  "Watch yourselves."

  "Too right!"

  Carson saw the airlock light on his midships panel blink on, then something else happened that was too horrible to contemplate. The gun turret on the fighter began to rotate, bringing the QF's entire turret arsenal to bear on the ResQMed! Carson stared into the twin barrels of the 29mm cannon, saw the snout of the lase
r rifle that rested between them. His heart leaped into his throat.

  "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Kept'n!" McGarrity screamed in his headset. "The bloody bitch is trackin' us!"

  "Don't move, Gunny!" Carson yelled, and instantly thumbed his short-range radio. He rarely used it, as it was good only up to a few hundred yards, but it was useful for intership communication when one didn't want the enemy listening in. Now he flipped it on with an urgent stab of his finger. "Federation fighter, hold your fire! I say again, hold your fire! This is Federation ResQMed One One from the spacecraft carrier Anwar Sadat! We are here to pick you up! We are not armed. I say again, we are not armed!"

  It came out in a chatter, his words all run together, but he was too terrified to care. He finally released his transmit button long enough to let them answer. There was no reply, but after five interminable seconds, the guns rotated again, swinging upward and away from the ResQMed. Carson sagged in his seat.

  "Shit!" he moaned.

  McGarrity and Carrington made their way across to the fighter, painfully slow as always. Carson hated this part of the operation, for he could do nothing but sit and wait. He knew that McGarrity and Carrington were two of the most skilled rescue techs in the fleet, that they wasted neither time nor motion, but it still seemed like a century every time they worked. Their cursory examination determined that the pilot would be easier to extract, so they went after him first. They were able to talk to him through the external jack on the cockpit, and fourteen minutes later were pulling him out. Both legs were broken, but his suit was intact and he was in no imminent danger.

  They were halfway back to the ship with him on the sled when Lt. Ho gulped.

  "Incoming!" he announced breathlessly. "I'm showing a flight of five approaching at seven o'clock, ten degrees above our plane!" He flipped the display to the HH. "ETA about forty seconds!" he finished.

  "Goddammit! Gunny! We've got enemy fighters inbound! Get that pilot on board quick! You've got about half a minute!"

  Carson reached for another switch that would activate his running lights. The Sirians had clearly spotted them, so there was no point trying to hide. His best bet now was to advertise that he was a medical rescue ship, and pray that the Sirians had been breast-fed. On all six sides of the ResQMed, the huge red cross began to ripple and flash, visible for thousands of miles under the magnification used by fighter pilots.

  That done, all Carson could do was sit and listen to his bowels churn.

  "We're on board!" McGarrity shouted, and Carson saw the airlock light go out.

  "Kill the tractors, Willie!" Carson ordered, and that light went out as well. Now, if they needed to maneuver, they wouldn't try to drag the damaged fighter with them. Either could be damaged if the tractor beam was still attached.

  "ETA fifteen seconds," Ho murmured, his voice hollow with fear.

  Carson saw a movement to his left, and looked out the window again. His heart leaped at the sight that met his eyes. The gunner in the damaged fighter was spinning her turret again; the guns were now trained on the oncoming Sirians, and he could see the laser turn orange as she fed charge power to it. Terrified, he punched his intership comm button again. He hoped she could hear him, or was listening.

  "Hold your fire!" he shouted. "I repeat, do not fire! If you open fire they may think we —"

  A blue pencil beam leaped across space toward the oncoming enemy, and then another. Successive flashes almost blinded him as she tracked the enemy squadron by Ladar and adjusted her aim accordingly.

  "They're breaking away, Captain!" Ho shouted, watching the HH. "She got one of them — no, she got two!"

  Carson stared at the HH in horror. As Ho had said, two of the Sirians were tumbling out of control; the others were burning rockets in a desperate attempt to turn and were veering away toward the planet. He turned to look out again; it was all happening too fast for him to follow. She was still tracking the Sirians, leading them with her laser as they applied power and streaked away to the left. She might be hurt or she might be crazy, but she had enough presence of mind not to use her cannon, which would have pushed her stalled fighter around with their recoil. As Carson watched, she fired again, then blazed away with staccato flashes like a machine gun.

  "God damn!" Ho cried. "She got two more! There's only —"

  She fired one last time, then the laser fell silent.

  "Captain … " Ho looked at him with disbelief stamped on his face. "She got them, sir. All five of them!"

  Carson confirmed that for himself, then looked out the window again.

  "Who the hell is she — Onja Kvoorik?"

  It took another twenty minutes to get the gunner on board. Once the airlock closed and the inner door was open, Carla Ferracci leaned over her for a quick look. The girl insisted on sitting up, and after her helmet had been removed, standing. She stared at her rescuers with haunted eyes.

  "That's it!" she announced firmly. "I'm finished. They can fight the rest of this fucking war without me! I'm turning in my jets!"

  Carla stared at her in amazement.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "No, I'm not all right! I'm scared shitless and if I ever see another fucking fighter ship I'm gonna throw up! I have Deep Space Combat Stress, and I'm going home!"

  Carla gazed into her eyes for a moment, and nodded.

  "I think maybe you do," she said.

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm Captain Ferracci, medical officer."

  "Can you diagnose me?"

  "Yes. What makes you think you're suffering from DSCS?"

  The gunner held up a hand. It was shaking.

  "Just look at this."

  "All that says is that you're experiencing an overload of adrenaline. It will pass."

  "Yeah? Well I'm also suffering from insomnia, nightmares, and a preoccupation with forcible rape!"

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Think that will do it?"

  "It might. But maybe all you need is a month's leave."

  "I need a lifetime's leave. And I need to get laid. Look, Doc, I'm a volunteer. I've been in for six years and I've lost two pilots. I've done my time! I want out."

  Carla nodded noncommittally. "When we get you back to a real hospital we can run some tests. If all that you say is true, then I'd say you have an excellent chance of a medical discharge."

  "Thank you."

  "What's your name?"

  "Love. First Lieutenant Dianne Love."

  Fleet Base 21, Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System

  In his panic at seeing the damaged QuasarFighter's gun turret taking aim on his ship, James Carson had identified himself and his ship as being based on board the carrier Sadat. It had been a reflexive remark, for they were no longer operating off a carrier. For the last few weeks they'd been based on Alpha 2, flying rescue missions out of a captured base the Sirians had called Fleet Base 21.

  With no other rescues pending, he turned the ship around and returned to the planet, taking them through reentry, and eventually bringing them to a landing. Medical teams rushed out to offload their wounded, and Carson heaved a sigh of relief. He wanted nothing more than to park his ship for a few hours and go have a drink. That last rescue had scared him more than a little.

  He was still sitting on the apron when the control tower contacted him.

  "ResQMed One One, Control. Your status?"

  "We're offloading patients, Control. We should be clear in another five minutes." He held his breath — this didn't sound good.

  "Hold your position, One One. We have another rescue pending. A briefing officer will be there shortly."

  Shit!

  "Roger. One One out."

  Carson unbuckled and went aft to meet the briefing officer, who arrived moments later. He was a Space Force major, and carried a portable holomap, which he set up in the wardroom. The picture he laid out was almost as terrifying as what they'd just been through.

  "It's not your typical kind of mission," the major acknowledged,
"and there are some specific problems." He pointed to the area on the holomap. "The Vegans have the entire valley sighted with ASC lasers. They're shooting anything that moves. The Star Marines can't get in there to retrieve their own wounded, so the only chance we have to get ours is to send you in."

  "What makes you think I can get through?" Carson didn't hide his skepticism.

  "We're hoping your running lights will convince them to hold their fire."

  "You're hoping."

  "That's right. I won't shit you, Captain — this one is potentially dangerous. I suggest you leave any nonessential personnel behind. Take only the crew you absolutely need."

  Carson stood there a moment, feeling a variety of emotions course through him. Fear ran second to his anger.

  "How many are down?" he asked.

  "Just one. A Fighter Service gunner."

  "You said something about Star Marines."

  "Your orders are to retrieve the gunner," the Major said emphatically. "I know it's shitty, but Command isn't worried about the Marines."

  "I'll say that's shitty. Especially if you happen to be a Marine."

  "I didn't write the order, Captain."

  "Yeah, I know. What makes this gunner's life more important than the Star Marines'?"

  The major flushed slightly under the implied insult. "She's the Fighter Queen," he said.

  Chapter 36

  Mt. Tamalaya, Alpha 2, Alpha Centauri System

  Onja Kvoorik appeared to be asleep, as far as Rico could tell. She jerked fitfully from time to time, and he sat helpless facing her, wishing there was something he could do. He had no idea if or when a rescue would be attempted, nor what chance of success it might have. His breath frosted in front of his face and he realized he was shivering slightly. The anti-laser vest wasn't much protection, even with the fatigue sweatshirt. The heating system inside the turret either wasn't working at all, or at less than full power. He had no idea where the controls were, nor whether he should attempt to adjust them. If he did, he might only make things worse.

  He wondered how the assault on the peak was going. How many of the others had got through? How many were still alive? He'd heard two more space strikes against the mountaintop, but was unable to see out and unwilling to open the hatch again.