Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  Orville froze. He had to destroy the document, but he had to do something about the bitch first. Panting freely, he started to raise his hands, still holding the briefcase, but as the woman reached him he swung it like an axe and hit her in the side of the head, felling her like a tree. She went down with a scream, and he quickly popped the briefcase and reached inside.

  "He has a weapon!" Sgt. Webb screamed.

  It was the last thing Orville Sutton ever heard as the lasers from the other guards burned him down. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  Friday, 26 October, 0232 (PCC) - White House, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  "Good news, Mr. President!"

  Peter Miller literally beamed as he sank into a chair in the oval office. Henry Wells narrowed his eyes, his heart filled with anticipation.

  "Mister Lonely?" he ventured.

  "Yes, sir. We got him!" Miller's usual cover smile was replaced by the genuine article.

  "When? Where?" Henry laughed. "How?"

  "Last night, at the Polygon. It appears he was a mole in the subspace section."

  "Subspace! Jesus Christ!"

  Miller nodded, looking as relaxed as if he'd just had sex.

  "He wasn't cleared for high level information after all, but he did have access to it. The net result was the same."

  "How did you find him?"

  "An anonymous tip, actually." Miller's face clouded for the first time. "We're still trying to track that down."

  Henry noticed the change in demeanor. "Is that a problem?"

  "Probably not. But it is a loose end. I don't much care for loose ends."

  "But you're certain you got the right man?"

  Miller nodded. "He was in possession of a document outlining the plans for the next invasion — Periscope Harbor, isn't it? The document detailed the critical elements of the invasion, right down to the units involved."

  Henry paled.

  "Jesus! Are you sure he didn't transmit it?"

  "Quite sure. He was intercepted as he entered the subspace section. Unfortunately, he didn't allow himself to be taken alive, so we can't question him further."

  Henry nodded slowly. Miller was better at this sort of thing than he was, and another matter was foremost in his mind anyway.

  "This means you can bring my daughter home," he suggested. "Doesn't it?"

  Miller smiled.

  "Yes, I suppose it does. I almost hate to, however, because she's an excellent source of intelligence."

  Henry frowned. "I don't care, Miller. I want her home. How long does it take to get word to her that her services are no longer needed?"

  "A few days. Unfortunately, we don't have direct contact with her. But she will get the word."

  "And how will you get her out?"

  Miller smiled once more, his professional smile.

  "Leave that to me, Mr. President. We have our ways."

  Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1

  Scarlett packed her things the next morning, right after breakfast. She had no idea how long she'd be in New Angeles this time, but certainly she wouldn't leave until the upcoming Feddie invasion of Beta Centauri was over. She wanted to be near Martin until the threat was past.

  Packing required three hours. Martin was elsewhere in the house, doing whatever he did when he wasn't with her. When she finished she set the luggage upright on the hoverbed; either Davenport or one of Martin's security officers would carry it down to the car. She swished out of the room and glided down the stairs.

  "Martin? Martin, where are you? I'm all packed now. We can leave whenever you are ready."

  Martin was seated in the library, his face ashen. He didn't look up when she entered, and she had to repeat her words. Kim was busy dusting the bookshelves on the other side of the room. Though Scarlett didn't notice, the girl frequently glanced over her shoulder.

  "What?" Martin was looking at her now, and he appeared to have seen a ghost. He looked almost like a stranger.

  "I said … Martin, are you all right? I declare, you look ill!"

  He ran his tongue over his lips, then forced a smile and shook his head weakly.

  "N-no, it's — I'm just a bit light-headed. I shall be all right in a moment."

  Scarlett hurried to his side, laid her hands on his shoulders.

  "Perhaps you should see a medic!" she urged. "As soon as we get to New Angeles —"

  "No. Really, I'm all right. Just — just a passin' spell." He smiled again, but there was no enthusiasm in it.

  "Martin, I think you have been workin' too hard! Perhaps you should delegate more work to those under your command."

  He stood up and kissed her forehead.

  "Nonsense, my dear. You worry too easily." He took a deep breath. "So, ready to go, are you? Well, then … "

  He glanced at Kim, then turned toward the door, calling to his security men. He gave them orders to retrieve the luggage, then placed his military cover on his head and headed out the door. Scarlett gave Kim a hug good-bye and followed. She had just reached the hovercar when Martin looked around.

  "Where is Captain Davenport?" he asked. "I assumed he was comin' with us."

  "Why, I — I don't know," Scarlett replied. "He is usually nearby."

  "Fletcher, go find Davenport," Martin said to one of the security men. "Tell him we are leavin'."

  Vaughn had the turbine warmed up by the time Davenport joined them. The Field Marshal stepped out of the car and eyed the SE man narrowly.

  "Aren't you comin' with us?" he inquired. "We are fixin' to leave."

  "Yes, sir, Field Marshal. I didn't realize you were ready. Let me get my —"

  "Your luggage is already in the cargo hold. Just get in."

  "Yes, sir."

  The trip to New Angeles was uncommonly silent. Scarlett sat beside her husband, Davenport in the back between the two Army officers. Vaughn usually dominated the conversation, but this morning he did not. Scarlett told herself he really must see a doctor. The stress could be getting to him; he was past fifty now.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Scarlett had unpacked everything at the city house. Martin lingered until almost dark, then kissed her good-bye and promised to return the next day. She pleaded with him to spend the night, but he could not. As he headed for the door, he turned to Davenport.

  "Since you are here, Captain, I see no reason to leave my own men behind. I brought them because I was afraid you were about to be reassigned. You won't need them, will you?"

  "No, sir. Mistress Vaughn will be quite safe."

  "Good. Well, then, I'm off."

  Regina waited until the military car was out of sight, then sagged against the door. Davenport was still staring at the skyline where Vaughn had disappeared.

  "You've got to get going!" the redhead told him. "There isn't a moment to lose. Those transports could already be in hyperspace."

  Davenport shook his head slowly.

  "Something is wrong," he said.

  "I know something is wrong! Forty thousand Star Marines are about to die!"

  "No, I don't mean that. I mean your husband. Why did he bring security men this time? As if he expected that I wouldn't be there."

  "Who knows? Martin is eccentric. Worry about it later. You've got to put out a subspace."

  "I'll worry about it now," he said.

  "Captain —"

  "Look … " He took her by the shoulders, as if she were a dull child. "If your hubby is onto us, then any move I make could get us both killed. And that won't do the Star Marines much good."

  "How could he be onto us? You mean because of the sex?"

  "Maybe." He released her shoulders and turned, pacing slowly across the room, his head down. "Maybe not. I don't know, but I've got a sick feeling about this."

  "Captain, there is no way he could know who we really are. I admit he doesn't much like you hanging around, but …"

  "Why did he insist that I come here today? He had his own people, he didn't need me. He
could've dumped me back at the plantation."

  "I'm sure he doesn't want to piss off General Davis," she said. "He thinks you're under Davis's orders."

  Davenport nodded. He didn't look convinced.

  "What's for supper?" he asked.

  "Supper? Captain! What about Periscope Harbor?"

  "Let's eat first. I need to think."

  Lunar Base 4, Luna

  Rico Martinez sat in the group with the rest of Delta Company as Captain Connor talked. The company sat in a tight semicircle around the holotable, staring in muted awe as their commanding officer detailed the strategy for Periscope Harbor. The holomodel on the table showed every detail that was known about the place, and it was as forbidding an objective as any Rico had ever seen. It was a crowded city, packed into fifty-four square miles, every inch covered by buildings, parks, and monuments, the underground honeycombed with tunnels where businesses and residences had burrowed down. It was a major military headquarters, the most important strategic target on the planet, and the most heavily defended.

  The Star Marines would land just two divisions — the 3rd and 14th. Forty thousand men. No armor. No heavy weapons. No ammo vehicles. Not even laser vests. Rico was horrified. It sounded like suicide.

  "We're going to be facing both Sirians and Beta Centauris," Connor told them. "If you thought the Sirians were tough, the BC are ten times worse. They're cold-blooded bastards anyway, and now they'll be defending their home world. Don't expect any breaks from them. Even their women and kids may fight us. When you get the chance, you kill them. Don't worry about prisoners, because they won't be taking any."

  Rico returned to his barrack after the briefing and sat numbly on his rack. Visions of Titan flitted through his mind, and he wondered if they would even reach the ground. Connor had said the brass were counting on surprise for this one. That, and a diversionary hit-and-run against Vega. They would land during a carnival-like annual festival, which meant civilians would be thick as fleas.

  Jesus!

  "I don't know about you guys," Gearloose said to the barrack at large, "but I think we're fucked this time. We are trussed and fucked. This is gonna be our last one!"

  "Hey, knock that shit off!" Texas retorted. "When was the last time you were ever right about anything? Fuck that, man — Delta is gonna kick some BC ass, you hear? That's why they're sendin' the 3rd in first, because we know how to kick ass."

  No one answered him, and for nearly a minute the barrack was silent. Suddenly Roberson stepped forward, with all the boldness of a rabbit. He glanced nervously up and down the racks.

  "Fellows," he said, "I think it's time we talked about the most important thing to all of us."

  Rico looked up at him, hoping he wasn't going to start.

  "The only reason we made it through Alpha 2 alive," Roberson said, gaining confidence as no one interrupted him, "is because I was praying for all of us. I think now we —"

  "What the fuck you mean, Preacher!" Texas snarled. "We made it through because we murdered every Sirian we could find!"

  Roberson was shaking his head.

  "I'm serious about this, Graves," he said. "Jesus was right there with us, all the way through."

  "Then how do you explain Quince and the others? They're dead! Did you forget to pray for them?"

  "I don't know what happened to them," Roberson said doggedly. "Maybe their sins were too great, but the rest of us —"

  "Aw, shit!"

  "Please, fellows! You all need to confess your sins to the Lord. It's the only guarantee you'll have. Let's all accept Jesus, just in case we don't make it back."

  "Which is it, Preacher?" Maniac sneered. "You tryin' to keep us alive, or just make sure we go to heaven when we get smoked?"

  "This is nothing to joke about, Maniac!"

  "Who's joking?"

  Roberson's eyes were pleading as he looked from man to man. The cherries seemed embarrassed and said nothing. White glared at him balefully.

  "What about you, Martinez? You're a Christian of sorts."

  Rico burned with resentment and stood up slowly.

  "Corporal, I've had about enough of your shit. You wanna pray, you pray. Me, I'm gonna see a priest before we ship out. As for everybody else, just leave them the fuck alone, okay?"

  "But their souls!"

  "Fuck their souls. They know what to do. You just leave 'em alone!"

  "Atta boy, Beaner!" Texas grinned. "I knew you'd make a good two-striper!"

  Roberson turned in a circle, trying to find an ally.

  "Chavez?"

  "You heard Martinez, man. I'm with him."

  "White?"

  "I'm a Baptist, Preacher. We keep our religion private. You oughta take a lesson."

  Tears actually slid down Roberson's face, and he shook his head sadly.

  "I can't keep on carrying all of you," he said. "But I'll keep praying. For each and every one of you."

  He turned back to his rack and dropped listlessly onto it, picked up his Bible, and buried his nose in it. The others relaxed a bit and turned to their own tasks, nobody saying anything. Rico reached into his footlocker and drew out a chip recorder, sat down on the edge of his rack, and began to dictate a letter.

  "Dear Angie … "

  Orbit of Terra

  UFF Anwar Sadat was the first spacecraft carrier ever built by the Federation. Mistakes in the design and construction had been corrected in later carriers, but to the uninitiated none of them was visible. It was still a magnificent ship, a giant of a ship, and Wade Palmer had never seen anything like it.

  He would've got lost immediately except he was met on the hangar deck by an ordinary spaceman who showed him to his quarters, then escorted him to the after bridge where his commanding officer was waiting. Wade stepped through the hatch into the Strategy Center and saluted the first man he saw, who happened to be his new boss.

  "Lieutenant Wade Palmer reporting for duty, sir!" he said crisply, feeling a tingle at the sound of the words.

  The other man eyed him closely as he returned the salute, then grinned disarmingly and offered to shake hands. Wade complied gratefully.

  "Welcome aboard, Palmer. I'm Commander Ferdigssen. I've been expecting you."

  "Thank you, sir. My pleasure." He handed Ferdigssen his orders.

  "Come on into my foxhole," the commander said. "Let's talk."

  He led Wade to a small cubicle just off the Strat Center, told him to sit down, and closed the hatch. He settled into the only other chair in the room.

  Ferdigssen was lean and hard, Nordic and blond, and spoke with a moderate accent that Wade correctly guessed was Norwegian. He appraised Wade with bright blue eyes.

  "I reviewed your record," he said. "You came here from the Polygon. I'm impressed."

  "Thank you."

  "You had the best job there is, Palmer. What in god's name moved you to transfer out here?"

  Wade faltered for just a moment, then managed a shaky grin. He explained about his father, and alluded to his guilt about not being in a combat role.

  "I'm not trained in combat beyond what they gave us at boot camp and OCS," he concluded, "but at least now I'm serving on a combat ship. I feel like I ought to be where the war is."

  Ferdigssen nodded slowly, as if he understood, though his expression indicated that he still thought Wade a bit crazy.

  "We do have our moments," he admitted. "Since this ship was commissioned, we've been under enemy attack three or four times." He opened Wade's orders, inserted the chip into a reader, and studied it silently for a moment. Finally he pulled out the chip and filed it in a drawer. He stared at Wade again.

  "What we do here isn't nearly as grandiose as where you came from," he said. "We're concerned only with a small sliver of the war — the part that we're in. Often we aren't very busy, but when the shit hits the jets, things can happen awfully fast, and there isn't much time to think. The ship's captain depends on us for intelligence and ideas. He makes his own decisions, and often ignores
us when he does, but when he calls, we'd damn well better have something for him."

  "Yes, sir."

  "The ‘Strategy Center’ is actually a misnomer," Ferdigssen continued. "We're a combination of intel and think-tank. We get data from all parts of the ship. Everything is funneled in here — SpectraWav receipts, Ladar contacts, intel reports, everything. We keep track of the condition of every department on the ship, from the line squadrons right down to housekeeping, and we also track the movements of every ship in the task force. We have to know who they are, what they can do, what they are doing, and what is their condition. The strategy that we recommend has to consider every available factor. We brief the bridge personnel daily and we also brief fighter squadrons before their missions. It can get pretty hectic in here, and we've only got eight people. We're on duty twelve hours at a time, which puts only four on each shift. You're gonna get some stress in your life. Count on it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Any questions?"

  "No, sir, not yet. By tomorrow I'll probably have a hundred."

  Ferdigssen grinned again.

  "Ask them all. There's only one dumb question, and you know which one that is." He leaned forward confidentially. "Now, what can you tell me about this new operation that's coming up? Were you in on that?"

  "Which operation is that, sir?"

  "Beta Centauri. We're warping out tomorrow. I figured you must know something about it."

  Wade smiled weakly. "Yes, sir, I guess I do."

  "What's going on? It all sounds pretty thin to me. Have they lost their minds at the Polygon, or what?"

  Wade stared at him for ten seconds before answering, feeling his face flush hot and then cold.

  "I'm sorry, Commander," he said finally, "I'm not at liberty to tell you more than you already know."

  Ferdigssen's blond eyebrows lowered slightly as his eyes narrowed. Wade simply returned his gaze, and finally Ferdigssen nodded.

  "Good. I'll hold your hand for a couple of days, until you get used to things. Your shift starts at 0600 tomorrow. I'll see you then."

  New Angeles, Texiana, Sirius 1