Ghost Soldiers

by Michael G. Thomas

  He turned slightly towards his experienced sergeant.

  “Sergeant Tyler is, of course, correct. A Marine division sounds nice in theory, but that’s not what we have. They are years from being fully operational. It takes a long time to train cadets, but it takes a lot longer to make them marines.”

  Spartan nodded in agreement. He’d seen the footage the same as the others, and he also knew what would happen to rookies when sent up against such a hardened target. It had fallen apart just as he’d said it would, but not even the fast ships of the Interstellar Assault Brigade could have arrived quickly enough to beat them to it. Even the pleading of a veteran like Spartan would not get them to hold back, even for a few hours.

  “I know, trust me, I know. These Helions have enough firepower to hold off an entire company of ground troops, right now, and their air defences...well, they are strong, as our friends on the surface have found out.”

  Sergeant Tyler highlighted several locations on the tactical map visible inside their suits.

  “Any strong attack will send them out into the suburbs of Spascia. If that happens, I can guarantee we will lose our hostages, and suffer a lot of collateral damage as they run amok. Worse, they will just hold the ground they have and bleed us, and the prisoners.”

  Spartan looked back at the mapping data to check they were on course.

  “We will do things differently, I promise you. The IAB was created for just this kind of operation. One where we expect, and can absorb casualties.”

  He then moved his eyes carefully along his checklist. He was still finding it odd getting used to his new rank in the IAB, something he had neither wanted, nor expected. An alert flashed up from the marines already on the ground. They were from the Recon Unit, the elite section in their unit and the only fully human combat unit on the planet; the message was tagged as an urgent flashcom. Spartan lifted his hand, signalling he needed to stop the conversation for now.

  “Proceed.”

  “Major. Alpha and Bravo Squads are in position and waiting for the word. Hostiles are in position around the facility, and the anti-air systems are still manned following the failure of Operation Hammer.”

  Spartan was convinced he could sense sarcasm as the marine used the name of the operation. He ignored it, knowing only too well the dangers and risks being taken at that very moment by this small, but elite unit.

  “...The weapons are presently inactive, but they will go live in ten seconds, no more.”

  Spartan nodded to himself as he made mental notes.

  “The prisoners are still in the single storey structure between the gun towers and the building used as a barrack hall. We have estimated enemy numbers, one-fifty, plus change. We’ve tagged sixteen anti-armour weapons and multiple strong points. Plus the captured Vanguards.”

  The man’s tone changed a little, indicating urgency.

  “The compound is a fortress, Sir. It is going to take an army to get them out, and whoever hits the barricades is going to take losses, heavy losses.”

  Spartan licked his lips again, already feeling them begin to dry. He was going in with half of that, but that didn’t worry him. It was the lives of the five Alliance marines that concerned him the most, and there was no chance he would leave them behind with this enemy. He could sense the concern in the spotter’s voice. It was almost as though the man was trying to dissuade him from the attack.

  “Understood. Maintain your current position. We’re en route. Keep your eyes on the enemy, and continue tagging targets. When we arrive, we’ll need rapid intel and overwatch. Do not, I repeat, do not assault. Leave that to our teams. We will be there shortly.”

  Spartan moved his eyes a fraction and then brought up the tactical map. At the same time, he shared the data with every single person involved in the mission. As well as the position of patrols and guards, he made a special effort to mark the heavy weapons, ones that were easily capable of crippling an aircraft, and certainly hurting or killing those in the combat landing.

  The craft buffeted once more, but not one of the passengers seemed particularly bothered. Spartan had seen so much combat that the missions now all seemed to coalesce. This one was different, though. This time it was his own unit, one built from his experiences in the Alliance military, and outside of it. It was special, and one he had to pay a price to be a part of. He’d refused reinstatement in the Marine Corps five times in total, but in the end, the only way he could command soldiers in the unit would be to accept a partial reinstatement into the new unit; by having the Interstellar Assault Brigade fully absorbed into the Alliance military as an independent security unit. His special status meant he would only have to serve in the IAB, and could not, under any circumstances be transferred without granting him permission to leave.

  The research labs, shipyards, and factories of the Special Weapons Division would remain in Taxxu, and still managed by the mega corporation known as the Carthago Trade Consortium. In exchange for privileged access to the new discoveries being made at Taxxu, they would provide everything the IAB needed, including new ships, weapons, armour, and equipment that were leagues ahead of anything used in the Alliance.

  The arrangement was mutually beneficial, and as a consequence, meant Spartan and his comrades retained a major stake in the Special Weapons Division. All of this was possible due to the vast increases in trade and communication throughout the Alliance. The great rebuilding project that was breathing life back into the barren worlds shattered by the war was creating new opportunities for thousands of corporations, all keen to expand and increase their profits.

  All Spartan and his comrades really cared about was that they could return to combat, but on their own terms, and outside the control of other units. The fact that Spartan's tiny group were now wealthy meant almost nothing to them.

  Armour…check.

  Small coloured indicators flashed for each system, and he mentally checked them off as each one appeared. The designs were exactly the same as those used inside Vanguard armour suits, and as he watched them, the familiarity of combat routine quickly returned.

  Power, communication, life support. All good.

  He rolled his head and heard the sound of his neck click, sending a shudder down his spine. This could not be seen from the outside of the Maverick armour. Though fast and agile, the entire head had been incorporated directly into the torso carapace. Thick plating completely blocked off the face, with nothing open or exposed. The armour was a faded crimson, but heavily marked and worn from previous training exercises. Parts of bare metal could be seen through the paint, showing how it was constructed.

  Weapons.

  A hatch on his shoulder split up into small sections to allow a motorised weapon mount to rise. It pushed up quickly, barely making a sound. Fitted to the mount was the HEC-1 Cannon, a deadly, plasma weapon based on Khreenk technology. He tested its range of movement, and then it dropped back inside the armour. Next came the L52 coilguns, the standard weapons of the Marine Corps. Two were fitted in mounts on the arms, with just the last part of the muzzles pushed out from the armour.

  Last but not least.

  Spartan then clenched his fists, and the large, articulated hands of the Maverick armour did the same. As they tightened down, he activated the siege mode, a name he’d given based on testing. Plates pushed out around the hands until both were expanded in size and mass, altering to look like the heads of a sledgehammer. Ballast units in the joints moved out towards the tips to increase the mass of the hands.

  Yeah, now I’m ready.

  The sections of metal returned to their previous positions, and the weighted joints adjusted back into conventional limbs. There was a final clunk as the vanes on the lower parts of the arms slipped into place. He moved back to join the other three, while tapping the armoured metal barrier between passengers and crew.

  Behind the dropship came two more identical craft, each of the exact same specification, and hurtling down with just a kilometre separating t
hem. The spacecraft were the latest in a long line of landing craft, yet these were not the lumbering Maulers used by the Marine Corps. They were sleek and agile dropships that could easily have been combat gunships. Smaller than the heavy Maulers, they were also a good deal larger than the general purpose Hammerheads.

  As their speed began to drop, their swing-wings pushed out to help increase lift, and to offer greater control on the way to the target. Weapon pods also pushed out from the hull and coilguns out of their protected gun ports. Emblazoned on the flanks of the dropships were the markings of the Interstellar Assault Brigade, the brand new independent unit in the Marine Corps.

  “Six minutes, Sir. They are looking for us,” said the pilot.

  Spartan altered his view to that of the cockpit. The imagery in front of his eyes transformed, and to the uninitiated he might have thought he was now flying the craft. The computer system on the dropship was networked directly to his armour, as was the warship in orbit. The computer applied an overlay that showed the radar systems operating in the area as a series of constantly moving grids and cones.

  “Understood. Stay on course, take us in low, and take us in fast. I don’t want to be tagged on the way down. Do it by the numbers and put us on the ground.”

  “Affirmative.”

  The craft maintained its course for a little while longer, and then with a slight change in the descent gradient, it moved to the next waypoint. The engines were now operating at full power, with much of the heat from the thrusters cooled before being released. Spartan watched as they passed the computer-generated target diamond and on to the next one. It was expert flying, and exactly what Spartan would have expected from the people he’d brought together in the IAB.

  “Good work, damned good work.”

  The dropship raced down to follow a course between the two largest mountain ranges, keeping them visually and audibly masked from their target. Spartan watched as they dropped low between the dusty mountains of the devastated world of Spascia. In seconds they were moving past them, and still slowing down.

  First time back in nearly a decade, and I’m bringing in seventy-two soldiers into combat.

  He shook his head.

  Nothing changes, nothing at all.

  Even as he thought it, the view in front of the dropship reminded him how wrong he was. They burst out from a pair of lower mountains and followed a rail line that disappeared into an urban area. During Spartan’s last visit the place had been a ruin. The already partially ruined city of Old Spascia had been torn apart by months of siege warfare. Anything that survived the ground battle had been ripped apart by orbital bombardment and bombing runs that turned the landscape into a scene from the apocalypse. Yet to Spartan’s surprise, the world had changed, and for the better.

  Incredible. It is nothing like I’d expected.

  He had seen the reports and was aware of what was going on. But seeing Spascia up close he was truly stunned. Where entire city blocks had been smashed, there were roads and towers rising up from the ground; just months earlier there had been rubble. Complex, multi-layered pillars lifted up into the air to support the weight of raised roadways and Maglev rail systems. One of them was already operational and being used by a freight train to move larger metal girders. Spartan thought back to Jack and Teresa and their final moments on this alien world, so many years before.

  They would have been proud of what this place has become.

  A smile began to form ever so slowly on his face as he looked upon the rebuilding effort. This was one place where his presence would not be particularly welcome. Few still realised the magnitude of what he’d done, and how many lives he had saved. He suspected even those that knew would still rather blame him, the man that brought the ships through the Black Rift, even if that action had allowed him to destroy the Biomechs from inside.

  Does it matter what they think now? At least they are alive to criticise.

  It was what so many always forgot; he was like so many of them, a man that had lost his wife and only child. He would never forget them, but at least he could see improvement in a place he thought had been truly lost. Off into the distance were hundreds, perhaps even thousands of buildings, all of which were in various stages of construction. In the middle was a single tower reaching up nearly a hundred storeys. It was a simple design, more in line with something humans would have created rather than the Helions. It was partially cylindrical and broke out into a spire that lifted up into a series of low clouds. Though structurally complete, he already knew it was only half finished.

  Liberation Tower.

  As the dropship moved back, Spartan found he was unable to avoid looking upon the ruined mountain nearly thirty kilometres away. To anybody else it might have been little more that another peak on the horizon, but to Spartan it was a grave. Deep underneath its surface lay the destroyed planetary defence system, as well as the hundreds of bodies still entombed deep within its core.

  “Spartan, you okay?”

  He turned around and found Khan looking back at him. The monstrous Jötnar warrior had been silent until now. A product of the Biomech warrior programme, Khan was not far short of three metres in height, and when cased inside his armour was easily a match for the Maverick suit, something that relied on technology; whereas Jötnar could rely on their natural muscles to do the same job. Spartan walked past the robotic drones waiting silently inside their pods.

  “I’m fine, Khan, here for the mission. Same as you.”

  Khan lowered his head in a sombre expression. Unlike Spartan, he wore the cruder looking JAS armour. Though of a similar size of the Maverick unit, it was unpowered, and equipped with thicker plating and a myriad of close-range weapons.

  “Understood, Major.”

  Spartan had been moving away and looked back at his friend, spotting the mischievous grin as he sealed up the head plate on the front of his armour.

  “Funny. Very funny.”

  Spartan moved along the interior of the Jackal dropship, the heavy clunk of his armour tapping on the metallic floor plates. He was inside the latest issue Maverick armour, as were the two marines looking back at him. Both men were highly experienced sergeants with dozens of combat operations under their belts, and now they had been transferred to this specialised unit.

  “Four minutes till drop; check your weapons and articulation one last time.”

  He nodded as he spoke.

  “This is the inaugural operation of the Interstellar Assault Brigade, and we’re going into an operation High Command says is unwinnable. The enemy has killed three of the wounded Helion marines in the last thirty minutes, and Intelligence says they will be moving our people out in less than an hour. It’s time for some payback.”

  He blinked and glanced at Khan, who seemed to be just enjoying the trip down. The others might have been a little apprehensive, but never Khan. Spartan shook his head and wondered what was happening inside the other craft.

  Are the carefully selected officers and men up to the job?

  “The Helion rescue attempt did nothing but get their soldiers killed. They’ve been there weeks and have made the entire site a death trap. The compound is made to be impregnable, with guard posts at every single entry point. They have shown time and time again that they do not value their own lives, so let’s show them how we feel about that.”

  Khan muttered and then looked to Spartan as he moved back.

  “They’ve been preying on this sector for a month. Ten square blocks, all now controlled by the Spascia Liberation Front, and we are going to get hit hard going in. Are they ready for this?”

  Lieutenant Armstrong laughed, but his voice betrayed his nerves.

  “Liberation Front? All they want to liberate is money and possessions from people’s pockets. They are a gang of thugs, with a reputation for murder and people trafficking.”

  He looked to Spartan.

  “The IAB is well equipped, and we’ve been training for months. Every single marine has transfer
red from other units. We are the best.”

  Spartan grinned and wondered if the man was right. He wasn’t entirely correct. Of course, some of the recruits were sent directly to the unit from training, but only the exceptional, or the troublesome ones. Then there were the Thegns, an entire artificial race of foot soldiers, and now part of the Alliance. They ran the IAB ships in orbit, but only with the assistance of at least one senior Alliance officer per vessel. It was a major compromise, and one Spartan knew would have to change.

  It is always more complicated than you would expect.

  The young officer continued.

  “We hit them, and we hit them fast.”

  Sergeant Tyler twisted about, still constrained by the clamps.

  “That we will.”

  Spartan looked to them both and nodded, though his suit hid his expression.

  “This mission will put the IAB into a hell like none before. My estimate is anything up to fifty percent casualties in the combat landing. Remember; let the Grunts do their job. They are our armour and our shields. Let’s show these Liberators the true meaning of the word.”

  “Yes Sir,” said each of them.

  They were not the words of rookie soldiers, or those pumped up on adrenalin or excitement, they were nothing more than a business-like acknowledgement of what needed to be done.

  Spartan moved past them and towards the three rows of tubes fitted to the floor of the craft. There were thirty of them, each individual unit protected by a smoked transparent outer seal. All were currently open, and the metal warriors within were waiting like metal sculptures. As Spartan passed them, he could see each one begin to check its limb movement and balance, as though warming up for an athletic event. To the uninitiated they might seem like tiny versions of the Maverick armour, but they had little in common.

  Times have changed.

  These were a first for the Alliance, the first generation of remote presence CD1 Combat Robot, nicknamed Grunts to the marines. Each could be controlled like a second skin from a vast distance away, with the only limitation being the distance of the controller, the greater the delay in command operations. In reality, it meant the Grunts moved slowly and with reduced reaction. Though just the size of a small adult, they were tough and most important of all, completely expendable, though very expensive.