by P. R. Adams
It was impossible to miss the imperiousness in Hardwick’s tone, the impatience, the fury. He wasn’t interested in dissenting opinion.
“Loud and clear, Commander.”
“CP-One out.”
“Sittin’ lopsided, LT?” A bright smile creased Wallace’s dark face. Somehow, even five days on, his mustache seemed trimmed and his beard stubble barely perceptible, while the rest of the platoon looked scraggly. “Some dogs, you give ‘em a bone, they’re king of the world and let you know it. Best leave ‘em be and let that bigger dog come along, teach ‘em a lesson. There’s always a bigger dog, LT.”
Rimes nodded. He’d dealt with Navy officers before. A lot of them seemed to think they were lord and master over all they surveyed. Too many of them.
There’s a lesson to be learned there.
“Bring the squad leaders online, Sergeant Wallace. Might as well get everyone ready.” I’m not about to let other people’s bad decisions ruin this opportunity.
RIMES STEADIED himself with the airlock’s ready bar and shook off the last of the jitters brought on when the shuttle had landed hard, then moments later dusted off at too steep an angle. Despite the remote piloting and the team taking a little longer exiting and dispersing than he’d wanted, he was still optimistic. They could improve.
Now we just need to get the piloting addressed.
Rimes worked his way along the handgrips until he reached his seat. He settled in and lowered the harness, then confirmed with Wallace everyone was reporting ready. “First Platoon ready for launch, CP-One.”
“Launch initiated.”
Rimes felt the tug of acceleration pressing him back into his seat. His legs burned from the sudden exertion, even in the minimal gravity. He wanted a shower, a shave, and a long night of sleep.
His thoughts drifted to Molly and the boys—Jared with his bright smile, Calvin with his serious eyes. Rimes remembered holding his family after Calvin came home from the hospital, the four of them sleeping on the bed, huddled against the cold in their modest Ansbach apartment.
I miss you.
He shook the thoughts off and opened a communications channel to the Broussard. “CP-One, this is First Platoon.”
Rimes knew he wasn’t making any friends with the Navy remote pilots by criticizing their decisions and performance. Still, he had a duty to his troops to ensure their safety.
“Go ahead, First Platoon.”
“The pilots need to watch their launch on dust-off. We were lucky we’d already deployed away from the LZ. Even so, the angle of ascent nearly exposed us to the rocket wash.”
“Passing that along, First Platoon.”
After contemplating the landing for a few minutes, Rimes opened a closed, voice-only channel to Wallace and the squad leaders. “All right, frank assessment. Landing, deployment, operations around the LZ, boarding. Areas for improvement, concerns. Let’s hear it.”
Lopresti chimed in first, her voice full of anxiety. “Lieutenant, I don’t like this. Top to bottom, it’s a mess.”
“Way to be rah-rah, Lopresti,” Wallace growled.
Rimes sighed inwardly. He didn’t want a fight with Wallace. “Can you provide some details, Sergeant Lopresti?”
“These aren’t true troop transports, Sir. We’re feeling it every way imaginable. They’re configured for remote piloting as an afterthought, and it shows in the sluggish controls. You felt the way they put down—way too hard.” Lopresti’s voice rose as she spoke. “Navy’s got no skin in the game. Plus transporting an entire platoon in one craft? That’s great if we make it—we hit the LZ with a lot more firepower. But a ship this size goes into a hot spot? It’s too big and slow. Small arms fire could probably take one down. So what’s the fucking point of all this if we know it’s impractical? Sir.”
Rimes sighed. Lopresti’s input was really valuable. He liked her frankness, her sharp observations. He just wished she could finesse things a little more to avoid antagonizing everyone. “Gilbert, McCoy, Zaborowski?”
“She’s right, LT,” Zaborowski said after a moment. “We’d be sitting ducks in one of these things. There’s no way to load or unload quickly.”
“Is this supposed to give us the feel of ship boarding action, Sir?” Gilbert was the junior squad leader, but he showed a lot of promise.
“I believe that’s part of the thinking.” At least Rimes hoped so.
“How many ships are gonna have broken terrain like we’re dealing with?”
“I’d expect they’ll build a mock-up for us at some point.” Rimes remembered the mess of the Powell’s hull. “Antenna arrays, missile and gun batteries…there’s plenty of broken terrain to deal with on ship surfaces if they’re big enough. If we can deal with a surface like this, we can deal with a ship’s hull. McCoy, you have any input?”
McCoy was silent for a moment. He was Lopresti’s opposite: introspective, reserved, sometimes a little slow. At the same time, he had occasionally provided a perspective others couldn’t. “I’m just wondering how often they expect us to go into low-g situations, Sir. Wouldn’t we mostly be concerned with planet drops? The colony worlds are all Earth-like, aren’t they? How often is someone going to populate something like the moon?”
“Rangers are always prepared, Sergeant,” Wallace snapped.
Rimes muted his headset and sighed. He wanted to yell at Wallace, or even just to yell into his muted headset, but he knew better. He unmuted. “Sergeant Wallace is right. Low-g would probably be a part of what we do, although not as often as other operations. Did you have some other thoughts?”
McCoy was silent for a spell. “I was just thinking we’d be better off with something really small, Sir. Squad- or fireteam-sized. Not remote-piloted. I don’t know. Maybe laser-guided, maybe automated. It could be disposable. Save the transports for evac.”
Rimes liked the idea, although he wasn’t sure a new craft proposal, especially for disposable ones, would receive any serious attention, not with the intense budget battles everyone was facing. “I’ll make that part of my report. Thanks, Sergeant. What about our performance? Anything we could improve?”
“We were slow gettin’ clear of the LZ, LT,” Wallace said. He twisted around to glare at Zaborowski. “Zaborowski, your squad looked like fuckin’ turtles out there.”
“We can work on low-g maneuvers this next time around,” Rimes said in agreement. “We came out of it with no injuries, no damage. I think that’s a good starting point. Let’s make a real effort to clear the LZ quickly. I don’t like the way those pilots are whipping these shuttles around out there. Okay, we’ve got fifteen minutes until the next drop. Get your squads ready.”
The platoon moved through its preparations quickly. Rangers released from harnesses and maneuvered away from their seats. Many queued, waiting to connect waste hoses to latrine receptacles. Some stretched or flexed, trying to work out the kinks that came with extended inactivity. Some, like Rimes, just waited.
Ten minutes out, Rimes decided to check status with Durban, the commander of Second Platoon.
Earlier attempts to interact had been met with a cold indifference bordering on hostility. Durban had never made any secret of what he thought about Rimes and the differences in their careers and backgrounds. Durban was a multi-generational legacy at West Point. He’d graduated from an elite prep school. Rimes was an insult to what Durban represented, to the legacy of the officer corps.
After several seconds, the connection to Durban opened. At first Rimes thought Durban might be ignoring him. The hiss on the line when it finally connected made him think otherwise. The shuttles were simply having a hard time handling even such a minimal load.
Could they run this operation any cheaper? Lives are more important than money. Or at least they should be. If my proposal gets approved, it can’t be done half-assed.
Rimes waited for the static to die down enough that he could understand himself. “Durban, this is Rimes.”
Durban made a long-suffering sig
h and tapped the side of his helmet with delicate hands. They weren’t a soldier’s hands, but a craftsman’s, or a surgeon’s. “You sound terrible, Rimes. Can you do something about the audio on your end? We’re nine-and-half minutes out. What do you need?”
“This is as good as the signal gets. I thought I’d share a couple findings with you and see if you had anything to share with me.”
“This isn’t OCS, you know,” Durban hissed. “I’m not some candidate you can intimidate or impress into helping you with your academics.”
“I was hoping we could help each other.” What was I thinking? He’s an insufferable prick. Rimes tried to rub his forehead, but his hand stopped at the sealed faceplate. Damn it. “Would you at least give my platoon’s input a look?”
“I’m busy, Rimes. I’ll review your report when necessary.”
The channel closed.
I hope his non-coms can compensate for him.
Durban had forty-one Rangers under his command. He was responsible for not only their success but their lives.
IT HAPPENED SOMEWHERE between the third and fourth squads exiting the shuttle. Wallace was barking useless orders over the channel, doling out special attention to Lopresti. Rimes had just moved to Zaborowski’s position to check his squad over.
Then the horizon lit up.
Desperate calls overwhelmed the communications channel, turning everything into a buzz and hum.
The next hour was a blur.
Rimes took Lopresti’s squad and Corporal Sung, the platoon medic, with him and began a bounding charge for Durban’s position five klicks away.
Every communication, even Durban’s, reflected chaos. Even so, Rimes wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he leapt over the final ridge to Platoon Two’s LZ.
The troop transport was spread across a kilometer of the LZ crater. Weak fires sputtered from sections, burning out the last of the oxygen. Soldiers huddled in small groups.
Rimes arrived just as two soldiers cleared a hull segment off a body. Whatever caused the explosion had blasted away the soldier’s armor and most of his face.
“Any ID?” Rimes asked. Neither soldier replied. “Who’s missing?”
“Castro, Alva—Alva—,” one of the soldiers sputtered.
“Alvarado, Sutcliffe, and Markham, Sir,” the other soldier said. She tried to activate what was left of the corpse’s communications system. A dim red light blinked out. “I think it’s Alvarado, but the suit’s gone and the subdermal isn’t responding. We’ll have to wait until they get some DNA…“
Rimes scanned the wreckage. There weren’t any promising gaps or hollows where a survivor might be hidden. He looked at the Ranger who had kept her cool. Her ID indicated she was Sergeant Anushka Patel.
“Sergeant Patel, where’s Lieutenant Durban?”
Patel pointed to the largest group of soldiers, gathered at the center of the LZ. Rimes leapt over to the group. Closer in, he isolated Durban’s signal, despite the chatter flooding communications.
Rimes stopped a meter out as Durban launched into his medic. The medic was nervously working with a wounded Ranger’s damaged suit, trying to get it to set a splint for a fracture.
All the while, Durban berated her. He was close to an action he would regret, his hand raised threateningly. He moved closer to the medic.
Too close. “Lieutenant Durban.” Rimes’s voice was calm and even but commanding.
Durban turned. “Rimes! I need your medic!”
Rimes fought the urge to punch Durban’s face plate. Calm. “He’s with Lopresti.” Rimes tried to find Sung’s signal, then gave up. “What happened?”
“It blew up.” Durban stabbed a finger furiously toward the wreckage Rimes had just left. “We were dispersing and it just blew the hell up! Look at this! It’s not my fault!”
“Of course not.” Rimes said. He struggled to quiet Kwon, to suppress the desire to club Durban to the ground. “I raised some concerns about these shuttles with Commander Hardwick in my report.” The report you ignored.
“It’s not my fault, damn it!”
“Durban, how many dead?”
Durban shoulders sagged and he lowered his head, so that he looked even smaller. “Four. So far. Rosen’s not looking good. And we’re missing four.”
“They found Alvarado in the wreckage.” Rimes surveyed the wreckage. “There aren’t going to be any other survivors there.”
The last of the fires had gone out, their oxygen sources spent. Patel and her partner moved away from the main wreckage to the next largest section, still checking for bodies.
“What the hell happened, Rimes?”
“Leave that to the investigation team. We have to get your folks out of here. Now. Where’s your comm booster?”
“Gone.” Durban’s head sank so that his eyes were hidden.
“I’m heading back to my LZ. We’ll call the Broussard. Can you handle this?”
Durban looked straight into Rimes’s helmet. “Rimes, it was a death trap. They sent us on this mission in those…those…“
Rimes placed a reassuring hand on Durban’s suit. Kwon would rather have strangled Durban. Rimes understood completely.
The entire trip back to the LZ, he wondered how close his platoon had come to their own disaster.
There would be a reckoning. There always was. Lives had been lost. A shuttle had been lost. Someone had to be held accountable. That was the way the military worked.
He just didn’t know who would be the scapegoat.
For his family’s sake, he hoped like hell it wasn’t him.
6
24 May, 2167. USS Broussard.
* * *
RIMES’S EARPIECE CLICKED; his channel was being opened. He shook off the daydream that had been occupying his mind, then shifted in the narrow space between bunk and bulkhead that served as a desk for him and Durban. A cough shook him. He was tired of the stale, dry, recycled air. He needed home, to recharge. He needed the hearing about the shuttle explosion to be over. They all did.
He patiently stared at the display, waiting for something to form from the static.
Nothing changed.
Just another tease, a lie.
Life aboard the Broussard was every bit as bad as the worst seagoing ship he’d ever been on. Sleep came reluctantly in the cramped bunks and compressed spaces. There was no ocean to rock the vessel, only the boundless infinity of space. Spacegoing or seagoing, each ship had its quirks and charms.
I’ll find the charms eventually. I know I can.
Light dodged and bounced in the display, a welcome change even if it amounted to nothing. Another twist and the display started taking on form, resolving into Molly’s face and shoulders. She wore a frayed T-shirt, its condition worsened by the grainy, stuttery video.
The audio was worse.
Molly’s face—tired, worn—suddenly lit up. As quickly, fear and concern displaced the first hint of a smile.
“Jack, what’s wrong? You’re supposed to be en route. You said you wouldn’t have communications.”
Rimes held a hand up to stop the panic before it could take root. “I’m okay. We’re going to be delayed, that’s all. I wanted to warn you so you didn’t worry.”
“What happened?” Molly looked at him intensely, as if she could diagnose any ills over tens of thousands of kilometers through an unreliable connection.
“I’m on the Broussard. There was an accident.” He paused to fight the constricting that threatened to break his voice. “We lost some soldiers.”
“Oh, baby.” Relief crept into Molly’s eyes, followed quickly by guilt. It was an awkward sensation, dealing with the elation of a loved one surviving a disaster, while coming to grips with the loss of others. “I’m sorry. Were they…”
Rimes shook his head. “My platoon lucked out. It was Durban’s. Those converted cargo vessels were death traps.”
“How…many?”
“Ten,” Rimes said, involuntarily flinching. “So far. They’
re not sure about two others. Most of them were kids. Nineteen, twenty.”
“Do they know the cause?”
Rimes shook his head again, frustrated. “It’s the usual insanity right now. You’ve got Army brass fighting Navy brass back on-planet. They’ll need a scapegoat, and there’re no clear answers right now. They’ve done the usual preliminary routine—blood tests, interrogations. The Broussard commander is fighting not to bring the wreckage aboard. He’s got a sick bay full of wounded and body bags in his freezer. He’s also got more than sixty soldiers wandering the passageway of his ship. It wasn’t built to handle the load.”
Molly’s image faded out for a moment. It returned, but there was no audio as her lips moved. She frowned and held up a finger to get him to wait. Her image winked out again. When it came back, Molly was sitting in front of the camera with Calvin and Jared. Their presence had managed to erase the concern from her face for the moment.
Rimes gave a thumbs up and smiled. He could see Jared laughing and talking, but little more than broken snippets of his words made it through. Calvin glared at him accusingly.
What’s going on in your mind, little man?
Calvin wasn’t old enough to walk, really, but he had an uncanny ability to focus and concentrate.
A counter appeared on the display.
Thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…
Rimes did his best to mime a hug of the three of them and told them he loved them, raising his voice. Like shouting’s going to help. Not your sharpest moment. He smiled, embarrassed.
The connection closed and the display faded. Rimes replayed the video, pausing to stare first at Calvin, then Jared, then Molly.
Each had an emotional association as distinct as a scent. Molly’s appearance worried him. Like her T-shirt, she was showing wear and tear from all the changes that had come at them so quickly. His commission, assignment to Ansbach, meeting new people, trying to make friends, Jared’s birth, Calvin’s birth, the sudden assignment to Fort Stewart.
He’d heard it before. The Special Security Council wanted—demanded—him. Representative Bhatia—long an ally—was leading the charge.
