Here he was on a derelict space ship, far beyond the Galactic Divide, and instead of saving himself, he was doing his best to save his Marines. I understood his sense of duty.
“Sergeant Kukka. Status report,” I ordered as I walked up and looked over his stooped body to see why he was attempting the impossible.
He pushed fruitlessly for another second while the new voice creeped into his consciousness. In his mind, I knew the voices of hundreds of instructors were driving him, years of experience was being sorted in an attempt to find a solution and hundreds of years of Marine Corps’ tradition was driving him. What didn’t fit was the voice of a believed to be dead Lieutenant asking him for a report. Finally, it hit him I wasn’t a voice in his crowded imagination.
Red rimmed eyes, blurry with sweat and streaks of blood where he’d attempted to wipe away the stinging moisture, looked around and up at me.
“Two injured, number two gunner believed to be lost in space and number one gunner stuck in the quad,” he replied. As he spoke some of the exhaustion became apparent as his voice faded at the end of the report.
“Understood Sergeant but I want to know your status first,” I said firmly, “We’ll get to the men but right now I need to know if you are able?”
It wouldn’t matter how he answered, I already knew. He would report as being fit and able for duty. What I wanted was to calm him. Let him know he wasn’t alone and was once again part of a Military command.
Plans, strategies, improvisation and action would follow. Confidence was the true strength of the military and I needed a Sergeant to get our survivors out alive.
“Fit for duty, Sir,” he said. His lips quivered slightly, almost letting a little weakness show through his tough NCO façade.
“Alright Sergeant,” I replied kneeling beside him, “Give me a situation report while I look at your hands.”
With one hand, I reach out and removed the long wrench from his arms. With the other, I dug in my medical kit and pulled out two battle dressings. He was tough and I didn’t think less of him when tears began to run down his cheeks.
The tears weren’t from frustration, although he had a full load of that, it was from me resetting his fingers. I pulled them hard two at a time. First the right then the left hand and once the fingers were where they belonged, I wound them in the dressings.
“We evolved and I sealed off the gun deck,” Kukka reported between grunts as his fingers snapped back into place, “Commander Lunes ordered your combat launch then I heard the explosion on the Bridge. Two more impacts further aft and I couldn’t get a report from any station.”
“What’s the status of quad two?” I asked nodding my head towards the bloody air curtain.
“Must have been wreckage from the Bridge. I saw the decompression of the turret. A piece came through and punched a hole in the loader’s shoulder. After bandaging him, I tried to rotate the quad bubble inboard but the quad barrels wouldn’t retract. The other loader and I attempted to pry it loose. We tried but the tool slipped. He got hit in the head and I got,” he held up the two bandaged hands.
“I understand,” I said, knowing that saving your men was more important than even your own life, “I saw the quad casing from outside. If it’s any consolation, your Marine didn’t suffer.”
“Thank you for that, Sir,” he replied, “We still have quad one to bring home.”
“What happened?” I asked looking at the blood smeared back of the quad bubble.
“Lance Corporal Def̱téra rotated in after the attack. His reported his quad was undamaged. While I tended to the injured loaders, he rotated back out to provide security for us. By the time I rendered aide to the wounded, as best I could, the quad was stuck,” the Sergeant described the series of events, “There were more explosions after the attack. The deck shook and something must have jammed up the quad gears.”
“Alright then,” I said standing and trying to look like a commander, “First, I need you to check on your wounded while I study the quad.”
“Do you know what you’re looking at? No disrespect meant, Sir,” he said, some of his NCO pride returning.
“Believe me Sergeant, before they pinned rocket wings on me, I had the same Military Occupational Specialty as you,” I said seeing relief in his eyes, “Besides, I have two good hands.”
He dropped his eyes to the bandages, raised them and said, “Aye, aye, Sir.”
While he went to tend to his injured Marines, I turned to the stuck quad. I knew two things from my fly by. One was the barrels were retracted so when I got the quad unjammed, we could get Lance Corporal Def̱téra back inboard. That left the other thing I knew. The frost freeze on the edges of the quad bubble, even free, the ice crystals would prevent it from turning.
The thing I didn’t know was if the entire project was worth the time. Def̱téra may already be dead.
I retrieved a normal wrench and flashlight from the team’s tool chest. Back at the quad, I unbolted the cover for the gear box. Access was limited to a view of the tops of a few gears. Mostly it was for simple grease maintenance and visible inspection.
Down on my knees, I used the light to get a look. I spied a piece of alloy, small but effective for preventing the meshing of the gears, was jetting through the side of the gear box. There was no way I could thread a tool between the cogs and dislodge it. I sat back and blew out air between my tight tips.
“What’s the deal, Lieutenant?” Kukka asked. He was holding a bloodied pressure bandage between the palms of his hands and searching my face for some sign of hope.
“Sergeant, it would take a measure of TNC to free those gears,” I said admitting that I didn’t have a clue.
“We’ve got that,” he replied moving his eyes to the ammo bunker elevator, “Or the next best thing. What could you do with some Quad ammo?”
At first I discounted the idea. An explosion would put us all in danger and blow the quad bubble into space. Both results would defeat our purpose of surviving and rescuing the Lance Corporal. What did he expect me to do, empty the explosive material into the gear box and set it off? Besides, how would I set it off, shoot into the improvised bomb?
Shoot? Shoot!
“Sergeant, help me move the wounded over to the exit hatch,” I said standing with a smile that sent a shiver through the NCO’s body, “I believe we have a solution.”
After we moved the wounded, I selected four quad barrels from the replacement locker. They were thick metal pipes. One end large enough for the projectile to pass and the other end flared to seat and hold the cartridge. I also grabbed a roll of duct tape. No maintenance locker in the Galactic Council Realm would ever have less than four rolls in stock. Back at the gear box, I weaseled one pipe into position so it was pointing at the master gear. Another I taped to the barrel as a brace to hold it in place.
I released the ammo bunker lift and pried loose one round of quad ammunition. It was longer then my hand and about four fingers around. When being fired on automatic out of a four-barrel quad, its size wasn’t relative. Here, laying in my hand without a bolt to hold the cartridge in a chamber and a firing pin to safely charge the bullet, this single cartridge appeared huge, heavy and dangerous.
I eased the live round into the open breach of the pipe. A quick visit to the weapon’s locker and I came back with a GCMC 45. The big pistol I taped over the end of the pipe facing the cartridge. It would act as the firing pin to set off the cartridge. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a locking bolt. A bolt would keep the back blast from leaving the end of the pipe. With this set up, the blow back would travel at almost the same velocity as the solid missile leaving the other end.
Newton’s third law of motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. This meant that the barrel and the 45 would explode away from the gear box at the same time as the round smashing into the gears. There was no way I could fire the 45 and pull back before the blast ripped my hand off.
This was the reason for the o
ther two pipes. First I taped them together in a tee configuration. Next I took a long length of duct tape, about two and a half times the length of the barrel, and rolled it, sticky side inward. This line of tape was folded in half and fed through the pipe.
While I prepared the unstable and improvised rifle, I paused to look over at Sergeant Kukka. He’d taken CGMC combat armor out of another locker. Sections of the green and black fish scale body armor were already laid over the wounded. He’d dressed in a set and was holding another over his arms for me.
“You might want a little protection before you charge that open breach cannon, Sir,” he said rocking his arms to indicate that I should take the armor.
“Good call, Sergeant,” I said relieving him of the load.
“Need help?” he asked knowing that Corps armor was easy enough to put on if you knew what to do but, he wasn’t sure if I had the proper training.
“I’m good,” I assured him.
The steps were drilled into me by Marine instructors years ago. ‘Leggings to boots to hips, hips locked, braces over the shoulders, braces to arms, braces to chest, chest to back, back to chest,’ I could almost hear the chant. Following the steps, I stepped into the boots and rolled up the leggings to my hips. Then, I hooked the top of the legs to each other before pulling the suspenders over my shoulders. Next, I snapped the arm sections to the suspenders and hooked the chest piece to the suspenders. The back section I snapped to the side of the chest piece and swung it around behind me. Finally, I closed the armor by securing the back piece to the other side of the chest piece. Just like the steps in the chant directed.
Now from neck to deck, I was covered in small overlapping armor plates. It felt good, like a cocoon of steel protecting me from enemy weapons. Only this time, the weapon was a device of my own design. I was in danger not from an enemy, but from myself.
As I finished latching the armor, one of the wounded Marines raised up on an elbow.
“What’s happening Sergeant?” he mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it Marine. The Lieutenant has the situation well in hand. Lay back down and rest. That’s an order,” Kukka said sternly.
The young man lay back, secure in the knowledge that his Sergeant and the Lieutenant were taking care of the situation.
A helmet was offered and I accepted. Once in place, the world became opaque edges where temperatures changed, the deck and overhead solid and the hatches glowed. Also appearing in the corner of the face plate, the positions of the three Marines behind me. I wanted to add a fourth Marine to the display but first I needed to free his quad and get him back on board.
I tied a slip knot over the trigger of the 45 and took up slack until I felt the trigger move ever so slightly. Hand over hand to keep the four tubes steady, I walked my way back to the end of the tee set of tubes.
“Fire in the hole,” I said after glancing around at the Sergeant.
He’d already laid out another set of armor for Def̱téra. I liked his confidence and appreciated his professionalism. I pulled the line of tape hard.
The slip knot tightened but the trigger held. I jerked hard and the circumference of the knot reduced, the trigger passed the point of suspension and the 45 kinetic round raced down the pistol’s barrel. In less than a heartbeat, it smashed into the primer cap of the quad’s round. The world exploded.
I was thrown back on my armored butt. The tee constructed pipes along with the barrel from the gear box and the brace pipe soared across the deck. Twirling and twisting, they shredded the air curtain at quad two, flew up and bounced violently off the overhead before hitting the deck and breaking apart. The four replacement barrels went in four directions. One spun towards the wounded Marines.
I twisted my head around to watch the heavy rotating pipe as it zeroed in on the injured. It spun and traveled like it had a mind of its own. It slid directly towards the wounded as if they were magnets. It slid, spinning until a big boot slammed down and pinned the pipe to the deck.
Chapter 13
“Best check on the gear box, Sir,” the Sergeant suggested from where he stood over the pipe.
“Aye, aye Sergeant,” I replied climbing to my knees and crawling to the gear box.
At first, the hole was filled with expended gas from the quad cartridge, but that quickly dispersed. The entire set of gears were out of line with many broken in half. Apparently the projectile had tumbled between gears leaving devastation in its wake. I used the wrench as a pry bar and snapped a few more into pieces. Now for the acid test, would the quad bubble rotate?
I replaced the small wrench with the monster wrench that Kukka had tried. With the wrench jammed in the space between the quad turret and the frame of the Patrol Boat, I put my shoulder to it. I fell to my knees as the bubble rotated catching me unprepared for the easy spin. Sometimes things work out just like you plan them, sometimes.
Kukka was right beside me as I threw the lever to open the turret. We both reached in and together pulled a shivering Lance Corporal Def̱téra out of his gunner’s seat. We carried him to where the Sergeant had laid out the body armor.
Once Def̱téra was encased in the Marine Corps’ body armor, I hooked a power belt around him and turned up the juice. Warmth flowed around him and in a few minutes, he opened his eyes.
“Knew you’d get me out Sergeant,” he whispered between blue tinted lips.
“It wasn’t me. Lieutenant Piran improvised and successfully completed the operation,” Kukka said.
“Def̱téra, it was a team effort,” I said then added, “Semper Fi!”
“Semper Fi,” he replied before closing his eyes and going to sleep.
The Sergeant and I made sure we hydrated the Marines before sealing them in the body armor. Once they were all tucked securely in the pressurized and armored suits, each was strapped to a back board. Three injured meant three trips to the lower level access hatch.
They were staged in the Patrol Boat until I hung the last air curtain. I sent the Sergeant through to be the catcher. I stayed behind. Three times I shoved a wounded man between the slats in the curtain and pushed them towards the GunShip. Each sailed smoothly through the air-lock tube and were caught by the NCO. Finally, I climbed into the air-lock tube, turned and closed the hatch to the Swanhilde. Then, I glided back to where Kukka was arranging the Marines.
I stepped to the deck of the GunShip and watched as he attempted to close the harness. With his bandaged and broken fingers, it was beyond his current physical abilities. That didn’t stop him for trying, I helped by reaching in and snapping the harnesses together on each of his men.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Sergeant, now that we’re on my ship,” I began.
“Oh, I understand, Captain,” he blurted out.
“No you misunderstood me,” I said with a smile, “My call sign is J-Pop. Makes it easier to communicate. Clear?”
“Aye Sir, J-Pop it is.”
I pulled in the air-lock tube and secured it to the side of the GunShip then closed and latched the hatch. Breann was asleep and didn’t greet me when I reach over the pilot’s seat to run up the ion cannons. Air circulated and the cabin pressure increased.
“You can remove their helmets and plug the power belts into the GunShip’s system,” I instructed, “I want to run a scan to be sure we’re still alone out here. I’ll come back to help.”
“Aye, J-Pop, much appreciated,” the big NCO said as he struggled with the locking mechanism on the first Marine’s helmet.
My conscience bothered me and I started to forgo the scan. Seeing the NCO fighting his pain and handicap, made me second guess my resolve to check the area.
I was partially turned to go back and help when a voice in my head said, “Hunt.”
There were no bugs or spiders on my GunShip. I knew what Breann meant. And, I remembered that Captain Viljami had mentioned three Patrol Boats attacking the Swanhilde. One was damaged, thanks to me, but that left two more in this sector of spa
ce. One was bad news but if two arrived, my little GunShip, my cargo of four Marines and one smooth talking Space Cat would soon be space dust.
“Sorry Sergeant Kukka, you’re on your own,” I apologized then explained, “We may have unfriendly types inbound and we’ve got to vacate the area.”
“Aye J-Pop, don’t let me hold you up,” the Sergeant said with a laugh, “Never boring in the Galactic Council Marine Corps. Every day’s a holiday.”
“And every meal’s a feast,” I continued as I slid Breann out of my seat and pushed the power level.
Together we finished the verse, “And every day, it just keeps getting better and better.”
My GunShip was pulling away from the ruined Swanhilde on Internal drive. I triggered the scanner and swore. Two Patrol Boats of unidentifiable origin had just evolved from External drive. Based on the trailing yellow streaks, they’d converge on the derelict Patrol Boat from different directions.
This might mean they’d planned on a coordinated attack on the Swanhilde. Or, more likely, the first Patrol Boat had called in reinforcements before hot footing it out of range from my guns. ‘My guns’ which were out of ammo had run off one ship. Taking on two more, wasn’t even a possibility.
I turned on a course roughly towards the Galactic Divide and ran up the Internal drive to full power. We were running but not too fast, just yet. I wanted them to chase me.
A noise from behind me and I turned my head to see Lance Corporal Def̱téra poking his head through the air curtain. His eyes were a little glassy but seemed focused.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Better, not as cold. I shot up Sergeant Kukka with joy juice,” he replied, “He wasn’t doing well.”
“I’m sorry I had to lean on him in his condition,” I said, “Thanks for relieving him.”
“What’s our situation, if you don’t mind me asking, Sir?” he asked timidly.
Some Officers especially, Navy pilots, don’t like explaining themselves to enlisted personnel. I don’t mind, in fact, I liked the idea of having a first class gunner as a second pair of eyes.
Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty Page 10
