Esther's Story: Special Duty (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 4)

by Jonathan Brazee

  The Immediate Action drill when ambushed was to assault through the killing zone and take it to the ambushers. With the wild firing—from both sides—Esther thought a direct assault could result in her taking both enemy and friendly fire. Her bones inserts should be able to stop any of the kinetics she heard being firing, but the energy weapon, which she was pretty sure was a high-joule plasma rifle, would cook her just as it had cooked the un-armored point man.

  Flank them it is, she told herself.

  Her command mind started to shout out orders, forgetting for a moment that her companions were not trained Marines, and they did not seem to want to stop hugging the ground. She knew this was on her shoulders.

  “I’m going to illuminate with my helmet torch, so don’t fucking shoot me!” she shouted out as she stood and darted backwards.

  “No! Stop her!” Comrade Blue shouted out.

  Esther ignored him, and no one followed as she ran down the slope 20 meters, then made a hard-left turn, circling around the clearing. It was dark as Hades under the triple canopy, dark even with her night-vision app, but the sound and sights of firing were her guide. Every ten or fifteen seconds, the plasma gun went off, momentarily lighting up the jungle and giving her a target.

  Like a wraith, Esther moved back up the slope, this time approaching the far side of the clearing. Branches and wait-a-minute vines reached for her, but she pushed through, her focus locked onto the enemy. With the night vision activated, she could see what was in front of her, but her depth perception was essentially gone, which made engaging a target more difficult.

  And then she saw it, the tiny spark coming out of the muzzle of a rifle, her helmet’s night vision blowing it up almost into a flare. Esther cut the night vision and hit the helmet torch at the same instance, catching a prone soldier in the beam. He turned to his side, one hand up to shield his eyes as Esther put three rounds into his chest.

  A round hit her in her side—her left side, the side towards her contacts.

  Friendly fucking fire! I told them I’m illuminating my torch!

  The STF[1] armor, her “bones,” stopped the round, but she didn’t need to be taking fire from both sides. If they were aiming at her torch, then it was better off, and she cut it.

  Someone ahead of her shouted out, and Esther bolted to her right, then forward, almost stumbling on a prone figure. She didn’t cut on her helmet torch but put two rounds into his back before he could react.

  A blast of light almost blinded her before her helmet killed the NV. The air around her crackled, and her left thigh blossomed in pain, almost dropping her to the ground. The plasma gunner had engaged her, but too early. The trees, some now with flames reaching out from the trunks, had absorbed most of the blast, shielding her. If he’d waited until he’d had a clean shot, she’d have been toast.

  Ten seconds!

  She should have timed the gunner’s previous recycling rate, but it had to be at least ten seconds. The Confederation’s P-Series Normans could recycle in seven seconds, but she didn’t think whoever was out there would have one of those.

  She flipped on her torch, and with her leg screaming in protest, bolted forward, knowing she had to find the gunner before he could fire again. She swept the beam from her torch back and forth, spotting another soldier who swung his weapon around to her. She snapped off a quick shot, but she couldn’t spend any time on him. She had to get the plasma gunner.

  Three, maybe four rounds slammed into her—whether from the ambushers or her own insurgents, she didn’t know nor cared at the moment, trusting her bones to keep her safe. The plasma gun, on the other hand, would cut her down, and if hit in the head, beyond hope of resurrection.

  Frantically, with the torch on spread, she swept the area as she ran forward. The tiniest whine reached her, barely a tickle in her right earphone. She dove to the ground, swinging to the right. A soldier was kneeling, five meters away, an immense plasma rifle to his shoulder. Her torch beam, even spread out, caught the soldier in the eyes just as his rifle charged, making him flinch.

  That was all Esther needed. She snapped off two quick shots. The first .30 caliber “Concave” assisted round hit him just above his right eye before keyholing. It must have hit the back of the soldier’s helmet and ricocheted forward because almost instantly, the front of his face exploded outward. Her second round probably hit as well, but she couldn’t tell—nor did she care.

  She swung around to the soldier who had fired at her a moment before, but to her surprise, her snap shot had taken him out.

  She turned back and was immediately hit once more on her chest, which meant there was an ambusher deeper into the tree line. She switched back to night vision, turning off her torch, and taking a quick two steps to the dead plasma gunner. Just ahead, a soldier was standing behind a trunk, barely peering around it in the general direction of where Esther had been.

  The tree was giving him cover, and Esther couldn’t get in a kill shot. She did have a target, though.

  The Brockmaster was not a sniper rifle: it was designed for quick employment and close-in work. Still, the soldier was only about 15 meters away. She could pull out her Ruger and hit him, but she wanted something with a bigger punch. Flipping up the digisight, she brought the barely-glowing crosshairs to bear and fired off a single round, hitting the soldier’s protruding ass and dropping him. His screams filled the night like a banshee seeking revenge on humankind.

  Ignoring him, Esther pushed forward, but the outgoing rounds began to peter off, and a moment later, the sound of retreating feet reached her. With her wild up, it took her a moment to realize that the ambushers had broken and were running for their lives. Esther didn’t think the fleeing soldiers knew that she was in among their lines. More likely, the screaming of the ass-shot soldier, along with the silence from the plasma gun, had convinced them that their cause was lost.

  Esther was fine with letting them get away. She wasn’t on a kill mission.

  Another round hit her, this time in the back. Her insurgents were still peppering the trees, most of the rounds going high, but at least one at her level.

  Esther dropped down to a crouch and screamed out, “Cease fire you fucking morons!”

  Oh, great diplomacy, Esther.

  There was a short pause, then the firing started again.

  “I said, cease firing! We are clear over here!”

  There was another pause, then a voice called out, “Who’s that?”

  Mother Mary and the ass she rode on!

  “It’s Es . . . it’s Rey Alamosa! I’ve cleared the ambush.”

  There was yet another pause, and she heard some mumbling. She turned up her helmet gain, but she still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Come on out into the open with your hands up!”

  Esther was tempted to clear them out as well, but she took a deep breath and shouted, “You’ve already hit me half-a-dozen times, so, no, I’ll pass on that.”

  She knew she should just comply, but the adrenaline of the fight was still coursing through her, and she was not in a forgiving mood.

  “We’re sending over one of us,” the voice called out after a 20-second break.

  “Roger that.”

  Esther moved to the edge of the jungle and waited. A moment later, a soldier crept out, Gescard at the ready and looking very nervous. He slowly edged his way across the opening, stepping over his dead companion and continuing to the edge of the jungle.

  “Are you there?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  “It’s me,” she said, stepping out while taking off her helmet and turning the torch on low and pointing it to her face.

  She could see him startle, then as he recognized her, he turned and shouted out, “It’s her!”

  Four soldiers slowly appeared and walked across the opening until they had joined their companion.

  One of them raised his rifle at her and demanded, “Where did you run off to?”

  The oldest-looking sol
dier pushed down the muzzle of the first one’s rifle and said, “Use your eyes, Gerry. She was clearing out the milties.”

  He turned to her and asked, “How many did you get?”

  She did a quick head count, then said, “Four, I think. There’s another one dead over there. I think one of you got him. Then there’s our friend back there,” she said, thumbing her hand over her shoulder.

  The screams had faded to moans, but there was no mistaking who she’d meant.

  “And where’s Comrade Blue?” she asked.

  “Dead,” the older soldier told her. “And that’s Elvin, dead behind us.”

  “So, what now?”

  The man hesitated, then simply said, “Gerry,” while pointing behind her with a tilt of his head.

  Esther flinched, but then with a force of will, didn’t object. As a Marine, whether on this mission or not, she was bound by the Accords. A wounded enemy had rights. But she’d been briefed on “interfering” with breaches in the Accords by others, even to the point that a lawyer assured her she’d have no legal liabilities if she had no authority over someone breaking the Accords. That didn’t make her feel any better.

  She stood there her heart pounding, refusing to even look in that direction, as the crying man’s moans were suddenly cut off, to be replaced with the sound of a struggle, and then, silence. She’d just killed four men on her own, but to know that the man she’d wounded had just been executed hit her hard, and she had to swallow down the gorge that threatened to come spewing out.

  A moment later, Gerry joined them again. He didn’t say a word but simply nodded at the older insurgent.

  Forcing herself to maintain her composure, she asked again, “What now?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, to be honest. We’re just grunts here. But I’m thinking that if you’re still willing, we take you to Comrade Brown.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, so lead on.”

  It took the five soldiers a few moments to reorganize and step off. Esther fell in behind the second insurgent, but this time, she had her Brockmaster at the ready.

  She tried not to think of the bodies they left behind. She’d been in battle before, and she’d felt the thrill of victory, she’d felt relief at being alive, she’d felt sorrow at fellow Marines lost. What she’d never felt was dirty.

  Until now.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty six hours later, her mission completed, Esther stepped through the doughnut. She trusted the Federation’s ability to defeat the scanner, but she half-expected to hear the alarm and for the “milty” police to swarm her.

  Instead, the AI’s generic school teacher-like voice said, “Gate 103, Mz. Alamosa. Have a pleasant journey.”

  Esther had been on Winsted for 31 hours, but “Rey Alamosa” was leaving Winsted, after a three-day business trip. There was a trail of her arrival, her hotel stays, her food and drink bills, and everything else that evidently passed the government’s security system. None of the subterfuge really surprised her—she’d been weaned on Hollybolly flicks which made these types of capabilities the expected rather than the amazing. But she still didn’t understand how her face passed surveillance. She’d had no modifications, yet the doughnut accepted her as Rey instead of Esther Lysander. The chip part was easy, but her face was her face. That boggled her mind, frankly, and scared her, too. If the Federation could do that, then she was sure other governments could as well.

  Not for the first time, Esther wondered if she should have accepted her APOC orders. The Marine Corps was so straightforward. Missions were taken head on, and for the most part, the enemy’s capabilities were understood. All of the shadows of her present job didn’t leave her a chance to get comfortable—and as Mr. Vox had told her during her training, “comfort” would get her killed. She could never afford to let herself become complacent.

  Esther shouldered her pack and followed the signs to her gate. She’d just missed the last shuttle, so she had 47 minutes before boarding the next one. In another three hours, she should be on the AR Scally and leaving the system first to the Confederation’s Falstaff Station, then from there back to Mars. There was a bar next to her gate, and for a moment, she was tempted to take a seat and grab a drink, but she hadn’t bothered to ask if Rey Alamosa had hit the bars during her stay. The chances were a million to one that even if the electronic trail didn’t show a bar for the last three days, her ordering a drink would raise a red flag, but that was one chance too many. Instead, she sat down, slouched into her seat, and closed her eyes as if napping.

  She’d given her initial report at the safe house three hours earlier. She’d assumed that her mission had been a success. Comrade Brown had agreed to open a line of communication—and material goods—with the shadow company set up by the Federation. There hadn’t been much of an attempt to hide just who was behind the company, but forms had to be followed.

  She’d also given a full account of the ambush, to include the execution of the wounded government soldier. Her report had been accepted without comment, and she was given her itinerary and told to proceed with her return to Mars. There would be a full, in-person debrief upon her return, and she was still not comfortable with the thought of that. How does a person, a Marine officer, tell someone she allowed a prisoner to be executed? In the Marine chain of command, that would be a career-ender, probably prison time.

  The thought of getting into trouble, though, was minor compared to her self-image. Esther had always thought of herself as one of the good guys. She hewed to all the 12 leadership traits as taught to every Marine. Number one on the list was “honor,” and the lack of legal ramifications did not alter what the word meant.

  Something landed on her foot as a voice said, “Oh, sorry ma’am!”

  She opened her eyes to see a young—very young—man in his Legion Tenue T22’s, pulling up his seabag which had fallen onto her foot. His shoulder epaulet was bare, meaning he was a Legionnaire de 2e Classe, or someone right out of basic training.

  Winsted was an independent world, so, young men and women who wanted a broader military experience enlisted in other larger forces. Some joined the Federation Navy or Marines, some the Confederation Army, but the Foreign Legion tended to be a popular choice.

  Local governments often encouraged their young men and women to serve. After their sons and daughters returned home, they brought with them a wealth of military experience and knowledge that they couldn’t have acquired at home.

  Esther had fought the Legion on Nouvelle Bretagne, her first combat as a platoon commander. As with many Marines, though, she had respect for the Legion. Sometimes the Marines and Legions were opposed to each other, sometimes they were on the same side, and while each would swear they had the toughest warriors, they both were wedded to the concept of brothers in arms. They tended to feel a kinship with each other.

  “You just get out of La Ferme,” Esther asked, using the Legion nickname for their boot camp.

  “Yes, ma’am. Two weeks home leave. Now I’m going back to Ahaggar.”

  “The hard part’s over, son. Just stick with it,” she told him.

  “Were you in the Legion?” the young man asked, sitting back down.

  What was Rey Alamosa? What would she know about the military? Esther wondered. Screw it. If they’re monitoring this and it sets up an alarm, let them come get me.

  “No, but I served with them. Good soldiers.”

  With . . . against . . . who’s being particular?

  The young man, who looked barely more than a boy, beamed with pride. As he should. He’d made it through the Farm, and not everyone accepted managed that. He was just starting out on his journey, his military career ahead of him. Esther hoped it would make him a better man.

  “Just remember, mon Legionnaire, always serve with honor.”

  “I will, ma’am, I will.”

  You, too, Esther Lysander. Serve with honor, she told herself.

  MARS

  Chapter 3

&nb
sp; “Come on, Major. One more? Get back at me?”

  “Right, like I have a chance at that,” Major Stephen Lent said, half collapsing against the wall of the court. “And I’ve still got to get the monthlies done. So, no, I’m done.”

  “Already finished mine,” Esther said. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  “Logging in all the field shitters in the Corps hardly takes much time there, Captain. But I have to say, the job fits you.”

  Esther was tempted to give the good major the finger, but despite their low-key relationship, that might be a bit too far, even in jest.

  “No job’s too small, sir, and it all comes out in the end,” she said, going light with her response. “And if that gives me time here on the squash courts, so be it.”

  “It all comes out in the end? Come on, Captain, you can do better than that,” he said with a dramatic groan. “But yeah, there’s that. Our work load’s not the worst. But I got behind last week, and I’m waiting for the division reports, so, back to the salt mines,” he said, pushing himself off the wall, then turning to leave the court. “If you’re up for it, give me a shout on Thursday.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The major was behind the curve because he’d been “BTG,” as in “Broke the Glass,” the term they used when referring to the missions that were their raison d'être. Like fire extinguishers, they waited behind glass windows until needed. Esther didn’t know what the mission statement was for any of the other 18 Marines with a “special status.” For all she knew, they could be APOC just like her, or she could be the only one. No one asked questions, and no one took notice when another one of them disappeared for any length of time.

  All 19 of their select group were ostensibly assigned to the Marine Corps Logistics Command, which was a tenant command of the Navy’s Station 1, although they were physically at the Leinart Annex on Mars’ surface. The nineteen Marines, ranging from two staff sergeants up to a full colonel, were assigned actual billets. Esther’s was as the Field Hygiene Deployment Officer, which meant she really did keep an inventory of the 4,332 field heads owned by the Corps, but also the water units, trash immolators, and about a hundred other SKUs. The work mostly consisted of gathering the various flag command reports and compiling them into a single Corps-wide report.