Adapt and Overcome (The Maxwell Saga)

by Grant, Peter

  They looked skyward as a low rumble grew in volume. “That sounds like reaction thrusters,” the Commodore observed.

  “Yes, Sir. That’ll be more of your new assault shuttles, with the instructors aboard.”

  The three shuttles appeared in a V-shaped formation from the far side of the control tower, arcing around in a wide half-circle to settle onto the hardstand in slow, stately vertical landings. The roar of their arrival died away as the thrusters swiveled upward and were withdrawn into their housings. The rear ramps folded down, and the Marine instructors trotted down to take up formation ahead of the shuttles.

  A tall, burly Master Sergeant called the formation to attention and reported its readiness to Abha, who in turn reported it to Brooks. He stepped forward and saluted Brigadier-General Staynes, leading the welcoming delegation. “Good morning, Sir. I’m Captain Brooks Shelby, Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet Marine Corps. This is my second-in-command, First Lieutenant Abha Sashna, and my Unit NCO, Master Sergeant Demetrios Ioannou.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Captain.” The General returned his salute, then shook hands. “Senior Lieutenant Maxwell,” and he inclined his head to where Steve stood behind him in the delegation, “has made an excellent start in revamping our assault shuttle training procedures. He assures me that with you to implement them, we’ll have our armored battalion up to speed in good time to take full advantage of the new shuttles as they arrive.”

  “We’ll certainly do our best to achieve that, Sir.”

  As the two men talked, Steve couldn’t help feasting his eyes on Abha, standing stiffly at attention behind and to one side of Brooks. I’d love to run over there and sweep her into the biggest hug I can manage, he thought to himself with wry amusement, but that wouldn’t exactly follow military protocol, would it? He was absurdly pleased when her eyes flickered towards him, and made contact with his. A faint flush came to her cheeks as he surreptitiously winked at her. The corners of her mouth quirked as she suppressed an answering smile, struggling to keep a straight face while on parade.

  The formalities didn’t take long. The reception committee broke up as Brooks dismissed the parade, then he, Abha and the Master Sergeant made a beeline for Steve.

  “Hey, buddy!” Brooks slapped him on the back, grinning. “Good to see a familiar face.” He turned to the senior NCO beside him. “This is Master Sergeant Ioannou. He’s going to be our primary liaison with Rolla’s NCO’s. We reckon it’ll be much better for us to ‘train the trainers’ than to do the work for them. They in turn will teach their own troops, with our assistance at first, then independently.”

  Steve shook Ioannou’s hand as he replied, “I hope I’ve given you a head start on that. I had a word with Warrant Officer Labuschagne, boss of Rolla’s shuttle maintenance facility. We asked Lieutenant-Colonel Hay, CO of the First Armored Battalion, to select twelve of the best NCO’s in the battalion and assign them to us, taking them off other duties. I ran them through an abbreviated course in how to use modern shuttles, along with Labuschagne and a dozen of his NCO techs. I covered the Fleet’s current operating doctrines and prepared them to train their own troops alongside you. I couldn’t teach them all your Marine Corps stuff, but I reckon they’re more than halfway to where you want them. I figured that’d give you a running start when you arrived.”

  “Sounds like a great idea, Sir,” Ioannou said with a smile. “Once we’ve got them to un-learn all that redundant Spacer Corps stuff, they might even make passable imitations of Marines!” Brooks smiled, while Abha suppressed a snort of mirth.

  Steve adopted a superior expression. “You’ll find that difficult, Master Sergeant. I used hypno-study as part of the training. I’ve indoctrinated them to believe that they’re all Spacers now.”

  “Oh, the poor things! Why’d you do that to poor innocent mudfeet, Lieutenant?”

  “It was the quickest way I could think of to raise their standards.”

  Ioannou winced theatrically. “Ouch!” He looked at Brooks, shaking his head. “This one’s got a mean streak, Sir. He fights dirty. We’ll have to watch him carefully.”

  “Tell me about it! He was my roommate at Officer Candidate School.”

  The Master Sergeant shook his head sadly. “I could see the suffering in your eyes, Sir, but until you said that, I never realized where it came from.”

  Laughing, Brooks held up his hand as Abha’s shoulders shook with amusement. “Let’s stop scoring points off one another and get down to business. Steve, what’s next?”

  “I’ll take you and your shuttles to the maintenance facility, where you can meet the group I’ve trained. Buses will take your instructors to a newly-built accommodation block at Camp Rolla. It’s very nice – I checked it out myself. They’ll each have their own rooms, with a common mess facility. They were going to put up the three of us at the visiting officers’ quarters, but I figured we’d all prefer something more relaxed; so I took the liberty of renting a furnished house for us in the suburbs of Beaumont. It’ll cost us a little over and above our per diem TDY allowances, but I think it’ll be worth it. It’s very comfortable, with a patio area and swimming-pool. The PSDF has made available a couple of runabouts for our use.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Brooks agreed.

  “There’s one more thing. Two companies of the armored battalion are currently engaged in a training exercise a hundred clicks up the coast from here. Lieutenant-Colonel Hay asked whether we could mount a mock assault on a hilltop there, three days from now, to demonstrate how much of a difference modern assault shuttles can make. He reckons it’ll get rid of any complacency and show his people how much they have to learn. Colonel Houmayoun’s agreed in principle – he’ll brief us about it tomorrow. He’s put a lot of work into getting us here and arranging the shuttle upgrade. He’d like to get news vid of both at work, to show the people of Rolla what their taxes are buying.”

  Brooks glanced at Ioannou. “I don’t see a problem with that. Do you, Master Sergeant?”

  “No, Sir. In fact, if the NCO’s Lieutenant Maxwell has trained are up to scratch, we can pair them off with our Marines and mount a joint assault. It’ll start things off on the right foot, and demonstrate to the local news media that their own people can already operate alongside us.”

  “That’s a very good idea. We’ll pair them with our instructors over the next couple of days, and do some intensive training exercises to make sure they’re up to speed. If they are, they can make the assault with us.”

  “There’s another aspect to it,” Steve added. “A private investment consortium from Lancaster called the Group of 100 is here to negotiate an asteroid mining agreement. It’s a very big deal, worth trillions of credits over several decades. One of the conditions on which they insisted was that Rolla had to provide adequate security for the project. It didn’t go through earlier, because the previous administration couldn’t – or, rather, wouldn’t – guarantee that. Now that things are improving, the project can get under way, but Rolla would like to demonstrate to the Group of 100 that it’s serious about upgrading its security forces. That’s where we come in.”

  “Sure. Is that anything to do with the spaceliner we passed as our freighter entered orbit?”

  “Yes, it is. The Group of 100 chartered LMV Mauritania to come here. She’s more like an ultra-luxurious private yacht than a liner. Over seventy of them are aboard, many with their wives and children too. They’re treating this as an investment opportunity, their annual general meeting and a holiday, all thrown into one. Their families are spending time sight-seeing on the planet every day, enjoying themselves while the business meetings go on. Most go back aboard at night.”

  “Nice, if you can afford it. All right, show us where to take the shuttles, and we’ll get to work.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Steve led Brooks and Abha into the house. “Abha, I’ve given you the only bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. It’s through there. Brooks and I will share the other bathroom. That’s
your bedroom there, buddy.” He nodded towards a door.

  “Thanks. I’ll change into civilian clothes, then I need a cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll start it brewing.”

  Steve set the coffee-maker going, then changed into a casual shirt, trousers and sandals. He went back into the kitchen just as Abha emerged from her room. She walked over to him and into his arms, hugging him fiercely, resting her head on his chest.

  “I’ve missed you, Abha,” he said softly as he held her gently, stroking her back.

  “I’ve missed you too. What the heck are you doing to me, Steve? I’ve known you less than two months, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I have the same problem. Messages via dispatch vessel are all very well, but there’s a lot to be said for having you near me.”

  She smiled as she raised her face to his. They kissed gently.

  Brooks coughed gently as he came into the kitchen. They broke their embrace, but he held up a hand and grinned. “Don’t stop on my account! As Abha’s boss, I ask just one thing. For the love of Mike, don’t do anything in public where others can see you! If you want to hold each other like that, do it in here. You’re just close enough to each other in the chain of command that someone could start yammering about Fleet Regulations. I know it’s not a problem, but it would put me between a rock and a hard place if I had to take official notice of it.”

  “I’ll be careful, Brooks,” Steve assured him.

  “And I will too,” Abha agreed.

  “Thanks.” Brooks took a mug from a cupboard and poured himself some coffee. “What’s scheduled for the next couple of days?”

  “Nothing much. I knew you’d want to prepare for Friday morning’s exercise, so I asked Colonel Houmayoun to leave you space and time to get organized and begin assessing the Rolla NCO’s who’ve had preliminary training. Once the exercise is over, I reckon you’ll be in a better position to make your own plans.”

  “Sounds good to me.” He stretched luxuriously. “It’s great to be planetside again. I don’t mind space travel, but the taste and smell of canned air is never as good as the real stuff, and vat-grown orbital rations never seem as tasty as regular food. Speaking of food, what are we having for supper? Are you cooking?” His voice was hopeful.

  “If you’re hungry enough – and only if you’re hungry enough – I want to introduce you to a steakhouse a few blocks away. They cook in the South American tradition of Old Home Earth; great big skewers of different meats grilled over coals, which they carry from table to table and keep carving onto your plate as long as you’re hungry. It’s like turning on a meat faucet! That’s why I say you’ve got to be hungry. If you’re not, you won’t be able to take full advantage of it.”

  Brooks drew himself up haughtily. “I take that as a personal challenge, I’ll have you know!”

  Abha grinned. “There’s probably something in Fleet Regulations about it being conduct unbecoming an officer to stuff ourselves until we burst.”

  Steve and Brooks spoke as one. “Spoilsport!”

  “Men!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Steve walked slowly from the changing-room, his spacesuit loose against his body, its protective external covering rustling and rubbing against itself as he moved. He held his plasglass helmet under his left arm. As he entered the brightly-lit hangar his chest panel beeped, confirming that the suit’s self-test routines had found all joints and connections to be spaceworthy.

  “Good morning, Sir,” Master Sergeant Ioannou greeted him, offering a mug of steaming coffee. Despite their powerful artificial muscles and tendons, the fingers of his battle armor held the vessel gently, without crushing it. “This’ll wake you up properly.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant – although I don’t know what’s ‘good’ about zero-four-hundred on a chilly Friday morning!” Steve accepted the mug gratefully in his gloved hands and sipped it, the hot fluid sending a shiver down his spine to match its progress down his gullet. “Aah! I see you make coffee in the finest traditions of the Fleet.”

  “That’s right, Sir; thick enough to stand a spoon upright in it, and strong enough to strip paint from the bulkheads.” They grinned at each other.

  “Is everyone ready for our dog-and-pony show?”

  “Yes, Sir. I’ve made sure all weapons are fitted with exercise projectors, and no-one’s carrying live ammo. The shuttles are carrying their normal reserve of a unit of fire for half a platoon, of course, but that’s sealed in their lockers – Warrant Officer Labuschagne and I double-checked that. The shuttles are serviced and ready to go. We’ll look our best for the vidcams, Sir.”

  Brooks and Abha joined them, accepting the mugs of coffee Ioannou held out to them. Muttering their thanks, they drank as eagerly as Steve had done moments before. Both were wearing armor, their helmets clipped to their chest harnesses. The bulk of the armor swelled them to more than twice their normal size.

  While Brooks spoke with the Master Sergeant, Steve turned to Abha. “I just can’t get over the strangeness of it, seeing you in that hulking great suit of armor,” he said in a low voice. “I mean, you’re slim, trim and athletic, but in that thing you look absolutely bloated!”

  She took another sip of her coffee. “Maybe, but now I’m ten times stronger, faster and more agile than any unarmored person – including you!” She stuck out her tongue at him, and he laughed.

  “Yes. Don’t hit me while you’re in armor, please. I’m on your side, remember!”

  Brooks finished talking to Ioannou, and stepped aside while the Master Sergeant called the instructors and their Rolla understudies into formation. Brooks accepted his salute, stood the unit at ease, and looked around at each member as he spoke.

  “Good morning, everyone.” He waited for the chorus of muttered replies to tail off into silence. “We’re about to show the rest of Rolla’s Planetary Self-Defense Force how to conduct an opposed assault. You all know the plan. Just remember, despite the fact that Hill 37 will be ‘defended’ by a company from Rolla’s armored battalion, they’re not really our enemies. Try not to fold, spindle or mutilate any of them! Training them will be easier if they’re still alive!” His sally drew laughter from the Marines and Rolla NCO’s.

  Brooks waited for silence. “We didn’t brief you about this earlier, to preserve operational security; but we’re going to climb to low orbit and sneak up on Hill 37 from an unexpected direction. Rolla’s Orbital Control presently requires a Spacer to command or supervise maneuvers outside atmosphere. We’re working to change that policy, because qualified Marines or PSDF personnel should be allowed to do so as well, but that hasn’t yet been implemented. Fortunately, Senior Lieutenant Maxwell is a Spacer. To keep OrbCon happy, he’ll command our formation during the space portion of our flight. I’ll reassume command for the remainder of the exercise once we descend into atmosphere again. Lieutenant, would you please explain what we’re going to do?”

  Steve stepped forward. “Hill 37 is a hundred kilometers north of us. We’re going to head south for about fifty kilometers until we reach the Garabun Hills, flying low to stay under radar coverage, and using all our active and passive stealth systems. We don’t want the ‘enemy’ to know where we are. When we reach the hills, they’ll dissipate the exhaust noise from our reaction thrusters, making it hard for even sonic detectors to track us. We’ll duck through the valleys for a few clicks, then climb straight up to low orbit, turn around, go over the top of Hill 37 well above the defenders’ detection range, then descend and sneak in behind them. They’ll be expecting us to attack from the south, so we’ll fake ’em out.” There was a buzz of approval from the Marines and Rolla’s NCO’s, and several smiles of anticipation.

  Brooks took over again. “Our exercise callsign will be Outpost, so the shuttles will be Outpost One, Two and Three. Senior Lieutenant Maxwell will command Shuttle One for the first part of our journey, using the callsign Outpost One-One. First Lieutenant Sashna will be with him to
command the ground contingent aboard his shuttle once the exercise commences. As my second-in-command, her personal callsign will be Outpost Six-Two. I’ll be in Shuttle Two, personal callsign Outpost Six, as the overall commander of this exercise. Warrant Officer Labuschagne will command Shuttle Three, callsign Outpost Three-One. Master Sergeant Ioannou will be with him. The rest of you already know your exercise callsigns. Make sure your armor’s internal systems have updated their networks accordingly.

  “Each Marine instructor has been paired with a Rolla NCO, except for squad commanders. Marines, make sure you don’t charge off into the distance without your partner – they’re supposed to be learning from you, not trying to locate you!” Laughter. “Rolla personnel, don’t be afraid to ask questions as circumstances allow. It’s not a good idea to do so when you’re under fire, even simulated fire,” – more laughter – “but take advantage of lulls in the action. Any questions?” There were none. “Very well. Assemble at your shuttles in ten minutes.”

  Steve headed for his shuttle at once. He sat down at the Weapons Systems Operator’s console, activated it, accessed the traffic download from the Orbital Control Center, and scanned it carefully. There were two ships in known orbits. One was the Fleet depot ship for the destroyers on station. The other was LMV Mauritania, the luxury liner chartered by the visitors from the Group of 100. He smiled as he noted its presence. The delegation had dominated the headlines for days, their every move the subject of intense journalistic interest and speculation.

  Most members of the Group and their families had chosen to return to Mauritania each night, rather than stay in local hotels. The liner had been given permission to ferry them to and from orbit using its own luxury shuttles, rather than forcing them to use the much slower and less comfortable Planetary Elevator. This had aroused resentful reaction from some columnists, clearly supporters of the previous administration, who’d categorized it as ‘elitist privilege’. Nevertheless, Steve understood why those concerned had made that decision. Not only was the liner’s accommodation far more luxurious than anything available on Rolla – for that matter, it was superior to most hotels in the entire settled galaxy – but security could be maintained far more easily aboard ship than planetside. That made eminently good sense for such wealthy individuals, most of whom had brought their own security personnel with them.