Marines were scattered on the ground, most firing up. Gracie had to trust that the Marine AIs’ Friend-or-Foe function would be working and would block anyone from taking her under fire. One Marine had not taken cover but was standing on the rubble, digging furiously with her bare hands. Gracie could see rounds pinging on the rubble around her, and when she spasmed, Gracie knew she’d been kissed with an energy weapon of some sort. She didn’t fall, though, but shook it off and kept digging.
Ignore her! Get some of the bastards off her back!
She saw movement through the window of the adjacent building. She brought up her Kyocera and scoped the window. A woman was edging up, a small grenade-looking object in her hand. She was obviously trying to stay back out of sight and out of the direct fire from the Marines below her, and she crouched down and started working the window.
Gracie pinged the window for the range. It was only 223 meters. The pogo was one story lower than Gracie, but at that close range, Gracie only had to make a minor correction. The window opened a crack, and that grew to about 15 centimeters. The woman looked to arm the grenade, and Gracie squeezed the trigger. The woman fell out of sight below the sill, and as Gracie looked for another target, there was an explosion that blew out the window, which fell in one piece to the ground below.
Oh, great! Another Mad Bomber moment, she thought.
She quickly scanned more buildings. She caught two men on a crew-served weapon. They were trying to tilt it forward without exposing themselves, and all that did was to keep them from aiming at the Marines below. If they moved forward half-a-meter, they would have the Marines in enfilade. The Golf Marines couldn’t see them, but Gracie could.
Three-hundred-fourteen meters. A light wind coming up the street from her seven. Targets at the same level as she was. Fire; one down. The second man stood up, looking in horror at the piece of meat that had been his friend, making him a much easier target. Fire again; another down.
A figure started running across the roof, coming towards them. Gracie began to acquire him, but he fell, the victim to someone else.
A round blasted the low plasticrete retaining wall right in front of her, sending small pieces into her face, stinging her. Gracie ducked down and heard the whisper of darts zipping past her head.
“I got her,” Eli shouted from ten meters to her left.
Gracie didn’t bother to look at him. If he said he’d gotten whoever had taken her under fire, then he’d gotten her.
The Wasp came in on another run, this time perpendicular to Camino al Norte, and this time coming right at Gracie. She trusted her gear, but a Wasp is a terrifying sight when it’s coming at a person. Gracie went flat as the Wasp opened up, but it was aiming at one of the floors below her. Still, she felt the building shudder as the 20 mm rounds did their work.
She knew that the Wasp could take down the building with enough fire, but there really wasn’t anyplace else for her to go, so she just tried to put that possibility out of her mind.
She took another glance to the street below her. The Marine was pulling another out of the rubble. As she turned to drag him to cover, Gracie recognized her as one of the Golf Company corpsmen, Doc Neves. Gracie had thought Neves to be somewhat of a scatter-brained social butterfly, more interested in fashion and partying than anything else, but there she was risking her life to save a Marine.
Fire seemed to increase as she pulled the Marine free and started to drag him away, but Gracie didn’t watch to see if she made it. From the impact of the rounds, she knew where another crew-served weapon had to be. She ran forward to the edge of the building, and there, at the corner of the building on which she’d bounced the round into her second kill, someone had an old slug-thrower that she didn’t recognize. She didn’t have a shot at the gunman. She raised her Kyocera, but she only had the barrel in her sights, and if she went prone, she wouldn’t even have that. This had to be a standing shot, and she didn’t trust her to hit a three-centimeter barrel that was recoiling with every shot.
She flipped her Kyocera around to her left shoulder. Everything felt wrong. But the weapon didn’t care with what finger she used to pull the trigger. It didn’t care how she looked through the Miller. If she could aim it, the weapon would respond.
She leaned out over the edge of the building. She could see more of the weapon, but not quite enough.
“Gittens, get over here!”
She knew that by now, Doc Neves had either made it or was dead, but the weapon was still a threat to the Marines. She had to take it out.
“Grab my harness and keep me from going over,” she told Eli as he rushed up.
He didn’t question her, but locked his hands around the side of her harness and started letting her lean out over the edge.
“Further,” she said.
She didn’t even think about falling. She was probably 45 kg with her gear, maybe 50, but Eli was a big, strong Marine who could bench 150 eight times. Gracie was nothing.
By the time she was out to about 60 degrees, she could see the breach assembly of the weapon sticking out of the window. Someone’s hand was on the breach, supporting the weapon.
Thank goodness for the hours on the range, she thought.
Gracie had spent part of her range time on three occasions firing all her weapons left-handed. She’d taken a ration of shit from the more experienced snipers for that. What sniper would ever choose his or her weak side to fire? It didn’t make sense to any of them. But because she had practiced it, Gracie had a basic concept of how the cheek weld and shooting position affected her firing picture.
She had never practiced it dangling 50 meters high, though.
Ignore that. Just concentrate. It’s just like on the range.
The gun pulled back, and Gracie thought she’d lost the chance, but the tip of the muzzle was still visible, and when it jerked a few times, Gracie realized that the gunman was reloading. When it started to push out again, Gracie waited for the hand to appear.
I wish I had the Barrett, she thought as she squeezed her trigger.
The Kyocera’s round was not as large as the Windmoeller’s and nowhere near as massive as the Barrett’s, but the weapon generated tremendous velocity. The round smashed into the handguard. Pieces of it flew into the air as the weapon fell, bouncing off the sill before slowly tumbling over to plunge to the ground below.
“OK, pull me up!” she told Eli.
“Did you get him?” he asked.
“Don’t know. Got the weapon, though.”
The firing started slowing down and Gracie scanned the area as quickly as she could. Within a minute, she saw a figure running over the rooftops. The ROE’s for the mission were extremely restrictive. If someone was retreating, that person was not an authorized target. Gracie didn’t know if the guy was running away or not. He was carrying a UKI-75, which was sometimes used as a sniper rifle, and for all Gracie knew, he was maneuvering to another FFP. She dropped him at about 550 meters just as he was getting ready to jump to another building.
Moments after she fired, the air sizzled with ionization. The air above the building with the hip-shot guy and the crew-served weapon glowed as the air molecules were excited.
The FS Joshua Hope of Life had spoken.
That broke the back of the attack. Anyone still left alive evidently decided that they wanted to remain that way. Gracie kept scanning the area, but she couldn’t find a target.
On the street below, the Marines began to take stock of their situation. Gracie was pleased to see Doc Neves being helped out of one of the storefronts. She had the rubber-legged walk of someone with minor nerve damage, but if she weren’t dead, she’d probably make it. Kinetic weapons could wound someone, and he or she could die hours or days later. With energy weapons, it was usually either KIA at the scene or WIA.
Gracie wanted to wave to her, to acknowledge that she’d been pretty gutsy down there, but the corpsman never looked up. She was somewhat surprised that she felt a little disappointed at
that.
“Let’s get back to the hide, Gittens,” she said. “But no jumping roofs. Let’s find the stairs and walk back there on the ground.”
Chapter 25
13
. . . and who we are as Marines is nurtured by not only the traditions of our own United Federation Marines, but through the centuries of our patron Marines, going back to the forming of the Spain’s Infanteria de Marina on February 27, 1537. So on this, our 398th birthday, reflect back on over a millennium of Marines, and remember that you are a part of history. By your actions, you are shaping the culture of Marines to come.
Happy Birthday, Marines!
Joab Ling
General, United Federation Marine Corps
Commandant
Staff Sergeant Klepper’s deep, resonant voice faded and hundreds of “ooh-rahs” took its place.
Almost half of the battalion was gathered in Warehouse D, one of the port’s two largest and the one without cargo inside. Whether in combat or garrison, the Marines did not forget their birthday, but the “police action” (never a “war”) had only gotten more intense, and the battalion XO had taken a heavily reinforced Hotel Company to create a secondary camp on the south side of the city. Other Marines were out on patrol or manning positions, so half of the battalion was most of the available Marines.
“Post the colors!” Major Cranston shouted out.
The color guard, consisting of three Marines and Doc Neves on the Navy colors, countermarched and placed the colors in the stands. Doc looked good, recovered from her tingle on Camino al Norte. Rumor had it that she was being put up for an award, maybe even a Nova.
On order, four Marines marched forward, carrying the birthday cake on a tray between them. It looked much better than Gracie would have thought possible in a combat arena, and she wondered if Gunny Coventry had actually baked it himself or had gotten it out in town. The situation was not good out there, but life went on, and bakeries probably still baked.
The major called forward the oldest and youngest Marine to get the first pieces of cake. The sergeant major was the oldest Marine, and he graciously accepted his slice, taking a bite and nodding that it met with his approval.
“Better check it for poison,” Zach whispered.
I guess the gunny got the cake out in town, Gracie thought hearing that.
“And, also per tradition, the next piece of cake goes to our youngest Marine. Private Klip Poussey was born on 9 May 367. . .”
There was a collective moan from the Marines in formation.
Three-sixty-seven? He’s a baby!
“. . . and enlisted in the Corps on 9 May 384. He joined the Fuzos on 12 August 384, 11 days before our current deployment.
Poussey, standing proud, accepted his piece and took a tiny bite.
They didn’t really have a guest of honor. None of the rank and file knew whether that was because no one had been invited or if an invitation was made to the mayor or governor and that invitation had been refused. So the CO had stood in and given the birthday speech. Normally, the guest of honor would get the next piece of cake, but as expected, she refused. Tradition also required that as the senior Marines, she get the last piece, and that was the tradition she was going to follow.
The formations were dismissed as Gunny got his small team of assistants to start cutting up the cake. Half was saved and carted away for Hotel and those on duty, but the rest was cut and placed on several trays with Marines lining up to get their piece.
Gracie started to get in line, then told Eli to hold her place. Doc Neves was with several of her squadmates, but she looked up when Gracie approached.
“Corporal Crow, happy birthday!”
“Happy birthday to you, too. You’re looking good. I didn’t see a trace of a limp.”
“Oh, I just got kissed a little. Doc Gnish sent me up to the Josh, and a couple of sessions on the ELS, and I’m good as new.”
“ELS?”
“You know, the Electrolavage System.”
Gracie had no idea what that was, but she shrugged it off.
“I just wanted to say that what you did was pretty ballsy. I. . .I. . .” Gracie said, suddenly feeling awkward and not sure of what to say. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that.”
She started to turn away when Neves said, “I heard it was you on one of the buildings keeping the jericks off my ass.”
“It wasn’t just me. And your platoon was showing their fight, too.”
That was true. Gracie had five confirmed kills (the guy on the crewserved was dead, but despite losing a hand to Gracie, he’d almost assuredly been killed when the Josh zapped the building), but five from the platoon had recorded kills, to include Staff Sergeant Riopel’s 2,340-meter shot from half-way across the city. Eli recorded two kills, and he probably had more, but with his M99, verifying kills was not as easy as with any of the sniper systems.
“Maybe, but I appreciate it,” Neves said, holding out her hand.
Gracie took it, then asked, “The Marine you pulled out. I know he got casevac’d, but how is he?”
“Korf’s gonna make it,” one of the Marines around her said. “He’s back on Tarawa in regen, but that son-of-a-bitch will be back before we know it.”
“Good to hear. Well, I, uh, I need to get back in line if I want to get my cake. All of you, happy birthday.”
“You, too,” several of them said.
“Thanks,” Gracie told Eli as she slipped back into line.
Someone turned on the latest Grayson Parade, filling the warehouse with the heavy counter-beat of “I Want It,” probably not the type of lyrics approved by headquarters, but the officers didn’t seem to object. She found herself bobbing her head to the music.
Gracie wasn’t the most social person in the galaxy, mostly by her own choice—at least that was what she told herself. But she liked the big Marine Corps gatherings. They let her be part of something bigger while mainly just observing. Back on Tarawa, all the Marine Corps Balls would be huge affairs, and she liked being part of those events, even if only peripherally. This was a far cry from those formal affairs. The Marines were in their skins, weapons slung on their backs. But in some ways, it was more real to her. The Fuzo’s Patron Day celebration would be in two months, and Gracie was glad they’d be back on Tarawa for that. The pageantry of the beating with the Drum Corps always sent her blood pounding, and that couldn’t be done here on Jericho. But it was somehow appropriate that the Birthday Ball was here in a combat zone. Combat was the very reason d’etre of the Marines, after all.
Some of her fellow Marines were taking the “ball” in Marine Corps Ball seriously. About 20 or 25 of them had started dancing in the middle of the warehouse.
Gracie and Eli made it to the front of the line and received their pieces of cake. Gracie took a bite and had to admit that it was pretty good, all things considered. Looking at what was left and who still hadn’t been fed, she figured she could come back for a second piece later.
She’d finished and was watching the dancers, who had grown to about 50, biding her time for another piece of cake when Zach grabbed her by the arm.
“Come on, Crow. It’s time to shake it!”
“Oh, no,” she said, pulling back. “I don’t dance.”
“No choice, Corporal. It’s the Birthday Ball, and it’s in the regs.”
“Really, I don’t know how to dance.”
Zach didn’t look back as he pulled her to the floor.
He turned around, made a stately medieval court bow, and said, “If you can’t dance, then you just get to stand and watch me. I’m a wicked good dancer.”
He started into some horrible gyrations, so bad that Gracie had to laugh. Despite her intentions, the beat of the music got her slightly moving.
“See, I knew you couldn’t resist when you saw my moves,” Zach said before settling into something far more acceptable.
Gracie got a little more into it, hesitantly at first, then a bit more comfortably. She was almost
sad when the music ended. She thanked Zach and started back for the sidelines, only to be intercepted by Possum Khalil. After Possum came Glastonary, then Kierk.
To her surprise, she found she was not only OK with it, but was also enjoying it. She looked around. With relatively few women, guys were dancing alone or with each other, but the female Marines were in high demand. Staff Sergeant Holleran, the senior female enlisted Marine was just as in demand with the SNCOs as Gracie seemed to be with her platoon. The staff sergeant caught her eye as she was looking at her, and she gave Gracie a big smile and a thumbs up.
A few Marines from other units tried to step up, but the platoon closed ranks around her, and except for a couple of times, she only danced with her fellow snipers. At one point, she was part of a fivesome, valiantly trying to keep up with the Rabbit Hop. Dave Oesper was the only one of the platoon who didn’t ask her to dance, and she solved that by pulling him off the sidelines and onto the floor. She knew he was embarrassed, but his smile at the end of the dance told her he appreciated it.
The venue was hardly what anyone would have wanted, there wasn’t a banquet, and no loved ones were there, but Marines were Marines, always making do with less. Gracie had been to four Marine Corps Balls, and much to her surprise, this had been the best one.
She danced for almost two hours until the music cut off and the sergeant major got on the mic and said, “Sorry to pull the plug, but all of you on the port watch, you need to get ready. We’ve got to let the starboard watch come in for their ball.”
“That’s us,” Possum said.
Even with no major operation planned for the day, there were still posts to be filled, and Gracie and Eli were assigned the control tower, relieving Brick Liogeni and Lance Corporal Cable-Williams from the Bravo Section.
The Marines started to drift off to get ready. Gracie looked back at the table with the birthday cake. The starboard watch’s cake was there, but all the cut pieces for the port watch were gone. She’d missed her chance to get one.
Sniper (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 2) Page 12
