Sniper (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Gracie hated the System 2 skin layer. It felt like some Grade C Hollybolly horror flick, with the semi-intelligent glob invading her body. It made her feel claustrophobic in the way it intimately hugged her body, leaving only her mouth, nostrils, and eyes uncovered. The less said about the tubes that automatically wormed their way into her anus and urethra the better. She shuddered each time the tubes invaded her body with what seemed like intelligent design. She knew it was better to have them, which allowed bodily waste to pass through two additional charged vortex valves that could be opened than to let the waste build up between her body and the polymer skin, but she didn’t have to like the insertion process.

  Once the new research team and the FCDC Installation Security team arrived, the Porto moved further from the planet, but close enough to scan the surface as well as the entire system. Ghost readings were pretty good indications that others were lurking as well, probably two commercial-type ships and at least one military-grade ship, most likely Brotherhood. Scans on the surface were illuminating. There was a group of humans located about 2,000 klicks north of the Federation station. They were heavily shielded, but not well enough to evade the Porto’s scans. The Intel officer aboard the ship gave it an 86% probability that they were a mid-level corporate pirate group, hoping to grab a few discoveries and run back to the parent company where whatever they found could be exploited. The Marines would most likely be tasked with rounding them up, but as they posed no real physical threat, that would only occur once the Federation station was secure.

  Security was the Marine’s highest priority at the moment. While the new research team tried to make sense of what was at the station and what had been found on the shuttle, the FCDC IS team was setting up a hi-sec entrance to the station, and the Marines were about to go on an orientation patrol. They had to see the lay of the land if they were going to be able to defend it, much less go on the offense.

  The first patrol might be for orientation, but some of the corporate mercs who’d killed Federation citizens were still out there. Just because they’d run didn’t mean they would not bite again if given the opportunity.

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  Gracie stepped around a “squashed toilet,” the name she’d given to one of the varieties of fungal-looking, well, plants, would be the closest analog, that blocked her path, and “plants” seemed more benign that “nightmare mushrooms.” Her HED 2 kept out any potential smell, but from her visual cues, she could imagine a foul, rotting stench assaulting her nose.

  Gracie was not a happy camper. None of them were, she thought, but she knew she pretty much hated this planet. The vegetation gave her the creeps, with the various purples, mauves, and indigoes that seemed to be prevalent. As a kid, Gracie had ridden her old Bombardier over the wide-open plains of eastern Montana, and she’d loved her family’s trips to the green forests of the mountains further west into Oregon and Washington. This place was a polar opposite and seemed diseased and nasty, an abomination of nature. Brushing up against the plants sent her skin crawling, even if they never actually touched her skin. It was her imagination running wild, she knew, projecting smells and textures to the planet’s vegetation, but she couldn’t help what she felt, and she didn’t look forward to having possibly to do a stalk through them.

  A breezed picked up, and the flaps and fronds moved as if animated. The movement any time the wind blew would help the Marines if they did have to stalk, but it also made picking out an enemy sniper far more challenging.

  In Ribbon World, the planet had been a very static, very meteorologically calm place. Kepler 9813-B was nothing like the Hollybolly Ribbon World. Convection currents kept winds fairly robust from the night side to the day side of the planet. The facts that the winds could reach upwards of 100 KPH was probably a reason that the soft-tissued plants tended to be low and ground-hugging. The tallest growth they’d seen so far was a thin stalk that extended about two meters high from a wider and lower base.

  As their presence on the planet was no secret, the Porto had deployed some scanning drones over the station and surrounding area, and the Marines had sent out their own dragonflies. Gracie was constantly checking her readouts to see if any of those had picked up anything within range. The readouts were quiet at the moment, but that was not a guarantee that there was no one out there. Other forces had shielding that could defeat the Federation scanners.

  As the leader of the patrol, she focused more on her readouts than in the surrounding area, something that was totally against her sniper training. She knew she had to trust her Marines to keep their eyes open, but that was very difficult for her. She thought she’d been a decent grunt before becoming a scout/sniper, but as she considered it, back as a PFC or lance corporal, she had a specific task to do, and she didn’t have to monitor the “big picture.” As a sniper, even as a SNCO, while she had to take a leadership role back in garrison, out in the field, her mission was just as tightly focused as when a lance coolie, no different from any other sniper regardless of rank. She had a specific job to do then. This leading a patrol, with all the other factors involved, was much more challenging and stressful to her.

  Up ahead, a small ridge slanted off to the right. The ridge would offer eyes on the station. At 4,600 meters from the station, that was a pretty long shot for a gunman, but it was well within range of indirect fire weapons and more than a few crew-served weapons. Gracie touched her wrist screen, using her finger as a stylus, and adjusted the patrol route to climb the ridge. JC, Staff Sergeant Cezar Constaninescu, was on point, and he dutifully changed direction to follow the new route.

  Gracie had served with JC twice before, and it had only been aboard the Porto that she found out his “JC” nickname was not from his initials, but from a boot camp label as “Julius Ceasar.” Master Guns Masterson’s admonition to know her Marines had come back to her when she found out. She’d been making an effort to follow that since then, but sometimes, it seemed as if her personality reasserted itself.

  “We’ve got signs here,” JC passed on the patrol circuit as he reached the crest of the ridge. “I’d say two people.”

  Several of the plants on the planet were easily bruised, and a dark liquid beaded where they were touched, a liquid that could burn naked skin. As there weren’t any multi-cellular mobile organisms on the planet, this seemed like an odd evolutionary trait, but it was fortuitous for the Marines.

  Gracie called the patrol to a halt and then moved forward to where JC was waiting. He pointed down, and it was unmistakable. Gracie could see the outline of two bodies, then a trail as they left the area. She crouched where the outlines were, and she had a clear view of the station.

  The plant fluid was reabsorbed within a couple of hours, basically sucked back into the body of the plant, so whoever had been observing them had been there somewhat recently. Gracie felt a slight shiver as realized they’d probably observed her patrol.

  She looked back along the observers’ exit trail. She contemplated tracking them down, but this was supposed to be a simple recon patrol, and they were due back in less than two hours.

  Gracie reported the sign, and the captain said she’d ask the Porto to see if they could follow the tracks.

  “Bomba, you and T-Bone set up half a dozen seisos. I want this ridge covered so if our friends come back, we’ll know it.”

  Gracie and the rest of the patrol set up a hasty security while the two staff sergeants emplaced the tiny sensors. With a battery life of two months, that should be enough. At least Gracie hoped they’d be off the planet within that time frame.

  But the fact that someone had put eyes on the station was a pretty strong indication that whomever else was on the planet was not going to simply abdicate to the Federation. Gracie knew that things could get ugly, and get ugly fast.

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  Despite Gracie’s misgivings, the next five days were quiet. That was five days standard, not local. Kepler 9813-B had no rotation, so no day
and night. The station was located in what could be described as early evening, where the light was still bright enough to be useful and the temperature was moderate.

  The Porto had lost the trail of the two observers on the ridge, but Gracie felt as if there were eyes on them. She was getting antsy just sitting in the station and going out on local patrols once a day. The Marines had been broken down into two sections, port and starboard, with Manny Chun taking the starboard and Gracie the port. Only one patrol was out at a time, and so that left too much time just sitting in the overcrowded station. The science types were busy trying to make sense of what was left in the station and getting their work back on track while the IS team, also broken down into two watches, provided security inside and immediately outside the station.

  Gracie leaned back and gave her scalp a good scratching while she watched to see how Verry Onkle was going to react when she found out she wasn’t getting the position of chief of mission. Verry was as stereotypical a bimbo as could be portrayed, but she was Gracie’s secret vice. The Alliance-made series about their Explorer Corps was too far-fetched to be taken seriously, and just about everyone there was sleeping or trying to sleep with everyone else, but Gracie still enjoyed it. She knew there were only five more shows left in the season, and she was contemplating giving in to Tennerife and just binge watching the rest instead of doling out one episode per day. She knew the guys might revolt if she decided to binge watch. Dutch was the only male to join Gracie and Tennerife in avidly following the drama—and he took a lot of grief for that from the others.

  Of course, anyone could watch what they wanted on their PA, but the station only had one full-sized display, and watching a show was one way to be together without driving each other batty in such confined quarters.

  She checked the time. This episode would be over in 12 minutes. Maybe she’d play one more before opening it up to the rest of the section.

  The benefits of being a gunny! I get to decide what we watch, at least until the geeks got off duty, she told herself.

  The “geeks” were a pretty dedicated group, though, and they pretty much kept their noses into their work. One of them had told Gracie how much Allied Biologicals was paying them, and with that kind of money, Gracie would probably do the same thing. For the 180 days they were scheduled to be at the station, they’d each make more than Gracie had made so far in her entire career.

  Gracie turned her attention back to Verry when the alarms went off, a raucous blaring accompanied by revolving red lights placed high on the bulkheads of each space. Gracie was up before she knew it, rushing for her helmet. The captain had ordered them to remain in their powered-down HED 2s unless in the autojets showering, which was the only time they could get out of them. With the alarm, the helmets were slapped on and the HEDs powered up. There wouldn’t be waste tubes inserted for an emergency donning, but still, Gracie didn’t normally like the constricting feel of the field closing in over her. In this case, adrenaline overcame any discomfort as she passed to the captain, who was out with the starboard section, what was happening.

  The entire area surrounding the station was under surveillance, and despite Gracie’s instinct to rush out to the rescue, she stopped at the viewscreens. On the backside of the main building, two of the IS team were rushing to another, who was down. The downed guard’s bios showed he was alive, but in pain and shock. Gracie pulled up a window on the screen, and sent the recording back a minute, focusing on the downed guard. Immediately, he was back up and slowly walking his post. He came to the end and turned around. He paused for a second, and just as he started to move again, he fell to the ground, clutching his knee.

  Gracie immediately knew it had been a sniper. And snipers were known to wound one person, then pick off the others who came to that person’s aid.

  “First Team, out with me. Take cover and keep your eyes peeled. Second, cover the entrance,” she told her Marines.

  She’d earlier broken down the port section into two teams. She was the team leader for First, Bomba for Second.

  Within ten seconds, First Team was cycling out the main lock at the front of the main building. They’d be out of the line of fire from whomever had taken down the IS guard, but as soon as they cleared the corner, they’d be fair game—that was unless there was someone else out there on their side of the station.

  Gracie was half-expecting being taken under fire as they exited, but nothing happened as they rushed to the left. Gracie halted them while they still had cover, and she was just about to move them forward when the three IS guards, two dragging the third who was writhing in pain, came around the corner.

  Shaan and Dutch jumped forward to assist, and within another 20 seconds, they were back in the entrance and cycling. Gracie stared at the downed guard. The kinetic round had destroyed the knee. One of the IS guards kept telling the injured man that he was lucky, the sniper had missed a lethal shot. It hadn’t been luck, Gracie knew.

  Unlike the Marines, the IS guards wore the much less expensive environmental exposure suits. Like any other suit that could be worn in space, it has a self-sealing feature, so despite the damage to the knee, the suit had closed off the leg to the rest of him. His knee was gone, and he’d been exposed to 9813’s atmosphere, but none of that would be fatal. Gracie wanted to get feedback from any of the sensors to determine from where the shot had been fired, but she knew that this was the act of a skilled sniper. He or she hadn’t wanted to kill the man. Wounding him would take more resources to get him off-planet and back to regen, but that was secondary, Gracie thought. The shot was simply intended as a message, and whoever was sending that message didn’t have to kill to do that.

  Someone wanted the Federation off the planet, and the gloves had come off.

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  “Farouk was my trooper, Captain, and with all due respect, you need to track down the megbast who shot him and zero the bastard,” Sergeant First Class Enrico Juarez shouted, standing up and placing both fists on the table as if to emphasize his point.

  The First Sergeant was the IS team commander, and he’d been steaming since his man had been shot. Farouk had been treated almost two hours ago by Dr. Williams, the Allied Biological geek who had an MD as well as multiple Ph.Ds. and served as an over-qualified corpsman, and he’d been zip-locked and put into stasis until he could be CASEVAC’d.

  Gracie could tell that Captain Lysander was losing patience with the sergeant first class, but she was still maintaining her composure—for how long, however, Gracie couldn’t guess.

  “As I informed you, Sergeant, the CASREP has been transmitted, and we’re awaiting further orders. This station was not designed as a combat outpost, as you well understand, and until we have our orders, and until we have a little better idea of what we have out there, we’re staying put,” the captain said.

  “So we just let the meg shoot us with no response?”

  “No response yet, Sergeant—yet.”

  Gracie was vaguely aware of the FCDC cultural hierarchy. The IS branch was low man on the totem pole, being little more than federal jimmylegs, guards for Federation installations, embassies, government offices, and anywhere else where access was controlled. At one point in history, they had guarded Navy and Marine bases until the Navy essentially fired them, almost immediately followed by the Marines. Gracie figured that the sergeant first class might have chaffed at this during his career, and perhaps he pictured himself joining the Marines in direct combat action, gaining a little street cred. To be fair, though, it could just be anger at losing one of his men. From their short time together, Gracie thought the team commander was very protective of his troopers. He’d taken a shine to Gracie, too, giving her one of their nifty FCDC multitools.

  Gracie didn’t like to huddle inside the station, either, but she understood the hesitation of those on high who were controlling the op. Captain Lysander might be the mission commander, but she wasn’t allowed a free rein. With the various players on the pl
anet, proven and assumed, consequences of any action had to be considered.

  Not that someone else hasn’t already jumped over the line in the sand, Gracie thought. First the raid, and now the sniper.

  Until Farouk was CASVAC’d and the fragments in his knee analyzed, no one would know for sure what weapon had been used to take him down. The Porto had found the round’s trace: it had been fired from 1,616 meters out from a spot indistinguishable from any other location surrounding the station.

  Hitting a target’s knee at that range was a feat of skill, but not an impossible one. Gracie was sure she could make the shot nine times out of ten, so the difficulty of the shot was not an indication of whom the sniper might be. There were enough trained snipers who left the various services in order to cash in on corporate gigs that any company could hire someone quite skilled. And if the Brotherhood was on the planet, as Intel thought, their sniper training program was very, very good.

  But the Porto calculated that there was an 82% probability that the round was a .3005—which was the Brotherhood round of choice for their sniper teams. The fact that the round fractured was also indicative that it could be Brotherhood. “Indicative” did not mean conclusive, however. Any weapon used by a government of man could be obtained, legally or illegally, by the corporate world.