by M. D. Cooper
“Never thought you’d go for this shit,” Grenwald hollered over the wind at Williams.
Both Marines sat atop one of the larger sportscars, a sleek, red number with a max speed just shy of mach-1—at least when two TSF mobile weapons platforms weren’t maglocked to the roof.
The car hit a bump, and the plas buckled under Williams. He shifted, ensuring his feet and knees were both secure before rapping a fist on the roof.
Williams didn’t bother replying to the private before glancing at the lieutenant. “Yeah, I musta taken one too many mortars to the head. Not for taking the cars, but to let Perez drive.”
“Nice one,” Williams snorted. “You’re wasted on the officer’s track. I bet you would have made a good sergeant.”
The lieutenant whistled. “That’s some high praise. For a while, I thought you hated me.”
“Really?”
The gunnery sergeant couldn’t imagine what had ever given the lieutenant that impression.
“Yeah,” Grenwald nodded. “Back when we first got to the Mars Outer Shipyards. I was all fresh out of OCS, with just our one dust-up on Venus under our belts. The major looked me over and didn’t look too impressed. I caught the side-eye you gave me and wondered if I’d find myself on the wrong side of an airlock.”
Williams thought back to the platoon’s arrival on the MOS, and Major Tanis Richards’ initial inspection of their ranks, trying to remember why he had been pissed off at the lieutenant.
“Oh, shit, yeah. I remember. You had your bars on upside down.”
“I what?” Grenwald blurted out. “They’re just two vertical bars. How can you put them on upside down?”
“The pin,” Williams explained, laughing and shaking his head. “It sticks out a bit on the left side. I thought you knew that. Don’t they teach you shit in OCS?”
“Damn,” the lieutenant muttered. “Not that, no. You think that pissed the major off?”
“No, she wouldn’t care, but I wanted to look good in front of her. She’s the Hero of Toro, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. Story’s told a bit differently in the 242 than elsewhere. Not that it matters. I served under the major, she’s got my loyalty.”
“Lieutenant colonel,” Williams corrected. “TSF bumped her back up after she commanded an attack on those Jovian fighters in the belt.”
Grenwald cocked his head. “Did they? Good. She should be a fucking admiral, if you ask me. She’d sort this shit out straight.”
That thought had crossed the gunnery sergeant’s mind as well. Tanis Richards would have figured out a way to take Tarja that didn’t involve falling back and kicking off a waiting game. If she’d been in charge, they’d already be holding a rooftop party on the city’s highest peak.
Williams gave the lieutenant a nod, then turned to face forward as the flat steppe opened up before the platoon, a deep coulee yawning in the early dawn light.
The twenty cars dropped below the plains, hugging the road, suspension and mag stabilizers straining from the thousand pounds of Marine perched on each vehicle.
The connection closed again, and Williams reached out to Staff Sergeant Green, who was on the lead vehicle.
Williams already knew that, there was a topographical overlay of the area on his HUD. Though when the rear of the procession came around a corner and saw that vast body of water, he understood Green’s sentiment.
Williams folded his hands behind his head.
The high-powered sportscars shuffled into new positions, second squad taking up the rear, Chang and Olsen’s railguns at the fore, covering the other two squads as they raced ahead.
Finally reaching the floor of the valley, Williams noted that the city of Florence seemed entirely peaceful on his right, homes and businesses crowding along the shoreline for several miles. Of course, that peacefulness was a telltale sign. No cars roamed the streets, and no drones flitted overhead. Florence was on lockdown.
On his left lay the port. At the far side, the pair of launch towers stood, surrounded by a grouping of ship cradles. On the north side were a number of administrative buildings and the river—plus a row of piers with two cutters alongside. While they weren’t large vessels, they seemed like overkill for patrolling a river.
Williams commented on the combat net.
Bruno highlighted two locations, and Williams realized that there was a crashed jet at the far side of the airstrip, as well as several smoking vehicles near the launch towers.
There wasn’t any intel pointing at separatist control of the land between Tarja and the ocean, but if an attack on the Florence spaceport had come from there, then it hinted at a larger enemy force on Teka than expected.
Williams hated hanging back and watching, but he had his orders to protect the NSAI node, and that wasn’t negotiable. Commander Lauren would have his ass if it got damaged.
He spent some time directing Olsen and Chang to move their weapons to either side of the rise, cars ready to crest the hill and provide covering fire as needed. The spaceport was over three kilometers away, but that didn’t matter to the
railguns. With a ten-kilometer-per-second muzzle velocity, they could fell targets at the far side of the river in the blink of an eye.
“Happy?” second squad’s Sergeant Salas asked. “Want to get them to mow the lawn while we’re here?”
Williams grunted. “Just because you got an extra chevron on your arm doesn’t mean you can needle me, Salas. Not unless you want to trim the verge.”
Salas held up his hands in mock submission. “Sorry, Gunny, just antsy. Been a long haul.”
“Tell me about it. Once we get this location secure, we’ll get some R&R.”
The squad sergeant glanced up at the hills lining the river. “Well, some of us will. This position’s gonna be a bitch to patrol.”
“We’ve got a few drones left, and when the command shack drops, it’ll have more.”
William’s words were emphasized by a resounding crack and a series of distant pops echoing across the valley.
Williams pulled feeds from third squad, watching through the Marines’ eyes as they engaged with the enemy, fireteams moving with smooth precision from cover to cover as they worked to dig the opposing force out from around the landing cradles.
Williams switched his attention to first squad, where Lieutenant Grenwald and Sergeant Kowalski were clearing the admin buildings.
They’d encountered a few small clusters of Diskers, but the enemies there had been subdued quickly. Even so, there were still a dozen buildings and several hangars between the Marines and the far side of the base.
No sooner had the corporal spoken than fire burst from one of the ships on the quay, high-caliber rounds tearing into cover on the far side of the cradles. The second ship’s engines roared to life a moment later, and it pulled from the dock, circling around toward the launch towers, its deck guns firing on targets around the cradles.
Williams pulled feeds from several locations, and saw Diskers frantically trying to find cover as they were pinched between the boats and the Marines.
Then a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “This is Captain Gentrey of the Venusian Coast Guard. You are surrounded. Surrender and you’ll not come to any further harm.”
Williams couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “Shit, did first squad just get saved by Coasties?”
Chang snickered from where he stood at the back of his team’s big gun. “And hundreds of klicks from the sea. This is going to become 242 legend.”
COASTIE HOSPITALITY
STELLAR DATE: 3227475 / 06.05.4124 (Adjusted Gregorian)
LOCATION: Florence Coast Guard Spaceport, Florence
REGION: Venus, InnerSol, Sol Space Federation
Williams stood next to Captain Gentrey as Commander Lauren and First Sergeant Bourne approached.
“Nice work, the two of you,” Lauren said as she extended her hand to shake the Coastie captain’s. “We’ve got squads on the hills, and the Vasquez will be dropping us a command shack any minute now.”
“I’m just glad you came when you did,” the coast guard captain said. “We were about to stage a distraction and then get out on the boats when we saw your cars come in. No idea you were Marines, but we decided to wait it out and see what shook loose.”
“Not that we’re ungrateful,” Bourne paused to clear his throat. “But what the heck is the coast guard doing this far inland?”
“Oh, that’s a long story,” Gentrey said, laughing softly. “Back when Tarja was first founded, there was a lot of smuggling up and down the Damascus River. People used old lava tubes to get into the city—though don’t get your hopes up, they were all plugged to stop the traffic. Anyway, the coast guard was well equipped at the time, so we took over watching the river. We needed an airstrip to link to other facilities, and then space launch capabilities got added, and before we knew it, we were operating an inland spaceport. You know how shit like that goes.”
The Marines glanced at one another. “Yeah, sounds like S.O.P.,” Williams said.
“I just got word from the Vasquez,” Lauren said, glancing up at the sky. “The shack is coming down. Anywhere you’d like it?”
“Could drop it in that space between our command buildings and the hangars,” Gentrey suggested. “Nothing underground there, and it’ll be convenient. How long you planning on staying?”
“Maybe an hour, maybe a week,” Lauren said with a shrug.
“Better be more than an hour,” Williams grunted, looking up in the sky as a light flared overhead, the shack’s torch slowing it before the chutes deployed. “Would be nice to actually sleep for a bit.”
“And eat,” Bourne added. “You have real food here? I’m tired of sucking paste out of my armor.”
The coast guard captain laughed and nodded. “I think for saving our asses, our cooks can whip something up for your company. Might not be too fancy, though.”
“We’re Marines, we’re used to not-fancy,” Lauren said, then groaned. “Aw, shit, they only sent a mini! I gotta get on the horn about this.”
She turned away, and Williams shared a look of dismay with Bourne.
“What’s a ‘mini’?” Gentrey asked.
“Not much more than a comm tower and a few rooms,” Williams said, shaking his head. “Means not a lot of supplies, either.”
Gentrey nodded, and Bourne shrugged as the torch cut out and the smaller maneuvering jets fired to adjust the shack’s trajectory. “We’ll make do,” the first sergeant said. “We’re Marines.”
* * * * *
Once the shack was secure and Williams had verified that the perimeter patrols were in place—which took several hours—the savory smell of smoked meat led him unerringly in the right direction. His stomach growled loudly in complaint just as Private Weber rounded the building’s corner, a plate of barbecue beef sandwiches balanced on top of a local brew.
“Hey, Gunny,” he mumbled around a mouthful of shredded beef-on-bun, dark hair beaded with droplets from the drizzle that had just begun to fall. Pointing with the hand that held a half-eaten sandwich, he nodded toward the wing that housed the base’s administrative offices. “Guys were wonderin’. Got any idea what’s on that thing we took off the Diskers?”
Commander Lauren had instructed Williams to deliver the NSAI node directly into the waiting hands of the regiment’s resident spook, Commander Tippin. Williams, in turn, had ordered Weber and Martens to do just that when they’d first arrived.
Williams eyed the administrative building Weber had pointed out, its plascrete walls gleaming a grey-white that blended with the low hanging clouds.
“Not a clue, Weber. But if anyone can crack that thing, it’ll be Tippin.”
“Is it true he used to be a FROD?” Weber’s words came out garbled, his mouth still filled with barbecue beef.
Williams’ eyes narrowed in thought as he snatched a pickle off Weber’s plate and crunched into the crisp dill.
It had been years since Williams had seen Tippin. The two had been through Toro together, and it had changed the then-lieutenant. Immediately after, the lanky Marine had requested and been granted reassignment for training at Marine Ranger Intelligence Division.
Williams heard he’d rejoined the 242nd right after Bravo’s Fourth Platoon had been sent to the Mars Outer Shipyards to assist Major Richards. Tippin now served as the regiment’s chief intelligence analyst.
“Damn straight he’s FROD, Private. Been through hell and back with him.” Williams helped himself to a sandwich off Weber’s plate before the man could snatch it away.
“Hey! Get your own, Gunny!”
“You cleaned your gear, yet?”
Weber’s face grew red, and he backed up a step as Williams grunted.
“Didn’t think so. Get your ass back to where you stashed it all. You don’t eat—” he swiped the plate and cup from the retreating Marine, “—or drink until they pass inspection. Clear?”
“Shit, Gunnery Sergeant, really?”
Williams leveled a baleful glare at Weber.
The private had just enough brain cells to rub together to know what that look meant. He pivoted and double-timed his way back to their temporary billet, while Williams took a long draw from the plas cup.
“Tastes like piss.”
Williams glanced at Vonda as she stepped up beside him, pushing a lock of wet hair off her forehead.
“Warm piss,” he agreed, proffering the plate of sandwiches.
She grabbed one, and they walked toward the mess hall’s entrance, slowing when they saw the line.
“Shit, I guess we should wait for that to ease up. Unless you wanna pull rank on them all.”
Williams took one look at the line of hungry Marines and knew there was no way even he could bully his way past them.
“Not a hill I want to die on today.”
He motioned to a nearby building. It had an overhang that’d block the worst of the rain, which had begun to come down more steadily. They made their way over to it, and he lowered himself to the ground and set the plate on his lap.
Vonda laughed and slid down the wall until her butt hit the ground next to his. She bit into one of the sandwiches and then grimaced. “Disgusting.”
Williams looked over at her in surprise. “Thought you liked barbecue, Corporal.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow his way. “This shit’s not fit to be called barbecue, sir. Uncivilized, drowning all that good beef in a ton of sauce like that. Everyone knows real barbecue is all about the rub.”
She waved the sandwich at him, a big glob of sauce launching from between the buns and hitting the side of the building with a splat.
