by Myke Cole
“Just incredible stealth from a team known for going in guns blazing,” Don agreed. “The Air Force has absolutely upped their game this year, and shown themselves to be a force to be reckoned with. But can they hold their own against the reigning champion for the last two years?”
“We’re about to find out, and I couldn’t be more excited. The Air Force has drawn the short straw, and will be the ‘bad guys’ for this evolution.”
“Some think this is a considerable advantage,” Don said. “A static defense is always easier than a dynamic offense.”
“Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you, but this is MARSOC16 we’re talking about. Here’s their commander, Brigadier General Demetrius Fraser, talking about his team’s winning strategy.”
The video cut to Fraser’s handsome face, at ease and smiling. He chuckled at some question that had not been aired, looked at his hands. “Well, Sarah, I’m afraid I can’t answer that question without disclosing classified tactics, but I will say this – we’re marines. We attack. I was trained that offense is the best defense, and I impart the same ethic to my team. In any combat scenario, the attacker controls the flow of the battle. The defender is necessarily reactive, and that’s not a posture marines like to be in.”
“Sure,” Ho said to the screen, “but this isn’t combat.”
“Goddamn right it’s not,” Oliver agreed.
The screen flashed to a view of the interior cabin of what looked to Oliver like a six-pack. The Air Force team was already in their hardshells, paint guns held at the ready.
“And we’ll have camera views both inside the cabin and on the MARSOC16 boat,” John said, “so you won’t miss a thing! Let’s go live now to outside the US Navy’s Orbital Training Center’s range to watch the action!”
The view switched to an interior cabin shot from the marines’ rhino, looking over the digital pattern camouflage of the marine crews’ hardshells and out through the front window. “For the life of me,” Ho said, “I will never understand why they still use camouflage. You’re either in a vessel, or EVAing in the blackness of space. What are you blending in with?”
“Old habits die hard,” Oliver said.
“There’s something to be said for tradition,” Chief mused, looked sheepish as the rest of the crew shot him skeptical glances.
The video panned to show the four marines standing in a circle, arms around one another’s shoulders, helmets pressed together. Oliver could see Koenig’s lips moving through his visor, and knew he was speaking to them on a private radio channel that the show was being kind enough not to broadcast. She didn’t need to hear him to know he was speaking words of encouragement. She could see the emotion clearly on his face, on Fujimori’s and Slomowicz’s as well. Abadi’s face was covered by her niqab, but Oliver could see the creasing at the corners of her eyes. These four people love each other. They trust each other implicitly.
The MARSOC16 broke with a fist bump and the video panned again, showed that Oliver had guessed right – it was a six-pack, the small hauler floating into view through the marine boat’s front window as they came closer. “VBSS Control, VBSS Control,” Lieutenant Koenig’s voice was self-assured almost to the point of smugness, “this is BA-1, we have a visual on unflagged vessel DIW outside shipping lane. They are not responding to hails. Request SNO for possible engagement.”
“That’s bold,” John said. “The marines are asking for a peremptory ‘statement of no objection’; this will basically give Koenig, who’s just a lieutenant, the authority to conduct his boarding however he sees fit.”
“That’s unusual, right?” Don asked.
“Extremely,” John said, “and not usually–”
Fraser’s voice came back before John could finish speaking, “SNO granted, BA-1. Get it done your way.”
“Roger that, sir, thank you,” Koenig responded.
“Oh! Well, I guess that’s…” John began again.
“Guns up,” Koenig said. “Gunner, you are cleared hot. Target: propellant housing and feed left of engine cowling.”
“Target aye, sir,” Abadi’s voice was dark, commanding, and utterly calm. “I have it.”
“Jesus,” Chief whispered. “Guns up, just for not answering a hail? How is that even OK?”
But Oliver could hear the cheering of the live audience in the studio around the announcers, and knew exactly why it was OK. “We have got to get control of this thing.”
“Very well,” Koenig said. “Let’s hail them again, gunny, make sure they understand they’re about to get shot.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Oliver matched the concentration in Fujimori’s voice to the gentle goosing of the control sticks, and guessed she was at the helm. The six-pack grew in the marine boat’s front window as she brought them in closer, the propellant lines growing in their vision.
“Isn’t that risky?” Oliver asked.
“It sure is, ma’am,” Okonkwo said. “They don’t hit it right on the money, you could have a fire, or an explosion, or…”
“They’re going to hit it right on the money,” Oliver said, dread blossoming in her belly.
Fujimori had just opened the hailing channel when the six-pack’s aft thrusters fired and the vessel jumped away from them. The audience gasped.
“Commence firing,” Koenig said.
“Firing, aye, sir,” Abadi answered as the guns lit up, “watch my tracer.” The first round was bright white, the phosphorous coating streaking out from the autocannon’s muzzle and arrowing straight into the propellant line coupling. Three more rounds followed, their explosive charges inert and replaced with paint packets for the exercise. The audience roared as the camera zoomed in on the impact, showing the propellant line painted in fluorescent pink, not so much as a speck of color outside the coupling where it met the engine intake.
“My God,” McGrath was bent over his elbows, shoulders pinching together. “MK3, how big is that target?”
“The coupling… the intake’s a little bigger, but maybe… six inches,” Okonkwo sounded awed.
“A six-inch target,” McGrath shook his head, “moving at what? Thirty knots? And they have to be more than a hundred meters out.”
“Closer to two hundred,” Chief said, squinting at the range readout below the guns’ instrument panel.
“Jesus,” McGrath said.
“Oh, come on,” Oliver said, “you telling me you couldn’t make that shot?”
McGrath turned to look at her, blinked. “No, ma’am, I’m not telling you that.”
Oliver nodded, turned back to the video.
“I’m just telling you in all my years behind a console,” McGrath continued, “and that’s a lot of years, I have never made a shot like that before,” he turned back to the video, eyes wide, “nor have I seen anyone else make a shot like that.”
The six-pack abruptly cut thrust, began drifting forward. “Oh my God!” Don was yelling over the audiences’ cheers. “Did you see that? What a shot! And the referee has fired the kill switch stopping the engines. The Air Force is dead in the water!”
“Gunny, get us in contact,” Koenig said. “Slomowicz, I want soft dock instantly.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Slomowicz was indeed the team’s engineer, and the camera rotated to show him slinging his cutting torch and rushing down into the nipple gangway.
“Soft dock only,” Koenig’s voice was as relaxed as if he were reciting a shopping list. “Don’t start your cut until my mark. Gunny, vent atmosphere.”
“Venting, aye, sir,” Fujimori said, followed by the brief hiss of the oxygen and pressure puffing out into space. The video briefly toggled to a backward facing camera mounted on the six-pack, and Oliver could see the puff of the venting gas around the marine boat’s windows.
“Yet another unusual move,” John was saying. “I wonder what Koenig’s got planned.”
The camera toggled back to the marine boat’s interior as Koenig bent to a gear locker and lifted up another cutting torch.
The vessel trembled as Fujimori guided it gently into the six-pack’s tow-fender, followed almost immediately by Slomowicz’s triumphant call of “soft dock!”.
“Kid’s quick,” Don said. That’s a gross understatement, Oliver thought. Jesus Christ, these people are good.
Koenig clipped one end of an EVA cable to the front of his hardshell, locking the other end to a metal loop just beside the marine boat’s exit hatch. “OK, going out. Wait for my signal.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the marine team answered at once as Koenig threw the hatch open and pushed his way out.
“He’s… EVAing?” Pervez asked.
“Why is he…” Okonkwo added.
“What the fuck…” Ho finished.
The risk of tumbling on the end of the EVA tether made Oliver’s stomach clench. With nothing to push off against in the emptiness around him, Koenig risked losing control of his movements, and right as his team had soft-dock with the Air Force vessel. What the hell is he thinking?
“Does he have a maneuvering unit on?” Chief asked.
“Nope,” Ho’s voice was flat.
“What the hell is he…” Chief said, his voice trailing off as Koenig choked his grip up on the EVA tether, grasping it close to the hatch. He pushed off with his boots, sending himself somersaulting out of the marine boat. The cable jerked taut, forcing Koenig into a tight arc, his feet kicking up over his head before swinging back down and slamming into the hull of the marine boat, where he engaged the setules on his boots with perfect timing. Locked in place, he bent his legs, and prepared to push off toward the six-pack.
The audience cheered themselves hoarse.
“That’s some goddamn acrobatics,” Chief said.
“Oh, how hard can it be?” Oliver asked as the video showed Koenig detaching himself from the MARSOC boat and executing a flawless leap that carried him across to the six-pack’s hull where he landed so lightly that she was certain the Air Force crew inside didn’t even know he was there.
When no one answered, she looked around. The crew was staring at her. “Pretty damn hard, ma’am. EVAs are tricky as hell,” Chief said.
“I’m sure you could do that in a pinch,” Oliver forced a smile.
Chief was looking back at the screen. “Let’s just say I haven’t before.”
“First time for everything,” Oliver said as the video showed Koenig disengaging the setules on a single boot, to permit himself to kneel, bringing the cutting torch around to press it against the six-pack’s hull. “Slomowicz, wait until you see my sparks before you start your cut.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Slomowicz replied.
“Let me guess,” Oliver said, “balancing on a drifting ship with only one boot engaged is hard.”
“That’s something of an understatement, ma’am,” McGrath said.
“Like you said, ma’am,” Chief offered, “first time for everything.”
No sooner had Chief spoken than Don chimed in from the studio. “In all my years of doing this, I have never seen that kind of grace on an EVA before. Just one boot engaged on the exterior of the hull, and he’s as steady as a rock!”
“Amazing,” John agreed, “but what’s the MARSOC team’s plan here?”
“To show off,” Oliver said.
“Cutting,” Koenig radioed as sparks began to fly from his torch.
“Cutting, aye, sir,” Slomowicz radioed back, the crackle of his own torch barely visible from the camera’s angle.
The video then cut to the camera in the six pack’s interior. The Air Force team was backing away as two cuts appeared, the expected one on their tow fender, and another one beside their access hatch. Oliver could see their weapons trembling as they tried to decide which entryway to cover. They clearly weren’t prepared for this.
Oliver leaned forward in her seat. “Brilliant.” She’d said the word before she realized she’d spoken.
“Brilliant!” John echoed, as the camera toggled back to show the MARSOC team stacked in the nipple gangway and ready for Slomowicz to finish his cut. Back inside the six-pack, the Air Force team had split in half, two guns on Koenig’s cut, and two on Slomowicz’s.
“Oh, man,” Ho said, “that’s not good.”
“For the Air Force,” Oliver agreed. “Now they’ve only got two guns on the right breach.”
“The LT will still come through the other one,” Chief said.
“Twenty bucks says he doesn’t,” Pervez said.
“You’re on,” Chief said.
“Not if you win, Chief,” Oliver said. “No monetary gifts up the rank chain. Skipper’s orders.”
“Aye aye, ma’am,” Chief and Pervez said at the same time.
Oliver found herself holding her breath as the twin cuts neared completion. The audience was shouting so loud that Don and John were raising their voices despite their microphones as they narrated the action. “Jesus,” she breathed, “I can see why this show is so damn popular.”
At last the cuts were almost done, the cut sections held in place by just a slim tab of metal waiting to be severed with a strong kick. “Hold what you’ve got,” Koenig said. “Go on my mark. Three… two…”
The camera showed Slomowicz stepping to the side of the breach. He dropped his torch, raised his paint gun, aiming the butt at the cut segment, waiting for Koenig to finish counting down.
“Mark!” Koenig called, slammed his paint gun into his section. The plate broke away and spun into the six-pack’s cabin. Both of the Air Force team members covering down on his section fired just as Koenig rolled aside, their paint packets firing off into the darkness of space outside the hull.
At the same instant, Slomowicz slammed his paint gun into the side of his cut plate, instead of the center. The motion caused the section to pop sideways, sending it spinning back toward his own crew. Oliver watched in amazement as Abadi moved with a speed that was shocking in someone so big, catching the plate with an outstretched hand, letting the force of its inertia make it hang there, a handleless shield.
At that precise moment, both of the remaining Air Force crew discharged their weapons. The paint packets shot out and collided with the cut plate, still quivering against Abadi’s hand.
“Holy fucking God,” Okonkwo said.
“That is some straight up ninja shit,” Pervez agreed.
Abadi let the plate drop and raised her own paint gun as the Air Force team scrambled for cover. Koenig executed another breathtaking somersault, shortening his grip on his tether to send him swinging perfectly into the six-pack’s cabin and setting him gently on his feet. He was raising his paint gun and firing even as he undid the carabiner with his free hand. The shot caught one of the Air Force crew in the face, sending him onto his back. “And that’s one down!” Don was bellowing over the shouting of the crowd, an ecstatic roar which dissolved into chants of Semper fi! Do or die!
The rest of the Air Force crew didn’t bother with their paint guns. They charged, the first at Koenig, the remaining two at Abadi.
“This should be interesting,” McGrath grunted. An instant later, the video showed Fujimori leaning at the waist, bending past Slomowicz and shooting the airman charging Koenig in the side of their head. “Another one down!” Don called.
Abadi dropped her paint gun and spread her arms out as the two remaining Air Force crew dove into her, tackling her about the waist. Even with her spider boots engaged, the force of both men should have knocked her off her feet.
They didn’t. Oliver watched Abadi make some small changes to her center of gravity, bending her knees, leaning forward. It looked like nothing, but Oliver could see the expertise in the movement, the veteran’s economy.
The airmen slammed into her sides as if they had tackled a boulder. She trembled slightly as they bounced away in the micro-g, but not before Abadi slammed her fists down, smashing the backs of their helmets and sending their visors rebounding off the six-pack’s deck hard enough to turn the audience’s cheers into a pained gasp. “Owww!” John said. �
�That’s gotta hurt!”
Whether it hurt or not, the two airmen were disoriented. They drifted, limbs flailing, unable to find the floor. They can’t tell which way is up, Oliver thought. She knocked the tar out of them.
Slomowicz and Fujimori swung smoothly in behind her, paint guns holstered and forgotten now. They no longer needed them. The two marines produced hardshell restraints and secured the two stunned airmen before they could even arrest their drift. Neither offered any real resistance, with one breaking a hand free of Fujimori’s grip for a brief moment before the marine grunted and slammed it into the restraint.
Koenig’s sangfroid momentarily broke, the triumph sounding in his voice. “VBSS Control, this is BA-1. MARSOC16 has the vessel secured.”
Red klaxons whirled both in the six-pack’s cabin and back on the soundstage, washing the cheering audience in flashing red and making their celebration into a horror show parody. Don and John were bouncing in their announcers’ chairs, babbling semi-coherently about the beauty of the final seconds of that engagement.
“Well,” Oliver gestured at the two apoplectic announcers, as Ho killed the video, “that’s just downright unprofessional. Where’s the military bearing, I ask you?”
The crew, who had been leaning forward in their seats, turned as one person to regard her as if she’d grown a third head. “Ma’am,” Chief said, “in all my years on the 16th Watch, I have never seen anything like that.”
Oliver fought against the churning of her stomach, the feeling that she’d been set at the foot of a mountain – impossibly high, impossibly steep. “Oh, sure you have. I’ve gone up against teams tougher than that back on Earth.”
Ho blinked at her. “We have?”
“Sure we have,” Oliver forced a smile. “It was probably one of the ones you weren’t on.”
“I mean,” Ho said, “I’ve been on most of them with you.”
“Most isn’t all.”
“As you say, boss.”
Oliver looked at the expressions on the faces of her crew and realized that humor wasn’t going to work here. “Look, I know they seem tough, but you just watched people in action there, same as you.”
