Direct Fire #4 Drop Trooper Page 19

  I turned and ran. Or rather, limped. Not from any injury to me, though there were plenty of those, but from damage to the suit. Just a bad motivator in my left hip joint, but the timing was worse than the problem.

  The liquid nitrogen fill valve. It was there, only fifteen meters away. The transmission dishes loomed behind it like a boundary marker, making sure I wouldn’t miss it even in my drug-addled state. I knew the odds were against me reaching it before the mecha reached me, but I ran, just the same, because there was no other choice.

  So close, so close I could touch the wire fence, and that damned thing reached down with an arm meant to dig fortifications and swatted me aside like a bug. Drugs or no, the pain was too much and I blacked out for the half a second it took me to plow into the dirt. My eyes opened just in time to watch that stupid-ass mecha, unable to stop with all the built-up momentum he’d used to catch me, barrel right through the coolant pumphouse.

  I thought for one, pain-clouded second that I was back on Hachiman, with its white-out blizzards and its freezing fogs coating every metal surface with ice. But it was no snowstorm that sprayed ice across the legs of the mecha, it was a high-pressure stream of liquid nitrogen. And the armor on those legs began to crack and splinter away…

  I had, perhaps, ten seconds until the combination of the pain and the armor’s attempts to fight it made my fight to stay conscious a losing battle. I don’t know how I aimed, because my vision swam with stars and double-images, but the thing was so close, how could I miss? I pointed my plasma gun at the joint of the mecha’s left leg and hip and touched the trigger.

  Normally, it would have little effect, but normally, the armor there wouldn’t have been supercooled by liquid nitrogen. The leg blew right off the torso in a spray of vaporized metal and that titan fell, collapsing onto its side. The pilot would probably abandon the thing, I thought, and I wished I could spare the time to put a grenade up his ass, but that would have required me to be conscious. The mecha was down, the reactor would be shutting down in seconds, the jamming would be lifted, the air defense turrets unpowered.

  Mission accomplished.

  I passed out.

  19

  It was not, unfortunately, the first time I’d woken up shivering and damp in the cold, hard plastic of an auto-doc. At least this time, they hadn’t had to grow any new parts of me. Probably.

  I blinked, rubbed rheum out of my eyes and blinked again, finally able to see. Gravity. Not exactly Earth-standard, which meant I wasn’t in Transition Space on a ship. The lid of the cylinder was unlocked and I pushed it open, gasping at the sudden influx of cold air. The room was small, the walls plastic sheeting, and the medics moving from auto-doc to triage bed to auto-doc were wearing field utilities and not their white, shipboard uniforms. Point Barber, then. An aid station.

  I tried sitting up, prepared for it to hurt, but it didn’t. However long I’d been in the auto-doc, the nanite bath had done good work. I was fairly sure my ribs had been shattered and while I hadn’t exactly been coherent enough for a complete self-assessment, I probably had some internal injuries as well. No one tried to stop me from climbing out of the cylinder, so I assumed it was all good now.

  I didn’t wait for any of the harried, overworked medical staff to contradict the impression. There was a row of wire basket shelving against one of the walls, each filled with clothes, though none of them were labelled. I guess that would have been too much to ask when they were busy trying to save lives. I knelt down and began shuffling through them, hoping mine would be in there, hoping I would find something before someone came along and made a joke about my naked ass hanging out.

  “You ain’t gonna find your stuff in there.”

  I craned my neck around and saw the hulking, shaven-headed orderly resetting the controls of the auto-doc I’d been confined in. He wasn’t looking at me, still concentrating on his work, but he continued, just the same.

  “Anyone who comes in unconscious,” he told me, “we cut their clothes off.”

  “How long was I in?” I wondered, shifting my focus from finding my clothes to finding clothes my size. Because I wasn’t staying here long enough to get someone to pick me up.

  “Thirty hours, ten minutes, fifteen seconds,” he said, reading off the display as he reset it. “Three cracked ribs, three compound fractures, punctured and collapsed lung, ruptured spleen, dislocated shoulder and a sprained left knee.”

  This one. I pulled out a set of utility fatigues and checked the tags just to be sure. Yeah, this should fit. I wished for underwear, but you can’t have everything and I wouldn’t really want to wear someone else’s used underwear, anyway. I straightened and began pulling the clothes on. They felt weird and uncomfortable against my skin, still slightly damp and clammy from the biotic fluid of the nanite suspension, but not as weird and uncomfortable as walking around naked.

  Boots. I needed boots. It took another half a minute to find some close enough to my size to strap them down tight and make do. I stood from securing them and found the gorilla staring at the name-plate on the chest of my fatigues.

  “Captain Emil Johansen, huh?” he asked, an eyebrow shooting up. “That’s you?”

  “It is now,” I assured him. “Any idea where Fourth Battalion of the 187th Armored might be?”

  “Not a one,” he admitted. He jerked a thumb behind him toward the door flap. “But there’s a shitload of armored Marines and all their equipment down at the end of this row of tents. You can probably find out there.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  The inside of the aid station was air conditioned. Deltaville was not. Stepping through the airlock-style door of the tent, I was hit by a wave of humidity and I hoped like hell this was summer, because if it was winter, this planet would be pretty much uninhabitable the rest of the year.

  After the heat, the next thing that struck me was the frenzy of activity. In the thirty hours I’d been under, I guess the city had been pacified, at least enough to start work on a temporary base. Construction bots were scuttling everywhere, tracked undercarriages clicking and clacking along as they poured buildfoam into prefab metal molds, laying down the dome structures that would serve until something more permanent could be built.

  And we would be here permanently, I thought. At least for a few decades if I was any judge. There was no way we’d let the Tahni run their own government until we were damned sure they wouldn’t go back to building up their war machine and come right back after us for revenge. At least I hoped we’d learned that lesson in the first war.

  It took me another twenty or thirty steps before I realized we were out at the spaceport, not too far past the battle where I’d gotten my ass kicked. My first clue was the screaming roar of jets and the descending wedge of a cargo lander, coming down nearly on top of the construction before it curved around and landed somewhere less than a klick away. My second was when I reached a gap in the construction and saw the remains of the administration building. There wasn’t much left of it, just a bare, forlorn framework standing watch over piles of debris. I couldn’t see if the mecha was still back there. I liked to think it was, waiting so I could come back and take a look at it and see how badly I’d fucked up, but realistically, the engineers had probably hauled it away.

  How many of the Marines from my company were out there, their armor still laying broken open under the afternoon glare, monuments to my stupidity? Was Vicky there? Delp? Kreis? Suddenly, I almost didn’t want to find the battalion.

  Past the construction were more plastic tents, and guarding their approaches were a squad of Force Recon and a single fire team of Vigilantes. I didn’t recognize their unit designator, but that didn’t mean anything. Just about everyone had been involved in this invasion. I stepped up to one of the Recon grunts, figuring it would be easier to talk to him than a Drop-Trooper in their suit.

  Her, I judged, checking the name plate on the chest armor of the Marine.

  “Sgt. Suharto?” I read the name and rank,
hoping I hadn’t mispronounced it.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked, her voice tinny and unnatural through the external speaker of her helmet.

  “Know where Fourth Battalion is set up?”

  “I’m kind of iffy on where the battalions are, sir,” she admitted. “But Brigade HQ is the third tent down thataway.” She pointed down the road with a knife hand. “Good luck, they’re all running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  I laughed softly, thinking I was probably one of the few Drop-Troopers who knew exactly what that saying meant.

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  I could see what she meant before I even reached the tent. Supplies were being hauled in on cargo jacks, puttering slowly up the cracked pavement, maneuvering around battle damage with robotic instincts, a line of ants heading into the largest of the plastic tents, dropping their loads and then filing out the other side. Beneath the shelter from the punishing mid-afternoon glare, Fleet engineers and Marine grunts were offloading the pallets, taking necessary supplies this way and that, some to lines of Vigilante battlesuits awaiting service, others to the mess hall or the aid stations.

  There was the normal yelling and cursing, shouted orders, and incredulous questions in return, all struggling to make themselves heard over the rumble and clank and scrape of the cargo offload. The normal sounds of a Forward Operating Base, though on a scale I hadn’t seen before, twice as big as any I’d seen in previous operations. It stretched out for kilometers, curving along the perimeter of the landing field, and overhead, assault shuttles on Combat Air Patrol circled at different altitudes. While I walked and stared, one of them broke its pattern and screamed off to the west, hell-bent for leather. Probably called in for air support by a patrol.

  There was still resistance somewhere out there. There probably would be for months and I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay around to deal with it. That had become a nightmare scenario talked about in hushed tones by the platoon leaders when no one else was listening, the possibility of our company being left behind on one of the conquered worlds to crush any enemy forces still fighting long past reason. No one wanted to miss out on the battle, the invasion of Tahn-Skyyiah, the Tahni homeworld, the one enemy planet we all knew their name for.

  Captain Covington had always chuckled when he’d overheard those bull sessions, told us that he would make sure that didn’t happen. But he was gone now. Maybe that meant whatever was left of Delta would be stuck here. I resigned myself to the idea with dolorous acceptance. Given how badly everything else had gone, how truly massive of a clusterfuck this battle had become, nothing else bad that happened would surprise me.

  I was so busy moping, I nearly ran straight into Vicky as she came out one of the flaps of the command tent.

  “Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, eyes going wide. “I was just coming to check on you!” She held up arms filled with utility fatigues and a pair of boots. “I had to have these fabricated because, well…all our shit was on the Iwo.”

  I looked around, then realized I was wearing someone else’s name plate and figured, the hell with it and pulled her into a kiss.

  “I am so fucking glad you’re alive,” I told her, leaning my forehead against hers.

  “Of course, I’m alive, dumbass,” she said, smiling through the words, thumping the heel of her hand against my chest. “Who the hell do you think called Search and Rescue to pull you out of your suit? What the hell were you thinking, going up against a Goddamned mecha by yourself?”

  “There wasn’t much thinking involved,” I admitted. “Shit just sort of happened.” I sobered. “What was the damage? How bad is Delta?”

  “Not nearly as bad as it could have been,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was relieved or just trying to make me feel better. “After the mecha came through the building, we ran into the main force of the High Guard, and Third took a couple of casualties. Kreis and Pena were wounded, their suits deadlined, but they’re already out of the aid station. But your boys, Kovacs and Cano came through for us and flanked them. I think Cano lost two KIA in the fight, but I don’t remember their names.” She winced apologetically. “I’m sorry I don’t know more, but Captain Cronje showed up again about ten hours ago and started acting like nothing fucking happened. I’ve been busy policing up the mess and putting my platoon back together.”

  I clamped down on the anger roiling in my gut at the mention of Cronje’s name and forced myself to concentrate on what was important.

  “Where’s Delta?”

  “Come on,” she urged, tugging at my arm. “I’ll take you to them.” She cocked an eyebrow at my stolen uniform. “But maybe you should change first, Captain Johansen.”

  I smiled lopsidedly, any anger I felt fading at her touch.

  “My friends,” I told her, “call me Emil.”

  Delta was somber as a tomb.

  They were gathered in the makeshift maintenance tent, their Vigilantes broken open and stripped bare, and some made half-hearted attempts at trying to scrub away carbon scoring or clean debris from the joints, but mostly they were staring, enlisted, officer and NCO alike. They stared at the armor, at each other, some talking in muted tones, a few popping caffeine chews or sipping half-heartedly at coffee. It had the air of a funeral…a mass funeral, for all the Marines we’d lost, nearly three full platoons. Almost all of Second, the whole Headquarters platoon and enough Marines here and there from First, Third and Fourth to make up another.

  I registered an instant of shock at the open door of the tent, wondering why no one had taken charge of them, tried to get them doing something productive to take their minds off of it…until I realized with just as brutal a shock that there was no one to take charge. Battalion was gone. Brigade was juggling a dozen running chainsaws with one hand tied behind their back.

  I padded into the center of the tent and still, no one noticed me.

  “Where’s Top?” I asked, and the question seemed unreasonably loud, like in Boot Camp when one of the DI’s had thrown a metal garbage can down the length of the barracks at zero four thirty and woken us all from an exhausted sleep.

  Marines jumped up from the folding stools, ration boxes and cargo containers they’d been using as seats and every eye went wide.

  “Cam!” Billy Cano exclaimed, hurrying over to me, looking uncertain, as if he couldn’t decide whether to shake my hand, salute, or give me a hug. He compromised with a slap on my shoulder. “Jesus, man, I’m glad you’re all right. When we found you, it looked like that mecha had stomped you flat.”

  “It just about did,” I told him, not wanting to sound off-putting but also not that interested in talking about the battle right then. “Where’s Top?”

  “She went to find First Sergeant Taylor, sir,” Bang-Bang told me. The big man was unusually subdued, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the general downbeat mood in the bay or maybe from embarrassment at the fact that he’d let my platoon get away with being part of it. “Sgt. Taylor is filling in for the Battalion Command Sgt.-Major,” he added.

  “I think there’s going to be a Brigade-level meeting in a couple hours,” Kovacs put in. He was fidgeting, scratching at a callous on his palm. “She’s like, getting ready for it.” He pointed between himself and Cano. “We, uh…I mean, we haven’t been told if we’re supposed to go. I think it’s for company commanders. I guess that means, you should go?”

  I fought very hard not to roll my eyes at the man. Instead, I looked back and forth across the tent, forcing all of them to meet my glare. I had a decision to make. If someone else had stepped up and tried to take charge, I might have hesitated. But they weren’t.

  “Okay, listen up,” I snapped. I know we’re all kind of in a funk because of what happened to the Skipper, and Lt. Burke and Second Platoon. But take a listen out there.” I jabbed a finger at the wall of the tent. “Shit’s still going down. Patrols are going out; shuttles are making fire support runs. We could get called out there. The fucking battle ain’t over and we can’t be
sitting on our asses waiting for the shuttle to take us back to the ship because the ship doesn’t even fucking exist anymore.”

  That hit them between the eyes. Kovacs seemed to deflate, his shoulders sagging.

  “So, here’s what we’re going to do. Until and unless someone comes along and tells me they have a new company commander for Delta, I’m going to have to assume I’m still in charge for now. I want full PMCS done on every single Vigilante we have left. I want a full report ready from the platoon leaders by the time I get back from the brigade meeting.” I nodded toward Bang-Bang. “You’re acting Third Platoon leader until we get a replacement or they send us a company commander and I jump back in.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, back straightening with the responsibility.

  “Any suits we have that are deadlined, I want a full report on what’s needed to repair them.” I paused, frowning. “By the way, where’s my suit? They didn’t have to cut me out of it or anything, did they?”

  “No, sir,” Bang-Bang said, the corner of his mouth turning up. “It’s over in the corner. Needs a new left hip actuator. I’ll put it in the report.”

  I let my gaze linger on the Vigilante. Its surface was scored and scorched, bearing the scars of not just this battle, but every one of them, a Dorian Grey portrait of my soul.

  “All right,” I concluded, nodding. “You know what to do. Get your heads back in the game, boys and girls. We took a hit, but we hit them back and we came out on top. We’ll have a memorial for the fallen after we get our shit sorted. Their war is over. Ours is not.”