Sacremon (Harmony War Series Book 1) (11 page)

           
“Fire in your own time,” Balhauser said.

           
Tyler focused on the target, letting the rest of the world blur as it moved in a lazy zigzag, the projection of the colonist was good. Tyler could almost make out the bored expression on the simulation.

           
Other rifles fired and Tyler held, breathing, concentrating, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths, of his heart.

           
He stroked the finger. Air rushed out of the air brake, the whole free floating barrel coming back to compensate for the forces at work.

           
Tyler rode the recoil and movement, watching his target going down in a splat of blood. The AMR was semi-auto, Tyler shifted his aim, a new target rushing to the first’s aid, this one was zig zagging.

           
Tyler stroked again. A new target, his dial told him three hundred meters but it looked like five hundred. Tyler compensated aiming high and off target, he pulled, the round moved at near hyper-sonic speeds. The target died before they ever heard the shot. By the time the sound reached them, another was on the ground. Tyler disregarded his targeting computer, turning it off as he singled in on targets, estimated distance and calculated all of the other factors that could throw his shot off.

           
“Fuck,” he sighed, a head disappearing instead of hitting the target in their center of mass.

           
He threw the first magazine out and slammed a new one home. Twenty rounds, one in the pipe, leaving one in so he didn’t need to hit the bolt release from running out of rounds.

           
Tyler hit a runner, no more midsection for them.

           
“Back in!” He said.

           
“Shit,” Balhauser whispered.

           
Tyler winged five out of the sixty, winged meaning he’d taken a limb or an ungodly chunk out of them but they weren’t immediately dead.

           
Only two would have survived, mostly.

           
“Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?” Balhauser said.

           
“Westerly Three Complex Crew,” Tyler said, checking his gun and showing it was clear of rounds to Balhauser.

           
“Clear,” Balhauser said with a glance. “Who taught you?”

           
“My boss, Quentin Richter,” Tyler said.

           
“Round here we called him Captain Richter, didn’t know he was still alive, must’ve been fifty or sixty years Real-Time since we last saw him,” Balhauser said.

           
“You knew the boss?” Tyler asked, looking at Balhauser, he’d known Richter had been in the EMF but he didn’t think he would see anyone from his ship, let alone unit when he served.

           
“Yeah, he was in charge of me when I was a private. He’s a good officer, too many lose touch with the troops, not Captain Richter, probably why he stayed a Captain instead of moving to Major or Colonel. So how did you work without the computer?” Balhauser said.

           
“Ran the calculations in my mind, don’t need some holographic sight picture on my scope to hit someone. The ranges on the scope were weird so I ran with my gut. I was going to ask you if the scope was broken,’’ Tyler admitted.

           
“Well done, you are one of the scariest people I have seen with an AMR. You are now weapon qualified, make sure you pass the final training exercise,” Balhauser said.

           
“Yes Sergeant,” Tyler said grinning. He left the rifle at the position, another recruit taking his position and laying down their three magazines.

           
“How did you do?” Alexis asked coming up next to him. She was one of the few girls that could make him flustered by being next to him.

           
She walked with a grace that few had since the smart clothes always seemed to hug a person’s skin, the way it hugged Alexis’ frame made him a bit nutty.

           
Tyler looked to the ceiling remembering her question.

           
“Missed Five,” Tyler said, shrugging, not pleased with it but knowing he’d just need to do better next time.

           
“‘Only five?’ I missed twenty-seven!” She said, even pouting she made Tyler smile.

           
“Well I was the sniper for Westerly Three,” Tyler said by way of explanation.

           
“You’ll have to teach me some time,” she smiled, her blue eyes sparking as she tilted her head, a coy look on her face.

           
“Sounds like a plan,” Tyler grinned in return, realizing she was flirting with him. He let his eyes move down and up over her body. His mood turning into boyish delight.

           
“Gonna need more than just a good shot,” she said, walking ahead, her hips marching away.

           
Tyler’s brain caught up with reality.

           
“Well what would that entail?” He said, jogging to catch up with her.

***

           
They moved from learning to shoot weapons to living with them like their life partner.

           
They cared for them better than they cared for themselves. A person might be able to jump in the mud, but you better pray you never dropped it in the mud.

           
All fuck ups were imprinted with a liberal use of PT.

           
Clearing a room of hostiles was easy in theory, in reality it took hours upon hours to become anything like proficient.

           
The staff threw in boarding a combat shuttle, dropping from it, or exiting through its hatch.

           
When in troop transport mode the cargo holds of the Cargo shuttles had four rows of seats, two back-to-back in the middle with the other two against the shuttle’s exterior wall.

           
Jumping out of the shuttle’s hatches was easy. The hatches opened at the rear of the shuttle and you jumped off, hitting the ground rolling.

           
Dropping was easier and faster.

           
The harness that locked into their armor plates would pull them into standing position, the floor beneath their chair would open to the ground below. They’d drop, a wire thin as a pencil would wind out attached to the shuttle and the harness.

           
The wire would plummet them fast, but not fast enough to make them mush on the ground.

           
When they hit the ground the harness would cut the cord and fall off of their armor. There was a manual release that would cut the wire if the automatic systems didn’t work.

           
It was nerve wracking as hell when the line didn’t disengage but training took over. No one fucked up too badly on dropping or clearing rooms.

           
There had been five platoons when training started, there was three left. All of them had earned the right to be there. No matter where they came from they were the plain grey of the EMF.

           
In Mark’s mind they all deserved to pass, but he knew that wouldn’t be the case.

           
The staff faced the recruits, Mark stood in front of Two Platoon Two Section, Tyler in front of One and Alexis with Three.

           
Captain Petrovick was in charge of all the recruits, he looked over them all, silence stretching as Mark’s back tightened up and he had to move his feet as blood pooled uncomfortably in his shoes.

           
“Let’s see who survives to be Troopers, begin the final training exercise,” he walked away, the staff yelling their platoons into action.

           
“Two Platoon, get your gear! You have ten minutes!” Fredrickson barked, her face hard lines and eyes.

           
Tyler’s section led the way, Mark and Alexis following with their own.

           
“Vests and helmets first!” Mark yelled, agreement came back as they rushed into the armory, their lockers opening showing their armor, helmet, weapons and rucksacks that carried extra ammunition, plus water and food paste.

           
They pulled on their gear, calloused fingers used to the motions from discipline and training.

           
Few spoke while they suited up. Only a few asking for help with a strap they couldn’t get, doing the same service to their friend afterwards.

           
Before they wouldn’t have asked for help, they were proud members of varying gangs, different sectors, complexes, no one trusted anyone. Now they were troopers, trust was automatic, even if they were from another platoon or section they trusted them to have their back.

           
“Two platoon get moving for the city!” Balhauser barked.

           
People moved in a flurry of confusion, flashbacks of the first weeks coming to mind. No one wanted to be last.

           
Mark pulled his helmet down, hearing it connect to the collar of his armor and smart clothes, ripping his rifle from its rack and moving to follow the others.

           
“Get into sections!” He barked through the Platoon’s chat and his helmet’s speakers.

           
People started moving automatically, they all knew their spots and who was around them, even in their armor. Only a few of them didn’t have their helmets and vests on.

           
Most did and at least another piece of armor on their legs or arms.

           
Mark got to two sections. Tyler rushed past getting to one and sorting them out. Two platoon was sorted out as they got to the hatch that would lead to the city scenario.

           
“You think you’re going to just run across the planet! You’re going to need to have a combat shuttle to drop you in!” Lastrade yelled.

           
Tyler led, heading for the simulated hangar deck a few decks above.

           
One and three section filed into one combat shuttle as Mark filed onto another that was filled with a holographic weapons section. Hosting mortars, tripods for their repulsor’s and ‘screamers’, high velocity missiles.

           
Mark counted everyone off slapping their back’s as they went past. He took the last seat on the craft, checking his rifle was slung and putting it on the clips near his stomach. He grabbed his harness and pulled it down.

           
“Everyone good?” Mark asked, he got a list of green lights down the side of his HUD, all of them had their helmets.

           
Mark threw a stick of gum in his mouth as the ramps pulled up and the rear hatch closed.

           
It took off, rising up and pushing forward.

           
Nice and smooth.
Mark thought, soothing his mind.

           
Some yelled out as they hit atmosphere.

           
“Damn masochists!” Mark growled, getting a few laughs. They were in a tense situation, getting them to ease up would give them confidence.

           
The buffeting was the universes’ worst turbulence, they rose up and dove down, while going side to side and moving in three hundred and sixty-degrees, the simulated pilot evading incoming fire.

           
Thankfully those that did throw up got their helmets open to throw up into the grate running down the center of the seats.

           
Mark chewed his gum with grim determination as his stomach lurched and butterflies filled him. His inner ear tried to convince him he was going to crash, the rest of his body wished they could murder his inner ear, and the simulated dickhead in the cockpit.

           
The movement increased as they got lower, the enemy fire was more accurate at this level.

           
More people threw up and Mark’s clothes chilled, air blowing on his face at a higher rate to fight his nausea.

           
Seats moved and they were hoisted into the air and turned so they were all facing forward. They checked one another’s gear, the holographic Cargo Master checked Mark and the other three people on the end, holographic and not.

           
Green lights came on as harnesses checked out.

           
Doors opened below their feet, ground rushed past, lush forest and fields. The shuttle dove hard, pushing the recruits on a slight angle. They leveled and Mark was dropping through the air.

           
He almost swallowed his gum, as soon as he was clear of the craft, the person in front of him was coming down. It looked like four waves of troopers descended.