Stone Blade (15 page)

“Hey Sarge,” called Idriall, “You gonna make us scrub that Peep?”

“I'm thinking about it,” replied Micah, face perfectly serious, “IF you don't place at least fifth when we hit alien dirt.”

Groans.

Micah breathed deeply when they debarked. Ceto smelled different but not unpleasant. The afternoon was muggy and cool and a crowd gathered at the port to watch the League troops arrive. The crowd applauded when the League commander reported to the local ones. That made Micah feel good. These people - not enemies! - wanted the League there.

***

Strike Group 3340 did not leave the port area. The Drop platoons would spend their time in rotation between orbital bases and the starport. Settling into a routine took not long at all. While 3340/C was on the ground Farley and Arvin arranged drills aplenty. Upside drills were necessarily limited but the Marines trained hard in conjunction with the Naval troopies. On some calamity hitting the planet below them the Navy developed bombardment plans from pinpoint to saturation. The Marines could mount assaults from DropTACs berthed in the station or meteor down individually. The League had a hefty stockpile of HRATs marked for training. In a diabolical move that re-earned Micah's respect, Farley decreed that all Marines up for rotation would drop meteorically to the surface. Any rat jock who missed the LZ by more than a klick would not be allowed off-base. Period! Micah's group always made rotation!

***

“I think it's a tanker of sewage,” complained Kerry as she inspected her cards, “They knew that DeepPeep would be a stone bastard to deploy. No offense, Sarge. Why we had to pull hot drill 'till they get it primed I absolutely do not know!”

Nieman grunted and Idriall drew another card. Fleets were trump which neither helped nor hurt Micah.

“I think it just broke,” said Idriall, “Brass had to rut someone's day and we were here.” He raised the stake five credits.

Micah sighed. Idriall was probably right. Simple bad luck put his platoon topside when the Deep Eye malfunctioned. Orbit Command called a general alert then downgraded it to hands-at-station. That meant Micah's platoon would stay topside until ordered to stand down.

“Trump,” said Idriall smugly.

“Feces,” swore Kerry, “Can you put him on scrub, Sarge?”

“Don't I wish!”

Micah put down his cards and he and Nieman left the table. Several others took their places and Micah swam to the observation port. According to the Deep Eye a massive fleet was maneuvering toward the planet. Far too many ships to be anything but false echoes.

Something sparkled in the distance. Probably blackwater fighters drilling.

PAIN!

Micah shook his head groggily as he tumbled slowly across the room. Something had hit him hard. The wall!

Noise.

The ringing in Micah's ears, noticeable by its diminution, faded to be replaced by cries and meaningless gabble.

Images.

The red emergency glows illuminated the room in a surreal light. Around Micah figures scurried about, some donning armor and some helping others do the same.

“Sarge!! Micah! You with us?”

“Uhh.” Micah focused on Idriall. He began suppressing his various aches and pains. “What happened?”

“Torque if I know, Sarge. Get tight! We're leaking!”

That snapped Micah into action. Ignoring the chaos around him he located an EVAC suit and began pulling it on. The station around him clanged and alert klaxons joined the breach alarms now sounding.

“General quarters, general quarters,” said the comm, “Launch crews to stations! Launch all fighters. This is not a drill.”

Now sealed and pressured, Micah moved to help others into their suits.

“Mah-REENS!”

Arvin brought immediate stillness save for the few who still struggled into their EVACs. Arvin himself wore full combat armor and floated just inside the rec room hatch.

“Marines! Report to the ready room now! Leave your kits and prepare for drop! MOVE!”

Micah found most of 3340's rat jocks already assembled. After a quick once-over the medic gave him a hypo and allowed Micah to don his armor. Since the room showed full pressure he shed the EVAC first.

“Ten-HUP!”

“As you were.” Farley spoke before the last syllable left Arvin's mouth. “Marines, we have a situation here. Apparently the DeepPeep wasn't lying and the Corpsies did manage to sneak a fleet in here. There's heavy stuff approaching orbit and a lot of other stuff hitting our stations. Orbital's not responding.

“At last report most of our fleet's chasing something in the outer orbits. Corpse troops are hitting the ground and we have a lot of metal and TACs loose up here. I want you ready to drop five minutes ago! Do not board or cocoon but stand ready for either. As soon as I know, you'll know. Arvin, with me, please.”

Micah's platoon strapped into their ready racks. Until they received orders to cocoon - deploy into HRATs - or board the DropTAC they would stay here. Micah checked everyone else before strapping himself down. He noticed several vacant racks, Toroski's among them.

Once he strapped down Micah plugged in to the station's life support and comm network. There were several varieties of music available but Micah switched to the command channel. By the status reports the Navy fighters held their own, at least for now. Micah knew not how the Consortium managed to jump in such a fleet but they certainly did a job of it. Farley's voice overrode the command freq and cut off more speculation than just Micah's.

“Marines there's hot action on the ground. The Consortium has a beachhead on the south continent and a lot of stuff around the port there. They have missy in place here and are knocking down CommNet. Last good look showed 90% TACs with our name on 'em. Stand ready...”

WHAM!

The station lurched and the Marines shook in their harnesses. Designed to take it, the racks spared the soldiers most of the impact. All channels went dead and the lights flickered, dimmed and died. A few seconds later the emergency reds activated. The hull breach alarm began sounding and faded as the atmosphere leaked away.

“Sarge?” The voice shook too much for Micah to identify it.

“At ease, Marine!” Sounding more confidence than he felt Micah spoke, “Sound off! Who all's awake?”

Micah ticked off names as the others called them.

“Stay put. Iddy, with me.”

Micah unhooked, unstrapped and floated toward the hatch. It opened before he reached it. Two Navy ratings and another Marine floated through.

“Report,” said Micah.

“We're hit bad, sir,” said one of the sailors, “Something touched off the fighter dump. Command module's not responding and there's not a lot of comm here.”

“Easy, sailor,” said Micah, hearing the other's voice shake, “Marine, sound off.”

“Ralin, sir. 21045 Support. They fragged the other drop bay. I have six more sweeping the station. Last time I saw a screen we had a lot more troubles than fighters. They were just in range for long missy but they'll be short before long.”

Micah thought hard. As the highest-ranking trooper present the decision fell to him. He didn't like that feeling at all!

“Ralin, any officers with your crew?”

“Nope, Sarge. Looks like you're it.”

Flames! Feces!!

“How close were those troubles?”

“Plus fifteen if we're lucky, sir. I gave my team ten to sweep. Shouldn't take that long, though.”

That told Micah more than he wanted to know. He thought hard.

“Mount up,” said Micah, “Nee, load the TAC with everything here. Get those sailors in real armor.” Micah turned to the sailors. “Either of you a pilot?”

“Yes sir,” answered one, “Cert and top ratings on...”

“Can you fly a DropTAC?”

“Yes sir!”

“Strap it on, then. See if you can't tap into a CommNet somewhere and get us some intel.”

Seven of the designated ten minutes passed when the port opened and admitted eight more personnel. None of them outranked Micah, worse luck! There were seven Marines and another sailor.

“Sir, you need to see this.”

Micah swam into the TAC and stuck his head in the cockpit. 

“Trouble, sir. They've blown away our fighters and they're headed this way. ETA ten with five to seven for missiles.”

“Marines,” snapped Micah, “Mount up NOW! Strap in and get tight.”

Micah strapped himself into the command harness.

“Sailor, just how good are you?”

“Thompson, sir,” said the man, “Show me what pebble you want hit and I won't miss by more than a meter!”

Micah chewed on this. All the DropTAC's many virtues did not include stealthy. If they launched now Corpse scanners would have them ten ways. If they waited they'd be vaporized along with the station.

“Thompson, you're getting a chance to prove that. How much ack do we have active?”

“None, sir. Command took it with them.”

“Flames! Slib, then. We do this the hard way. You have a track on the missiles?”

“Aye, sir. ETA...”

“Good. This boat's rated at five G's. At impact minus one second you use every one of them!”

“Sir?”

“Impact minus one. If there's any luck in the galaxy the Corpsies will miss us for all the other junk flying around. Give it three to five seconds of push then go dead.”

“Sir, we have chaff loaded.”

Micah smiled at this. “Blow all of it you feel necessary, Mister Thompson! Give me a count, please.”

Micah switched Thompson's comm to broadcast.

“Marines. Prepare for full acceleration and silent running. On pilot's count.”

***

Micah watched the missile-blips approaching the station. Something opened fire with counter-lasers but with little effect. Automatics, hoped Micah. With the number of incoming missiles nothing solid would survive. Except them, hoped Micah.

“Three,” said Thompson, “Two. One... Full blast!”

Five brutal gravities slammed Micah into his rack. The missiles met the station and the remote display died in static. Harsh actinic light reflected off the edge of the front port and a giant hammer slammed the TAC well past its gentle five gravs. 

Red lights flashed and the TAC tumbled erratically. Inhumanly fast, Thompson fought the bucking craft back into some semblance of control.

“Cutting power,” snapped Thompson.

Acceleration dropped to nothing and the lights, panels and displays all went dark. Micah switched his comm to lowest power.

“Report.”

Micah feared he'd hear nothing.

“Present and counted,” replied Idriall, “No casualties and no injuries. The ship, though... I think she's a loss, Sarge.”

“Thompson. Passive scan, please?”

“Nothing sweeping,” replied Thompson, “Sarge? Sir?”

“Micah Stone, Mister Thompson.” Then, to the question he heard in Thompson's voice, “And I'm an officer until we find a real one.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Fine job of piloting too, Thompson.”

Micah inspected the TAC. Aft of the troop hold it was a twisted wreck. No hope of landing it, even for Thompson. Half of the drop tubes flashed red.

“We can fix some of 'em, sir,” said Kerry, “With the load we have we'll need at least three rounds.”

“Make it four,” said Micah, “If we have the rats for it. Load up some cracker barrels. Everything you can. The more junk we can send down the better for us.”

“Mister Stone. Bridge, please.”

Micah looked at the orbital plot. Thompson started to explain but the graph told Micah all he needed.

“Get those tubes ready in thirty, Kerry. We'll be in air by forty-five.”

Thompson caught Micah's attention.

“Mister Stone, how do you propose I land this ship?”

“You don't, Mister Thompson.” Micah paused a moment. “Have you ever meteored?”

After twenty minutes a thin tendril of atmosphere jostled the ship. Thompson cursed and delicately applied what maneuver he could.

“We're over the south continent,” said Thompson, “And that's all I can tell you. Passive IR shows water and land and I recognize the features. Uhh... I've never dropped, Mister Stone. Neither have Charlie or Jake.”

Micah couldn't help his smile.

“Relax, Mister Thompson. You'll learn from the best!”

Thompson locked the ship on automatic. He and Micah crawled back to the troop hold.

“The automatics will take you in,” explained Idriall to the nervous sailors, “Just sit back and let them work. Whatever you do, do NOT override them! When your last 'chute deploys you can look on passive for an LZ but don't get fancy. Don't hit water and don't hit trees. If you have to pick aim for water. It shouldn't stab you. Much. Your armor is good but if you panic it'll kill you. If it doesn't I will!”

The sailors nodded gamely.

“Finally,” concluded Idriall, “once you hit the ground stay put and we'll find you. We're used to this and it'll go a lot better if we don't have to search the continent for you! Questions? Good! Now mount up!”

Micah saw Idriall suppress a grin. His revenge, no doubt, for every burned meal any Navy rating ever served him. The atmosphere stroked the almost-ship more aggressively now.

“Mount up, folks,” said Micah, “By the numbers!”

***

As he fell Micah tried to convince himself it was just another mission. He felt a cold pit inside his stomach; a void different than any he'd known before. He himself would make it down or not. If ack found him he'd never know. Now, though, his responsibility extended beyond himself.

Micah remembered Pass the Hat. Toward the end of Basic one recruit received a horrible pink, green and tan hat. That recruit became an officer for a day. Or until he or she messed up. Then the hat passed to someone else. Micah hated the drill and liked the reality even less!

Micah summoned all the information he could recall concerning the south continent. Its population was sparse and scattered with few major concentrations. The one exception was the city containing the planet's private and commercial starport. That would also be the League reserve port. The Marines would travel there! By the time his first 'chute popped Micah had convinced himself the League would counterattack and he'd find a command structure there.