Battlespace (14 page)

“Flex” meant to go limp, to render himself as flexible as possible. “Dump” referred to dumping his momentum safely into the R-M tank, in order to bring himself to a safe halt. His collapse against the barrier was less than graceful, a heavy
thump
jarring him toe to head, and it felt like he'd just been dropped onto a flat concrete surface…

…but he was motionless now, relative to the R-M tank. He reached out and let the magnetics in the palm of his right gauntlet snag hold of the white surface. The material was a ceramic composite designed to ablate slowly during the decade-long bombardment it would be subjected to during the flight. Buried within the ceramic, however, was a mesh of superconductor cable; at high flight velocities, it actually converted the ambient magnetic flux into a powerful magnetic field that shunted aside incoming charged particles like interstellar hydrogen and helium nuclei. His glove's magnetics grabbed hold and he pulled himself close, allowing the mags in his knees and boots to latch on as well.

Safe.
This
, he thought a bit wildly,
puts a whole new spin on “hitting the beach.”

Around him, most of the Marines had secured themselves as well. Several, he saw, had misjudged their flex and now were floating back into empty space, arms and legs waving. Other Marines anchored themselves in place, then tossed lifelines out toward their stranded comrades, letting them grab hold and then giving them a tug to get them moving back toward the R-M tank once more.

Every action has an opposite but equal reaction and zero-G exaggerates Newton's Third Law to absurd proportions. Some of the rescuing Marines, when they tugged, were not well enough secured and their pull sent them drifting up toward the Marines they were attempting to rescue. The sight was one of hectic confusion out of which order was gradually being restored.

Chameleonics in the Marine armor were already reacting to the change of environment, changing surface color from the black of space to an oddly jagged bicolor pattern, white from the waist down, black above. The camouflage wasn't perfect, of course, especially as the men moved, but it did break up their outlines and make them harder to see.

It looked like B Section was down and safe, most of the twenty Marines bull's-eyeing an area of about six thousand square meters halfway between the rim and the shielded forward drive venturi—a good landing, if a bit disorganized. A Section, however, appeared to be widely scattered and some were still adrift. A number of men had either missed the R-M tank altogether, or they'd struck at an oblique angle where the tank's surface curved sharply away toward the rim and been unable to grab hold. Now they were drifting helplessly down the length of the huge transport.

A small flotilla of cargo hoppers, scooters, and even Marine Wasps was waiting to home in on the wayward Marines' IFF beacons, snag them, and haul them back to safety. The situation was considerably fuzzier along the rim, where men had come down in thrashing tangles, drifted slowly clear, and now couldn't get back.

“Okay,” a voice called over the command channel. Lieutenant Jeff Gansen, First Platoon's new CO. “Secure from radio silence! Get those men hauled in. Move! Move!”

Alpha Company, First Platoon,
A Section
Marine LaGrange Space Training
Facility
L-4
1443 hours, GMT

Garroway wished these armored suits were equipped with thrusters of some sort. They were not. Both the training to use them and the thrusters themselves were expensive, and someone high up in the military acquisitions hierarchy had deemed them unnecessary. Besides, Marines were supposed to follow the book, not zip around in the sky playing Buck Rogers.

Through cautious experimentation, he found he could slow his tumble somewhat by extending his legs and his good arm, but when he drew them in again the tumble speeded up, just like a figure skater drawing her arms in close to her body to increase her spin. He experimented with putting out one leg, then the other, but the tumble just became more complicated.

At least it didn't look like he was going to miss the target all together. Some of the others would, he saw. It was a damned good thing the Navy had parked a bunch of cargo haulers and other small craft around the transport. They were going to be busy chasing down wandering Marines for the next few hours, it looked like.

He heard the order to end radio silence, but said nothing. His armor had an IFF transponder; they were tracking him now. If he did miss the ship's R-M tank, it was only a matter of time for them to come out and snag him, then drag him back to safety.

He checked his HUD data. He was coming in faster than he was supposed to. Whatever had gone wrong with the pod, it had added a couple of meters per second to his velocity. Worse, each time he caught sight of the
Chapultepec
's white R-M tank dome, it looked more crowded. B Section had
reached the objective first, he saw. And some of A Section as well. It looked like about thirty Marines were scattered about one side of the dome in all, with another ten still adrift.

He was falling
very
fast. He wondered if he should give some kind of warning…but warning of what?
Help, I'm coming in too fast, please catch me
? He decided to focus on riding out the impact. He just wished he weren't tumbling so hard, wished his arm wasn't hurting so much….

Ahead of him, a Marine hit the white surface of the R-M tank, hit it too hard and rebounded, tumbling. Gauging their relative vectors, Garroway was pretty sure they were going to collide, the other Marine coming out to meet him as Garroway fell toward the
Chapultepe
c's broad, domed bow.

What the hell was the guy doing? He appeared to be fumbling with something small, but Garroway couldn't make out what it was in the brief instants he had the other Marine in view.

A collision alarm sounded in Garroway's helmet. Good. Maybe they would damp one another's velocity and just hang there, waiting for someone to come out and get them. Not dignified, exactly, but…

What the hell
?…

The other Marine was holding a sidearm, a Marine-issue 15mm Colt Puller, holding it stiff-armed with both hands as he spun over and over and…

They collided…hard. The shock was sharp and startling. A bright white star appeared on the upper left quadrant of his visor.

“
Damn
!”

And then his visor frosted over and he heard the thin high-pitched shrilling of air whistling off into hard vacuum. His ears popped.

And he knew he'd better belay the swearing and save his breath for a call for help, because he was losing air fast. He slapped the button on his chest pack that activated his ar
mor's emergency transponder. “Mayday! Mayday! Suit breach! I've been shot!…

Alpha Company, First Platoon,
B Section
Marine LaGrange Space Training
Facility
L-4
1443 hours, GMT

“Alpha Company, B Section.” Lee's HUD identified that call as Captain Warhurst's voice. Warhurst was the company commander, watching the exercise from on board the
Chapultepec
. “Lieutenant Gansen! We have a problem.”

“Yes, sir, we do. What the hell happened to A Section?”

“Thruster misfire on the pod. They're scattered all over the sky!”

Lee listened to the brief bursts of radio chatter with growing alarm. Things were seriously amiss. Then he heard someone yelling “Mayday” and “Suit breach.”

“
Corpsman
!” another voiced yelled over the platoon channel. “
Corpsman front
!”

His helmet AI correlated the call with a vac-armor beacon, projecting the location as a winking targeting cursor on his HUD.

Lee didn't try running, a sure way of losing his magnetic grip and falling out of reach of the R-M tank. Instead, he dropped to all fours and began moving in a rapid spider crawl, always keeping at least two mags on the ceramic surface at all times. The blinking cursor, as he got closer, clearly marked a vac-suited figure drifting clear of the R-M tank. The Marine, obviously in trouble, appeared to be flailing, but with only one arm. His movements had set him tumbling,
and it looked like his trajectory was carrying him, not past the tank's horizon, but farther out into empty space.

Damn. There were
two
casualties. His cursor had split to indicate two floating figures, both now tumbling about twelve meters off the edge of the R-M tank moving away from one another.

He didn't have a tether. The organizers of this little party had ruled that there was enough of a safety factor with cargo pods and other small vehicles at the ready. However, with two injured men out there, he couldn't wait for someone to pick them up. He would have to go to them.

His HUD identified the source of the suit breach emergency call. Carefully, he positioned himself in a squatting position, thought-clicked his mags off, then launched himself into space with a hard kick…a bit too hard of a kick, as it turned out. He collided heavily with the man, setting both of them tumbling. He clung to the Marine's suit, however, and tried to blot out the background of dizzily drifting stars, Earth, sun, and transport. He kept his eyes on the man in front of him, on the visor, actually, which had been starred, it looked like, by a gunshot. He could see the air escaping through the pinhole-breach, a tiny jet of freezing water vapor appearing as a thumb-sized cloud dancing above the star. The breach was tiny, but the rest of the visor might weaken and blow at any moment.

The repair, fortunately, was simple. Each Marine carried a tube of nanoseal in an external suit pouch. The Marine—the name
GARROWAY
was stenciled across the helmet above the visor—seemed to be having trouble moving his right arm and the pouch was on his left hip, awkwardly out of reach for the left hand. Lee pulled a tube out of his own kit, broke the tip, and squeezed the contents directly onto the cracked visor.

The clear gel spread rapidly across the curving transparency, adhering to it, already hardening to an airtight rub
bery consistency as it was exposed to vacuum—and turning bright orange as it did so. Using one hand to hold on, Lee pulled his intercom jack from its helmet reel and plugged it in to Garroway's helmet for a direct suit-to-suit link.

“Garroway? You with me?”

“Yeah. I'm…okay, I think.”

“I got the visor leak plugged. It'll hold until we get you on-board the ship. Anything else wrong?”

“My arm…my right arm. I'm having some trouble moving it.”

“Hurts?”

“Yeah.”

Lee studied the data from Garroway's suit, coming to him now over the comjack. “You're not losing air now.”

“I think I hurt it running into that guy.”

Lee sent a coded thought command to Garroway's suit, and the right arm stiffened. “I'm immobilizing that arm, just in case. Anything else hurt?”

“No. Just…a bit shaken.”

“Your suit pressure reads stable at nine and a bit psi. I'm going to leave it there, so we don't put any more stress on that visor, okay?”

“Okay. Uh…who are you, anyway?”

“Sorry. HM2 Lee. Platoon Corpsman.”

“Oh, great. Thanks, Doc.”

“Don't mention it. Just hang tight, don't panic, and we'll get you back to the ship.”

“Roger that.”

Lee worked himself around, trying to get a glimpse of the other injured Marine. “Platoon Tango Oscar,” he called over the platoon radio channel, using the call sign for Training Overwatch, the HQ team overseeing the operation. “This is HM2 Lee. I've got Garroway and he's stable. Can you orient me on the other casualty?”

“Lee, this is Warhurst. We have the other casualty. Stay put. A broom is on its way to bring you in.”

“Roger that, sir. Thank you.”

“Don't mention it. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.” He clung to Garroway's armor, watching the stars slowly sweep around him in a vast circle. His movements had shifted their axis of spin enough that he could no longer see Earth or the transport. The sun glared briefly through his visor every ten seconds or so, darkening it, and giving him an idea of his rate of spin. Otherwise, there were no reference points at all. He and Garroway might as well have been adrift in interstellar space.

Several minutes later, a Marine on a broom drifted into view, matching velocity with the tumbling pair and edging closer. The broom was a long, narrow tube with small rocket engines at either end and a row of saddles along the spine, a cheap and useful form of transport in the space around orbital stations and other space facilities. The Marine reached out, grabbed Lee's arm, and then fired a number of brief, sharp bursts from several rockets, skillfully killing the rotation. After that, it was easy for the two to clamber onboard.

The flight back to the
Chapultepec
was made in silence. With the crisis over, Lee was beginning to think again, instead of merely react. What the hell had happened? The hole in Garroway's helmet appeared to have been caused by the impact of a bullet, a bullet that had not, thank God, gone through, but which must have ricocheted off into space. But the Marines weren't supposed to be carrying loaded weapons.

In fact, the whole operation had taken on the air of what was known in technical terms as a cluster fuck. A platoon-strength drop of forty men onto a large flat DZ…but half of them had scattered to hell and gone. Those Marines should
have had personal maneuvering units, instead of having to wait for pickup.

The fallout from this little debacle, he thought, was going to be interesting.

12
DECEMBER
2159

Ramsey's Office
UFR/USS
Chapultepec
0839 hours, GMT (Shipboard time)

“So?” Ramsey asked. “What went wrong?”

“The insidious Mr. Murphy, Colonel,” Warhurst replied. Both men were seated in Ramsey's office, which no longer was in zero-G.
Chapultepec
's hab modules had been spun up late the day before, creating an out-is-down simulation of eight-tenths of a G. “What can go wrong will. And then some.”

“I have the maintenance report on the pod,” Ramsey said. “A faulty gasket blew in a coolant line, and the stuff fouled a circuit board and froze. Shorted out one of the lateral thruster control lines at exactly the wrong moment. As you say…Murphy's Law. But I'm more interested in the human component.”

“It's in my report, sir. Uploaded it late last night. Sergeant Wes Houston panicked when he saw he was falling clear of the ship. He tried to use his pistol as a handheld rocket, to push himself back.”

“The devil, you say. What was he doing with a loaded sidearm? All weapons were supposed to be empty, checked, and locked.”

“It seems Staff Sergeant Houston managed to draw and load his weapon on the fly, as it were.”

“While in an free-fall tumble?” Ramsey pursed his lips. “Impressive control.”

“I thought so, sir. I suspect it would have worked, too, except that he collided with Garroway just as he was waiting for the right alignment so he could fire. The weapon went off accidentally.”

“Garroway is okay?”

“Yes, sir. His armor would have absorbed the impact fine if the round had hit anywhere else. He was lucky it just punched a pinhole through his visor. His arm was injured in the collision, so couldn't reach his nanoseal. Doc Lee got to him in time, though.”

“Arm okay?”

“Lee says it's just a bruise. Caught him at an awkward angle, though. Caught his shoulder against the suit's joint. He's on light duty for a day or two.”

“Outstanding.” Ramsey steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk. “The question is, though, what are you going to do about it?”

“Sir?”

“About Houston.”

Warhurst nodded. “He
was
technically in violation of orders.”

“Technically?”

“They were ordered to have their weapons unloaded, sir. No one said they couldn't load in the middle of the op, however.”

“Sounds like a dodge for sea lawyers.”

“Or space lawyers, in this case. In any case, I have him confined to quarters for the moment.” Warhurst chuckled. “As if he could go anywhere else at the moment!”

“I see you have his mast scheduled for Friday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Only a mast? Not a court-martial?”

“Well, I know it
was
a weapons violation, Colonel. We could throw the book at him, sure. But I'm using my discretion on this one and not bumping it up to a court. Houston was using his head, damn it. He was using initiative, trying to think the problem through. It just didn't work out this time, is all.”

Ramsey sighed. “I tend to agree, Captain. At the same time, we need to let these kids know the seriousness of the situation. When the word gets passed, ‘no loaded weapons,' there's a reason for it.”

“Agreed, sir. Of course, the problem may solve itself.”

“Eh? How?”

“Staff Sergeant Houston has been fairly vocal about his desire for a discharge. He's got six years in-service subjective. He's got four more on this enlistment, but that could easily be waived, because his objective is twenty-six years. In light of the circumstances, we might give him a choice—take a reduction in grade, or get out, COG.”

“Convenience of the Government. Okay, but would that send the right message to the rest of them?”

“I think so, sir. One thing about the MIEU Marines…they are
tight
, a lot tighter even than other Marine units I've served with. They don't have many ties or connections with the civilian world, a lot of 'em have no family ties at all, so the Corps really is family, all the family a lot of these kids have. They also see themselves as the best…the best of the best, really.”

“That's because they are.”

“Yes, sir. To get demoted a pay grade, that's nothing. But to be demoted to
civilian
…well, yes, sir. I think the rest of them will get the message loud and clear.”

“Do you think Houston will take that option—if you give it to him?”

“I don't know, sir. He's a good Marine. But he's also been pretty loud about wanting out, to the point of being obnoxious about it. It'll be interesting to see which way he goes.”

“I'll leave it in your hands then, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir. One more thing?”

“Yes?”

“Speaking of ‘what are you going to do about it'…we need SMUs.”

“They're not in the appropriations budget. You know that.”

“That, sir, is pure crap and you know it. If nothing else, the debacle in that training exercise yesterday proves it. We need suit maneuvering units. A complete Mark VIII vac armor unit costs…what? About three-quarters of a million new-dollars? An SMU, complete with control hardware and a software link to the Marine's implant, would add, I don't know…maybe ten percent? Seems a worthwhile investment to safeguard that expensive armored suit, if nothing else.”

“I know that. You know that. Some people responsible for military appropriations in Washington do not know that.” Ramsey shook his head sadly. “Between you and me, I think they're afraid of wasted bullets.”

“Wasted bullets, sir?”

“The classic misapplication of budgetary power back in the twentieth century. The Army resisted adopting weapons capable of full-auto fire—despite those weapons' clear superiority in combat—because some of the brass hats in the Pentagon thought they would encourage the soldiers to waste ammunition.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Hell, a century before that, the War Department made a similar argument against magazine-loaded weapons that could fire more than once without reloading. Lincoln himself had to push through the requisition for Spencer repeating carbines, after he got a chance to play with one on the back lawn of the White House.”

Warhurst blinked. “My God. You're saying they're afraid Marines will use them if they're issued?”

“Essentially, yes. Use them and get into trouble playing Buck Rogers.”

“You know, sir, I would rather have to chew out a few Marines for grab-assing with their suit thrusters than lose those Marines because they missed their DZ in a pod dump. Damn it, we're not going to have work pods and brooms standing by to pick up the ones who miss the stargate. What happens when a man in an armored suit sails past the ring structure and into the central opening of that thing?”

“Best guess is he ends up…someplace else. A
very
long way from Sirius.”

“With no way to get back. That is unacceptable, Colonel.”

“Agreed, Captain. I've been working on that. General Dominick has been working on it. Maybe we'll see some action. Maybe we won't.”

“If we do, we're going to need training time, learning how to handle a suit with thrusters.”

“I know. And…speaking of training time, you're going to need to set up an outdoor target range.”

“Oh?”

“We may not have SMUs, but we do have the new issue of laser rifle. LR-2158-A1. No backpack. No cables. Just a butt-stock battery you clip in and discard after about five hundred shots.”

“Outstanding.”

“We're the first unit receiving them as general issue. Company Commanders are responsible for distributing them to the men and setting up weapons orientation sessions with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Ramsey?” another voice said, speaking out of the empty air above the desk. Warhurst knew that voice—Cassius, the Command Constellation's AI. He noticed the program's use of the word “general” but said nothing. So the colonel had gotten his star! Excellent. He deserved it.

“Yes, Cassius?”

“This might also be an apt time to apprise him of the civilian component of the expedition.”

Warhurst cocked an eyebrow. “‘Civilian component'? Oh, shit. Not again!”

Ramsey sighed. “I'm afraid so.”

“PanTerra?”

Ramsey nodded. “They have the best exoarcheological department going.”

“Mm. They must also have the best lobby going in Washington. They have a nerve signing onto this op after that business with Norris and General King.”

Gavin Norris had been a PanTerran corporate representative on the Ishtar mission, and King, evidently, the mission commander, had been in their pay. PanTerra, it turned out, had been less interested in acquiring ancient An technology than they'd been in the idea of importing large numbers of
Sag-ura
to Earth. Those modern descendents of human slaves taken to Ishtar millennia ago had for at least six thousand years been bred for docility and obedience. Apparently, PanTerra had seen a ready market for them as domestic servants in a wealthy culture that no longer found status in household robots.

Slavery, in other words.

“What happened on Ishtar, we're told, was the responsibility of a few people working on their own and without the sanction of their chain of command. The situation, I have been informed, has been dealt with.”

Warhurst sighed. “So who are we baby-sitting this time?” He brightened. “Is Dr. Hanson coming on this one?”

“Negative. The chief exoarcheologist will be Dr. Paul Franz. He has two people working for him. The PanTerra rep will be Cynthia Lymon. They've already signed agreements to the effect that they will take orders from me or my command constellation. They will not blink without prior authorization.”

“Maybe, sir. But they are civilians.”

“And we're working for the civilian government, Captain. Keep that in mind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just one more thing.” He reached into his desk.

“Sir?”

Ramsey handed him a folder. “Congratulations,
Major
. Your promotion just came through.”

He took the folder, opened it, and glanced at the contents. “Thank you, sir!” He knew he was up for the promotion review board—he had the time in, subjective—but since he knew he was slated to boss Alpha Company, he'd thought they were going to wait. A company commander was almost always a captain.

“Don't thank me, son,” Ramsey told him. “All we're doing is adding another twenty kilos to your ruck. I still want you as CO of Alpha Company. You have the experience I need in that billet. But I also want you working with Lieutenant Colonel Maitland as Battalion Executive Officer.” He grinned. “Twice the work for a little more pay, and four times the headaches.”

Warhurst made a wry face. “Thanks a lot, sir.”

“Don't mention it. I'm just spreading the joy. They did it to me, too.”

He grinned. “I heard Cassius call you ‘general.' Congratulations!”

Ramsey nodded. “Seems they wanted a general running the show, even though an MIEU isn't much more than a pumped-up battalion. I think they're nervous about junior officers running the show without the wisdom of Higher Authority.”

In current Marine organizational tables, ten men—three fire teams of three plus a staff or gunnery sergeant—made up a squad. Four squads formed a platoon, organized in two sections, A and B, and headed by a lieutenant. Four platoons and a headquarters element made a company, under the command of a captain, for a total of around 175 Marines.

Normally, four companies and an HQ element made up a
battalion, under a major or a light colonel, while two battalions and a command constellation formed a regiment, for a total of around fifteen hundred Marines commanded by a colonel.

A Marine Interstellar Expeditionary Force, however, was expected to be the ultimate in fully autonomous infantry, capable of operating independently with absolutely no higher-level support. In the environs of another star, reinforcements and resupply were one hell of a long way away. It was organized as a single reinforced battalion—five companies as a ground combat element, or GCE—plus an aerospace combat element and a MIEU service support group. The ACE included the unit's TAVs, or transatmospheric vehicles, which were used to shuttle troops from orbit to a planetary surface, and their TRAPs, the transfer pods.

All together, MIEU-1 numbered about twelve hundred men and women. Colonel—no, Warhurst caught himself—
General
Ramsey would be in overall command of the GCE, the ACE, and the MSSG. Lieutenant Colonel Howard Maitland would command the GCE, designated First Bn, while he, Warhurst, ran Alpha Company of First Bn and served as the GCE's exec.

Having the officers wear two hats in the chain of command was fairly common practice. Space was short on an interstellar transport, with no room for supernumeraries or redundant HQ personnel. In the MIEU, the old Corps axiom that
every
man was a rifleman was more true than ever.

That was why Warhurst particularly disliked having the civilians along. He was willing to believe that Norris had been an aberration, that PanTerra's involvement on this mission was strictly legit…but he would have been a lot happier if Franz, Lymon, and the other two had been Marines—and able to haul their own mass.

But, as Ramsey had pointed out, the Marines worked for the government—the
civilian
government. He was willing to
bet that the primary motivator for most of MIEU-1's personnel would be to find out what had happened to the
Isis
and her personnel. Marines
never
left their own behind. Washington's principal concerns, he knew, would be broader in scope—nothing less than the survival of the human species. Had
Isis
been destroyed by the Hunters of the Dawn? Was the Sirius Gate built by them or by another ancient civilization of starfarers? Did either pose a threat to Earth? And was there anything in the Sirius system that would be useful to humankind, something in the way of ancient high technology?