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Authors: Marko Kloos

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BOOK: Angles of Attack
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I watch as the tail ramps of the SRA drop ships open. From the tail end of the closest Akula, two figures in Alliance battle armor emerge, heavy-looking kit bags slung under each arm. They walk toward us across the expanse of the landing pad. The face shields on the SRA helmets are quite a bit bigger than ours, so it’s easier to make out faces. When the two SRA troopers are twenty meters away, I recognize the taller figure on the left. I raise my own face shield again and wave.

“Dmitry,” I shout.

Dmitry walks up to me and lightly taps my armor with his gloved fist.

“Andrew,” he says. His voice sounds slightly distorted through the speaker system in his helmet. “What are you doing in cold, awful place like this one?”

“We’re going up to the
Indianapolis
together. I’ll be joining you for this mission.”

Dmitry shakes his head with a smile and raps my armor again. “
Iz ognya da v polymya
, eh?”

“What does that mean?”

“We go from flame to fire.”

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” I agree. “Looks that way.”

He gestures to the trooper next to him. The face behind the helmet’s shield is Asian and very clearly female.

“Sub-Lieutenant Lin. My superior. She is here to make sure I get on Commonwealth ship safely.”

Sub-Lieutenant Lin looks at me and snaps a quick and sharp salute, her brown eyes looking into mine unflinchingly. I return the salute. She outranks me, so I should have been the one to offer a salute first, but cross-bloc courtesies are still fairly uncharted territory, and I assume she’s conceding that we’re on Commonwealth turf and that I am the NAC personnel in charge for this trip into orbit. Dmitry is a
stárshiy serzhánt
, a senior sergeant, which means he outranks me as well, if only by one rank and pay grade.

I gesture over to the open tail ramp of the nearby Dragonfly.

“Let’s get upstairs, then. Before the weather turns to shit again.”

“Weather is already shit,” Dmitry says.

I let Dmitry walk up the ramp first before following him into the cargo hold of the Dragonfly. At the top of the ramp, I take a deep, unfiltered breath of the cold air even though it hurts my lungs and makes my nostrils freeze. It’s a harsh and frigid place, and unfit for large-scale human habitation, but I’ll be damned if the air here isn’t the cleanest I’ve breathed in the entire settled galaxy.

I take a seat on the left side of the Dragonfly’s cargo hold. My SRA counterpart seats himself right across the aisle from me, mirroring our arrangement in the Akula during our planetary assault a week earlier. Five years of fighting these people, and I don’t even know what language they use to communicate on joint missions, or whether they just use their comms’ automatic translators.

I’m back on an NAC drop ship, so I get permission from the pilot in command to tie into the Dragonfly’s data bus. Then I tune out Dmitry and watch the feed from the optical sensors on the outside hull: dorsal, top bow, bottom bow, starboard wingtip, port wingtip, stern. My battle armor’s computer can stitch all the video feeds together into a seamless tapestry and project it on the inside of my visor sight. It pans with my head movements, so it almost feels like I
am
the drop ship as we go up through the clouds and above the horrible New Svalbard weather. Finally, at twenty thousand feet, we break through the top of the cloud cover, and the atmospheric bumps go from terrifying to merely teeth jarring.

New Svalbard has a wild, hostile beauty from above. Much of the ice moon’s visible hemisphere is covered in thick clouds, but there are clear patches here and there, and the light from the far-off sun glints on the icy mountain ridges and vast frozen glaciers of the surface below. In another fifty or a hundred years, this will be a prime chunk of galactic real estate if the Lankies don’t come in and take it all away from us. When I first went into space after joining the fleet, I used to be awed by the majestic, overwhelming beauty of the sight of a planet from orbit, but these days it mostly reminds me of just how unfathomably vast the universe is, and how very tiny and insignificant we are.

We transition from atmospheric to spaceflight a short time later, and the buffeting stops. You can always tell when you’re in orbit because your butt gets light in the seat despite the forty pounds of battle armor. I can see all the warships in their different orbital groups on my tactical display, but only
Regulus
and her escort are in visual range, thirty degrees off the port bow and a hundred kilometers away in a higher orbit than ours, position lights blinking and visible even from this range.
Regulus
is a massive ship, over half a kilometer from bow to stern, the largest warship class any of Earth’s nation blocs have ever put into space. Because they’re so few and so valuable, the Navigator-class carriers have not been used against the Lankies yet, so nobody knows how they would fare in battle with a seed ship, but the fact that most of the fleet got destroyed above Mars makes me think that
Regulus
may well be the last of her class. In any case, I am going up to
Indy
right now to help make sure that the carrier won’t have to go toe-to-toe with the Lankies, at least not yet.

We dock with the
Indy
a few minutes later. As before, I don’t even see the stealth orbital combat ship until we’re almost on top of it, despite the fact that I can plot
Indy
’s position on my display through her active IFF beacon. Most of the technology in the OCS is still classified, but I know that the same polychromatic camouflage technology used for the Hostile Environment Battle Armor—our bug suits—has found its way into the outer-hull plating of the
Indy
. She doesn’t have overwhelming firepower, although she is well armed for a ship her size. She is, however, extremely hard to spot, track, or target. During our little insurrection a few weeks ago,
Indy
was able to successfully play orbital hide-and-seek with the rest of the
Midway
task force. According to Colonel Campbell, they didn’t even break a sweat doing it. He also claims he could have nuked
Midway
from stealth successfully, and I have no reason to doubt that claim.

A light shudder goes through the Dragonfly when
Indy
’s docking clamps latch on to the hardpoints at the top of the drop ship’s hull. We move through the hangar hatch and into the artificial gravity field of the larger ship, and my armored weight pushes me downward into the seat again. Through the armor plating of the hull, I can hear the low warning klaxon of the automated docking system as it seals the outer hatch and pulls us into the
Indy
’s tiny drop-ship hangar. We come to rest with a final shudder, and the klaxon outside stops. The engines of the Dragonfly steadily decrease their racket, then fall silent altogether.

“Welcome aboard NACS
Indianapolis
,” I tell Dmitry. “Hope you’re wearing battle dress uniform underneath that armor, because you need to turn your plate in until we get to the Alcubierre chute. And your admin deck, too.”

“You are worried I spy on precious new intelligence boat, eh?”

“I would,” I reply, and Dmitry grins.

He starts popping open the latches of his computerized battle armor, strips off the shell segments, and stacks the pieces on the deck. The SRA commander sent him over unarmed, so I won’t have to ask for his rifle and sidearm, too. I feel a little stupid asking the man to disarm when just a week ago I fought the Lankies by his side, admin decks and loaded weapons and all, but the agreed-upon rules for this joint mission call for it. And truthfully, I don’t know Dmitry well enough yet to know that he won’t try to use the situation for all the intelligence gathering he can. Paranoia is one of the defining traits of the experienced combat soldier.

The tail ramp opens to reveal the claustrophobic confines of the
Indy
’s tiny drop-ship hangar. The bulk of the Dragonfly fills it out almost entirely. I collect my bag and walk down the ramp. Before I step on the deck, I salute the North American Commonwealth flag painted on the bulkhead in front of me and address the officer of the deck, who is standing by the exit hatch. There’s an SI corporal in battle armor next to him, PDW hanging on his chest from a sling, pistol in a holster on his leg. They don’t usually bother with armed security when a surface transport arrives, but those don’t usually contain an SRA frontline combat trooper. I salute the officer of the deck.

“I request permission to come aboard. Staff Sergeant Grayson, with SRA guest, to report to the CO as ordered.”

The OOD returns my salute.

“Permission granted. The skipper is waiting for you in CIC.” His gaze flicks past me to the SRA trooper as Dmitry stops on the ramp just behind me and salutes the NAC colors.

“Crazy-ass new world, I know,” I say to the OOD as we walk past him to the exit hatch under the watchful eyes of the armed Spaceborne Infantry corporal.

“Crazy don’t cover it, Sarge,” he replies.

Colonel Campbell is standing at the holotable in the combat information center when I walk through the armored hatch. Dmitry is behind me in the corridor, and there’s a pair of armed SI troopers guarding the CIC. We may not be shooting at each other anymore, but Colonel Campbell’s spirit of cooperation does not yet extend to welcoming SRA soldiers into the nerve center of his ship.

“Good to see you, Mr. Grayson,” he says. He returns my salute and then extends his hand. “Fine work on Fomalhaut b with our new pals. I read the mission reports.”

“Thank you, sir. I was just along for the ride, mostly. But those SRA marines did all right.”

“Yeah, it’s amazing what we can blow up when we actually point our guns the same way.” He glances at the armored hatch behind me, where the SRA trooper is waiting just on the other side of the clear polyplast viewport.

“And now we’re setting out on another joint mission with these folks. This one’s going to be fun. And by fun, I mean ‘white-knuckled, pants-shitting terror.’ ”

“We’ve been there before, sir,” I say. “More than once.
Versailles
wasn’t exactly a slow day at the office, either.”

“No, it wasn’t.” The shadow of a pained look shows on his face very briefly as he undoubtedly remembers his old command that burned up in the atmosphere above the colony planet Willoughby, after having lost over a third of its crew to Lanky proximity mines. That was five years ago, and it seems like forever and only just yesterday at the same time. Colonel Campbell shakes his head slightly, as if to rid himself of the memory.

“Mr. Grayson, have you ever considered the fact that you seem to be right at the bleeding edge of the shitstorm way too often, considering your pay grade?” he asks.

I can’t help but chuckle. “The thought has occurred to me, sir.”

“We’re finishing up taking on extra supplies and mission personnel. There’s chow and ammo stuffed into every corner, and we have a full squad of jarheads embarked as it is, so don’t expect a lot of elbow room on this ride. We’ll be on our way just as soon as we’ve secured the extra ordnance we’re taking along. Check in with Master Sergeant Bogdan and see if he can find you some rack space somewhere.”

BOOK: Angles of Attack
8.98Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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