Indomitable (11 page)

“You're leaving something out. Do tell, Sergeant,” said Staff Sergeant Go-Mi.

“Ah, well, I suppose I should mention that my great-granny sits on the board. She's RAW-MC too, First Sergeant Ahana Sindri, retired in 53 A.E. She will be observing the op tomorrow.”

“That bit of information is need-to-know.” Promise swept the faces of her platoon sergeants to make the point clear. “It will just make our cubs anxious so we're not telling them. Clear?”

Verbals and nods all around.

“Crystal,” said Ramuel.

“During the last few days, you've all stepped up, trained hard, encouraged and pushed and prodded the greenhorns to step it up too. We've made real progress and you are to thank for that. Even Private Atumbi is showing promise.” The looks she got back told her her platoon sergeants needed some convincing. “All right, point taken. He will get there.”
I hope.

“Tomorrow we deploy as a full company and find out if all the hard work has paid off. I know we will do ourselves proud. Mount Bane is designed to teach Marines to face the very real possibility of failure. Complete, utter failure. We all know a traditional assault on the island sets us up to fail by the numbers. We have to think differently, and train our least-experienced boots to expect the unexpected too. Teach them to adapt, and flex under pressure.”

Promise looked around the circle and locked eyes with each Marine in turn. Nodded to, reassured, and challenged every one. “We can do this. It will be fun.”

“Are you bringing your senior, ma'am?” asked the gunny.

“Of course, Tomas. Regulations allow good-luck charms on an op. Don't worry. I'll have a standard-issue sidearm on me too.”

“I wear a cross, ma'am.” Ramuel let himself smile. “Don't you think you're stretching the Regs just a bit?”

“No. Why?” Promise feigned innocence. “Did you know GLOCKs can fire underwater?” she replied without missing a beat.

 

Thirteen

APRIL 24
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0530 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

PUGILIST SEA, CORREGIDOR ISLAND WARFARE TRAINING CENTER

Lieutenant Promise Paen stood
near the rear of the forward compartment of the Maku-class light attack craft and watched the chronometer on the forward bulkhead wall tick down to “drop.”

“Ten mikes out,” she barked over a sea of noise: mechboots shifting on the deck plating, mechsuits jostling in webbing, raucous humor, and the hum of the LAC's dual fusion engines.

Promise strode through her Marines, steadying herself on the overhead racks as she threaded the aisle, to counter the rough turbulence battering the LAC's hull outside. The maglocks in her boots were engaged to keep her anchored to the deck. A tropical hurricane had decided to vent its fury along their approach to Mount Bane, and the pilot had taken full advantage of the storm to mask the LAC's signature from the island's scanners, which meant flying through soup. After a brief, peaceful stint in the eye of the storm, they'd plunged into 150 kph winds that were giving the LAC's countergravity matrix a workout.

In the midst of a particularly rough patch, Promise dropped onto the empty bench next to Private Ed Kartoom, to help him fix a feed problem with his standard-issue FS-7.77 or “Triple-7” Carbine. Like all of her Marines, Kartoom wore the RAW-MC's standard-issue Kydoimos-6 Mechanized Infantry Combat Battlesuit, or mechsuit: the interlocking plates of peristeel molded to the wearer's body, flexed where necessary like the skin of a snake. Ergonomic compartments along the thighs and forearms housed spare cells, clips, throwing grenades, and snacks. An external mount on each hip took a sidearm. Every spare millimeter of internal capacity was crammed with enough tech to prosecute a small war.

“It won't cycle, ma'am.” Kartoom stabbed the small display mounted to the carbine's frame, directly above the trigger. “I've run all the diagnostics and can't find the problem.” Kartoom looked about ready to break the carbine over his knee.

“Here—hand it over. Forget the screen. Use your head for something besides a helmet rack.” Sharp words, she knew. She tempered them with humor and smiled at Kartoom as they bit into his hide. “See.” Promise popped the clip and pulled the charging handle. She saw the problem at once. “I believe you have a bad magazine. Uh-huh, like I thought. See, the casing is bent inward at the top where it fits into the mag well. It's not seating properly, so your penetrators aren't feeding up the ramp like they should. Toss it and grab another. Safety on, Private.” Promise pointed to her head. “Remember, tech is only as good as you are.”

A bit farther down the aisle Promise spotted Private Mary Chang. Chang was looking paler than usual, and sweat dripped from her nose. “Chang, get your head down … between your knees.
Now.
” Promise grabbed an empty crate from an overhead smartrack and tossed it on the deck, and then kicked it hard toward Chang. “Incoming!” Several outstretched boots quickly pulled back as the crate screeched across the LAC's deck plating, showering sparks in its wake. Staff Sergeant Go-Mi stuck out a mechboot to apply the brakes while Sergeant Sindri pulled out a smoke and made a joke of lighting it. A ghost-stricken Chang lunged for the crate, cheeks bulging with spew.

“Nice save, Lieutenant,” said Staff Sergeant Go-Mi. “We've all been there, Chang. Hang tough. One day you'll look back on this and laugh.”

“Ain't that the tru
uu
—” Chang said before heaving again and again and again.

“Feel better, Private?” Promise disengaged her maglocks and took a knee beside Chan, and then looked up into the young woman's stricken face. She'd smelled worse in the barracks, which didn't say a whole lot for Marine hygiene. “You just need to get your drop legs underneath you. They'll come in time. Swallow. Good. Now, stick out your tongue.”

Promise popped a hatch on her thigh compartment and withdrew a stim. “Hold still, this will sting a bit. And don't bite me or you'll break a tooth on my gauntlet. There.” Promise thumped Chang on her shoulder plate. “You're already looking like yourself, Marine. Don your helmet and have your AI check your vitals. Keep your faceplate up, in case…” She was already moving when she heard Chang's helmet lock tight.

Just then the LAC dropped suddenly, and it was enough to break the pull of her maglocks. Promise instantly thrust her hands up to prevent her skull from rapping the LAC's overhead.

“See,” said Kathy. “If you won't strap in at least don your helmet.”

Promise fumbled with the helmet latched to her waist, finally got it unhooked, and pulled her head through the collar. She flexed her jaw to equalize the pressure in her ears while her HUD spooled up. Flipped her externals to on and said, “Happy?” Then she headed toward the front of the compartment.

With her armor on, she grew about twenty centimeters boot-to-crown. She was less than a meter across at the shoulders, thick in the waist, and heavy as a small boulder. Armor and an EMP-hardened mesh and triage capabilities and synthetic muscles all had to go somewhere. Promise had never cared much about the way she looked up-armored. She'd never understood the janes who obsessed about how their derrieres looked in mech—nothing in the 'verse could help her flat aft anyway. Promise had modified her mechsuit to accommodate her senior and three spare clips inside the right thigh compartment, and if she was going to have one pear-shaped hip she figured she might as well have two, so she'd thrown extra cells in the left compartment and a couple of walkie-talkies. The “run-baby-run”s were a lot of fun to throw and if your trajectory was off, the grenade would stand up on its own and sprint toward the target before going boom. Because she was flat on top, she'd shaved the chest cavity down a bit too. It was a small price to pay for a smaller side profile while maintaining her suit's ability to shrug off damage. She reached the bulkhead door to the LAC's cockpit, which was sealed for flight, and pivoted on the balls of her mechboots, grabbed an overhead rung for stability, and sized up her command.

“All right, Pythons, drain it, dump it, pack it up, wolf it down. We go in five mikes.”

Thirty-nine heads turned to face her. Her order simultaneously traveled over the company net, resonated in the mastoid implant of every jane and jack in Victor Company. Powered gauntlets and helmets locked and sealed, weapons racked and cycled, fingers flexed, and more than a few Marines blacked out their visors and said a hasty “thank you, Jesus” in the privacy of a vac-and-sound-sealed suit as they took care of business and grunted out a load.

Promise made a point of tapping her visor, which turned clear, so her people could see her smiling eyes as they bounced through atmo in the minutes leading up to drop.

At T minus three mikes to drop, she barked out, “On your feet, Pythons. Take a rail. Double-check your gravchute and your buddy's. Private Atumbi, sound off.”

Atumbi stepped out of line and waved from midway back.
“Here, ma'am.”

“Private, please tell me you brought your rifle to the big show?”

The battlenet lit up with cackles and colorful metaphors.
“Bet he brought his gun too,”
said Sergeant Sindri.

“I'd certainly hope so or the private will need a medic,” Promise added dryly.

“Both are racked and ready, ma'am,”
said Atumbi.

“More than I need to know, Race. Finger off the trigger, okay?”

“Roger that, ma'am.”

“Platoon Sergeants—roll call and report, by toons.”

One by one, the boots of Victor Company pinged the battlenet and reported in, green to go, first to their respective platoon sergeants. One by one each platoon sergeant reported to Promise directly. When all of the all-present-and-accounted-fors were received and dutifully logged, Promise slaved the company battlenet to her heads-up display for a final review of the operational plan. A small 2D aerial map of the island and the surrounding waters appeared on her heads-up display and on the HUDs of very boot in Victor Company. Promise dropped a ring around Sector 53 and a ring around their current position, and tasked Bond to track time-to-target in real time.

“Remember, we are dropping to two-zero thousand meters, seven klicks out from our target. We will fall to one-five-hundred meters before deploying gravchutes. Your bubble will activate immediately once you clear the LAC's drop ring. Until we hit the drink, you are to maintain comm silence.”

Promise pinged Private First Class Jupiter Cervantes and gave her the deck. “Jupiter was jumping long before she joined the Corps. Family business and such. She's already logged more drops than most of us will in a full career and she recently made Senior Parachutist. Before joining Victor Company, Charlie Battalion, she was with Whiskey BAT—the Demon Wings—where she logged over thirty-five HALO combat drops, and five orbital insertions. She is our acting jump master for today's op. Jupiter, please give us a one-mike rundown on the gravchute and the bubble.”

Private First Class Cervantes chimed in.
“Aye, aye, ma'am. The bubble is your run-of-the-'verse null field. Cancels all comm traffic in and out, and masks your signature. Once it's penetrated, either by incoming fire or returning fire, there's no going back, and you're
roscado
—screwed. Mount Bane's ground cannons will take you out in the span between two heartbeats. Keep your pie hole shut and your pads off the trigger and let the bubble mask your sig while you're in free fall. Next comes the gravchute. It's a whole other animal. It's touchy at higher altitudes. Keep a light touch and no matter what you do pull your chute before minimum ceiling. Pass it and your chances of survival drop precipitously. Wait too long and it's
hasta la vista, chiquita.
”

Promise took over. “Thank you, PFC,” Promise said. “Any questions? Now's the time. Anyone? No? Good. Go-time.”

The forward drop ring opened in midcompartment, revealing scattered, backlit clouds and thousands of meters of empty blackness below. “Marines, stay on your platoon sergeants and you'll reach the LZ. Alpha toon, on me. We go in thirty.”

Promise walked to the yellow jump ring and grabbed the handhold just above her head. When the chrono hit five seconds, she gave the obligatory thumbs-up to Kathy and the other four boots of her toon, dug her mechboots into the deck's grated plating, and surrendered her mortal body to the sky.

 

Fourteen

APRIL 24
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0541 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

PUGILIST SEA, CORREGIDOR ISLAND WARFARE TRAINING CENTER

HALO DROP

“All systems nominal, ma'am,”
Bond said as she fell below nineteen thousand meters. “Your heart rate is slightly elevated but well within acceptable parameters. I'm detecting increased cortisol levels in your bloodstream and a slight rise in your core body temperature. Would the lieutenant care for some music?”

Not this again.

A cumulonimbus shaped like a warship drifted into her flight path. She punched through the aft hammerhead and was through in seconds.

“Actually, the lieutenant would prefer to hear the howling of the wind.”

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Would you confirm that request?”

“You heard me correctly, and while you're at it, dial the temp down five degrees. I'm hot.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am. Patching through the howling of the wind. Dialing your suit's internal temperature down five degrees.”

At least Bond's hardwired to my mechsuit and not to me,
thought Promise. At least she could pull her helmet off and leave Bond on the shelf if she wanted to. And if her AI tried to link with her mastoid implant she could always take a message.