Luna Marine (26 page)

“Three-two-zero by zero-zero-eight, delta-
v
five mps. Initiating.” The sound of thrusters firing thumped hollowly through bulkheads, and Gallois felt the slight but definite surge of low acceleration. Slowly, the
Sagittaire
pivoted…and then came the stronger nudge of her main engine, firing for just an instant with a bump from behind, as though Gallois had been nudged in the back.

“Captain, Main Gun,” the voice of Captain Paul Marichy, the weapons officer, said in Gallois's headset. “I can't find a target! Weapon track-and-lock radar is being blocked!”

“Do it manually, if you have to! My guess is that there's at least one large, chemical warhead behind that chaff cloud, and probably more.”

“What if they're throwing something heavier at us, Captain?” Abelard asked. He sounded worried.

“Then the bastards are escalating this war. No one has used nuclear weapons in the fighting yet.”

Even so, the question was disquieting. The Americans would be desperate, once they found out that a mountain was about to smash into the heart of their country, with the explosive equivalent of hundreds of megatons of TNT. Such a threat might warrant, in their eyes, a nuclear response….

As an aide to General Bourges, before he'd received his latest command, Colonel Gallois had been privy to some of the EU planning sessions in Brussels and Geneva, and he knew quite a bit about the top-secret ship-construction project at Tsiolkovsky, on the Lunar farside. In his own mind, it would have made far more sense to wait until the
Millénium
was ready for combat than to tempt the gods of war with Operation Damocles. Once
Millénium
was ready, the EU would have a sword of terrible, dazzling power, a weapon that would bring the United States to her knees and guarantee both the Union and France a solid
position of leadership within the UN for the next century, at least.

But then, the generals, the bureaucrats, and the politicians rarely seemed to make sense these days. All a soldier could do was keep quiet and follow his orders in the highly risky assumption that the civilians really did know their asses from rabbit holes, even if they gave the impression at times that they did not.

On the main display, the graphic animation representing
Sagittaire
was rising slowly from the asteroid, maneuvering now to bring the oncoming chaff cloud, an irregular and ragged blob of translucent red, well above 2034L's horizon. When the range closed enough, Marichy ought to have a good, clear shot; if he missed, even a chemical explosion could hurl fragments of the asteroid that would sweep through the
Sagittaire
like shrapnel. And if the warhead was a nuke…

The red cloud washed over one side of the slowly tumbling asteroid, scouring across grid coordinates two-five-three by zero-one-nine like a blood-hued storm. Gallois could hear a new sound, now, a
tick-tick-ticking
of small particles colliding with the EU vessel's hull. The ticking became a steady hiss, then a roar as bits of aluminized polymer chaff and reflective metallic particles like coarse grit stormed against the hull.

“I have a target!” Marichy called. “Bearing zero-three-zero by minus zero-one-one! It looks like!…”

“Fire!” Never mind what it looked like. That could be sorted out later.

On the main display, the target, a fast-moving yellow diamond traveling in the red cloud's wake, flared brightly, pulsed visibly for a moment as metal vaporized in a light-and-radar-reflecting cloud, then winked out. A second diamond was moving in along a slightly different vector. Gallois could feel the humming in the deck as Marichy brought
Sagittaire
's ball turret to bear….

The second missile's warhead detonated on target, eleven meters from Asteroid 2034L's surface, and less than three hundred meters from the
Sagittaire
. The flash, silent and deadly, briefly touched both the asteroid's dusty
surface and the ship's hull with liquid fire and the rippling quicksilver of metal and ceramic flowing like water. Dust vaporized, erupting from 2034L's surface in mute, explosive fury; superheated rock cracked, split, and exploded, hurling multiton chunks into space. One of those chunks struck
Sagittaire
squarely in her propulsion unit, rupturing water tanks and setting her thirty-meter length tumbling in the center of a spiraling cloud of fragments and glittering spray.

That wild tumble scarcely mattered.
Sagittaire
's entire crew was already dead, strapped in at their duty stations as superheated clouds of smoke and steam from burning wiring and ruptured feed lines filled the radiation-blasted interior of her hab module.

A dead ship now, with dead hands at her lifeless controls,
Sagittaire
continued to fall with the slowly dispersing cloud of debris along much the same path that she'd been traveling before the warhead's detonation….

WEDNESDAY
, 3
SEPTEMBER
2042

Marine Fire Base 125
Near Kirovsky
Russian Far Eastern Maritime
Territory
0800 hours local time

The met-boys were calling for another day with a high of 30° Celsius, humid, with the wind from the southeast…a typical summer's day, in other words, in this muddy, godforsaken, global-warmed corner of Asia. It was hard to imagine, Jack thought as he came to attention, that in another three months this place would be a howling, ice-and snowbound wilderness. Across the grinder, canned music began playing the “Star Spangled Banner,” and he snapped to a crisp salute as the American flag fluttered up the pole set in front of the sandbagged Quonset hut serving as 3rd Battalion HQ. Right on cue, he heard the sharp but distant
thump-thump-thump
of the NC mortars, but he held his salute as the anthem continued to play.

He knew the game now, and the rules. After two weeks at Marine Fire Base 125—“Ol' Buck and a Quarter” to the old hands—he could play it with the best of them. He still remembered that first Monday, his first at Kirovsky, when he'd come to attention with his entire company at morning colors and heard the thump of the mortars. He'd flinched—hell, he'd been ready to dive headfirst for the nearest slit trench—but Gunnery Sergeant Blandings had
been standing nearby. “As you were, Marine,” Blandings had growled from the side of his mouth, just loud enough for Jack to hear. The man must've had eyes in the back of his head.

The anthem had finished, Captain Rollins, his company commander, had dropped the salute he'd been holding for the unit, and then,
finally
, Blandings had shouted, “
Incoming
!”

The company had melted away, diving into slit trenches, bunkers, and foxholes. Seconds later, the first savage
crump
of a mortar round had thundered on the grinder where the company had been drawn up for colors, followed by another detonation…and a third…and a fourth. It had been Jack's first time under hostile fire, and he'd huddled in the bottom of a muddy trench with five other Marines, as gravel, mud, and hot bits of shrapnel rained on them from the startlingly clear, blue sky.

Blandings had explained it to him later. “The NCs always fire a few rounds when they see us raising the colors…especially if they see us in formation, like today. But the first rounds don't arrive until ten, maybe fifteen seconds after the anthem ends, so there's plenty of time, see?”

If that had seemed strange, the aftermath was even stranger. The bombardment had lasted only a couple of moments and consisted of perhaps a dozen rounds. After the silence following the last tooth-rattling
whump
of an explosion, Marines all over the camp began jeering, whistling, and catcalling, as though taunting the unseen enemy. Seconds later, another flag had gone up…a T-shirt dyed bright red and affixed to a pole so it could be waved back and forth in slow, lazy arcs.

Jack had caught the symbolism immediately. Maggie's drawers…the flag waved on the target range that signified that the poor recruit on the firing line had not only missed the bull's-eye, but had, in fact, missed the entire target. He'd laughed out loud, a harsh, nervous bark, when he got the joke.

“Tradition,” Blandings had told him. “Marines did the same damned thing at least as far back as Khe Sanh.”

After the recording of the national anthem crashed to its home-of-the-brave conclusion, Jack dropped his salute and trotted easily to the nearest sandbagged trench along with several other Marines. There was no formation held this morning—that was reserved for Mondays—but Ol' Buck and a Quarter was heavily populated, and there were always a dozen or two men and women crossing the grinder when Colors sounded. Lazy seconds later, with lots of time to spare, the first detonation erupted from the grinder, spraying dirt, gravel, and smoke skyward.

“One of these days,” Jack said, leaning back against a sandbag wall and feeling the ground shudder and buck beneath him, “those people are going to get smart and send a volley of hypes after us.” Hypersonic artillery rounds would reach the hilltop target before the sound of their firing had covered five kilometers.

“Nah,” PFC Duberand said. He was a big man—a “fat tray” in Company 4239 who'd trimmed down into hard muscle. He was one of fifteen of Jack's boot-camp buddies who'd been deployed to the Vlad theater with him. “They ain't that smart.”

“Shows what you know, newbie,” Corporal Virginia Casey replied. She was an old Siberian hand, a Marine who'd been at the fire base since late July. “Wait'll you find a company of NC sappers coming through the wire on your watch some night!” Another mortar round thundered, close by, and the Marines hunkered down a bit lower.

“Shit,” Lonnie Costantino said, brushing a scattering of gravel from his active-camo body armor. “If they're so freakin' shit-hot, how come we're up
here
looking down at them down
there
?”

“Maybe they don't like this any more than we do,” Jack said.

“Fuckin'-A, Flash,” Casey said. “If there's one thing we've learned about the NCA, it's that the opposition is as tired, as dirty, as hot, as hungry, and as fucking sick of this fucking war as we are.”

“That's right,” Corporal Slidell said. “They're just like us, 'cept they talk funny. Hell, they wouldn't want to upset
the nice, friendly little balance of power we've worked out here.” Two more mortar rounds whistled in with a savage
whump-whump
.

Jack looked at Slidell—“call me ‘Slider,'”—with interest. “You mean they don't want to kick our asses into the Sea of Japan?”

“Oh, sure. They would if they could. But they know that trying it'll buy 'em another Hill 229. The poor SOBs got enough trouble back home across the river without bleedin' themselves dry trying to break our line.”

That seemed true enough. Precious little news had come out of North China since the war had started, but POWs and deserters spoke of street fighting in Beijing and Harbin, and of the possibility of wide-scale civil war. Even so, the Chinese had a well-deserved reputation for being able to field huge armies, inexhaustibly supplied by new levies of peasant troops. Some wit in the company had actually calculated that if the Marines killed one Chinese soldier per second for the next twenty years, the Chinese birthrate would still produce a larger standing army than they had now, and that invading Russia was simply Beijing's way of reaching UN-mandated population controls before the year 2050.

There was a long silence, and then Marines began rising from their shelters. Over in front of the mess hall, the familiar red banner went up, accompanied by shouted jeers and insults.
Maggie's drawers
.

He wondered if the Marines would lie to the enemy and wave the red flag one bright morning when the enemy barrage had actually killed someone. Or if they'd keep waving the flag if the Chinese lobbed a few rounds extra someday, after the red flag had gone up. Hell, maybe the Chinese weren't any more anxious to rock the boat than the Marines were.

Standing, shrugging his torso armor into a more comfortable position and straightening his helmet, Jack walked toward the wall of sandbags and tightly coiled razor wire that made up Fire Base 125's inner bastion. Covered firing positions, carefully camouflaged, housed Marine riflemen and SLWs. Beyond, the ground, which dropped away
down a steep hill toward Chancre Valley below, had been churned and blasted into a flat and open killing ground, one heavily laced with claymore and robotic mines, with teleoperated pop-up weapons towers and hopper-poppers, with sensors that could pinpoint a stealthy man's heartbeat and relay targeting data that could nail him with fire from a dozen separate positions.

Far off, down the valley, Chancre Lake—actually the Ozero Khanka or Chanka, depending on which maps you consulted—gleamed silver in the morning light, twenty kilometers to the northwest. The enemy mortars were south of the big lake, between the lake and the fire base. Other enemy positions must be closer…perhaps as close as that tree line beyond the outermost ring of the base's robotic defenses. The bad guys were rarely seen, however. Since Jack had arrived at Fire Base 125, he'd been in exactly one firefight. He'd scrambled to his assigned position on the wall and taken his place with the rest of his company, blazing away with his ATAR into a thick middle-of-the-night fog of smoke and dazzling flashes, burning flares, and savage explosions, trying to make sense out of the confused jumble of greens and yellows squirming across his helmet visor's HUD on its IR setting.

Once, during that ten-minute firefight, he thought
maybe
he'd seen someone running out there…but it could easily have been a shadow cast by a drifting flare or fast-strobing chain of poppers. He'd fired at the target and not even known if he'd hit anything or not.

So much of his recruit training, and the combat training that had followed, had emphasized
personal
combat. He now knew a dozen different ways to kill a man with his bare hands, could take a man down with a knife or a rock or the butt end of his ATAR, could end any hand-to-hand encounter with a Marine-approved shout and stomp to the head. A lot of that training, he knew, had been designed to overcome civilian sensitivities and squeamishness and to bring out what Knox had called “the native aggressiveness of the US Marine.” Somehow, though, he'd never quite picked up on the fact that most combat was at ranges where you never saw the enemy.

From here, he had an impressive view of the entire Chancre Valley. In the distance near the lake, a flight of drone VT-20 hunter-killers banked and darted in the sunlight, seeking out the enemy mortar tubes, as a pair of Marine Valkyries circled watchfully overhead. Closer, a pair of hulking Marine A-25 Cataphracts growled and rumbled as they nosed through the underbrush outside the perimeter. 'Phracs in the distance were always a comforting sight, quad-tracked mobile weapons platforms twice as long and four times more massive than the old Abrams and Schwarzenegger tanks that still served as Marine reserve armor. They were the subject of lively debate at the base, now, with their detractors claiming they were obsolete in an age of smart-AI battlefield HK missiles and pinpoint railgun bombardment from orbit, but most Marines liked having them about.

Just so long as they weren't
too
close by; 'Phracs tended to draw enemy artillery fire like bodies drew flies, and it was generally safer to admire the behemoths from a comfortable distance.

“Hey, Flash!” Slidell called from behind. “Whatcha doing? Admiring the scenery?”

“Hey, Slider,” Jack replied. He still wasn't sure how Slider and the others had picked up on the handle he'd earned at boot camp. It almost had to be Lonnie or Dubber or one of the others from his boot company, but he'd thought he'd had them all sworn to silence. “You know what they say. Join the Marines. See exotic, far-off lands. Meet fascinating people. Kill them….”

“Ooh-rah. Listen, buddy. You 'n' me need to talk!”

Jack peeled back the Velcro cover on his watch. “Got a few minutes. I've got honey-bucket detail at zero-eight-thirty.”

“This won't take long.” Slider gestured at a stack of sandbags and grinned. “Step into my office and pull up a seat!”

Jack grunted and dropped onto a sandbag. Slider pulled another bag a bit closer, sat, and leaned forward, dragging his PAD from its holster. He opened the screen, keyed it
on, and Sam's lovely face appeared, wearing a sultry smile and nothing else. “Hi, Slider,” she said.

“Listen, Flash,” Slidell said, ignoring her, “this has got to be the greatest fucking gimmick since Net-babe downloads! You are a fucking
genius
, man!”

Jack shrugged, embarrassed. “Hey, no big deal. I just hacked some commercial AI software.”

“‘No big deal,' the man says. How'd you crunch her down to fit on a Marine PAD, anyway?”

“That was pretty easy, actually. The government-issue AI, well, the source code just isn't that efficiently written, you know? Loose, redundant, and looking like it was turned out by a committee. Turned out that Samantha's source code wasn't that much bigger than the government program. It just, well, it's tighter. Does more in less space, and better.”

“Better! I'll say!” He eyed Samantha's body appreciatively. “Hey, baby!” he said. “Let's see your ass!”

“Whatever you say, Slider.” Standing, she turned around, spread her legs, and gracefully bent over, grabbing her ankles to give Slider a good look.

“The color's a bit flat and garish,” Jack said. “I had to go down from millions of colors to two fifty-six. But I might know a way to get around that. I'm still tweaking it, you know.”

“Well, all I can say is I would love to give
her
a tweak! Flash, m'boy, you and me are gonna clean up!”

“What do you mean?”

Gently, he patted the screen over Sam's raised bottom. “Okay, honey. Let's see you dance for us!”

“Whatever you say, Slider.” She straightened up and began a slow, sensuous bump and grind, turning slowly as she danced to nonexistent music. Frowning, Jack made a mental note to check her source code, especially the random sequencing routine. She was falling into that “Whatever you say” response much too often.

“Flash, do you have any idea what the guys would
pay
to have their very own naked babe, at their command, right on their own PADs?”

“Pay? I figured some of the guys would just like to
have
them….

“Oh, Flash, Flash, Flash, I am so
disappointed
in you! There is
opportunity
here, big-time, and you obviously are in desperate need of someone to show you how to make the most of it! You
gotta
learn how to play the angles, man!”