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Marines know what it means to work for a living. Getting into the trenches with a rifle is like an afternoon in a playground after all the effort that goes into prepping the unit. Everything needs to be moved from wherever it's stowed in transit to wherever it's supposed to be during operations. Every piece of mission equipment is tested at least three times.
Individual groups inevitably hold their own private briefings, discussing their strategies in more detail. Sometime during the workday, troops will trickle back to the mess and find their own times for a quick bite before finishing off their checklists.
There's 7 hours to go before the Gaines catches up with the Korea. Once the battleship matches speed, it's go time.
A yellow light is activated throughout the ship, clearly visible to the entire crew as they walk down corridors or glance at the mission time. The light indicates that a transmission has been received, and
is officer's eyes only. Fleming makes his way to the private terminal room, and the lights disappear.
Moments later, he emerges, finds Moore and updates him on the mission status. They're both curious about the LV-426 connection.
"Communications failures aren't contagious," observes the sergeant.
"HQ says there's more data, but we're still waiting for it."
"That's what makes this job so great," replies the sarge. "We're usually blind, deaf, and misdirected."
"So, what do you do then, if you can't crap?" jokes Vitelli, propping
his feet up on a comlab console. Leon doesn't seem to think the conversation is very funny. "Punch up oh six one. I've got a feeling- Yes, that looks right. We won't get anything clearer than this."
Vitelli lights another cigarette, swiveling in his chair to see what Leon's found. A set of deck plans flashes up on a screen. "Fucking 'ghost ship' is right. Fucking thing gives me the creeps. Tell you what: you go in there for me, I'll stay here and watch the ship with my thumb up my butt. That can't be right. If I were in your place, I wouldn't have an asshole."
"He's always got you," says Moore, stepping into the room, his corporal in tow. "What have you found so far?"
Leon moves out of his seat to give the sarge and Brimstone a clear view. The deck plans don't reveal as much as Moore would have
liked. "Where does this airlock take us?" ask the sarge.
Leon points to an illuminated square dead center along the Korea's
hull, set just behind an hexagonal hangar bay. "We think it opens
onto B deck."
"Unfortunately," says Vitelli, breaking in. "The fucking ultrasound
doesn't pick up stairwells or sub passages very well, so what we're
left with is a piss poor idea of what to expect in the crew section.
Give me a few minutes on the main computer and I'll solve that little
problem."
"First things first. We may not even need you by the time we get there," says the sarge, simultaneously keeping an optimistic
appraisal of the situation and insulting Vitelli's reliability. "What
have we got here?" he asks himself, leaning over to take a good look at the bad scans. He talks out loud, running the scenario in his mind. "The airlock is accessed through this channel created by the engine housings. We'll have to maneuver through this little canyon, and lock down on this platform here. These airlock doors look like they're located on A deck, but you can't get to the hangar from up there. So this airlock, which is also an elevator, looks like it
empties out onto B deck instead, where we have these shuttle bays on either side. Cargo holds to fore and aft. B deck is cluttered with cargo, it looks like. Let's hope they keep things tidy. A and C decks
are pretty much cleared out. Still a lot of room to hide."
He rests his elbows on the console, pointing out key features. "We should be able to roll the APC right off the elevator onto B deck,
moving straight forward along this corridor up the spine. This second loading area," he says, indicating a smaller hexagonal chamber nearer to the front of the ship. "The APC's too big to make it past that area, so that's where the troops will deploy. We'll move straight up this passage to the crew's section, move toward the bridge. If nobody's there, we'll find a way down to C deck and head for cryo."
"And if nobody's there, sir?" asks Vitelli.
"Then we secure the crew section, move the team and set up operations on the bridge. Then we'll sweep the ship section by section until we find them. Worse case scenario: the crew is dead. We baby the Korea into space dock with 121 and await further instructions from HQ. Nice and simple. Don't you think, corporal?" he says, shooting a look at
Brimstone.
"What about moving through these cargo holds here?" she suggests, pointing out her plan, "Rather than straight up through that access tunnel, if we spread out along these forward holds on our way to the bridge, we'll have better fire zones. It'll also give us the opportunity to check out more of the ship. This long corridor looks like a nice, simple place for a trap."
Moore winks at her. "You take your squad along port and I'll take my
squad along starboard," he says.
"Excuse me Sarge, Corporal," says Vitelli, now after a couple of cups of coffee and a few cigarettes. He was up, and all over the
comlab. "You're standing in my way here."
"Yes, sir," says Brimstone, mocking.
Vitelli moves passed them, manually connecting some equipment next to
a bank of dimly twinkling scan monitors. "Don't see why they sent us
to babysit this thing anyway," he says with a trace of
disappointment. "I mean, right before we go home, too."
He finds a chair away from the others at the scan console. Putting his feet up, he begins running a tracking scan, knowing that it would be hours before he had results. Still, he hopes he can come up with something useful before they're in the middle of it.
To his relief, the android and the two other Marines leave the room, continuing their conversation. Vitelli leans back, cradling a coffee cup while finishing a cigarette. He studies the maps that have already been generated, and gets an idea. On his feet again in no time, pulling cables from sockets, reconfiguring the Gaines' highly
sophisticated sensor array from a terminal, narrowing the scan with the track ball over a table made exclusively for these kinds of
digital prints.
Thermal scans hold a few surprises. The ship's a lot colder in
general than it should be. Air temperature averages about 8ºC
cooler
than room temperature, chilly by all accounts. Vitelli decides to
wear his insulated fatigues on this one.
The Korea's engines are running hot, maybe unusually hot. About
61º
hotter than usual. On a hunch, the comtech directs his scan to C
deck's midsection. At high resolution, a series of access corridors
becomes visible, snaking their way into a central service area at the
base of the power plant. Power distribution happens here. Control
circuits for the engines. Cooling system... it's run from this
section of C deck. This area is also warmer than it should be, by
33º. Vitelli tries to compensate for the differences. It being so
cold in general, maybe it's throwing off the difference. Back to
work. Recalibrating.
Berliner and Patwardhan are making their third trip from the armory
to the APC, sharing the burden of a sentry gun in a nondescript,
squarish case. The old soldier wears a sheen of sweat, and huffs a
little as he drags the box along. "Doc, you think I'm getting too old
for this shit?"
McKenzie swivels the smartgun in tight, controlled arcs, moving his
body with the weapon. It's a drill all smartgunners run before an op,
a way of stretching one's muscles and retuning them to the heft of
the gun. It's more than that, of course. It's a ritual and communion
with the machine upon which smartgunners lay their livelihoods, and
their lives.
Booths looks up from a pulse rifle he's been assembling. "Save some
for the Earth girls, Mac," he says. He sights down the barrel of the
rifle and pulls the trigger. It gives a satisfying click. He slaps a
magazine into the rifle and assumes an attack stance. The weight
feels good, but the balance is a little off. Needs a couple of
grenades in the launcher, but that's for later. He checks the LED
display, flips the safety back and forth, and releases the
magazine. "That's the sound of symphonies about to be composed," he
says.
McKenzie tries not to laugh. His own weapon glistens with gun oil,
like a strange organic appendage jutting out of his side. "Gonna
scare the motherlovin' hell out of some supply jockeys when I come
sliding in there with this baby."
"I'm set here," Booths says to Morrison, laying a rifle with a row of
others. "I'll drill with the smartgun next, make sure the gyros
didn't dry out like last time."
McKenzie actually sighs as he begins to remove his smartgun and
armor. There were still plenty of weapons to break down, clean, and
reassemble before go time. He pats the machine lovingly before moving
on to his next chores. "Not that I'm even gonna need you on this one,
baby," he mutters to himself.
Morrison can see that Booths is now studiously ignoring McKenzie, but
the rookie's too absorbed in his own firepower to notice. "I'm done
here too," says the heavy weapons spec. He gently sets an incinerator
on the table with the rest of the arsenal: 16 pulse rifles, 6
incinerators, 2 smartguns, two dozen pistols, more than 20,000
rounds. Booths and Morrison take a long look at the gear and share a
grin.
"MotherFUCKERs back OFF!" McKenzie screams, fighting pretend enemies in the armor. He simultaneously throws karate chops and "boom boom" sounds, as if marching into battle in feudal Japan with his smartgun.
Booths and Morrison stow the weapons before moving off for armor
inspection.
"I don't like it," starts Sabo, hauling a crate of ammo up the dropship's ramp, where Duarte stands at a ramp control, cleaning a
bearing with a rag. The dark haired pilot looks away without interest. "There's nothing to like," he tells Sabo.
"You know, Duarte," says the copilot, popping bubble gum between his
teeth. "I'm gonna have your job some day."
"Buzz off, private."
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