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The USS Gaines has completed a long loop to intercept the USCSS
Korea, and a public address made by warrant officer Leon just
confirmed that this maneuver was successful. He goes on to explain
that the Gaines has sidled within 10km of the ailing supply ship, and
that drop time is in twenty minutes. After a moment, perhaps savoring
the last few seconds of down time, the troops get to their feet and
begin to make their way to the armory.
Armor is, after all, the first line of defense. It goes on in layers,
and comes off in layers. The troops notice pretty quickly that
Vitelli is wearing his cold weather fatigues, and begin to do
likewise before fully suiting up. The soldiers help one another into
their armor, double-checking fastenings, making sure all the stitches
are in place. Belt rigs are given a once-over. Magazines are test
pulled from their pouches. Boots are laced, shin guards tied on, comm
loud and clear. A traditional slap on the helmet from Moore means you
look "tip top."
Hustle to Morrison, get your rifle or what have you, and you're out the door, single file, marching to get the energy up after a long day of hard work and bad food. Line up for inspection against a bulkhead
near the APC, which has been moved into position at the foot of the
dropship's ramp. Duarte and Sabo are already in their place, the
cockpit, running preflights and pulling on their gloves.
Sergeant Moore arrives when the lineup is complete, pulling open the
APC's side loading door. "Are you killers gonna make me proud today?"
he hollers.
"Yes, sir!" answers the troop in unison.
"Get in there and let's do it!" He orders the squads into the APC,
pointing out assigned seating, helping to lock everyone down. Nobody
needs reminding that these trips can be bumpy. Lieutenant Fleming is
the last inside, taking his seat at a bank of monitors. Berliner, long ago strapped into the APC's driver's seat, sets the machine in reverse, backing up onto the dropship's ramp just as soon as everyone's inside. The cramped quarters of the APC tilts forty-five degrees, and lumbers into its holding area.
"Hey, Berliner," cries Vitelli. "Would you mind pulling over for a minute? I gotta use the latrine. Gotta cut back on the coffee, man..."
Moments later, the dropship lowers into an airlock, which seals with
a "hiss-chunk." The outer lock opens, revealing an endless expanse of
stars. With supernatural precision, Duarte calls out a count down,
with Sabo holding the reins in his flight seat at the rear of the
cockpit. "Five, four, three..."
"Any last words?" Vitelli says tastelessly.
"...two, one, mark."
In a split second, Sabo releases the Gaines' lock on the dropship,
and Duarte blasts straight out and down with an enormous rush of
speed and sound.
Something tumbles out of an overhead compartment in the APC: a
comset. The room shudders violently and the troops are thrown against
their seats as Duarte swerves the dropship in a hard turn toward the
USCSS Korea. Things smooth out after a moment, and the dropship sails
toward the Korea.
Duarte's voice fills the troop transport, visually scanning the
massive ship. "She's on emergency running lights only. Looks intact
otherwise, what I can see of her. Do you have a picture back there, Fleming?" The pilot flicks a switch on and off a couple of times while keeping an eye out through the canopy.
"I see it," replies the lieutenant. He turns a knob, adjusting the brightness on one of his screens. "That's a low-power configuration," he observes. "Emergency lighting only. It's probably dark in there,
too. Is there any visible damage? I can't see much on video."
"I don't see anything," answers Sabo after a time. The dropship passes into the shadow of the hulking vessel. "We could circle around, but that's going to eat fuel."
"Just tell me if we'll be able to get home, private." says Fleming.
"Yes, sir."
"Then take us around the ship, and move us into dock."
"Yes, sir."
Duarte directs the Cheyenne under the Korea, his head up, looking for
clues, anything. Rotating around the starboard side crew decks.
Sabo says excitedly, "Do you see that?"
"What?" asks Duarte, busy with the stick.
"Airlock door on the port side is open to space. Can't see anything
inside. It's a crew sized lock. I'm guessing B crew deck."
Fleming swivels in his seat in the APC. "Maybe there was a loss of
pressure. Would that account for the thermal scans, Vitelli?"
"Nah. It'd be way colder," says the comtech. "Besides, pressure tested normal. A little thin, but still tolerable. That airlock might've just blown a circuit. They're double-sealed, to protect
against rapid decompression."
Sabo tries to put a positive spin on the situation. "Cheyenne automatically tests for atmosphere. We can tell you the content
within seconds once we're in there."
Armor strapped on, smartgun mounted and ready, Mossberg over one
shoulder, PFC Booths is feeling secure and powered up. His lips draw up into a half smile, his eyebrows lower into a theatrical mask of mischief. Only Booths knows he isn't acting. "They probably have the same shitty food as we do. I'll bet they spaced themselves rather than eat the stuff. No discipline." His smile spreads a little as he leans to Brimstone seated next to him. He curses, "Damn civvies."
Across the aisle from Booths, Vitelli looks a little uneasy, fiddling with his signature lighter, a persistent nervous gesture. He flips the zippo and catches it. The shiny cube of polished steel is embossed USCM 4TH BATTALION 2ND REGIMENT THE FIGHTING TIGERS.
The dropship completes its circle of the ship, relaying the video feeds back within view of Fleming and troops, since the lieutenant's station is only a couple of meters away from where Bravo squad sits.
McKenzie's sweating a little, self-consciously blaming it on the heavy fatigues. No matter what Vitelli says about it being cold over there, it's hot in here.
Everybody's sweating it.
Strapped into the rack next to him, Brimstone looks like she's going
to be sick. Moore's busy with his own squad and doesn't notice.
She'll have to get over it, push on, because she has to. The APC slides inside of the dropship as Duarte makes another tight
angle. "Put that thing away, Vitelli, " she croaks. "Or you're going to lose it. Come on, boys, let's get it in gear," she says,
swallowing hard.
Vitelli pops the zippo back into a pocket. "Mouth dry, Brimstone?" he
joked. There was more to say, but he knew it would get him court
martialled. Better to save it.
"Patwardhan," says Moore, pointing directly at her. "You're strictly
on the back line. You'll cover our sides and everything behind. Learn to walk backwards.
"Morrison," he barks, moving to his next victim. "You are my main man. You are my motherfucking point guy. Stay two meters ahead of me and keep that flamethrower lit, you hear me?"
"You got it," says Morrison coolly.
From the cab of the APC, Berliner cuts in on the sergeant's line: "Uh, what about me, Sarge?" His voice is shrill and silly,
breaking the tension for some.
Moore cracks a smile. "You stick with Patwardhan."
"Lovely," replies the driver.
Having completed its circle, the dropship descends into a crevasse of dark steel and shadows at the tail end of the Korea. The little space craft drifts into position for docking, with the supply ship's massive engines on either side. The dropship seems to be entering sheer darkness... and then the headlights land upon solid metal.
Duarte slows his drop and moves horizontally over the metal landscape. Sabo manually aims a spotlight dead ahead, and for a long time sees nothing. Finally, a wall, a doorway. Massive doors, 40 meters wide.
"The gates are flung wide," says Sabo.
Sticking to the flight plan, slowing to two meters per second, Duarte takes the dropship in closer to the open airlock chamber. Past the initial set of lights, all is dark. The airlock itself is forty meters wide, and nearly as deep, so the Cheyenne has plenty of room to move. Duarte deftly sets her down on the landing grid.
As soon as the struts have hit the surface, Sabo kicks in with the magnetic gear and starts to run a code cracking cycle through the airlock's control circuit. A few silent beats.
"Problem, sir," Duarte reports.
Fleming's voice is thin and full of static. "What is it, corporal?"
"Never mind, sir. We got it," he says, without explanation. Two
enormous doors begin moving into place, blocking out the bleak star
field, locking the marine unit inside.
"Hello and welcome to it," comments Sabo.
A mechanical groan fills the APC, then a sharp jolt as the elevator
takes over.
"Airlock's sealed," says Sabo, his miked voice crackling. "The
elevator's moving us down to B deck. Cheyenne is on standby. We're on
our way," he says, the sounds of his flight straps coming unbuckled as the dropship crew makes its way down to the APC.
Moore gets up from his safety bench long enough to pull the APC's
door open and admit the dropship crew. The pilots clamber in, setting
aside their flight helmets for a soldier's helm. Each snatches a
pulse rifle and ammo belt as the sergeant seals the hatch behind them.
"APC deploy in 30 seconds," Fleming announces. He moves down the line
of biomonitors. At the press of a switch on the lieutenant's board, a high-pitched whine comes up through the hull of the dropship, the sound of the ship's ramp lowering.
"Everybody stay where you are," warns Moore. "I've got a feeling there's going to be some more bumps."
"The air's breathable," says Duarte, from his crouched position, remembering the atmosphere readouts on the cockpit screens.
"I told you," says Vitelli, to no one in particular.
The dropship lowers into seeming darkness on its platform. Slowly, a series of red emergency lights struggle on, and fade out, showering the vast hangar in blood red light in a slow-motion strobe. For a few moments, the entire hangar is in blackness. Then dimly, the red lights grow again, shining hot for a second, before dying out. Even
the dropship appears lifeless, its outline visible only by the placement of running lights.
"5 seconds to deploy," Fleming reports.
Moore: "Everybody grab onto something."
Private McKenzie spits out a fingernail. In smartgun training, he'd picked up the bad habit of gnawing on the rubber coating of the cable that connects his targeting scope to the smartgun's computer assembly; never chewing hard enough to hit the wire, just enough to sate his habit. As he listens to the lieutenant count down, he unconsciously gets the tooth-marked wire between his teeth.
"The elevator's down. We're clear," rapid-fires Fleming. The APC tilts out of its cradle within the dropship, rolling down the
ramp into the darkness of the vast hangar.
"Semper fi, marines!" shouts Booths, freeing himself from his harness, racing McKenzie to get his smartgun locked onto its hydraulic hip-mount. Other marines stand ready near the doorway, some leaning over Fleming's shoulder for a second-hand view outside. From a fixed camera on the front of the APC, they get Berliner's view of the hangar.
Pitch black. Floodlights to the front illuminate a few meters of metal decking as the APC rolls slowly forward. The crimson emergency lights strobe on again for a moment, revealing enormous cargo doors
on six walls. The doors are clearly marked SHUTTLE BAY 1 or CARGO BAY B2, the words fading like a memory as the lights die down.
"Steady," guides Moore. "There's no rush, okay?"
"It's cold out there," interrupts Fleming. "Reading 8ºC air temperature. Nitrogen counts are below the line, but I think we'll be okay." The lieutenant prattles off a few more figures, adjusts a few settings on his bank of instruments. "We're approaching the service
corridor. Straight ahead, Berliner."
"Yes, sir," says the veteran. "I can barely see where I'm going. Infrared's better."
One of Fleming's screens is washed in a green night vision filter.
Through the video, small pricks of glitter flash. Vitelli begins to hum, "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,"
as the transport rumbles over a seam in the deck. "Come on, everybody," he whines. "Lighten up." The comtech gathers some bravado and bares his teeth in a faux smile. Out comes the lighter, flipping
around in his hand, without his thinking about it.
The APC moves between two converging walls of metal, down the wide
central service corridor. Berliner reports in his tinny, amplified voice, "She's under reserve power, but everything looks like it's where it belongs. No obstructions. No cargo out of place. No loading vehicles as far as I can see. Proceeding to the next section. All the sensor gear's on line. I read negative."
"I don't see anything, either," says the lieutenant, trying to remain
calm. "Keep us moving, another one hundred meters. Slow. Scopes are clear." After a moment, "Alright, troop, get ready to move."
Moore puts a hand on Brimstone's shoulder. "Quick dispersal," he says
to the group. "Duarte and Sabo, you're here with Fleming. Set up sentries on perimeter. Cover our tracks, okay? Brimstone, take your
squad to the port side cargo hold. My team will move forward along
starboard. We'll meet up on the crew deck. Stay in contact. Use your
trackers and watch your fire; we're looking for civilians."
"Okay, Moore," says Fleming expectantly. "Ten seconds."
The APC begins to slow, moving into a loading area half the size of
the main hangar. Enormous doors glow in the eerie red strobes, marking the entrance to the forward cargo holds. A smaller door
appears directly ahead: the access tunnel which runs straight to the
crew compartments. The marines take a collective breath.
Vitelli takes one last personal inventory. Motion tracker on and ready, pulse rifle cocked, loaded, and ready to rock. He kisses the lighter, shoving it under his armor, into a breast pocket, just for
safe keeping. Amazingly, a wicked smile cuts across his face, as he stands poised, waiting for the word to let loose. "Check it out," he says. "I am the ultimate badass!"
"That's right," intones his squad leader, Brimstone.
"State of the badass art. You do not want to fuck with me," he brags.
Morrison sparks his M240 incinerator, and finds room for Booths and
McKenzie on either side, prepared to move out with the front line.
McKenzie in particular is eager and edgy at the same time, but at the heart of his tension is a solid core of confidence. Even as he growls, "Let's do this shit," he goes over the T.R.A.C.K.S. checklist:
T: Track from 9 o'clock to 3 o'clock
R: Recoil spoils the second shot
A: Aim with both eyes
C: Corners, corners, corners
K: Know where you squad mates are
S: Shoot to kill
TRACKS is all the smartgun training Booths ever forgot. After his first couple of years of service, he began his own kind of training, and has since learned a few tricks with the smartgun that never cease
to leave other marines in awe. He trades a terse glance with
Morrison, then withdraws for a few moments to clear his mind.
Lieutenant Fleming counts off, "Five, four, three..."
Private Patwardhan, smashed between other marines, grips her pulse rifle with white knuckles. With dread, she mutters, "Why does
deployment always have to be so hard?"
Berliner falls into place behind her. "Ready, sweets?"
"...one... Go, now!" says Fleming. Moore pulls the APC's door wide,
allowing the point team to rush out into the dark, numbing cold.
Faces contort in the airless chill, and the heavy tread of boots
echoes in strange ways. The smartgunners move away from the APC,
panning their shoulder lamps into the darkness, Morrison taking to
the middle. The incinerator's 6cm primer flame generates a plume of
steam in the cold.
"Clear! Clear!" they shout.
Moore and his squad fan out, moving toward the starboard side hold, vanishing into the dark. As if an afterthought, the red glow of the cycling emergency lights struggles to fill the room.
"Useless," says Berliner, sliding his infrared viewer up into its
housing inside his helmet. "Too much glare when the fucking lights
come on."
"Is anybody in here?" shouts Moore. His voice comes back as an echo,
rolling around inside the vast ship.
Morrison stays a few steps ahead of the sarge, approaching one of the
huge cargo doors. "Berliner," he calls. "What's going on?"
Berliner checks his motion tracker. "The coast is clear for thirty
meters."
"You can't see out more than five meters anyway," complains the
medtech. Patwardhan's glad to have Berliner rounding out her squad, even if they're going to be blind. "Will we be able to get the main power back?" she asks.
"Looks like we're on reserve power as it is," Berliner says ruefully. "But some light would be nice."
"Some heat would be better," she says with a shiver. Something behind her clatters to the ground--
Berliner twists with his rifle aimed squarely at Patwardhan's
canteen, slowly rocking on the deck.
"Stow that, Patwardhan," says Moore. He finds the door controls and
taps a big square key. "Open, goddamnit," he says, when nothing
happens.
On the other side of the room, Brimstone's squad takes the precious seconds of illumination to get oriented. Booths and McKenzie advance toward a huge door bearing the stencil: CARGO BAY B1. Brimstone jogs
up behind them, rifle in hand. Walking to mask his own movement signature, Vitelli tries to get a reading on his motion tracker.
"We're clear," he reports. "The only things moving in here are marines."
The light dies down again. Back at the APC, Duarte and Sabo can be seen hauling a sentry gun into position, moving in front of the
transport's headlights, throwing tall, distorted shadows on the access tunnel doorway.
Moore's voice comes through on the comm during one of the long blackouts. "The door to cargo bay B2 is jammed, unpowered or
something." "Move your squad to the access tunnel then, Anchor," orders Fleming. "Duarte, Sabo, redeploy that sentry gun to cover the way we came in."
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