Sergeant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 2) Page 2

  Hartono was not as skilled. As the newest member of the squad and new to his PICS, he didn’t get enough braking resistance, and he crashed into Keiji. Ryck knew the PICS’ gyros would keep their suits upright despite some pretty serious impacts, and the suit’s themselves were pretty sturdy, but a collision like that could damage sensors or even the weapons packs. Ryck had no time to check out either Marine’s PICS, though. First Squad was on the move, and they had to get up to the objective before the protesters could shift with enough mass to impede their progress.

  The square was covered in cobblestones, which didn’t impede the progress of the Marines as they trotted up to their objective, but it slowed down the ability of the protesters to react to the Marines’ movement. Ryck could see several small civilian groups trying to interspace themselves between the Marines and the building, but they were not going to be able to close in time. Nearly a hundred people were at the bottom of the steps, but the vast majority of the protesters had previously flooded out to plug up the streets and were now out of the Marines’ path.

  It took about 30 seconds to cross the big square. A single line of protesters tried to stop them, but the Marines slowed down and easily pushed their way through the crowd. The civilians didn’t even try hard. They seemed to have given up, at least for the moment. Ryck knew they hadn’t thrown in the towel, though. Getting into the government building was only part of the mission. The Marines had to get out again, with the Legionnaires, and the protesters were undoubtedly going to try and stop them. To the protesters, the Marines reaching the government house was probably considered only a temporary setback.

  SSgt Hecs led the two squads up the many steps to the main entrance. About 20 nervous-looking local militia manned two crew-served weapons which were sandbagged on either side of the big bronze doors. One soldier raised his rifle to aim at the Marines before another soldier knocked the muzzle back down.

  SSgt Hecs moved forward and addressed the soldier who had stepped out from behind the sandbags.

  “Staff Sergeant Phantawisangtong, Federation Marine Corps. I think you are expecting us?”

  “Yes, sir! Lieutenant Xie, uh, militia, uh, Tylarian Militia, I mean. Yes, we’re glad you’re here. Please, come inside,” the flustered militiaman managed to get out.

  He nodded at another of the soldiers who picked up a landline and quietly spoke into it. A few moments later, the big doors pulled open. The 27 Marines almost casually walked through them and into a very large, ornate rotunda.

  Ryck listened with half an ear as SSgt Hecs reported in to the Lt Nidishchii’. Ryck was in awe of what he was seeing. Back on Prophesy, the government building was more of an office building, perhaps befitting a planet that was colonized by a corporation. This was more in the lines of an old-fashion capitol building, with statues in the cornices and an intricate tile mosaic covering the vast floor. Ryck took a step further into the room, then stopped, conscious of his big PICS crushing some of the tiles underfoot.

  They waited only a few moments before a Legion captain, wearing his T34 Parade Dress uniform, came hurrying down one of the large staircases. SSgt Hecs had activated his rockers[3] on his PICS arms, went right to him.

  SSgt Hecs opened up the input to his speakers to the two squad leaders.

  “Staff Sergeant, I am Capitaine Pichon. Thank you for your arrival. I understood, though, that a full Marine Company was coming?”

  “Sir, SSgt Phantawisangtong here. The company commander has been held up outside by the mass of civilians. Our ROE is very clear that we are to avoid civilian casualties, so for the moment, we are the only forces to reach this building.”

  “Ah, just so. Well, if you could, please follow me to meet Commandant Gruenstein, our senior negotiator.”

  The captain started for the sweeping stairway before stopping and looking back at the Marines.

  “Ah, perhaps you can evacuate your Personal Combat Systems? They may not be so maneuverable upstairs,” he said.

  Ryck tried to decide if there was a condescending note to his voice. It was taken for granted that the Legion’s Rigaudeau-3s were better combat suits than the Marines’ PICS, but Ryck didn’t think the legionnaire was in a position to dismissive of Marine Corps gear.

  “Ryck, strip and join me,” SSgt Hecs told him, already starting the procedures to release the back seal so he could get out of the PICS.

  It took almost a minute before Ryck could perform the Cirque du Soleil maneuvers necessary to hitch his legs up, then back down outside the PICS. He disconnected the hood interface, and he was free of the big beast, feeling naked, and not only from shedding his PCS, but also because his longjohns were so tight and thin as to leave nothing about him to the imagination. He checked his small Ruger 2mm, holstered it, and followed his platoon sergeant up the stairs.

  An armed militiaman guard standing outside the door leading into Conference Room A came to attention and presented arms. The captain made a cursory salute and entered the room.

  Inside, Ryck saw four more legionnaires and two men in civilian clothes. The civvies looked relieved at the sight of SSgt Hecs and Ryck. The legionnaires showed no reaction one way or the other.

  With their longjohns on, neither Ryck nor Hecs had on any indication of rank. Without hesitating, though, the tall, hawk-nosed commandant stepped forward, hand outstretched.

  “Major Nicholas Gruenstein. It is good to meet you.”

  The major could have come from central casting for a new Legion flick. Ryck noted that he used the Standard “major” instead of the Legion rank of “commandant,” unlike the captain who had insisted on using “capitaine” for his rank.

  Score one for the major, Ryck thought.

  “Happy to be here, sir,” SSgt Hecs told him. “Staff Sergeant Phantawisangtong and Sergeant Lysander. We’ve got two heavy squads inside this building. My commander, Lt. Nidishchii’ is outside holding a few hundred civilians in place. Captain Davis, our company commander, is directly behind this building with another platoon of Marines. I’ve been tasked with preparing your team for evacuation so we are ready to move out as soon as Captain Davis arrives.”

  He looked around the room before continuing, “I was lead to believe that there were going to be more Tylarian personnel to evacuate?”

  One of the two civvies looked embarrassed as the major said, “I’m afraid that Mr. Gelan and Mr. Liu are all that are left. Their, uh, superiors, decided that after the first group of protesters made it in the building, they didn’t want to draw any more here to put us, their guests, in any danger.”

  “So you are saying they diddiho’d out of here, sir?” SSgt Hecs asked.

  “Yes, I think that phrase is an apt description,” the major said, only a slight hint of scorn in his voice.

  Ryck wouldn’t have done so well in hiding his opinions of the officials who had fled.

  “If you think it feasible, we can move to the rotunda, sir, so we can prepare for the evac. We’ve got about a klick to go to our pick-up point,” the platoon sergeant told him, careful not to make it sound like an order.

  “Sounds good, Staff Sergeant Phantawisangtong,” the Legion major said, actually doing a pretty good job with the platoon sergeant’s name. “Lead on.”

  The five legionnaires, two civilians, and two Marines walked out the room, down the hall, and back down the stairs, but not before the major told the lone guard to rejoin his unit.

  In the rotunda, Sams was taking some uniforms out of LCpl Andersen’s buttpack. The PICS buttpack, which was actually more of a small-of-the-back-pack, allowed a Marine to carry cargo with him. The problem with them, in typical Marine logic, was that there were impossible to reach while inside the PICS. They pack could be dropped and then accessed, but the fingers of the PICS were a little big to handle smaller items that might be carried. Once dropped, the pack could not be re-attached without outside help. Most Marines simply used them to carry some extra chow and an emergency coldpack, the small gel piece of gear that kept a PI
CS from overheating on the inside.

  Sams brought the uniforms from Andersen’s pack over to SSgt Hecs.

  “Sir, please have your men change into these utilities. They will offer you some protection as we leave,” the staff sergeant told the major.

  Major Gruenstein reached out and took one of the skins tops, fingering it before asking, “You’ve already inserted the armor protection in these, correct?”

  The armor, what we called the “bones,” was 23 separate pieces of what looked to be cardboard or feltboard that instantly hardened upon impact of a projectile. They were lampreyed onto the trousers and blouse, the skins, and rendered the uniform system proof against most small arms.

  “Yes, sir,” SSgt Hecs answered. “They’re ready to go.”

  “As I understand it, your armor is custom made for each individual, correct?” the major asked.

  “Well, yes, sir, they are. But we took a bunch of different sets, and with most of the Tylarian negotiators gone, we have plenty to pick and choose.”

  “I appreciate the consideration, but I hardly think that wearing ill-fitting clothing leaves a good impression. I think we will remain in our parade dress. If that leads to an injury, that will be on my head,” the Legion officer said with an air of finality.

  Either Mr. Gelan or Mr. Liu (Ryck never got which one was which) stepped to face SSgt Hecs and hurriedly spoke up, “Um, officer, we would like to put on your uniforms.”

  The platoon sergeant nodded to Sams, and the two Tylarian functionaries began to paw through the skins and bones looking for a close fit.

  “If you will wait a moment, sir, let me get back into my suit so I have full comms and can report back to my command for an update,” Hecs said, stepping back and moving to where his empty PICS stood like an empty insect molt. “You, too, Sergeant Lysander.”

  Getting back into a PICS was easier than getting out of one, but it still took a bit of dexterity. Ryck had to connect his hood, then push his arms in first and squirm up until he could bring up his legs to clear the opening. There were two handles inside the PICS up near the shoulder that made donning the PICS much easier. Some enterprising armorer had installed a set some years back when the PICS was first introduced, and now they were standard to the combat suits. Ryck grabbed the handles, pulled up, bringing his knees up past his belly, then slid his legs back down inside the PICS. He hit the closure button, then watched as his lights indicated the check process. Twenty seconds later, he was combat-ready.

  He checked on his platoon sergeant. SSgt Hecs didn’t look much different from the other Marines as they stationed themselves near the entrance and around the rotunda, but from the slight forward tilt of the platoon sergeant’s PICS, it was clear that he was in intense comms with the lieutenant or the skipper.

  The two Tylarians had selected their skins and stripped down. One was in his skivvies, the other was going commando. Ryck couldn’t help but hope that it wasn’t his set of skins that the skivvie-less man had selected.

  There was the ever-so-slight click as SSgt Hecs came on the open circuit and activated his speaker.

  “Sir, our drones are showing thousands of people converging here. Captain Davis, our commanding officer, has been ordered by higher headquarters that we need to move now. With thousands of people out there instead of hundreds, they don’t think we can extract you without harm to the civilians, and they do not want to bring in air assets to the city proper to try and extract from the roof,” SSgt Hecs said.

  “Captain Davis is going to push forward to just short of the rear of this building, trying to attract as many of the protesters as possible. Lieutenant Nidishcii’, our platoon commander, will move into the square to the northwest in an attempt to draw those right outside the entrance to them. As soon as we see the ones outside begin to draw away, clearing the entrance, we’re to move out and run directly to the northeast as fast as we can go. There will be ground transport about four klicks away that will take you to an LZ[4] outside of town where you will be lifted off and taken to where a French packet ship, the Améthyst, is waiting in orbit. Mr. Gelan and Mr. Liu, you will be met at the LZ by one of your own representatives.”

  Ryck saw one immediate problem. There was no way five legionnaires in parade dress and two Tylarian politicos were going to keep up with PICS Marines. Major Greunstein had evidently realized the same thing.

  “Staff Sergeant Phantawisangtong, I am afraid that ‘as fast as you can go’ is much faster than we will be able to go. How do we get around that?” he asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the thing, sir. It’s been discussed, and with the concurrence of the captain of the Améthyst, who has taken command the French side of the operation, you are going to have to ride us,” SSgt Hecs, said, waiting for a response.

  “Capitaine de corvette Blanchard is in command? I am senior to him, but that is not your problem,” the major said, sounding miffed. “We will ride you? How?”

  “The best we can come up with is piggyback, sir,” SSgt Hecs said sounding unsure.

  “’Piggyback?’ Like a child on papa’s back?” came the incredulous response.

  “Yes, sir, like that.”

  As if in punctuation, a large rock crashed through one of the windows of the rotunda. One of Sams’ Marines moved to cover the new opening. Chanting could be heard outside.

  “Piggyback,” the major said with a shrug. “C'est la guerre, mon staff sergeant. If you can show us how we will ride you, then that is what we will do.”

  They needed seven “mounts.” SSgt Hecs took three from First Squad and four from Ryck’s Third Squad. This wasn’t the first time PICS had been used to carry people. A PICS was a pretty good platform from which to go into the line of fire to take out besieged Marines, so this was something almost everyone had trained for at least once.

  SSgt Hecs had them drop their weapons pack, leaving each of the Marine’s back bare of anything extra. The clips on the shoulders to which the tops of the weapons packs were attached functioned as handles, even if they were not designed with that in mind. Below the PICS chest carapace and above the girdle, the waist narrowed, making a natural place around which a rider could latch his legs. It took only a few moments before the method became clear to the seven passengers.

  “The ride will be quite rough. You will be jolted around, so you have to hold on tight. We haven’t seen anything out there that can damage a PICS, but you are not PICS, gentlemen. A rock thrown off a roof can kill you, so we need to get you out of the area as soon as possible,” SSgt Hecs told them.

  “Jolted” was an understatement, Ryck knew. The one time he had ridden a PICS in training had shown him that. The seven men would be hard-pressed to stay on, and they would undoubtedly suffer bruises and cuts as they bounced around the hard-backed PICS.

  “Are you ready, sir?” SSgt Hecs asked the major.

  “This is not quite as I would have wished, but yes, we are ready.”

  Ryck would have felt more comfortable if all the passengers were in skins and bones, not just the two Tylarians. He hoped the major’s vanity, if that was what it was, would not result in someone getting seriously hurt.

  “Sergeant Samuelson, I want just one Marine watching outside. Everyone else step back out of sight. We don’t want to play our hand too early,” the platoon sergeant said.

  “Lieutenant Xie,” he called out to the militia commander. “The word from your higher headquarters is, I’m sorry to say, that you are on your own. My commander suggests that you leave with us. You won’t be able to keep up all the way to the rally point, but you should be able to get out of the square, at least, before we pull away.”

  And if anyone had to fire on possible pursuers, Ryck realized cynically, it would be better if it was Tylarian militia rather than Federation Marines.

  SSgt Hecs passed to Capt Davis that they were ready. The men in the rotunda stood around, doing nothing, basically waiting. Within a few minutes, though, the noise from outside shifted somehow.

&nbs
p; “Some of them civvies is moving to the right,” LCpl Jurić from First Squad said as he watched out the window.

  “Your right or their right, Jurić?” Sams asked his Marine.

  Jurić, inside his PICS, moved the big suit back and forth, arms out, as he tried to figure out which direction was right and which was left.

  “Our right,” he said after a moment.

  “Captain Davis is in position, and he says he can see the crowd gathering in front of him,” SSgt Hecs reported.

  Suddenly, Ryck’s comms with the company opened up. SSgt Hecs must have switched both squad leaders onto the company command net.

  Ryck knew both SSgt Hecs and Sams could see what Jurić was seeing, but as their lone set of eyes was in First Squad, not Third, Ryck didn’t have that capability.

  “Sams, can you slave me to Jurić’s visuals?” he sent on a P2P[5] circuit.

  “Sure thing,” Sams said, and a moment later, Ryck was able to see Jurić’s vids displayed on the upper right quadrant of his visor.

  There were still about 50 people right outside the front entrance of the building. One man was talking to several other, pointing back at the entrance. He had the posture of someone in authority. Capt Davis’ plan, if it was even his and not something higher headquarters was throwing at him, had not drawn everyone away from the building.

  In the distance, more people were gathering, but those should be the protesters around the lieutenant and Popo’s squad. Ryck wanted to tell Jurić to pan and zoom in to focus on them, but that wasn’t his place to do that.

  “Sams, Ryck,” SSgt Hecs said over the command net, one linked to just the three of them.

  “These civvies aren’t moving. We can push through them, but our cargo is going to be at risk. Until we get everyone out and we can get up to speed, those yahoos out there can do some serious hurt to them. If they have any small arms, they really can’t miss at that range, and rocks, or even just yanking their asses off of us could be pretty serious. We need a distraction, for at least 20 or 30 seconds. Any ideas?”