Major (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 5) Page 5

  “You ready?” he asked Bill over the suit’s externals.

  Bill put his helmet against Ryck’s and without using his mic, said, “You squirming snake skin, Ryck, getting me volunteered for this.”

  “Oh, you love it,” Ryck told him. “Think of all the stories you’ll have to tell back with all your pilot buddies at the club when you get back.”

  “If I get back, that is,” Bill said gruffly.

  “You’re too much of an asshole not to come back,” Ryck said, slapping Bill on the shoulder, ignoring the fact that the vacsuit absorbed most of force of the blow.

  “How about you, Master Sergeant?” he asked Top Biranski, whose name he finally got and remembered.

  “Good to go, and ready to kick some blasphemer’s ass,” the Top told him.

  After talking with the master sergeant earlier, Ryck had no reservations about the man. He was a warrior, through and through, and with the normal disdain the Brotherhood had for the SOG’s claim to be Soldiers of God, Ryck didn’t doubt the man was ready to fight.

  His six navy sailors were a different story, though. They were willing even eager, but their experience was limited to shore patrol and rounding up drunks, not combat. Ryck had gone over the plan several times with them over the last 30 minutes, but there was nervousness evident in their eyes.

  Ryck reached down to feel the propulsion controls on his vacsuit once more. He had to be able to use them instinctively, and there was simply no time to get out and try the suits. He’d learn as he went.

  “Sir, we’re ready,” a sailor in yellow overalls told Ryck from the carruca where they’d manhandled it from the front of the cargo deck back to the hangar doors.

  “OK, men, let’s get at it,” he passed on his assigned circuit as he started to get into position.

  When no one followed him, he looked back to see seven men and one woman staring at him. He tried again, blowing into the mic controls. This time, he did it correctly, and his mic was on. He repeated the command, and everyone started to follow him to the carruca while he wished he had the easier, to him, eyes controls for inside his helmet.

  The eight-man assault force took their positions without fastening their restraining straps. The coxswain took her position at the controls.

  “Petty Officer Hermonez, you understand the timing on this?” he asked over the open circuit as he hadn’t figured out how to do a P2P.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got it,” she said, sounding very young to him. “I know what to do.”

  The deck officer began simply pointing out the hangar doors with none of the lights and signals a Federation warship used. To be fair, though, this was not really a warship as such, and maybe a Federation Navy cargo vessel might not be so well organized for combat ops, either.

  The carruca lifted off the deck and moved to the open doors. Ryck felt his familiar moment of anxiety while passing through the plasma gate, this time more so as he was in unfamiliar gear, but they passed without incident.

  Instead of heading directly for the clipper, Petty Officer Hermonez swung the carruca around and headed forward and “down” for about two klicks before turning the sled and heading at the target.

  “Everyone, get ready,” Ryck passed.

  Hermonez goosed the sled, and Ryck was glad he had a hold as without the restraints, he would have probably fallen out of the vehicle. There wasn’t much time to prepare as the distance closed quickly. Ryck glanced at the controls where the image of the clipper was displayed, and superimposed on that was a simple red circle. With all the modern technology, this mission depended on Petty Officer Hermonez steering her sled to that circle.

  The clipper grew larger and larger in their sight incredibly quickly, and Ryck began to wonder if his crazy plan would work or not. Ryck watched his visor display count down the distance.

  At 1500 meters, he yelled out “Ready,” following that with “Now!” at 800 meters meters.

  He pushed himself up and out of the carruca, immediately grabbing his controls and reversing the thrust. He took a quick glance to see seven other bodies out of the sled, one spinning out of control.

  Seven! Who was missing?

  He felt the clipper’s tractor beam grab him as his forward momentum took him closer despite his propulsion unit desperately trying to slow him down. He looked ahead to see the carruca plowing ahead, a small figure still at the controls.

  Grubbing shit! Hermonez! was all he had time to think before the carruca slammed into the clipper, right at the target spot.

  The petty officer had chosen to guide the sled to the target instead of baling.

  Immediately, the tractor beam quit. She had managed to hit the beam generator, knocking it out.

  Less than four seconds later, Ryck slammed into the side of the ship, almost knocking him out. Even with the tractor hooks knocked out and his vacsuit propulsion unit screaming, his forward momentum was just too much to overcome.

  It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but he seemed to be whole. Maybe having the sturdier Confed vacsuits had been fortuitous. He didn’t know if a Federation vacsuit would have survived the impact.

  “Give me a head count!” he shouted over the net as he tried to orient himself to where the Confed breaching tube had been spotted stuck against the hull of the ship.

  Only, without the tractor beam, it was no longer stuck, and two soldiers, who’d been smashed against the side of the ship for the last two hours, had grabbed it and were emplacing it to breach the ship.

  Six of his team reported in. One did not, but Ryck didn’t have time to track the missing sailor down. Smashing into the ship could have simply knocked out his comms. He started to order his team forward to the breaching tube when a new voice came over the net.

  “Jan, Wilson, get ready to dive. Knoppson, Kuka, you’re next.” Then, “Whoever you are, thank you, but I’ve got it now.”

  Ryck had known that eight of the soldiers had survived the impact with varying degrees of injuries, but he hadn’t known if they were still effectives. They hadn’t communicated with the soldiers for fear those inside of the ship would be able to intercept their transmissions. But already, with however many effectives he still had, Chief Warrant Officer Singh was back in the saddle and in charge. Ryck didn’t try to push his rank. He might be a major, but a major from another military, and Singh’s soldiers were undoubtedly better prepared for the mission than his sailors.

  “The new assault team, follow the deca inside and support, but don’t get in their way,” he passed to Ryck’s team.

  “New team leader, follow us and secure the area we’ve cleared,” Singh passed as the breach was made and his team “dove,” as he put it, into the ship.

  There were flashes of light from inside the ship—someone was firing, but whether Confeds or SOG, Ryck didn’t know.

  Ryck followed the last of the soldiers, right on one of their asses, into the ship. Inside the first compartment, which looked to be a small bunkroom, a dead soldier and a man in normal clothes but with a small breathing facemask lay on the floor. Ryck brought up his Confed assault rifle, his finger off the trigger and on the safety. He needed to be ready, but he didn’t want his unfamiliarity with the weapon result in friendly fire.

  “Cover our six,” one of the soldiers shouted over his externals as Bill came up beside him. Ryck pulled Bill along the passage about five meters and stopped.

  “Nice landing,” Bill said, excitement evident in his voice. “’Bout knocked the snake shit out of me.”

  The top was next, and he pointed to the hatch to a room just in front of him. Ryck nodded, and the three of them, along with the first of the sailors to reach them, slowly moved forward. Top pushed to the far side of the hatch, and on Ryck’s nod, kicked it open.

  Top was first in with Ryck on his ass. Top went low as a shot rang out peppering the jamb beside Ryck’s head. Top, Ryck, and Bill, who almost walked into the incoming darts, opened fire on the two armed men standing in the far corner of the small
room. Ryck didn’t even notice the difference between the Confed rifle and his more familiar M77 as he put a line of darts into the man on the left. Both Top and Bill hit the man on the right, and the two pirates slid bonelessly to the ground.

  Ryck was amazed that with the three essentially in the doorway, they’d managed to take out two men who had been waiting for them.

  “Suit’s breached,” Top said.

  Ryck looked down to where Top was getting back up. They might have taken down the two pirates, but they had not gotten out unscathed. Top had taken three darts running up his thigh and into his side. His suit was in tatters, and blood was welling up. Despite that, the Brotherhood master sergeant seemed to be surprisingly fine.

  “Stay here,” Ryck ordered,

  “No, sir, I’m fine. Let’s clear this bad boy,” he insisted.

  Bill’s eyes grew wide as he listened and he shook his head in amazement.

  “Sir, what do we do now?” one of the sailors asked, poking his head in the compartment before seeing the two dead pirates and recoiling back into the passage.

  “As the top says, let’s clear this bad boy,” Ryck said.

  The three exited the compartment, and followed by a gaggle of sailors, made their way aft, checking each compartment. In the second to last, they found two woman and a man, bound and gagged. One of the sailors rushed to free them when the top stopped him.

  “You and you, cover them,” he told two of the sailors, one with a wicked bruise forming up over half of his face, courtesy of their landing on the ship. “And you, give me your weapon,” he told the confused sailor.

  “But they’re tied up,” the sailor protested.

  “And what better way for the SOG to hide among us, as prisoners?” Ryck asked.

  It took a moment for that to dawn on him, and his eyes got big as he handed over his rifle. He gingerly untied the first woman and took off her gag.

  “Oh thank heavens,” the short, 30’s-something woman gasped out. “I’m Assistant Ops Chief Krishnamurthy of the Sisyphus, and I’m so glad to see you. You don’t know what’s been happening!”

  The sailor quickly united the other two before stepping back.

  The older woman cleared her throat, then tried to talk from her position on the floor. She gave up and closed her eyes.

  “That’s our CFO. She’s not doing well. She needs a doctor,” the woman said as the man pulled the CFO close.

  She stood up as if to leave when four rifles covered her by sailors mindful of the reminder they could be SOG.

  “What are you doing? I’m Free States, like you?” she asked confused, looking at their Confed patch on the vacsuits.

  Ryck didn’t bother to correct her, but said, “Ma’am, the situation is not resolved on the ship, and for your protection, we can’t let you leave just yet. Please be patient.”

  Top assigned two of the sailors to look after the hostages, and Ryck was pretty sure they were just that, not SOG. He’d let the soldiers worry about identifying them, though.

  The clipper was small, and his ragtag team cleared the rest of it within a few more minutes.

  “New assault team leader, can you come to the bridge?” CWO Singh passed over the net.

  Ryck left Top in charge, wondering if the man’s loss of blood would have some effect or if the man would just continue to shrug off the three darts in him. He and Bill made their way forward where there were more signs of fighting and blood spots, but no bodies. Entering the modern and well-equipped but small bridge, he saw three pirate bodies neatly laid out along the bulkhead. A soldier was laid out along the forward command panel, and another was getting treatment for a shoulder wound.

  “I’m CWO Singh, and who are you?” he asked Ryck.

  Ryck reached up and took off his helmet. The chief’s eyes widened when he recognized Ryck.

  “You’re that Federation officer!” he exclaimed.

  “Guilty as charged,” Ryck said.

  “But, how, I mean, you’re a welcome sight, but you’re Federation,” he said, confused.

  “And I’m Junior Regimentalist Csonka of New Budapest,” Bill said, taking off his helmet.

  “Is that Brotherhood master sergeant with you?”

  “Yes, and he took three rounds,” Ryck said.

  “Well, I guess I need to thank you, sir. You saved our asses. I could see you guys coming in, but I didn’t know what was going on. Taking that carruca, that was righteous!”

  “Petty Officer Hermonez rode that sled in to make sure she took out the hooks,” Ryck told him.

  Singh went pale. “Harmony? She did that? Oh, fuck.”

  The chief obviously knew Hermonez, and it was affecting him. But the mission was not completed yet. Ryck needed to get him back on track. If anyone knew how hard it was to accept losing men, it was Ryck.

  “So, what’s the status here now? Commander Nuzzi needs to know. You better get your report up to her ASAP.”

  “What? Oh yeah, you’re right, sir. I’ll get on that. Fuck. I lost six of my men, and Harmony, too. Shit.”

  “Snap out of it, son,” he told the young warrant officer. “Report back.”

  “Right. And thank you, sir. You, too, sir,” he added to Bill. “You two may not be Free States, but we owe you one,” he before he got on his comms to report back.

  “Did you see me? I’m a slithering, snake-eating grunt, by God.” Bill said as he and Ryck started back to their team

  “That you are, Bill,” Ryck said.

  “Holy snake shit! I can’t believe it.”

  The operation, borne out of desperation, had somehow succeeded. It took sacrifice, but it had been a success.

  Holy snake shit indeed.

  New Mumbai

  Chapter 8

  “There have been several requests for your recall,” Mr. Lamonica told him.

  “I just did what I thought was right, sir. The SOG is a vile organization, and I’ve locked horns with them before. Someone had to step up, and I decided that was me.”

  “‘Vile,’ Major? Not a very diplomatic term,” the chargé d’affaires told him calmly.

  “Well, yes. Vile is just about right, sir. That’s what they are.”

  “Maybe so, but a good diplomat does not paint himself into a corner. I’m not here to tell you that the Soldiers of God are good citizens, and perhaps vile is as good a term as any to describe them, but that highlights the issue I have with you. You are a Marine, and evidently a good one. But this is a diplomatic mission, not a Marine assault. You are the proverbial bull in the china shop, coming in with your big feet and smashing everything in sight.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I would do it all over again,” Ryck said, a hint of sullenness creeping into his voice.

  He’d made more than a few promises to cut down on the arrogance, cut down on the ego that had started to surface in his actions, but this was a little much. Any Marine would have done what he’d done. And any Marine would not like getting in trouble for carrying out his training.

  “Are you familiar, sir, with the scorpion and the crocodile?” he asked.

  The chargé d’affaires looked puzzled, then said, “Why don’t you tell me.”

  “It’s an old story, sir, hundreds of years old. In Africa, a scorpion came to a wide river. The water was too deep and swift for him, so he went to a crocodile sunning on the bank.

  “‘Can you give me a ride across the river?’ he asked the crocodile.

  “‘If I do, you will just sting me and kill me,’ the crocodile protested.

  “‘Why would I do that?’ the scorpion asked. ‘If I do that, I will die too, drowned by the river.’

  “The crocodile thought about it for a moment, then because it made sense, he agreed to give the scorpion a ride over to the other side. The scorpion climbed onto the croc, and the two started across.

  “Half-way across the river, the scorpion stung the crocodile in the head, poisoning him.

  “‘Why did you do that?’ the crocod
ile asked as the poison took effect and he started to sink under the water. ‘You’ve killed us both!’

  “‘Because I’m a scorpion. That is what we do,’ said the scorpion before he, too, slipped under the water and drowned.”

  A slow smile spread over the chargé d’affaires’ face, and he said, “So you are the scorpion, Major?”

  “Not just me, sir. Any Marine. We are trained to fight. You can pretty us up, send us to finishing school in Brussels, have us mix with the high and mighty, but in the end, we’re still Marines. You have to expect us to act as Marines.

  “So if the powers that be want to send me back, so be it.”

  Mr. Lamonica nodded, then said, “The ‘powers-that-be’ have left it up to the ambassador.”

  “And that is diplomatic talk for it is up to you, sir.”

  The smile on his face grew broader, and he didn’t deny Ryck’s statement.

  “Sometimes, however, being more direct can have a more advantageous outcome. This may have been the case here. And I’ve just been told that our host’s command staff has recommended you for the Corona Navalis, and I hardly think it would be civilized of us to remove you before the ceremony, don’t you think?” he asked.

  That took Ryck by surprise. The Corona Navalis? The bronze oak leaves that made up a grubbing crown, an actual crown, on par with the Federation Navy Cross?

  “But . . . I . . . I really didn’t do, I mean, it wasn’t that big of a deal. That’s a pretty high honor, and to give it to me, someone who has recently been locked in combat against them?”

  “Politics make strange bedfellows, Major. Surely you know that by now. Whether your rash actions deserve this commendation or not, I would have to defer to the military side of our government. However, my side, the diplomatic side, thinks this is a good idea, as evidently do certain factions within the Free States government. With that in mind, the ambassador has decided to ignore the calls for your termination from your position and will keep you where you are. You duties, with concurrence from Captain Franks, will shift somewhat to more of a representative nature, rather than your previous duties.”