Indomitable (8 page)

“And no one else has much, right, sir?”

“Exactly, which means, in case I need to spell it out for you, we must hold Sheol at all costs. CRURON-18 and BATRON-32 are already in orbit around Sheol, and a level-three orbital platform is partially completed; another three months and it will be fully operational.”

That's a lot of firepower,
Promise thought.
If Sheol is this important, it doesn't sound like enough.

“We're relieving Able Battalion from the Seventh. Able has been on post for over fifteen standard months, upgrading Sheol's planetary defenses and installing a comm net throughout the system. With the big find came a host of new problems, which I will explain in a moment. Able's Marines are tired, overworked, and understrength. We are going in to relieve her with a full battalion of mechanized Marines. In a few months, I'm told, we will be brought up to brigade strength. Between you and me, don't count on it. That's why our task force is loaded down with remotely piloted platforms with both surface-to-air and antiarmor capabilities.”

“Glorified drones,” Promise said with disgust. “RPPs will never replace boots on the ground.”

“Agreed,” Halvorsen said. “You can't replace a flesh-and-blood Marine.” Now he was smiling.

“Ooh-rah.”

Promise resisted the urge to reach out and touch the terrestrial planet's outer atmosphere. She inhaled sharply as she and the colonel suddenly plunged through thick layers of clouds and into an ashen, lifeless sky. The rocky surface looked like dried blood.

“Welcome to Hell, Lieutenant.” The colonel paused for a long moment. “If there is one, Sheol is as close to it as I hope to come. It rains a lot of acid. The atmosphere corrodes everything. The ground is unstable. In the distance—nine o'clock—is the city of Nexus. Nexus sits on a floating, quake-resistant foundation. Otherwise, it wouldn't be there. The soil may be worthless, but the Mizienite beneath the ground is a verge system's ticket to the stars, which brings me to the domestic terrorists.”

“Domestic?”

“Indeed. The Greys are from the planet Korazim. They are system-grown. A lot of them came to Nexus with the guilds, under the pretense of finding work in Nexus or in the mines. Then they started blowing things up. The Greys accuse the Republic of raping Sheol and screwing the Korazim system out of the tax revenues while giving the jobs to out-of-system skilled labor. There might be a hint of truth there.”

He went on. “The terrorists call themselves the Grey Walkers—we call them the Greys—and they have virtually brought mining on Sheol to its knees. Korazim is an independent system. With the full backing of the RAW, a number of Republican firms pooled their resources and leased the mining rights to Sheol from the Korazim government for the next thirty years. Our mining corporations are on the planet legally. Fifteen percent of their profits go straight to the system's pockets. We are not screwing anyone. The Greys see themselves as the savior, and the Corporate Congress the villain. As far as the Greys are concerned, any target is fair game.”

“Military and civilian,” Promise added with disgust.

“Unfortunately, yes. Five weeks ago we lost three crawlers and two mine shafts. Hundreds of miners and civilian contractors died in the last year alone. Able Battalion's wounds are company-sized. There's about a million souls living in Nexus: contractors and research firms, scientists, a couple of university branches, and a host of small businesses and venture-capital firms, plus all the service and support outfits to keep everyone fat and happy. That's a lot of warm bodies to target. That's why we're deploying.

“The Grey Walkers' commander, Walker Greystone, is a fierce guerrilla fighter known for his unorthodox battlefield tactics and megalomaniac ruthlessness. The man was a history teacher in his first life. Mr. Greystone apparently blows his top more frequently than the volcanoes on Sheol do. He's at the top of our most-wanted list and we have orders to shoot him on sight. We've been authorized to use enhanced interrogation techniques on his people: cold; heat; noise; sleep dep; bad music; reduced calories; and the infamous grab-and-hold. If that doesn't make the terrorists cream their skivvies we may up-pressurize select, high-value targets, if the threat risk is deemed critical. There's nothing like a little simulated high-altitude pulmonary edema to induce panic. Between you and me I hope we get the chance to take some Greys sky-high.”

Halvorsen paused and turned in his chair to face Promise. “I don't have to tell you how badly the Lusitanians want this planet. Marine Intelligence believes the Lusies are fronting the Greys, and that together they will do almost anything to halt our mining efforts. One way or the other—Greys or Lusies—we are going to take fire.”

“I've faced the Lusies before, sir. The thought of facing them again doesn't exactly excite me,” Promise said with a tight smile, “but between you and me, sir, I wouldn't mind a few more targets. They nearly put me in the morgue.” Promise pointed to the scar above her left ear. She turned in to the light of the holotank to give the colonel a good look.

“Back on Montana, right? An explosion cracked your brain bucket and your skull.” The colonel shifted toward her. “So your AI jacks into your brain-box and starts driving
you.”
Halvorsen gritted his teeth. “How did it feel to have your AI mucking around in your jelly?”

“It's a total blur, sir. I don't remember a thing.”

“Probably best.”

“Sir, perhaps now's a good time to bring up a somewhat sensitive matter?”

“You mean because I'm in such a good mood. Well, don't let it fool you. It won't last.”

“Then all the more reason, sir.”

“Shoot.”

“Victor Company isn't ready to deploy, sir. If I'm being honest, we aren't ready for a lot of things.”

 

Ten

APRIL 19
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1041 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

RNS
NITRO,
PARKING ORBIT WHISKEY-ECHO 6

“What?” Lieutenant Colonel Halvorsen's
good mood was now nowhere to be found. Sheol's light filled the holotank and the red-stained whites of his eyes, which could have melted through six centimeters of peristeel plating.

There's the colonel the gunny warned me about.

“That is not what I wanted to hear, Lieutenant, especially when I was just beginning to like you. Explain yourself.”

“Sir, as you know, my unit has only just reconstituted. I've got a handful of toons fresh out of boot camp and the School of Infantry. They came to me pretty green and—”

“Sounds like life in the RAW-MC to me, Lieutenant Paen. There's never enough boots to go around, let alone veterans to keep tabs on the newbs. The Lusitanian Empire continues to increase its military expenditures, which is forcing us to do the same just to keep parity. This brings us back to Sheol's military importance. In some ways we are already on a war footing, which says nothing about the uptick in worlds seeking formal admission to the RAW, or the defense needs of our protectorates, or our antipiracy operations and force protection for interstellar commerce. I suggest you learn to love the suck.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Promise steeled herself for a diplomatic fight. “I love the suck, sir, yes I do, love it like a RAW-MC screw.” She sung the words to the familiar cadence, chin held high and proud.

Halvorsen's lip twitched but otherwise he said nothing.

“Boot camp used to last fifteen standard weeks, sir. Now it's eleven, and BUPERS is pushing for nine. The School of Infantry has been shaved down too. I know we're strapped for manpower, but I have ‘slick sleeves' that barely passed their weapons evolutions and others who couldn't take a piss in a mechsuit if their lives depended on it.”

“I'm fully aware of the Corps's manpower needs and the … unprecedented steps we've taken recently, including a reduction in training times, to hit our quotas. I have my own reservations about that. Under the circumstances, I fully support the powers that be, and so should you. You take my meaning?”

“Sir, I mean no disrespect. My concern is for the safety and operational integrity of my command, and that of Charlie Battalion.”
Colonel, please hear me out, please.
“I have Marines with subpar range scores, sir, and a few with marks significantly below a passing grade at long distances. Scuttlebutt says our drill instructors are being leaned on to pass subpar Marines through their evos, instead of recycling them, to help the Corps meet its goals. I can't believe that's the case, sir. But, the rumors are circulating the vents, about scores across
all
competencies being averaged together to generate an overall passing mark, particularly for Marines with subpar rifleman skills. Not in the RAW-MC, right, sir? Marksmanship is still as important as it used to be, correct, sir? With respect to the powers that be, I have a half dozen boots who can't consistently hit a silhouette at five hundred meters while prone, with a compensated Triple-Seven carbine racked to a bipod. With optics, sir, and an AI-assist. Why were they allowed to graduate with their class?”

*   *   *

Halvorsen wanted to blow
his top and tear the lieutenant a new one. Promise was treading on dangerous ground. Questioning the brass like this was a one-way ticket to a short-lived career. If she kept it up there was no way she would ever make it past the rank of major. And she was taking a significant risk by speaking so freely with him, because he could kill her career with a single efficiency report.
But I can't very well scuttle her career because she's right. She shouldn't have to make the argument in the first place. I don't know many full birds who'd risk the ire of their COs by going on the record.

The caliber of the average Marine private had fallen measurably over the past few years. Too many greenhorns—and one was one too many in Halvorsen's estimation—were joining the fleet with glaring training deficiencies. A Marine who couldn't shoot at distance was a liability. A handful of sergeants had personally griped to him—off the record, of course—about the substandard skills of the Marines they were seeing coming out of boot camp and SOI. One particular staff sergeant had bemoaned the decrepit state of the Corps and the amount of time he was spending hand-holding green-as-get-you-killed privates. “I shouldn't have to teach them the basics, sir,” the noncom had said. “By the time they get to me they should have the fundamentals habitually beat into their hides. And, they should know to keep their fingers off the trigger until they are ready to fire.”

After a long moment, the colonel grudgingly nodded his head. “Lieutenant, what would you like me to do about it?”

“Could you buy me another week of training, sir? Even two, before we ship out. Victor Company needs more range time, and I'm afraid I need more than a few standard days. If we deploy now, we risk compromising the battalion and the mission.”

“In a perfect 'verse how many weeks would you like?”

“Six weeks, sir, but I can do it for you in four,” Promise said.

Halvorsen snorted. “And we leave in less than two. Lieutenant, you're asking me to delay our deployment by at least two weeks. Sheol is mission-critical. The brass won't sign off on this. And we're not just talking about delaying Victor Company but the entire battalion, and BATRON-Six too. That's six battlecrusiers plus screen elements. What's my excuse to Commodore Rebondir for delaying her departure?”

Promise faltered. “Sir—I, I really didn't think…”

“No, you didn't think, did you … and you should have. I'm not blind or unsympathetic to your concerns. However, you're going to have to live with them and shore up your company's weaknesses. That's what company commanders do. Understood?”

Well, P, you tried.
“Yes, sir. I understand … and I will. You can count on me, sir.”

“I'll comm you by twelve hundred hours tomorrow with new orders. I need to call in a favor, probably more like three.” Halvorsen didn't sound at all happy about that, and Promise realized she was going to owe the colonel a massive favor. She decided then and there to pay it back if she was ever in a position to. “Under the circumstances, and given your unit's current situation … and the fact that you've just reconstituted after substantial losses, I think the extra time is warranted.
Kearsarge
's captain owes me a favor. I'm sure Captain Shen can find a reason to keep the yard dogs crawling over her hull for a bit longer, for at least a few days more. Maybe longer. Captains tend to get a wide berth in dock, and a lot of deference. And rightly so. Somehow, I'll buy you your extra drill time, Lieutenant. You deliver me a company of riflemen.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“In the meantime, I have an idea.” Halvorsen stood and nodded toward the exit. “Lights. I need to hit the head before the rest of my company commanders arrive. Walk with me.”

The holotank died as the overhead lights kicked in, bathing the stadium in near-blinding light. Promise stood and nearly jumped out of her skin. She'd forgotten her mother was still there. Sandra had said little after Promise and the colonel had gotten into it, which wasn't like her. Sandra looked up at Promise from her seat and winked before she faded out. Promise said a quick
thank you, Momma
and fell in beside Halvorsen, walking back up the steps and toward the holotank's exit.

“Sometimes you need to light a fire underneath a unit to get it to pull together.” The door opened and Halvorsen paused just inside the exit. “I'm sending you to the Island.”

“Sir? With all due respect that's not exactly what I had in mind.”
That's a no-win situation. I need to teach my Marines to win before they lose.
“We're not ready, sir.”