Postal Marine 1: Bellicose (23 page)

Litovio swallowed almost immediately after the Admiral spoke.
How can you have that much confidence in me when I don't have that much confidence in myself?
He leaned over to a crewman and ordered him to bring him breakfast.

The next few beats passed slowly. The AI announced their emergence. The destroyer's bridge lacked viewports, so Litovio could not be distracted by the yellow fading to black. Instead, he stared at the tactical display, waiting for the AI to start reporting Navy hostiles. Without any intelligence beyond the latest whereabouts of the Navy fleet, Litovio presumed the fleet would be waiting on the other side. It was classic doctrine to wait near the emergence area, and put the Marines in the worst tactical position.
If they know we're here. If we're lucky they won't be anywhere near where we emerge and we'll have a fighting chance.

Soon after, the tactical display started to plot Postal ships. They arrived roughly in formation. Given the inaccuracy of hyperspace jumps, the accuracy of the formation surprised Litovio. His decision to wait for three-9s certainty paid off in accuracy.

The crewman returned with a plate of food and coffee. Litovio's appetite got the better of him, and he started inhaling the food. The distraction was welcomed as he knew it would resolve the other nagging distraction of an early-morning empty stomach.

“Colonel?”

The concern in
Bence
's voice countered the consistent vote of confidence Litovio had grown accustomed to. In mid-bite, Litovio turned back to the tactical display. He nearly choked on his food. The plate fell to the floor. It was spared shattering by mutual design. The plate was made of nearly bullet-resistant material, and the floor had an inch of rubber to absorb sound and impacts. In a ship not designed with the crew in mind, the
Korundaj
was not totally insensitive to their needs. Destroyers in real combat have a very short life-expectancy. The rubber reduced the likelihood of broken bones, though that feature mattered little when the crew was free-floating in space without an environmental suit.

What amazed Litovio was the time it took the plate to fall. Not the briefness of it, but that he could process the odd design while staring at a tactical display still showing Navy units. The red blips kept coming. Litovio knew it was not because the AI could not process the sheer number of them, but the lag in sensor updates.

Despite the lag, the meaning behind the display spoke volumes. The Navy anticipated his formation perfectly. They were positioned for planetary bombardment. Litovio recognized the characteristic parabolic design of the formation, which allowed the capital ships to concentrate fire effectively against single targets. Against a moving fleet, the formation would have only done well if the Navy knew exactly where the Postal fleet was going to emerge.
Impossible. We don't even know where we're emerging.
The formation worked well against the postal fleet's formation, which Litovio mentally conceded was possible if a spy ship jumped ahead of them.

The fleet battlenet started feeding the tactical display. Cruisers in the vanguard reported firing, and the AI tried to estimate battle damage done to Navy ships. At the same time, the battlenet's feed started reporting damage inflicted to the fleet. The numbers were slight at first, but then a cruiser completely disappeared.

“There goes a cruiser.” The way Bence said it tried to conceal the terror Litovio could hear in his voice.

Litovio did his best not to look at
Bence
. He fixed his gaze on the display.
That had to be a battleship salvo.
“AI, what's the next focal point of the Navy fleet?”

The tactical display lit up. The focal center was the
Spaka
.

The days since he was released flew for Bophendze. His new team lead, Corporal
Svyngle
, transferred from the Destroyer
Korundaj
and was assigned because he was a proven combat veteran. Bophendze knew
Chrachen
told Svyngle about his brig confession, as would the guard by now. Svyngle did not show any acknowledgment of that confession in how Bophendze was treated. The reverse was true. Svyngle focused on Bophendze's lack of training by spending their recreation watch explaining things to Bophendze. Throughout it all, Smee nagged that Bophendze could rely on him in combat.

Today was the day. Other marines predicted the emergence based on the extra rations they were fed. Some joked it was their last meal before the slaughter. Either way, Bophendze knew none of them would eat again until the battle was over. Many more would never eat again.

Bophendze's team was fully suited and sitting at the ready in the hangar. He looked at the paint job he once marveled at. The olive drab and blue grey looked more like grass and sky than it did when he first boarded the
Spaka
.
Is this the last time I see this hangar? Will we even see action? This is a major fleet action, not a freighter boarding.

The alarm sounded. The transition from silence to the alarm jolted Bophendze and sent a cold shock through his body.

Chrachen
's command voice carried over the alarm and commotion, “Marines, this is it. Never doubt the utility of infantry in fleet operations. Do as you're trained and we will be victorious.”

The marines in Bophendze's team quickly got into formation. Svyngle counted the men and nodded. “Load up!”

Bophendze turned with the other marines and waited for his turn. The man in front of him started forward. Bophendze followed and they climbed into the shuttle. The sinking feeling in his stomach turned into a pit. Over the past few days he was thrilled to be an infantry marine again. The excitement clouded his judgment. As he sat down on the bench he realized he had never done a combat jump, not even in training. Most of his training involved close-quarter drill, the standard fare for a marine. Having never done a jump, he did not know what to do. He started to panic.

Then he noticed nobody was paying attention to him. If he went a little slower than they did, he could copy what they were doing. He tried to nonchalantly copy them. By doing so, he harnessed himself into the seat. As he did so, he noted that the shuttle benches held the fifteen of them well.
Smee, do you know what comes next?

Smee did not respond. Bophendze shook his head in disappointment.
Every time I'm in trouble and need him he goes into hiding. If I could find a way to turn him off permanently then I could live a normal life. Instead I'm stuck with him. Not that it matters, I have a life expectancy of maybe another cycle?
The thought comforted Bophendze a bit. Smee chose to abandon him again, likely not to return again until the battle was over.
It's like he's a coward.

The marines finished preparing. The shuttle grew quiet. That surprised Bophendze. He thought there would be the normal shuffling and din of noise he encountered everywhere. Or banter, anything but silence. Instead, the marines were quiet. He scanned the faces. Only a few faces in the shuttle suggested fear. A few others exhibited inevitability. A couple even had their eyes closed.
Are they asleep? Who can sleep at a time like this?
More of the faces seemed to speak of determination and duty. None of the other marines were looking around like Bophendze was. He took that as a hint and tried to settle down.

It was quiet. Bophendze nervously played with his battle suit's helmet that was sitting in his lap.

After what seemed like an eternity, Bophendze could feel the silence pressing in.
Why is it so quiet? Shouldn't we be launching ‘into the deep void of space?’ Why did we hurry up and wait?
Bophendze shifted from fear to annoyance.
Why aren't any of these marines getting upset like I am?

Because they're professional, not an emotional, ungrateful little brat like you.

Thank you for that keen insight. Until this moment I hadn't realized that I was unprofessional.

Deciding to return sarcasm with sarcasm? It takes a keen mind to master sarcasm. I don't think you have it in you.

You think this is a competition? We're about to engage in a massive battle and you're trying to compete with me over sarcasm? Isn't that like battling a forest fire with a water pistol?

Let me clarify your analogy, Puppet. I am the forest fire. You are the water pistol—unloaded.

Just remember, I once held you between two fingers. I could have dropped you into a trash can to be incinerated.

Trying to fight fire with fire? Leave the heavy thinking to grown-ups, Puppet. It doesn't matter that you once had that control over me. What matters is now. What's this about a massive battle?

Where do you go when you don't talk to me? The briefing I got was that the Imperial Postal Service formed a fleet to take on a renegade Imperial Navy fleet. I'm sitting in this shuttle now because we're about to engage that fleet.

Have you gone completely mad? The entire Postal Service lacks the firepower to take on a typical Navy fleet. You run down smugglers. If this Navy fleet really is renegade, then it will more likely be a self-contained—a task force fleet. You don't stand a chance.

What? You think I have any involvement in the plans? I'm the gun swabber, remember? I don't call the shots, I take the shots.

‘I take the shots.’ Witty. I'll give you that. So we're sitting in a shuttle awaiting certain death. Either we sit in the shuttle and a battleship primaries the cruiser, or we start boarding operations and a destroyer primaries us. I can feel your incompetence.

Primaries?

That means a one-shot kill.

What if we infantry aren't in a shuttle?

Then you'll have front row seats to a massacre. What's the system name?

Tannenberg
, I think.

This will go down as the
Tannenberg
Massacre. Not that either of us will be around to hear it so called.

Then I'll either suffocate when my battle suit runs out of air, or shot by a strafing run, or captured by the Navy.
Bophendze's fear returned, creating a deeper, darker pit in his stomach.
I don't really have a choice, do I?

Smee did not respond. Bophendze shook his head.
Typical, he talks and leaves.
Despite none of the other marines wearing their helmet, Bophendze put his on.
Dead before I had a chance to make a mark on the world.

The shuttle's engines spun into action. “It's go time.”

Bophendze recognized the voice. The sound of the engine altered the voice. He recirculated the voice in his head until he realized it was
Angel
.
How did I miss that this was
Angel
's shuttle? Shouldn't the guns have given it away.
He must have been distracted.
I need to focus.

He did not feel the shuttle lift off. The engine leveled off in pitch, but it confused Bophendze that they just sat there. The delay unnerved him.

Suddenly, the entire ship pitched. Not the shuttle. The grating sound of the shuttle's skids on the deck reported the shuttle slide. Bophendze freaked out.
We're going to die.

I'm tired of waiting.

Angel
worked the shuttle's controls. The engine kicked into gear. He looked over his shoulder and yelled, “it's go time.” He continued to flip switches and work the touch panel to bring the shuttle to full flight configuration.
If we're going to sit here and wait, then I'm going to ensure we're ready to go when they finally realize they need us.

He waited a couple beats until the shuttle warmed. He checked the gauges to ensure everything was ready. He looked out on the hangar deck to confirm there was nobody still inside. Despite still being in the hangar bay, he decided to fully activate the gravimetric system. Turning them on with crewmen still in the hangar risked their lives. But he was not about to repeat the incident from the last time he activated the system in an active hangar.

Still he waited. The longer the wait, the more concerned he felt. He tweaked the gravimetric controls to activate the barrier.
Lightly. Let's go with five percent. Enough to shield us, maybe give us more traction.

Angel
finally relaxed in satisfaction.
It wasn't really ‘go time’ was it? Sounded better than ‘almost go time,’ or ‘not quite go time’.

The ship lurched.
Angel
felt the shuttle scrape against the hangar deck. Reflexively, he tweaked the shuttle's gravimetric barrier to 40 percent. The shuttle immediately latched into place on the deck.
That should hold us for a bit.

Parts of the hangar ceiling came unfastened and crashed onto the deck. The cruiser shook again.
We're under heavy fire. Why aren't we being launched?

His answer came a few seconds later. Another barrage crashed into the
Spaka
, ripping a giant hole in the hangar door. What atmo remained blew out, causing the door to bend outward slightly. A final barrage left a hole almost large enough for the shuttle to leave though.
Angel
canted his head to see if there were a different angle that would let him thread that needle.

One thing's for certain, I can't rely on the
Spaka
for much longer. He eased the controls until the shuttle started to hover a few feet above the deck. He waited for the right excuse to leave the ship. Anticipating the escape, he turned the shuttle's nose to point at the hangar door. He pulled up the weapons system and manually aimed it at a part of the hangar door.

Then it happened. He could see through the gaping hole that should be a door. The space outside was starting to gray out. But it was not quite gray. It was a dark gray-yellow.
Idiots. They're jumping with what has to be massive amounts of battle damage. It will kill us all, if the ship ever emerges.

Many had heard horror stories of those exposed to hyperspace radiation. Not that it was actual radiation. It was the nature of hyperspace. Man was not meant to be outside real space. Only a sturdy hull of the right alloys made the jumps safe enough to attempt.
Angel
had seen the horrors. Ships damaged in combat sacrificed exposed crewmen for the good of the ship.

Not this time.
Angel
and those on his shuttle would be those sacrificed if the
Spaka
jumped. There were at least three more shuttles in the hangar. Dozens of men given up for dead. The massive hits
Spaka
suffered led
Angel
to conclude the cruiser was in no condition to jump. Enough hull breaches and “the Soup,” as some called it, would permeate the ship and kill all on board. Assuming the ship's plot was accurate, it would emerge in real space with a completely dead crew. The Navy accepted those risks in its doctrine—better a salvageable ship than none at all. Angle refused to be trapped in a hangar as one of those sacrificed for salvage.

The bubble is forming, so I need to break out of it.
With the nose still pointed to the hangar door, he fired a solid burst at the door. It broke free and floated off into space. The space slowly brightened in yellow, continuing its jump. Reflexively,
Angel
turned the gravimetric barrier to one-hundred percent power, in all directions. Maximum gravity pull in all directions. He hoped it would make the shuttle like a cork popping out from under the water. Once the gauge reported that the bubble was at one-hundred percent,
Angel
pushed the throttle wide open. In a moment, the shuttle cleared the hangar.

Steadily accelerating, the shuttle violently shook as it hit
Spaka
's gravimetric barrier. The shaking stopped as abruptly as it started. The shuttle had cleared the
Spaka
. Looking over his shoulder, his fears about the hull damage were confirmed.

He knew none would ever look upon the
Spaka
again. Had
Angel
understood hyperspace properly, he would have known that piercing the cruiser's gravity bubble was little different than popping a balloon.
Spaka
was too far into its jump to pop back with the shuttle. The damage to the bubble was sufficient that it would prevent
Spaka
from ever emerging. Had the ship's crew not already been consigned to death by gravimetric radiation,
Angel
's escape would have been a death sentence.

Angel
did not have the luxury of worrying about such matters. As soon as the surrounding space turned black, he knew he was back in realspace. He cut the shuttle's gravimetric bubble back. He took a moment to survey the battlefield. That moment stretched into a full beat as he witnessed the carnage the Imperial Navy was wreaking on the Postal Service. Massive battleships fired in concert at individual cruisers. The predictions of Postal failure were coming true.

Without the
Spaka
,
Angel
heard nothing over the radio. In his opinion, that made him commander of the
Spaka
. He tapped in the command net frequency. The net washed in chatter. Commanders bickered over what steps to take next.
Angel
could hear Litovio trying to direct the fleet. Frustrated,
Angel
yelled into the microphone, “At ease!”

At once the net silenced. “Admiral, this is the
Spaka
. We're getting slaughtered. What are your orders?”

The net paused. Eventually, Litovio answered. “We need to suppress their fire control and destroy their jump ability. Put some fear into them.”