Starfist: A World of Hurt (10 page)

Myer watched him leave, then pushed himself to his feet and went to the door to Conorado's office. He suspected he knew what Bass's visit was about. "He'll get over it, Skipper."

"I know he will, Top," Conorado replied.

The navy finally got its act together, as it always does, no matter how unlikely it seems to the Marines who have to wait, and a fleet of twenty-two Essays landed at Boynton Field, the Camp Ellis airfield. They dropped their ramps, and forty-two navy Dragons powered off, to form up with the twenty-four Marine Dragons waiting in formation. The Marines of 34th FIST, waiting to board the Dragons, exchanged knowing glances and looked toward the navy men. The navy may have finally shown up, but they
still
didn't have their act together; the navy Dragons simply weren't as sharply lined up as the waiting Marine Dragons. The Marines had seen sailors march. They weren't very sharp at that either.

The navy thought the Marines were arrogant. The Marines looked at how the Dragons lined up not quite on plumb, remembered all the bouncing in the sailors' nearly ragged ranks when they marched, and thought that what the sailors perceived as arrogance was simply an expression of natural superiority. Some semithoughtful Marines thought the navy always made them wait out of pure spite. Others, more thoughtful, maintained that Marines always had to wait for the navy because the navy, being so much larger, was cumbersome and naturally took longer to perform the most basic functions than the lean and mean Marine Corps.

Whatever the cause of the waiting, the navy was there with its Essays and Dragons, and the Marines began boarding. The Marine formations were well lined up and their movements crisp. They boarded in short order. They'd show those squids what sharp looked like.

The sailors, of course, knew what the Marines were thinking, and didn't do a thing to give their cargo--they wouldn't dignify the Marines by thinking of them as "passengers"--a smooth ride, either during the Dragons' boarding of the Essays or the three-hour suborbital flight to equatorial Nidhogge.

By the time the Essays touched down on the ocean beyond the horizon from Nidhogge, the Marines, who had suffered the bumpy journey in the cramped, uncomfortable, dimly-lit-with-no-view-outside Dragons, were ready to fight and kill just about anybody.

Enemy soldiers, Skinks, sailors, they didn't care; though most of them would have taken squids as their first pick.

The Dragons roared off the Essays on their air cushions and raced in waves for the unseen shore. The first ashore were the blaster companies of the infantry battalion. The first wave of Dragons, more than half of them Marine, sped inshore half a kilometer before stopping to drop their rear ramps long enough for the Marines to race off. The Raptors of 34th FIST's composite squadron roared overhead as the infantrymen ran to form a defensive perimeter. The first wave of Dragons turned about and sped back to shore, to be replaced in moments by the Dragons carrying the battalion headquarters company and the artillery battery. The third wave was ground elements of the composite squadron, which immediately began preparing an expeditionary airfield, and the FIST headquarters company. As soon as the last Dragons were out of the way, the squadron's hoppers landed behind the budding airfield. The Marine Dragons remained on the beach when they got back there, while the navy Dragons returned to the waiting Essays for return to their home at the Naval Supply Depot on Niflheim.

The time from when the first Dragon dropped its ramp to when the last Marine stepped off the last Dragon of the third wave was hardly longer than the time it had taken the Marines to board the Dragons back at Camp Ellis.

Brigadier Sturgeon checked the reports that came in from his subordinate commanders and nodded. His FIST had arrived for this simulated combat assault in three elements: the ground forces, which came in via Essays and Dragons; the Raptors, which had departed Camp Ellis some hours earlier to make the flight on their own; and the hoppers, which had left home the day before. All arrived in good order. Had they landed against a live opponent rather than on an unpopulated island, they would have achieved the desired surprise and struck with shocking force. He was going to have to give everyone a "Well done." Even the navy performed well.

Now for the next phase of the exercise: infantry movement by companies deeper into the wetlands, where each company would set up a fire base in an area with very little in the way of dry land.

The next time 34th FIST encountered the Skinks--and Sturgeon had no doubt they would--his companies might have to spend extended periods in wetlands hunting them, and he wanted his men to be familiar with the necessary techniques to avoid immersion injuries and fungal infections.

And they hadn't stressed men or equipment in a true equatorial climate in a while.

"It's too hot," Corporal Doyle complained.

Corporal Kerr stopped scanning the swamp and looked at Doyle. It was hard to tell using his infra, but Doyle's head seemed to be pointed straight ahead--his staggering was easily visible. "Which flank are you supposed to be watching, Doyle?" he asked.

There was a pause before Doyle replied. "Dunno. Too hot. Can't remember." His voice came through the air to Kerr's helmet pickups, the same as before, instead of over the radio. He raised his screens and looked at Doyle in visual--his screens were up and his uniform's atmosphere was escaping.

"Why are you hot, Doyle?" Kerr said softly. "Think about it. Why are you hot?" He used his infra to look back. His new man, PFC Summers, was walking more steadily than Doyle. He raised his infra and the image of Summers vanished from sight. He quickly scanned the right flank, then looked toward Doyle again. "Your left, Doyle. Watch the left flank."

"Left flank," Doyle repeated. The reddish blur of Doyle's infrared image flared bright on the left side of the lump that showed where his helmet was. Kerr knew it shouldn't flare like that. He raised his infra. Damn, he could see Doyle's face. He pushed forward through the water to Doyle's side.

"What's wrong with your climate, Doyle?" Kerr slipped off a glove and put his bare hand on Doyle's shoulder; it was only slightly warmer than the air temperature.

"It's too hot," Doyle mumbled.

Kerr looked closely at Doyle's face. It was flushed and he was sweating copiously. His eyes weren't focused. Kerr touched Doyle's face. His skin was cold and clammy. He called up Doyle's uniform and personal diagnostics. His chameleon's cooler control was off; his body temperature was elevated, his pulse was thready, and there were indications of dehydration.

"Rat," he said into the squad command circuit, "I've got a heat casualty. Doyle. He's still ambulatory, but I don't think for long." He began looking for a tussock of ground above the water where Doyle could lie down.

"Roger that," Sergeant Linsman, the squad leader, replied. "Get him someplace where he can lie down." Kerr thought he heard the squad leader mutter "Doyle" before he switched to the platoon command circuit and say, "Corpsman up. Heat casualty. Doyle's down."

"Third platoon, hold up," Ensign Bass said as soon as he heard the report. "Set a perimeter."

The voices of squad leaders assigning positions to their fire teams came over the platoon command circuit. On the squad circuit, Kerr heard Corporals Chan and Claypoole assigning fields of fire to their men.

There: it wasn't dry land--he didn't see any ground above water--but a tangle of small buttress roots looked big enough for a man to recline on; if not comfortably, at least out of the water.

"Come with me, Doyle." Kerr took Doyle's blaster and slung it over his own shoulder, then he took Doyle firmly by the arm and guided him to the roots. "With me, Summers," he added. Behind him, he heard splashing as Summers hurried to catch up.

"Give me a hand here," Kerr ordered. Between them they got Doyle recumbent on the tangle of roots. Kerr groped for one of Doyle's canteens and pulled it from its carrier--it was full. He handed it to Summers. "Trickle this down his throat. Don't pour, just give him a small stream until he's able to drink on his own."

"Right," Summers said, taking the canteen.

Kerr checked Doyle's other canteen. It was also full. The water reservoir in his pack was less than a quarter emptied. He shook his head. Doyle had more than twice as much water as he did. If he'd been drinking all along, he wouldn't be suffering from heat exhaustion.

"Kerr, where are you?" HM3 Hough's voice came over Kerr's helmet radio.

"Over here, Doc," Kerr said. He slipped a cuff out of a glove and raised his arm to let the sleeve slide down. The sudden exposure made his arm feel like he'd just stuck it in an oven; sweat broke out all over it and started flowing down.

"I have you," Doc Hough said, and Kerr gratefully covered his arm and resealed the cuff into the glove. He checked the indicators; the ambient air temperature was over 40 degrees centigrade. No wonder Doyle was sweating so heavily. Why didn't he have his cooler on, and why hadn't he been drinking? If he didn't replace fluids and lower his temperature, he could be in serious trouble.

Hough sloshed up to them and quickly checked Doyle's diagnostics. "Classic heat exhaustion," he said, shaking his head. He didn't raise his shields, but did keep the clear screen down so the three Marines could see his face. "How much of that have you given him?" he asked Summers.

"Not much, Doc. He doesn't want to swallow." Most of the water trickling into Doyle's mouth dribbled back out of his lax lips.

"Stop for now. If he swallows suddenly he might choke on it."

Summers withdrew the canteen.

"Help me prop him up." Kerr helped Hough shift Doyle so his head and shoulders were elevated. Most of the water in his mouth flowed out. "I've got to open him up, get access to his throat," the corpsman said. "Take his helmet."

Kerr removed Doyle's helmet while Hough unfastened the neck of his chameleons, exposing his neck and upper chest.

"Hold his shoulders like this," Hough told Kerr, and positioned Doyle the way he wanted him. "Give me the canteen." He took it from Summers and held it to Doyle's mouth. "Take a swallow, Corporal, you can do it." He tipped the canteen so a light flow of water went into Doyle's mouth. He tilted the canteen up and said, "Close your mouth and swallow. You can do it, Marine."

Doyle rolled his head from side to side.

"Yes you can, you're a Marine, Corporal. You can do anything."

Doyle closed his mouth and worked his jaw, but his throat was still, he wasn't swallowing.

"Swallow, Corporal. You can do it." Hough massaged Doyle's throat and he suddenly gulped. His mouth dropped open; the water was gone. "Have another drink." Hough poured more water in Doyle's mouth, and he swallowed it. "Good man." He slipped a hand into his medkit and checked the label on the medpack he pulled out. "We've got to replace your electrolytes." One-handed, he opened the pack and withdrew a capsule. "I'm going to put this on your tongue, then give you more water. I want you to swallow it. Understand?"

Doyle's eyes wandered, but he nodded.

Hough dropped the resealed medpack back into its place in his medkit and put the capsule on Doyle's tongue, then tipped the canteen over his mouth again. "Now close your mouth and swallow."

Doyle did as he was told.

"Drink some more water." Hough visually examined Doyle as the corporal took another drink. He was still sweating copiously; his temperature needed to be lowered. "I'm going to close you back up and I want you to turn your cooler on. Do you understand?"

"It was too cold," Doyle said weakly.

"You can adjust it." Hough resealed the chest and neck of Doyle's shirt. He added to Kerr,

"Put his helmet back on, all shields up." When Kerr did, he reached inside to make sure the nipple from the pack water reservoir was in Doyle's mouth, then toggled on the cooler unit.

"Let me know when you start to get chilled," he said, and settled back to watch Doyle's diagnostics.

Staff Sergeant Hyakowa had joined them while Doc Hough was working on Doyle, but he stayed back and kept quiet so he wouldn't interfere. Now it was all right for him to say something, and he did.

"How did this happen?" he asked Kerr.

Kerr looked at the platoon sergeant's hovering face through his own clear screen and shook his head. "I don't know. I checked, his cooler was working properly before we moved out this morning. He never said anything about a problem with it."

"Can you hear me, Doyle?" Hyakowa asked, turning his face to the reclining man.

"Yes," Doyle said weakly.

"What happened?"

"I was cold. Turned it off."

"Don't you know how to adjust the cooler?"

There was a pause while Doyle took a sip of water. "Yes."

"Why didn't you adjust the temperature instead of turning the cooler off?"

"Too cold. Off was faster."

Hyakowa bit off a disgusted response and turned to Hough. "How long will he be down?"

he asked.

Doyle was still sweating heavily, but not quite as much, and his pulse was a bit stronger.

"Half an hour, maybe," the corpsman answered.

"Does he need to be medevacked?"

"No, he'll be all right."

"Can you get him up and moving sooner than a half hour?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It depends."

"Do what you can."

"Aye aye."

The platoon was on the move again twenty-five minutes later. This time, Doyle kept his uniform's cooling unit adjusted for comfort, instead of turning it off when it got too cold.

Corporal Doyle wasn't the only member of the infantry battalion to have a heat problem.

He wasn't even the only one to turn his cooler off instead of adjusting it. None of the units failed. And that was important to Brigadier Sturgeon: he had to know whether the cooling units would function properly in a wetland environment after not having been used for so long, and whether his Marines remembered how to properly use them.

Thirty-fourth FIST, like most Marine units, relied very heavily on its junior noncommissioned officers to conduct patrols and other missions without the supervision of senior NCOs or officers, so the exercise included training specifically designed for the fire team leaders. Each fire team was taken to an isolated position, given a map with a starting point and a destination marked on it, and told to go from "here" to "there." They were instructed not to initiate any radio contact with company headquarters unless they had an emergency that required a medical evacuation. And their satellite-based geosync positioning systems were taken away from them--they had to rely on the inertial guidance system built into their maps.