Chapter 6: Into the Shit

The task group that included the Chosin Reservoir and some support vessels dropped into normal space just beyond the asteroid belt that circled Metek’at in its fifth orbital distance. We had arrived just as the Navy was mopping up the in-system Sa’arm ships. The gestalt had not yet produced enough refined metals to build more than a few Vestus-class ships, so the mission was right on schedule.

We took several days journeying down into Metek’at’s gravity well to synch up with the rest of the ships around Metek, the third planet from its primary. Metek was 97% Earth sized with an oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere. It used to be a very nice planet inhabited by a species that would have been ready for contact by the Confederacy in a thousand years or so. It would be nice again in a couple of thousand years after we finished cleaning out the Sa’arm.

As the Leopard descended into the atmosphere, the view out the portholes became streaked with fire as the re-entry ionization encased us. The extreme turbulence was reduced to a mild rocking by the Leopard’s inertial dampeners. Lance Corporal Michaels from second squad decided to get in one more shot at me before we landed.

“So how many drops is this for you, Lieutenant?” Michaels called from down the row.

I smiled. Aliens, the movie that was loved by Bravo company. You gotta respect the classics.

“Thirty-eight...” I called back,

“simulated.”

The platoon cracked up. PFC Borden, who was sitting next to Michaels, pushed on,

“How many combat drops?”

I grinned wickedly as I broke from the script.

“Twenty-six. Ten of those into a ‘hot’ LZ.” The platoon got quiet.

Sparky smiled sleepily. He, of course, had read my file as soon as I was assigned to this mission.

“Boy’s definitely got a corncob up his ass.”

The squad’s laughter was interrupted by the announcement over speakers and in our implants.

“LZ in sixty seconds, that’s six-zero seconds. Bravo company, prepare to disembark.”

There was a little shuffling around. Troopers checked their own and each other’s gear. The door slammed open and First Platoon’s Leader, Lieutenant Collins, started shouting,

“FIRST PLATOON OUT! OUT, YOU PUSSIES, OUT! POSITIONS ON THE COUNT!” I could see out the open door as the horizon tilted, and then settled. The Gutierrez started shouting and we jogged down the ramp and onto the surface of Metek.

Following the military crest of a small ridge, I trotted one hundred meters from the drop to a small hillock that provided the third-best overview of the valley below. I set down the Barrett, its ammo can, and the case holding the transport pad. I dropped myself and brought up binoculars to sweep 360 degrees and confirm we were where we were supposed to be, and that I was where I was supposed to be, as the mission plan directed. Check and check. I reported my observation to the CO, and he took it along with concurring reports from the squad leaders. The light from Metek’at was slightly more yellow than Sol, so it had the effect of making the dust that hung in the air look like smog. The air smelled like downwind of a pulp mill, not toxic, but noxious. I took a deep breath, gathered all the uneasiness that had been building in my gut for the last several months and shut it down. I was in this now and I needed a clear head.

I turned to my task list. First, I opened the case and set up the transport pad on the flat, rocky ground. When I was satisfied that it was on firm, level ground, I hit the activate switch and the ring around the pad glowed green.

I pressed my tongue against my bottom left canine to signal to my implant that I wanted a channel to the operations deck of the Chosin.

“Pad deployed and active,” I reported,

“Chosin, confirm.”

<Chosin confirms pad link active, Bravo.>

I pressed my right top incisor for the local command net.

“Sir, Chosin reports pad active and linked” I reported to the CO.

<Acknowledged, > came the reply.

Most of the younger troops had dispensed with using tongue-on-tooth signals to tell their implant how to route communications, but I am an old fart, after all. Kids these days with their fancy technology. I liked having a definite active trigger.

I set up a tripod with a

“camera” on the top. It wasn’t really a camera, but a 360-degree, multi-spectrum recording scanner. It would record the company’s actions and the Dickhead response, ‘from DC to daylight’ as the old slogan went. Actually, the recording would run up to soft X-rays. Identical cameras were being set up by the company sniper team and the CO’s butt-boy. This would give a complete record of what worked (or what didn’t work) in the encounter. Data, not just after-action reports, were what would allow Naval Intelligence to gain insight into Dickhead Communications, Command, and Control.

Next, I unpacked the Barrett, opened the ammo can, rolled out a mat and made myself ‘prone and home.’ I took a few moments to brush away a couple of stones and re-align the transport pad. I loaded the Barrett and jacked in the first round. One very nice Confederacy upgrade to the Barrett was the optics. Not only did it include every possible assist to the shooter, these optics also zoomed, by implant command, wide or tight, allowing the lone shooter to act as his own half-assed spotter. I wasn’t really considered so necessary to the plan that they would split a two-man team just to hold my hand. In fact, I didn’t have to use the optic sighting system at all. The output of the electronic optics could be routed to my visual cortex without using my eyeball. But like the tongue-and-tooth switching, I liked the physical act of looking through honest-to-Newton lenses.

“Stewart in place and recording,” I reported over the company net. The sun burned through the haze easily. The temperature and humidity were climbing high on the misery index. Ho hum, the life of a snake eater.

After a minute I heard the Sparky’s voice over my implant, <In place and recording.> Sparky was acting as spotter for the sniper, Schmidt.

After another 90 seconds or so Sparky reported again, <Shooter, in place and recording.> I let out a sigh of relief. Now I wasn’t the only one with a live weapon pointing downrange. Everything was going by the numbers, just as planned. The air was filled with the background noise of thousands of Sa’arm footsteps.

<All squads, > came Estevez’s voice <Plan Head Crash, execute, execute, execute.> two platoons moved forward to their objective.

In front of the company was a highway, called in planning and training session,

“Route 666.” There was no constructed roadbed, just dirt compacted to the hardness of concrete by the endless succession of Sa’arm footpads from a never-ending line of them crossing from the mouth of one side valley across the flats and into the mouth of another side valley. The Sa’arm headed from West to East were unencumbered; the ones headed from East to West were carrying bales of some kind of vegetable substance. The air was filled by the sound of hundreds of Sa’arm feet moving in near unison.

They never paused; they never slowed down or sped up. They just marched along, a living conveyor belt. They had never shown any reaction to us, to our actions, not even to the Leopard dropping us 500 meters away from their highway.

I noticed now a few outlier Sa’arm walking at the same pace as the highway, but pausing now and again as they examined the ground on either side of the highway.

A small stream that trickled down the valley floor in front of us had been bridged by some kind of closed culvert. One Sa’arm paused and appeared to be checking the culvert (for erosion?). A second Sa’arm was slowing drifting over to the spot Squad 2 had paused.

“First Platoon, Stewart. I have a drifter approaching you from your 9 o’clock.”

<We are tracking him, > came the XO’s voice. <Thanks, Lieutenant.>

<Second Platoon, this is Estevez. Let’s leave our party package in the culvert at your 11 o’clock.>

<Roger, > came Gutierrez’s voice, <Second squad, give the Gomer there time to clear out, then move up by teams.>

<Roger, > came the reply.

<First squad, place your package 50 meters east of the culvert. Just on the roadside.>

Second squad had picked up and, keeping a wary eye on the drifter that I had pointed out, started moving towards the culvert that the other drifter seemed to have lost interest in. First squad had humped a half a football field’s length to the East and planted a series of Claymore mines along the side of the roadway.

<Shooter, do you have our first volunteer?>

<Affirmative, captain. AI, flag the target.>

In my visual field, one dickhead, just entering the valley from the East started flashing yellow. I activated my Barrett’s optics and trained my rifle on it. <Stewart confirms acquisition.>

The dickhead moved forward and approached the culvert. The squads had pulled back and were standing still. <Shooter, > came the CO’s voice, <Engage the target when he reaches the culvert. Over.> The CO must be feeling the tension of the company, falling back to radio protocol.