UES Gallipoli, LSD-611

Task Force 47

            Captain Jackson watched with his officers and senior enlisted personnel as the ships of Task Forces 41 and 42 moved into position in the asteroid belt and around Anansi. Quantum communications units eliminated any delay that distance might have added to the transmissions from those ships. They were watching in real time as those Fleet Marines became the first Union troops to assault a Brokeback position.

            Everyone was silent as the first Marines swam out of the personnel bays and assumed standard formation before activating their maneuvering packs. There were many different models of the packs but it looked like the assaulting forces were using the low speed/low visibility units powered by inert gas. The LSLVs weren’t exactly stealth grade but they also didn’t highlight the operator with a heat flare or exhaust plume that made them easier targets for targeting systems. They were also easier for inexperienced personnel to operate. With the wartime expansion of the military, which was an important factor to consider.

            “Looks like we got a man overboard,” Gunnery Sergeant Kasov from Third Platoon said quietly.

            Ken immediately saw what Kasov meant. A lone figure of an armored Marine was moving at an angle away from the rest of his or her squad. The hapless figure was trying to perform the acrobatics taught in basic training to correct for the malfunction or mistake, but to no avail. They looped completely around and started to aim straight back at the cruiser they had just launched from.

            “Come on, kid,” one of the other platoon sergeants muttered, “hit your e-stop and wait for the swimmers…”

            Ken’s stomach turned into a knot. He wasn’t as experienced as his senior non-commissioned officers but he had been around long enough to see what was going to happen. Either because of panic, rushed training, or a desperate need to get back to his shipmates, the erratically maneuvering rifleman was now on a collision course with the side of an armored warship. The packs might be called “low speed” but that was a relative term. They were still capable of more than three gees of acceleration in short bursts.

            If you were still close to the ship you launched from, standard procedure for a loss of thruster control was to activate the emergency stop, which would dump enough gas out of the thruster nozzles to quickly kill most of your acceleration and wait for the Navy rescue swimmers that were deployed with the Marines and stood by waiting for this exact situation. Their more advanced maneuvering packs and specialized training allowed them to quickly intercept and grab an out-of-control shipmate in a safe manner. But that was next to impossible if the person was still under their own thruster power.

            There were several winces and sympathetic sounds as the Marine hit the side of the ship while still under two gees of acceleration. The figure seemed to go limp as his thruster, offset from its usual position because of the impact, pushed the figure along the hull like a bug sliding around a vehicle’s windscreen. Several of Ken’s platoon leaders looked away, the young lieutenants unable to watch the disturbing image. Everyone knew that the odds were that they had just watched someone die.

            “Can we shift to see the landings on this thing?” Sergeant Major Miller asked in a clinical tone. The company’s senior NCO had her arms crossed and was projecting an air of professional detachment. “I think that would be more useful to see right now.”

            “Agreed,” Ken said after subtly clearing his throat. “It’ll be interesting to find out how much the intel briefings got wrong.”

            Miller flashed a tight smile and gestured for the controller from the technician running the holodisplay. She handed it over and then retreated out of earshot of the company command staff. The sergeant major input a few commands and the screen shifted from the warship’s hull cameras to drone footage of the combat drop, the information tight beamed back with a narrow beam communications laser to avoid enemy detection.

            “I know that cruiser,” Gunny Kasov spoke up again, reading the identification string at the bottom of the video transmission. “That’s the Aberdeen, she’s an old Osaka. I was on her decommissioning crew.”

            “Looks like it didn’t stick,” Lieutenant Garrett, his platoon leader, said lightly. “Damn, Gunny, I forget how old you are sometimes.”

            Kasov gave the young officer a mock glare and shook his head to the random chuckles around the group. “Yuck it up, chucklefucks,” he muttered darkly.

            “Kasov…”

            “Sorry, sarn’t major,” the gunnery sergeant responded immediately, not sounding particularly repentant.

            Ken smiled faintly but couldn’t bring himself to genuinely feel it. Intellectually, he knew it was a good sign and completely normal in a situation like this but he couldn’t get out of his mind that they were hours away from dropping on an occupied planet with almost no idea of what awaited them. Marine captains weren’t picked for being meek or hesitant but Ken Jackson was very new to his position. In more normal times, he would still be a first lieutenant at this point in his career. One rank difference might not seem like much to an outsider, but the difference in responsibility and the expected professional knowledge was profound.

            He could feel the clamminess of his palms and the uncomfortable feeling running up and down his spine. Ken wasn’t afraid for his personal safety. That was on his mind, of course, but in the background of his thoughts. Mostly, he was afraid of not knowing what to do as a combat commander and getting his people killed for no reason. Of freezing when a decision needed to be made right now. The closer they came to the projected load time for the assault shuttles, the more he felt his heart hammer and his stomach get heavier and heavier.

            He was concentrating on projecting that confidence he saw in Miller. Be present, be engaged. Say the right things, make the right decisions. He knew how to act the part of a UE Marine Corps company commander but he doubted that he knew how to actually do the job. He was a dedicated young man and thought he was a competent junior officer but this was command. Four rifle platoons, a heavy weapons section, a mortar section, and a headquarters section. Over a hundred and fifty men and women trusting that he would make the right call, no matter the situation they found themselves in.

            Ken wasn’t ready. Before the war, there were professional schools and training that were requirements before an officer could assume company command. He had none of them. Not one. In the rush to stand up the Marine Divisions the Union needed to take back their planets, all training was conducted “on the job.” He was shown what was deemed necessary to run a company and then sent on field exercise after field exercise.

            Low gravity operations, heavy gravity operations, extreme weather conditions, toxic atmosphere drills, and on, and on. He had made serious mistakes in every exercise. One time, he had ordered the entire company to dig into a hillside and orient themselves to face an enemy that attacked from a completely different direction. Somehow, he had issued the correct orders and turned his entire force in time to meet the threat. In the moment, he couldn’t even remember how. He had spent hours reviewing his battlebox data to figure out the string of orders he had given to accomplish that feat.

            Captain Ken Jackson, UEMC, felt like a complete fraud. He prayed that whatever was waiting for him, he would be equal to the task and not let his people down. But in his heart, he doubted that he would be. The only thing he could do was to continue to act the part and do all the things a real company commander would do.

            “All right, folks, let’s put our game faces on,” he said in an unconscious imitation of his sergeant major’s tone. “I want all eyes open and all brains switched on. We’re going to want to pay attention to when the FMF meets resistance, how reactive the Brokebacks respond and how good their weapons and sensors are. For all our sakes, let’s hope the Mod Sixes really are better against these assholes’ tech.”

            “Roger that, sir.”

            “Aye-aye, Skipper.”

            “Let’s fucking go, boys!”

            “Kasov…”

            “Sorry, sarn’t major.”

FMF Aberdeen

Task Force 42

            Major Victor Sung winced as the dark asteroid he and the rest of FMF Aberdeen was coasting towards lit up like a New Year’s celebration. Space defense batteries sited on the asteroid below them fired in series so fast that his onboard battle computer, or battlebox, could barely keep up. It wasn’t evident if he was seeing directed energy weapons or hyper velocity kinetic cannon of some sort.

            Thankfully, none of the weapons were directed towards his Marines. They were firing from his right to left, tracking the just-slightly-more visible decoy drones that had been launched just before his company swam into their jump off positions. It looked like the low-profile Mod Sixes with their adaptive camouflage features actually were an improvement since the drones were programmed to impersonate a Marine clad in Mod Five armor.

            Even after all his years of service, it was still eerie to Sung how infantry combat in space felt. He could see the enemy weapons firing but the beams or projectiles, whichever they were, were moving too fast for the human eye to really track. The light of battle was unexpected. There was no atmospheric friction to make a projectile glow and very little dust or water vapor to fluoresce an energy beam. Explosions, when they happened, were very brief and quickly snuffed out as the oxygen present was consumed. If the object exploding didn’t contain an atmosphere, it sometimes looked like it just randomly smashed into an invisible barrier or just burst from the inside with a few anemic sparks.

            But the truly disturbing part was a disconnected feeling of complete isolation because of the lack of sound. There were random lights and sparks, shapes moving just to the side of his field of vision, missile drives activating. Right now, he could see the shark-like shapes of deep space attack craft maneuvering into firing positions and launching ordnance against the enemy batteries. All of it happening to the rhythm of his breathing alone.

            He couldn’t talk to anyone since they were on emissions control protocols. He couldn’t hear the rustle of gear or thunder of weapons since no sound could be conducted through a vacuum. He couldn’t even stretch his limbs or flex his muscles because he was on a ballistic glide path and any movement would alter his trajectory. There wasn’t even very much physical sensation of movement aside from what his eyes were telling him, which made some people throw up in their helmets because of extreme motion sickness.

            Sung shook these thoughts off as a warning light flashed in his heads-up display. He was nearing the surface of the asteroid that contained the nodal communications and command hub for this section of the belt. The whole reason for assaulting the structures in the belt and around Anansi were to prevent the Braxis forces stuck on them to chuck missiles or bullet-shaped “rocks” at Army Group Oya as they entered the system and passed by in their extremely large and incredibly slow ships. An army transport could make a sluggish amphib look like a ballerina.

            A second light illuminated in Sung’s vision. His muscles tensed and his mind cleared of everything but the mission before him. Get his people down, get organized, and proceed to the target. For the next few minutes, nothing else mattered.

            When the third and final light lit up, Sung acted. He tucked his legs and performed a forward somersault, kicking his legs straight out at the end. His LSLV pack triggered at the same time. He could feel acceleration forces as he was slowed to an appropriate landing speed. Very suddenly, the veteran Marine’s perspective was changed from falling headfirst down a funhouse labyrinth to hopping down from a small height onto his feet. Immediately, he extended one leg and smoothly transitioned into a zero-gee walk/glide towards the designated company rally point. Small puffs from his LSLV’s shoulder mounted thrusters kept him on the surface of the slowly rotating asteroid.

            Things began happening quickly. His radio clicked on and his lieutenants and senior NCOs began making status reports. Everyone was down in roughly the correct area but there were exceptions. Two Marines had experienced thruster malfunctions and had to be picked up by rescue swimmers. One had suffered a seal casualty and died after being exposed to hard vacuum. And a fourth was in critical condition onboard the Aberdeen when she had careened into the side of the hull under a two and a quarter gee acceleration.

            But the major didn’t have to issue any orders since his subordinates were already dealing with their issues. The human cost of the operation would be felt later, but right now duties had to be reassigned to take into account the loss of four riflemen. Other Marines came into formation with their commander as Sung continued towards the nearing rally point. On his HUD, he could see his six platoons shake out into their individual squads and fire teams as they all approached the electronic beacon.

            Overhead, an attack craft screamed by in complete silence. Hyper-velocity missiles jumped off the stubby wing rails and shot into the distance. Just over the horizon, light blossomed as explosions were born and quickly died. A massive grey wall of dust and vaporized rock burst into existence a kilometer ahead of him and marched from left to right across his vision as the Aberdeen used her point defense autocannons to destroy any sensors, mines, or gun emplacements set up by Braxis forces between his company and the objective. It had the additional benefit of obscuring his troops for a few minutes as they bounded forward in alternating groups.

            Sung’s mouth fell open in a feral grin. “Give ‘Em Hell Gruber” was one of the Navy’s last true gunfighters. She had come up through the officer ranks as unguided ballistic and kinetic weapons were being overtaken by the newest generation of “hard light” energy emplacements. That didn’t stop Carla Gruber from mastering her beloved projectiles and cursing out a senior Ordnance Bureau officer in very colorful and highly inappropriate language years ago when he claimed that there was no use for such weapons in a modern battle. The officer got promoted and Gruber got exiled to a backwater region “with the rest of the antiques.”

            But now she was in command of one of the last cruisers fitted with such weapons in any number and one of only a handful of squids Victor Sung was comfortable firing a weapon anywhere near ground troops. He could only imagine the comms traffic between Gruber and her squadron commander right now. Colorful and inappropriate would just be her starting point.

            The first of his riflemen disappeared in the dust cloud that Aberdeen’s supporting fire had created. A few seconds later, Sung’s HUD went to full overlay as his suit sensors became his eyes. Without the overlay he would have immediately gotten lost in the grey swirl of dust and gravel that was churning around him. He brought his M-35 Advanced Combat Rifle to the underarm position and the aimpoint appeared on his display as his battlebox interpreted the movement. There was a slight drift to the aiming marker but it seemed to steady up after a moment.

            Suddenly, he burst through the wall of debris and got his first on scene look at the structure his unit was assaulting. The human made outpost had been modified by the Brokebacks with slabs of armor and knobby protrusions that were either anti-intrusion devices or small shield generators. Thick armored cables stretched across the surface of the edifice and his sensors indicated massive amounts of power running through them. At a glance, it was very obvious that the Braxis nu Junqi, as a race, were leagues ahead of the Union in at least power transmission, if not also generation.

            A heavy weapons team finished setting up their man-portable R-13 Anti-Material Railgun System. As soon as it was on target, the gunner fired while his assistant gunner braced him from the recoil. The magnetic round looked like a solid bar of bluish light as it briefly connected the barrel of the railgun to one of the shield emitters. The electromagnetic shield flared as it deflected the round up and to the side but it couldn’t hold out as an entire squad of riflemen and another R-13 team overloaded the emitter.

            Squads of Marines stacked up on either side of the cargo airlock doors they were using as access to the structure. Others used entrenching grenades to blow shallow depressions in the rock and take whatever cover they could find. Sung did the same and used his time to monitor the rest of the platoons. Every unit and subunit were at their initial assault points and signaled their readiness.

            “Aberdeen Company,” he transmitted, “breach on my mark… Breach, breach, breach!”

UES Aberdeen, CA-907

Task Force 42

            Commander Gruber felt the blood drain from her face as all the data feeds coming from Major Sung and every single one of his Marines went dead. One minute everything was normal with data coming in from the battleboxes as usual and the next everything was just gone. A sudden silence fell from the Combat Information Center personnel as the information they relied on to support their deployed Marines was unceremoniously cut off.

            “Ms. Harper, Chief Dubois,” Aberdeen’s Operations Officer was the first to mentally recover. “What have you got?”

            “Extremely localized and well directed interference across all transmission bands, Ops,” Chief Dubois responded while he was working his console to examine his sensors as well as direct the petty officers of his section. “From the bleed through we’re seeing, they have electronic counter measures that are completely overpowering the battleboxes. There is no way those units are going to win the ECM war, sir.”

            “Where’s the power coming from?” Gruber asked as she moved towards the electronics section. “Can we target it or call for the gunships?”

            “It’s coming from everywhere, Cap,” Dubois responded in a mix of frustration and amazement. “There’s no one power supply or transmission location. It’s really tough to tell from up here but I think we’re seeing their version of battleboxes.”

            “That’s impossible,” Ensign Harper exclaimed in surprise. “Those are the most powerful units we could design.”

            “Yeah,” her chief responded, “but it looks like they can do better.”

            Gruber stood with an elbow cupped in one hand and the other propped under her chin as Lieutenant Diblasio, her Ops Boss, questioned his two subordinates about what was happening down on the asteroid. The three were trying to figure out ways to assist the Marines and get their electronics back online. Gunsights, Identification Friend/Foe beacons, communications of any sort…all the necessary functions of coordination on a modern battlefield were entirely stripped from her Marine force. And there was no way that they could somehow flip a switch and make such limited equipment as a battlebox more powerful. Hell, from what she was seeing, it would take a warship’s transmitters to punch through the enemy ECM…

            “Chief Dubois,” Gruber said suddenly, sharply.

            “Captain?”

            “Can the Aberdeen’s systems overpower the Braxis jamming?”

            The electronics chief looked a bit confused as he replied. “Well, of course, ma’am, but what good would it do? The Marines would still be out of contact with each other. If we let up enough to allow them to use their comms, the Brokeback systems would just overpower them again.”

            “Yes,” Gruber said, nodding once. “But we don’t need to do that. I want you and your people to build a map of the facility that we can broadcast out. We’ll get way down in our orbit and park ourselves right on top of them. When we transmit from there, we can use our own systems to pinpoint our people by their electronics signature. Then we populate the map and keep it updated as we transmit. Hopefully, we’ll be able to pick out the Brokie force too. This way, the Marines will at least know where they are and where the bad guys are.”

            “Captain,” Diblasio said carefully, “the navigation draft is—”

            “Not even remotely a concern,” Gruber cut him off with a wolfish grin. “This is what we’re doing, Ops.”

            Fighting the urge to let his shoulders slump, Lieutenant Diblasio nodded. “Aye-aye, ma’am.”

            “Right. Ms. Harper, Chief, get your people working on this immediately. I want to be transmitting as soon as possible, no delay. When you’re ready, don’t ask for permission; just start blasting the map out. Understood?”

            “Yes, Captain,” they both responded in unison.

            “Good. Get it done.” Gruber turned and took two steps to the nearest intercom. “Conn, Combat.”

            “Combat, Conn,” her Executive Officer responded immediately.

            “XO, it’s the Captain,” she identified herself, “you’ve probably seen that the FMF is getting jammed to hell and gone down there. We’re going to get lower in our orbit on this rock and use our own gear to overpower the jamming.”

            There was a slight pause. “Well, it just so happens that I called the BMC up here for a quick conversation and he’s taking the helm right now. Are we talking fudging the nav draft a little or throwing it right out the airlock?”

            “Throw it right out the lock, Paul. I don’t mind if we bump bottom but try not to put us completely aground.”

            “We’ll definitely try, Cap,” Paul Jansen responded with a grin in his voice.

            Even though she wanted to stand and pace around the consoles of CIC, Gruber made herself walk back to her command chair and calmly sit down. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the crew if their CO was stalking around like a wild animal and muttering to herself. Everything she needed to see or control could be done from her chair. It was almost as if it was designed that way.

            She activated her chair’s display screen as soon as she was situated and set it for the navigation plot. The nav plot was divided in half on the screen, one side showing a top-down view of the ship and the other a representative view from the starboard side. There were icons showing the status and orientation of the main engines as well as all the maneuvering thrusters. A smaller inset image showed the ship’s course as ordered and what it was actually doing.

            Lieutenant Commander Jansen wasn’t the best shiphandler yet but he was still very good. He had been her XO since the Aberdeen was recommissioned and he was a competent, hard-working officer. Boatswain’s Mate Chief, or BMC, Arthur Campbell, on the other hand, was a pirate of a chief that had seen a few years of service in the Star Guard but had transferred to the Navy long before the war. He was the most experienced helmsman and small craft coxswain on the ship, maybe even the Task Force. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen or done when it came to maneuvering.

            Gruber told herself that she couldn’t actually feel the ship move as her bridge team maneuvered them closer to the asteroid below. But she certainly thought she could. She forced a relaxed posture as she kept her eyes roving from the nav plot to the external cameras and ranging equipment mounted on both the warship’s hull and from her support drones. She didn’t even flinch as the range to the rock’s surface fell below the minimum navigation draft of her ship, the lowest distance from the ventral hull a ship could be safely maneuvered while in orbit.

            Despite the gnawing tension inside her, Gruber felt a thrill course down her spine as her geriatric vessel moved steadily closer to the rocks and shoals underneath. She wished that she could see the look on the face of her squadron commander when she saw what Gruber was doing with a half million-ton heavy cruiser.

UES Gallipoli, LSD-611

Task Force 47

            Ken fastened the last of the seals on his skinsuit in the privacy of his quarters. As a company commander he rated his own compartment. It was the size of a shoebox but it was his alone. At times like these, he was almost desperately grateful for it because he didn’t have to worry about watching his body language or guarding his expression. He was free to relax and show as much apprehension or uncertainty as he liked.

            There was so much to process from the Battle of the Belt, as some of his peers were calling it. The Union ground forces were definitely going into the fight as second best in too many categories. Electronic warfare and computing power were the most obvious but that hinted at what could be a massive edge in power generation across the board. From the fragmented transmissions and initial reports that Ken and the rest of Third MarDiv had seen, the Brokies used more energy weapons in their infantry forces. Especially rapid-cycling high energy lasers, microwave emitters, and crew-served particle beam rifles.

            Ken shuddered as he thought of those microwave weapons. They were being used as area denial weapons or laid as minefields. By the time a running Marine realized that they were in the area of effect, it was usually too late as their body temperature dramatically spiked and they were cooked from the inside in a few seconds. There was no such thing as a pretty death in combat but the still images Ken had seen were absolutely horrifying.

            He grabbed his gear bag full of maps, non-networked electronics, and whatever pogie bait he had managed to collect. He had specifically printed out ground maps and communications codebooks after seeing the level of jamming the Brokies had used against the FMF. There was no way he was going to rely solely on electronic file copies when the enemy seemed capable of frying your computers. And the pogie bait was just as important. Jellybeans and chocolate bars were worth their weight in gold when a unit was deployed.

            Ken strode down the Gallipoli’s passageway purposefully towards his assigned arming bay. He went over all the order modifications he had issued after the Battle of the Belt. He had made sure that Charlie Company’s supply sergeant had put in for as many foggers, refractors, and reflectors they could get. He knew that the traditional defenses against directed energy weapons were going to be pivotal in their survival on planet. Portable electromagnetic shielding was the best defensive technology the Union could deploy but those units were awkward, heavy as hell, and required a massive amount of power. They weren’t practical for a mobile light infantry force to operate in the field with no pre-constructed fixed structures like bunkers with access to heavy duty generators.

            He had also issued orders for every squad to pack extra signal flares and smoke markers. Every rifleman had reviewed the visual communications manual and had been drilled on how to respond to a complete loss of electronic communications and battlebox support. Jackson and his officers and NCOs had only a limited amount of time to react to what they had seen but they used that time to their best abilities. Ken had also made sure that he had sent Major van Hooten a message detailing these precautions. The battalion operations officer had enthusiastically distributed Ken’s message as well as some other orders and contingencies the battalion staff had come up with.

            His heart was beating a little bit faster with each step towards the arming bay. His spine was feeling that awful tingling again and his grip was tight on his olive drab gear bag. Ken had a bare handful of combat swims against pirates and possible hostile aliens prior to the war but had seen no action since. No Marine had until this operation. His Division training had been extensive, however, and as close to actual combat as the training cadre were allowed to make it. He had felt reasonably confident in his individual fighting skills, even as he doubted his ability to command a company.

            But now that he was walking at a measured pace towards his waiting responsibilities, he felt unprepared in every way. His confidence was retreating as quickly as the looming battle was advancing. The Fleet Marine Force was well trained as well but they suffered major casualties retaking those bases. And they were led by officers who had years of experience in deep space infantry combat actions. Gunnery sergeants, sergeants major, and even warrant officers that had been rapidly promoted to lead platoons and companies of their fellow Marines. Also, they were fighting with doctrine that had been perfected by generations of people who had worn the uniform of the UEMC.

            Third Marine Division, or any Marine division, didn’t have that fighting history. The Union of Earth had never invaded a hostile populated planet in its entire history. The ground actions that had been fought were usually conducted by Army and Near Space Force units that were either on-planet in the first place or sent to prepared and secure landing sites to reinforce units already present. Dropping combat troops onto a contested battlefield en masse had not been attempted since the unification of Earth and her original colony worlds.

            Sweat began to bead his forehead and the back of his neck as he thought of everything he didn’t know. What he couldn’t know. There were no battles for him to study, no reports to go over. When his company was down and the weapons were firing, he wouldn’t have time to check with Major van Hooten or Colonel Cervantes. It would just be him and his abilities that determined life or death for his unit. And he was quickly realizing that he wasn’t good enough.

             As Ken approached the bay, Sergeant Major Miller came up alongside him carrying her own beat-up gear bag. They were both early to put on their armor and other gear but wanted to be able to walk around and check on their subordinates while they armed up. It was also good for morale for the senior leaders to be seen prepared and ready to go as the grunts filed in.

            “I was talking with Sergeant Major Bakshi in the Mess yesterday,” Miller said suddenly, referring to the senior enlisted dining and recreation compartment.

            “Funny, I didn’t hear you screaming curses through the bulkheads,” Ken replied. Miller’s disdain for Bakshi, the senior NCO of Alpha Company, was well known among the battalion.

            “We have this little op coming up. I wanted to play nice.” Ken snorted in amusement as Miller continued. “Anyway, he was bitching about what an absolute potato his company commander was. Which is true, I’ll admit. But then he said I was lucky that I didn’t have anything to worry about over here in Charlie. Can you believe that? The fucking audacity of that man.”

            Ken’s stomach clenched tightly at the veteran sergeant’s words. Her tone was light and conversational but maybe that was because she thought it was obvious that he was as unqualified as Captain Stern of Alpha Company. His vision actually narrowed as all his self-doubt seemed to coalesce and overwhelm him. It was all he could do to walk in a straight line.

            “I mean, really,” Miller continued, seemingly oblivious to her commander’s sudden distress, “you and I have to deal with Ivan Kasov, that ridiculous collection of broken parts, every day and this asshole is saying we have nothing to do.” Miller waved her free hand in a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, I get it, I’d have it a lot harder if I didn’t have a solid CO, but come on, we’re talking about Kasov here! The man could make rocks cry.”

            Ken Jackson felt dizzy as the building tension inside him washed out in a rush. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. His emotions were swirling as he slowed to a stop and put a hand against the near bulkhead. He stood there for a moment, vision unfocused, until Miller appeared in front of him, as if by magic. She was so close that he could see the small amount of gray in her blonde hair. Her crow’s feet deepened slightly as her eyes narrowed and bored into his.

            “Listen to me closely, Captain Jackson,” she said in a low, intense voice. She poked his chest hard with a knife-hand motion. “Get out of your fucking head and look around you. No other company grade officer gathered their wardroom and NCOs to watch the belt assaults. No other officer outside of battalion thought to emphasize lost comms procedures after seeing, in living fucking color, what Brokie jamming could do. Correction: our fucking battalion staff didn’t do that until you did.”

            Ken blinked stupidly at her words. He was the officer; he should be saying something and taking charge of the conversation. Denying his lack of confidence at the very least. But he could only stand there, his own brown eyes unable to look away from her pale blue ones, as she spoke. Stand there a little taller, maybe, as her words sunk into his skull.

            “Young officers should question themselves,” Miller was saying now. “They’re young and inexperienced, it would be foolish if they didn’t. But they should also recognize when they’re doing things right. Like you are with this company and these Marines. And they sure as hell shouldn’t analyze themselves into a mental breakdown.”

            Miller’s hand dropped away and she glanced around, ensuring the passageway was still empty. She took a step back and turned to continue towards the arming bays. Ken instinctively walked alongside her, back straight but still saying nothing.

            “This drop is going to be chaos,” Miller said quietly. “None of us know what we’re doing. Right up to the damn general. But I have faith that you won’t freeze down there. That you’ll do what needs doing. Clear, sir?”

            “Clear, Sergeant Major,” Ken responded automatically, almost unthinkingly. But then he relaxed his shoulders slightly and nodded. “Very clear.”

            “Good,” Miller said, also nodding. “Good.”

            Ken wanted to rub the tight curls of his close-cropped hair but stopped himself before he could. It was a habit he had while lost in thought that he tried to avoid. His older brother had constantly teased him that he was going to rub his hair off when they were kids. He had also said that they didn’t have to worry about sunburns on their black skin from the bright Texas sun. Todd was kind of an asshole like that.

            The thought relaxed Ken a bit more. He considered Miller’s words as they walked in silence. As the sergeant major pointed out, young officers were inexperienced. That was why they were paired with senior sergeants in almost every field assignment and told to listen to their feedback. A captain was right on the edge of what was considered a junior officer but at this time in the UEMC’s history, most were woefully unprepared by pre-war standards.

            But there was a method to the military’s madness. Those “kid bosses” lacked practical experience but were well educated in general and drilled repeatedly on military history, strategy and advanced tactics, logistics, as well as a host of other areas of military minutia. One of Ken’s instructors had described the relationship as a good sergeant guiding his platoon leader around the trees while the officer was managing the forest.

            And Ken suddenly realized that he was managing the forest as well or better than his peers. Not expertly, by any means, but well enough that he was trusted by his subordinates to put them in roughly the right place in order to give them a fighting chance of success or at least survival. Apparently, well enough that grizzled sergeants, however annoying they were, in other companies considered him competent.

            Miller’s aggressive pep talk hadn’t magically banished his doubts since he could still feel them roiling below the surface of his thoughts. In fact, her assertion that the operation was going to be chaos added even more worries to his running list. But she had succeeded in shocking him into a different point of view and allowed his analytical brain to be engaged. Instead of being drowned in his fears and mentally recoiling from his responsibilities, he was now considering those fears in a more rational light.

            Fear was a natural response to situations, an instinct that was honed through thousands of years of evolution to warn a person when they were in danger and needed to take action. It was an essential survival instinct that had been honed over thousands of years of evolution. But terror was a different thing entirely. It was fear’s irrational twin. Terror could paralyze a person in thought and deed. It turned brave men and women into cowards. It was a swamp of indecision that Ken had been very close to getting mired in.

            “That extra hour for dressing out was a good idea, sir,” Miller said after a few strides, glancing appraisingly at her CO out of the corner of her eye.

            “I hope it’s enough,” Ken said after a moment. “I don’t want to sound critical, but the Fleet Marines looked a little frazzled getting in harness.”

            “Just a bit,” Miller agreed. “And don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find new and interesting ways to fuck things up.”

            Fifteen minutes later, Ken was wishing that Miller wasn’t right so much of the time. Sergeants were knife-handing their corporals, corporals were glaring at lance corporals, and everyone was correcting the privates. Armory technicians were “moving with a purpose” from group to group with diagnostic gear and fitting tools. And through it all, overhead speakers were calling out the readiness status of each landing shuttle and drop pod. Everywhere he looked, Ken was seeing organized chaos.

            “Gunny Kasov, the heavy weapons team just lost all their datalinks to the Ell-Tee’s battlebox.”

            “Lieutenant Dwyer! Second Lieutenant Dwyer of Third Platoon, Alpha Company! If you are here, you are wrong!”

            “Moshe, you blithering idiot, get off my foot!”

            “For the last time, fuckface, I’m not sending my squad back to the Rigging Shop for LSLVs because we’re using a goddamn landing craft!”

            Thirty minutes into the process Ken saw that, despite appearances in certain areas, they had learned some lessons from the FMF arming procedures. It was hard to describe to outsiders, but even the most grueling training deployment could not stress men or equipment as much as even a minor combat operation. And this was far from a minor op. In training, there were still limits and protections that were not exceeded because of safety of the personnel or consideration of the wear and tear put on equipment. Added to that, some crafty NCO or alert company officer would usually sniff out what the training mission was supposed to accomplish and stack the deck in their favor for gear selection and personnel assignment.

            But this was the real deal. Staff Sergeant Knows Everybody couldn’t buy his old Braxis pal Grig Grog a drink at the bar and pump him for information. Second Lieutenant What’s Her Name wasn’t going to be accidentally emailed a copy of the opposing force deployment plan. Training was critically important for a military unit and even more so when that unit was as collectively inexperienced as Third MarDiv. Combat, however, simply could not be replicated completely no matter how tough or realistic the training program.

            Training always left gaps and it was up to experienced leaders to fill those gaps. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done when the majority of your leaders came from a peacetime force with limited combat experience. That was not an excuse to simply shrug and not try, however. There were officers like Ken Jackson with the foresight to anticipate where those training gaps may lie and NCOs like Christine Miller who had enough experience getting shot at to correct issues before they could become major problems.

            All things considered; Ken was pleased by the performance of his people. He spoke to his platoon leaders and their gunnery sergeants, issued a few minor corrections as he walked through the company area, but mostly he just concentrated on making eye contact and acknowledging his Marines as he strode by. His emotions were under control but he still felt a singing tension as the time to load the landing craft closed in.

            He stood with Miller in the cavernous loading bay as his company filed in and broke into platoons and squads. The landing craft would load two squads each, half of a platoon, with the platoon leader and platoon sergeant split up. His Headquarters Section was also split. Ken and Miller would be on one craft while First Lieutenant Morgan and Staff Sergeant Santiago would be on another. The Army had massive troop transports that could load up to a battalion of infantry or more but it was decided that the Marine Corps didn’t want anything that large for initial planetary landings. One shot in the right place could take out a third of a regiment of Marines.

            The loading bays of the Gallipoli were segregated at the moment, each company of the battalions that made up the Fifth Marine Regiment having their own pressurized section. Once the companies loaded, the airtight bulkheads separating each section would retract into the open position. Then the bay would be quickly depressurized as both ends were opened to space. The support and securing cradles around each craft, already powered up and standing by for launch, would be disconnected and also retract into the overhead. Then launch operations would begin as the hundreds of shuttles that carried the Fifth Regiment would stream out of the landing bay.

            And the UES Gallipoli was only one of four massive amphibious warfare ships that formed the heart of Task Force 47. There were also two of the slightly smaller LCA ships, UES Commando and UES Gangut. The Landing Craft, Assault ships could also haul ground troops to a battle but on this operation were specifically tasked to launch the modified assault craft that would provide close air support for the grounded Marines. When the Marine Division concept was developed at UE Joint Fleet Command, it was determined that these rugged and heavily armed gunships would eliminate the need for the dedicated fighters and bombers of the Near-Space Force as well as the need to waste precious cargo space on the heavy artillery units the Army used.

            Ken strode towards the lander at the head of the formation after the last of his last riflemen filed past him. His movements were bold and confident as he donned his Mod Six helmet and engaged the seals. Every Marine would drop sealed up and probably stay that way through the first hours of being on planet. There was no telling what chemical or biological agents the Brokebacks might use on the battlefield.

            Once his helmet was in place and the HUD once again flared to life, Ken brought the battalion feeds online using the command interface on his gauntlet. He signaled his unit as fully loaded and ready as his boots clanged up the ramp and into the armored pillbox attached to the spine of the landing craft. He sat in the heavily reinforced dropseat waiting for him and secured the five-point harness that would help keep him in the seat in case of turbulence or extreme combat maneuvers.

            The pillboxes were what the landing craft actually dropped when they got close enough to the surface of the planet. They were layered in the latest armor and low-emission materials and filled with ammunition, food and medical supplies, equipment spares, as well as drone operation centers and various other important items. They were designed to form a battlefield web of C3I capability to enhance the effectiveness of the Marine forces. C3I stood for command, control, communications, and information. For hundreds of years that concept had been integral to human warfighting doctrine.

            Each pillbox could be outfitted to support a variety of troops. From headquarters sections to heavy weapons units or standard rifle platoons. The supplies and additional equipment could be easily loaded onto hover pallets and travel with the logistics specialists as the Marines deployed to different areas of the battlefield. The remaining pillbox structure could then be placed into standby status or rapidly disassembled and rendered useless to the enemy if that became necessary.

            “Traveler Two Zero One, this is Rancher Six,” Cervantes transmitted to the lead shuttle. Traveler was the call-sign for the landing craft wing while Rancher was the battalion handle.

            “Aaand Rancher Six, from the Two Zero One. Go ahead.”

            Ken rolled his eyes. Pilot radio etiquette always annoyed him.

            “Two Zero One, all Rancher elements are loaded and locked in. We are ready for launch, over.”

            “Roger, Rancher Six. Be advised, we’re under a short delay until cleared from the Task Force ATO.”

            There were further radio exchanges as the battalion commander acknowledged the squadron leader. Each of the big amphibs had an Air Traffic Officer, or Air Boss, which was the ship’s officer that coordinated flight operations among the dozens of shuttles. Then there was the Task Force Air Boss aboard the flagship, UES Barbary, whose job was to supervise the launch and coordination of every single small craft among the Task Force. It was a monumental assignment that Ken wouldn’t wish on anybody.

            He closed his eyes as the communications channels went silent. For a few brief moments, he found that he could finally relax. All the tasks were done, the timelines met. Orders had been given and received. Everybody was in place and waiting quietly, alone with their comrades. Oddly, he suddenly wondered what his brother was doing today and if Todd was also thinking of him. Despite the constant thrumming of an active starship and the deeper bass growl of the landing craft, it was an oddly peaceful moment.

            It didn’t last.

            Jolted back to reality, Ken willed himself to not physically flinch as the support cradle snapped open with a metallic screech followed by a heavy boom. The landing craft he was on immediately lifted into a hover only a few feet off the deck of the landing bay. The artificial gravity field of the Gallipoli was still acting on them but it wouldn’t be long until the craft was outside the skin of the ship and on its own.

            He slowly opened his eyes and looked around at the other Marines in the pillbox. Miller seemed to be studying a report on her HUD as her eyes twitched, following the stream of data. Collins, his communications specialist, was gripping the arms on his dropseat and had his eyes oddly squinted, trying not to look scared to death. Some Marines seemed to be breathing heavier than others but all seemed to at least be pretending a certain level of ease. Everything seemed to pause for a moment, a snapshot in time.

            Sudden acceleration pressed them all into their seats. In the launch position, all the dropseats were locked facing forward to reduce disorientation in zero-g climates. Ken brought up a view from the landing craft’s nose camera as it shot out of the bay at launch speed and immediately transitioned into a rolling dive, following it’s brethren as they tumbled out of the massive LSD and fell towards the planet below. The image blurred, tilted, and spun crazily as the pilots maneuvered seemingly at random into a formation designed to deceive enemy sensors and keep the shuttles on unpredictable paths.

            Ken quickly shut the camera feed down. Going from the gravity of the Gallipoli to the acceleration of the craft had confused his inner ear and the images from the camera didn’t quite line up with the pulls and jerks he was experiencing. He felt his gorge rise as he tried to control his stomach. His body was being pulled like taffy through three dimensions and so many different angles that he quickly gave up trying to predict where the next force would be felt.

            At his place in the center of the pillbox he could see the Marines beside him and in front of him. He saw more than a few hunch their shoulders and duck their heads as they vomited inside their armored helmets. Seeing this Ken couldn’t help himself; he spewed his stomach contents all over his visor as his inner ear struggled to figure out what was going on.

            The suit’s anti-organic systems immediately went to work. High pressure air nozzles and jets of quick drying cleaner rinsed the visor in seconds and the detritus was vacuumed into a small intake by his throat. For a few seconds, he scarcely noticed the jolts, drops, and bucking he was subjected to.

            Ken suddenly realized that the environment was changing around him and it had been building almost subliminally until his mind noticed it. The engines had slowly changed from their deep bass growl to a higher, full-throated roar. The kaleidoscope of g-forces was settling into a more predictable orientation with less dramatic changes. The hull of the pillbox was pinging and popping as its exterior was subjected to the incredible heat of reentry. The Fifth Marine Regiment, Third Marine Division was officially in Oya’s atmosphere.

            The landing craft slowed from their astronomical speeds as they penetrated the planet’s exosphere. As atmospheric pressure increased, so did friction. The LC-10 Condors the Marines were riding in were made of advanced materials and equipped with the latest in miniaturized shielding but there were limits to the technology. They increased the theoretical top speed an object could travel in atmosphere but there were still limits. If those limits were exceeded, the reentry vehicles would suffer catastrophic failures.

            Maneuverability was also an issue. The higher the speed of the now-aircraft, the more stress was put on the frame. It was simply impossible to design an airframe heavy enough to withstand the forces of radical maneuvers at hypersonic speeds. The small shield generators jammed into the LC-10’s spine were an improvement over previous models but were really only proof against relatively small warhead fragments or light directed energy weapons that had already been attenuated by distance or atmospheric interference. They would be of little use against direct hits from any serious weapon system.

            With the advent of lightspeed and near-lightspeed weaponry, the old adage of “speed is armor, speed is life” didn’t apply as much anymore. At least in atmosphere. Any combat vehicle expected to operate in atmosphere was designed with a special emphasis on maneuverability combined with active and passive defensive features, such as powerful ECM and the new shield generators. It was felt by designers and senior military planners that any speed advantage could be gained by simply pitching the craft towards the ground.

            That was why the swarms of Condors all started twisting and turning crazily as their downward-arced wings hit thicker air. They dove, swooped, and looped in a mad dance that was planned and executed by brilliant computer programs with the flight crews standing by in case of emergency. Since true computer AI was still the stuff of science fiction, the living beings in the cockpits were also there to respond to any unforeseen events that the computers couldn’t handle because of software limitations or battle damage.

            It wasn’t very pleasant for the Marines strapped to their seats in the pillboxes. The Mod Sixes were equipped with the latest in automatic medical monitoring and intervention but there was no drug or intervention in the known galaxy that could prevent a human from hurling their guts out under those conditions. They were in a mach speed elevator car with no windows that had been booted into the air by an angry giant. Human physiology was not equipped to deal with those conditions.

            As the squadrons of shuttles carrying the first wave of Marines dropped through the planet’s mesosphere and into the upper edges of the stratosphere, the first electronic fingers began reaching invisibly from the planet’s surface. Surprisingly, sensors from the Union ships in orbit also began catching whispers of Brokie tracking systems from satellites in extremely low orbits that had gone undetected against the full array of human detection tools. The planet had seemed to be completely asleep since Fourth Fleet had blasted the last enemy ship from space but it now appeared to be waking up.