Lions in Blue and Silver
The story of crash-landings, and how snipers are like chocolate and shoes.
As it turned out, the physical and psychological tests went pretty quickly for everyone involved. Most of them were fairly simplistic – blood work-ups, pathogen checks, a long checklist of various allergens and the like. A basic physical exam and a battery of simple psychological questions – that left Ahern slightly puzzled – finished the activity out.
He did note that both Commissars and several guys in gray suits were observing everything, but that didn't surprise him. The SA had never bothered with a special forces division before – most spec-ops were handled by elements of the Guard of Iron. The concentration of firepower and trained killers in the hands of apolitical generals is how whackaloons like Ardiente got started, and keeping an eye on things was to be expected.
By noon, the tests were done and the Marines cycled out of the area and further afield, ending up with Ahern and his team standing near the main landing field of Quantico, alongside the rest of the many assembled teams. Seemingly endless rows of shuttles lined the battered tarmac, each painted in white and blue. The shuttles were a recent innovation, using the mass effect technology that had overhauled so much modern technology in recent years. Each shuttle had twice the efficiency and speed of the old MR-4 VTOL gunships, without sacrificing armor.
Teams shuffled around in nervous agitation, wearing little else than BDU uniforms, while eight huge cargo pods hulked off to one side, along with a large number of loader-mechs.
With all the Marines, it took Ahern's team almost ten minutes to hook up with Lieutenant Pellham and his team. Most of that was just finding them in the crowd of Marine teams, which were slowly shifting around much in the same way Ahern's team was. He finally found Pellham, waving and leading his own team over.
Ahern knew Pellham wasn't in charge of the other team, but as he was the only one of the five who cussed like a man, Ahern mostly talked to him. Anderson was related to the noble Anderson family, close enough to have his nose in the air, but not close enough to be actual nobility. Kai Leng apparently couldn't speak louder than a fucking whisper, and the giant Richards just did whatever Pel or Sanders told him to. As for Sanders, she acted like her shit didn't stink, which always pissed him off.
His suspicions had been right. This unit was little more than a glorified bodyguard for Grissom's daughter, who had used her mother's maiden name to avoid being hounded by those seeking access to Grissom's fame. And as he figured, there was some kind of bullshit going on between the girl and the Chinese guy, and tensions between Leng and Anderson.
After the meeting at Sam's Last Stand, he'd been careful to catch Pellham after everyone went their own way, and had stopped the bigger man to ask him about it. Pellham, who had given a shattering bellow of laughter at the question, had him go back into the bar for a beer and explained.
"Oh, that shit? Goddamned comedy gold. When she was a bit younger, Kahlee and Anderson were close, I guess. His family was some kinda one-off from the real nobles, enough to get them in with the Grissoms. The two of them ended up having a bit of a thing – can't fault the man's taste."
Ahern rolled his eyes. "Was this after they enlisted?"
Pellham had grinned and continued. "Nope. Anderson broke it off when they entered the military, as it wouldn't be 'proper.' That hurt Kahlee, who I guess felt isolated enough already, and she ended up fooling around with Pretty Ninja Boy later on, which pissed Anderson off a lot. Course, nobody told Old Man Grissom, so when he pulled strings to get Kahlee put in a safe team, he paired her up with Anderson, and Kai Leng barely got on the team at all. And now Kai likes putting the dick to her just to drive Anderson crazy."
Ahern had stared at the man, aghast. "Are they fucking crazy? Does no one fucking understand why it is a bad idea to bang your goddamned teammates? Especially in a situation like that?"
Pellham had shrugged. "You're preaching to the choir, brother. To the fucking choir."
Ahern had decided then and there that these people – with the possible exception of Pellham – were idiots, and best used as bullet stoppers. He hooked up with his team in their barracks that night, and both Kyle and Chu found it extremely stupid and likely to get someone killed. Rachel found the entire thing funny when Ahern related it to her and Saracino.
"Aw, how sweet." She snorted. "I know you hate the idea what Mike and I get up to, but have we ever endangered the unit?"
Ahern folded his arms. "No. I don't like it, but there's been more than one situation where one of you has been hurt and the other one didn't bat an eyelash, mostly because you two are ice-cold psychopaths."
Rachel rolled her eyes. "No, we're not. I love Mike the same way I love chocolate, new shoes, and old rock music – makes me feel good, but I can live without it. I have to be realistic about the kind of guys interested in me, but that doesn't give me an excuse to act like a fool."
She pushed her hair out of her pretty features. "That isn't the case with that bullshit Sanders is pulling, though. It sounds like she hasn't quite figured out that this is the real deal, and if she's really just sleeping with the guy to get back at this Anderson person for being dumped… Christ."
Ahern nodded grimly. "Worse than that, according to Pellham, Leng and Anderson are pretty hostile to each other over it. That's a problem in the field and never goddamned acceptable."
Rachel had sobered at that. "No, it isn't, but then again, most men think with their dicks. It's one thing to enjoy a good roll. It's another to drag emotional baggage into a live-fire situation. I think we should be pretty careful in what we say and do around them – if you are right, they could be unpredictable if that bitch buys it." She laughed. "That shouldn't be hard, considering you guys are some of the most uptight, grimly silent assholes I've ever known when it's time to go to war."
The rest of Team Smashfucker had agreed on that, and now, waiting for the event to start, Ahern realized the other teams were making small talk amongst themselves, as opposed to the professional silence of his own team. It struck him that the others looked relaxed and excited, and his own team looked…
Like they were waiting to kill. Maybe Rachel had a point about being too uptight, but she was as bad as the rest of them when it came to taking care of business. And in any case – this was the goddamned military. They were about to go traipsing around in a radioactive, godforsaken swamp full of terrorists, old war robots, and mutant animals, not to mention horrible diseases. It wasn't really a time for levity, in his opinion.
Just as Ahern was about to say something to Chu, and maybe spend the time setting up insertion approaches, Admiral Grissom appeared, flanked to his left by the High General of the SA, Lord General Alfred von Grath, and on the right by a hard looking man with the physique of a serious iron-pumper. Grissom glanced around the field, a tight and satisfied smile on his face.
"It's good to see you are all fired up, Marines. As I said, the first part of this test is to weed out everyone but the very best. The swamp you are headed to is, I reiterate, lethal. There are more challenges than the terrain, the area is overrun with both hostile wildlife and malfunctioning ABC war robots that failed at cleanup. The radiation level is kappa, which is just enough to make you grow an arm from your head if you stay in it long enough. There may also be chemical or biotoxic hazards from abandoned cities and at least one downed transport that probably scattered eezo everywhere."
He paused. "There is also the possibility of encountering terrorist units, sovereign citizen types, or the like, but such will be both irradiated and probably badly armed, making them little threat. If they surrender, you can send up a red flare for a shuttle to pick them up for Commissariat processing – otherwise, your orders include a lethal force authorization."
He gestured to the cargo pods. "As you were told to arrive with no gear – except those of you who are melee specialists – we have provided. All of you will be issued the following: a field pack with four days of rations, a water purification kit, a first aid kit, and six bottles of purified water with built-in contaminant filters. You will also have some replacement air filters, some water purification tabs, and anti-rad drugs in the kit, but be advised you will require a rad-cleanse once you come out. We're aware some of you might be rad-intolerant… and we can't afford that in the special forces, so this will filter you out.
"You will also be issued one set of Class A Striker combat armor, one Armstrong pistol, and one weapon of choice: either a Lancer assault rifle, an H&K800 shotgun, or a Kadar sniper rifle. If you decide to forgo a weapon aside from the pistol, you can choose another piece of gear from whatever you see, such as additional rations, a barrier tent, an MK V unarmed scouting drone, or additional medical supplies.
"Melee CQB types were instructed to bring your own weapons, but if you don't have it or would prefer to keep them away from a radioactive swamp, you will be offered a standard shock-baton or a set of combat blades."
He glanced around. "As for one-off equipment, those of you who are medics will have a full medical kit. Engineers will be given two Model VII armed aerial drones and a trap kit. Scouts will be given FLIR/UV binocs and a GPS mapping uplink. Heavy weapons specialists will be issued a mass effect lightened GM-GE 1707 minigun or a Kadar-Glock magnetic-recoilless rifle with gyrojet high explosive or armor shredder rounds."
The crowd murmured, and Ahern winced. The weapons weren't too bad – the Armstrong was a pretty good pistol, actually – but the armor was complete garbage, heavy and not designed for fast movers or recon types. It was one of the only environmentally sealed armors capable of holding up to rad-unsafe conditions, though, which is no doubt why they chose it. The support lineup was pretty crappy – the binocs and GPS gear would be spotty in usefulness, and the medical supplies were useless without a clean area to de-armor and apply them with.
The drones – both the unarmed and armed kind – would be a plus. And since Saracino usually used a Kadar sniper rifle anyway, that was also good. He refocused his attention on the man next to Grissom.
"My name is Master Warrant Officer Jeremy John Boyle. I have already done everything you people are about to do, including fucking around in a godforsaken swamp and fought several ranking Guard of Iron types to prove my abilities. I will be your lead training coordinator. Many of you are officers. I do not give a shit, as a warrant officer outranks everyone except Victor Manswell and Jesus Christ, and neither of them is here."
He smiled coldly. "I can and will put you on the ground or in a hospital bed if you give me shit. Am I clear, Marines?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" The thunder of the reply was instantaneous.
No one was stupid enough to mess with a warrant officer wearing the intricate ribbon-belt that signaled he had been awarded the Iron Valor, the highest personal award the Manswell family could bestow. While not as openly prestigious as the Star of Terra, in some ways it was more impressive – the man had been given a token saying the Manswell family owed him whatever he liked.
"Good. Since I have my doubt that you apes can follow orders correctly, I will be guiding you through this process so that at least some of you morons get out of this alive. The first stage of what you are going to be doing is very simple. There are, as you can clearly see, many shuttles at the edge of this landing field. Each shuttle can hold two five-man teams. Two teams will get on the shuttles which will scatter you over the eastern edge of the swamp.
"Those of you with brains have no doubt ascertained what teams best fit with your own and are already teamed up. Those of you who are not get the luck of the draw. You will be dropped off at the eastern edge, as I said. You will make your way overland until you find one of the shuttles, or until ninety-six hours has passed. At that point, shuttles will begin picking up remaining squads."
Warrant Officer Boyle folded his arms. "Anyone making it to a shuttle with ten people before the ninety-six hour point passes. Those who fail to do so also fail to advance. You will be given flares. If at any time your team has a medical emergency and cannot continue, send up a blue flare."
He gave them all a hard look.
"Sending up a blue flare means you are out, no arguments. Try again next time. You will note, along with your blue and red flares, you also have a single yellow flare. If, for some reason, the shuttle will not start, is damaged by hostiles, or some other intolerable bullshit, you may light that. A team will arrive and assess your condition – if you're at a shuttle with ten people, you will pass. If you are not, you will fail. If at any point you decide this shit is not worth it, please use the yellow rather than the blue flare."
He unfolded his arms. "I shouldn't have to say this straight out, but you all are Marines and only about half as smart as a bag of muddy rocks, so listen up. The point of the exercise is to survive a situation that is hostile, unfamiliar, and dangerous. Some of you will die out there. It's hardly fair to your comrades to punish them for you being a coward, so if you want out, now is the time – we can reorganize teams to fill in any gaps."
He waited several long seconds, and then nodded. "Good. Stupid, but brave. Just what the SA likes. You have your orders, fall out, kit up, and move to a shuttle. God and Victor help you all."
With that, Marines began to move, picking over the equipment sets. Lines were quickly set up, and each Marine picked up a supply pack, a weapon of choice, and any other gear they needed. Ahern decided that since he was likely going to be the point man he'd take the shotgun. Chu only took a pistol – he needed a free hand for drone control anyway, and picked up a third drone by doing so – and Saracino a sniper rifle, which he immediately started sighting in on.
Kyle, Pellham, Anderson, and Florez all took rifles. Leng took a shotgun. Sanders also only took a pistol, choosing to pick up a barrier tent, while Richards effortlessly lifted the huge GM-GE 1707 minigun and associated ammo pack.
Ahern made the point of personally checking everyone's gear. "Alright, let's keep one thing clear. We are in this to win this, not to be some half-ass middle-of-the-pack lightweights. That means everyone has to pull their fucking weight." He sent a hard glare at Sanders, who gave a shrug. "I know you're close combat, but a pistol won't help much against a war robot."
"That's not a problem for me. I went with the pistol to pick up a barrier tent, so in case we need medical care we at least have a clean area to use the things. As for war robots… I figure none of the weapons that I'm only half trained in would be useful anyway." Her voice had a lilt of challenge to it, and he didn't miss the dark looks both Leng and Anderson shot him.
He snorted. "Then get your goddamned boyfriends' heads in the game." He turned to the rest of them. "Stick to the fucking plan." He gestured with the shotgun toward an open shuttle, and the group piled in, stiffly sitting on the narrow, hard benches inside the craft.
A few minutes later, the doors outside shut, sealing away the sunlight that filtered through the arcology dome. A droning voice spoke across the internal speakers. "Alert. Shuttle departing. Recommend all personnel seal environmentally at this time. Leaving sterile airspace."
Ahern banged the top of his helmet in the universal 'button up' motion, and everyone began sealing their armor. Traveling beyond the arcology into the irradiated areas outside was always nerve-wracking, but most of the planet wasn't too bad. Sixty years of work by ABC robots, nanotech paste, and hauling away contaminated dirt had reclaimed vast tracts of land. Powerful atmospheric and hydroactive processors constantly worked on the air and oceans.
While survival outside was by no means pleasant, it was at least possible. Even so, standard Marine policy was never to expose yourself to the elements.
The shuttle trip passed slowly, each person lost in their own thoughts. Kyle fieldstripped his rifle, slowly piecing it back together. Chu tinkered with and programmed the drones, occasionally fiddling with something using a toolkit he'd tucked into his suit. Pellham dozed, Richards read from a tiny Bible, and Saracino made endless tiny adjustments to his sniper scope.
Leng and Sanders were talking softly, voices pitched low enough that their words were just smears of sound to Ahern's ears, while Anderson was talking with Rachel in a calm voice about possible tactical approaches, combining scouting paths with Rachel's ideas about advancing. Ahern shrugged mentally at it all and, deciding Pellham had the right idea, closed his eyes to wait for it to be over.
He'd just gotten to sleep when the VI chimed a blaring alert, and explosions and flames rocked the shuttle. He barely had time to brace himself before there was an ugly flash of white-red and a burst of stars in his vision, and he knew nothing else.