Chapter 9
The dropships flared and began to settle into a landing. As they lowered towards the ground, the ramps at the rear of each craft started to lower. Wind whipped in, tugging at uniform fabric, loose straps, and any articles of gear that hung from the Marines' bodies. Rain followed the wind, hitting so hard that it stung. Mercer and Eberwein stood at the front of the lines of Marines, waiting to lead them off. Fick and Pops were right behind them. All of First Platoon were amped up now. They didn't know what to expect once they hit the ground, but they were ready for a fight.
The dropship set down with a hard jolt, which was the Marines' cue to surge forward. Booted feet clanged against the metal ramp as they ran down. The ringing footsteps turned into splashes as they charged from the dropship, finding themselves in almost knee-deep water. Mercer didn't break stride, running forward through the water with his rifle at the high-ready, scanning for any threats. It was a good thing that this wasn't a combat drop in the middle of hostile fire, because he couldn't see shit. The rain and fog was so heavy that visibility was down to feet. Regardless, he moved forward.
When his pace count told him he'd hit thirty meters from the dropship, he dropped to a knee. In one smooth, practiced motion, he pulled the quick-release tab on his ruck and swung it over his shoulder. It landed with a crunch on the pebble beach. He followed it to the ground, settling into a prone firing position with his rifle supported on the large coyote-tan pack. The rest of first squad followed his lead, getting into supported firing positions and covering their sectors of fire. Each squad deployed in a formation that covered 200-degrees, with the Marines on the flanks sharing overlapping lines of fire with those from the next squad. The three-man leadership group would be in the center, adjusting as needed.
"Congratulations, Marines!" Pops said over the pounding rain. "You just made an amphibious landing!" This got a few chuckles out of the old heads, those who'd been in different Marine units before being absorbed into the Colonial Marines.
"They'll write about this one day." Jones said from his prone position somewhere in the ether between first and third squad. Laraquente looked towards the Gunnery Sergeant, figuring that Jones had actually decided to take a cue and be funny for once. The Gunnery Sergeant's face showed he was deadly serious. Jones looked at Laraquente. "Seriously, we just made history. When's the last time Marines had an amphib landing?" Laraquente didn't say anything as he returned his gaze to his rifle's sights.
"How about Bracken's world?" Mercer said to Dawes, rolling his eyes. It was incredible the lengths Jones would go to to make himself out to be valorous.
"Dipshit." Dawes said from his position beside Mercer. The Designated Marksman was gazing through his rifle's optics. "I dunno about you, but I can't see shit."
"What about on thermal?" Mercer asked. Dawes toggled his optic's settings.
"Nothing. This fog is too dense." Dawes reported.
"Shit. Alright." Mercer said as he pulled himself into a kneeling position. Seeing as they weren't under direct fire, and it didn't seem like there was any kind of danger at the moment, he figured it was safe to get up and check on his people. "You good?" He asked.
"I'm fuckin' soaked. But other than that, I'm solid." Dawes replied. They were all sopping from the rain. Mercer stayed in a crouch as he moved from one Marine to the next, making sure they were all good. While there was no incoming fire, Mercer had done enough of these checks with rounds ripping over their heads that he wasn't going to do it standing up. He'd lost his first squad leader to a blunder like that.
Other than being soaked, his squad was good. Turning around to give his report, he saw that they were the lucky ones. Half of second squad and all of third were lying in the lake's water that was lapping against the shore. First platoon's gunner and sniper teams had also had the misfortune of finding themselves lying prone in the water, which was up to their chins. None of them looked too happy.
"Report." Fick said as the squad leaders converged on him.
They started relaying their reports, trying their best to ignore the yelled orders that Jones was giving to the I&S Marines. For some reason, he decided to have his troops post up in the empty space between first and second platoon. Mercer noted that the I&S Marines were smack dab in the middle of two squads' lines of fire. Thankfully the Marines in said squads shifted their weapons so as to not flag their friends.
"Mercer." Fick said, bringing Mercer's attention back to the present. "Is your squad up?"
"They're wet and miserable about it, sir. But other than that, they're green on all lines." Mercer reported. "Dawes reports that this fog is too thick for the thermals. If there's anything out there, we're not going to see it until it's right on us."
"Check." Fick said. He turned to see Pops was testing that with a handheld monocular thermal device. The old Marine grunted in confirmation.
"Yup. Can't see shit through this." Pops said, replacing the imager into the pouch on his vest. "Doubt night vision will be much better."
"Roger." Fick said. "I'm going to talk with the Captain."
"Roger, sir. I've got it handled here." Pops replied. Fick stood from his kneeling position, pulling on his soaking ruck, and started towards Captain Bartz, who had linked up with First Sergeant Apone over in second platoon's area.
"Get your folks out of the water and onto the beach. First squad, you pull security while the rest swap out their socks and pull their rain gear. Not gonna be useful at finding these people if we've all got fuckin' pneumonia." Pops told the squad leaders. He was answered with affirmatives all around.
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While his Marines moved onto the beach, Fick passed by the poor I&S Marines. They were all lying behind their rucks, their uniforms and gear being soaked through by the lake water while Jones moved towards the beach.
"Who am I standing over?" Fick asked the Marine in front of him. The man on the ground looked up towards the lieutenant.
"Corporal Andariese, sir." Ike Andariese said, blinking hard against the still-falling rain. Andariese had been an infantryman before reclassing to become an intelligence specialist. He thought that his days of establishing beachheads and living in the suck had been put behind him. Once again, the Corps was screwing with him.
"What is Sergeant Jones doing?" Fick asked.
"He's uh…" Andariese looked towards their platoon sergeant, who had reached the pebbles and was looking around. "He said something about scouting the beach, sir."
"Who's your squad leader?" Fick asked.
"Sergeant Mahoney, sir." Andariese asked.
"Sergeant Mahoney." Fick said.
"Sir?" Mahoney said, rolling over to face the lieutenant.
"Get your Marines up and on the beach. Coordinate with first platoon and ensure you're all on-line." Fick said.
"Roger that, sir." Mahoney said to Fick, then to his Marines. "Come on, you heard the lieutenant. Let's get out of this shit." He faced Fick again. "Thanks, sir."
"And you tell Gunnery Sergeant Jones that I'm the one who said for you to move. If he has any questions, he can come talk to me directly." Fick said.
"Sir." Mahoney said with a nod as he pulled on his ruck. With that, Fick continued on towards the Captain and First Sergeant. Fick may have been fairly green, but he had enough sense to know that pretty much everything Jones did was self-serving and wrong. He'd speak with the Gunnery Sergeant later.
As he approached second platoon's landing point, he saw second platoon's synth, Knight, walking down the ramp. He was followed by the woman that Weyland-Yutani had sent with them. Knight had apparently had the foresight to find the woman a spare poncho. While she now looked like a woodland MARPAT-patterned ghost, she wouldn't get soaked through like the rest of them had.
"Sir." Fick said as he approached the Captain. Bartz had fared better than most of the Marines, thanks to avoiding going prone in the lake. He was still soaked from the rain though, and had to squint to see beyond the streams of water that poured from the front of his helmet. "I've got first platoon moving up onto the beach. Figure we'll be able to pull security inland and get them dry."
"Roger." Captain said. "Anything else?"
"One of my marksmen and Gunnery Sergeant Morris confirmed that this fog is too thick to see anything with thermals. And I doubt that we're going to get anything with NODs between these clouds and the sun going down." Bartz nodded as he took in the assessment.
"Walter." Bartz called out. The synth turned from his ankle-deep position in the water and started towards them.
"Sir." The synth said.
"What's our position to the signals?" Bartz asked. Fick cocked his head. Signals? As in plural?
"The ghost transmission is four miles that way." Walter didn't look up from his wrist-mounted display as he pointed in the direction of the signal's origin. It was inland from them, almost a straight line from the shore. Walter would have loved to have told the Captain the specifics, but they didn't have enough data yet to determine cardinal directions based on this planet's particular polarities. "And the second signal we picked up is nine miles in that direction." Walter pointed to the left, at an angle from the shore.
"Two signals, sir?" Fick asked. Bartz nodded.
"We picked up another one on the flight in. From the looks of it, it's an emergency rescue beacon. It's weak, but it's still pulsing." Bartz explained. "We passed right over it, but the cloud cover was too thick for us to be able to see what kind of terrain we'll be walking into." Fick nodded at this.
"Sir." Lieutenant Brink said as he approached the group. He'd left Sergeant Wilks to get second platoon onto the beach. "Beachhead secure. Second platoon is tracking zero movement, though it's not like there's much we can see." All of them turned to see the two other advisors trudging towards the shore from first platoon's dropship. They were followed by Rook.
"What's the plan, sir?" Apone asked, having given up on trying to keep his cigar lit. The rain had brought the stogie to a premature demise. He still ground it between his teeth, speaking around the nub of now-soaked tobacco.
"Ensure that the Marines have their wet-weather gear on and fresh socks. The last thing we need is anyone getting sick or catching a case of trench foot before we step off. I'm going to speak with our corporate representatives." He looked around at his lieutenants. "First Platoon will set up a tarp of some sort to provide cover for a fire. Once that's done, have each squad rotate through to dry their boots. Tentative plan right now is to bivouac through the night. No sense patrolling in when we can't see shit." Both lieutenants nodded at this. "Get it done. Come see me once I'm done talking with the suits."
"Check." Both lieutenants said before stepping off. Bartz turned and faced Apone.
"What do you think, Top?" Bartz asked.
"I think it's the right call, sir." Apone said. "Now, with all due respect, can I ask that we get out of this damn lake? My toes are starting to prune." Bartz smirked at this.
"Check. Let's go see what our overlords think of this whole situation." Bartz said.
"Ooh-rah, sir." Apone said as he followed the captain towards the shore.