Mercurial: Ace Evans Book 5 (Ace Evans Series), page 25
It was beautiful, but it couldn’t distract me from what was to come. Stepping into the staff office area, my heart sank, and I felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach. The thought of polishing a seat with my ass for the next two years made me feel ill.
A man with gray stubble for hair greeted me as I entered. His face was a mass of wrinkles, and he wore what I suspected was a perpetual frown. The rank on his shoulder showed him to be a master sergeant. I pulled out my slate once again and handed it over. The master sergeant took it and scanned it with a device that was connected to his computer, then huffed before handing it back.
“Lieutenant Bass has requested that you see him before reporting to your duty station,” the master sergeant said. He spoke slowly in a deep voice. “You’ll be berthed in with the rest of the staff NCOs in section two. Ship schematics are being downloaded to your slate, along with a duty rotation. Chow hall is on Delta. You can wait on the lieutenant over there.”
He pointed to a row of chairs that folded down from the wall. With a nod, I moved over, propping my loadout bag against the chair on the end before I eased my way down. My leg hurt, my back was stiff, and the scar tissue up the left side of my body was tight and made movement awkward. I settled onto the chair and stretched out my leg, although I refused the temptation to rub my knee. It was impossible to hide the damage, but I didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention, either.
On the wall behind the master sergeant was a display that slowly rotated through the names of the Marines on board the Rihla. Following the standard rule of three, there were two rifle platoons and one TAC platoon. I knew that the TAC platoon would consist of two combat squads and one staff squad, the latter of which would oversee the logistics of the combat teams. I assumed I would be part of this squad in some capacity.
I didn’t have to wait long for Lieutenant Bass, who soon stepped out of his office and greeted me.
“Staff Sergeant Vanhorn?”
I rose to my feet as quickly as my mutinous body would allow and came to attention.
“At ease, Staff Sergeant. Why don’t we step into my office?” Bass said.
He was a short man, muscular and obviously fit. I couldn’t deny the pang of envy at how deftly he moved. After I followed him into the little office, he shut the door with the push of a button and waved me toward the single guest chair in the small space.
“It’s not too often that we have heroes on board,” Bass said. The nameplate on the desk showed his first name to be Oliver. He didn’t sit down, instead choosing to lean against the side of his desk. It was too small and cluttered to sit on, but he clearly didn’t want to sit behind it.
“I’m no hero, sir,” I replied.
“Nonsense—you saved your squad on Luyten C. The entire corps was talking about it last year.”
“I thought the op was classified.”
“The mission details were; your actions on the battlefield weren’t.”
I knew the corps had no qualms about making examples of people, even embellishing stories to help meet their recruiting quotas. Still, it didn’t set me at ease to think that people were speculating about what had happened on Luyten C. I had been too dazed to even realize that any of the details had been released.
“We lost an entire fire team,” I said. “Was that in the report? Corporal Dallas, Lance Corporal Green, Private First Class Choi, and Private First Class Honrey. Killed by the Orcs. I don’t even know if we were able to recover their bodies.”
“Every battle has casualties,” Bass replied. “You led that squad through scores of Orrkasi. We don’t have a solid number, but I’ve heard rumors that there were over a hundred.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” I said, with some uncertainty. I knew I had never seen so many of the enemy Orrkasi, or Orcs, than I had on Luyten C. Most people called them Orcs because they so resembled the fantasy creatures from books and movies, both in their looks and in their animalistic ferocity. I hadn’t expected any of the Marines in my squad of thirteen TAC operators to survive that day, including myself. I still wasn’t sure I was thankful that I had.
“You’re being humble,” Bass said. “You and your team showed everyone what TAC is all about. Your actions turned the tide on that battle...and you’ve got the stripes to prove it.”
Without him coming out and saying it, I knew he meant my scars. My missing eye burned, but I refused to touch the black patch that covered the pit where my eye had once been. There was nothing there but puckered flesh, and even after a year, it still made my skin crawl to think about it.
“Well.” Bass broke the momentary silence, standing straight before moving around to his side of the desk and picking up his slate. He made it look easy; for him, it was, in a way it would never be again for me. I did my best not to let my envy turn to bitterness. “I’m glad to have a man with your background on board. Our TAC platoon is untested in combat. They’re well trained and ready, but we haven’t seen the enemy yet. I’m hoping that changes on this cruise.”
In that moment, I realized Bass was a climber. The quickest way to advance in the corps was through combat, and the quickest route to combat was the command of a TAC platoon. Little did he seem to know that facing the Orcs in battle was nothing to wish for. They were savage fighters, ruthless, hard to stop and even harder to understand. I had seen them resist oncoming fire, and I had seen them use stealth and cunning to ambush humans. It wasn’t something I hoped to ever see again, and in my state, I doubted I would—unless, by some horrible turn of events, they managed to turn the tide of the war.
“Yes, sir,” was all I could think to say. I knew better than to try to correct a commissioned officer.
“We’ll need you if it does! Staff Sergeant, you’re to be our master-at-arms on this cruise,” Bass explained with more gusto than I thought possible. “We have a full armory. You’ll have three Marines under you. Everything is ship-shape in there, and we have a simulator and live fire ranges. Those are overseen by Gunny Patel. Your job is to keep everything ready for combat operations, if we get the chance. We’ll have a full platoon meeting at oh-seven hundred hours tomorrow. In the meantime, get the lay of the land and make sure you can find your way around. It’ll get hectic once the ship is underway, and I believe we’re scheduled to leave port at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, thankful for the armrests on the seat. I used them to push myself up, ignoring the spasm of pain in my back as I stood. “Is there anything else?”
“No, no, I just wanted to meet you,” Lieutenant Bass said, extending a hand. I shook it, noting the clamminess of my commanding officer’s palm.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied.
“If you need anything at all, Staff Sergeant, you know where to find me.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I repeated.
Bass sat down and pressed an icon on the top of his desk. The door whooshed open, and I made my way out. My loadout bag was waiting for me to grab as I left the suite of offices.
From the walkway around Bravo deck, I could look up and down the entire core of the ship. Two decks above, the command and control center was outlined with lights that made it gleam like a gemstone. Beyond it, I could see decks Echo, Foxtrot, and Golf high above. It was a beautiful ship, but I hadn’t expected anything less. I made my way around to section two and found my berth. It was a standard NCO cabin, which meant I shared the space with someone else. In this case, it was Gunnery Sergeant Patel who was in the little room when I entered.
“Welcome, Staff Sergeant,” my new roommate said from his seat in a comfortable chair, where he was watching a replay of a sports broadcast from Earth. The cabin must have been a little larger than what he had shared on other cruises, I realized. I knew that he had been promoted to staff sergeant after the battle on Luyten C. Before that, he would have shared a barracks-style berth with twelve other Marines on board the naval vessels he’d been assigned to. A semi-private cabin must have been a welcome change.
It wasn’t a bad situation for me, either. The room was large enough to have a lounge space, with two of the plushy chairs positioned directly across from the wall display on which the gunnery sergeant was watching the game. There were also two small desks on either side of the room and sleeping nooks built into the wall, outfitted with privacy curtains. In the kitchenette was a refrigeration unit, a tiny reheating oven, built-in cabinets, and a sink. I could see that there were already a few heavy metal tumblers in a rack by the sink.
“Thanks, Gunny,” I replied.
“Call me Pat, at least in here. No need for formalities in our own space, yeah?”
I nodded in agreement and propped my loadout bag against the locker on what I guessed was my side of the room.
“You’ve got space for personal items,” Pat said, pointing to the cabinet that was built around the refrigeration unit. “The fridge only has two shelves, but one is empty if you need it.”
“I didn’t think to stock up before leaving port,” I admitted. In truth, I’d never had the luxury of keeping my own victuals in my cabin before.
“You can place an order from the commissary,” Pat supplied helpfully. “They’ll deliver it to the ship.”
“Good, thank you,” I said.
“Of course. We have to look out for one another.” Pat paused the game and turned in his chair to give me his full attention. “I’m in charge of the simulator and live fire range. What have they got you chained to?”
“Armory,” I said. “Sorry in advance—I may end up smelling like gun oil and soldering smoke.”
“I’ve smelled worse,” Pat replied. “You need help with that kit?”
He pointed at my heavy loadout bag. I shook my head. The truth was, the bag was heavy, and with my injuries, lifting the entire thing was difficult. Right now, though, I didn’t need to lift it with all my gear still inside. I set it down and slowly settled onto the bed in my nook.
My cautious movements didn’t escape Pat’s notice. “Looks like you’ve seen some action.”
“Yeah,” I replied vaguely, trying to evade the question. “I’ve been in convalescence and rehab for the last year.”
Unfortunately, he’d already espied my full name printed on my loadout bag. “Vanhorn…I know that name,” Pat said. “Were you with the TAC team on Luyten C?”
I nodded reluctantly.
“Holy shit, you’re that Vanhorn—the sergeant who saved his entire platoon!”
“No.” I shook my head. The names of the Marines I had lost passed through my mind. I knew I would never forget them, nor did I want to, even though remembering them was more painful than all my injuries combined. “I didn’t save everyone.”
“Ah,” Pat said, a little awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Forget it,” I said, hoping to have a good relationship with my roommate. “It’s in the past. I don’t really remember much about it. I was on a lot of meds for a bit after that op. Everything around then is more than a little fuzzy now.”
“Oh, I understand that,” Pat said. “I like a drink or two, so I’ve lost a few wild nights myself.”
Very different, but I was willing to let it go with a smile. I began to unpack my bag. The clothes were all neatly rolled and arranged already; beneath them were some personal weapons I had taken to carrying into combat, some old-fashioned projectiles and boxes of ammunition. It didn’t take long to get my personal effects stored in the wide locker, including a close-quarters tactical shotgun, which I fastened to the inside of the door with maglocks.
“You came prepared,” Pat noted wryly. “Does that thing work?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Once a TAC team Marine, always a TAC team Marine, I suppose.”
“You ever tangle with an Orc?” I asked.
“No,” Patel said, glancing down. “I was in logistics right out of basic.”
“You’ve seen the vids, though.”
“Of course. I’ve run the simulator on the Rihla for over a year. I can hold my own.”
I didn’t point out that facing a living, breathing Orrkasi warrior was nothing like drilling tactics in a simulator. The Orcs were taller than humans and almost twice as broad. They had huge heads with wide lower jaws and pointed teeth that stuck out at odd angles. They were built like gorillas: short legs, thick chests, huge shoulders. They weren’t all that fast, but they were hard to stop. The standard flechette-firing sidearms issued to Marines were worthless against an Orc. Most TAC team members I knew had ditched these unreliable, weak pistols for old-fashioned revolving slug throwers, now called hand cannons or penetrators.
“Then you know that if they get close, the bastards are hard to stop,” I said. “I’ve seen them leap on a person and use their teeth, too. When it comes to that, I prefer something with more stopping power.”
“Makes sense,” Pat said.
I pulled out my revolver. It was a long-barreled pistol, stainless steel with a black rubber grip. It was chambered for .357 magnum loads, and I had three boxes of soft lead ammunition and four speed reload cylinders. I took out the empty cylinder that was in the gun and loaded in six fresh slugs, but I didn’t return the cylinder to the weapon. Instead, I put it all on the shelf of my locker. I could get to the gun and click one of the fast-load cylinders in place in just two seconds. At that point, the weapon would be ready to fire and hard to control, but at close range, it could stop an Orc with just two shots.
After loading everything into the locker, I set the biometric lock and shut it. The only item that remained was the bag of pills I kept with me. They were powerful painkillers, but I only used them when absolutely necessary. I hadn’t needed them in nearly two months.
“Will having these in the cabinet be a temptation to you?” I asked Pat.
“What are they? Narcotics?” He shook his head with a chuckle. “No, I prefer liquid painkillers.”
He returned his focus to the game. I settled into the seat beside him and pulled out my slate. It only took a few seconds to sync with the ship’s network, and I found the page for the commissary easily enough.
“You from Earth?” Patel asked.
“A long time ago, yes,” I said, thinking of my home in Alaska. I hadn’t been back since completing basic training over a decade before. “You?”
“Mars,” Pat said. “My folks were water farmers. But I love American-style football.”
“Can’t fault you there—I don’t mind it myself,” I replied.
“You have a favorite team?”
“No,” I said. “It’s too hard to keep up on deployment.”
“Tell me about it,” Pat commented. “This game was played last year. I’ve got dozens more on file to watch. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I replied honestly. “This is a nice setup.”
I spent the next half hour ordering snacks from the commissary. The space station where the Rihla was docked was essentially a huge refueling port, and the commissary had everything from civilian clothing to alcohol, gaming systems, and entertainment credits. I bought some sheets for my bunk, knowing that the standard-issue bedding on board a ship was nothing desirable. I also managed to get enough junk food to fill my side of the pantry cabinets. Mixing liquor with the narcotics I was sometimes forced to take was dangerous, so I opted for soft drinks instead.
Once I had placed my order, I slipped my slate back into my pocket and got to my feet.
“Going to check out the armory?” Pat asked.
I nodded. “I want to find my way around early.”
“Roger that. You want a guide?”
“No, that’s not necessary. Enjoy your game.”
“Always,” Patel said with a grin.
I left the cabin and made my way around to the training section of the ship. The TAC team occupied Bravo deck, while the two Marine fire teams were on Charlie. Since the TAC team took up less space, the physical training facility, simulator, and live fire range were also on Bravo deck. The simulator was standard, just a simple room with forty omni-directional virtual training stations, enough for an entire platoon to train together. The live fire range was smaller, with just four firing lanes and programmable targets.
After exploring Bravo, I went up to Delta to find the chow hall and the armory. The armory was a simple place: a long room with racks of weapons and drawers filled with ammunition and batteries. In the center was a long, narrow workbench with various weapon mounts. The back wall held a rack full of tools. As I walked through the space, I felt a sense of both comfort and immense relief. I had been afraid that I would be assigned to an administrative post, and typing reports or making schedules wasn’t my idea of fulfillment. Working with tools, on the other hand, was something I could see myself doing. While tiring and painful at times, being on my feet would also help my recovery. Sitting down only made my bad leg more stiff; I needed motion to keep the blood flowing to my joints and the scarred muscles.
While the ship was in port, the armory was locked down, but my biometrics had already been put into the system. This gave me access not only to the room, but also to the guns themselves. I pulled down one of the standard-issue laser assault rifles, called LARs. It was a simple weapon, with pistol-style grips at the stock and along the barrel sheath. On top was a rack for mounting different tools, like a scope or flashlight, depending on what was needed for a given operation. The batteries loaded easily into the stock’s pistol grip, and a quick inspection showed almost no barrel degradation. Still, the weapon was only marginally serviced. It needed a full breakdown, cleaning, and rebuild.
“At work already?”
I turned to find Lieutenant Holly, the deck officer who’d welcomed me aboard, at the open entrance to the armory, leaning casually against the doorframe.
“Just getting my bearings,” I replied.
