Mercurial: Ace Evans Book 5 (Ace Evans Series), page 27
“Have a seat, Staff Sergeant,” she said. “I take it you’ve gotten settled and met your team.”
“Yes, Captain,” I replied. “Everything is in order.”
“And the armory?”
“It’s in passable shape,” I said honestly.
“I expect things to be tip-top, not merely passable,” she said.
“I agree and will see to it personally,” I assured her.
“That’s what I want to hear. We’ve got a full load, and we haven’t had to use anything in my last two cruises, other than the ammunition fired at the range.”
I nodded. The common weapon was a laser blaster, which didn’t fire ammo, but there were other weapons that fired flechettes, tranquilizers, non-lethal rubber bullets, and even some depleted uranium rounds. There were probably more that I’d find once I’d done a more exhaustive inventory of the armory.
“As you know, we also have explosives on board,” the captain continued, “and any personal weapons must be checked into the armory once we’re on our way.”
I knew that some captains let the Marines keep their personal weapons in their lockers, but it seemed that this one wouldn’t. That’s where I had stowed my revolver and tactical shotgun; obviously, I would have to move them to the armory. If they were fired anywhere but the range, it could cause major problems for the ship—and my career.
“Yes, Captain,” I replied.
“I don’t micromanage, Staff Sergeant. I simply expect excellence and efficiency from all my department heads. What I don’t want is drama. I know that your people will work with the platoons to ensure that they have everything they need in a timely fashion, and without any issues.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“And I expect that the weapons under your care will remain in proper working order. If, heaven forbid, we run into the Orrkasi, lives will depend on the reliability of the weapons in your charge.”
“They’ll be ready for any event we encounter,” I promised.
“Excellent,” she said, standing up. I followed her example, trying not to show the pain that the movement from seated to standing caused. The spasms passed, and I began to move away from my chair. “I’m happy to have you on board, Staff Sergeant. Your reputation precedes you.”
“I’m just a Marine,” I said. “Nothing more.”
She gave me a hard look, then nodded. “Very well, Staff Sergeant. Unless there’s a problem, we may not see a lot of each other on this cruise, but my door is always open. Don’t sweep any matters under the rug and let them fester.”
“Yes, Captain,” I said, coming to attention and saluting.
“Dismissed,” she said.
I brought my hand down but couldn’t turn on my heel the way I had been taught in basic training. Fortunately, Dunning had already returned her attention to something on her desk. I didn’t stumble, even if I couldn’t perform the crisp movements I wanted. The realization made me feel broken as I carefully exited her office.
“How’d it go?” Lieutenant Holly asked.
“Fine,” I answered, trying to return her smile. I don’t think I succeeded. In response, a look I hadn’t seen before passed across her face.
“Staff Sergeant? Have you been up to the rec deck?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t been above Echo.”
“Well, I don’t know what your schedule is, but I’ll be on watch in the CIC at oh-four hundred,” she said. “The best coffee on the ship is served up on the rec deck, and I like to get a cup about an hour before just to get my motor running. If you’re around, I wouldn’t mind a little company.”
“Oh-three hundred, then?” I said. “I think I can make that.”
She gave me a smile, and I felt my spirits lift. It wasn’t a date—it wasn’t even a flirtation—but I wouldn’t pass it up either way. As I headed down to the armory, I thought that my luck might just be turning.
SURVIVORS CHAPTER 3
The ship filled up by noon, and at 1400 hours Zulu time, we had separated from the Pathfinder and embarked on our cruise. The artificial gravity inside the ship made it impossible to sense the motion of the huge vessel.
I spent the afternoon with Nate and Trix in the armory. My shift was from 0600 to noon, but I wanted an accurate inventory of the armory’s weapons and munitions. While Nate went over the weapons checkout system with Trix, I made a mental list of the weapons we carried. There were one hundred and twenty LARs and one hundred and fifty gas-powered flechette sidearms, a standard-issue military weapon made by the Wesson Corporation. The pistols were reliable and could be deadly, but they had a short effectivity range and were useless against armor.
The armory also had thirty heavy plasma cannons, with body harnesses that allowed the user to focus on utilizing the weapon. Without the harness, the rapid-fire plasma cannon was difficult to hold. Unlike most guns, the pistol grip and trigger were on top of the cannon, which had a thick, rotating barrel that fired gel-filled, impact-activated rounds. These latex bullets split open on impact, mixing two chemical compounds that then expanded and produced a superheated plasma. It was very effective against armor, since it would stick to whatever it hit and burned at temperatures over eight hundred degrees. In addition, there were two dozen sniper rifles, crowd-control repeaters, and high-caliber autonomous security guns that were mounted on tripods and could be fired remotely.
I also found heavy-duty combat armor, emergency survival supplies, and putty and liquid explosives for tactical deployment. There were detonators, blasting caps, and chemicals for making a wide range of explosive devices, along with containers and thousands of ball bearings to load in the bombs. Overall, the armory was well stocked and arranged. I thought that I might get bored over time, but there was plenty to keep me busy for the foreseeable future. After a year of just trying to get healthy again, the prospect of taking care of this armory seemed like a perfect fit.
Losing track of my shift, I stuck around until late in the afternoon. Then I spent an hour working out and went to bed early. At 0245, my slate buzzed to wake me up, which I did with a groan. The hardest part of my injuries was getting started in the mornings. I managed to get out of bed and dressed, but it took half an hour before I finally made it up to the rec deck. Five flights of stairs left my legs feeling shaky. My PT regimen wasn’t designed for stamina, and I had lost so much muscle after getting wounded. When I saw Lieutenant Holly seated in a breathtaking new setting, all of those thoughts melted away.
The rec deck, an enormous space, lived up to its name. There were game stations, a movie theater, snack machines, and even an observation bubble. Lieutenant Holly was lingering near a kiosk with a large coffee dispenser. She saw me coming, and that equally breathtaking smile lit up her face.
“You made it!” she said.
There were a few other people milling about, but the deck was mostly empty. So powerful was her influence that it felt as if my muscles grew stronger under her gaze. I joined her near the coffee kiosk.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“You aren’t late,” she said. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come. Most people don’t care to be up this early if they don’t have to be.”
“It’s all a mental game,” I said. “Especially on a ship. There’s no real difference between day and night, just numbers on a clock.”
“Have you been on a lot of ships like this?”
“Sure, I guess. I did two years on a regular enlistment before adding a ten-year stint to join the TAC teams.”
She pointed at my screaming eagle pin, which was the only decoration I really cared about, although I dutifully wore the other required ribbons and emblems, such as the orange rocker that signified my eight combat operations.
“Is it hard to step away?” she asked.
“From TAC?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe a little. Realistically, I know I couldn’t do what I used to do. I would never want to go in like this, anyway.”
“You might get killed,” she said seriously.
“No—I mean, sure, I might get killed—but that’s not why I wouldn’t want to go,” I stammered. “It’s more that—I would probably get someone else killed. That is much, much worse than dying.”
“How do you know? You’ve never been dead,” she said playfully.
I couldn’t answer. I felt a lump in my throat as tears threatened to fill my eyes. Instead of answering, I stepped past her and plucked a cup from the dispenser, filling it with coffee from the machine. It chugged softly as the hot liquid filled my cup.
“Did I say something wrong?” the lieutenant asked.
“No,” I replied, not altogether truthfully. “It’s just...a difficult subject.”
“Orange means eight, right? I mean, you’ve been in battle eight times?”
“Yeah, but they all kind of mix together after a while. What about you? Is this your first cruise?” I asked as I tore open small packages of sugar and poured the tiny crystals into my drink.
“You noticed that, huh?” she said, the playful tone suffusing her voice once again. “I just finished three years at Fleet Academy. I’ll shadow the senior officers throughout this cruise, then pick my specialty.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Navigation, comms, fire control—you know, all the command areas. I have to pick one before it’s back to school for another year. When I get out, I’ll be a first lieutenant assigned to a ship. From there, it’s a merit-based progression. If I do well, I’ll make commander and serve as someone’s first officer for a while. Then I’ll get my own ship.”
She looked around wistfully.
“Sounds like you’ve got it all planned out,” I said, adding cream to my coffee. I took a sip and nodded to myself: it was good coffee. I would have to keep that in mind. Every ship had its secrets, and clearly, the coffee on the rec deck was one of Rihla’s.
“Sure, it’s sort of planned out for me,” she said, leading the way toward the observation bubble. “There’s no fast track to becoming a captain, though. You have to put in the time and wait your turn.”
“What happens after you captain a ship?”
“You mean, what do I see for my future after that?”
I nodded as we walked into the observation bubble. Everywhere else on the ship, the views were recreated on large wall displays from external cameras attached to the ship’s hull, but the observation bubble was made from the same transparent polymer that constituted the walls along the ship’s walkways. It was astounding to see expanses of space as we traveled faster than the speed of light, surrounded by an anti-gravity envelope. Light streaked past in different colors. I had seen FTL travel on movies and television shows, but never with my own eyes.
“Yes—after you’ve been a spectacular ship’s captain, what’s next?” I asked, trying not to stare into her eyes as we talked.
“If I’m lucky, I’ll make admiral and command an entire armada of ships.”
“You want to fight?” I asked.
“I won’t run away from it,” she said. “That’s what we train for.”
“The Orrkasi don’t fight fair,” I reminded her.
“I’ve seen the reports and videos of the battles, and we ran simulations at the academy. I didn’t join the navy to fight, but I will if I have to.”
She seemed determined, and suddenly so very young. At that moment, I felt like we were worlds apart. I wanted to get closer to her—not just physically, but also emotionally—even as I realized we were moving in different directions. She was ambitious and full of hope, whereas I was cynical and just trying to hold on to the little I had.
“Does it hurt?” she asked after a moment of silence.
We had moved to reclining seats that angled back and gave us a view through the observation bubble. Until that moment, I had forgotten all about the pain. Few things could heal the ache in my leg, the spasms in my back, or the sensation of burning in the scar tissue along my shoulder and up the left side of my face. Being with her, sipping good coffee and watching the galaxy slip by as we raced toward the Leonis system, I had experienced a moment of respite—one of very few afforded to me.
“Sometimes,” I lied. “But you get used to it. The hardest part is looking in the mirror.”
“What? That’s crazy,” she said. “Why?”
“It’s a very tangible and unavoidable reminder of how ugly I am.”
“Don’t say that,” she said softly. “You have scars, but they don’t make you ugly, Staff Sergeant.”
“Call me Van—everyone does,” I told her. “And you don’t have to say that. I wasn’t much to look at before...”
“Before Luyten C?” She leaned toward me. “Was it terrible?”
“I honestly don’t remember the details,” I said. “Just the fear.”
“You almost died.”
“Good people did die. When things fall apart in theater, it’s...”
I couldn’t speak past the lump that was back in my throat. She didn’t say anything, just sat beside me. I could feel her eyes on me, her deep gaze penetrating into my very soul. I had made sure to stay to her left so that she saw my right side, not the scarred parts of me; yet I felt like maybe she was seeing something even more scarred than my skin. It made me uncomfortable.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said, breaking the silence.
I felt a wave of relief. I hated to even think about the battle on Luyten C, and I certainly didn’t want to talk about it. Despite this, I knew that if Lieutenant Holly asked me, I would tell her everything—not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t want the illusion to end. Being around her made me feel as close to normal as I had in over a year.
“My father was a Marine. He never talked about combat,” she continued. “I didn’t even know he had fought until I learned what his ribbons meant when I started looking into the service as a teenager.”
“He didn’t want you in the corps?”
“Oh, hell no. He forbade me to join the Marines. The fleet or civilian life were my only two options. Honestly, I doubt he would have stuck to that if I’d really wanted to go into the Marines, but the navy seemed like a better fit. When I was accepted into Fleet Academy, it made for an easy decision.”
“Were you from Earth?” I asked.
“Yes. You?”
“Alaska,” I said with a touch of pride.
“Do you miss it?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “My family has a homestead there, and we did a lot of hard work, even through the dark winters.”
“I thought it was always winter in Alaska,” she teased.
“You’re not wrong. Even worse, for a month or so each year, the sun didn’t come up. It could be depressing, but it was good preparation for the corps.”
Her slate alarm sounded before she could ask another question. “I knew this would happen. Just when the conversation got interesting, too.”
“Glad to know I’m interesting,” I said.
“Of course you are,” she said. “Although I can’t tell if you’re really as self-deprecating as you seem.”
“What you see is what you get,” I told her as she stood up.
“I have to go, Van,” she said. I admit, it made my heart flutter when she said my name. “But I’ve enjoyed our conversation.”
“So have I,” I replied. “See you around, Lieutenant.”
“You can call me Jordan,” she said. “Are you walking?”
“I think I’ll finish my coffee. You were right, it’s good.”
“Best on the ship.”
I pretended to watch the vast reaches of space shooting past the windows. In fact, I didn’t want her to see me trying to crane my stiff neck. I was glad I had an excuse to stay in the reclining seat, too. It was comfortable, but I knew that getting out of it would be difficult and painful. I waited until I was sure she was gone before trying to wrestle my rebellious body out of the seat. The coffee cups had lids, and I managed not to spill what was left in mine. Finally back on my feet, I refilled from the coffee dispenser, then slowly made my way down to Bravo and retrieved my personal weapons to carry to the armory. There, I let Trix log them and stow them in a secure locker.
“You drew the short straw, eh?” I asked, alluding to the early morning hour.
“The dog watch isn’t so bad,” Trix replied wryly. “I read the entire manual on the LARs. I haven’t broken one down since basic…still haven’t quite got it, to be honest.”
“Well, we’ve got a couple of hours. I’ll show you how. We only have one hundred and twenty to go.”
“Yay!” she quipped, the faux sarcasm in her voice belying some honest enthusiasm.
She was in many ways the opposite of Jordan (I mentally savored her name): clearly content where she was, Trix had no grand plans, as I learned during our idle conversation while we worked. I broke down the rifles while she cleaned and oiled them, then we collaborated to put them back together again. There was something therapeutic about working with my hands, which had been spared amongst the damage incurred on Luyten C, and the familiar work with the LARs took no conscious thought.
When her shift ended, Trix was happy to go. Almost immediately after her departure, the armory computer dinged with an incoming message. I walked over and took a glance. Lieutenant Bass was spending the morning with Alpha squad in the simulator, while Bravo squad used the live ammunition range. They would swap places for the afternoon. That meant twenty-eight LARs and flechette sidearms needed to be ready to use. Trix and I had already prepped thirty, stowing them in the rack closest to the armory window. I retrieved batteries for the rifles and more for their reloads. Each Marine would get one LAR, six batteries, one Wesson pistol, and three clips filled with metal-tipped flechettes.
Everything was ready when the first Marines appeared, swaggering over to my window with an attitude. I remembered the feeling: being the best of the best, the most feared operators in the corps, gave a person a sense of ownership of their surroundings. I started scanning slates and issuing weapons to the Marines sporting their TAC battle armor, a lightweight shell with adaptive camouflage. Each took a rifle and clipped it to the harness that hung from their neck and around one shoulder. They slipped the batteries into the pouches on their belts after checking the power display to ensure the LAR wasn’t already loaded. The pistols went into thigh holsters, and the clips of ammunition slid into loops on the opposite hip.
