“I feel special.”
“Hell, they should let us give you a spare suit while you’re here. Just in case this one burns up, too.”
I chuckle without much humor. “If this suit burns up, I don’t think I’ll be needing a spare.”
On Sunday evening, I get onto a shuttle to Gateway Station, where my next command is docked right now. It’s obvious that a big operation is about to kick off—the shuttle is full to the last seat with passengers bound for orbit, and when I step out of the shuttle and onto the station an hour later, Gateway is as busy as I’ve ever seen it. The main concourse is crammed with throngs of uniformed personnel streaming in both directions. I can’t help but notice how green most of them are. I see lots of junior enlisted, privates and PFCs and corporals, and damn few sergeants or officers. This is the last batch of trainees we ran through the cycle just before Mars. I wonder how many former recruits from boot-camp platoon 1526 are somewhere in the crowd, rushing off to their assigned commands, nervous enough to throw up. Depending on their occupational specialties, many of them had just enough time to squeak through tech school in time to be part of this offensive.
It takes half an hour at a brisk jog to traverse Gateway’s main concourse from one end to the other when the station isn’t packed to the bulkheads. Overcrowded as the concourse is right now, it takes me over an hour of drifting with the crowds until I reach the part of the station where my new command is docked. It’s in the capital-ship section of Gateway, and the big screen next to the airlock displays the ship’s name and hull number, along with other information.
“NACS PHALANX CA-761,” it reads. “CO: COL YAMIN, S.”
I remember Phalanx. She’s one of the most advanced ships in the fleet, a heavy space control cruiser with enough firepower to take on an SRA task force by itself. She was also one of the ships the renegades stole and shuttled to the Leonidas system, to safeguard their little paradise with the best hardware the fleet had left. When the former NAC leadership on Arcadia surrendered, we reclaimed almost every ship from the stolen task force to pad our roster for the Mars assault. When we left the system, all they had left at their orbital anchorage was an older frigate for patrol duties. Phalanx and the rest of the renegade fleet rejoined the NAC forces in the solar system a week later. The ships are still mostly run by the renegade crews because we don’t have the manpower to replace all those well-trained specialists, but everybody who wasn’t part of the Exodus is keeping a close eye on everybody who was.
The airlock is guarded by two SI troopers, a private and a sergeant. The private looks like he just got out of SI training last week, but the sergeant seems to have been around the block a time or two. Her name tape says “BULL, S.,” and she wears a no-nonsense expression to go with the sidearm on her belt. The drop badge above her left breast pocket is stitched in silver thread—more than twenty drops, less than fifty. I dig out my PDP and show her my orders. She scans it and verifies the data on her own PDP.
“You’re looking for Delta Deck, sir,” she says. “Section Forty-Seven, Grunt Country. Have you been on a Hammerhead before?”
“A few times,” I say.
“We have the near-field network activated. Just follow your PDP’s directions.”
“Will do. Thank you, Sergeant.”
I step through the hatch, across the docking collar, and onto NACS Phalanx. My PDP’s haptic engine bumps my palm gently to direct me down the passageway ahead. Phalanx is as modern as Fleet ships come, and the ship’s nonslip passageway liner looks almost pristine, not worn down to the laminate deck like the ones on long-serving units. Everything looks like the ship just came out of the builder’s dock last year, and for all I know, that may be the case. It’s only when I get deeper into the ship, following my PDP’s directions down ladders and along fore-and-aft passageways, that I see some signs of prior battle damage, expertly but obviously patched holes and faint scorch marks on bulkheads and decks. I’ve seen such damage before, and I conclude that Phalanx has come too close to Lanky seed ships or proximity mines before.
Every major warship in the fleet has a Grunt Country, the berthing section reserved for the ship’s Spaceborne Infantry or SOCOM contingent. Frigates can carry a platoon; destroyers and light cruisers carry two. A Hammerhead space control cruiser is built for supporting planetary assaults, so it can carry a full company, and their Grunt Country makes up a fairly big chunk of real estate in the aft end of the ship. On Phalanx, it occupies two sections on either side of a passageway close to the main fore-and-aft “expressway” in this part of the hull. I consult my PDP for the location of the administrative section and step into the module where the command element is housed.
There’s no name tag on the hatch of my new commanding officer’s space, just a sign that says “CO SOCOM DET”—commanding officer, special operations command detachment. The hatch is halfway open, and I knock on the doorframe.
“Come in,” a familiar voice says.
I push the hatch open all the way and see Major Masoud, the man who led the mission to Arcadia a month and a half ago, the man who put a gun to the collective head of the old NAC leadership and won us the battle. He’s sitting behind his desk, typing on a data pad.
“Lieutenant Grayson, reporting as ordered, sir,” I say, and salute, the traditional gesture indicating a respect that I don’t really feel for the major since his stunt on Arcadia. I know he considered me and my troops expendable back then, and I have no reason to believe that his attitude has changed.
Major Masoud looks up from his data pad and nods. “Come in, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”
I do as ordered and sit down in the chair in front of Major Masoud’s desk. He’s wearing Fleet fatigues, with the sleeves rolled up so smoothly and tightly that I’d probably need a magnifying glass to spot any wrinkles.
“Welcome to SOCOM Task Force Red,” Major Masoud says. He smiles a wry little smile. “Incidentally, there are exactly as many letters in that name as there are members in it.”
I count the letters up in my head. “Seventeen,” I say.
Major Masoud nods. “And we’re lucky to even have that number.”
“So what are we doing, sir?” With a measly seventeen troops, I don’t add.
“The mission briefing will take place after the task force has assembled. But you will be performing in your main MOS for the assault, if that is your main concern. You’ll be our unit’s combat controller.”
“Copy that, sir. Anything else you can share before the official mission briefing?”
Major Masoud gives me a thin-lipped smile. “If I told you that I don’t know much more than you do, would you believe me?”
“No, sir,” I say. “Not after Leonidas.”