“Jump-off time is within the next twelve hours,” Major Masoud says when we’ve gone through all the briefing points thoroughly and nobody has any more questions or comments. “If the assault makes it to Phase Two, we will be fully committed, whether or not the rest of the task group moves on to Phase Three and beyond. If things go wrong once the pods are on the ground, there will be no return. But that should be nothing new to any of you.”
He looks at the assembled ragtag group of podheads, sixteen of us from three different alliances and four different services. Major Masoud has always looked hard and craggy, but it seems to me that he has aged a few years since I saw him last on Arcadia, a little less than two months ago. He reaches for his data pad and turns off the screen behind him.
“There will be no drills until we suit up,” he says. “Use the time at your discretion. It may be the last quiet time you get. Dismissed.”
The SI troopers and the Spaceborne Rescueman get up and leave the briefing room, talking among themselves as they walk out. After a few moments, Dmitry and his four SRA comrades follow suit, exchanging words in Russian that’s beyond my limited vocabulary. I get out of my seat and walk up to Major Masoud, who is shutting down the briefing console.
“Something on your mind, Lieutenant?” he asks when he turns and sees me standing in front of his little podium.
“Are you dropping with us, sir?”
“That’s a negative.” His expression looks almost pained for just a second. “I am the senior SOCOM officer in Task Force Red. Once you are all on the surface, I’ll be coordinating your efforts with those of the other teams from Phalanx’s CIC.”
“On Arcadia, you told me we’d see each other on Mars,” I say.
“Yes, I know. And I requested to drop with the team. But the general staff had other ideas. Trust me, Lieutenant, there’s nothing I’d rather do than to launch with the Phase Two pathfinders.”
“Is that so?”
“That is so, Lieutenant. And you know it’s true, because you’d make the same pick if you had a choice.” He powers down the console and picks up his data pad. “No podhead will choose to die in a CIC, looking at a holotable instead of side by side with his comrades on the ground. That’s a punishment, not a privilege. Whatever you may think of me, Lieutenant Grayson, I know that you don’t consider me a chickenshit console jockey.”
I have to grin despite the anger I still feel at Major Masoud over Arcadia. “No, sir. You’re a ruthless bastard, but you’re not a chickenshit console jockey.”
He looks at me with that unreadable, frosty expression of his, and I briefly wonder whether I’ll get to spend the time to launch in the brig for insubordination.
“I can live with that assessment,” he says. Then he nods toward the briefing room hatch. “Catch up with your team and enjoy what time we have left, Lieutenant. I hear that the Russians may have brought some liquid refreshments along. I also have it on good authority that nobody in this Fleet is going to enforce the dry-ship rules for the next few days. Dismissed,” he says again, in a tone that tells me I’ve used up my one free chit to speak my mind.
“Aye-aye, sir,” I say. Sometimes you just have to know when not to press your luck.
CHAPTER 11
PHASE ONE
“General quarters, general quarters. All hands, man your combat stations. Set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. This is not a drill.”
When the general-quarters alert sounds over the 1MC, I’m already in my underarmor ballistic liner, which I put on after getting out of my bunk in full anticipation of our imminent deployment. Now I step over to my gear locker and start the ritual of putting on my HEBA suit. The task is made a little more difficult this morning because I haven’t put on a bug suit in a hurry in almost two years, and because I have a pretty fierce hangover from the night before. The Russians brought their personal kit bags over from their carrier, but those bags weren’t filled with personal gear. Instead, they each brought half a dozen bottles of what they call “engineering vodka,” and the entire SOCOM detachment took the liberty to sample the stuff over the last few days of transit. At one point last night, Major Masoud stuck his head into the SOCOM compartment, but instead of chewing us out for drinking alcohol on a fleet ship in flagrant violation of the regs, he stepped in and had a liberally sized sample as well.
I don’t have a picture of Halley taped to my locker to touch before going into battle like a fighter pilot in some old Network show. I don’t even bother to get my PDP out to send her a message. She’s in Task Force Purple, too far away in this assembly area to get near-field comms, and she wouldn’t have time to read it because she’s probably gearing up for her own general-quarters alert right now. But I know she’s thinking of me right now, just as I am thinking of her, without any totems needed to remind us of each other.
I step out of my stateroom and walk over to the common area, where most of the SOCOM detachment are already assembled in their respective battle suits. It’s still strange to see the angular SRA hardshell with its mottled camo pattern mixed in with the Fleet and SRA camo patterns. For the last half decade, I only ever got to see people wearing that armor through the targeting optic of my rifle. Dmitry looks over at me and says something to the SRA troops next to him, and they chuckle.
“I know, I know,” I say when I’ve closed the gap. “Big imperialist insect.”
“No, no. Is fine armor. Makes you look like fierce, strong warrior. Very fearsome.”
“Just wait until we’re on the ground,” I say, resisting the temptation to demonstrate the polychromatic-camouflage feature right here in the berthing area. The bug suits used to be highly restricted—we weren’t even supposed to take them along on missions against SRA settlements so they couldn’t capture one and try to reverse engineer it—so Dmitry and his comrades have no idea what this superexpensive piece of butt-ugly attire can do on the battlefield.
Of the ten NAC personnel in the group, I’m the only one in a HEBA suit. The Spaceborne Rescue sergeant is wearing standard Fleet battle armor, and the two SI Force Recon teams are in their own branch’s hardshell. The Euro lieutenant sticks out almost as much as the SRA troops. His armor looks lighter and more flexible than either the SRA or NAC suits, and his helmet almost looks dainty next to the big, faceted things the SRA marines have tucked under their arms.
Behind us, the hatch to the berthing module opens, and Major Masoud steps into the room. He is wearing armor and carrying a helmet as well.
“Attention on deck!” I shout, and everyone snaps to.
Major Masoud nods curtly. “As you were,” he says. He looks over the small group of SOCOM specialists and Alliance personnel and smiles his thin-lipped smile. “I wish I had ten times as many troops for this. But I know you will do. Weapons issue and suit check at the armory at 0800. Then it’s off to Pod Country. If anyone needs to make final arrangements or send any last messages, now is the time.”