Issue In Doubt

CHAPTER Eleven

Combat Action Center, NAUS Durango, in orbit around Troy



Mini Mouse’s rotation had moved the likely launch sites identified by fleet CAC from opposite Troy to halfway to its limb. Troy had likewise rotated but, with a longer rotation period, not as far around its axis. The Durango moved far enough to fire on the moon that was still out of sight beyond the edge of Troy, while staying where she could give the Marines on the ground fire support should they need it.

Lieutenant Thomas Hudner and his crew in the Durango’s CAC watched over their computers while they calculated firing solutions for the ship’s weapons to hit the probable locations of the alien launch sites. It would be nearly impossible for ballistic weapons to make the strikes, but simple for the Durango’s—once it was in position. Right now, it was covering the Marines planetside.

“Got it!” Senior Chief Petty Officer Francis Edward Ormsbee exclaimed.

“Show me, Francis Edward,” Hudner said, stepping to the man everybody from petty officer first class on up called “Francis Edward.”

“Ya see, Mr. T—” Ormsbee called everybody except Captain Huse and the admiral whatever he wanted to. “—we got the jarheads covered right there,” he pointed at a group of lines on the schematic he’d just put together, “an’ the mizzuls came from there. We can hit ’em from where we are.” He looked at his division commander. “Don’cha think ya oughtta tell the skipper?”

“Well now, Francis Edward, I think that might be a good idea. A very good idea indeed.”

Hudner notified Captain Huse, who in turn informed Admiral Avery, and two minutes later, the Durango fired a barrage of missiles programmed to loop around the side of the side of the planet and then swing past the limb of Mini Mouse, to impact at four locations on the moon’s far side.

Four AV16(E) Kestrels followed behind to get visual confirmation of the strikes.



VSFA 132, “Piranha” squadron off NAUS Scott, En Route from Parking Orbit to Target



“Nibblers, Nibblers, all Nibblers, this is Big Teeth. Answer up,” Lieutenant Commander Georgia Street said into her squadron circuit. “Verify that you have your strike coordinates and path programmed into your comps.”

She watched as her board lit up with replies. All four of the squadron’s four fighter-attack craft divisions were properly aligned to bombard their assigned targets, each division coming in from a different direction. Scatter-Blast cluster bombs fired by sixteen craft from two thousand meters altitude. The divisions would loose their loads at ten-second intervals. The Blasters were set to go off one hundred meters above the surface, scattering their munitions over a ten-by-ten-kilometer area, shredding the camouflage coverings to confetti, churning the regolith all the way to the bedrock like a brutally plowed field. If anything was still under the camouflage, it would be obliterated. As soon as their bombs dropped, the AV16C Kestrels’ flight paths called for them to shoot into a vertical arabesques, designed to allow them to avoid both each other and the debris blasting up from the surface with margins of safety.

“We aren’t going to have much time on our approach,” Street continued in a pep-talk tone, “but Piranha squadron is the best in the Navy, and that means nobody can do this job better. So let’s get this thing done!”

Not much time indeed. They were speeding around Mini Mouse at close to Mach 4—not that “Mach” meant much of anything in the moon’s almost non-existent atmosphere, but it was a convenient term to use to measure velocity—at two thousand meters altitude. When the target came in sight they’d have sixty-three seconds to the fire-and-climb point; sixty-three seconds to lock onto the target and blast it. Nobody, of course, knew what—if any—defenses the launch sites had. But those defenses, if they existed, would have very little time to realize they were under attack, aim, and fire. Unless they had an early warning system, in which case they’d be ready before the Piranhas crossed the visual horizon. If they had an early warning system, Piranha squadron would have to go to Plan B—and would surely have losses.

Mini Mouse had begun life as a dwarf planet, captured by Troy during the system’s early childhood. As such it had an iron core, unlike Dumbo, Troy’s other moon, that had been torn from the planet’s crust during system formation. Even though it was smaller than Earth’s moon, the iron core gave Mini Mouse a slightly higher gravity, about .2 G. The gravity aided the Scott’s squadrons in approaching their targets from below the horizon. Despite possible problems, the approach looked like it was going to be a milk run.

Then the first division was visible over the target’s horizon.



VSFA 132, “Piranha” Squadron, Approaching Target



Defensive weapons, similar to the Beanbags used by the NAUS for missile defense, began throwing up a wall of tiny pellets for the Kestrels to run into. But by the time they did, the range-to-target was so short, and the Kestrels’ velocities so great, that the munitions didn’t have enough time to fully deploy before the attacking craft were past them. Other weapons opened up, rapidly firing off slugs that could pulverize a fighter if one ran into enough of them. Again, the first division was too close, and the slugs missed, allowing all four Kestrels to fire their munitions, some of which knocked out some of the defensive weapons.

But the other three divisions were ten, twenty, and thirty seconds behind, and the surviving alien defenses were now alerted.

“Big Mouth, Piranha Seven, something hit me!” That was Ensign Charles H. Hammann, the third pilot in the second division.

Street’s display showed Hammann’s fighter craft climbing, but flashing red in a sequence that told her that it was not only damaged but out of its carefully calculated arabesque as well.

Another icon began flashing red and stopped moving. It was Piranha 14, piloted by third division’s Ensign Daniel Sullivan. It was down, and Street wasn’t receiving vitals—that indicated that Sullivan was likely dead.

Two icons from division four turned red, but Street didn’t bother checking to see who they were, she was too busy doing a damage assessment of the target.

The defensive weapons had ceased fire. Street had no way of knowing whether that was because they were all destroyed, because they were out of munitions, or because the weapons couldn’t fire that close to vertical. As seen in the view from her tail camera, even with the clouds of debris from division four’s Scatter Blasts still expanding, the target area looked like it was thoroughly chewed up. There was no satellite image to check against.

It didn’t matter either way; VSFA 132 didn’t have any Scatter-Blasts for a second run.

“Nibblers, Nibblers, all Nibblers, this is Big Teeth,” Street said into her squadron circuit. “We’ve done all we can for now. Let’s head for home.” She cleared her throat before adding, “Downed Nibblers, hang in there. Rescue will be on its way as soon as possible. Maybe they’re on their way even now. I’ve noted and sent in your positions, so SAR will be able to head for your location even before they have a lock on you. Big Teeth out.”

She checked Piranha Seven’s icon. It still displayed a wobbly path, but the Kestrel was still rising, and was keeping up with the rest of the squadron. Her squadron still had three Kestrels down and out of communication; she didn’t know if the pilots were alive and well—except for Piranha Seven, whose lack of vitals indicated he was dead—or if they were in imminent danger of being captured.



Command Center, 1st Marine Combat Force, Outside Millerton



“Admiral,” Lieutenant General Harold Bauer said to the image on his comm once Avery had described the situation and said what he wanted from the Marines, “you get your SAR craft to me and I’ll give you the security you need.”

“Your assistance is greatly appreciated, General.” Rear Admiral Avery’s reply came seconds later. He was in his CAC on board the Durango in orbit. “Just remember, the SAR Pegasus craft can’t carry a large force.”

“I’m well aware of the space limitations of the Pegasus. One squad should be more than adequate for each mission, and won’t overly tax the crafts’ systems.”

“Give me the coordinates of the platoon you’re assigning to the mission, I’ll have the Pegasuses land at its location.”

Bauer shook his head. “I’m not assigning one platoon to the mission, but one squad from each regiment.

Avery arched an eyebrow at that. “Are you trying to prevent one platoon from absorbing too many casualties?”

“I’d rather say I’m spreading the experience throughout my division.” Bauer even almost believed what he said.



India Company, Fifteen Kilometers East of Millerton



Third Battalion had stopped on a rough line some distance east of Millerton, in an area that on Earth would be called a scrub forest; widely spaced trees that looked stunted, and thin undergrowth. The plain was scoured flat except for the boulders, some sitting higher than a human, some small enough for someone unobservant to trip over, and every size in between, that dotted the plain. The extensive boulder field gave clear evidence that Troy had suffered through at least one ice age; the boulders looked like they’d been carried here by ice sheets from distant locations and dropped in place when the glaciers withdrew. The Marines settled behind boulders and thicker tree trunks. None of them bothered to dig a fighting hole, or even scrape a shallow hollow to lie in. They waited for word of what to do next. When it came, it wasn’t anything they expected.

“First squad, on me,” Staff Sergeant Guillen shouted.

Lance Corporal Mackie looked around from his position on the platoon’s defensive line and saw the platoon sergeant standing erect about twenty meters behind the position. He gave a quick glance to his front, then at Adriance, who was already rising to his feet.

“Move it, people!” Sergeant Martin shouted.

“First fire team, up and at ’em,”Corporal Adriance ordered.

Mackie stood and reached for his pack.

“Weapons only, leave your packs in place,” Guillen shouted. “Get over here now!”

In less than a minute, the thirteen Marines of the squad were gathered in a semi-circle in front of the platoon sergeant. Second Lieutenant Commiskey joined him.

“By now you’ve probably heard about the missile strike on ARG17. They came from launch sites on Mini Mouse.” Commiskey paused for a few seconds while some of the Marines snickered at the small moon’s name. “The carrier Scott launched four squadrons to kill those launch sites before they could fire more missiles. The sites had defensive systems, and knocked down some of the Kestrels.

“There are Navy pilots on the surface of Mini Mouse. Some of them might still be alive. At the request of Rear Admiral Avery, Lieutenant General Bauer has tasked the 1st Marines with providing a squad as security for one of the Navy search and rescue teams going in to retrieve the downed pilots. You’re the squad.”

Mackie blinked at “retrieve.” You rescue live people, but you retrieve corpses.

He must not have been the only one who reacted to the word, because Commiskey quickly added, “‘Retrieve’ is the word the Admiral used. But as far as anybody knows, most—maybe all—of the downed pilots are still alive. Four squadrons attacked the launch sites, all four had losses. One squad from each regiment and one from the division recon company will go with the SAR craft on the rescue mission. Third platoon has been chosen as the 1st Marines’ SAR team. We don’t know what kind of ground defenses the enemy has for the sites, so we’ll essentially be going in blind. For this mission, we’ll be in armored vacuum suits.”

He paused for a moment before saying, “Remember, that even though armored vacuum suits give protection from all small arms in the NAUS arsenal, fragments from conventional explosive munitions, and limited protection from both stellar radiation and weapon radiation, they aren’t impervious to everything. We don’t know what kind of weapons the enemy will throw at us, or if they even have defenses against ground forces. Mini Mouse has an atmosphere so thin it’s virtually a hard vacuum. So whatever else you do, don’t let your suit get punctured.

“That is all. Staff Sergeant Guillen will take over now. Staff Sergeant, the platoon is yours.”

“Yes, sir.” Guillen briefly came to attention, but didn’t salute. They were in presumably hostile territory. A salute could attract sniper fire if any enemy were in the area, so Marines didn’t salute in the field.

Guillen watched Commiskey head toward the jumble of boulders where Captain Sitter had established the company headquarters, then turned to the men.

“When I dismiss you, return to your positions and resume your watch. When the word comes down, I’ll take the squad leaders to get the armored vacuum suits from supply. Any questions? Yes, Zion.”

“Ah, Staff Sergeant, when we go, is anybody going to relieve us here?” PFC Zion gave a nervous look over his shoulder at the ground the platoon hadn’t secured.

Guillen curled his lip before answering. “Zion, that’s above your pay grade to worry about. But, yes, somebody will relieve us in this position. Don’t ask who. ‘Who’ is above my pay grade.”

He looked from Marine to Marine with an expression that asked, Does anybody else have a dumb question? but nobody else seemed anxious to ask anything. “If there are no other questions, Sergeant Martin, get your people back in position and wait for further orders. Dismissed.”

Leaning close as they started back toward their positions, Adriance murmured, “Stand by for a head smack, Zion.”

“In stereo,” Mackie added from Zion’s other side.

“What’d I do?” Zion demanded indignantly.

“That’s two,” said PFC Orndoff.

“Two what? And how come you’re all ganging up on me?”

“Dumb questions, peon,” Adriance said. “And that makes three. Keep it up, and I’ll have to let Orndoff give you a head smack, too, because head-smacking you will be more than a two-man job.”

Then they were back at their position. Adriance sat with his back against a tree trunk. Mackie stayed on his feet, leaning over a chest high boulder. Orndoff climbed a tree, and Zion went prone next to a waist high boulder. They appeared relaxed and casual—to anyone who could make them out in their camouflage utilities—but appearances were deceptive. Their eyes were in constant motion, alertly searching the landscape to their front, checking their sides. Every few minutes Adriance slid his infrared viewer into place before his eyes to search for warm bodies that might not be noticed in visual light. And Mackie frequently checked the fire team’s motion detector, looking for movement that wasn’t vegetation shifting in the moving air—and was bigger than a mid-sized dog.

So situated, they quietly, alertly, waited for an hour. Then the word came: “Chow down. We go in thirty.”



En Route to Mini Mouse



A Navy chief petty officer met the Marines when the McKinzie elevator reached geosync; a squad from the 6th Marines, one from the 7th, and another from 1st Recon filled out the rescue security teams. The CPO was slender, dressed in greasy khakis, and had a headset perched behind his ears. Something that looked suspiciously like a half-smoked cigar but couldn’t possibly be—it couldn’t really be a cigar, could it?—stuck out of the corner of his mouth.

“Ah right, ever’body here?” he drawled. The question must have been rhetorical because he didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Chief Petty Officer Othniel Tripp, and I’m in charge of this here boardin’ station. Squadron VSFA 132 lost four fighter craft on their bombing run on one of the alien launch sites. We’ve got four Pegasus birds—that’s what we call our search an’ rescue birds, Pegasuses, after the flyin’ horses in the Grik stories—going in after ’em. Youse going along to protect the crews in case the aliens have infantry there what needs to be fought off. Our Pegasus crews are better’n anybody else’s at searchin’ and rescuin’, but they ain’t so great at rifle fightin’. That’s why you’re going along. I got four birds out here, you got four squads. That works out jes perfect, one squad one bird. That’s a lot better’n four squads an’ one bird. You’re gonna be pretty cramped as is in them suits youse wearin’.”

The Marines were very bulky in the armored vacuum suits that had been waiting for them at the foot of McKinzie —it turned out that they hadn’t been delivered to India Company’s supply sergeant. The armor’s weight—armor, no matter how light, is always heavy—was offset by servos in the main joints that not only allowed the Marines to move as easily as they would unarmored, but added to their strength.

“When your bird lands, the flight commander will tell you if he wants you outside or to stay in. If he tells you outside, be ready to fight right off. Now, you outta know, the flight commander is an officer, the pilot is a first class, the crew chief is a third class, and the—.”

Tripp suddenly looked away from the Marines, pulled his headset’s earpieces forward and rotated the mike to his mouth. He listened for a moment, murmured a reply, then looked back up.

“Ah right, who’s first? Pegasus One is docked and waiting for you.” His drawl disappeared and he became all business. He stepped to the airlock’s hatch, which was closed.

“First Marines, that’s you. Come with me.” Chief Tripp led them to the entrance to the docking chute.

“Line up by fire teams,” Sergeant Martin ordered his squad, and took a position on the other side of the airlock from the chief.

Corporal Adriance stood between them facing the hatch. Lance Corporal Mackie took position behind him, and glanced back to make sure PFCs Orndoff and Zion were in place.

“We’re ready, Chief,” Martin told Tripp as soon as the squad was in line.

Tripp tapped a three touch code on the hatch’s lock, and it slid aside. “Go!” he barked. Adriance stepped forward, and the rest of the squad followed. Martin brought up the rear.

Inside the Pegasus a crewman, anonymous in a vacuum suit with a reflective faceplate, directed the Marines to narrow benches along the sides of the cabin.

“No space between you,” he said. “We’re so tight some of you might have to sit on the deck. Close it up and keep it close!”

Mackie reflexively shook his head when he saw the interior of the cabin. It looked barely big enough to hold an armored vacuum suited fire team, much less an entire squad. “Are we really going to be sitting on each other’s laps?” he asked nobody in particular, then when nobody answered: “That’s what I thought.”

The Marines jammed themselves in. Six squeezed onto the bench along each side. They weren’t able to sit straight with their backs against the bulkhead, but twisted their torsos so they overlapped, one man’s shoulder in front of the next one’s. There was little space between their knees and the knees of the Marines on the opposite side. Martin and Private Frank Hill, the squad’s newest and most junior man, managed to find space on the floor amid the feet and knees.

“Hold on, we’re about to move,” the anonymous crewman alerted them from his station, which was out of sight from the main cabin. “Hold on tight so you don’t get banged around.”

“Hold onto what?” Orndoff muttered over the fire team circuit.

“Your ass, that’s what,” Mackie answered.

Adriance snorted, then ordered, “Shitcan the grabass, people. This is serious.”

But Orndoff was right; there wasn’t anything to grab hold of.

The search and rescue craft lurched, separating from the elevator airlock, throwing the Marines against each other. But they were already tight enough that nobody built enough momentum to injure himself or the Marine he bumped into. Slow acceleration eased Pegasus One away from the geosync station. There were no ports to look through, no display panels to show what was outside; no way to tell where they were, what direction they were headed, how fast they were going, how much time was passing. All the Marines could do was wait, with greater or lesser degrees of patience.

After an indeterminate length of time the anonymous crewman announced from his unseen station, “Halfway there.”

Wherever there was, and however far halfway might be.

Eventually a different voice came to the Marines. “We’re going down,” the voice—the flight commander?—said. “When we hit, the rear hatch will drop, and I need you to get out there instantly. It looks like bad guys are closing on Piranha 14’s position.”

When the voice—the pilot? the SAR commander?—didn’t say anything more, Sergeant Martin demanded, “How many of them are there? What direction are they coming from? Do they have armor or are they on foot or what? Come on, man, we need more data or we’re stepping into an ambush!”

“No time!” the voice said. “We’re down.” There was a jolt of impact as the Pegasus hit the ground. The hatch in the compartment’s rear dropped and became a ramp.

The major joints of the armored vacuum suits had servo motors, made necessary by the mass of the suits. The Marines had been sitting in cramped positions without being able to move. Third platoon’s first squad looked clumsy scrambling down the ramp, but without the servos, they couldn’t have even stood to shamble off until full circulation returned to their limbs.

“Where are they?” Sergeant Martin demanded as he looked around in attempt to find the foe.

“I’m sending you our feed now,” the unidentified voice said.

Martin put it on his HUD for a quick study, and swore. He began shouting orders.