Crimson Worlds Collection I Read online

  “Two minutes until touchdown. Power-up weapons systems.” I clicked the levers under my right middle and forefingers. There was a series of loud clicks as the autoloader fed five grenades from the magazine on my back into the launcher on my left arm. My AI could have done that for me, but I felt better feeling the switches under my fingers.

  “Squad two, weapons check. Report status.” The voice on the comlink had changed. It was Sergeant Harris, our squad leader. One by one the members of the squad sounded off. “Jenkins operational. Kleiner operational….”

  I glanced up at the status monitor. The two green weapons control lights indicated that my battle computer had successfully completed a full diagnostic test of armaments. My grenade launcher and auto-rifle were loaded, charged, and ready. As the only raw member of the squad I had not been outfitted with any other weapons, though my armor could have carried and powered at least two additional systems.

  “Thompson operational.” The rest of the squad had sounded off; it was my turn. My throat had gone dry, but I managed to croak out the required report. “Cain operational.”

  The second squad was ready. Although I couldn’t hear it on my comlink, I knew the squad leader was reporting this status to the lieutenant over the command circuit. Weapons power-up was our last procedure prior to landing. I couldn’t speak for the other three squads or the command group but our two fire teams were ready.

  The lieutenant’s voice came over the comlink again. “Touchdown in one minute. Squad leaders initiate tactical plan upon landing. Good luck, marines!”

  Even from my closed in position I could see the ground now. We were landing in an area of rugged, sparsely wooded hills, about 10 km west of the nearest settlement. We were to establish contact with and rally the local militia units believed to be dug-in up in these hills. Once we linked up with the locals, we were to evaluate the situation, and if command gave the go-ahead, drive toward the built-up areas. The assault was to be coordinated with the attacks of the rest of company A, who would be moving in our direction from their landing points along an arc stretching 20 km northeast of our position. Company B and the heavy weapon section would move toward us from 50 km south. If all went according to plan, the CAC troops would be caught between us and penned in. If the plan went awry Company C was still in reserve, buttoned up on their ship and ready to launch.

  I was slammed against the front of my armor as the lander’s braking thrusters fired causing us to decelerate rapidly as we neared the ground. The forward pressure ended abruptly as we came to a virtual stop 30 meters up. The landing jets mounted on the underside of the assault ship activated and eased us slowly down. We hit ground with a gentle thud. There was a metallic scraping sound as the locking bolt retracted, releasing me from the lander.

  “Fire team B, disembark. Come on, let’s move it!” The gravelly voice on the comlink belonged to Corporal Gessler, my immediate superior. Gessler commanded fire team B, my half of the squad, consisting of the five occupants of this particular lander.

  I scrambled out of the harness and onto the rough, rocky ground. The dirt of Carson's World was a reddish gravel, a sign of extremely high mineral content, particularly iron. There were some tufts of bristly weeds, but most of the ground was bare dirt.

  I glanced up at the tactical display and confirmed that there were no enemy contacts within 2 km. An experienced marine would have done this before disembarking, but I was lucky this time – the LZ was well outside of the enemy’s defensive perimeter, and our landing was unopposed.

  I was still scared out of my mind, but I managed to remember what I was supposed to do. The entire squad was forming a skirmish line at 100 meter intervals and heading northeast toward the last reported location of militia activity. If they had landed in the right spot (and if I’d thought to check out the status monitor I could have confirmed that they had) the 1st squad would be deploying to extend this line to the northwest of our position. The 3rd squad was to deploy in reserve about a klick behind our line.

  I headed out toward my designated position at a slow trot. The rest of the squad was doing the same except for Kleiner, who was retrieving the squad heavy weapon from the Gordon’s cargo hatch. She was just strapping the massive M-411 rocket launcher over her shoulder as I trotted by. An unarmored person couldn’t even have lifted the 300 kg weapon, but it was no trouble at all for an armored marine.

  The lander itself was in pretty rough shape. It was a disposable vehicle designed for a one-way trip to the surface. The heat shield was three-quarters gone, and the remaining portion was pitted and blackened. The frame, though bent and twisted in a few spots, was essentially intact. Although they appeared to be in decent condition, I knew from training that the Gordon’s thrusters pretty much burned themselves out during the landing. The ship would stay here, with its upper point defense laser remaining operational and providing the immediate area with some protection against missile attack.

  If all went well we would never see the lander again, but if the mission went seriously awry, the Gordon, with its anti-missile defense and emergency ammunition and supplies, was our designated rally point. Of course if the rally command came it would probably mean a lot of us were already dead.

  I continued toward my assigned position at the trot, and I could see Will Thompson jogging off to my right. My position was second to last in line with Will positioned on the right flank of the squad. His blackened armor was speckled with a few remaining chunks of partially charred, heat-resistant foam. For all its equipment and capabilities, the Model 7 fighting suit was remarkably trim. The wearer looked like a slightly bulkier version of a medieval knight.

  I glanced up at the mission clock – it read 00:21:05. To avoid any confusion, all aspects of an assault were scheduled according to mission time, measured from the moment the first lander launched. This avoided any confusion, since ships were run on Earth Greenwich standard time, and every planet had its own timekeeping system. Mission time was consistent for all troops in an operation, whether a single platoon or an entire army.

  I glanced up at the area display. I was about half a klick from my assigned position, jogging slowly. I was almost a minute ahead of schedule. I forgot the amplification factor of the power armor, and my slow jog was moving me at about 40 kph as I bounced along. It had just occurred to me that I should keep lower when Corporal Gessler’s voice barked over the comlink. “Cain, get your god-damned head down before you get it blown off!”

  “Yessir!” I hoped I sounded confident, but I was pretty sure my voice cracked a little. I slowed my gait and concentrated on keeping low. Actually, there were no enemies showing on my display, but if there’s one thing they tried to beat into us in training, it was that carelessness gets marines killed. I was ahead of schedule and there was no reason for me to rush, not when those big, exaggerated strides bounded me high enough to be a perfect target for any enemy within 1,000 meters.

  I had drawn a pretty good mission for a first assault. Because we were trying to contact and rally the locals, we landed much further from the enemy than we would in typical assault. That gave us plenty of time to form up before we were likely to see any action. And because we were attacking an enemy who had recently seized the planet themselves, we didn't have to face entrenched defenses. At least nothing serious.

  I reached my assigned position, approximately 2 kilometers northeast of the landing point about 45 seconds ahead of schedule. I took a quick look down the line, and it looked like most of the squad had reached the assembly point. The terrain was fairly rugged but relatively open for most of the way. Ahead of us the ground was rocky with scattered patches of the yellow-green fungus that seemed to be Carson’s World’s equivalent of grass. Our intel had advised that there was a militia group positioned somewhere in the area ahead and we were here to establish contact.

  “Second squad, slow advance. Crank up to magnification level three. Report any signs of militia presence.” It was Sergeant Harris, the squad leader, on the comlin
k.

  A slow advance was a very moderate pace, about 5 kph. I headed northeast, taking care to move very cautiously. I depressed my right thumb three times, activating my visual magnification system and toggling it up to level three. My vision was now sharpened and enhanced. Level three is just enough to double the range at which you can pick out a man-sized object. In theory the price for amplification was a loss of detail, but the suit's computer worked constantly to sharpen the images, so usually you couldn't detect any change in focus at less than mag 10.

  As we advanced, we moved into an area with scattered stands of scrubby, grayish brown trees. There were tangled clusters of the thorny weeds around them. After about fifteen minutes of moving through the sparse woodlands, we came upon a section that was burned out. The ground was blackened, and the few remaining trees were charred and splintered. It was obvious that there had been some pretty heavy fighting here, and I knew I needed to report this to Corporal Gessler and the squad leader. I was still processing all of this when Will Thompson beat me to it.

  “Thompson reporting. Signs of some kind of action at coordinates 45.05 by 11. The area’s all burned out….looks like there was some pretty heavy fire here, some kind of incendiary strike, maybe. Scanning…stand by for results.” There was a brief pause before he continued. “Temperature normal, spectral analysis negative…looks like whatever happened here was at least a day ago.”

  Will’s report had been broadcast over the squad frequency, so the entire unit was aware of the situation. Nevertheless, after a brief pause (during which he’d probably reported to the lieutenant), Sergeant Harris addressed the squad. “Alright second squad, we know there was some kind of fight over near our right flank. Keep your eyes open and report any contact immediately.”

  Over the next 20 minutes there were no additional contacts in our sector, but there were three other burned out areas in the first squad’s zone. It appeared that the enemy had been conducting search and destroy ops in this area, trying to hunt down the locals who were operating out of these hills. There was no sign of casualties at any of the sites.

  I was just thinking that the CAC troopers didn’t seem to be doing too well when I crested a small hill and saw what looked like six or eight bodies in the center of a blackened section of grasslands at the extreme edge of my visibility.

  This time I didn’t hesitate. “Cain reporting. I see some bodies up ahead.” My voice was shrill with excitement. I could feel the droplets of sweat running down the back of my neck.

  The sergeant snapped back quickly. “OK, Cain. Get a grip, and give me a full report. Now!”

  I swallowed hard and said, “Estimate six to eight bodies, range 1000 meters. Area burned out. No energy readings, no enemy contacts.” After a second I added, “Should I move up and check it out, sarge?”

  This was our most important sighting so far, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the sergeant had told Will to check it out. But that’s not the way the Corps works. I may be the new guy, and this may be my first assault mission, but I was a marine and I was expected to be able to perform as one. As far as my field commander was concerned I wouldn’t have been assigned to an assault unit unless my instructors, combat veterans all, considered me ready.

  “Squad, halt. Cain, move forward and reconnoiter the area. Thompson, move in and provide cover.”

  I started forward slowly, checking my display for any signs of artificial energy output that could indicate a hidden enemy. Negative. No power output. I glanced over and could see Will moving in on my right. He maintained a distance of about 40 meters, to the right of and slightly behind my position.

  Temperature readings were all normal as I approached the bodies. Whatever had happened here, it had been at least a day ago. The area had clearly been subjected to some type of incendiary or high explosive fire – the grass was completely burnt and a small stand of trees nearby had been blown into matchsticks. I reported as I advanced, doing my best to sound calm despite the fact that I was so nervous I could hardly take a breath.

  The bodies were clustered on a small rise. There were seven of them in total, three wearing the uniform of the planetary militia, the others in civilian miner’s dress. All of them were clad in heavy protective vests and metal helmets. Their faces wore horrid expressions, their features twisted in agonizing contortions. Their mouths and nostrils were caked with dried blood.

  As my mind reached its conclusion, a warning light on my tactical display confirmed my deduction. Gas. “Cain reporting…seven bodies total. They appear to be victims of a gas attack. My sensors confirm the presence of….” I looked up at the tactical display for the answer. "...trace quantities of Kirax-3 nerve gas. Current concentration .032 parts per million…within the danger zone but below immediately lethal levels.”

  So they were using gas to hunt down the locals. The militia’s little guerilla war must have been doing some pretty serious damage for the CAC forces to resort to these tactics. Nerve gas is a nasty weapon, usually used against second line troops lacking effective counter-measures, and then in only the most desperate situations. By custom, those who employ gas can expect no quarter if the battle turns against them. Why would they take such steps in a fight over a relatively unimportant hunk of ground like Carson’s World? I would get an answer to that question, but not until years later.

  There were several moments of silence – the squad leader conferring with higher authority, no doubt – then the comlink crackled. “Alright second squad, continue advance. Full chemical warfare procedures in effect.”

  That last command didn’t really change anything. We still had our suits fully sealed, although the atmosphere of Carson’s World was well within the acceptable range. Normal operating procedures would have called for us to switch to filtered external air after twelve hours, leaving a full day of atmospheric capacity in reserve. Standard chemical warfare procedures dictated that we would remain on our internal air supply/regeneration capacity until we were down to a four hour reserve. As with many of our procedures, there was a certain element of overkill. The atmospheric purification systems in our suits were perfectly capable of filtering out most known bacteriological and chemical agents, including Kirax-3 nerve gas. Still, better to be overly cautious than to see a whole company wiped out by some new or unexpected weapon.

  It took us ninety minutes to cover the next two klicks. There were still no enemy contacts, but further up the line they found two more groups of bodies. The first was had four corpses, definitely gas victims.

  The second group consisted of eleven bodies, but these were spread out over a much wider area. They were all wearing protective breathing gear and had been killed by rifle and grenade fire. Though we found no enemy bodies in the area, there were enough bits and pieces of CAC armor lying around for us to conclude that the enemy had in fact suffered casualties in this firefight.

  A full analysis indicated that this action had occurred within the past eighteen hours. From the look of the tracks leaving the location, the enemy had withdrawn back toward the settled area. Whether they had been repulsed or had simply completed their mission and retired was unclear.

  We continued our advance, but about fifteen minutes after leaving the site of the last skirmish, we were ordered to halt. The first squad had made contact with the locals.

  The militia had been advised of the basic tactical plan through scrambled pulse communications from Fleet, but they were not provided with specific schedules or locations for fear that the enemy would intercept the transmission. Their instructions were to be ready for action on short notice, and apparently they had listened.

  We held our position for almost an hour, and if there is one thing I learned quickly in the corps, nothing makes a sergeant crazier than watching his men relax with nothing to do. Fortunately, Sergeant Harris managed to come up with lots of ways for us to use the down time. We checked and re-checked our weapons, ran a system diagnostic on our armor and did a full analysis of the surrounding area – atm
osphere, energy readings, chemical residue.

  Finally the orders came. Our squad was to advance due east toward the settlement of Warrenville and take the position. Our attack would be supported by one fire team of the third squad. Warrenville was the smallest of the dozen or so towns that made up the entirety of the inhabited area of Carson’s World.

  According to the locals, the town was lightly garrisoned and we could expect minimal resistance. Most of the guerilla activity had been to the north and the enemy had deployed its strongest forces to that sector.

  Our attack was essentially a diversion. We were to go in first, take the objective, and hold it against any counterattack (It was the “any” part that worried me the most). After the enemy had moved troops south to deal with us, the rest of our platoon would link up with the first platoon and a large group of militia for the main attack against the northern defenses. The third platoon was to cover the eastern and southern perimeter to intercept the enemy retreat.

  We covered the first eight klicks in about two hours. The sergeant halted us just short of a small rise and sent Wilson, the platoon's scout, to report on visibility from the top of the rise. I watched him scramble up the gentle slope and crouch down just below the crest. His recon armor had a different look to it...sleeker, lighter.

  “Wilson reporting. Good visibility to target, estimate distance to nearest structure 1,800 meters. Twenty to twenty-five buildings, look like modular plasti-steel structures. The terrain’s completely open between here and the town, no cover at all. Looks like there’s some kind of trench dug along the perimeter. No enemy sightings.”

  No cover. Shit. That meant we’d be advancing almost two kilometers over open ground, probably under enemy fire.

  “Alright marines, form up at 30 meter intervals behind the crest. We’re gonna advance leapfrog fashion – first even numbers, then odd. Fifty meter intervals, grab some dirt between moves. Stationary troops, I want heavy covering fire. Assault to commence in 90 seconds.”