First Strike by Christopher Nuttall Page A

came from the heart. Cindy would understand, he told himself firmly; her father, too, had been forced to put his duty ahead of his heart while he’d been in the service too. The thought that she might find someone else while he was gone… if he hadn't been sure of her, he wouldn't have asked her to marry him.
    He sent the message, uploading it into the base’s communications network. In lockdown, every message would be reviewed by senior staff before being transmitted to the recipient, ensuring that he couldn't say anything that might breach security. He still remembered the Marine who had been given an icy dressing down by his CO for recording himself masturbating for his girlfriend. The poor bastards’ mates still called him by the nickname ‘Wanker’.
    The last few days had been a hassle, ever since the platoon had arrived in the forward base on Luna. Everything had had to be checked, from armored combat suits to assault rifles, personal equipment and survival gear. The senior staff were insistent that everything had to be perfect, even though it was only an exercise. Some of the younger Marines had wondered out loud why they were being such assholes over each and every little detail. It was their job, Conrad had pointed out at the time, but part of him wondered if something was going on that the brass hadn't bothered to tell them about. Perhaps the Hegemony had decided to move in on Clarke or one of the other colonies and the Federation planned, this time, to resist.
    He took one last glance at the photograph of Cindy he’d hidden in his uniform and strode out of the room, leaving it vacant for the next Marine. The corridors were jam-packed with Marines carrying supplies and equipment from the storage dumps to their barracks. Sergeants were bellowing orders, trying to keep the entire brigade moving towards its eventual destination. There was order to the chaos, even though a civilian would have seen nothing more than a group of muscular men carrying junk around the base. Conrad evaded a pair of Marines carrying a heavy plasma cannon and walked into the barracks used by his unit, 3 Company, 2 Battalion. The younger Bootnecks were frantically preparing for the deployment while the older and more experienced men were taking it all in their stride. Some of them had finished preparing their bags and were taking the opportunity to catch up on their sleep. Conrad cleared his throat loudly and they snapped awake.
    “We are to board the shuttle to the assault carrier at 1300 precisely,” Conrad informed his men. The Federation Marines were less formal than most military services, but discipline didn't suffer. Every Marine had been in a highly-trained unit before trying out for the Federation Marines. “The time is now” – he made a show of checking his watch – “1223. We will leave this room at 1240 and march down to the shuttle. Any questions?”
    Jimmy, the joker of the platoon, stuck up a hand. “What is the price of sliced ham, per portion?”
    “More than you can afford if you keep earning demerits,” Conrad said, dryly. “Any   relevant   questions?”
    There were none. Instead, the Marines hastily finished packing and pulled on their rucksacks, each man checking his partner’s bag and uniform for missing items. The procedure had been drummed into their heads since the first day on Mars, where the Federation Marines practiced serving in a hostile environment. Space could kill someone far easier than the Hegemony’s soldiers – and all it took was a moment of carelessness. Too many people from Earth got to the asteroids, or even the moon, and then found that they had qualified for a posthumous Darwin Award. Even experienced Marines could be caught out.
    “Follow me,” Conrad ordered, when his watch reached 1240. He would have chewed out any Marine who wasn't ready in time, but they were all ready. “Jimmy – bring up the rear.”
    The platoon followed him outside, linking up with the rest of the