First Strike by Christopher Nuttall Page B

company and marching down towards the shuttles. They’d done it before, thousands of times, but this felt different even to the rawest Marine. If the brass had intended to make them exercise perfectly, as if they were already at war, they’d succeeded. The shuttles, black-painted boxy shapes that looked like something out of a low-budget science-fiction movie, were waiting for them. Their pilots weren't exactly Marines, but they’d trained alongside the Bootnecks for years, clocking up hours in their craft. And they were on the front lines themselves, which won them some respect. They were hardly REMFs.
    “Take your seats, if you please,” Conrad ordered sardonically, counting his men into the shuttle. Each shuttle would lift forty men to the assault carrier, and then transport them down to the surface of Clarke or wherever they’d be carrying out the live-fire parts of the exercise. “Don’t wait up. We’ve got work to do.”
    There was a crackle from the intercom. “Welcome to Marine Flight 001,” a mock-falsetto voice said. “Take your seats and long-legged stewardesses will be along shortly to buckle you in.”
    The younger Marines chuckled at the joke. Conrad and the older sweats rolled their eyes. The joke hadn't been new when the pilots had started cracking it, even if it did help to dispel the tension in the air. Live-fire exercises were deadly serious and Marines had been known to be badly injured, or killed, in the crossfire. No precautions could guarantee perfect safety – and besides, none of them had signed up because they wanted a safe life. There was very little safety for any human in the universe, but they could have stayed on Earth and been as safe as the planet itself.
    There was a long pause, and then the shuttle hummed to life around them. The gravity field seemed to fluctuate as the craft lifted itself off the landing pad and rose up above the Luna surface, heading for the mighty assault carrier. Each of the three carriers humanity had built were huge, the largest and most complex starships humanity had yet constructed. It was daunting to realise that the Galactics had built much larger ships – and that one of their superdreadnoughts could vaporise the assault carriers if they got into weapons range.
    He pushed that thought aside and concentrated on composing his mind. Once they reached the carrier, they’d have to get into their compartments and get ready for operations – and then they would be preparing during the trip through quantum space. No rest for the wicked – or Federation Marines.
     
    * * *
     
    The Federation had endured a long political debate over naming conventions for its starships, one that had almost threatened to bring the entire edifice crashing down. Adrienne Lawson had heard that some countries had demanded that their names be selected, even though they’d made little contribution to the cost of the ships. Eventually, the Federation Navy had decided to name its assault carriers after famous generals – and selected the first three names from history.   Wellington, Napoleon   and   Zhukov   had been political compromises, ones that still aroused debate on the internet. The Emperor Napoleon   had, in the end, lost the wars named after him.
    Adrienne watched, fascinated, as the assault carrier slowly came into view. It – she – was a colossal boxy design, with launch bays hanging down from her superstructure. She was studded with sensor blisters, or perhaps they were weapons systems. The Federation Navy had been coy about precisely what weapons outfitted its ships, hoping to prevent the Galactics from hearing about any unpleasant surprises that might be waiting for them. One single assault carrier alone looked capable of dealing with any opponent. And yet the briefers had warned that they could never be included in the line of battle. They couldn't stand up to heavily-armed warships.
    “She’s an amazing piece of work,” her minder said. Lieutenant