fire team, platoon, and company under my command, or I could speak to each Marine individually. I could peer through their visors or send them information.
As the commanding officer on this operation, I had the commandLink. Everyone else had interLink equipment.
Using the commandLink, I addressed the platoon sergeants and officers in the group. I said, “This is General Wayson Harris. You’ve all been briefed; but on the off chance that any ofyou were not paying attention, I will remind you that this is not, repeat, not an invasion. Mars Spaceport is EME-held territory.
“This is not an invasion. It is an inspection.”
That much was bullshit, by the way. This was not an inspection or an invasion, it was a damn pissing match. We were sending a small but lethal force into the belly of the beast to prove to the New Olympians that we were still in charge. We were sending a force that was too small to protect itself and daring the bastards to attack.
“We are fifteen hundred men patrolling an area populated by seventeen million hostiles. We cannot afford to pick a fight. Sergeants, do not allow your men to touch triggers or disengage the safeties unless specifically ordered to do so. That is all.”
I entered the cockpit and watched as we launched. We floated out of the ship and penetrated the atmosphere.
Below us, Mars Spaceport sparkled on an otherwise dismally dark landscape. The planet’s rotation had the spaceport pointing away from the sun. As we descended, I saw the three raised train tracks that ran the ten miles between the spaceport and Mars Air Force Base. They looked as slender as guitar strings from a half mile up.
I surveyed the landscape below. Some people played down Mars’s unique beauty by comparing it to places like the Mojave Desert on Earth. To me, the surface of Mars looked like the deepest depths of the ocean, a silent, alien world filled with familiar elements.
I left the quiet surroundings of the cockpit and returned to the kettle, with its capacity crowd. As I came down the ladder, I used the commandLink to eavesdrop on a few of my lieutenants as they briefed their men. The company commander in my shuttle told his men, “Remember, these are friendlies. Even if they act hostile, do not aim or shoot unless ordered to do so.”
Good information, though delivered in too timid a tone.
I listened to the briefings on other transports until I heard:
“…you are a grenadier, damn it, you specking better have some launchers on you.”
“But sir, we have strict orders…”
“I know what General Harris said,” yelled the lieutenant. “I also know how things work in this man’s corps. Riflemencarry rifles, automatic riflemen carry automatic rifles, and grenadiers carry specking grenades. If I want you to carry a slingshot, I will call you a slingadier. If I want you to carry a bucket, I will call you a specking bucketier. You are a grenadier, gawdamnit! Hide some specking grenades in your specking gear or I’ll throw your specking ass in the brig and call you a specking brigadier! Do you read me?”
Using the commandLink, I addressed the entire regiment. “This is General Harris. You have been issued special short-range rounds for your M27s. Any men seen carrying grenades, rockets, or particle-beam weapons will face a summary hearing.
Do you read me?
”
I then switched to a direct to Lieutenant Geoffrey Bates, he of the “slingadiers-bucketiers,” and I said, ‘If I ever catch you pulling another end run, Lieutenant, I will place your ass in front a firing squad and tell them you are a
targetier
.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” he shouted in the very loud fashion of a Marine who has been duly chastised by his superior.
And then we touched down. The muffled sounds of booster rockets rumbled through the walls as we lowered into place. The iron deck below my feet gave one hard bounce as we landed.
The only door on a transport was the rear hatch, a slow-moving metal slab that took half a
As the commanding officer on this operation, I had the commandLink. Everyone else had interLink equipment.
Using the commandLink, I addressed the platoon sergeants and officers in the group. I said, “This is General Wayson Harris. You’ve all been briefed; but on the off chance that any ofyou were not paying attention, I will remind you that this is not, repeat, not an invasion. Mars Spaceport is EME-held territory.
“This is not an invasion. It is an inspection.”
That much was bullshit, by the way. This was not an inspection or an invasion, it was a damn pissing match. We were sending a small but lethal force into the belly of the beast to prove to the New Olympians that we were still in charge. We were sending a force that was too small to protect itself and daring the bastards to attack.
“We are fifteen hundred men patrolling an area populated by seventeen million hostiles. We cannot afford to pick a fight. Sergeants, do not allow your men to touch triggers or disengage the safeties unless specifically ordered to do so. That is all.”
I entered the cockpit and watched as we launched. We floated out of the ship and penetrated the atmosphere.
Below us, Mars Spaceport sparkled on an otherwise dismally dark landscape. The planet’s rotation had the spaceport pointing away from the sun. As we descended, I saw the three raised train tracks that ran the ten miles between the spaceport and Mars Air Force Base. They looked as slender as guitar strings from a half mile up.
I surveyed the landscape below. Some people played down Mars’s unique beauty by comparing it to places like the Mojave Desert on Earth. To me, the surface of Mars looked like the deepest depths of the ocean, a silent, alien world filled with familiar elements.
I left the quiet surroundings of the cockpit and returned to the kettle, with its capacity crowd. As I came down the ladder, I used the commandLink to eavesdrop on a few of my lieutenants as they briefed their men. The company commander in my shuttle told his men, “Remember, these are friendlies. Even if they act hostile, do not aim or shoot unless ordered to do so.”
Good information, though delivered in too timid a tone.
I listened to the briefings on other transports until I heard:
“…you are a grenadier, damn it, you specking better have some launchers on you.”
“But sir, we have strict orders…”
“I know what General Harris said,” yelled the lieutenant. “I also know how things work in this man’s corps. Riflemencarry rifles, automatic riflemen carry automatic rifles, and grenadiers carry specking grenades. If I want you to carry a slingshot, I will call you a slingadier. If I want you to carry a bucket, I will call you a specking bucketier. You are a grenadier, gawdamnit! Hide some specking grenades in your specking gear or I’ll throw your specking ass in the brig and call you a specking brigadier! Do you read me?”
Using the commandLink, I addressed the entire regiment. “This is General Harris. You have been issued special short-range rounds for your M27s. Any men seen carrying grenades, rockets, or particle-beam weapons will face a summary hearing.
Do you read me?
”
I then switched to a direct to Lieutenant Geoffrey Bates, he of the “slingadiers-bucketiers,” and I said, ‘If I ever catch you pulling another end run, Lieutenant, I will place your ass in front a firing squad and tell them you are a
targetier
.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” he shouted in the very loud fashion of a Marine who has been duly chastised by his superior.
And then we touched down. The muffled sounds of booster rockets rumbled through the walls as we lowered into place. The iron deck below my feet gave one hard bounce as we landed.
The only door on a transport was the rear hatch, a slow-moving metal slab that took half a
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