“The purpose of your training is to prepare you to fight the Kel-Morians. And for good reason. Many of you come from planets where fuel rationing and food rationing are everyday realities. That’s because the Kel-Morians are trying to take control of all the natural resources they can in a blatant attempt to replace the Confederacy’s duly elected government with their own corrupt guild-dominated political system. Which, were the effort to succeed, would result in virtual slavery for us … since none of our families and friends would be allowed to join one of the largely hereditary guilds. So there’s every reason to fight, and to fight hard, lest our way of life be stolen from us.”
Macaby paused at that point and allowed his eyes to roam the faces before him as if to make sure that they understood the full import of what had been said. Then, seemingly satisfied with the expressions he’d seen, the major consulted a scrap of paper. “With that in mind you will be interested to know that the exigencies of war require us to shorten your training cycle to nine weeks from the standard twelve weeks.”
A solitary clapping sound was heard, followed by a noncom’s stern order, “Take that man’s name!”
Macaby smiled indulgently. “Yes, I rather expected that announcement would meet with your approval! However, that being said, steps will be taken to ensure that the intensity of the basic training experience will be increased so that you will be fully prepared for combat when you join a line unit.
“So pay attention to your instructors, be ready for anything, and give it all you have. The life you save could be your own. That will be all.”
A sergeant shouted, “Atten-hut!” and as Macaby left the stage, Raynor considered the implications of what had been said. Boot camp had been shortened. Did that mean the wars were going poorly? What else could it mean?
It was a sobering thought as the latecomers were integrated into the existing training companies. Both Raynor and Harnack were placed in D Company, which consisted of three platoons, with three squads to a platoon, for a total of seventy-two men and women. That was light by combat standards, since each squad was supposed to include three four-person fire teams, but there weren’t enough recruits for that.
And somehow, by a process invisible to Raynor, he was named as a temporary “recruit sergeant,” and placed in charge of the 1st squad, 2nd platoon. A dubious honor since he instantly became responsible for seven people in addition to himself. One of them was Harnack, who smiled wickedly and offered Raynor a one-fingered salute.
As the newly reformed companies were marched down a ramp to the dormitory-style living quarters below, Raynor was nervous. All the noncoms seemed so angry—and now Raynor was sure to be singled out because of his new position.
Each platoon had its own long rectangular room, and once racks were assigned, the recruits were given permission to “fall out, grab a shower, and get some sleep.” All seven hours of it, before they would be expected to get up and double-time to chow. Later, after haircuts, they were scheduled to receive personal gear, uniforms, and weapons.
But all of that was six-plus hours away, after a sonic shower and some much-needed rest. So Raynor stripped down to his skivvies and was about to head for the communal showers when three heavily armored Kel-Morian rippers emerged from a solid wall, swiveled toward the unsuspecting recruits, and opened fire.
Raynor saw the assault rifles sparkle, and felt a tingling sensation as half a dozen electric impulses accelerated through his chest, followed by a cry of consternation as they hit a person behind him. The enemy soldiers weren’t real, of course, but Raynor’s heart was pounding nevertheless, and there was nothing fake about the fear he felt.
That was when the spectral rippers exploded into a thousand motes of light and another phantom appeared. Though nearly transparent, he looked like a recruiting poster come to life, and there was something about his synthesized voice that reminded Raynor of Farley. “My name is Gunnery Sergeant Travis,” the hologram announced, “and I have been ordered to assist with your training. An attack like the one you just experienced took place three months ago when a Kel-Morian special operations team managed to infiltrate a base on Dylar IV. Seven marines died that night, three were wounded, and one of them is still on life support. So remember, the enemy can strike anywhere, and at any time. You are never safe.” And with that Travis disappeared.
Ryk Kydd was in love with his Bosun FN92 sniper rifle. Or, more accurately, in love with the way he felt when he fired it. Because hitting targets that other people couldn’t made him feel strong and competent. The weapon had a skeletal stock, a telescopic sight, and an extremely long barrel. And that was critical. Because the more time the bullet spent inside the metal tube, the more likely it was to hit the target. And during the last few weeks, that had become very important to him.
So as Kydd elbowed his way up onto a rise, it was with the intention of qualifying as a Marine Corps sniper while still in boot camp. Something only two people had achieved before him.
At that point Kydd had completed two earlier “crawls,” and having scored simulated kills in both situations, it was time for one final test of his marksmanship on a specially designed indoor range. Kydd was wearing a helmet, light body armor, a standard combat harness, and protective earplugs.
“Okay,” Sergeant Peters said in his ear. “Here’s the scenario… . A very important general is going to appear in the enemy encampment about a thousand yards in front of and below your position. A number of other people may be present, but the general is the only one who will be wearing a beret and smoking a pipe. The mission is simple. Identify your target and kill him with one shot. Good luck, son… . I know you can do it.”
Kydd heard a click, followed by the soft whisper of an artificial wind as a computer-generated panorama blossomed around him. The sky was pewter gray, the surrounding slopes were green, and the camouflaged trucks and hab-units had a mottled appearance. A sensor array could be seen rotating above one of the vehicles, two sentries stood guard, and a wisp of vapor was issuing out of the exhaust stack on the generator truck. Other than that, there wasn’t much to see.
Kydd was grateful for that, because if the target had been visible right off the top, before he had time to prepare, he would have been faced with a difficult decision. Take a poorly prepared shot, knowing that it might be the only opportunity, or wait and hope the target would reappear.
While the beret-wearing general was nowhere to be seen, one of the sentries would serve as a good stand-in, and there was plenty to do. The first step was to chamber a round and make sure the safety was on.
Then it was time to use the rifle’s built-in range finder to see how far away the target was. Kydd eyed the information available on the heads-up display (HUD) projected onto the inside surface of his visor and saw that the sentry was 996 yards away. It was a long shot but well within the Bosun’s reach.
With that information in hand, it was time to check for data related to the temperature, humidity, altitude, and barometric pressure. All of which would have an effect on how the .50 caliber slug was going to fly through the air.
Having absorbed the information and processed it, the computer built into Kydd’s helmet produced a drop chart complete with a recommended windage and elevation. And as the conditions around him continued to change, Kydd knew the document would update itself on a continuous basis.