“I guess we should try to sleep, too,” Raynor said. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and wondered what his parents were up to.
So as the hours passed, Raynor took catnaps and tried to read, without much success. Alarms sounded at one point, followed by an announcement that the convoy was under attack, but the captain gave the all-clear ten minutes later. Then a thin, watery likeness of his face appeared on every functioning monitor. The hair he still had was wrapped around the sides of his head. He had bushy brows, serious eyes, and a softly rounded jaw. The uniform he wore looked as though it had been slept in.
“We lost the Cyrus,” he said soberly, “but the attacking ship was destroyed by our escorts within a matter of minutes. We expect to enter orbit approximately one hour from now. Confederate forces control all of the best slots at the moment. But since the strategic situation remains fluid, and the Kel-Morians own roughly half of the planet’s surface, the disembarkation process will take place on the double.
“For that reason recruits will be asked to form up into groups of fifteen, and when it’s your turn to board a dropship, you will proceed with the utmost dispatch. Any recruit who fails to comply with orders, or otherwise impedes progress, will be stunned.
“Two squadrons of Avengers will be waiting to escort our dropships to the surface,” the captain continued, “but it’s likely that the enemy will respond with fighters of their own. So you may have a front row seat in a real dogfight.
“Once on the ground you will be ordered to deass the dropships on the double so that they can clear the area and make another trip. I’m told it’s nighttime where you’re headed, about fifty-five degrees, and raining. Good luck, and don’t forget to shoot at least one of the bastards for me.”
A click was heard as the captain disappeared and was immediately replaced by one of the standard images that the recruits had seen at least a hundred times before on their journey. It showed a clearly dispirited young man slouched on a set of stairs that led up to a tenement. The caption read: “The Marine Corps … you owe it to yourself.”
Harnack pushed the net up away from his face and yawned. “What the hell was that all about? Doesn’t the old geezer realize that some of us are trying to sleep?”
“We’re about an hour out,” Raynor replied. “The dancing girls have been notified of your arrival, free beer is available in the mess hall, and you were promoted to general.”
“Sounds good,” Harnack replied agreeably, as he began to extricate himself from the net. “Save my place. The general needs to pee.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Combat escalated today between Confederate forces and the Kel-Morian Combine. Two new regiments of the Terran Confederacy saw their first action in the battles that cut across the plains of Turaxis II, and casualties were heavy. When asked about today’s losses, Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool of the 3rd regiment was quoted as saying, ‘Although tragic, these numbers are not unusual for regiments made up of newly recruited battalions. What your figures fail to take into account is that today saw the creation of veterans. I will take ten experienced soldiers over a hundred greenhorns any day of the week.’ Vanderspool refused to respond to further questions concerning today’s loss of life, and our cameras were soon escorted off the base.”
ABOARD THE TROOPSHIP HYDRUS TO TURAXIS II
It was more than two hours before the Hydrus dropped into orbit, and the first group of recruits was ordered to leave the hold. But because Raynor and Harnack were slated for the third flight of dropships, they had to endure another hour-long delay before it was their turn to go.
Once the fifteen-person group was lined up with standard issue kitbags in hand, a harried sergeant took the time required to check each name off a list before shouting final instructions. “You will follow me, keep your mouths shut, and do exactly as you are told!”
So saying, the noncom turned her back on the group and took off at a jog. Raynor welcomed the chance to stretch his legs. He was keenly aware of everything around him as he followed Harnack through a maze of corridors and down a level to the point where a hatch labeled launch bay blocked further progress.
There was a three-minute delay before it irised open and ozone-laced air flooded the lock. Then they were on the move again as the sergeant led them out into a large compartment that was temporarily sealed off from the vacuum beyond.
Rows of dropships were waiting; judging from appearances, some of them had seen a lot of action. And given all of the different insignias on display, Raynor got the impression that the squadron had been assembled from at least half a dozen units.
Did that imply that a lot of individual commands were under strength? Raynor thought it might. The group pounded across the blast-scarred deck to a much-patched ship. A hand-painted image of a scantily clad, dark-haired vixen could be seen near the bow, immediately over the name: daddy’s girl.
The forward section of the hull was convex, so as to provide some lift while operating in an atmosphere. Two extremely powerful engines were mounted where the fuselage narrowed slightly before splitting into twin booms that extended back to support vertical tail fins.
But there was no time to gawk as the noncom led her charges to the vessel and stopped next to an open belly hatch. Her right arm windmilled as she urged them inside. “Move! Move! Move!”
Once inside, the pilot was waiting to herd the passengers into the built-in seats that lined both sides of the ship. They were ordered to clip their bags to the ringbolts located between their boots, strap in, “… and prepare for liftoff.”
Raynor tried to think of a way to “prepare” and came up empty. That left him free to look around. Four large crates were strapped to the deck. One was clearly full of medical supplies, given all the red crosses that had been stamped on it, and another bore a label that read: shotguns, torrent(20).
As Raynor continued to scan his surroundings he saw that there were a lot of black-and-yellow decals on the bulkheads, all warning against a host of sins he had no plans to commit. A handwritten note from one of the previous passengers was visible directly across from him. It read: sowhat’ syourrecruiterdoingrightnow?
Raynor knew the answer—or thought he did. Gunnery Sergeant Farley was probably drinking beer, sweet-talking a country girl, and looking forward to a steak dinner. The bastard.
The ramp made a prolonged whining sound as it was retracted, the airframe started to vibrate as the engines spooled up, and a barely audible Klaxon began to bleep outside. That was the signal for everyone not dressed in space armor to evacuate the flight deck. Exactly three minutes later, the outer doors opened, air was expelled into space, and the first pair of dropships rode it out.
Then it was their turn, and Raynor felt the bottom drop out of his stomach as Daddy’s Girl left the relative safety of the launch bay for the dangers that waited beyond. There weren’t any windows or viewscreens to look at, so they couldn’t see Turaxis II and the blacked-out land mass below. But all of them were aware of freefall, as their weightless bodies attempted to float up off their seats, and a loose stylus cartwheeled through the air.
The dropship began to shake violently as it entered the planet’s upper atmosphere. Raynor felt his teeth start to chatter, opened his mouth, and saw others do likewise as everything around them rattled loudly. That was when the pilot spoke over the intercom. His voice was even and controlled. “Sorry about the vibration—but it will disappear soon.