A servo whined as Hanson’s helmeted head swiveled incrementally and gravel crunched under his boots as his weight shifted. The voice was incredulous. “Recruit Raynor?”
“Sir, yes sir,” Raynor replied. “The pilot was killed when our dropship crashed. We didn’t know where we were, so I figured we should find a place to hole up.”
Hanson was silent for a moment. “Understood. All personnel will place their weapons on the ground and board the ship. Wounded first.”
Raynor felt an emptiness at the pit of his stomach. “No offense, sir, but which side are you on?”
“I collect my pay from the Confederacy,” Hanson replied. “Welcome to Turaxis II, son… . If you like to fight, you came to the right place.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Why do they call it ‘boot camp’? Because if they called it ‘beat your ass camp,’ nobody would go.”
THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The flight from the crash site to the base called Turaxis Prime took about half an hour. And having just survived a Kel-Morian attack, Raynor knew how vulnerable the ship was as it skimmed the gently undulating terrain below. If they were lucky, the eyes in the sky would lose the aircraft in amongst the ground clutter.
Meanwhile, there had been almost total silence since recruit Santhay had stopped breathing, and the corpsman had been unable to resuscitate him. Now Santhay’s body was covered with a blanket, and made for a sobering sight as it lay strapped to the center of the deck. That could’ve been me, Raynor thought. What did I get myself into?
Even Harnack was subdued as forward motion stopped, and the pilot announced their arrival and brought the dropship’s engines up into the vertical position. The ship rocked gently as a side wind hit the port side and the transport dropped through the opening below. Once the aircraft was in the hangar, and two outward-bound Avengers were clear, a pair of thick blast doors rumbled closed.
Moments after the ship’s skids touched down, two privates entered the transport and loaded Santhay’s body aboard a stretcher. Raynor could tell they had done the same thing many times before. They were gone a few moments later.
At that point Master Sergeant Hanson ordered the boots to deass the ship, and as Raynor followed Harnack down the ramp, he got his first glimpse of Turaxis Prime. The underground hangar deck was huge. Large enough to house hundreds of dropships, Avengers, and lesser aircraft, which were parked in orderly rows.
A few of the ships were so pristine they might have been new, but most showed signs of wear. Power wrenches chattered, fusion cutters hissed, and lifters hummed as crews of hardworking technicians in space construction vehicles worked to make repairs.
As a corporal ordered Raynor and his companions to follow her, a steady flow of incomprehensible announcements was coming in over loudspeakers mounted high above, a jitney loaded with dispirited looking pilots whirred past, and servos whined as a clutch of SCVs bustled along in the opposite direction. The overall impression was one of organized chaos, and Raynor felt as though he were finally seeing the real Marine Corps, rather than the glamorized version marketed to the public. The two couldn’t have been more different.
A couple minutes later the newly arrived recruits made their way onto an elevator large enough to accommodate a siege tank. The corporal, who was half Harnack’s size, felt no compunction about pushing, shoving, and even kicking the recruits in order to form a column of twos with the shortest members at the front and the tallest in the back. The purpose of the exercise was to limit the formation’s maximum speed to that of the slowest recruits while simultaneously creating a military appearance.
The cacophony of noise coming from A Deck faded quickly as the platform descended. And it wasn’t until the elevator coasted to a stop four levels below that the boots were marched out onto what they would soon come to know as the grinder. It was a vast parade ground on which they would perform endless calisthenics, learn how to march, and listen to boring speeches. The first of which was about to begin.
But before they could listen they had to reach the assembly area and do so in a military manner. That meant marching in step. “You will lead with your left foot,” the corporal announced, as the column lurched forward. “No, stupid,” she said. “Your other left! My God … what did they send us? A draft of idiots?
“Now, try again … your left, your left, your left, right, left. That’s right… . Now you’re getting the hang of it. Bring that left heel down hard!”
And so it went as the recruits completed the trip to the assembly area with only occasional missteps and outbursts of frustration from the corporal. Other boots, some of whom Raynor recognized as having been aboard the Hydrus, were already present. They had been fortunate enough to land safely, after which they had been formed into training companies and fed, prior to being marched onto the grinder.
They were standing at parade rest with feet spread and hands behind their backs. Most were smart enough to keep their eyes forward, but one of the recruits couldn’t resist the temptation to eyeball the incoming troops, and was soon pumping out push-ups for his impertinence.
So Raynor was careful to keep his eyes on the platform directly in front of the assemblage as a neatly uniformed officer mounted a short flight of stairs and made his way to the podium. It was made out of real wood and the Marine Corps insignia was prominently displayed on the front of it. That was when a sergeant shouted, “Atten-hut!” The result was uneven to say the least and would have earned all of them a lap around the grinder had the circumstances been different.
The officer clearly prided himself on his appearance. His cap was correctly positioned on his head, his mustache was perfectly trimmed, and his pink cheeks were freshly shaven as his eyes darted from face to face. His nod was short and precise, like a bird pecking at a scattering of seed. “Good morning… . As you were.”
There was a prolonged shuffling sound as the recruits went back to parade rest and the noncoms frowned disapprovingly.
“My name is Major Macaby,” the officer began, “and I am in charge of basic training on Turaxis II. It’s somewhat unusual to have a training facility this close to a combat zone, but these are unusual times, and we marines are adaptable. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that there are certain advantages to be derived from the situation, as will become clear once you enter the final stages of boot camp.
“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.”