Tychus had been resistant to Raynor’s smart-assed input at first, but was glad he had listened now, as Vanderspool’s dark eyes bored into him. Maybe Jim Raynor would prove to be of some value, after all. “Thank you, sir.”
“So,” Vanderspool continued, “Thanks to your outstanding performance, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you and your men are going to be part of a new mixed-force unit that I will have the honor to lead.
“The 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion is going to be an elite outfit—but the team you’ll be part of will be even more remarkable. We’re calling it the Special Tactics and Missions platoon, or STM. It will receive the very latest armor and related technology. Sound good?”
It sounded bad. Very bad, because anytime the Marine Corps said that something was “special,” it wasn’t. And membership in elite units always meant more work, more inspections, and more attention from above. All of which would be detrimental to Operation Early Retirement. “Yes, sir,” Tychus lied. “I can hardly wait to get started.”
“That’s the spirit!” Vanderspool replied cheerfully. “You’ll be pleased to know that we’re bringing in a young fire-breather to lead the STM platoon. His name is Lieutenant Quigby, and you’ll have an opportunity to meet him shortly.”
By that time Tychus had taken note of a change to Vanderspool’s uniform. So he took the opportunity to suck up, in hopes that doing so would help put whatever doubts the officer might have had to rest. “I look forward to working with Lieutenant Quigby, sir … and congratulations on your promotion.”
Tychus could sense the wheels turning as Vanderspool smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant. Good luck with your new assignment. I plan to keep an eye on you.”
Did the last comment constitute a threat? Yes, Tychus thought that it did, but forced a smile anyway. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.” And with that he got up to leave.
Vanderspool watched the other man go. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Sergeant Findlay was exactly what he appeared to be. A big, simple-minded brute that would continue to be a useful tool until such time as the Kel-Morians killed him. And maybe the men who reported to him were choir boys. But maybes could be dangerous, especially with so much at stake, so an insurance policy was in order. And, unless Vanderspool missed his guess, there was bound to be one just waiting to be used.
Three days after the official creation of the 321st Colonial Rangers Battalion, Lieutenant Marcus Quigby mustered his platoon on a field adjacent to Fort Howe’s firing range and took the opportunity to introduce himself. The platoon consisted of three squads—none of which were up to full strength.
That didn’t stop Quigby from strutting back and forth in front of his tiny command as if it were a full regiment, a brand-new swagger stick under his arm, as his other hand jabbed the air. Quigby loved to give long, boring speeches, insisted on following every regulation to the letter, and micromanaged everything his subordinates did. None of which endeared the officer to his troops.
But thanks to his talent for engineering—and the fact that his father was a general—Quigby had been given a slot in what might become a very visible organization. Just the thing to jumpstart his career if everything went well. None of which mattered to Raynor, who found it difficult to take the young officer seriously. “What an asshole,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, which caused Zander to grin.
Quigby’s tirade had clearly reached a climax as he jabbed a finger toward the sky. “So,” he said portentously, “with all that in mind, the time has come for a new generation of hardskins. I’m talking about armor with advanced capabilities that will enable this platoon to clear obstacles during conventional attacks, carry out missions behind enemy lines, and reinforce units temporarily cut off from a larger force. Behold the future!”
Somebody’s timing was off, so Quigby was left standing there, his finger pointing at the clear blue sky for a good four seconds before a muted roar was heard. That was when Raynor and the rest of the troops saw something leap into the air a thousand feet down-range and come their way.
The bright red hardskin arrived a few seconds later, turned a full circle as if to display the jet pack that kept it aloft, and lowered itself to the ground. The big boots produced twin puffs of dust as they hit, and the power pack made a high-pitched whining noise as it spooled down.
It was an impressive demonstration and Quigby was clearly proud of it. His beady eyes, framed by disproportionately bushy eyebrows, darted from one face to the next. “Not bad, eh?” he demanded in a high, squeaky voice. “This is a demonstration model, which was modified to meet Technician Feek’s needs. But it’s similar to what each member of the platoon will receive after you qualify on standard CMC-225s. Fortunately for us, Sergeant Findlay is an expert where the 225s are concerned—and will be able to bring the rest of you up to speed. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”
The whole thing was news to Tychus, who came to attention. “Sir! Yes, sir.”
“I thought as much,” Quigby said to no one in particular. “Once we move on to the CMC-230-XEs and -XFs, it will be time for Mister Feek to take over the training effort.”
“Hello,” the man in the hardskin said, his voice booming through external speakers. “My name is Hiram Feek. I’m looking forward to providing you with instruction on how to operate a Procyon Industries 230-series hardskin, otherwise known as Thunderstrike armor. The unit I’m wearing today is a CMC-230-XF, sometimes referred to as a firebat, due to its unique capabilities.”
That was when a whirring sound was heard as the CMC-230’s helmet was removed and the suit cycled open to reveal the man inside. Harnack let out an audible gasp. Feek was only about four feet tall and stood on special risers. He had a shaved head and a generously proportioned mustache that bobbed up and down as he addressed the men.
“As is the case with any new weapons system, the 230-series suits will require some fine-tuning before thay are put into service. So please keep me informed regarding any operational issues that you run into over the next few weeks. Your feedback will help Procyon Industries to perfect this new generation of hardskins.”
And with that the suit cycled closed and the helmet clicked on. Feek raised an arm, pointed it over their heads, and shot a gout of flame into the air.
“That’s beautiful!” Harnack said reverently. “Can I have one?”
“Yes,” Lieutenant Quigby answered indulgently, “you can.”
Fleet Petty Officer Third Class Lisa Cassidy had been confined to Fort Howe’s brig for two days. Not all that long a period of time for most brig rats, but Cassidy was addicted to a drug called crab, a powerfully intoxicating depressant. And two intervals was a long time to go without a hit. So she was grumpy, twitchy, and a bit paranoid as a series of clangs were heard outside of her cell and two female MPs came to collect her.
Enlisted people had a tendency to stick together, so when a corporal opened the door to Cassidy’s cell, there was something akin to sympathy in her eyes. “Time to come out, Cassidy. You got a visitor.”
Cassidy frowned. “If it’s the chaplain, or the morale officer, tell them to go flick themselves. Or each other.”
The MPs laughed. “No, it ain’t either one of them,” the corporal responded. “Colonel Vanderspool wants to talk to you.”
“What’d you do, girl?” the other MP inquired. “Get up in some general’s face?”