The first touches of atmosphere whispered threateningly against the field around the pod, and insertion proper began. The flight through atmosphere was the kind to cause newbies to wet their pants. Even experienced troops found them disorienting. Because of the need for stealth, no powered maneuvers were allowed. The result was a literal tumble through the atmosphere, the forcefields in close to protect the ship and within the atmospheric plasma caused by friction between the craft’s “surface” and the rarefied atmosphere. From outside, the craft resembled a meteor. From inside it was a roller coaster crossed with a nape-of-the-earth flight by an insane pilot on drugs. The pod flipped from side to side, barrel-rolled, pitched and cocked in various attitudes and at differing speeds. It tumbled, rolled like a die and occasionally bucked. The internal temperature rose steadily as they dropped deeper, since there was no way to radiate the incoming energy. The occasional dense pocket of atmosphere caused jarring, teeth-clattering jolts. Space inside was at a premium to start with, and the maneuvers made helmets bash into bulkheads and knees into gear. No one spoke, though there were grunts and other utterances at the painful jolts. Occasional curses shot out. The troops mostly kept their eyes closed, not from fear, but to reduce the disorientation. It was the type of ride adrenaline-junkie civilians would pay big money for, and experienced professionals could take or leave, preferably leave.
But it was nothing compared to the finale.
Below the cloud layer, the “wings” melted out and back into brakes to slow the vehicle to a “reasonable” speed. Were it not for the inertial dampers, the crew would have been squashed by the violent deceleration. As it was, only long practice prevented them from heaving their stomachs. It was a harsh change of orientation, the pod being upside down and rolling at better than five thousand meters per second, then suddenly nose down and steady at barely sub-Mach speed for the local environment. The pod was above ocean, and splashed into waves in an angry hiss of steam. It was not a landing per se, but rather a controlled crash and a big splash.
The brakes shifted again in their forcefields and became small fins, and low-power impellers started up. Most of the remainder of the insertion would be under water, and slow. The process was semiautomatic, Bell Toll indicating a route and the craft’s AI handling the trip from there. That saved having personnel pilot the craft, to be left stuck during the mission, or having to risk a takeoff and another landing. Besides, most of the procedure was either too complex for a human pilot — like the insertion and braking — or too simple and boring to bother with a pilot.
The pod wasn’t streamlined, though it could morph quite a bit. Its forcefields could assume any shape needed. That wasn’t an issue. But the speed of sound is much lower in water than in air, and sonic shockwaves under water are rare and almost never a natural phenomenon. Stealth predicated slow, cautious travel. After crossing light-years in days and thousands of kilometers in minutes, the last leg would be hundreds of kilometers in long hours.
Special warfare troops get long, boring training followed by long, boring practice in the art of staying sane while doing nothing. Each has his or her own particular coping mechanism. Good teams are those in which the members have learned not to drive each other to violent rage with annoying quirks, like breathing in an unpleasant fashion or shifting a leg in that manner that makes another want to crack his head after the ten thousandth time. Tirdal was the odd troop in this equation, and the others shifted unconsciously in slight but real bother at the disruption of their familiar relationship.
The pod used propulsion that was as close to silent as was possible for Republic technology. As the ocean grew shallower and the coast approached, the speed would slow even more and even slight noises would become more of a risk. To that end, silence reigned until everyone had triggered isolation circuits in their helmets. At this point all talk was through an intercom circuit, connected by wires, not an RF net, to further reduce stray emissions.
Talk picked up, everyone glad that particular ordeal was over, and wishing to escape from considering the pending risks for at least a few moments.
Almost everyone. Dagger and Tirdal were silent.
“We’re down,” Gun Doll said.
“Cheated death again,” Thor added.
“Yeah,” said Gorilla, his pulse dropping below 120. With a screen before him not showing the confines of the pod, and voices in his ears backed up by natural sounds, he could handle it. He could also handle it inside a box if he had to; he had in training. But if the technology was available to be less uncomfortable, he’d use it. “We got a count on how long to shore, Captain?”
“Thirty-seven hours,” Bell Toll replied. “Here’s the map,” he continued as he displayed it for Gorilla and left the link open for anyone else. “We go down around this peninsula, up into this bay and get out near the river delta. Hopefully, it won’t be too swampy. We’ll move around to here, upriver about twenty klicks, and that’s where we start working.” The site in question had been known beforehand, but the exact approach hadn’t been decided until they were in-system and could get a good view of the terrain.
“Lots of walking,” Thor said. It wasn’t a complaint, merely an observation. “Gorilla, can you handle that crate of bots for that far?”
“Sure,” the hulking troop replied, unconsciously flexing his rock-hard shoulders. The bots weren’t light, and were bulky, but his load would decrease as they traveled and the ’bots were deployed.
“Who’s on point?” Gun Doll asked. She always asked for details.
Shiva replied, “I figure to put Ferret up front again, to cover Tirdal in second, you behind him for firepower, Gorilla, the captain, Dagger, me and Thor watching our asses.”
There were murmured assents and a “Yes,” or two.
“Okay,” he continued, “I’ll hit you up with individual notes. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.”
Moments later, his voice came through Tirdal’s earbuds. “Tirdal, you hear me?”
“I hear you, Shiva,” he replied. “What do I need to know?”
“A lot. Keep in mind, you’re number three in the chain of command. If I go down, you take my slot. That’s not going to be easy with this audience.”
“As a specialist, I’m not usually one to take an active leadership role,” Tirdal said. His voice was even more inhuman and sonorous through mikes and filters.
“You’ve got the rank, you’ve got the training. You’d better be able to take that role,” Shiva said urgently. He didn’t need the damned Darhel wimping out on them.
“True. I can handle it if they can,” Tirdal said. It wasn’t exactly an accusation, more of a caution.
“They’ll do it,” Shiva said, hoping Thor and Dagger wouldn’t cause any hassle. He made a note to remind them. “If we lose the captain, too, you have to run the mission.” It was clear from his voice he wasn’t very happy with an unknown, an alien, a Darhel in that position. But realistically, none of the others would be better. Gun Doll was a social flake, as technically competent as she was. They wouldn’t listen to her. Dagger was a nutcase, or at least pretending to be. He’d scare the troops worse than the Blobs. Thor and Ferret lacked the experience and Gorilla had the bots to worry about.
“If I have to, I’ll do it,” Tirdal reassured him. “I know all the basics. Tactics. Gear. Leaders should be self-secure and give orders, not take votes. I did take the NCO leadership course.”
“You maxed that, too, right?” Shiva asked.
“Yes.”