Europa Strike(128)

Carver and Anderson were outside the subs as Jeff approached with the last of the men, and he was surprised to see both Kaminski and Ishiwara outside with them. They were planting cutter charges—half-meter tubes filled with C-280 and a radio detonator that could be rammed or pounded deep into the ice, and which had been used by the Cadmus science team to cut holes in the ice. The four men were just finishing the placement of twenty-four cutter charges in a broad circle around each of the submarines.

He stood with Kaminski on the ice as the last of the Marines clambered up ladders onto the Mantas’ wings and filed inside.

“What are you doing out here, Frank?”

“Hey, I’m fine, and you didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun out here to yourself, did you?”

“Your head better?”

“Yeah. S’funny. I think the ice blocks the effects, pretty much. Up here, I just feel a kind of a gnawing…I dunno. An itch? A prickly kind of fear I can’t put my finger on. Down there, it’s lots worse.”

“We’re going to have to go past that thing again.”

“I know. I can handle it.”

“You’ll have to. We’ll take the longer way ’round, this time, but you’ll still have those things buzzing in your head.”

“Knowing what it is ought to help a lot” was Kaminski’s reply.

Nodell and BJ, and the two First Platoon SLAW gunners, Glass and DiAmato, had taken up covering positions east of the Mantas, while the rest of the Marines got on board.

Shigeru approached Jeff. “How went the operation?”

Jeff’s shrug was lost in his armor. “Not as well as I’d hoped. Those landers are better protected than I thought. But the way we shot up their base, I think we put a few holes in their boat.”

“You shouted something as you were leaving the submarine. Devil dogs?”

“An old, old name for Marines.”

“A strange one. It doesn’t sound…flattering.”

Jeff chuckled. “In World War I, a German unit broke into a chateau in France and found themselves being held at bay by some very large, very mean dogs—mastiffs, or something just as nasty. The Germans called them teufelhunden, ‘devil dogs.’ Not long after that, they came up against U.S. Marines for the first time at Belleau Wood. They started calling us devil dogs, and the name kind of stuck.”

“It never fails to amaze me how you Americans can glory in the strangest…down!”

Both men hit the ice as rifle rounds struck, sending glittering sprays of ice chips flying. Nearby, Sergeant Lang screamed and collapsed, clutching her side.

Jeff spun around in time to see a dozen white-clad Chinese soldiers coming over the crater rim to the southeast. They must have found a way to clear the cargo hatch on that crashed lander—or else Descending Thunders had more than one door. The SLAW gunners were already in action. Jeff and Kaminski joined in with a withering, deadly fire, knocking the attacking troops down as fast as they could shift the targeting reticles and press the firing buttons.

The attack broke, the PRC troops scattering and taking cover. Kaminski stood, 580 raised, continuing to lay down a brutal covering fire as Jeff crawled over to Vickie Lang. She was still alive, her hands pressed over the foaming, bubbling thumb-sized hole in her armor.

He slapped a sealer patch in place to stop her from losing any more pressure, the only field first aid available to him. Slinging his rifle, he scooped her up in his arms—tricky with the shove her suit gave his as he grabbed her PLSS handholds. Mark II armor and all, she weighed less than twenty kilos. It was an awkward carry, especially with the repulsive forces between their suits, but they crossed the uneven ice quickly, hurrying toward Manta One in a series of low, bounding skips.

“C’mon, Frank!” he called. “Back to the sub!”

“On my way, skipper!”

Helping hands reached down to take Lang from his arms, to help him up onto the wing, to help Kaminski as he rounded the sub’s nose, still firing at the advancing PRC troops.

“Are the anchor lines in?”

“Yes, sir. We’re ready to blow.”

“Let’s get aboard, then.”

Inside the Manta, Jeff took his place next to the pilot’s console. “Everyone’s on board,” he said. “Punch it.”

“Roger that.”

The ice here was less than a meter thick. During the op planning, they’d been concerned about the mechanics of exfiltrating the crater; once the Mantas were beached, how could the Marines get them back into the water again?

One scheme had involved beaching only one of the craft, while the other, tow cable in place, continued to circle under water. Twelve Marines, however, was too small a number to throw at the Chinese base; twenty-two wasn’t much better but at least gave them a chance. And without small boats or ready-made docking facilities, there was no other way to get ashore than literally beaching the entire craft on reasonably solid ice.