Semper Mars(113)

Surprise, however, counted for a very great deal. Kaminski turned his helmet so that he could see the major, crouched behind the ridgetop a few meters away.

By this time, Kaminski didn’t know a single man or woman in the platoon who wouldn’t have died for the old man on the spot if he’d given them the word. Something about the shared hardships of the past three weeks had welded the platoon together in a way unimaginable before, even after the seven months of sardine-can duty aboard the cycler. If anyone blamed the major for the pain and danger of the march, he wasn’t saying a word, and a good thing, too. The platoon was definitely gung ho—a Corps term from duty in China over a century before that, very roughly, translated as “all together.” The MMEF platoon was definitely gung ho in that sense and wouldn’t have tolerated anyone knocking their new CO.

Kaminski returned his full attention to the rifle. Garroway had run trials out in the desert a week ago, ascertaining that the four best shots under Martian conditions were Ostrowsky, Knox, Caswell…and him. The discovery filled him with a galloping pride. The others were all seasoned vets and senior NCOs; you’d expect them to be crack shots. The fact that he’d beaten out everyone else definitely gave him bragging rights.

He liked it. After he’d turned over his carefully hidden flag, back at Heinlein Station, in fact, some of the other Marines had started talking about him like he was some sort of super Marine, a real lifer. That was nonsense, of course. He was still getting out as soon as he hit Earth again. But it was a real kick to get to do the John Wayne bit. He and the three NCOs had been given the platoon’s four ATARs and spaced evenly along the ridge so that their fire would hit the UN troops from front and rear as well as from their left. Now they were just waiting for the—

“Now!” Garroway’s voice said in his headset, breaking the carefully preserved radio silence.

Kaminski already had the green crosshairs on his HUD centered over one of the UN troops. His glove clamped down on the rifle’s trigger, and he felt rather than heard the silky hiss of five rounds snapping from his muzzle. The man in his HUD display staggered, then flopped forward. Kaminski was aware now of the sound of gunfire, a harsh snapping in the thin Martian air. Two more of the UN troops fell…then a third. The others stared around wildly, trying to find where this sudden storm of death was coming from, and a fourth spun, threw up his hands, and crumpled onto the sand.

The rest dropped to the ground, still trying to find targets at which they could return the fire. Several opened fire at the Mars cat, but Hayes already had the vehicle in motion, gunning it forward at high speed, treads whirling, flag fluttering from the whip antenna, sand and dust boiling into the sky like an impenetrable smoke screen.

Hayes steered the cat in a wild, slewing arc that took it between the hidden Marines and the UN troops; as soon as the dust cloud blocked all view of the enemy, Garroway stood up and waved. “Come on! After me!”

Kaminski rose, aiming from the hip and squeezing off another five-round burst. All along the sandy ridge, weary men and women in armor showing the red-ocher hues of the Martian landscape staggered to their feet and started jogging down the north slope of the ridge. Everyone in the platoon had volunteered to make the charge; even unarmed, they might be able to draw fire from the Marines with rifles…and if a rifleman fell, there would be someone to pick up his weapon and carry on.

With jolting, sand-slipping bounds, Kaminski rushed toward the lead tractor. A figure materialized out of the dust ahead, little more than a shadow, then stumbled and collapsed as Ostrowsky sprayed it with a burst of caseless rounds. Kaminski slowed as they entered the dust cloud, watching each step…and careful now to identify targets before shooting randomly.

“Ooh-rah!” Kaminski bellowed over the tac channel, an ancient Marine battle cry. “Marines!”

0950 HOURS GMT

Garroway

Candor Chasma

0909 hours MMT

Garroway reached the UN Mars cat, putting out one hand to touch it. A SIG-Sauer P-940 pistol with the trigger guard removed lay on the sand and he scooped it up. The fight, though, was all but over. Other Marines were finding ATARs and lasers on the ground next to dead or dying UN troopers; the four armed Marines became six, then ten. A brief, savage exchange of gunfire in the smoky darkness of the dust cloud killed two more UN soldiers and sent a round through Sergeant Steve Abrell’s right arm. Air was shrieking through the bloody holes punched in his armor, but Casey reached him in time with a roll of vacuum-seal duct tape, winding the heavy gray plastic around and around the damaged area until the air stopped leaking. Abrell was unconscious, but his armor readout showed he was stabilizing as Casey fed him more O2 from his life-support pack. He would be okay, if they could get him into a pressurized environment soon.