Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

The squad comes stumbling into the drop ship. The last one in is Sergeant Fallon. She fires her rifle through the open hatch with one hand while she pulls on the door latch with the other, and she only lets off the trigger when the closing door is about to swing past her muzzle. Sergeant Fallon stumbles back as the hatch seals into place, and toggles into the company channel.

“Valkyrie Six-Four, Bravo One-One. Our location is crawling with hostiles. We’re all buttoned down in the ship. What say you drop some ordnance around us?”

“Bravo One-One, Valkyrie Six-Four. We can’t drop stuff in a civilian area, but we can give you a pass with the cannons.”

“Try to miss the drop ship, Six-Four. We’re all holed up in the cargo hold.”

“Copy that, One-One. Stand by.”

My TacLink display shows the drop ship surrounded by a sea of red carets. There are no windows in the side walls of the cargo hold, but the banging all over the exterior of the Hornet makes it clear that the locals have us cornered. The armor of the ship is thick enough to filter out most of the yelling, but the gunfire on the other side of the laminate plating is very audible.

“Where’s my rifle?” I ask, and Stratton shrugs.

“I ran it dry and dropped it outside. Sorry.”

“Well, fuck. What the hell am I supposed to shoot with now?”

“Get another one from the arms locker up front,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Restock your ammo while you’re at it. Baker and Jackson, go with him and grab ammo for your teams. Take everything you can carry. I think we’re in for a long evening.”

The arms locker is behind the cockpit, right next to the chemical toilet and the galley closet. It’s like a small walk-in closet, loaded to the roof with spare weapons and ammunition. The small arms are lined up in rows along the back wall of the locker, and the ammunition is stacked in sealed boxes underneath the arms racks. I grab a pair of boxes labeled “MAGAZINE, RIFLE, M-66, 45EA.”, and hand them back to Baker and Jackson, who are standing in the passageway behind me.

“Get some rifle grenades, too,” Baker says.

I reach into the storage rack again and pull out several different hard plastic boxes full of forty-millimeter grenades. Jackson and Baker take them and toss the boxes to the rear, where the rest of the squad is busy reloading rifles and restocking ammunition pouches.

The weapons on the rack are mostly M-66 rifles, standard issue for most of us. There are several Sarissas lined up to the right of the rifles, which are not terribly useful to us right now, and a half dozen MARS launchers, which are. The Multipurpose Assault Rocket System is a stubby little tube that fires a large variety of stubby little rockets. It does the same job as the grenade launchers integrated into our rifles, but the bore of the MARS is twice as big, the range is twice as long, and the bang is four times as loud. I take a M-66 out of the rack, charge it with a fresh magazine, and sling it over my shoulder. On an impulse, I also grab one of the pistols and stick it into one of the empty grenade loops on my armor. Finally, I pull one of the MARS launchers out of the storage clamps. The cartridges for the launcher are neatly lined up on the rack underneath, color-coded safety caps denoting the lethal flavors. Half the colors are unfamiliar to me, despite the fact that I paid attention in Basic when we were familiarized with the MARS. I do know the color codes for high explosive dual purpose (red), and thermobaric (yellow and black). I take one of each, load one cartridge into the rear of the launcher, and sling the other cartridge tube over my shoulder, where it clanks against the rifle.

“Got any big plans for tonight, Grayson?” Sergeant Fallon asks when I get back to the cargo hold, the MARS launcher in the crook of my arm.

“Just making sure we bring enough bang, Sarge.”

Outside, the banging stops. Then we hear a series of rapid-fire explosions outside, like someone’s lighting off the biggest string of firecrackers ever made. A moment later, Valkyrie Six-Four roars by over our heads.

“Bravo One-One, you have ‘em running for cover. We’re making another pass.”

“Copy, Six-Four, and thanks a bunch,” Sergeant Fallon replies.

“Grab your gear, and get ready to bail,” she tells us over the squad channel.

“We hit the side alley here.” She marks the spot in question on our TacLink displays. “Make sure you get way the fuck away from this boat. When the demo charge goes off, this thing will be the world’s biggest hand grenade.”

“Someone check on my crew chief,” the pilot says. Her voice is a slow drawl—Paterson, our squad medic, has injected her with the standard painkiller cocktail from the trauma kit, and that stuff is good enough to let you forget even a missing limb for a while. She won’t be able to feel anything below her waist for a few hours, but it’s not like she would have been able to do sprints on those broken legs, anyway.

“He’s out cold, but he’s alive,” Paterson replies. “Knocked himself out good.”

“Paterson and Baker, grab the Chief,” Sergeant Fallon orders. “Phillips and Priest, you take the pilot. Let’s blow this joint before the crowd gets their courage back.”

“Bravo One-One, this is Valkyrie Six-Four. We’re ordered to evac Second Platoon’s casualties. You’re on your own for a while. Six-Two and Six-Five are en route from Shughart, ETA nineteen minutes.”

“Super,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That is just superior timing, Six-Four.”

“Take it up with Company,” Six-Four’s pilot replies. “We’re just doing as we’re told.”

“Don’t sweat it, Six-Four. You are Second Platoon’s boat, after all.”

“So what’s the plan now, Sarge?” Jackson asks.

“I’ll check with Company,” Sergeant Fallon replies, and toggles over to the Company circuit. After a few moments of terse conversation, she shakes her head and comes back on the squad channel.

“Battalion is sending in Alpha Company, and one of the armor platoons. Second Platoon’s got a bunch of casualties. We’re to hoof it back to the Civic Center and hole up with the rest of First and Second Platoons until the cavalry arrives.”

“Sounds like a sensible plan,” Baker replies. “Too bad they didn’t send those tanks in right away.”

“They almost never drag out armor for domestics, Baker. It looks too warlike, or something.”

It certainly looks like a war out there to me , I think. People are shooting at us, we’re shooting back, and the ones that are hit don’t get up again. Those are citizens of the NAC out there, the people whose rights we vowed to protect when we swore our service oaths, but civil rights are not exactly the first thing on your mind when someone fires a gun in your direction. Right now, there’s our small tribe of scared and tired troops, holed up in the wrecked drop ship, and then there’s everybody else, and there’s not a soldier in our squad who wouldn’t shoot any number of Them to save one of Us.

“Let’s bail,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Rear hatch, everyone. Remember to stay clear of this ship. There’ll be shit flying everywhere. Stratton, stay with me while I make the charge hot. The rest of you, get a move on.”

We gather our junk and congregate at the rear of the drop ship. The conscious pilot and her unconscious crew chief are suspended between two pairs of TA troopers. I’m glad to only be encumbered with the MARS launcher—the four of us carrying the crew members will have a hard time shooting at anything. Jackson signals for me to cover the rear with Hansen.

“I’ll take point,” she says. “You two bring up the tail.”

She reaches over to throw the lever for the ramp mechanism, and the cargo hatch opens as the inside light in the bay goes out. My helmet-mounted display flickers briefly, adjusting to the changing light. The bottom of the ramp hasn’t yet touched the street when Jackson jumps out of the hatch and starts running for the alley.