Steven Kent - The Clone Elite

As we reached the cockpit door, Sweetwater paused. He forced himself to look me in the eye, like a kid caught stealing cookies, and said, “Um, we might have neglected to mention to Raymond that we were coming on this mission.”

“I thought I told you to report to Freeman.” It occurred to me that I was scolding one of the brightest men in the galaxy the way a mother scolds a misbehaving child.

Even more ironic, he answered in kind. “We’re sorry, Lieutenant. It’s just …What if Raymond said we couldn’t come?” Somewhere in that stubby body still beat the heart of the schoolboy.

Fighting back the urge to laugh, I tried to sound angry as I said, “Well, we’re stuck with you now, whether he likes it or not.”

Sweetwater brightened, led the way into the cockpit, and called out, “Good afternoon, Raymond.” Then he said, “Good Lord, Raymond, that can’t be comfortable.”

Freeman sat cramped behind the controls of the ship. The engineers who designed the cockpit did not have a seven-foot, 350-pound man in mind when they placed the pilot’s chair a mere twenty-four inches away from the yoke. Freeman’s knees did not fit into the cavity under the HUD, so he had to sit with his legs straddling the yoke, a comical sight.

Freeman looked back, nodded at me, then said, “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

“How is our flight time looking?” Sweetwater asked. He really did behave like a nervous adolescent. He stood there nervously fidgeting, swinging his arms back and forth while rocking on his heels.

“We have a few hours ahead of us,” Freeman said in a velvet rumble. “Are you going in with us, Dr. Sweetwater, or just coming along for the ride?”

“We thought we might go in and help place the device,” Sweetwater said.

“Of course,” said Freeman. “Doctor, perhaps Lieutenant Harris and I could have a word in private.” Cold and distant as Ray Freeman was in most situations, he had a fondness for Sweetwater. I could see it in the way he gazed at the doctor, like a father watching his child.

Sweetwater’s confidence sank like a rock. He looked nervous, sad, and desperate all at once. “We can help,” he said. “We figured out about supercharging the gas before Arthur. You’ll need us there, Raymond.”

Freeman nodded, then the softness in his expression disappeared as he fixed his double-barrel gaze on me, and said, “Doctor, I’m sure we need your help, but may I have a word with Harris now?”

Sweetwater looked at me, and asked, “Should we wait outside?”

“Why don’t you go down and wait with the other men,” I said. Then I added, “This could get bloody.” I said it under my breath, so that neither man would hear me.

“Right,” Sweetwater said, heading out the bulkhead. “We’ll just, um, be down in the cabin with everyone else.” He stepped over the threshold and shot back one last highly insecure look, then headed down the ladder.

I launched a preemptive defense. “It doesn’t matter whether he comes with us or hides in the galaxy’s biggest fallout shelter; we either succeed, or he’s a dead man.”

Freeman nodded, but anger still showed in his eyes. “Does he have armor?” Freeman asked.

“No,” I said.

“He’s going to die a bad death,” Freeman said. I saw something I had never seen in Freeman’s face before—sympathy.

“We can leave him in the transport,” I said. “He can try and direct us over the interLink.”

Freeman shook his head. “He’s right. We were either going to need him or Breeze to come with us. You just get us down there, Harris; I’ll watch out for Sweetwater.”

I stayed in the cockpit for most of the flight. When I finally came down, I found my Marines gathered around Sweetwater. He looked like a coach prepping his team before a big game.

“Oh, Lieutenant Harris, we were just explaining to your men about the nature of the Avatari miners.”

“I see,” I said.

“Is it true?” Thomer asked. “We never fought the real aliens, it was just their reflections all along?”

I sighed. I had come to brief the men, but Sweetwater had already handled most of the briefing. The problem was that while he had all the information, he would not know how to couch it so that it would motivate the men.

“Doctor, Freeman wants to talk to you,” I said.

“What does Raymond want to discuss?” Sweetwater asked, sounding nervous.

“He’s ponying the equipment,” I said. “I think he wants to plan out his part of the mission with you.”

Satisfied that Freeman would not leave him tied up in the transport, Sweetwater said, “Excellent idea. We really do need to plan out what to take and what to leave behind. Excuse us, gentlemen.” And he waddled to the ladder and climbed to meet Freeman.

I looked at Major Burton and noticed the relaxed way in which he leaned back on the bench. It was dark in the kettle, so I could not be sure, but Burton did not look pale or sick. In fact, the entire company looked ready for action.

“Put on your helmets,” I said. “Let’s test the gear.

“Sound off, Marines,” I said.

The fire teams answered to their team leaders. The team leaders reported to their squad leaders. Squad leaders sounded off for platoon leaders. Platoon leaders reported to Major Burton, who reported to me. With only forty-seven men, we had enough men for one full platoon with a little spare change, but we organized the men into two miniature platoons.

Major Burton told the men to remove their helmets, then came over and took his place behind me and to my right, and I began the mission briefing.

I’d seen many briefings during my stints with the Marines. They were generally conducted by officers who had nothing but disdain for clones. The officers often began by insulting our intelligence, then proceeded to play off our emotions to work us into a frenzy. The meetings were somewhere between a pep rally and an evangelical revival with homicidal overtones. This one would be different, I decided, I would show these men the respect they deserved.

I took a moment to arrange my thoughts. “Who knows what’s in these crates?” I asked.

Herrington raised his hand. “Those would be our nukes.”

“Yes, these would be two fifty-megaton nuclear devices,” I said. “We have a matching set. Any of you ever set off a nuke in battle?” No one raised his hand. “No?

“Here’s the drill. We are going to hike into a hollowed-out mountain that is filled to the gills with giant spiderlike creatures. Some are six feet tall and some are ten feet tall, any of them can tear a man in half without thinking twice about it, and your combat armor won’t even add any challenge.

“If we can hoss these big bombs in there, we will fry those motherspeckers. These bombs will bring the whole damn cave down on top of them. These bombs will make the insides of those mountains so hot the rocks will melt and the dirt will turn to ash.”

I could tell my briefing was not going over well. The men looked confused. They looked nervous.

“Are we planning on hanging around to watch that happen?” asked Private Peterson.

“No, Private, we are not,” I said. “The plan is to deliver our little presents and beat it out of there rapid, quick, and pronto. I don’t know about you, Peterson, but I plan on being halfway back to Valhalla before that big bang goes off.

“Any other questions?”

No one responded. They looked confused.

Burton laid a hand on my shoulder, and whispered, “May I, Lieutenant?”

“Be my guest,” I said.

“Okay, Gyrenes!” he shouted in a voice that was several decibels louder than it needed to be. “You, Sergeant. What’s your name?”

“Herrington, sir.”

“So, Sergeant Herrington, can you tell me why we are taking a couple of nukes on this little joyride?” Burton asked. “What’s so good about nukes?”