War Machine: The Memoirs of a Synthetic Marine

Episode 36

Welcome to Hell

The engines throttled up, lifting the box into a shallow hover as the troopship’s exterior doors began opening.

During my first combat mission I was captivated with the sights and sounds of the insertion process. However, this time around, I ignored the video feeds. I was too lost in my private thoughts. Thoughts about Cherri.

Here I was, just minutes from being inserted into a combat zone and yet I was totally distracted by my internal dialog. It was a recipe for getting KIA’d. Struggling to put my mind into a state more conducive to battlefield survival, I needed to get focused.

Just then, I realized I’d forgotten to tune into the squad frequency. I quickly switched on my radio, hoping I hadn’t missed DJ’s mission briefing. I was just in time to catch the tail end.

“… So, basically, we’re running defense on the left flank of the assault force. We don’t advance until Command gives us the greenlight. And we’re supposed to maintain a strict 300 meter separation between us and the assault force. Any questions?”

Someone asked, “What’s up with the 300 meter separation? The enemy could cruise right through a gap like that.”

Wheezer pointed out the danger of this. “Yeah. It doesn’t make any sense. If the enemy gets between us and the assault force, we’ll shoot each other to pieces.”

DJ said, “Listen guys, I agree. It doesn’t make sense. But it’s right there in our orders. You can read it for yourselves.” There was some muffled swearing in the background.

DJ then offered a tactical band-aid. “Look, we’ll monitor the gap between us and the assault force. If we spot any enemy movement in that area, we’ll ask Command to let us move in and hit them.” With that uninspiring workaround, he brought the mission briefing to a close. “7th squad, lock and load!”

I really missed Merc’s capable leadership.

Unlike Merc, DJ was not a stickler about reserving the squad frequency for mission info only. Consequently, the squad used the open frequency to chat among themselves when DJ wasn’t using it. I listened to the squad’s banter as I reread my battle orders for the fourth time.

A guy who went by the handle G-Sauce, was talking idly about numbers. Something about their frequency of occurrence. I heard him ask, “Do you guys ever wonder why 19, and multiples of 19, are everywhere in the USMC?”

A guy named Pita took the bait. “Let me guess. This is another one of your dumbass theories about shit that doesn’t matter to anyone but you?” There was some chuckling over the radio.

“No, I’m serious. Think about it. There are 19 Marines to a squad, and 19 squads to a box, right? How many boxes on a troopship?”

A different voice answered, “19”

Pita still wasn’t buying it. “So what? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, really? So, what about memory awards? How many separate memories are there in each award?”

Even though I hadn’t reviewed any of my memories yet, I knew there were 19 memories in every award. I had to admit, it did seem unusual for a particular number to occur so frequently. Was it just a random anomaly, or was it somehow intentionally embedded in the very fabric of troopship life? And if it was intentional, who was responsible?

Before I could even begin to puzzle through this mystery, the box started its routine of violent maneuvers to avoid enemy anti-air threats during the descent to the planet’s surface. Unlike my previous experience, this time around, I found the aerial gymnastics more annoying than terrifying.

DJ’s voice came over the radio and advised, “Listen up 7th squad! 5 minutes to landing. 5 minutes. Weapons free!”

I rechecked my weapons and activated their virtual arming switches. My acoustic sensors picked up the metallic sounds of weapons being cycled, and rounds being chambered as everyone around me performed the same procedure. A ritual, which had been honed over countless repetitions in the simulator and on combat missions.

The wild gyrations ceased as the box leveled out in preparation for landing. We were now at our most vulnerable, as we approached the LZ. Explosions from enemy anti-air rounds could now be heard, as well as felt. Turbulence from the airbursts rattled our shuttle savagely as it slowed for landing.

Suddenly, the shuttle slewed sickeningly to one side as it took several direct hits. Shrapnel began piercing its outer skin and ricocheting throughout the interior. An occasional metallic crash was heard whenever one of the deadly projectiles struck a bulkhead. I felt terribly exposed strapped into my form fitting cradle, immobilized, as I waited for a piece of shrapnel to find me.

The last few moments before touchdown seemed to stretch into eternity.

DJ came on the radio again, his voice panicky, as he stated what was already obvious to everyone on board. “Be advised, the LZ is hot! I repeat, the LZ is hot! … Uh … Get to cover as soon as you’re out of the box!”

I heard someone mutter “No shit!” It seemed DJ was struggling in his new role as squad leader. Merc would have already checked the map for the closest available cover and advised the squad exactly where the rally point would be.

Hoping to survive the enemy welcoming party below, I quickly reviewed the 3D battlefield map and found what appeared to be a slight depression just west of the LZ, approximately 150 meters out. It would offer some protection from direct fire. I got on the squad frequency and shouting to be heard over the noise of incoming fire, advised the squad where to find cover.

Before I could sign off, there was an enormous impact as our box hit the planet’s frozen surface. The interior of the shuttle began rolling and collapsing in on itself. Helpless Marines were ripped from their moorings and tossed around like toys. Then the lights went out, plunging the chaotic scene into darkness.

A profound silence settled over the wreckage of our shuttle as it finally came to rest in the snow. Fault codes scrolled across my HUD, remarkably, none of them were show-stoppers. I got on the radio to contact my squad mates, but there was only static.

Narrow beams of illumination pierced the blackness, as survivors began turning on their tactical lights. Tiny pools of light revealed hints of the tragedy, even as the scale of the destruction lay hidden in the darkness.

I quickly assessed the situation. We had crashed in the combat zone on an alien planet, our transport was a total loss, and we had suffered considerable casualties before even firing a shot. This mission was supposed to be a low risk babysitting assignment for us veterans. Instead, it had become an unmitigated disaster.

I wondered how many others had been lost during insertion. I thought briefly about Cherri before suppressing it. I couldn’t allow myself the distraction. I had to get out. Every second I spent inside reduced my chances of survival.

After activating my tactical lights, I checked my mobility. Everything seemed to function, so I quickly surveyed my immediate surroundings. I was on top a mountain of unstable wreckage. Parts of combat-bots protruded from the debris, alongside grotesquely twisted pieces of the shuttle’s structure.

My gyroscopes struggled to stabilize me as I tried to stand. However, I found I could only navigate the constantly shifting rubble on my hands and knees. Looking for any sign of an escape route, I noticed a faint light coming from the opposite side of the ship. Crawling over to investigate, I found a gaping fracture in the hull through which a mound of snow had accumulated. Wading through the opening, I finally stood outside the smoldering wreckage of our box.

Taking a knee, I surveyed the debris trail extending from the crash site. Our box had plowed a deep furrow in the planet’s snowy surface for as far as I could see.

In the distance, I spotted shuttles which had managed to successfully land in the LZ. They were already disembarking troops onto the battlefield. There were also several columns of black smoke rising into the icy atmosphere of Proxima Centauri b. They marked the crash sites of USMC shuttles destroyed by enemy anti-air. Counting the smoke columns, I calculated we had lost 4 boxes of Marines, including the one I was on. There were now only 15 surviving shuttles to execute the mission.

With no other shuttle visible in our immediate vicinity, it was clear the second shuttle assigned to cover the left flank had been shot down by enemy fire.

Other dazed survivors began trickling out of the wreckage. We needed to get to cover fast. Once the enemy noticed some of us had survived the crash, they would undoubtedly open up on us with everything they had.

I tried raising someone from 7th squad, but there was no response. Assuming I was still having radio problems, I waved for the others to follow me. When we got to the small depression I’d seen on the map, it was only big enough to shelter a couple dozen Marines. We hunkered down as best we could, to figure out our next move.

A Marine came over gesturing with an AUX cable, requesting a comms link. I grabbed the cable and plugged it in.

“Well, this is a fuckin’ mess, isn’t it?” He seemed eerily composed in spite of the tragic prelude to our ill-fated mission. The name tag on his body armor read Kam. I knew of him by reputation. A veteran who was proficient in combat. It was reassuring that he was an experienced 2 and his nickname Kam, was an abbreviation for ‘kick ass motherfucker’.

“More like a disaster.” I said, surveying our small group of survivors. I realized there was no one from my squad and asked, ”Did you see anyone from 7th squad after the crash?”

“No.” He gestured at the collection of survivors and added, “I think this is it. I checked on the emergency frequency, and there was nothing. We need to get on a spare frequency ASAP and get organized. The enemy is going to come looking for survivors. If we’re not ready to engage them, we’ll get slaughtered.”

Muffled detonations could be heard from inside the wrecked shuttle. Command was auto-destructing anyone who was buried in the wreckage, or too damaged to escape. They couldn’t be allowed to fall into enemy hands.

Bringing up the battle orders, I found the list of unassigned radio frequencies and selected one. “Let’s use 126.3.”

“Copy that.” Reading my name tag, he asked, “So, you’re Mc Cann?”

“Everyone calls me Outline.”

He nodded and turned to face the rest of the group. Waving to get their attention, he pointed to his right ear, then signed 1-2-6-3 with his robotic fingers. Soon, I heard voices on the frequency.

Stepping effortlessly into the leadership role, Kam addressed the other Marines. “Listen up Marines! Looks like we’re the only survivors from this shuttle, and unfortunately, the other shuttle didn’t make it to the LZ. Once the enemy realizes there are survivors, they’re going to push us. If we haven’t gotten organized before they attack, we will get steamrolled by them. So, here’s the plan.

As of now, we’re a composite combat squad consisting of …” He paused to count the survivors. “26 Marines. As the senior Marine present, I humbly accept your invitation to be squad leader. And …” Pointing at me, he said, “… that Marine is my second in command. Count off and divide yourselves into two squads, A and B. A squad is with me, B squad with Outline.”

As much as I appreciated the unofficial promotion, the last thing I felt qualified to be, was a brand-new corporal in charge of a squad of combat veterans.

Kam continued, “Our original mission was flank defense for the assault. As I see it, that’s still our job. However, since there are only a handful of us left and none of our AAV’s survived the crash, we’re going to have to adjust our tactics a little. We’ll need to close up with the assault force and reduce that buffer zone, if we’re going to provide any flank protection at all.”

Someone named Nixxt voiced concern about ignoring Command’s buffer zone rule. “Don’t you think Command might AD us for violating the buffer zone rule?”

Kam shrugged and said, “Relax. They’ll probably give us medals. Besides, Command isn’t going to AD us after surviving a shuttle crash, and then reorganizing to support the assault force. We’re just executing the mission they assigned us by other means. It’s called battlefield flexibility. It’s part of our training.”

Nixxt pleaded, “Shouldn’t we at least check in with Command first?”

Kam responded, “Oh, you mean get permission from the assholes who are sending more than five thousand untrained Marines into combat to get wasted? Sure, let’s do that! Wait, why don’t we take a vote while we’re at it?” He studied our group, seeming to dare other potential dissenters to speak up.

It was clear we were going to continue with the mission, regardless of any opinions to the contrary.