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Holding the Line
Di Rick Shelley
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 303 pagine
- Editore:
- Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
- Pubblicato:
- Sep 9, 2011
- ISBN:
- 9781936535408
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
As members of the Alliance of Light, humans have committed to the battle against the Ilion Federation, and they’re doing their part. But the Alliance’s army is fragmented, and to unify their forces, the army’s leaders must do the unthinkable: they form the First Combined Regiment, made up of soldiers from every alien race in the Alliance.
The Spec Ops Squad is supposed to be the best of the best, an elite group within the First Combined Regiment to take care of the dirtiest jobs. Sergeant Bart “Dragon” Drak isn’t too surprised to learn that these warriors don’t have a whole lot in common, and it’s obvious that it will take a lot of work to turn a bunch of commandos into a team. He didn’t sign up for this, but he’s got to see it through.
In the midst of training, the Spec Ops Squad is called off to planet Dintsen to fight off an invasion from the Ilion Federation. With such an elite fighting force, beating them back should be a piece of cake... except Ilion’s got the same kind of team on their side, and theirs are better trained. Drak will have to face down tremendous odds and new challenges to bring his team home.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR:
"Rick Shelley was a soldier at heart, and his books were written from the heart. They carry the real feel of the sweat, blood, and camaraderie of those on the front lines." --Jack Campbell, author of the bestselling Lost Fleet series
The Spec Ops Squad is supposed to be the best of the best, an elite group within the First Combined Regiment to take care of the dirtiest jobs. Sergeant Bart “Dragon” Drak isn’t too surprised to learn that these warriors don’t have a whole lot in common, and it’s obvious that it will take a lot of work to turn a bunch of commandos into a team. He didn’t sign up for this, but he’s got to see it through.
In the midst of training, the Spec Ops Squad is called off to planet Dintsen to fight off an invasion from the Ilion Federation. With such an elite fighting force, beating them back should be a piece of cake... except Ilion’s got the same kind of team on their side, and theirs are better trained. Drak will have to face down tremendous odds and new challenges to bring his team home.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR:
"Rick Shelley was a soldier at heart, and his books were written from the heart. They carry the real feel of the sweat, blood, and camaraderie of those on the front lines." --Jack Campbell, author of the bestselling Lost Fleet series
Informazioni sul libro
Holding the Line
Di Rick Shelley
Lunghezza: 303 pagine
Descrizione
As members of the Alliance of Light, humans have committed to the battle against the Ilion Federation, and they’re doing their part. But the Alliance’s army is fragmented, and to unify their forces, the army’s leaders must do the unthinkable: they form the First Combined Regiment, made up of soldiers from every alien race in the Alliance.
The Spec Ops Squad is supposed to be the best of the best, an elite group within the First Combined Regiment to take care of the dirtiest jobs. Sergeant Bart “Dragon” Drak isn’t too surprised to learn that these warriors don’t have a whole lot in common, and it’s obvious that it will take a lot of work to turn a bunch of commandos into a team. He didn’t sign up for this, but he’s got to see it through.
In the midst of training, the Spec Ops Squad is called off to planet Dintsen to fight off an invasion from the Ilion Federation. With such an elite fighting force, beating them back should be a piece of cake... except Ilion’s got the same kind of team on their side, and theirs are better trained. Drak will have to face down tremendous odds and new challenges to bring his team home.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR:
"Rick Shelley was a soldier at heart, and his books were written from the heart. They carry the real feel of the sweat, blood, and camaraderie of those on the front lines." --Jack Campbell, author of the bestselling Lost Fleet series
The Spec Ops Squad is supposed to be the best of the best, an elite group within the First Combined Regiment to take care of the dirtiest jobs. Sergeant Bart “Dragon” Drak isn’t too surprised to learn that these warriors don’t have a whole lot in common, and it’s obvious that it will take a lot of work to turn a bunch of commandos into a team. He didn’t sign up for this, but he’s got to see it through.
In the midst of training, the Spec Ops Squad is called off to planet Dintsen to fight off an invasion from the Ilion Federation. With such an elite fighting force, beating them back should be a piece of cake... except Ilion’s got the same kind of team on their side, and theirs are better trained. Drak will have to face down tremendous odds and new challenges to bring his team home.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR:
"Rick Shelley was a soldier at heart, and his books were written from the heart. They carry the real feel of the sweat, blood, and camaraderie of those on the front lines." --Jack Campbell, author of the bestselling Lost Fleet series
- Editore:
- Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
- Pubblicato:
- Sep 9, 2011
- ISBN:
- 9781936535408
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a Holding the Line
Anteprima del libro
Holding the Line - Rick Shelley
SOS.
CHAPTER 1
IT WAS MAJOR WELLMAN WHO INFORMED ME that I had volunteered for a new unit called the 1st Combined Regiment.
We were in the middle of a training operation. I had been assigned as an instructor in Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Campbell for the past six months—ever since I finished my medical leave following the debacle on Dintsen. My ranger battalion had been there for a joint training mission with a divotect battalion. The war had caught us all by surprise, and Dintsen just happened to be the first target the Ilion Federation hit. And brother, they hit us hard. Of the twelve hundred humans on the planet, only three hundred survived the attack, and two-thirds of us were wounded. It was a miracle that any of us got off Dintsen alive. The divotect battalion we had been training with got hurt worse, and they had nowhere to go. It was their world.
So now I had this platoon of trainee infantrymen drawn from just about every corner of the western hemisphere. My job was to make sure they absorbed enough knowledge—and discipline—to give them a chance to survive combat when their turn came. As a full member of the Alliance of Light, Earth was committed to the war with the Ilion Federation.
We were out in the field, as usual. The tactical problem at the moment was to infiltrate positions held by a superior aggressor force—regular troops who were out to show the rookies how much they had left to learn. Maybe in another month my trainees would know enough to give a good accounting of themselves. Right now, they were making more mistakes than I could have counted with both boots off.
The radio call from the battalion sergeant major was a surprise. Hey, Dragon. Turn your men over to your corporal and haul your ass over to the fire road north of you. On the double. I’ve got a crawler on the way to pick you up. Major Wellman wants to see you like ten minutes ago.
From the tone in Fritz’s voice, I didn’t think that the major was going to pin another medal on my chest. What the hell did I do wrong this time?
I asked.
Nobody tells me nothing,
Fritz said, and I didn’t bother calling him a liar. He knew more about what went on in the regiment than any of the officers. Just get your ass in gear. The major doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
I got my sigh over before I keyed my transmitter again. Okay, Fritz. On my way.
It took me thirty seconds to give Corporal Hernandez the unwelcome news that he was in charge until I got back—and twenty of those seconds were wasted telling him I didn’t know when that would be. Then I lit out, at the double, through the woods to the fire road. Whatever it was that Major Wellman wanted me for, I didn’t want to give him any more time to steam than I had to. He and I did not get along under the best of circumstances.
JOSIAH WELLMAN WAS A CAREER OFFICER, AN Academy man who couldn’t forget that he had come out of the trade school
—and who never let anyone else forget it either. Normally, a battalion would rate a lieutenant colonel as commanding officer, even in a training unit. Wellman had arrived two months earlier, without the promotion he had evidently expected. The rumor in the NCO club was that he had been passed over, that there was some black mark on his record that would keep him from ever making light colonel—until he was forced out of the service for being passed over for promotion too many times. With a war on, the brass might not be in any hurry about dumping him, but they weren’t going to promote him if they could avoid it.
I needed twenty-three minutes to reach the battalion orderly room on main base. Fritz looked apprehensive as he got up from his desk and moved toward the door to Major Wellman’s office.
He’s waiting for you. I’m to usher you right in.
Level with me, Fritz. What’s up?
Fritz shook his head. Honest, I don’t have any idea.
Then he knocked on the old man’s door, opened it far enough to stick his head in, and said, Sergeant Drak is here, Major.
Wellman’s Send him in
was muffled but didn’t sound happy. Fritz swung the door open all the way and gestured me through. He closed the door behind me.
Sergeant Drak reporting as ordered.
I braced to attention and saluted. Since I didn’t know what was up, and figured I was in trouble for something, I made it all as crisp and proper as I could, acting like I loved all the routine bullshit.
Major Wellman looked up slowly and returned my salute as if he were trapped in gelatin. Then he stared with his watery blue eyes. Staring was one thing the major was excellent at. He had made it nearly an art form. Wellman looked me up and down, then back up again. There was no steam coming out of his ears, but I didn’t need much imagination to picture it. I remained stiffly at attention. Maybe I don’t look much like a recruiting poster soldier—I’m too short and stocky for that—but I do know my job; I’m damned good at it, if I do say so myself. I can handle any weapon in the inventory, and I can take care of myself without any weapons but those I had when I entered the world.
At ease, Sergeant,
he said after what felt like two or three minutes—but was probably less than thirty seconds. I moved my feet apart and put my hands behind my back.
I have good news for you, Sergeant,
Wellman said. He leaned back so he could stare with less discomfort. You have volunteered to be part of a new unit, the 1st Combined Regiment.
Sir?
Wellman scowled. That was the other thing he was good at. If there were more than those two, I hadn’t seen them.
"The Combined General Staff of the Grand Alliance has decided—in its infinite wisdom—to attempt to integrate the armed forces of all the species in the Alliance down to the battalion level. And our chief of staff has decided that we need to contribute the, ah, most capable soldiers available, especially combat veterans, and most especially decorated heroes. At this point his scowl got so deep and convoluted I thought he was about to puke.
Personally, I don’t see how a soldier deserves a medal for somehow surviving when damned near his entire platoon was killed around him."
Sir, maybe you’ll see how if you ever manage to get in combat yourself. And survive. Sir.
Okay, I was way out of line, even though his jibe was a dig at me, but I couldn’t stop myself. It wasn’t the first time I had sounded off out of turn, and I wouldn’t make book on it being the last.
Wellman got to his feet slowly, leaning on his desk with his long, pickpocket fingers until he was nearly all the way up. He didn’t have to get all the way up to be taller than me, but he stretched out to his full six feet four inches—eight inches taller than me. I could see his face go from its usual pasty white to a brilliant crimson. You’ve got three hours to report to the flitter port for transportation to West Memphis. You are not to discuss your orders with anyone while in transit. Have fun playing with the lizards and monkeys. Now get out of here before I have your orders rewritten to send you out as a corporal.
I got out, without bothering to salute. As soon as Wellman’s door was closed behind me, I let out a long breath … and realized I was sweating like a pig. Fritz got up from his desk and picked up several sheets of paper.
These were delivered right after you went in,
he said, handing the papers to me. The 1st Combined Regiment—what’s that?
I shrugged. "Some bright idea the brass came up with, putting soldiers from all the Alliance peoples together, down to the battalion level, from what he said. I jerked my head toward Wellman’s door.
I get to be one of the guinea pigs to see if it works. I’ve got three hours." No, I hadn’t forgotten the major’s warning not to discuss my orders with anyone, but if Fritz wasn’t safe, no one was. In any case, Wellman had merely said that I wasn’t to discuss my orders with anyone in transit, and I hadn’t left yet. I can split hairs with the best latrine lawyer ever born.
Just remember to keep your head and your butt down,
Fritz said, sticking out a hand. I nodded and we shook hands.
MY ORDERS JUST SAID THAT I WAS TO REPORT to the troop movements office at the spaceport outside West Memphis that evening for transport to the space station at Over-Galapagos for further transport to someplace with the code name Dancer. I went to the armory to turn in my weapons and electronic gear, dropped by the personnel section to pick up the data chip with my personnel and medical records, then hitched a ride back to the barracks. Packing didn’t take long. I was a bachelor living on base, and six months hadn’t been long enough to accumulate much excess baggage. I filled my duffel bag and one suitcase—all I was permitted, according to the orders—and set them next to the door of my room. I had time for a meal before I signed out. If you’ve got the chance, always eat before you leave. You never know when you’ll get an opportunity in transit, and the food might be even worse than what you’re used to.
Fritz found me in the mess hall. I’ve got a crawler lined up to take you to the flitter strip,
he said, sitting across from me. I asked around, trying to find out about this unit you’re going to.
He shook his head. I didn’t have much luck. Everything about it is classified. The most I could come up with is that all of the armies are sending their soldiers to some frontier world to train together. After this training period is complete, the big shots will evaluate the results and decide whether the unit is fit for combat.
Or something only useful to show civilians how well the alliance works,
I said.
No doubt. Just take care of yourself.
Yeah. You too. The way this war is going, they’re going to get all of us out somewhere with our butts hanging out.
EARTH AND MOST OF THE WORLDS HUMANS have settled belong to the Alliance of Light. We had been colonizing worlds for more than a hundred years before we ran into another sentient species. That must be some sort of record for stumbling around in a crowd and not bumping into anyone. Then we learned that there are at least another ten sentient, spacefaring peoples in our stretch of the Galaxy. We joined the Alliance so fast it could have made your head spin. Since we weren’t alone
any longer, we didn’t want to be the odd people on the outside. We had to be part of the group. It was only after joining that we learned the Alliance of Light didn’t speak for all the settled worlds and all the sentient species. There was another group, the Ilion Federation, and the two alliances did not get along at all well. For myself, I figure we joined the right alliance, but that was pure luck—happenstance. Over the years, a few human worlds did switch sides, mostly because of political beefs.
The political and social situations get confusing. The Alliance of Light and the Ilion Federation had both started out as trading associations, and neither has a really powerful central government yet—though the Ilion Federation comes a lot closer, since it is dominated by one species, the tonatin. And since the tonatin majority doesn’t want any competition the rest of the Ilion Federation has little choice but to go along with the tonatin’s plans to wipe out the Alliance. I don’t think any of the sentient species are all members of one group or the other, except the divotect—their six worlds were all in the Alliance of Light … and three of those worlds had been captured by the Ilion Federation. That was what had precipitated the war, and cost me more friends than any man can stand to lose. I’m not completely certain why the Ilion Federation struck the divotect worlds first. Maybe the propaganda we get is right, that the tonatin were on a genocidal tear against the divotect—the only lizardlike sentient species. Or maybe they attacked the divotect first simply to weaken the Alliance of Light, thinking (rightly or wrongly) that the other species would be less likely to risk their own people for the divotect than any of the other species in the Alliance.
Both the Alliance and the Federation are political conglomerations, originally established to foster trade among the worlds rather than being based on race or species. That isn’t to say that there is no bigotry among species. There is, in just about every direction. That’s what I got to thinking about during the short flitter ride to West Memphis. They were going to put all of the species together in one unit, where humans, divotect, porracci, abarand, biraunta, ghuroh—and who knew how many other species—would have to work together, back each other up, try to keep each other alive. It looked like a disaster just waiting to happen.
I had a headache before we landed at the spaceport.
UNTIL THAT DAY I HAD NEVER PUT MUCH STOCK in the medals they had given me after the slaughter on Dintsen. Counselors had helped me through what they say is a fairly normal feeling of grief and guilt at surviving when many of those around you didn’t. That still hasn’t stopped the nightmares, but now I can deal with it when they wake me in a cold sweat, shaking with worse fear than I felt when it was really happening. It wasn’t guilt that made me indifferent to the medals, maybe just a feeling that I hadn’t done anything special. In addition to the automatic awards—the Battle Star for being in combat and the Purple Heart for being wounded—most of the dozen surviving noncoms and all three surviving officers were awarded the Star of Gallantry, the second-highest decoration the human armies award. We fought as if the Devil were biting us on the ass because the alternative was waiting for the tonatin regiment that hit us to kill us at their leisure. That is what they did with those humans and divotect they captured alive. Every last one.
Hearing Major Wellman voice what I had thought more than once changed my mind. Maybe it was pure obstinacy, but I figured that Wellman was wrong so often that if he said I didn’t deserve the medals, it was odds-on that I did, one way or another. On the short flitter flight across the Mississippi I found myself wishing I had taken time to put the bar with the ribbons on my uniform for the trip. I promised myself that I’d get them out of my suitcase at the spaceport—if I had time.
The way it worked out, I didn’t. I reported where I was supposed to and got hurried off to a boarding gate and had to check my duffel and suitcase immediately. Half a dozen other soldiers had already arrived—a couple had been there six hours—and we were herded out to a bus five minutes after I checked in. Only one man arrived after me. We were put under the temporary command of the senior man—a Captain Johnstone—and warned not to discuss what we were doing or where we were going, even among ourselves. We boarded the shuttle through one hatch while our luggage was pushed through another, got our seats, strapped in, and sat there—all pretty much in silence.
The shuttle was a standard transport model that could hold sixty men and ten or twelve tons of cargo, not an assault craft. The fact that it was sealed up for takeoff with only eight passengers seemed unusual. The military is usually too cheap to waste money like that. A shuttle burns almost as much fuel empty as full.
I looked around at my fellow passengers. A couple of them I knew slightly from previous postings, but most were strangers. The only one I knew well was Antonio Xeres, a platoon sergeant. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a recruiting poster—the image of the adventure-vid soldier: tall, strong, and handsome, with a chin that looked as if it had been carved from granite; the kind of man mamas would trust their sons to. Tonio was an old friend. He had been on Dintsen as well, one of only three men in his platoon who had survived. If it hadn’t been for those three men, probably no one would have made it off Dintsen. Each of them had earned the Order of the Golden Galaxy, the top military medal for heroism in the Alliance.
Tonio and I stared at each other. We were too far apart for comfortable conversation, but I could read a lot in his eyes, and I’m sure he saw as much in mine. We had both been to the edge of hell and—by the grace of God or a kind Fate—made it back when a lot of others didn’t. That kind of tie is thicker than blood. Blood spills.
The mutual stare ended when the shuttle pilot announced that we would take off in thirty seconds. She told us to make certain our safety harnesses were fastened, and to stay put until we docked. If you didn’t do what you had to do before, it’s too late now,
she said. Well, I hadn’t thought of that before, and there hadn’t been time anyway. I wished she had kept her mouth shut, because once she put the idea in my head … It would have been one thing had we only been heading for a ship in low orbit. That kind of trip takes little more than a half hour usually, but we were going all the way to geostationary orbit, more than 22,000 miles out, and that meant at least ninety minutes, perhaps two hours, if we made a standard, economical once-around-the-world ascent to Over-Galapagos.
A ride in a military transport shuttle is not the same as a ride in a civilian shuttle. Civilians pay their way and expect a certain degree of comfort. We were grunts whose expectations and desires didn’t count. The shuttle taxied to the end of the runway, hesitated for ten seconds while the pilot ran the jets to full throttle, then we got shoved into our seat padding as she released the brakes and we hurtled forward. Five seconds later, the nose of the shuttle lifted to about fifty degrees. Another ten seconds and the pilot cut in the main rockets and I felt all the blood running to my back.
The intense acceleration lasted for three minutes, then eased until I only felt twice my normal weight and could think of things other than being squashed to a pancake while my blood squirted out from under my toenails. I guessed that we were going to make a direct burn for Over-Galapagos and not the fuel-conserving full-orbit route. Someone sure felt a sense of urgency about getting us wherever we were going. It’s not just that we were burning fuel like it grew on trees. Taking a shot like that, direct from the spaceport just outside West Memphis to the big habitat at Over-Galapagos meant rerouting any other air and space vehicles out of the way—including civilian vehicles.
At least it meant that we could count on a relatively short ride, fifty minutes or so, allowing for the usual back and fill of docking at the end. I closed my eyes and practiced taking normal breaths. I didn’t expect to get any sleep, but I could rest. Maybe once we got to O-G we’d learn where we were going.
OVER-GALAPAGOS IS THE LARGEST SPACE HABITAT in our Solar System and the oldest continually inhabited. The first section was built years before we figured out the hyperspace drive that let us get out of the system. Initially O-G was designed to be a scientific and industrial complex, as well as a way station for travel to the Moon, Mars, and the asteroids, with workers and their families living on-station for no more than a year at a time. As the habitat grew, O-G developed a more or less permanent population. The complex was kept spinning enough to simulate Earth gravity on the outer levels, so people could come and go, and not get so used to low-gee that they would be permanent exiles from the ground. Once we became interstellar-capable, O-G became Earth’s major transportation hub, connecting us to the rest of the Galaxy. The military established a more open presence, especially after we joined the Alliance of Light. By the start of the war with the Ilion Federation two hundred years later, the permanent population of O-G was thirty thousand, and there were usually several thousand transients, many of them military.
I had passed through O-G several times before but had never seen much more than the launching hub and the military ring on the far end of the complex. This time wasn’t any different. As soon as we docked, we were shunted through to the military barracks and assigned rooms. Tonio and I paired up. I hoped that he knew more about what we were in for than I did.
I never heard about it before this morning,
Tonio said once we were alone. Neither of us unpacked more than what we needed for the night and a change of clothes for morning. We didn’t worry about disobeying the order not to discuss our travel orders, not in private, between us. Trust Tonio with my life?—hell, the man had saved my life. How much closer a bond can two people share? The old man told me they needed veterans for a special unit and wanted combat veterans, and he asked me to volunteer.
He shrugged. I figured maybe it would give me a chance to get a little payback.
I was in the middle of telling him how I came to be there when the comm unit told us that supper was being served and showed us a map to guide us to the mess hall. We had both been in the army long enough to know better than to miss a meal, so the conversation was tabled. We would obey orders where there was any chance of someone else hearing.
MESS CALL WAS A BIT OF A DODGE. WE DID GET fed—and the food was better than what I was used to— but we also had to sit through a five-minute spiel from a light colonel whose face was the same color as the tasteless mashed potatoes that had been plopped on our trays. The first thing we were told—again—was not to discuss our orders with anyone, even among ourselves, until we got where we were going, and we weren’t to speculate on where that might be. Blah, blah, blah. The informative part was that we had only a short night ahead of us in O-G; reveille would be at 0400 hours and we would board ship at 0515 hours. Eat, get what sleep you can, and be ready to move in the morning,
the light colonel said.
Tonio and I looked at each other and shrugged. Well, we did know more than we had before. It wasn’t much of a surprise that we were going out so quickly. Everything so far had been done at the rush. For once it looked as if the army—and the space navy—had forgotten the ancient axiom of Hurry up and wait.
Fine with me,
I said. The sooner we get wherever we’re going, the sooner the minny-moe crap stops.
Somebody at the table snorted what I took to be agreement, but that was it.
IT WASN’T UNTIL WE WERE MOVED TO THE OUTBOUND docks in the morning that we learned that the eight of us who had come up from West Memphis weren’t the only passengers going out. That would have been too extreme, even for our military. Altogether there were sixty officers and men going as passengers on the ship. Some of them had been at O-G as long as twenty hours. The last shuttleload arrived an hour before we were mustered to board the ship. The ship—it only had a number, not a name—also carried cargo, but we didn’t learn that until we got to Dancer and everything was unloaded. Still, with only sixty passengers in a ship that could have carried a thousand, we had a lot of room—not that the trip was long enough to make that important.
It’s almost faster to travel between star systems a hundred light-years apart than it is to get from downtown New York to downtown Memphis. The ship makes its first transit of hyperspace within an hour after leaving the dock. There can be two to six hyperspace transits during a trip, and each of those takes no more than ten or fifteen seconds of subjective time, separated by five or ten minutes in normal space while the computers confirm the ship’s current location and calculate the next jump. Then you come out of hyperspace after the last transit within an hour or two of your destination—or a lot closer if you’re heading in for
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