“Am I getting this right?” she asked. “Has the Major been smoking something or does he actually believe all this weird shit he’s telling us?”

  “Don’t get much weirder,” Grimes didn’t bother turning around.

  “Something about alien spaceships and shit.”

  “Sounds like you got most of it.”

  “Wish I hadn’t. I didn’t sign up to fight no Extra Terrestrial. I kinda like the idea of meeting one of those little guys. I don’t want to be shooting his ass up, if I can help it.”

  “Seems like your little E.T. don’t feel the same way about us. Or did you sleep through the last eighteen hours?”

  “I’m not suggesting that he didn’t start shooting first. What I’m saying is that this is all probably some big misunderstanding. Like, really, Mr ET there is more scared of us than we are of him. It’s like coming across some dog on the street. He’s snappy cos he is scared. Know what I mean?”

  “That’s a very interesting theory LaCruz, you be sure to share that with Major Mackie now, won’t you? Sure he’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

  Grimes finally got to the head of the line and handed over his rack tag while the sergeant at arms checked out his weapon, the matt black TR-117, a truly awesome weapon. It was a step up from the TR-115 in that, principally, it was capable of being fired under water, although what good that was going to do anyone out here was yet to be established. It also possessed a far more sophisticated range of targeting options.

  It was the targeting option which had been responsible for the raft of criticism the rifle had received when it had first been issued, as it allowed whoever was using it to switch to a ‘Default’ setting during combat. This allowed the rifle to make crucial decisions about issues ranging from the type of ammo being expended to the rate of fire being selected, two things which the purists derided it for. They believed quite strongly that one thing you shouldn’t be doing during any firefight, was turning off your brain and relying on some ‘Default’ setting.

  LaCruz was fine with this, however. She tended to become ridiculously focussed during a firefight – she’d been in three so far – and it was only afterwards, when she’d had time to reflect, that she realised how she might have utilised her weapon differently. Not that she considered herself any kind of expert on the TR-117, her particular skill set lay elsewhere.

  After Grimes was finished, she traded in her rack tag and received her Koningsburg P-8 sniper rifle complete with SmartSight. The rifle was a classic bullpup design but the state-of-the-art sights elevated it into a different league. The rifle was beautifully balanced, which was why LaCruz favoured it, that and the fact that it was so very accurate.

  Once she had received her rifle she carried out her own, more rigorous, version of the checks the sergeant at arms had just performed. She was left-handed so the SmartSight suited her perfectly. She had also checked out a Pissani slim line pistol but had to resist the temptation to slip it down the back of her pants and instead holstered it properly.

  The dropships were lined up, navigation lights flashing and ready for take-off when her squad arrived at the main hanger. The air was thick with fumes as the ground crew raced around making their last-minute checks. There was a lot of activity in the hanger bay and LaCruz’ squad had to wait to be escorted across to their ship, its rear cargo ramp fully extended. The troopers were uncharacteristically reserved as they took their seats. These craft were designed to carry a squad of thirteen but today there were only nine of them: a squad leader and two fire teams of four, so they had a little extra leg room. LaCruz was inordinately pleased that, along with the two pilots and the auxiliary, there were only twelve on-board. Like a lot of Marines, she was extremely superstitious and could never have relaxed if there’d been thirteen.

  Once they were under way, their gunnery sergeant, a squat black man named Hayes started pulling out a series of containers. He popped the locks and then started handing out the extra equipment which had been cleared for the mission. LaCruz received a couple of clips of extra ammo and then was able to select from a number of specialist rounds. She chose six armour piercing and three thermobaric explosives, which she distributed around various pockets.

  Although the stealth aspect of the mission had to be the priority, there was always a chance that if things went south, they might just have to shoot their way out.

  Gunnery Sergeant Hayes waited until they were all packed away before giving them their mission brief.

  “Listen up, everyone. Just to repeat what Major Mackie was saying earlier: we have eight – repeat eight – squads on this mission, that’s 72 men - 73 if you count the major - and we will all be seeking ingress through what looks like their main hanger bay here.”

  One of the troopers fiddled with something on his tablet and the diagram was projected into the air in front of him.

  “Now, I know what you’re thinking: why leave the back porch open when there’s bears in the woods? Well, that’s not our concern, that’s for Alpha One and Bravo Two to worry about. They’re going in first to suppress any resistance and to check for booby traps. If, for whatever reason, they flag it as a no-go then we stand down and head back to the ship. However, if we do go in, just one word of warning,” the image before him dissolved to show a series of interlocking chambers. “As best as we can make out, this is what the corridor lay-out looks like – if you can call them corridors. It’s mighty confusing.”

  LaCruz could feel the mood change from excitement to anxiety. There was something disquieting about the random nature of these corridors. She was reminded of an ants nest mounted in a glass case she’d seen in biology class once. This surely was an alien culture they were up against and she caught herself thinking: if this is what the corridors look like what other surprises do they have in store for us?

  “Our objective is here,” Hayes indicated a large apparatus which was highlighted in red. It reminded LaCruz of an old accordion. “This – believe it or not – is one of their engines. May I introduce you to specialists Banks and Hazard.” A man and a woman, both of whom had the look of Special Forces operatives, raised a hand in turn. “They’re here to check out the alien tech in these sections using 3-D mapping. Then, once they’re happy, we disable any tech we find and leave.”

  “Any idea what we’ll be facing numbers wise?” Grimes asked.

  “We’ve been told to assume a fully functioning ship’s crew but what that means in real terms is anyone’s guess. We are to avoid contact if at all possible.”

  Someone at the back laughed.

  “We get in, get the mapping done and then get out again. Of course, it’s never quite that simple so, just to be clear, once the shit kicks off – and it will – you are to treat anyone you find on board as a hostile contact. Are we understood?”

  The troopers nodded their affirmation and then got back to their weapons checks. LaCruz adjusted her helmet so that she could call up one of the ship’s external cameras. She wanted to get a good look at this alien vessel. Nobody was saying much but this was clearly a ‘very big thing’. No one had ever gone up against aliens before and she couldn’t help feeling excited about the prospect.

  A grainy image appeared on the inside of her visor. The alien ship from the rear. The thing just hung there: a floating black mass. There was no sign of even her running lights. She zoomed in on the image in the hope of locating the hanger bay they were aiming for but without any luck.

  “What are you up to?” asked Thomas, another member of their team.

  “Just checking out the alien mothership. Don’t look like it’s up to much.”

  “Let’s see if you’re still saying that on the way back. The only person with nothing to worry about is old Captain Faulkner, sitting up there on that bridge. Can you believe it? He’s got armour thirty feet thick and he’s still sailing in the wrong direction. We’re the ones sitting out here waiting for them to light us up!”

  LaCruz thought he might have a point. The hull was covered with pod like structures which looked like they could house a laser battery or two.

  A warning beacon started flashing inside the ship, prompting the Marines to bring their weapons to bear.

  “Alright,” the gunnery sergeant growled. “Everybody calm down. That’s just the proximity alert, telling us we’re coming in for our final approach. No point getting agitated – we’re not going nowhere ‘til our guys have finished checking everything’s kosher. So you’d better relax – we might be here a while.”

  *

  Webster sat opposite Faulkner in the briefing room.

  The old man had insisted on the tech crew erecting physical screens around the room so that they could more easily monitor everything that was happening. Of course, Faulkner could have achieved the same effect via his console if only he’d been technologically adept enough – though no one seemed eager to point this out to him.

  The tech crew had worked quickly and efficiently to set up what was, effectively, The War Room. The tech guys clearly got a kick out of the fact that Faulkner praised them for what they were doing as, too often, their work went unappreciated by the rest of the crew. What was interesting was the way that everyone was getting used to Faulkner’s little idiosyncrasies, his peculiar way of doing things. He might be slightly out-dated, even old-fashioned in his approach, but the crew were starting to trust him and that counted for a lot.

  With that realisation, Webster also recognised that he was one of the few people yet to be fully convinced of Faulkner’s suitability for this role. But then, he did have that privileged insight into the matter of Faulkner’s failing health which others didn’t have. He wondered if they would change their minds if they knew the truth – that the captain might be susceptible to panic attacks at the most inopportune time? Probably not. He’d guided them through a particularly difficult encounter against an unknown opponent and come out on top. That had to count for something.

  Also, at the back of Webster’s mind, was the idea that if he had acted on his first instincts and had Faulkner declared unfit for duty then he would have been the one taking command in the face of this new alien threat. And, in all honesty, he wasn’t sure how well that would have turned out.

  But now things were taking an unexpected turn with the captain choosing to put seventy or so Marines directly in harm’s way. When Faulkner had first broached the idea, Webster hadn’t really taken him seriously. The old man was constantly bouncing wild ideas back and forth and this had seemed like a particularly ludicrous one. Even when Faulkner had summoned Major Mackie to his state room, Webster had fully expected Mackie to listen patiently before running through all the inherent flaws in his proposal.

  But that hadn’t happened.

  Instead, Mackie had just sat there nodding while Faulkner had outlined his plan. Then, at the end of the meeting, it had been Mackie who had pulled up the maps of the alien ship’s interior. And it had been Mackie, too, who had helped explain some of the practicalities of putting the plan into action whilst at the same time rationalising some of Faulkner’s more outlandish ideas. The original idea had been for the Marines to take full control of the ship before flying it back to Lincoln themselves. Faulkner had also suggested sending in the whole company of one hundred and fifty Marines but it had been Mackie, careful not to over commit himself, who had halved that number, pointing out that they needed to leave some troops in reserve. A smaller force would, according to him, be able to get in and out that much more effectively.

  At the end of their meeting, Mackie had almost succeeded in winning Webster over to his cause only to blow it at the last by suggesting that it should be the major himself who should lead the mission.

  Webster had tried his best to protest but Faulkner had over-ruled him. It was a ridiculously risky proposal: chancing half of their ground troops against an enemy who they knew to be both devious and resourceful. If the stealth aspect of their mission failed, then they were effectively sending the men into a trap. But neither Faulkner nor Mackie saw it that way.

  Faulkner’s thoughts were focussed, first and foremost, on the prospect of getting their hands on all that alien tech. The mapping drones they had at their disposal were more than capable of compiling precise schematics for any new devices they might come across. The Confederation had learnt a great deal about the Yakutians simply by studying their technology.

  Davitz had also been consulted about the best way to accumulate information, and had gone as far as suggesting that a hand-picked group of engineers might accompany the Marines on their mission. Luckily, Faulkner had vetoed that particular proposal.

  Which left Major Mackie himself. It was no secret that he’d been bitterly disappointed not to have been included in Admiral Paige’s original battlefleet and he clearly saw this as his way of redressing that situation. He must have also believed that his troopers were capable of pulling off this mission or he wouldn’t have put them up for it in the first place. Still, Webster had his reservations, some of them grave ones. There seemed to be far too many variables at work here, not least the fact that the Mantis was heading away from the fight and would therefore be unable to provide support should things take an unexpected turn.

  The screens were organised around them in order, starting with Alpha Squad over in the far corner, moving clockwise through Beta all the way to Theta Squad. Each large screen showed the camera of the lead marine with two smaller screens inset showing members of their squads. It was possible, though extremely laborious, to toggle through them all thereby identifying every single trooper.

  Mackie was with Delta squad. They were the group tasked with transporting the ‘arrow’, a five-kiloton warhead. It had originally been designed to sit inside one of the Mantis’ medium range missiles until Chief Engineer Davitz had been personally tasked with its removal. He’d also been instrumental in rigging up a special sling so that the warhead was capable of being carried by one of the heftier Marines.

  The idea was that Mackie was going to allow the first two squads to clear the hanger bay before he went in with the ‘arrow’, with Gamma squad bringing up the rear. Perhaps, Webster reflected, he was being overly cautious, if something was going to go wrong then surely there would have been some indication of it by now. But there hadn’t been. Once the bombardment was over, there’d been no attempt at retaliation.

  To all intents and purposes, the threat had been neutralised.

  Webster sat alongside Faulkner as Alpha and Beta went in. The pictures on the screens were surprisingly clear considering they were watching via low light augmentation software. Webster found that he could make out quite a lot of details, though the colours themselves seemed to be way off. The hanger bay was huge and cavernous, their small attack craft looking like glass bulbs suspended from the ceiling. He wondered why they hadn’t chosen to despatch these during the actual battle itself. What he really wanted to know was whether the ships were still operational or whether they been deactivated by the pulse as well?

  Faulkner saw him looking. “Intriguing, aren’t they. I’m sure Mr Davitz would like to get his hands on one of those.”

  “Only, we did agree that they could retrieve only what would fit into the drop ships.”

  “I know, I know,” Faulkner said testily. “But a man can dream, can’t he?”

  More and more marines were flooding into the hanger now. Because it was a weightless environment, it was the lead marine’s job to attach a tether to the far deck allowing the others to pull themselves across. Working that way, it wasn’t long before the eighteen troopers from both squads had been despatched. One of the lead Marines was thoughtful enough to turn back in order to provide the officers back on board with a perfect shot of the two drop ships framed against the arch of the cargo bay doors.

  The briefing room went quiet then as they watched two men with cutting lasers get to work on the interior. The main doors were constructed in the form of a circular prism and, at first, they resisted the Marine’s best efforts to cut through them. But, after a few adjustments to the lasers, they eventually began to make headway - though it was clear to everyone that this was going to take some time.

  “Excuse me, but what’s that?” Bertran approached the screen.

  “I don’t see anything,” Faulkner said.

  Bertran pointed at the glowering band of darkness at the top of the screen.

  “That shadow,” he said. “It’s moving.”

  Everyone strained to see but Bertran was one step ahead of them. He quickly toggled through the various video feeds until he came to an exterior shot from the Gamma squad drop ship.

  “The hanger doors,” he said. “They’re closing.”

  Both the Alpha and Beta ships were still inside.

  “Something must have happened,” Faulkner said. “Perhaps they’ve triggered something?”

  “Mackie talked about this in his risk assessment,” Webster tried to find the appropriate section on his tablet.

  “Never mind that,” Faulkner said. “They need to get those drop ships clear before they get trapped inside.”

  “This is it,” Webster said. “He talks about inadvertently triggering counter-measures…”

  But no one was listening. All eyes were locked on the screen. Were the Marines even aware of the danger? They were all observing radio silence and Faulkner obviously didn’t want to risk compromising that so early in the mission. However, if they didn’t get the dropships clear they were going to get trapped inside.

  Mackie’s not stupid, Webster reassured himself. He’s bound to have men protecting his rear. We just can’t see them, that’s all.

  Then someone let out a whoop of excitement and everyone swivelled to look at another screen. The two drop ships were slowly edging out from beneath the closing doors.