Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(21)
“You are worried I spy on precious new intelligence boat, eh?”
“I would,” I reply, and Dmitry grins.
He starts popping open the latches of his computerized battle armor, strips off the shell segments, and stacks the pieces on the deck. The SRA commander sent him over unarmed, so I won’t have to ask for his rifle and sidearm, too. I feel a little stupid asking the man to disarm when just a week ago I fought the Lankies by his side, admin decks and loaded weapons and all, but the agreed-upon rules for this joint mission call for it. And truthfully, I don’t know Dmitry well enough yet to know that he won’t try to use the situation for all the intelligence gathering he can. Paranoia is one of the defining traits of the experienced combat soldier.
The tail ramp opens to reveal the claustrophobic confines of the Indy’s tiny drop-ship hangar. The bulk of the Dragonfly fills it out almost entirely. I collect my bag and walk down the ramp. Before I step on the deck, I salute the North American Commonwealth flag painted on the bulkhead in front of me and address the officer of the deck, who is standing by the exit hatch. There’s an SI corporal in battle armor next to him, PDW hanging on his chest from a sling, pistol in a holster on his leg. They don’t usually bother with armed security when a surface transport arrives, but those don’t usually contain an SRA frontline combat trooper. I salute the officer of the deck.
“I request permission to come aboard. Staff Sergeant Grayson, with SRA guest, to report to the CO as ordered.”
The OOD returns my salute.
“Permission granted. The skipper is waiting for you in CIC.” His gaze flicks past me to the SRA trooper as Dmitry stops on the ramp just behind me and salutes the NAC colors.
“Crazy-ass new world, I know,” I say to the OOD as we walk past him to the exit hatch under the watchful eyes of the armed Spaceborne Infantry corporal.
“Crazy don’t cover it, Sarge,” he replies.
Colonel Campbell is standing at the holotable in the combat information center when I walk through the armored hatch. Dmitry is behind me in the corridor, and there’s a pair of armed SI troopers guarding the CIC. We may not be shooting at each other anymore, but Colonel Campbell’s spirit of cooperation does not yet extend to welcoming SRA soldiers into the nerve center of his ship.
“Good to see you, Mr. Grayson,” he says. He returns my salute and then extends his hand. “Fine work on Fomalhaut b with our new pals. I read the mission reports.”
“Thank you, sir. I was just along for the ride, mostly. But those SRA marines did all right.”
“Yeah, it’s amazing what we can blow up when we actually point our guns the same way.” He glances at the armored hatch behind me, where the SRA trooper is waiting just on the other side of the clear polyplast viewport.
“And now we’re setting out on another joint mission with these folks. This one’s going to be fun. And by fun, I mean ‘white-knuckled, pants-shitting terror.’?”
“We’ve been there before, sir,” I say. “More than once. Versailles wasn’t exactly a slow day at the office, either.”
“No, it wasn’t.” The shadow of a pained look shows on his face very briefly as he undoubtedly remembers his old command that burned up in the atmosphere above the colony planet Willoughby, after having lost over a third of its crew to Lanky proximity mines. That was five years ago, and it seems like forever and only just yesterday at the same time. Colonel Campbell shakes his head slightly, as if to rid himself of the memory.
“Mr. Grayson, have you ever considered the fact that you seem to be right at the bleeding edge of the shitstorm way too often, considering your pay grade?” he asks.
I can’t help but chuckle. “The thought has occurred to me, sir.”
“We’re finishing up taking on extra supplies and mission personnel. There’s chow and ammo stuffed into every corner, and we have a full squad of jarheads embarked as it is, so don’t expect a lot of elbow room on this ride. We’ll be on our way just as soon as we’ve secured the extra ordnance we’re taking along. Check in with Master Sergeant Bogdan and see if he can find you some rack space somewhere.”
“We’ll need to quarter our new friend, too,” I say, and point over my shoulder.
“Ah, yes,” Colonel Campbell says. “I want you very close to him for as long as he’s on this ship. I’m not asking you to hot-bunk with him, but see if the master sergeant can find you adjoining quarters. If he’s out of his berth, I want you to be with him. Last thing I need is that enemy combat controller finding a quiet corner and a data jack somewhere.”
“Understood, sir,” I say.
“Take heart, Mr. Grayson,” the colonel says. He turns back to his holotable and examines the plot again. “You’ll be on the bleeding edge of the shitstorm once again, but at least we’ll be doing exactly what this ship was designed to do. Unless they parked a seed ship right across the Alcubierre node on the solar system side, we’ll make it through to Earth.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. I’m not quite as convinced as he is, to put it mildly, but his confident attitude helps to take the edge off my own anxiety a little. Every time I’ve worked with Colonel Campbell, I’ve bucked dreadful odds. Either I’ll get lucky again, or I’ll die a quick death in good company.