Direct Fire #4 Drop Trooper

fusion-form pavement of a spaceport landing field stretched out beneath me, two gigantic deflector dishes facing opposite directions like inverted mushrooms, with a forest of anti-aircraft turrets in their shadow, bristling with coil guns and electron beamers, ripping apart the morning air with static discharge and shock diamonds. They weren’t particularly aiming at us—their targets were the assault shuttles screaming from one side of the sky to the other, probing the deflector shields with one proton blast after another, the actinic bolts of man-made lightning coruscating into glowing halos of static electricity when they met the electromagnetic fields.
The knowledge that a single stray tantalum slug, a single off-target electron beam could have ended my life with the snap of a finger should have been terrifying, should have dropped my heart into my stomach. But it didn’t. Instead, my thoughts churned with the details of the operations order, the timing of the assault, the spacing of my platoon. It was too much to think about to be afraid of dying, too much to worry about to allow any concern for my life to intrude.
My platoon was spread out in a chaotic, scattershot pattern, constantly bobbing and weaving as we dropped to make it harder for anyone on the ground to discern a pattern of motion or a formation which they could use to target us. Back when I’d first enlisted, I’d heard stories about company commanders and platoon leaders who tried to get their people into formation during the actual drop, like flocks of geese in neat V’s across the sky. And the enemy had picked them off just like those geese and that had been the end of that.
The drop consumed the space of a few seconds, yet it seemed to drag on forever, as if my suit was filled with helium, lighter than air, floating with the wind currents. And then the ground was rushing up with incredible speed and I gritted my teeth, some part of my animal hind brain sure I was going to hit too hard and break my legs or damage the suit and wind up stranded there, waiting for the medics or the enemy, whichever came first, while my platoon fought without me. Neither happened, of course, as I knew it wouldn’t from dozens of drops in combat and training, and the landing was a solid thump up from the soles of my boots into the core of my gut.
Data flooded my HUD, the positions of my Marines, the positions of the other platoons in our company, the positions of the companies flanking us, the sensors readings of possible enemy positions ahead of us, a wash of information that no one person could possibly pull together into a whole. But there was an art to it, to letting the non-essential bits flow past me like a wave on the beach and just catching what I needed, building a sandcastle that reflected everything I needed to know.
It coalesced into a whole before my eyes, the data shaping itself into an image of the reality around me. First squad was up front with Sgt. Medina, the new squad leader who’d come in to replace Joanna Carson. She’d been a good person and a passable Marine, but not the best squad leader in the Corps by any means, and Medina was already doing a better job. Second was behind me, already setting up the rear guard of our perimeter under Sgt. Sung, a competent enough leader. Third and Fourth were on the flanks and everyone was set like a runner at the starting blocks, just waiting for the gun to go off and send us in the right direction. Waiting for me.
Off to the left, Second Platoon was just touching ground, their jump jets kicking up dust devils across the flat expanse of the landing field, nearly empty of ships, all of the enemy vessels put out to sky or space to oppose us. First and Fourth were still in the air, with Headquarters coming up last with the Skipper and Lt. Xander, his XO, and Top. And the Boomers. They were the key to this operation and no one was taking any chances with them.
Alpha Company was already down, beginning to form up on our right, heading inward toward an industrial park at the edge of the spaceport where we suspected there might be a concentration of enemy troops.
And two kilometers ahead of us, coming out from beneath the cover of the deflector dishes, was wave after wave of High Guard battlesuits, Tahni front line troops, the best they had to offer. I’d asked the Skipper once why they were called the High Guard since they were just about the same thing as us Drop-Troopers and spent most of their time on the ground, and he had said it was a direct translation from Tahni. It wasn’t a reference to their ability to deploy quickly from landers via jump-jets, it was a statement of their place in the military hierarchy. The Commonwealth Marines tended to put their best troops into Force Recon, but the Tahni took the opposite approach. Battlesuits were expensive and complicated to produce and they put the absolute best soldiers they had into them. Which was why they’d kicked our asses for so long before we managed to get our shit together.
I felt exposed out there, a bug on a plate, waiting for the giant hand to slap me down, and I wanted to move, wanted to get the platoon into the fight, but I knew I had to wait for the Skipper’s order. That big picture I’d gotten used to seeing was still a smaller one than his, and he might see things differently.
“Third Platoon,” Captain Covington’s voice buzzed in my ear, “engage the enemy. Keep them off us until we’re down.”
Or he might see things exactly the way I did.
“Target enemy suits and launch missiles,” I ordered. “Free volley, empty your racks and advance by squads while they deal with the