Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [89]
“You’re right, Stonewall—we never know. It’s a good idea. Go ahead and make it happen.”
“Aye, aye, sir. And, well, thanks again.”
The Pegasus emerged from her jump and immediately began to decelerate as Captain Carstairs marked a course for the ring of populous planets orbiting the star called Darius at a distance equivalent to that between Earth and humankind’s sun.
The transit from Arcton had taken more than a hundred hours, and the SEALS and the crew of the frigate had put that time to good use. Master Chief Ruiz and Chief Harris had taken fifteen volunteers—survivors from the Troy as well as Grafton and his four drop boat crewmates—and given them intense training in small arms and basic infantry survival techniques. The ad hoc platoon was led by Lieutenant Wesling of the Troy, ably supported by Petty Officers Dawson and Grafton, and all the personnel proved to be apt pupils. Every one of them had a score—many, many scores in the case of the Troy’s crew—to settle with the Eluoi, and they relished the chance to play a role in the accounting.
Although it was a makeshift platoon, it was a platoon of men—and two women, sailors from the Troy—experienced in space operations and determined to make a difference. Most of them were armed with standard G15s that lacked the bells and whistles of the SEALS versions such as the rocket rounds and underbarrel grenade launcher, though four of them did have grenade launchers. Gunner’s Mate Roberts retained possession of the alien energy weapon he had recovered on the ice moon and used to such good effect in the skirmish with the Eluoi.
Schroeder’s head wounds had been tended to in the infirmary, and the stoic gunner’s mate had declared himself 100 percent ready to return to action. Keast, too, was up and about, without even a noticeable limp—“noticeable” meant that he never limped when he knew someone was watching—to show for the punishing shot to his leg that had cracked but not broken the bone. Teal had wrapped it for him with a supporting compact, and he proved to Jackson that he could run and jump at full speed. Falco, too, was ready for action, though his face was a mess. Cosmetic surgery, he announced loudly and frequently, would wait until he had the full attention of three large-breasted nurses to ease him back to his old good-looking self.
After an eight-hour interval of much-needed rest, the Teammates patched suits and armor where they had been damaged, replaced worn parts on communicators and survival gear, cleaned weapons—or, in a couple of cases, discarded damaged arms in favor of new equipment—and, of course, replenished their supplies of munitions from the frigate’s well-stocked ammunition magazines. Ruiz asked for and received permission to carry the other battery-powered energy weapon—he called it a ray gun, and the term stuck—and the ship’s engineers were able to figure out how to recharge the power pack so that it, like Roberts’s, was furnished with a full fuel cell.
The replenishment and training began while the ship accelerated away from Arcton. It was suspended for an interval of sleep, during which time the ship made the jump to the Darius system. When the recruits had rested, the chiefs started the drill again as the Pegasus decelerated toward the new star. By the time they were approaching a steady orbit in the inhabited stretch of the system, the SEALS were rested and reinvigorated, and the navy “commandos,” after a crash course of six twelve-hour training sessions, were judged ready to go.
Not that they had any choice in the matter.
Though Carstairs enjoyed the view from L Deck—which had been fully repaired after the breaching shot from the Eluoi destroyer—as they decelerated into the Darius system, he had decided to remain in the CIC,