Ghost Divide (Ghost League) by E.J. MacDonald

Author:E.J. MacDonald [MacDonald, E.J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-03-16T22:00:00+00:00

The Grand Strike

Mission Start

DATE: 454.05.10

First Fleet Directive: OPERATION GRAND STRIKE

Position: [REDACTED]

Transit Time: 1 hr, 3 Warp Jumps at co-ord [REDACTED]

MISSION CLOCK: -1 h 10 m

Sergeant Mills hit the button by the large doors at the end of the armory. The bulkhead slid aside and the door opened straight into the deployment bay, already full of distant shouting and the sound of thumping boots across the deck.

Next to the lines of kitted marines the lockers shuddered, then slowly cycled into the ceiling, bringing out the gear for the next brick that was waiting outside. The floors were clean but damp, with the sharp smell of solvents. Those still waiting in the hall probably had a worse time of it, if they had anything close to the same reaction as the Lost Boys to the jump — the hallways weren’t self cleaning. The navy crew would be making more than a few complaints after this right alongside the marines, Locke thought to himself. If they got back, of course.

As one they marched out, forming ranks at a slow jog.

Locke quickly forgot about the warp jumps, overwhelmed by how busy — and chaotic — the deployment bay was.

It felt like everyone in the Bouzuki was on deck. Everyone very well could have been for an operation this large. The sound of hundreds of boots marching while the sergeants kept them paced were mixed with the shouts of navy techs, equipment pods sliding over the floor on hover dollies, and the low thumping of the exoarmors as they detached from their mounts. It was almost too much to follow.

Sour was directing the mess — a bright white line flashed under Locke’s feet, with a giant broken arrow sliding to the front of their brick. From his point of view it was pure madness, but somehow the interface program was keeping them all on track, managing traffic stops to allow others to pass, then moving each brick along to their drop tube, every crate to its crew, the exoarmor units to the dropships, and somehow not getting everyone tangled up in the middle.

Up above the small glittering nets the fighters were being prepped by frantic technicians, all probably cursing the short notice. Even from the floor far below Locke could hear some of the notoriously foul mouthed pilots yelling at the mechanics.

With a flash of the white arrow marked with the numeral III leading the way, Sergeant Mills plunged them into the mess. A fiery red halo came to a halt on the deck to Locke’s right as they marched out, forty kitted marines halting as one to let them pass. Locke nodded to JoJohn as they jogged by — the Fire Angels looked just as pale and uneasy as the Lost Boys.

The floor was slick in patches, and from time to time he caught a wiff of urine and other body fluids. Sour was already moving them slower than normal as a few had already slipped on the wet floors. Someone was going to get in Big Trouble for this down the line.

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