David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist Force Recon 01

By David Sherman and Dan Cragg

Starfist

FIRST TO FIGHT

SCHOOL OF FIRE

STEEL GAUNTLET

BLOOD CONTACT

TECHNOKILL

HANGFIRE

KINGDOM’S SWORD

KINGDOM’S FURY

LAZARUS RISING

A WORLD OF HURT

Starfist: Force Recon

BACKSHOT

By David Sherman

THE NIGHT FIGHTERS

KNIVES IN THE NIGHT

MAIN FORCE ASSAULT

OUT OF THE FIRE

A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

A NGHU NIGHT FALLS

CHARLIE DON’T LIVE Here ANYMORE

THERE I WAS: THE WAR OF CORPORAL HENRY J. MORRIS, USMC

THE SQUAD

Demontech

GULF RUN

ONSLAUGHT

RALLY POINT

By Dan Cragg

Fiction

THE SOLDIER’S PRIZE

Nonfiction

A DICTIONARY OF SOLDIER TALK

GENERALS IN MUDDY BOOTS

INSIDE THE VC AND THE NVA (with Michael Lee Lanning)

TOP SERGEANT (with William G. Bainbridge)

PROLOGUE

“Look!” Jorge Liberec Lavager gestured heavenward at the meteor flashing across the sky. His daughter

Candace was sitting on the bench beside him in the dark. “Some of the best things in life are free, Candie,

and nature is one of them.”

“I hope it doesn’t hit anybody,” Candace replied sarcastically.

“That’s my girl!” Lavager responded cheerfully. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her

closer. “Most meteorites are harmless,” he continued. “They burn up in the atmosphere before they reach

the ground. They’re nothing to be afraid of.”

Candace sniffed. “I know that, Daddy.” Although she was only sixteen, in the past three years since

Annie Lavager, Lavager’s wife and Candace’s mother, had been killed in an assassination attempt aimed

at him, Candace and her father had become extremely close. For his part, Lavager was impressed by his

daughter’s solid common-sense attitude toward world affairs. She was a realist and not afraid to speak

her mind, and he appreciated that. Too many of the people around the former general—his aides, his

cabinet ministers—only told him what they thought he wanted to hear.

She feigned a cough. “Daddy, must you smoke those foul cigars? You’ll die of something if you don’t

quit. And besides, they’re far from ‘free.’ ”

“I am shocked!” Lavager said with mock outrage. “Shocked that anyone could refer to a prime cigar

like this Davidoff Anniversario as ‘foul’!” He chuckled. “And when you discount the things in life that are

free, with what’s left over you get only what you pay for. My first rule of economics, Candie. Besides,

I’m going to die of something someday anyway, so while I’m alive I’m going to live.” Lavager drew

deeply on his Anniversario, a terribly expensive smoke imported all the way from the other side of

Human Space. He savored the cigar’s complex layers of rich flavors: a sweet earthiness tinged with a

slight hint of leather and sweet spicy undertones, all blended into a smooth draw that burned perfectly.

Slowly he let the flavors out through his nostrils.

“Father, don’t talk that way!” Candace waved the smoke away with a hand. Ever since her mother’s

death, she had been very aware of her father’s mortality, and the fact that some people on Atlas wanted

him dead only added to her growing sense of uneasiness.

Atlas’s major moon wasn’t visible and the stars overhead shone with particular brilliance in the night sky.

The lights from New Granum, the Union of Margelan’s capital city, far below the mountaintop that was

Lavager’s getaway, glowed warmly down in the valley. Despite her best efforts to dispel the cigar

smoke, a fine white cloud hung suspended in front of her father’s face. The thought occurred to her that

with the tip of his cigar aglow in the night her father might make a good target for someone hiding in the

foliage below. She hoped the presidential security team watching over them from someplace out of sight

was alert.

“I’m going to smoke this cigar right down to the band, Candie. Your mother liked the smell of them, and

what was good enough for her is good enough for everyone else, including you, my dear.” He drew again

on the Anniversario.

Cigar smoke was a smell Candace had associated with her father for as long as she could remember,

and she did really like the aroma of a good cigar. But their bantering about his smoking habit was a game

father and daughter played, part of the ritual they followed when by themselves, which was not very often

these days.

“Candie,” Lavager said suddenly, “let’s go to Ramuncho’s! I’m hungry.” Ramuncho’s was his favorite

restaurant in New Granum. He often dined there when his cabinet was sitting or when the planetary

council, of which he was a member, was in session.

“Daddy, it’s close to midnight! You have an important cabinet meeting in the morning.”

“So what?” Like his daughter, Jorge Lavager often spoke just what was on his mind, inflaming his

enemies and sometimes even his friends. “I’m hungry, I want some of Ramuncho’s paella. Come on, let’s

go. You can drive.”

“I can?” That offer almost made Candace start for the car. Then she caught herself. “What about your

security detail? Daddy, you have to be more careful!”

Lavager made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Let them sleep.” Ever since the assassination attempt

that had killed his wife, Lavager’s aides had insisted on constant personal security for their head of state.

Slipping off by himself, as he was proposing to do that evening, Lavager often gave his bodyguards fits.

But giving in to the alarm in his daughter’s voice, he relented. “All right,” he sighed. “We’ll order up a

snack—but only after I’ve finished this cigar.”

They sat quietly for a few moments. Candace hugged her father tightly. “Daddy, I don’t want to lose you

too,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, you won’t, Baby.”

“But so many people in this world hate you.”

“Yes, and some with good reason, Candie. I made a lot of enemies when I led our armies. I had to do

things I’m not very proud of.”

“But you’re not a general anymore, Daddy. You’re a statesman.” She pronounced the word proudly.

“Yes, I surely am. But you know, once a general, always a general. You never really take that uniform

off as far as some people are concerned. You’re always on parade, as it were.” He drew on his cigar

and slowly exhaled the smoke.

Primarily an agricultural world, Atlas had early split into regional power centers that evolved into

independent nation-states, rather than maintaining a centralized world government as had nearly all other

human-settled worlds. Those nation-states, in the manner of nation-states throughout history on Earth,

warred among themselves with the major center of power shifting from one nation-state to another over

the years. The Union of Margelan, under a succession of astute leaders, most recently Jorge Lavager,

had been highly successful for more than a century in defending its interests. Its military success had led it

to impose certain demands upon the losers, mostly the cession of some territories and acceptance of

Margelan’s hegemony over others. The Union of Margelan’s main adversaries had been the countries of

North and South Solanum, Oleania, and Satevina. Margelan’s main advantage, aside from excellent

leadership, was the fact that unlike the other nation-states it had developed heavy industry that could

produce the weapon systems needed to wage modern warfare—but over the years this had proved a

tremendous strain on its economy.

Atlas was fortunate in one way, however. When the world was first settled three hundred years earlier, it

had been on the fringes of Human Space, but by Lavager’s time it sat astride one of the busiest

spacelanes of the Confederation of Human Worlds. That enabled the nation-states of Atlas, when they

weren’t at war with one another, to easily export their products to other worlds. Gradually it dawned on

the politicians of Atlas that if they could attain a state of peace among themselves, no matter how uneasy,

everyone would prosper. To that end it was agreed to form a League of Nations that would represent the

interests of all the nation-states and, it was hoped, settle their differences amicably. The League had sat at

New Granum since the end of the war that had established the Union of Margelan as the most potent

military power on Atlas—Lavager’s predecessor once removed had demanded that as a major

concession for peace.

The League of Nations was a league in name only and its success at keeping the peace had been limited

at best.

“Daddy, will there be another war?”

Lavager did not answer immediately. While he often entrusted secrets of state to his daughter, whom he

secretly hoped might someday succeed him, there were things he would never tell her. “Probably,” he

admitted at last. “But,” he added, “I have a plan.”

“Daddy, the other day Beresford Tuchman stood up in the League and said that Margelan is not a state

with an army but an army with a state. Everyone believes there’s another war coming and that you will

start it. The League is a joke.”

Lavager laughed. “They’ve been saying that about us for years, Candie. Yes, the League has not been

very effective, but it gives all the nation-states of Atlas a forum. That’s important. But Candie, if I live

long enough I am going to impose peace on this world. I’ll do it by force if I have to but I’d prefer

another method.”

“Which is?”

“Ummm. I have something up my sleeve.” Candace could not see her father’s smile in the dark.

“Can you tell me?”

“Nope. It’s something I’m working on.” The silence between him and his daughter grew pregnant.

“Damned fine cigar,” he said at last.

“Daddy!”

“I’m developing something in our labs, and once it’s ready I’m going to use it to impose order and

tranquility on this world, and that is all I can tell you about it now, Candace.” She cocked her head; her

father used her proper name only when he was very serious. “This information must remain between me

and a few others—and you never even heard what I just told you.” What concerned Lavager most about

his daughter’s knowing too much was not that she would tell anyone—he knew from experience he could

trust her with the most sensitive secrets—but the possibility of her being kidnapped and subjected to any

one of many methods used to extract information from unwilling sources. A realist, he knew that if he

couldn’t prevent that from happening at least he could keep safe what he was doing in his research

laboratories.

“A weapon,” Candace snorted, a statement, not a question.

“Yes, of a sort.” Lavager smiled. “Look, figure the politics. Our ambassador to the Confederation of

Human Worlds recently filed a dozen dispatches reporting how a number of member worlds in the

Confederation feel uneasy about our intentions in this sector of Human Space. We sit astride an

economic lifeline here on Atlas. They’re afraid that if someone succeeds in unifying Atlas he’ll create a

shipping bottleneck in these spacelanes and attempt to extract stiff tolls. As they see it, keeping us at each

other’s throats is in their best interests. So until I’m ready to show my hand, I’ve got to keep my plan

under wraps.”

“I understand,” Candace conceded.

Lavager put his arm around his daughter again and drew her close. “When the time is right—Well, I’d

like a ham and cheese sandwich before bed. Care to join me?”

The pair stood and Lavager led the way back toward the house, followed silently by the presidential

security team. In the sky overhead another meteor flashed brightly before disappearing over the horizon.

CHAPTER

ONE

Fourth Force Recon Company, Fourth Fleet Marines, Camp Howard, Marine Corps Base Camp

Basilone, Halfway

“ ’Toon, ten-hut!”

The Marines of second platoon, Fourth Force Recon Company snapped to attention at the command

from their platoon sergeant Gunnery Sergeant Alf Lytle.

“Section leaders, report!”

“Squad leaders, report!” first section leader Staff Sergeant Suptra commanded in turn.

“First squad, all present and accounted for!” Sergeant Jak Daly shouted. His three Marines stood in a

rank to his left.

“Second squad, all present and accounted for!” Sergeant Wil Bingh and his three men were directly to

first squad’s left.

The four Marines of third squad were also present. Fourth squad would have completed the front rank

of second platoon, but it was on a deployment, running a reconnaissance mission for the army. Only the

four Marines of fifth squad were present from second section; sixth, seventh, and eighth squads, along

with their section leader, were on a mission in support of a peacekeeping operation somewhere else. All

seven members of the platoon’s sniper squad were present in the third rank, as reported by the squad

leader, Staff Sergeant Athon.

Once the reports were complete, Gunny Lytle faced about and Lieutenant Tevedes, the platoon

commander, marched toward him. Lytle raised his hand in a sharp salute and announced, “Second

platoon, all present and accounted for, sir!”

“Thank you, Platoon Sergeant,” Tevedes said, returning the salute. “You may take your place.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Lytle executed an about-face and marched to his position two paces in front of Suptra.

Lieutenant Tevedes looked with pride at his Marines—hisMarines. He’d previously served as a platoon

sergeant and a platoon commander in a Fleet Initial Strike Team, a FIST. Before that he’d been first a

reconman, then a squad leader in Seventh Force Recon Company. This was his first command in Force

Recon, and he looked forward to the day when his entire platoon would be sent out on a mission.

Individual-squad and multi-squad deployments in support of Confederation army units or the armed

forces of Confederation member worlds were the bread and butter of Force Recon, but platoon-size

missions were nearest to the hearts of the platoon commanders; those missions were when they got to

demonstrate that they could do more than train their Marines and provide them with mission planning and

support, that they could successfully lead them in harm’s way.

“I’m sure you will be happy to hear that sixth, seventh, and eighth squads have completed their phase of

the peacekeeping mission with the army and will rejoin the platoon in a couple of weeks,” Tevedes said.

The Recon Marines were too well disciplined to show a reaction, though they’d been looking forward to

the return of the three squads—by tradition, when two or more squads returned from a deployment, the

entire platoon was given a week’s leave.

“That’s what I thought,” Tevedes deadpanned at their stone-faces. “Fourth squad is still bogged down

trying to instruct the army on the difference between unconfirmed reports and the hard intel generated by

Force Recon, so it’ll be a while yet before they come home.”

That brought out snickers from several of the Force Recon Marines and hoots from one or two. “Leave

it to the doggies to not know the difference,” someone murmured just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Quiet in the ranks,” Gunny Lytle said out of the side of his mouth.

“In other company news,” Tevedes continued as though there hadn’t been an interruption, “first platoon

is deploying on a six-month training mission to Carhart’s World, where they will establish a recon school

and train the first generation of instructors for a new Carhart Armed Forces special forces

reconnaissance unit. Add in travel time and whatever bureaucratic nonsense they’ll have to deal with

when they arrive on Carhart’s World, and they’ll probably be gone for seven months or longer. In the

unlikely event that any of you don’t understand the significance of first platoon’s extended absence, it

means there will probably be additional deployments for the rest of the company for the duration of that

deployment.”

There was little reaction to that news; as much as half of the company was on deployment at any given

time anyway, and it wasn’t all that unusual for a squad to have as little as two or three weeks, Standard,

between deployments, though the normal rest and training period was at least two months Standard, and

occasionally five or six months.

“The same squads from third and fourth platoons that were on deployments the last time I gave you an

update are still on deployment, but I don’t imagine we much care about when they’re due back, not

unless it interferes with our coming leave.” Tevedes was right, his Marines were more interested in what

they would be doing until sixth, seventh, and eighth squads returned.

He gave his platoon a bland look that could be interpreted as, “Don’t ask me,” then said out loud,

“Everyone who’s been in Force Recon long enough has run into a situation where you didn’t expect to

need a sniper, but suddenly you do. So we are going to spend the next two weeks on the range, where

we will all fire sniper weapons for orientation and qualification.”

This again was the kind of announcement that didn’t provoke an overt reaction. They all knew that if a

mission didn’t require a sniper, the squad or squads that went on it didn’t take sniper weapons either, so

the training didn’t make much sense. But it was an opportunity to fire—and qualify with—more weapons,

and the Marines all enjoyed spending time on the range.

“Commander Obannion,” Tevedes continued, “told me that came from very much higher-higher.” Which

probably meant Obannion, the company commander, got the orders from Lieutenant General Indrus, the

commanding general of Fourth Fleet Marines. “So get ready to head for the range. You know what that

means. We leave at oh-dark-thirty tomorrow morning. Transportation will be provided. Platoon

Sergeant, dismiss the platoon.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Lytle responded. He saluted Tevedes, who returned the salute, about-faced, and

marched toward the company office.

Lytle waited until the lieutenant was halfway there, then faced the platoon and said, “You heard the man.

Get your asses into the barracks and get ready to go play bang-bang with weapons most of us will never

use.”

Camp Hathcock Controlled Ranges, MCB Camp Basilone, Halfway

Camp Hathcock, like Camp Howard, was a small part of Confederation Marine Corps Base Camp

Basilone. Camp Basilone itself sprawled over more than eighty thousand square kilometers, which was

far more space than was required for the headquarters of a Fleet Marine Force and its attendant units.

But Camp Basilone was also home to the Marine Corps Combat Development Center, where new

tactics and most Marine-specific weapons and equipment were developed and tested—when six or

seven FISTs assembled to run war games together, or in opposition to each other, they needed

prodigious amounts of space to play in. Terrain and weather were also a consideration, and Camp

Basilone provided a full range from semitropical swamp through desert, temperate forest, and savannah,

all the way to alpine. The installation also included several built-up areas, ranging from rural villages to a

mock-up of a major metropolis—every one of which could be used for live-fire training for the full

panoply of Marine Corps weapons.

Camp Hathcock was the smallest of the “camps” that made up Camp Basilone, only five kilometers

deep by ten wide, backed up against the Veridian Ocean, but its area of influence via firepower was far

larger: Air and sea craft were banned for a distance five kilometers to its sides and twenty kilometers

beyond the shore.

Warrant Officer Jaqua, Fourth Force Recon Company’s training officer and range master, was ready for

the platoon’s recon squads when they reached the range. Masers slung over their shoulders, Staff

Sergeant Athon and his sniper squad stood in a rank behind him.

The four squads of second platoon available for that training evolution formed up in front of the company

training officer the same as they had for morning formation behind the barracks.

Jaqua stood, hands clasped behind his back, casually looking them over. “I know,” he said before his

inspection could make anybody uncomfortable, “that most of you have already done orientation firing of

various sniper weapons. A couple of you have even fired all of them. But not one of you has fired any of

them for qualification. We are going to spend the next two weeks correcting that deficiency.”

Jaqua could say “deficency” without giving offense; in addition to his Distinguished Blasterman and

hand-blaster Expert badges, his chest bore the uncommon Expert Sniper badge with the scarlet pips that

indicated he’d qualified at that level with all three of the sniper-specific weapons.

“We aren’t going to overwhelm you with firing all of our weapons at once; we only have two weeks, and

that’s barely long enough to familiarize you with them. Instead, we will spend the first week concentrating

on learning the maser. On Frigaday, you will fire the maser on the qualification range. Next week you will

spend four days firing the mid-range projectile rifle and the long-range sabot. Next Frigaday, if you feel

sufficiently comfortable with either of them, you will fire it for qualification.”

He raised a hand to stop the groans of protest he expected and quickly added, “If you qualify with any

of these weapons, that qualification will be entered in your Service Record Book and you will be

authorized to wear the appropriate badge. If you fail to qualify with any weapon you fire for qualification,

that failure willnot be entered into your service record. There is no requirement in the Basic Reconman

MOS for qualification with sniper weapons, so it wouldn’t be fair to officially note any failure to do so.

But qualifying with additional weapons will look good in your record.”

He smiled. “Besides, some of you might decide you like firing sniper weapons and want to apply for

sniper school. Force Recon can always use new snipers who have prior experience as reconmen.

“Now, I’ll hand you over to Staff Sergeant Athon and his snipers for basic orientation.” He made an

about-face. “Staff Sergeant Athon, front and center!”

“Sir!” Athon sharply stepped in front of Suptra and saluted.

“Staff Sergeant, take command of the trainees,” Jaqua said before he cut his salute.

“Aye aye, sir!” Athon held his salute until Jaqua cut his and marched away, then stood with his feet at

shoulder width and his hands on his hips, and ordered, “Lance Corporal Dwan, position!”

First sniper team’s Lance Corporal Bella Dwan broke formation and came to stand one pace to Athon’s

left. She showed her teeth to the Marines of second platoon in a grin. Her grin was no more friendly than

that of a hungry shark.

“Lance Corporal Dwan,” Athon said to second platoon, “will explain to you the operation and

capabilities of the M14A5 sniper maser. She won’t go into any great detail about how it functions; none

of you have the advanced degrees in physics you’d need to understand them.

“Lance Corporal.” He stepped aside.

Bella Dwan was petite and had what on another woman might be called an elfin face—as long as one

didn’t look into her eyes. The other Marines of Fourth Force Recon Company were about equally

divided as to whether, if she was seen off base in nice civilian clothes, she would look more like

somebody’s kid sister or like someone worth pursuing as a woman. But they all knew better—and no

Marine who knew her ever saw her as a woman to pursue, much less as anybody’s kid sister. Her eyes

were cold and hard, and had made many a strong man excuse himself and depart for other environs.

They called her the “Queen of Killers.”

Dwan was a very unusual Marine. She was still under thirty and not yet through her first eight-year

enlistment, which was the only excuse her chain of command had for not offering her a meritorious

promotion to corporal. She was qualified as Expert with blaster, hand-blaster, and most sniper weapons.

She wasn’t qualified as Expert with the maser because she had surprised the competition-shooting

community by earning the treasured Distinguished designation with the maser after only three years of

part-time shooting in authorized competitions.

Dwan unslung her maser and held it across her body at port arms. “This is the M14A5 sniper maser,”

she said, in a voice only slightly less elfin than her face. The weapon was little more than a meter long. Its

rear half resembled the buttstock and firing group of the standard blaster carried by Marine infantrymen

and Force Recon. Forward of that, the “barrel” group was a dull metal cylinder about three centimeters

in diameter sitting in a short, knobby, wood forestock for almost its entire length. The barrel was slotted

at regular intervals. Midway along the cradle, a handgrip dropped down. The “muzzle” tapered to a

point, circled by a series of tightly spaced rings that diminished in diameter as they approached the point.

“The M14A5 sniper maser is an electrically operated, tightly focused, single-shot, shoulder fired,

microwave weapon. It has a maximum immediate kill range of two hundred meters, and a maximum

effective kill range of four hundred meters.” Her grin broadened. “It can cause sunstroke at nearly a

kilometer and severe sunburn at a klick and a half.”

Then her smile tightened. “The M14A5 is a very quiet weapon. Someone with keen hearing can possibly

detect it at a distance as great as five meters, but no farther. It fires a tightly focused pulse of

high-intensity microwaves. A three-quarter-second pulse, at two hundred meters or less, striking a human

target anywhere from the crown to mid-thigh, will kill before the full pulse has completed. To kill at four

hundred meters, the entire three-quarter-second pulse must hit in the same point, somewhere between

top of head and groin.

“The wave is so tightly focused—don’t ask how, I don’t understand the physics any better than you

do—that it is virtually undetectable by any surveillance device not directly in its path. When the target is

killed, it drops straight down and shows no external sign of being shot.”

Her grin became wider than ever. “Gentlemen—that means you, Marines!—that means a sniper who is

good enough at snooping and pooping can kill his—or,” she cleared her throat, “hertarget without being

discovered.

“Now, I know most of you badasses are Expert Blastermen, accustomed to firing plasma bolts at targets

as much as a klick away and hitting them nine times out of ten, so you may be wondering what’s so

difficult about firing a weapon that can kill only up to four hundred meters.

“It’s that three-quarter-second pulse. There isn’t any recoil, or not much, but you have to maintain a

solid lock on your aiming point for that entire three-quarters-second. You might be surprised at how

many Marines can’t.”

Lance Corporal Wehrli from second squad raised his hand. When Dwan acknowledged him, he asked,

“If that’s so, why doesn’t the maser have a stabilizing system?” He gritted his teeth when she gave him a

you’re-cute-when-you-ask-dumb-questions look.

“Weight and noise,” she said. “Snipers have to be able to move slowly and silently. That means carry

nothing you don’t absolutely need. And every stabilizing device makes noise, no matter how slight. The

maser gets heavier if it has enough shielding to silence the stabilizer. The more weight a sniper carries, the

more chance he or she has of making noise. A silent snipermakes kills, a noisy snipergets killed. It’s that

simple.”

Dwan looked about, but nobody else raised a question, so she continued her lecture.

“Aiming is easy. You look through the optical sight, lock on target, and squeeze. The M14A5 is a

line-of-sight weapon, and is unaffected by wind, weather, or gravitational effect within its effective

kill-range. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t affected over ranges measured in thousands of kilometers, but that

effect’s from solar winds and Jovian-sized gravity wells. And by the time the waves travel that far, they’re

so dispersed it really doesn’t matter.

“The basic elements of firing apply, BRASS: Breathe, Relax, Aim, Slack, Squeeze.” She looked about

for more questions, but when none immediately came, Staff Sergeant Athon stepped forward and took

over.

“You all know the range routine for new weapons,” he told second platoon. “I have all six of my snipers

here, and there are twenty-three of you. Each of my people will take a squad, Sergeant Gossner will take

the command element. They will give you dry-firing instruction, supervised by Gunner Jaqua and myself.

We’ll go right down the line. First squad, you go with Lance Corporal Dwan. Second squad—”

“Come on, big boy,” Dwan said, stepping close enough to slap Daly on the shoulder. “Bring your

kiddies with you.” She marched toward a section of the firing line a hundred meters distant and didn’t

bother looking back to see if first squad followed—she knew they would.

Daly pursed his lips at the undue, almost insubordinate, familiarity of the “big boy” and shoulder

slap—not to mention the insulting “kiddies”—but Bella Dwan was allowed to get away with minor

infractions and insults, she was that good at what she did. Besides, like everybody else in the company,

David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist Force Recon 01 - Backshot

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