Those Alone (Mil Sci-fi)

[Pulp Hero]

Yes, I am still writing Desert Thief, but I need a break from the fantasy world, to write what I really love; pulpy, disillutioned, military sci-fi. Enjoy pt 1.

The team of Special Incursion Counter-Operation marines waited around the dilapidated weigh station. Four of them were spread out in a line across the road from the station’s main building, while two more waited in the tall grass ten meters from the rear of the building. Their active camouflage had subtly readjusted itself and made them nearly invisible to the dozen armed men who idly milled around a commercial truck.

Gunnery Sergeant Millis, one of the two marines closest to the building was the first to see the cloud of dust the signaled another truck closing in the distance.

“Incoming, main road north.” He whispered into his helmet mounted microphone.

“Roger.” Replied Staff Sergeant Coris from across the road.

The truck pulled into the weigh station and stopped without incident. A professional looking Rael, a green skinned alien, climbed down from the high cab and began to talk with one of the men while four more Rael jumped out of the back of the cargo compartment and began working.

“Drone sniffer has a lock, its our stuff.” Came Coris’ voice into Millis’ ear.

The lead Rael stiffened up and rapidly began touching a device on its ear. It said something angrily to the near human, and pulled another boxy device from its leggings and began waving it around the area. It stopped with the device pointed across the road toward where Coris’ men were.

“You’re made. Base of fire.” Said Millis.

Immediately the roar of the team’s LMG and the distinct high pitched scream of pulse rifles became deafening. The mixed group of Rael and humans took cover from the hail of armor piercing bullets and deadly energy pulses.

The armed men for their part were staying disciplined. No panic fire went over the truck, and they had men watching the rear. It was only the distraction caused by a ricocheted round into a man’s thigh that allowed Millis and his fellow marine, Fynel, to cover the open ground to the building undetected.

As they rounded the corner approaching the pinned men and aliens behind the truck, the sound of return fire began suddenly. They were making their stand.

And then Millis saw it. One of the men had produced a directed airbust launcher from somewhere. The oversized tube would launch a wide projectile that would detonate in mid-air, saturating a few square meters with hundreds of pieces explosive cored fragmentation that would detonate on impact. It was an ugly weapon.

Millis abandoned all thought of sneaking completely around the enemy and began firing his own pulse rifle continuously at the man heaving the launcher over the hood of the truck. Behind him, Fynel sprayed at the rest of the men who had turned to met the new direction of attack.

Millis’ pulses hit home, searing the man. But, not fast enough; the launcher swayed as internal counter balance caught the recoil of the firing weapon.

Millis knew that if any of his team was still alive over their, he haqd to finish the firefight quickly. He plugged a burst into the Rael, causing it to slump down.

“Fynel, we need t-” but he never finished. An energy pulse stuck him square in the back, dropping him to the ground. Behind him, Fynel was down, half his head gone. The human who had gotten around behind them stood over Millis.

“Feds.” He said, before hitting Millis with the butt of his blocky pulse rifle.




Aboard the CGN Morning Dawn Rick Flemming was awoken by the blaring of his personal alarm clock. He brought his hand down heavily on top of it and opened his eyes to the sight to the cramped living space he had called home for the past twenty-six days. It was a standard NCO rated room; bunk bed, two wall lockers, and a sink in the corner. The NCO latrine was out the door and down the hall. Rick counted himself lucky that he had been able to score an empty room, the Morning Dawn was on a resupply run, and the only other people aboard were the carrier’s dedicated crew.

He crawled out of bed and looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. Staring back was a face covered in a thick beard that looked like it hadn’t slept in days. One of the upsides to his mission was that he was officially off-duty during the entire shipboard transit. No shaving. And once he had gotten in good with the ship’s Security Police, he had a steady supply of absolutely awful beer at his disposal.

But the good times were over. He was going to be dirtside on the colony planet of Miranda by end of the day.

He clawed through his small bag until it revealed a medium quality disposal razor and a travel sized can of foam. Shaving was an unfamiliar and painful process for Rick, but after a few nicks and only the mildest type of swearing, his face was hair free. His light duty uniform was hung up in one of the wall lockers that was opposite of the sink. He put on the khaki atrocity. That managed to make him look like an acceptable member of the Combined Governments Navy.

One unpleasantry out of the way, he turned to the second. He pulled a thick dossier off the shelf in the wall locker and looked it over again. Rick was going to see the marines of 520th Support Services Company. It was a mechanics company that serviced all the dirtside military hardware on Miranda. Rick was officially going down as an investigator in two incidents involving the unit’s Lieutenant who was accused of both attempting to trade a quite expensive portable generator for illicit drugs and for being drunk on duty, during which he damaged a ground vehicle. Both cases were lacked concrete evidence of illegal action, but half a dozen marines, some of them who were senior NCOs, had come forward to sign statements against the Lieutenant.

Rick was supposed to meet the enlisted men and take additional statements for a few days before administering a final decision on the matter. However, unknown to the men who had put their military careers on the line, a decision had already been made by MARCOM and the legal attaché. Due a lack of officers in the outer colonies, this Lieutenant was the Commander of the 520th and the only permanent Support Services officer on Miranda. If he was found guilty and removed, the Company would be in the hands of the dirty, apish enlisted, and MARCOM was having none of that. Rick had papers signed by the entire chain of command that affirmed the lieutenant’s innocence and transferred the involved NCOs back to positions on Earth, where Rick was quite sure, their careers would be permanently halted.