When I reached the door, I pressed my boot against the dead man’s shoulder and slid his bloody body out of the way. I felt no remorse; I would not have shot him had he not turned to run. “Soldiers have an army, sailors have a navy, the Marines have a corpse,” my old drill instructor used to say.
The corridor outside the docking bay was nearly empty, empty enough that I did not worry that anyone heard the shots. Even if someone had been nearby, the doors were thick, and we had suppressors on our M27s. The gunfire sounded no louder than the sound of a racquet striking a tennis ball. Any sailors happening to pass by the door would not even stop to think about what they had heard.
With a hundred men following behind me, I headed toward the bridge. Another hundred headed aft, toward the engine room. That left two hundred men to locate the armory and neutralize whatever resistance the sailors offered. In the past, battleships carried a complement of a thousand Marines. It occurred to me that even if this ship carried a regiment of “new” Marines, my four hundred could still win the day. My men were veterans of a more-established service. If the Unified Authority had an all-natural-born-Marines corps, the men in that corps would be untried men in an untried service.
The hall from the docking bay to the center of the ship was long and straight, wide enough for ten men to walk abreast. The way was bright and surprisingly empty.
We slipped through the halls quickly, making only a half-hearted effort to keep ourselves concealed. We stopped at junctions, peered around corners for targets, then moved on. A door opened and a sailor started to step out, saw us, and ran back inside. Two of my men followed him. I heard the soft chatter of suppressed gunfire and knew our secret was safe.
“Check every door,” I told my men.
“It’s like a ghost town,” one of my sergeants radioed in.
“Beta Team report?” I snapped.
Upon leaving the docking bay, we had split into four squads. Beta was the team I sent to capture Engineering. Alpha, my squad, would take the bridge. Gamma would look for the armory, assuming the ship had one. Delta would watch the halls and squish anything that looked dangerous.
“We’re approaching the engine room.” A moment later, he radioed in again. “It’s like they’re taking a lunch break or something, there’s only a couple of techs here.”
“Secure the area and report,” I said. “Gamma?”
“We have the armory.” Gamma had the shortest route to cover. The armory was on the same deck as the docking bay.
“Any problems?”
“Just a dumb-ass janitor who tried to run. I had to cap him.”
“Anyone else there?”
“The place is empty, Captain.”
“Delta?” I asked.
“Still deploying.”
“Okay, Delta leader. Fast and quiet. If they don’t stop and drop, waste ’em.”
It occurred to me that I had not heard the screech of the Klaxons. Apparently no one had spotted us yet.
Swinging around a doorway, I saw five sailors lazing around a coffee dispenser. I signaled caution to the Marines behind me. When we went in to take them, one of the sailors threw his hands in the air to show he wasn’t armed. My Marines shot the other four. Blood, meat, and coffee splattered the wall. Bodies fell.
“What do I do with him?” a private asked. He pointed to the scared shell of a man kneeling on the floor with his hands laced behind his head. The man hung his head till his chin pressed against his neck. He just knelt there, whimpering.
“Guard him,” I said.
“What about …”
I looked at the quailing sailor, and said, “We either guard him or kill him. Your choice.” Then I went to an open frequency, and said, “Listen up, Alpha, this break room is now our official holding pen. If you take a prisoner, you bring him here. You got that?”
They said they did.
The private cracked his M27 against the back of the sailor’s head, and said, “Stay down there, asshole.” He forgot to broadcast externally. Alpha Team heard him, the captured sailor did not.
The corridor funneled into a wide berth near the center of the ship. As we reached this area, we finally ran into resistance. Somebody fired a shot. The bullet struck the wall about five feet ahead of me, leaving a scrape. Two more shots followed.
I ducked against a wall, peered around the corner. The shooter hid behind a bulkhead.
“You three, flank him, take him,” I ordered the men standing behind me. As I fired a few shots, they scampered back down the hall and took an alternate route.
Moments later, the alarms finally sounded. The Klaxons were so loud that they made my helmet vibrate. The audio filters in my helmet dampened the noise, but it must have been excruciating for the sailors.
Somebody fired three hopeless shots in my direction even though I was completely hidden behind the corner. The shots came spaced a few seconds apart. I returned fire in three-shot bursts. My job was not to kill the enemy, just to keep them pinned. A moment later, automatic fire rang out, and my Marines let me know that the coast was clear.
Before leaving, I went to have a look at the fallen resistance. There were two of them, sailors on MP duty with sidearms and armbands. They lay facedown, their blood spreading into puddles.
I noticed my heartbeat as I ran up the stairs leading to the next deck. It was normal. Running down the corridors of this battleship, facing only token resistance, I had not built up enough of a sweat to start a combat reflex. I might just as well have been playing Ping-Pong or herding a flock of sheep.
“Beta, report?”
“We have control of Engineering, sir.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“We killed a guy.”
“Any prisoners?” I asked.
“Yeah, sixty-three of ’em. There was a guy who took a swing at me with a wrench, but everyone else gave up without a fight.”
Sixty-three men in Engineering? I didn’t know you could operate a battleship with so small a crew.
“Captain, we have secured the lower decks.” It was the Delta Team leader.
“Any problems at the Marine compound?” I asked. The Marines would be stowed on the bottom deck.
“The deck was empty, sir.”
“There are no Marines in the compound?” I asked.
“It’s an empty space, sir. The whole compound is empty. There aren’t even any racks in the barracks.”
I considered this as we reached the bridge. The captain of the ship could have sealed off the bridge, but he didn’t. The hatch stood wide open, revealing a huge floor that looked like an office complex. There were desks and dividers and computers. You did not fly a ship like this with a flight stick or yoke; even the combat maneuvers were programmed into a computer.
We had not seen any real resistance. On the bridge, the captain of the ship made his stand as best he could. He met us at the entrance, flanked by six men carrying M27s. He and the two armed men beside him wore the khaki uniforms of officers—a one-star admiral with a captain and a commander by his side. The four men behind them were simple seamen.
“What is the meaning of this, clone?” The old man spat out the words as he approached us. Annoyance showed in his eyes. Fear showed in the eyes of the men around him.
Seeing this angry old man’s composure, I felt my nerve slip just a bit. “I am commandeering your ship.”
“Clone, this is treason.” He used the word “clone” twice, and I suspected he would use it again. He wanted to trigger a death reflex, the bastard.
“I’m not going to have a death reflex,” I said, “but if I hear you say that word one more time, I will shoot you on the spot.”
“You son of a bitch,” the old man said. “You’re behind this, aren’t you? You’re that Liberator clone.” I got the feeling that last use of “clone” had just slipped out and did not shoot.