Recruit by Jonathan Brazee (best historical fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

His Marines were well-trained.  They would continue the mission, but he would be out of it. Corporal Castallano would have to take over the assault.  It was only then that he looked out at Kim’s fire team.  While the projections on his visor were gone, he could still see through it.  The three Marines in sight had also stopped, one in mid-stride.

Sergeant Nbele’s heart sank.  This wasn’t a simple malfunction.  Something had taken down all the PICS, not that he could imagine what could possibly accomplish that.  But he couldn’t ignore the evidence before his eyes.  He kept hitting the reset, hoping against hope that it would finally work, but his suit remained a quiet prison.  He started calculating.  Third Squad was 15 km away, and with the lone company Stork, they could get there in a couple of minutes.  But he didn’t know where that transport was.  It might take 30 minutes or more to get it to Third’s position, then another five to embark, reach the mine, and debark.

Sergeant Nbele felt his frustration threaten to take over.  He took five deep breaths to calm himself.  They would just have to wait there for however long it took for rescue.  It wasn’t as if the miners had any heavy weapons with which to attack them.  With the power of the suits out, the kickbacks, the tiny jets that went off when a projectile hit the skin of a suit, thereby slowing down the projectile, wouldn’t work, but the inherent protection of the sandwiched armor would still be effective.

Something stirred in his peripheral vision.  He leaned forward, pushing his face closer to the clear visor, trying to see to the right.  At the edge of his field of vision, several men came out of one of the mine shafts, hugging the rock walls.  One took out what looked to be nothing more than a folded umbrella. Sergeant Nbele had no idea what it was until the miner pointed it at the sky, and with a flash, a rocket-like missile took off.  The men ducked back into the shaft.  Whatever that rocket was, it was certainly homemade, and if its target was the eye-in-the-sky, that drone had countermeasures. 

His cheek was pressed against the visor as he tried to watch.  A few moments later, the miners hesitantly came out again.  They were searching the sky.  They were a long way off, but with his electronics dead and zoom non-functioning, it seemed as if they were arguing on what to do.

More men came out, several pointing to where the Marines were.  One man had the controls of an industrial mule which towed a piece of equipment out of one of the mine entrances, and with that in trace, he started guiding the mule up the slope, following the other men as they approached the Marines.

Sergeant Nbele kept hitting his reset, but still nothing changed.  His suit was dead.  He wasn’t sure what the miners could have done.  The suits were hardened against EMP[4] attacks, so as long as they were intact, the suits should work.  Obviously, however, the miners had managed to disable them somehow.

Halfway up the slope, several miners grouped together.  Arms were pointed, then three men split off to move toward Corporal Kim’s team.  Two, including the guy controlling the mule, came forward toward Sergeant Nbele, and another three started to the squad leader’s right, most likely heading to Second Fire Team.  They were out of his field of vision within moments.

As the mule trundled forward, its six tires having no problem purchasing the rough ground, the sergeant’s heart sank as he suddenly recognized what it was towing.  It was a powerful industrial drill.  As a boy in the Houseman slums, the young John had dreamed of working in road construction on the planet, where crews were blasting tunnels in the mountain ranges.  One of their pieces of equipment was this type of drill. Sergeant Nbele wasn’t sure if the hardened LTC bit could penetrate the LTC in his suit’s armor, but he knew he didn’t want to find out.

With all power gone from his suit, the first blast actually rocked him.  A cloud of dust rose up from where Corporal Kim’s team was frozen. Sergeant Nbele stared as explosion after explosion sent more plumes upwards. 

“Get some!” he shouted as he realized the explosions were supporting artillery from his unit.

The incoming rounds started walking across the slope toward him.  He glanced back to see the two miners who had been approaching him run pell-mell back down the slope to save themselves.

“Fuckin’ A, I owe you bastards,” he said in awe as round after round landed.  “Screw Teristry, that Jack is comin’ to you guys!”

Shrapnel pinged as it hit his suit.  It didn’t do any harm, as the arty Marines firing the shells would have known it wouldn’t.  But against unarmored miners, it would be devastating. Sergeant Nbele looked back over to the left.  The three Marines he could see were still standing, but at least one of the miners was down, a bloody mess heaped in the dirt.  He couldn’t see the other two miners, but they had to be down as well.

It looked like the two men who had been approaching him had made it to safety, but the drill seemed to have taken a direct hit as the rounds were walked from his left to right.  He wanted to shout out with joy each time a round landed.  Too soon, though, the rounds stopped.

The platoon only had one tube, the old but venerable M229.  It fired a 155 mm shell that packed a powerful punch.  Some shells were anti-personnel, such as what had just been used, some were anti-armor, some were EMP and other pulse-type rounds.  The gun was a great piece of gear, but even with advances in shell-casing technology, the rounds were still heavy and took up space.  A mere Marine squad could only carry so much.  They weren’t some planet-bound militia that could stockpile huge stores of rounds ready for use.  They had to carry in whatever they thought they might need.

Sergeant Nbele thought the platoon HQ had most likely expended all their anti-personnel rounds in that fire for effect.  The question was if the miners knew that as well.  Nbele hoped that the threat of more rounds would keep them in their hidey-holes until the rest of the platoon could come and get the squad out of this mess.  Then the miners would find out what it meant to face the Marines.

Motion back at the entrance to the mine shaft caught his eye.  The miners had to know that time was limited before reinforcements could arrive.  If they were going to do something about his squad, they would have to act fast.

Four men darted out, and by bounding back and forth, hitting the deck before bouncing back up for another burst of 15 meters, they made their way up to the mule in front of Sergeant Nbele.  Once there, they stood up and stared at it. 

Typical civilians, he thought as he saw that.  All that dodgin’ and bobbin’ to get up the slope, then they stand around gawkin’.  I wish to God I’d left a sniper up behind us.

The mule looked worse for wear.  He could see that several of the tires were blown.  He hoped the drill had been messed up, too.   All four men turned as one to look directly at him.  They were only about 30 meters away, and Sergeant Nbele could see them arguing, several times pointing to the ground between them and him. 

One guy got on the control and started the mule up again.  It lurched forward, then the drive shaft of one wheel started to spin while pieces of the tire flew off.  Two of the men got behind the mule and pushed.  It lurched forward again, this time going maybe five meters before getting stuck once more.  Once more, the men got behind, and with brute force, got it moving again.

Whatever Sergeant Nbele had hoped about the mule and its cargo, it looked like the miners would make it up to him.  If they did, he had to rely on his armor to keep him safe until help could arrive.  No matter how many scenarios he went over in his mind, nothing he could think of would make any difference.  He had no secret powers, no way to fight back.  He didn’t even have some way to jury-rig a suicide blast that would take them out with him like what happened in the Hollybolly war flicks.

Within a surprisingly short time, the miners were right in front of him.  One of them, an older guy with a two-day’s stubble covering his face, stood on the mule to stare inside Sergeant Nbele’s visor.  The guy looked like anyone.  Dark complected with a narrow face, the only thing notable about him was his icy-grey eyes.  Even with the eyes, though, Nbele would never have given the man a second glance if he passed him walking down the street.  He seemed so, well normal.  The man looked to be studying him as well.  After a few moments, he shrugged and got back off the mule. 

As the men struggled to horse around the drill, Sergeant Nbele had a sudden urge to take a piss.  With his suit powerless, though, he didn’t know if the catchment gel would work, and he would be damned if he was going to piss down his legs with the miners out there.  He couldn’t see the drill bit anymore, but when it clanked against this armor, he almost let his bladder go.

He heard the muffled whine as the drill was turned on.  His suit dampened most of the outside sounds, but as the drill bit started to try and force a way into his suit, the screeching reverberated loudly enough to make him wince. Sergeant Nbele felt the vibrations, and his suit tilted slightly back before the drill skittered to the side and lost contact. 

His armor had held!

They wrestled the drill back, and set the bit directly on his front carapace.  Once again, as the bit made contact, the sound filled the inside of the suit.  But just as before, the suit deflected the drill, sending it off to the side.  This seemed to put a pause to things as the men stopped and started discussing the issue.

“Fuck you too, you freakin’ slugs,” he said quietly to himself.  “Just keep