Free The Ninth Circle by R. M. Meluch Page A

now Steele was standing in front of his Marines, barking orders and feeling like he had his pants around his ankles because he knew that just about five-quarters of these guys knew that he was practicing docking maneuvers with Flight Sergeant Kerry Blue.
    Do not look at Kerry Blue .
    There was Flight Leader Cain Salvador. Alpha One. His best man. Mixed race. Sleek and powerful as a seal. Cain was a solid Marine.
    Until this morning, Cain Salvador had been a Flight Sergeant, flying as Alpha Three. That was until Espinoza went and got herself pregnant.
    Replacing Cain as Alpha Three was a she-guy, came over from the Rio Grande . Hard core. Cute face, elfin cheekbones, broad top shelf. The Marine was out here to fight, not to dance. The knuckles of both hands were tattooed DNFW—Do Not Foxtrot With. And the red X on her brow in the third eye position announced that she was equipped with a dragon—an appliance more vividly called a sausage peeler. Her name was Geneva Rhine. Nothing to do but call her Rhino.
    Alpha Four. Carly Delgado. Whip thin and cuddly as razor wire. If you want your squad to take prisoners, you don’t send Carly in. Not that Carly was vicious—okay Carly was vicious—but it took a lot more mass and muscle to take an enemy captive than it did to make him dead. Carly couldn’t take captives. Carly could do dead. At her size it was self-preservation.
    Carly was attached at the hip to Twitch Fuentes, Alpha Five. Quiet, calm. Steady as an anchor. Just tell Twitch what to do; you know it’ll get done. Twitch understood spoken Americanese. He just didn’t speak it. Used to. Said something stupid once and hadn’t tried again since. No one remembered what it was except Twitch. Steele did not want to know that Twitch couldn’t read.
    Into the Alpha Seven spot came another all-American mongrel by the name of Asante Addai. Part Colombian, part Mayan, part some kind of slave-descended Black, part sub-Saharan Arab. One hundred percent U.S. Fleet Marine. Asante had spent a year in college between tours, decided it wasn’t for him. Moved like a boxer, light on his feet. Asante kept his springy black hair shorn close to his head. He wore a lot of scars, which he never got repaired. Medical gel would have healed those over. But, as Asante said, “I don’t do the pink crap.”
    Steele stood through roll call of the Wing and the Battery. Then he informed them of their destination—Zoe. There had been an attack, but the initial crisis had passed. There had been no further attacks. But it was not over.
    How Admiral Farragut knew that, Steele didn’t ask.
    We’re running out to the end of the galaxy to rescue the admiral’s pet hamster, and I’m not questioning orders.
    Steele would do the same for Kerry Blue.
    It would take Merrimack no less than a month to get to Zoe. The admiral could have chosen to wait for more information or more hostile activity, or he could get his big guns in motion now.
    John Farragut had a sense for these things. The man could smell smoke before there was a fire.
    Steele had no doubt that by time his Marines got to Zoe, hell would be loose.

     
    Director Izrael Benet stalked out of his tent.
    The rest of the LEN expedition members were gathered around the fire pit at the center of camp.
    Some of the xenos turned, hearing the director coming. He was stomping.
    Izzy Benet shouted, “Who summoned the U.S. military!”
    There was much looking about, eyes meeting blank eyes, quizzical murmurs.
    “What?”
    “What military?”
    “Are they here?”
    “Apparently,” Benet started, making a show of struggling to keep his temper and losing. “The United States is sending a battleship here!”
    “Why!” several xenos asked at once.
    “ Someone—” Benet’s gaze fell upon Glenn—“told them we were under extraplanetary attack.”
    Dr. Suri Chin said, “Who would tell them a thing like that?” Dr. Chin had not been on board the Spring Beauty .
    Most eyes found their way to Glenn.