China Mike Read online

  China Mike

  Book Two of Abner Fortis, ISMC

  By

  P.A. Piatt

  PUBLISHED BY: Theogony Books

  Copyright © 2021 P.A. Piatt

  All Rights Reserved

  * * * * *

  Get the free Four Horsemen prelude story “Shattered Crucible”

  and discover other titles by Theogony Books at:

  http://chriskennedypublishing.com/

  * * * * *

  Cover Art and Design by Elartwyne Estole

  * * * * *

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  * * * * *

  “Just say no.”

  ─First Lady Nancy Reagan

  “Liberty call, liberty call!”

  ─Word passed over the internal communications system

  on U.S. Navy ships, greeted with cheers.

  * * * * *

  Contents

  DINLI

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  About P.A. Piatt

  Excerpt from Book One of the Lunar Free State

  Excerpt from Book One of the Chimera Company

  Excerpt from Book One of Murphy’s Lawless

  Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy

  * * * * *

  DINLI

  DINLI has many meanings to a Space Marine. It is the unofficial motto of the International Space Marine Corps, and it stands for “Do It, Not Like It.”

  Every Space Marine recruit has DINLI drilled into their head from the moment they arrive at basic training. Whatever they’re ordered to do, they don’t have to like it, they just have to do it. Crawl through stinking tidal mud? DINLI. Run countless miles with heavy packs? DINLI. Endure brutal punishment for minor mistakes? DINLI.

  DINLI also refers to the illicit hootch the Space Marines brew wherever they deploy. From jungle planets like Pada-Pada, to the water-covered planets of the Felder Reach, and even on the barren, boulder-strewn deserts of Balfan-48. It might be a violation of Fleet Regulations to brew it, but every Marine drinks DINLI, from the lowest private to the most senior general.

  DINLI is also the name of the ISMC mascot, a scowling bulldog with a cigar clamped between its massive jaws.

  Finally, DINLI is a general-purpose expression about the grunt life. From announcing the birth of a new child to expressing disgust at receiving a freeze-dried ham and lima bean ration pack again, a Space Marine can expect one response from his comrades.

  DINLI.

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  International Space Marine Corps Second Lieutenant Abner Fortis keyed his throat mike. “Go, go, go!”

  Breaching charges blew open the front and back doors of the building simultaneously, and Space Marines dressed in all-black tactical armor flowed inside. There were several bright flashes and sharp cracks as stun grenades preceded the assault troops into interior rooms and up the stairs. Short bursts of gunfire announced the discovery of “enemy” troops concealed inside.

  “Clear!” called Assault Team Alpha Leader, responsible for the first floor.

  “Clear!” echoed Assault Team Bravo Leader from upstairs.

  “Clear!” came the call from the Overwatch Sniper Team Leader.

  “All clear, all clear,” announced Fortis. He consulted his watch. “Good job, Marines. Twenty-six seconds. All teams, muster at the rally point.” Cool air washed over his head as he pulled off his assault helmet and swiped at the sweat on his face. The new-style assault helmets were full face, with a bulletproof visor and a hermetic seal. Great protection, but heavy and stifling.

  The assault teams and sniper overwatch gathered together and shared a laugh at Private Modell, who had a bright orange blotch on the chest of his battle armor. The Space Marine trainees used training rounds loaded with bright green paint, while the training cadre opposing force, or OPFOR, used orange.

  After the assault teams formed up, the training cadre commander approached Fortis. He was a business-like warrant officer named Tarkenton, with a critical eye and direct manner, and he wasn’t shy about pointing out trainee mistakes. He nodded to Fortis.

  “You mind if I address your troops, Lieutenant?”

  Fortis motioned to the formation. “Be my guest, Warrant.”

  Warrant Tarkenton faced the Space Marines. “You ladies think it’s funny that one of yours got hit?”

  Everyone froze, and Fortis got a hot feeling around his neck as the blood rushed to his face. Tarkenton began to pace in front of the formation and every eye followed him.

  “This Marine is dead,” he pointed at Modell, “And you’re all standing around, grab-assing.” He put his hands on his hips. “Third Platoon failed this exercise.” He turned to Fortis. “You failed this exercise, Lieutenant. Your casualty planning was inadequate and your failure to take appropriate measures with a casualty cost the Space Marines a man.”

  Fortis opened his mouth to protest, but he stayed silent. He didn’t learn about the casualty until after the exercise, but if he argued with Tarkenton it would just shift the blame to the men. The simple truth was that Fortis, as the officer in charge, was responsible for the failure, no matter the reason.

  “You didn’t brief casualty procedures, did you?”

  It was more accusation than question, and Fortis shook his head and cleared his throat.

  “We did not, Warrant.”

  “Let this be a lesson for all of you,” said Tarkenton raising his voice. “Even on a training mission, you have to be ready for anything.” He slapped Fortis on the shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, sir. Once you get more experience it will get easier.” He turned back to the formation. “When you return tomorrow, we’ll run this scenario again, and this time you better be prepared for anything.” With that, Tarkenton turned and joined the training cadre on the other side of the dynamic training compartment.

  “With some more experience, Lieutenant, you’ll be a jackass like me.” Private Queen, Third Platoon jokester and expert mimic, mocked the warrant for the amusement of his comrades.

  Fortis fought the urge to smile. “Knock it off, Queen. You all heard the man: We fucked up. I fucked up. We n
eed to be better than that. Third Platoon, atten-hut!”

  As one, the platoon snapped to attention.

  Fortis eyed the formation. A lot of new faces.

  After Fortis was relieved of platoon commander duties during his recent court martial, Third Platoon had received replacements to fill gaps left by the meat grinder on Pada-Pada. The new guys were a mixed lot: veterans and cherries, chronic fuckups and genuine head cases. Whatever else they were, they were now his responsibility to train and mold into an efficient fighting unit, and assault exercises like the one they had just completed would help accomplish that mission.

  “Corporal Ystremski, take charge and dismiss the platoon.”

  Ystremski saluted, and Fortis returned the military courtesy.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The corporal faced the formation. “Third Platoon, stow your gear and muster in the hangar in ten minutes for PT. Fall out!”

  * * *

  In the pre-dawn darkness on the industrial planet of Eros-28, a black-clad figure crouched behind a low stone wall and checked her watch.

  Three minutes.

  Dust devils swirled and danced in the beams of the searchlights mounted above the underground garage entryway and cast crazy shadows across the featureless landscape. The dust-laden breeze gave the white beams a dull orange glow, and the surrounding darkness swallowed the light after a few meters.

  The woman didn’t notice the squad of troops that had surrounded her until it was too late. They slammed her to the ground, restrained her arms and legs, and waited.

  A hovercopter approached from the east and settled onto a lighted pad next to the garage entrance. The ’copter raised more dirt and dust as the troops dumped her in the aircraft and piled in behind. The machine rose smoothly into the dark sky and sped off over the desert.

  Forty seconds later, a series of explosions rocked the underground garage and collapsed the structure. Tons of dirt buried a hundred pieces of newly refurbished mining equipment and wiped out two weeks of work. No lives were lost, but the sabotage was a severe blow to facility productivity and a major escalation in the ongoing struggle between the Galactic Resource Conglomerate, GRC, and the resistance on Eros-28.

  Unbeknownst to facility management, the true target of the attack was several hundred kilos of China Mike, a highly addictive drug, hidden in the machinery.

  * * *

  The morning after the failed training scenario, Fortis sighed and leaned back in his chair in the Foxtrot Company XO’s office. He had ground away all night at the mountain of paperwork on his desk, but it didn’t look any smaller. The amount of administrivia necessary to operate a company of Space Marines was overwhelming, and it sat squarely on Fortis’ shoulders as the acting executive officer. He stood up and stretched, and all of his muscles protested.

  There were three sharp raps on the hatch, and Corporal Ystremski stuck his head inside.

  “Hey, LT, what’s going on?”

  Fortis gestured at his desk. “Death by a million paper cuts. What’s up with you?”

  “Every day’s a holiday.”

  “DINLI, dickhead.”

  Sticklers for ISMC protocol would have frowned at the casual banter between the officer and the enlisted man, but Fortis and Ystremski had recently spent two weeks in a fight for their lives on the jungle planet Pada-Pada. They had been battle tested together and their shared experience in combat had scoured away the patina of pro forma bullshit and left behind a solid professional military relationship.

  Corporal Ystremski sank into the chair opposite Fortis and pointed. “It looks like that pile of paper has grown since the last time I stopped by, sir.”

  Fortis scowled. “Yeah. Reese has the paperwork pump in recirculation mode, I think.”

  Captain Reese, the Second Battalion Administrative Officer, hated Fortis and took immense pleasure in tormenting him.

  Reese had been Foxtrot Company commander when Fortis and a detachment of two platoons dropped to Pada-Pada on a training mission in support of the Global Resource Conglomerate, or GRC. The mission went sideways, and the Space Marines became embroiled in a battle with vicious bugs and deadly cloned soldiers.

  After several appeals for guidance from his company commander went unanswered, Fortis transmitted a status report of events on Pada-Pada directly to the Battalion commander. The report resulted in Captain Reese’s reassignment to administrative duties, for which he blamed Fortis.

  Because of a Fleet-wide shortage of junior officers, Foxtrot Company only had two commissioned officers: Captain Brickell, the new commanding officer, and Second Lieutenant Fortis. Which meant Fortis was forced to assume duties as the company executive officer, a job which included mountains of paperwork.

  As a result of Reese’s grudge, Foxtrot Company paperwork had ground to a halt. Personnel action requests were returned for minor errors, routine reports were rejected, and supply requisitions were delayed or just disappeared.

  The current Foxtrot Company CO, Captain Brickell, had made it clear to Fortis that he was on his own in the ongoing battle with Reese. Brickell wanted no part of any fight with Battalion HQ, even when he was obliged to make Fortis the acting company XO. “Nothing late, nothing lost,” had been his direction, and Fortis worked tirelessly to meet that standard, even though it was like bailing the ocean with a bucket.

  “Why doesn’t the CO say something? Reese is fucking over the whole company with his bullshit.”

  “The CO has enough to do without worrying about a bunch of paper,” Fortis replied. He sat back down and sighed as his leg muscles relaxed. “Commanding a company with only one officer and two warrant officers can’t be easy.”

  “How are the workouts coming along, LT? Feeling good?”

  “Not bad. I definitely feel the enhancement, and I’m lifting more weight than I ever have.”

  Fortis had received his Level Six Strength Enhancement the previous week and was under strict orders from the Battalion medical officer to exercise to muscle exhaustion twice daily. This was critical for two reasons. First, it was the only way to determine whether his body would accept or reject the enhancement. If his body rejected the enhancement, it was better to find out while the Fleet hospital ship was in range. Second, it was crucial that his musculoskeletal system develop to tolerate the stress the higher enhancement levels could put on his body. Superhuman strength was dangerous in a weak body.

  There was a third, unofficial, reason why the exercise was important to Fortis: it gave him a bulletproof reason to walk away from his desk and leave the avalanche of admin behind, if only for a few hours. He had to work out, and neither Captain Brickell nor Captain Reese would dare go against the orders of the Battalion medical officer.

  The office door banged open, and Captain Reese barged in with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand.

  Fortis and Ystremski stood.

  “Mister Fortis, these requisitions are incomplete. You have to submit in triplicate—”

  Reese stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Corporal Ystremski.

  Years earlier, Ystremski had punched Reese during a drunken confrontation and the resulting charges got Ystremski busted from gunnery sergeant to private. Even without the gunny chevrons, Ystremski had the uncanny ability to project an aura of disdain and contempt at anyone he chose, and Reese was a frequent target of the corporal’s attention.

  “I… uh… anyway, fix these.”

  The flustered captain dropped the papers on the desk and backed out of the space before Fortis could even render the customary salute. Ystremski pushed the door shut, and the two exchanged amused smiles.

  “That guy is a fucking weasel. I should have hit him twice.”

  Fortis chuckled. “He’s not worth the effort. How many times do you want to make corporal?” He dug through a small pile of completed paperwork. “Before I forget, I have something for you.” He found what he was looking for and handed it to Ystremski. “Sorry.”

  Ystremski opened the folder and saw it was a pers
onnel action request with his name at the top and the word “DENIED” stamped in big red letters across the bottom. Fortis had given Ystremski a battlefield promotion to the rank of gunnery sergeant during the battle on Pada-Pada, but his request to make the promotion permanent had been rejected.

  Ystremski gave a bitter chuckle. “At least they let me keep corporal.”

  “DINLI.”

  “DINLI,” Ystremski affirmed. He tapped his wrist. “It’s about time, sir.”

  Fortis shook his head. Captain Brickell was the only company commander in the entire Battalion that held morning formation in the cavernous hangar bay. He claimed it helped maintain the military bearing of the company in garrison on the flagship. Fortis secretly suspected Brickell did it because the division commander, General Gupta, ran laps in the hangar every morning at the same time the formation was held.

  Whatever the reason, the corporal was right. It was time to go.

  * * *

  Foxtrot Company formed up and submitted muster reports to Lieutenant Fortis. When they were verified, Fortis signaled to Captain Brickell on his communicator. Two minutes later, Brickell entered the hangar.

  “Attention on deck!”

  Foxtrot Company came to attention, and Fortis saluted the CO.

  “Foxtrot Company, all present or accounted for, sir.”

  Brickell returned the salute. “Very well. Put the company at ease, XO.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Fortis about-faced. “Foxtrot Company, stand at ease.”

  For the next ten minutes, Brickell paced in front of the company and expounded on his theories about leadership, followership, and what it meant to be a Space Marine. Fortis glared at the assembled troops as eyelids drooped and attention visibly wandered.