Between drill resets, Rachael stole a glimpse out of one window of the plane. They were getting awfully low over the city. Given the lack of any missiles shooting at them, their invisibilty must be working. She'd worried a bit when she'd heard that, for reasons of basic thermodynamics, they couldn't hide their thermal infrared emissions — but thankfully, while infrared was used for weapons targeting, it wasn't (yet) used for aircraft detection. (Except maybe at night. Thank goodness they were doing this raid in broad daylight!) She lined up once again on her mark, in the makeshift section of the plane marked off for her squad to drill in. As they'd flown farther and farther away from Dockran's Island, she could feel herself fatiguing just a tiny bit faster in each drill. They all felt it. It was the price they paid for having their body's energy broadcast to them over a distance. But all the repetition was boosting her confidence, more than making up for this tiny extra lethargy. She was finally starting to get the hang of it. A few more reps and she'd have every move down cold.
Then the whistle blew.
No more drills. Go time was nearly upon them. "Third platoon, squads to your places!" her Lieutenant barked. Her sergeant pointed, wordlessly, and Rachael and her squadmates all hightailed it to the middle of the plane.
"Ten-HUT!"
All eyes toward the massive aft ramp-and-door, the Captain spoke one final time in front of his Company. "Nobody can see this plane from the outside, but that doesn't mean they don't suspect we're here. Everybody below is probably wondering where all the jet noise is coming from. Good news is, we don't need a real runway; this beast can land and take off in less than 300 feet, no matter how mushy the ground is. When we've come to a complete stop and turned around, this ramp behind me will slam down. This'll be your time to shine, boys and girls. You'll finally be putting those hours of drilling into action. Stay focused, and keep to the script — but also stay flexible. If something can go wrong, it will, and when it does you'll need to fall back on your knowledge of the mission parameters and your basic training to carry you through." He pointed skyward in salute. "Eternal Mankind!"
As one, the Company shouted, "ETERNAL MANKIND!!"
Then all noise ended, save for the dull roar of the plane's engines. Rachael, like most of the other soldiers in the room, rested her blaster carbine atop her armored shoulder. Across her other shoulder, she had a line of sight to a distant window, and could just make out the tiniest sliver of the world outside. They were close to the ground now, and still moving at quite the clip. She wondered how in heck they were going to come to a stop in 300 feet without turning everyone into pancakes.
Then the engine noise changed, and she could swear someone slammed on the brakes. Everyone lurched backward, as though falling toward the front of the plane. But . . . they were still airborne. The tiny scene out of the window was still off the ground. And it was slowing, slowing, slowing until the world barely crawled by and Rachael wondered how in heck this plane's wings could still generate lift. Then the floor thudded and bounced with the force of their touchdown, and the braking got even harder. She stumbled backward into the soldier behind her. The only thing that kept both of them from falling to the floor was sheer dread over how embarrassed they'd be.
Then the braking stopped and everyone got thrown to their left as the plane skidded around in a tight 180-degree turn. And when that ceased, the whistle blew again, and the aft ramp practically fell open onto the torn-up pavement outside.
No time to admire the scenery. Twin rocket lauchers flamed into life, their loads vanishing into the sunlight; then First Platoon double-timed it out through the open ramp. Armored boots stomped cacophonously against the cargo deck. Rachael would be on the move in four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . GO!
Her boots clacked against the deck, and then — outside. She squinted against the daylight. Stick to the paved areas, they'd told her, there are land mines hiding under the grass. She and her squad trundled toward what she hoped was her objective. In the distance, she could just make out the Mint Police guards, startled into action mere seconds ago. The distant crack, crack of the guards' gunfire reached her ears, along with the sharp, chirping hiss of her own company's answering blaster fire. Her squad was crossing open ground with no cover, sitting ducks if they couldn't reach the building fast. They had to maintain a sprinter's pace. If not for the energy being broadcast into their bodies from Dockran's Island, they'd have run out of breath by now.
A clack came from her left. One of her squadmates had just been hit. Tom? She glanced as quickly to her left as she dared. Not Tom. Sarah had just taken a round to the chest. It had bounced harmlessly off the rigid torso armor adorning all of them, but the impact knocked her off-stride and she lagged behind. The sergeant must've noticed this too; he barked "Weave!", and the whole squad — except for Sarah — ran erratically from side to side, giving their teammate time to catch back up.
Rachael took the opportunity to draw a bead on one of the closer guards, and fired. Her blaster carbine hissed like an airbrake, and a blue-white bolt flashed between her barrel and the guard, punching him in the gut. The man doubled over and collapsed. Compared with bullets, blasters had a higher chance of knocking your target out, and a lower chance of injuring or killing it. A marginally lower chance. The guard would . . . probably live.
The same couldn't be said for whomever had been manning the two machine-gun towers at the corners of the building. Both towers were smoking wrecks, victims of First Platoon's rocket launchers.
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