Chapter 4 – The Tools of War

For You have girded me with strength for battle; You have subdued under me those who rose up against me.

Psalm 18:39

Confessions in the Dark

Nightfall brought no respite. Exhausted but unable to sleep, Wade stared up at the bottom of Torres’s bunk. A million questions swirled in his mind. Was he strong enough for this? Would he be able to survive the brutal training, let alone the war that raged beyond the unforgiving surface of Carthis 7?

A soft rustle from the bunk below him pulled him from his thoughts. Mike, his face barely visible in the dim light, sat up, his voice a hushed whisper. “You okay, Wade?”

Wade let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know, Mike. This is… this is a lot harder than I thought.”

“Yeah,” Mike admitted. “But we knew it wouldn’t be easy, right? We signed up for this.”

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. Then, Mike spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, you remember why we signed up?”

Wade closed his eyes, the image of his dad flooding his mind. Being a wounded Marine, his father had vehemently opposed any participation in the military. Their cramped apartment gave Wade no escape from his father’s constant criticism and arguing. He remembered the parting insult as he shut the door and he headed for the shuttle. He was determined to prove his father wrong, to become someone worthy of respect, in spite of the older man’s objections. Wade’s jaw set in steely resolve – he would make his dad eat those bitter words.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “I remember.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” Mike said, a hint of steel in his voice. “We keep pushing, for them, for ourselves. We become Rangers, and then we go kick some Skravak butt.”

A soft creak from the top bunk made them both turn their heads. Alex Torres, his face obscured by the shadows, leaned down slightly. “That’s right, Mike,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “We can’t quit now. We’re past the point of no return. Do or die, man! Do or die!”

The quiet declaration hung in the air, a silent pact formed between them in the darkness. Despite the harsh reality of their situation, a bond of shared hardship began to solidify.

Curious about Alex’s motivations, Wade spoke up. “What about you, Torres? What brought you here?”

Alex hesitated for a moment, then pulled himself up slightly on his bunk, his silhouette outlined against the faint light filtering through the window. “My village,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Destroyed. Skravaks came in the night, they burned and killed everything. My family…” he trailed off, the silence speaking volumes.

A wave of empathy washed over Wade. He could hear the unspoken grief, understand the raw anger burning beneath the quiet surface. This wasn’t just about duty or proving himself for Alex – it was about vengeance, about ensuring no one else suffered the same fate.

“My family’s back on Earth,” Mike offered, his voice softer now. “They wouldn’t let me join the military, said it was too dangerous. But I saw what the Skravaks did to the outer colonies, the stories… I just couldn’t stand by and do nothing.”

Wade nodded, understanding dawning. While their backgrounds were different – a working-class family yearning for a better life, a survivor seeking revenge, a young man defying his father’s wishes – they were united by a common purpose. Here, on Carthis 7, they were no longer strangers from different corners of the galaxy. They were bunkmates, fellow recruits, a band of brothers.

“Yeah,” Wade said finally, finding a newfound strength in his voice. “We have to make it. We fight. For our families, for each other, for everyone in the colonies depending on us.”

A heavy silence descended after Wade’s declaration, broken only by the distant wail of a sandstorm howling across the alien landscape. They didn’t need to say anything more. Their shared experiences, whispered confessions, and unspoken dreams had woven a fragile bond of trust and camaraderie.

Ghosts of the Past

The relentless sun beat down on Carthis 7, turning the day into a furnace. Wade clutched his pulse rifle, the weight a familiar burden in his arms. Classroom sessions, once a welcome respite from the physical demands of training, had become a battle against exhaustion. Lectures on tactics and strategy blurred together in his sleep-deprived mind, the alien names and technical jargon swirling into a confusing mess.

Wade’s eyelids grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling them down. He allowed himself the briefest respite, just a fleeting moment to rest. But that fragile slice of peace was shattered in an instant. Staff Sergeant Hathras’ muscular arm constricted around Wade’s neck, cinching tight like a vise, cutting off his airflow. He was trapped, immobilized, unable to breathe or utter a sound.

“You maggots won’t last long if beauty sleep is more important than your lives,” Hathras growled, his words laced with menace.

With a sudden release, the sergeant’s arm unwound, and Wade gasped, choking and sputtering as precious air rushed back into his lungs.

“Stay awake, Kovacs!” Hathras barked. “That was your last warning.”

The words hung in the air, a stark reminder that even the briefest lapse could prove catastrophic in their brutal world.

“Attention citizens,” the newscaster’s voice boomed. All Marines’ eyes turned to the huge monitors at the front of the classroom. An artificial cheer masking the underlying anxiety crackled from the speakers. “The war effort continues on multiple fronts. Our brave Marines are holding the line against the Skravak menace…”

The report, carefully curated by the government, painted a rosy picture of the war effort. Here, in the sterile classroom on Carthis 7, the truth felt far bleeker. Hathras, his eyes fixed in a stare somewhere off in the distance, as if he was lost in thought, as he recounted stories of battles lost, of entire Ranger companies wiped out. The fear that had been simmering beneath the surface of Wade’s optimism flared.

A sharp rap on the desk jolted him back to the present. Hathras stood before him, a predatory smile playing on his lips. “Private Kovacs! Daydreaming again? Perhaps you’d prefer a more ‘hands-on’ approach to learning?”

Wade scrambled to his feet, stammering an apology. Hathras’ smile widened, a cruel amusement in his eyes. The rest of the class watched, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

Hathras barked an order, and two hulking DIs dragged a large metal cage into the room. Inside, a creature writhed – a grotesque parody of an insect, its chitinous shell gleaming under the harsh light. Its mandibles clicked menacingly, its multifaceted eyes glinting with primal rage.

“A Skravak drone,” Hathras announced, his voice dripping with theatrical dread. “A mere scouting unit, but a taste of the horrors you’ll face on the front lines.”

Panic surged through Wade as the cage was brought closer. The creature strained against the bars, its fetid stench filling the air. Memories of news reports depicting Skravak attacks, the raw terror in the victims’ eyes, flooded his mind.

Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the tension. Gunnery Sergeant Harris stood at the back of the classroom, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Enough theatrics, Staff Sergeant Hathras,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Let’s not waste time on a single drone. Private Torres, front and center! What’s your course of action, Marine?”

Alex, his face impassive, rose from his seat and approached the cage. With practiced efficiency, he drew his K-bar, a combat knife, and delivered a single, precise strike between the bars to the creature’s head. Silence descended as the drone twitched once, then lay still.

Gunnery Sergeant Harris gestured to the cage. “Well done Private Torres!” She nodded at the DIs with the cage, “Now get that out of here,” she ordered, her gaze sweeping over the stunned students. “Remember, recruits, fear is the enemy’s weapon. Knowledge and discipline are yours.”

The bell rang, the harsh clang echoing through the classroom. As the students filed out, Wade stole a glance at Alex. The stoic facade remained, but a hint of something akin to pride flickered in his eyes. In that moment, Wade saw not just a fellow recruit, but a survivor, a warrior forged in the fires of his past tragedies.

The Making of a Marksman

The morning briefing delivered a new challenge – three weeks of advanced marksmanship and demolitions training. Wade could barely contain his excitement as they approached the firing range.

Rows of pulse rifles lined the weapon racks, their menacing forms glinting in the harsh sunlight. Beyond the firing line stretched a desolate landscape littered with scrap metal husks and crumbling debris – the remains of buildings, vehicles, and equipment obliterated by past explosive ordnance practice.

Sergeant Reyes, the chief weapons instructor, briefed them on safety protocols with a focus and intensity that bordered on reverence. His gnarled hands caressed the sleek lines of the pulse rifles with a familiarity born from years of use.

“These are your instruments of death,” he growled. “Respect them. Master them. They are what stand between you and oblivion on the battlefield.”

The air crackled with tension as the recruits moved to the firing line. Wade scooped up a rifle, the solid weight reassuring in his hands. He sighted down the barrel, the familiar dance of acquiring his target and controlling his breathing.

At Reyes’ command, they opened fire. The thunderous roar of the pulse rifles filled the air as brilliant azure bolts of energy lanced towards the targets. Wade’s world shrank to the front sight, his awareness honed to a razor’s edge as he walked the bursts across the plated figures.

Something primal awoke within him – not bloodlust, but a singular drive to achieve perfection. To fire true and straight, to send each bolt into the target. By the end of the first day, the butt of the rifle was searing against his shoulder, his palms blistered and calloused. But he didn’t care. All that mattered was the next shot.

Over the following days, they cycled through different marksmanship drills and ranges. Moving targets, alternating positions, structure windows, all to simulate battlefield conditions. The crackle of fire and concussive thumps of impact were the rhythms they marched to.

One day Briggs was up to his old tricks. When the DIs weren’t looking he rested the barrel of his smoking hot plasma rifle on the back of Wade’s neck. Wade let out an ear piercing scream as he recoiled away from the heat. “What’s going on over there?” one of the DIs belted. Briggs answered quickly, “Nothing Sergeant, Kovacs just stepped on a lunar viper and screamed like a little girl.” Wade glared at Briggs, writhing in pain but not wanting to rat out his fellow Marine. He would find a way to get back at Briggs soon enough. Briggs glanced at Wade with complete satisfaction with his practical joke that would have had him sent home packing had he been discovered.

Bigger Guns and Explosives

Then came the support weapons – heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, mortars. Utterly devastating but cumbersome and requiring disciplined crews to choreograph their lethal dance. They broke down and reassembled the fearsome squad automatics blindfolded until the process became second nature.

Finally, demolition instruction rounded out their education in controlled destruction. Mining charges, satchels, missile launchers – all tools to sunder fortifications and deny enemy troops sanctuary. In a carefully prepped range, Wade experienced the crushing overpressure of an artillery strike for the first time, the thunderous detonation rocking him to his core.

But the coup de grace was the line demolition range. Donning their heavy armor, they took turns calculating charge sizes, arming the explosive, and blasting through reinforced bunkers. The plasma explosive itself was a one “size-fits-all” sphere that fit in the palm of your hand. It had a primer dial on the top to set the desired parameter of force ranging from a simple grenade to a cratering charge that would make a hole in the ground as big as a football field. Wade will never forget the first time he set the explosive calibrator to max, set the timer and retreated into the protective bunker. They watch the charge go off through reinforced transparent steel. The blast completely devastated the small vehicle hulk it was placed under and sent shrapnel and dirt three hundred meters in every direction. It was the most impressive force any of them had ever seen. Wade let out a slow breath, relieved to be in the bunker.

Throughout the grueling training, Reyes and the other instructors were a constant, looming presence. Watchful eyes scrutinized every movement, every adjustment of their weapons. Harsh criticism was freely given, but so too was the occasional gruff nod of approval when a trainee displayed particular skill.

The days blurred into weeks in an endless cycle of shooting, reloading, adjusting sights, and detonating explosive charges. Tempers frayed from fatigue and the relentless pressure. More than once, Wade found himself nose-to-nose with Briggs and other recruits over a perceived slight or mistake.

But the shared adversity only strengthened the trio’s bond. In the bleary hours of forced rest, they helped each other clean weapons, massaged aching muscles, and traded the grim humor that allowed them to persevere.

As the final week of marksmanship training dawned, Wade felt a surge of pride as he looked at the performance scores. While not at the top, he, Mike, and Alex were solidly ranked among the best marksmen in the company. More importantly, they had mastered not just the weapons, but the discipline to bring that destructive potential to bear with precision.

Whatever the future held, whatever enemy they might soon face, Wade knew one thing – they were ready. These tools of war were in capable hands that would not fail when the final test came. A grim satisfaction settled over him as he cradled the rifle once more and sent a fresh salvo downrange to tear into the unforgiving Carthis landscape.

Brutal Ballet

Marine Martial Arts (MMA) was a brutal competition of hand to hand combat. The recruits were expected to fight without permanently injuring their opponents but they danced on the fine edge. The DIs watch every move. If they caught you taking it easy on your buddy, they would personally step in and show you “how it’s done.” Sweat streamed down Wade’s face as he grappled with his opponent, a wiry recruit named McKee. Each move felt instinctive, a primal dance of violence fueled by adrenaline and a healthy respect for the other fighter. Wade quickly pinned McKee in an arm bar and he tapped out.

The instructors, former Rangers with scars that spoke of countless battles, barked instructions and corrections. Their movements were a blur of deadly efficiency, a testament to years of honing their bodies into weapons.

Wade felt a surge of respect, a yearning to one day achieve such a level of mastery. But for now, survival was his primary concern. Then it happened, he was paired with Briggs, his nemesis. Briggs, fueled by an overly zealous level of aggression, landed a blow that sent a jolt of pain through Wade’s shoulder and put him on his back. Gritting his teeth, Wade sprung to his feet and countered, utilizing a maneuver he’d barely grasped moments ago.

He watched with stunned satisfaction as Briggs crumpled to the mat, the air knocked out of his lungs, he tapped out. The instructor overseeing their fight…a weathered veteran with a single cybernetic arm, grunted in approval. “Not bad, Kovacs. A little slow, but you’ll develop your technique. Keep that up.” Briggs glared at him with the obvious intent to get revenge.

The praise spurred Wade on. The next sparring session saw him paired against Mike. Their movements were a stark contrast to the brutal brawl with Briggs. Here, it was a dance of anticipation, of exploiting openings and reacting instinctively. They knew each other’s moves, having spent hours strategizing and practicing in the barracks after lights out. They knew not to take it easy on one another but at the same time they didn’t want to injure one another either. They threw in a bit of theatrics to convince the instructors they were serious. The DIs may not have fully bought the charade but let them go nonetheless.

The match ended in a breathless stalemate, neither gaining a clear advantage. They collapsed back on the mats, heaving for breath, but a grin stretched across both their faces.

“Nice moves, Wade,” Mike wheezed, extending a fist bump. “Almost got me there.”

“Not bad yourself, Mike,” Wade chuckled, returning the bump.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle pierced the air, a signal reserved for unexpected situations. The instructors tensed, exchanging a worried glance. Gunnery Sergeant Harris strode into the gym, her face grim.

“Listen up, maggots,” she barked, her voice leaving no room for argument. “There’s been a Skravak incursion on the perimeter. We’re sending a strike team. Volunteers only.”

A tense silence stretched through the room. Fear flickered in some eyes, but determination in others. Wade glanced at Mike and Alex, their faces stoic but resolute.

Without a word, they stepped forward, joining a small group of recruits who had answered the call. The instructors, a gleaming ray of respect in their eyes, began equipping them with combat armor and advanced weaponry.

Wade hefted the heavy pulse rifle in his hands, its familiar weight strangely comforting. Was this just part of the training or was this real? A sour taste rose in his mouth, he could feel his stomach and bowels tighten but it was overshadowed by a steely resolve. It was time to prove he had what it takes to be a real Marine.