cargo section. Next, I will lead a few armoured engineers in, that way if they have any surprises we’ll be ready for them. They will have a very hard time damaging those units. The rest of you will follow and help secure the vessel. It is critical we maintain a solid seal, we don’t want anyone dying in there, well, not until we find out who they are,” he said with a smirk.
Spartan pulled himself along the craft until he reached the equipment section. There were three sets of engineer’s armour mounted on the wall. Each was painted in dark grey, with the sharp edges of the digging tools painted in yellow and black stripes.
Spartan moved to the side, stepped into a suit and started clamping down the sections onto the mounts fitted to his personal protection suit. Though it added bulk to his body, it only increased his total size by about twenty percent. As he powered the system he twisted his right hand, checking the movement of the armoured hand and attached bulldozer type blades.
Jesus now reached him and started to attach the equipment on the second unit to his suit.
“If you go in with just the suits you’ll have no weapons,” said Peterson, one of the commandos who had fought alongside them on the Station.
Spartan activated his left arm and swung it in front of him, the edges on the digger blade were the size of man’s torso. “I always have these!” he said with a wicked grin.
“Yeah, I heard about some crazy guy using them during training, let me guess who that was,” he laughed.
“Have you used one before?”
“Of course, Spartan, combat engineering is a required course for all advanced commando recruits. You’d know that if you did the full training,” he said sarcastically.
As the three prepared their equipment Teresa pulled herself along the side of the craft to them. She was still not wearing her armour and once they started the boarding action she’d have to stay in one of the pressurised compartments in case of any breaches.
“Spartan,” she said. He turned around, only just avoiding hitting her with one of the heavy blades.
“How are you doing now, Teresa?” he asked.
“Not great, Spartan, the medics say I’ll need surgery to fix my shoulder. Part of the bone is shattered and the tissue needs work. I’ll live though.”
She reached out and put her hand on the thickly reinforced armour around Spartan’s shoulder.
“Just watch yourself in there, I’ll see you on the ship,” she said and then pulled herself back.
As she moved to the safety of the emergency pressurised compartments, Spartan did final checks on his equipment. The last thing he wanted was a poorly fitted strap or plate to fail in what could be a major combat operation.
The shuttle slowed as the pilot adjusted their course. With expert skill, he spun them around so that the access hatches on the right of the shuttle faced the matching points on the other craft. It was a delicate manoeuvre as both craft were now spinning slowly as they moved ever closer to the outer orbit of the planet. One incorrect move and the two craft could collide and even at a relatively slow speed could cause damage. The other problem was that they were now perilously close to the outer atmosphere of Proxima Prime. If they suffered any kind of technical problems, they would face the same fate of the transport, a quick and fiery journey as they were cooked alive.
“You’ll have six minutes, no more and then we’re gone. Don’t be late!” said the pilot as they bumped gently into position.
For a few seconds a dull vibration hammered around the craft as the magnetic seal was created. A series of metal brackets pushed out and fixed them to the outer skin of the transport, the link was strong and only a power failure on the shuttle could pull them apart. A flexible tube extended from the shuttle to the doorway on the transport and affixed itself around the door. As the pumps started up the tube pressurised and a link was formed. With the airtight seal ready, the final task was normalising pressure and opening the door. It took just seconds as the experienced marines bypassed the outer security door and cut the seals on the inner door, opening up access to the loading bay of the vessel.
The inside of the vessel was pitch dark though the marines couldn’t tell if it was intentional or simply down to power failure. Spartan switched on his lighting and the two shoulder-mounted lamps lit up the area in front. Inside it seemed to be full of a light mist that shifted and spread through the airlock. With the powerful lamps burning through the mist they looked like yellow beams that were seeking prey. For a moment Spartan worried it might be a kind of weapon and was about to hit his alarm button for the shuttle crew. His fears were averted however when he spotted one of the damaged generators for the landing gear on the boat. From the cracks along its length the same mist pumped out slowly, it was probably damage sustained during the craft’s escape from the burning battleship. Feeling a little more relaxed his spoke though his intercom to the rest of the marines and the crew on the shuttle.
“The doorway is secure, no obvious power in the transport. Engineers follow me, marines wait until we have cleared the first section,” he said.
He took a step forward and his grav boots clunked down on the metallic surface. Each step he made triggered a small light in his helmet that told him whether he was attached to the surface or not. It had been drummed in to him to ensure one light was always on, indicating that he had one foot anchored at all times. So far, everything looked safe. As he continued onwards, he constantly moved his lamps to check every dark corner. The small lights were mounted on a motorised pintle that allowed them to rotate in any direction. As he moved his eyes, the sensors in his helmet followed his retinas and moved the lamps accordingly. From inside the suit it gave the impression that the lights came directly from his eyes.
“Loading bay is clear, I’m now moving on to the passenger section.”
As Spartan moved slowly forward, Jesus and Peterson followed. Their engineer’s armour was bulky and slow, but they provided plenty of cover for the rest of the conventionally armoured marines to enter the craft behind them. At the end of the loading bay was a large metal blast door. To the side of the door there was a panel and a series of buttons. He moved to touch it when Peterson’s hand blocked him.
“Sorry, Sergeant, you don’t want to press that one, it’s the cargo access panel. The passenger panel is this one,” he said.
The marine pushed a button on the much lower panel and with a shudder the large metal door started to lift upwards. The speed was slow and Spartan took a step back in case anything came out from the gap to grab at them. As he moved back, he lowered his arms, the sharp blades waiting for anything to appear.
“Marines, hold your fire, watch for hostiles!” ordered Spartan.
The three at the front lowered their arms and pushed the sharp digging blades in front of them. Around the three armoured suits a number of the other marines pushed though the gaps, each one holding up their L48 carbines and rifles. After a few more seconds, the door thumped into position and revealed the large passenger area. It was designed to carry hundreds of passengers though there were no signs of people yet.
“I can see nothing. Anybody else?” asked Jesus.
“Wait, what’s this?” asked Spartan as he took a few steps forward.
Several metres inside the craft were a number of crates and containers. They were stacked two or three high and filled nearly half of the entire open space. They were all strapped in with a series of thick straps, ropes and chains and gave the impression they had been loaded in a hurry. Some of them were damaged and a few of the larger ones were open. A first Spartan thought they reminded him of coffins but then he spotted the symbols on the side. Moving closer he checked the details, the first one was from a medical centre on Prime.
“Sarge!” shouted one of the marines, as several shadows flickered across the wall to the right.
Jesus tried to track the movement but they were too fast and disappeared behind one of the crates. He checked on his helmet-mounted display and picked up two more shapes but again, by the time he had them in his sights they vanished behind the crates.
“Did anybody see that?” asked Peterson.
Before anyone could answer one of the larger crates ripped open and a man-shaped object tumbled out towards the marines. Spartan stared in fascination at what looked like a flailing man as he drifted weightlessly towards them. He looked at him carefully and quickly realised the man was simply drifting, there were no signs of life or movement from him.
“What the hell?” shouted one of the marines.
