Read Online Ephialtes (Ephialtes Trilogy Book 1) by Gavin E Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: Gavin E Parker
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When he was
picked up the med crew at first assumed him to be dead. His vital sign
monitors had all failed in the blast and he was unconscious and covered in
blood. The last thing he remembered was seeing Hughes turning to look at
him, struggling to mask his pain with a weak smile and his thumb raised in the
time honoured gesture of thanks. That image had stayed with him.
There was a
whisper from over near one of the windows, “Captain’s coming,” and commanders
scattered about and leapt from their bunks.
“Captain’s
coming,” Johnson echoed as he, Steiner and Foley came to the front of their
bunks, standing bolt upright with their arms straight at their sides, looking
forward.
Captain Brian
Connor entered the hut at a fair clip and strode immediately to the front
centre, equidistant from the two rows of bunks which ran away from him up the
sides of the hut. Without stopping to pause or even acknowledge any of
the commanders he began to talk.
“At ease
people, and gather ’round me here.” The commanders moved at a quick
saunter to form a semi-circle around Connor at the head of the hut.
Captain
Connor was, at twenty-eight years, at least five years older than the
oldest commander under his command. He was a born soldier and had jumped
at the opportunity to become involved in the USAN Army Commander Program.
He had finessed the original plans for the program and tested them on the
training grounds. Having been in at the very beginning he had overseen
the training of the instructors and after three long years had finally, at the
second request, been given command of company slated for deployment in the
Asian theatre, fourteen months before the end of the war.
As captain of
the company Connor, while at least not some REMF controlling drones from a shed
in Kentucky, was still not quite in the thick of it like his men. His
role of comcon was best fulfilled from a semi-automated
aerial drone, directing missions from above. Lucky for him, then, that he
had been injured in a training exercise, for the scar it left him with on the right side of his face seemed to show to the
world that he was a Physical Soldier.
He had been
bawling out a rookie commander who was having trouble adjusting from IVR
training simulations to being in an actual command drone. Connor was
stood on the tarmac in front of him, dwarfed by the four metre tower of metal
and ammo in front of him, shouting up at the pilot like he was training a
poodle. It said something to the quality of the man that a trained
soldier, encased in the frame of a metal giant with enough firepower to level a
small town, was intimidated by a five foot five inch captain wearing nothing
more than the olive-drab uniform of the USANMC and a cap. The
jittery would-be commander, anxious to do the right thing under the
tirade from Connor, proceeded to miscontrol his mech and a sixteen tonne metal arm wooshed around, smacking Connor in the face.
Connor was
intensely proud of the scar, though he affected to not give it a moment’s
thought. He had received it doing his duty, and that was good enough for
him. His service injury had marked him for life and was there on his face
for all to see. He would have been ashamed to report to the MO with RSI
like some of these rear echelon drone operators, for whom a paper cut would
lead to at least a day off sick, or maybe even litigation. No so for
Captain Conner. He had taken one to the face in the line of duty and got
up and carried on.
Conner stood
with his hands behind his back and his feet about sixty centimetres
apart. His head was held high and he appeared to be addressing someone
floating a metre or two above the people circled about him. His speech
was deliberate, measured and loud.
“You people
acquitted yourselves well in the war that has just passed. The corps is
proud of you. I am proud of you. That war is now ended. What
does the warrior do when there is no war?” He
picked up the med crew at first assumed him to be dead. His vital sign
monitors had all failed in the blast and he was unconscious and covered in
blood. The last thing he remembered was seeing Hughes turning to look at
him, struggling to mask his pain with a weak smile and his thumb raised in the
time honoured gesture of thanks. That image had stayed with him.
There was a
whisper from over near one of the windows, “Captain’s coming,” and commanders
scattered about and leapt from their bunks.
“Captain’s
coming,” Johnson echoed as he, Steiner and Foley came to the front of their
bunks, standing bolt upright with their arms straight at their sides, looking
forward.
Captain Brian
Connor entered the hut at a fair clip and strode immediately to the front
centre, equidistant from the two rows of bunks which ran away from him up the
sides of the hut. Without stopping to pause or even acknowledge any of
the commanders he began to talk.
“At ease
people, and gather ’round me here.” The commanders moved at a quick
saunter to form a semi-circle around Connor at the head of the hut.
Captain
Connor was, at twenty-eight years, at least five years older than the
oldest commander under his command. He was a born soldier and had jumped
at the opportunity to become involved in the USAN Army Commander Program.
He had finessed the original plans for the program and tested them on the
training grounds. Having been in at the very beginning he had overseen
the training of the instructors and after three long years had finally, at the
second request, been given command of company slated for deployment in the
Asian theatre, fourteen months before the end of the war.
As captain of
the company Connor, while at least not some REMF controlling drones from a shed
in Kentucky, was still not quite in the thick of it like his men. His
role of comcon was best fulfilled from a semi-automated
aerial drone, directing missions from above. Lucky for him, then, that he
had been injured in a training exercise, for the scar it left him with on the right side of his face seemed to show to the
world that he was a Physical Soldier.
He had been
bawling out a rookie commander who was having trouble adjusting from IVR
training simulations to being in an actual command drone. Connor was
stood on the tarmac in front of him, dwarfed by the four metre tower of metal
and ammo in front of him, shouting up at the pilot like he was training a
poodle. It said something to the quality of the man that a trained
soldier, encased in the frame of a metal giant with enough firepower to level a
small town, was intimidated by a five foot five inch captain wearing nothing
more than the olive-drab uniform of the USANMC and a cap. The
jittery would-be commander, anxious to do the right thing under the
tirade from Connor, proceeded to miscontrol his mech and a sixteen tonne metal arm wooshed around, smacking Connor in the face.
Connor was
intensely proud of the scar, though he affected to not give it a moment’s
thought. He had received it doing his duty, and that was good enough for
him. His service injury had marked him for life and was there on his face
for all to see. He would have been ashamed to report to the MO with RSI
like some of these rear echelon drone operators, for whom a paper cut would
lead to at least a day off sick, or maybe even litigation. No so for
Captain Conner. He had taken one to the face in the line of duty and got
up and carried on.
Conner stood
with his hands behind his back and his feet about sixty centimetres
apart. His head was held high and he appeared to be addressing someone
floating a metre or two above the people circled about him. His speech
was deliberate, measured and loud.
“You people
acquitted yourselves well in the war that has just passed. The corps is
proud of you. I am proud of you. That war is now ended. What
does the warrior do when there is no war?” He
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