The Earth Epsilon Wars: The Complete Series: (A Military Sci-Fi Box Set: Books 0-4)

Book : The Earth Epsilon Wars

by Terrance Mulloy

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alien Contact; Alien Invasion; Apocalyptic; Military Sci-Fi; aliens; sci fi; post apocalypse; military scifi

Synopsis

Get the Earth Epsilon Wars Box Set, featuring all four books in the series plus a bonus novella. 1000+ pages of gritty military sci-fi, alien invasions, and time travel action.

The Only Way Home is War!

In the darkest and grimiest corners of our galaxy, Earth’s United Space Command is entrenched in a bloody and merciless war with an alien species known as the Wraith. With neither side relenting, the conflict on Epsilon 382-IV has been a costly and devastating blow to mankind’s resources, with billions dying every year.

Arriving home after a harrowing tour of duty, USC Sergeant Matt Reeves has just learned the enemy may be preparing to attack Earth again. A widower with a nine-year-old daughter, Matt doesn't need any reminding of what’s at stake. With much of Earth still in ruins, and its military forces off-world and stretched beyond capacity, there is no way mankind could survive another invasion. Teetering on the brink of defeat, the United Space Command is desperate to find some form of leverage.

Enter The Emissary Program.

Matt learns the USC have been secretly experimenting with time travel to alter the outcome of the war - and they want him to be their next guinea pig - sending him back to Washington DC, forty-eight years before the invasion. His mission: help a small team of scientists locate a brilliant virologist, whose work may hold the key to eradicating the Wraith from existence.

Can Matt and his team successfully change the future and save mankind? Or will they learn the Wraith have already altered the past and won the war?

Buy this special edition omnibus to experience this complete Military Sci-Fi series from Amazon Bestseller Terrance Mulloy. Set aside some time to dive into this epic page-turner. You’ll need it.

Books included in the Set:
Book 0: The Invasion (prequel novella)
Book 1: The Emissary
Book 2: The Defector
Book 3: The Revered
Book 4: The Soldier

Release date: November 2, 2021

Publisher: Aethon Books

Print pages: 1103

Content advisory: Some violence and bad language.

Sample

With a bulging tactical haversack slung over his shoulder, Matt trudged through the labyrinthine starship, greenies crushing him on both sides, surging like a river towards the row of prep-chambers. The din was muted as everyone moved awkwardly from the weight of their combat armor and gear. Matt kept his helmet faceplate up as he craned his neck over the crowd, spotting the entrance to his designated prep-chamber ahead.

He marched inside, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the iridescent half-light. It was a welcome change from the glaring red warning lights that continued to strobe the ship’s endless corridors.

The first thing he noticed was a circular row of exojackets that lined the sparse plastic walls. Some greenies from his dorm were already getting fitted by three-man teams of Prep Officers.

Each exojacket was a polycarbonate skeleton, custom fit with the soldier’s surname and USC ident stamped on it. The exojackets were worn temporarily, designed to be slotted into a special housing bracket that encased the interior of each drop-pod. They would dampen the impact of any hard landings, also providing an extra layer of cushioning for the soldier, like a NASCAR drivers’ roll cage.

Matt looked around the room and spotted a few faces he recognized. Some greenies looked excited something was finally happening after many weeks of boredom. Others looked fearful as if they were being ordered to climb into some type of Iron Maiden device. The klaxon still droning in the corridor outside only seemed to exacerbate the nervous tension that was now bristling throughout this prep-chamber.

“Private Reeves,” said a well-spoken female voice that was clearly British.

Matt turned to see a young Prep Officer smiling politely at him. Fair-skinned, with rosy cheeks, blonde hair, and wise brown eyes, she looked to be late twenties.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Before we get you prepped, I’m going to need you to recite your enlisted ident and Oath of Valor,” she replied, tapping the screen of a small handheld device she was holding.

“Orion Fury. Twenty-two-six-seven-three. Reeves, Matthew J.”

“And do you hereby solemnly swear to uphold and defend the United Space Command’s constitution, creed, and defensive alliances with all nations of the Earth, so help you, God?”

“I do,” Matt affirmed.

“Excellent. Please put down your haversack and step in.” She motioned to the nearest exojacket. With her calm and polite demeanor, Matt thought she could have easily been ushering him towards a nice table at a fancy restaurant.

Another two Prep Officers joined her, tapping away at data feeds on their handhelds. One of them began tinkering with a large feeder cable attached to Matt’s exojacket.

Matt placed his haversack on the ground and carefully backed into the steel suit.

“Perfect. Now, hold out your arms and keep them straight.”

Matt obeyed her order. Hydraulics hissed smoothly as the exojacket began to click into place around his limbs and torso.

One of the other Prep Officers lifted his haversack and placed it into a locker compartment fitted into the rear of the jacket. It appeared to be made of some type of heavy composite. Once it was secured inside, he stepped in front of Matt and scanned his eyes with a small penlight device. “Any dizziness, headaches, or nausea in the past twenty-four hours?”

Matt shook his head, finding it a little difficult to swallow his dry throat. “No, sir.” He was anxious now and desperately trying to hide it.

“When was the last time you ate something?”

“I guess around three hours ago.”

“How’s your electrolyte intake since thawing from cryo?”

“I’ve been drinking one powdered packet in the morning with breakfast, and another in the afternoon around four o’clock.”

“Probiotics and vitamins?”

“Um, two tablets a day. Usually with food.”

“When was your last bone density test?”

“Four days ago.”

“And the result?”

“My T-score was 0.9.”

Satisfied, the Prep Officer tapped something on his handheld device and stepped away. “Twenty-two-six-seven-three is ready for drop. Let’s get him racked and stacked.”

The second he stated that a hydraulic rack lowered next to Matt’s encased left arm and snapped into place like it was an additional appendage to the exojacket. Mounted inside was Matt’s assault rifle; a standard-issue Vortex Meson 480-Z. It was a sleek assault rifle, with a fluted barrel made from a variety of lightweight composites. This weapon also packed a wallop, capable of firing up to nine-hundred jacketed plasma rounds per minute with minimum recoil.

Matt’s eyes tracked the female Prep Officer as she crossed the room and retracted a small console screen out of a wall-mounted plinth next to him. “Hey, any idea why we’re dropping early?” he asked, trying to dampen any concern in his voice by sounding casual.

Eyes still on her screen, she shook her head. “I’m afraid not, but you’re about to be briefed. All we know is it was an Excelsior-level order, marked urgent.”

“Which means?”

“Which means, it came directly from USC Command.”

“On Epsilon or our fleet?”

She looked up and met Matt’s eyes, folding the console screen back into its plinth. “Both.”

As she stepped back, Matt could feel his exojacket starting to vibrate. His helmet faceplate also lowered automatically and sealed shut with a hard, plastic-sounding snap, a digital HUD flickering to life across it. Minimal data was being displayed, but Matt could see a ribbon of code cycling in his peripheral that indicated the operating system inside his helmet was powering up. There was also the whine of some unseen engine spooling to life above him. He now felt like a tiny cog in a giant machine. In many ways, that’s exactly what he was.

“No matter what, just remember to breathe,” she said with a neutral smile. “Good luck down there.” She then turned and hurried off to join the other Prep Officers who were now clearing the floor to take position inside a small rotunda.

Able to only turn his head, Matt traded nervous looks with the other greenies as a deep metallic rumbling started to envelop the chamber.

Suddenly, the floor split open and folded back into itself. That was followed by a heavy jolt as they began descending through the floor like they were all part of some enormous factory conveyer belt.

Connected to an automated turbo-lift mechanism, hydraulics groaned as they emerged through the ceiling of a huge, crescent-shaped briefing auditorium with hundreds of other exojackets. Everyone was racked and stacked into perfectly aligned rows, waiting for the show to begin. Matt knew the Intrepid was essentially a huge troop carrier, but he had no idea just how deep its belly was until now.

A mix of high-ranking ASIF, AASOC, and ANOC officers sat at the front of the auditorium, and standing on stage in front of a vast, Imax-sized holoscreen, was Major John Barbee; a pock-faced piece of leather who was mean as piss. On his third rotation out to Epsilon, Barbee was currently the highest-ranking ASIF field officer on the Intrepid. But he was not the highest-ranking officer in this particular fleet.

That honor went to Commander Scott King - whose granite features were emblazoned across the towering screen behind Barbee like a new carving on Mount Rushmore. Late-fifties, King’s pale-blue eyes bored into the crowd of nervous greenies like nails. This too was King’s third rotation out to Epsilon as a senior ANOC officer. He was about to brief these greenies in real-time from the USC Terigon; a smaller battlecruiser that had also deployed from Earth and was leading the fleet through hyperspace to their OSAD (Orbital Staging Area of Drop).

Matt turned his head to see two more rows of exojackets drop into place behind him with a hard clang. He was certain one of the greenies at the far end of the line had been crying the whole time. At least it appeared that way. The kid only looked to be in his early twenties and was a waif in terms of height and build. Perfect cannon fodder, Matt thought.

One of the older greenies next to him was angrily barking insults in Korean. Matt could see why. The poor kid had wet himself. He stood there, head bowed with shame as urine dripped down through the metal shins and plates of his exojacket, disappearing into the gear pit below. Some of the other greenies behind him also started mocking him, shaking their heads with disgust.

Helluva way to enter a war, Matt thought as he turned and began scanning the auditorium for any sign of Pinehurst. After a good minute or two, he was still unable to locate him among the growing lines of heavy metal, figuring he must have been in a row closer to the stage with his back facing him.

With the auditorium now filled to the brim with jacketed greenies, King waited for Barbee to finish arranging some holographic data on the glass table on stage, then cleared his throat and began his briefing. There was grave concern on his face, but it was masterfully tempered. “I’m sure many of you are wondering why you’ve been pulled from your dorms into deployment prep without warning, so I’ll make this as brief as I can: we have received word from Epsilon Command that our OSAD vector is no longer clear. The Wraith have compromised our original exit point. So, we will be deploying two days early, swinging around to the opposite side of the planet to initiate your atmo-drop. I will ensure the Terigon provides you all the support it can muster, but I’m not going to sugar-coat this - it will be a dangerous deployment. In addition to their ground cannons, the Wraith will most likely have ground forces waiting to intercept you once you reach the surface, so expect hard contact. When you see them in your sights, remember why you are here and what you are fighting for. Major Barbee will complete your briefing and provide further op details. Good luck, soldiers. Godspeed, and see you in the Bog.”

If King and Barbee were expecting to hear a unified cheer, they never got one. Instead, a soft welter of nervous murmurs broke out among the greenies as King’s face disappeared from the massive screen, only to be replaced with the official USC seal and logo.

Barbee’s expression was stoic as he swiped the glass table in front of him.

The screen behind him suddenly flashed to a three-dimensional starfield, highlighting their new vectored course to reach Epsilon. They were currently traveling through the Cygnus constellation and were about to breach the outer rim of Epsilon’s solar system. From there, they would initiate one last jump to reach orbit. It was a smaller skip-hop maneuver known as a fold.

“Our current position is here, relative to the Crescent Nebula.” Barbee’s baritone voice was also tinged with a slight Texan drawl. In many ways, that added an extra dimension to his larger-than-life stature, and the deep reverence he held aboard this ship. Much like King, Barbee was a man of war. A product of it. The result of someone who had spent years being forged through this war’s unforgiving crucible.

Matt narrowed his eyes, carefully studying the imagery on screen. They were still traveling through the zero-field tunnel, but it was obvious the fleet could not perform the required fold maneuver until they had exited into real space. The problem was, the Wraith had positioned several mine clusters across their original OSAD. Exiting and attempting to fold in that orbital plane would have been nothing less than suicide.

“Our new OSAD is in sector 2273, slightly above their equatorial band. We will fold into high orbit with Epsilon’s sun at our stern. Severe solar activity will provide some masking from any ground cannons, but USC elements have already indicated the Wraith’s long-range artillery will be able to geo-synch quicker than expected. That means our drop window is extremely limited. SAAC also advises that comms will be intermittent due to silicon-dense winds and grit-flares in the upper atmo, so you can expect an interesting ride to the surface.”

When Barbee turned and zoomed in closer to their designated OSAD target, a dozen moons extended out from Epsilon like a string of pearls. Some were significantly large bodies with their own atmospheres, others were no more than tiny chunks of deformed rock a few miles across in diameter. Due to turbulent surface activity, some of the larger moons were uninhabited, but the Wraith had established colonies on most of them. Not that the greenies could see them from this computer-rendered imagery, but many of the surface structures had already been reduced to ruin. Since the arrival of the first USC armada, there had been extensive campaigns to destroy Wraith armament factories and underground mines on their moons, as they were crucial components in driving their war machine.

In terms of our solar system, Epsilon was located at roughly the same distance between the Sun and Mars, but due to the reach and intensity of its Red Giant star, the planet had been baked into a hot and humid hellscape. Barbee tapped the graphical representation of Epsilon, and the image zoomed in on a surface region that was laced with jagged mountain ranges. He zoomed in even closer, where a green circle began to pulse in an area that was a shallow crater basin, indicating this was their DLZ (Drop-Pod Landing Zone). The circle ranged about one-to-two kilometers across in length.

Barbee adjusted the image slightly with his fingers, giving the greenies a clearer view of the insertion point from the Intrepid to the planet’s surface. “Primary DLZ call sign and coordinates are as follows: DLZ Pale Rider 1-6, grid 64750. I repeat, your grid will be 64750. Memorize it in case you are somehow knocked off your pre-designated vector. If your pod ends up in the middle of an enemy-occupied zone, and you have no idea where you are, it’s going to be highly unlikely anyone will ever see you again. I can’t stress this enough; memorize that grid. It could save your life and the life of your fellow soldiers. Once you have secured the DLZ, and all units are safely on the ground, you will hitch a ride with three incoming QRF units: Warlord One-One, Warlord One-Two, and Warlord One-Three. They will be your point elements to FOB Rhino – which is about a three-hour journey north. They are expecting some heavy resistance along the way, so enjoy the bumpy ride and watch that crossfire.”

This was now real. After a full year of hurtling through space, it was finally happening. Matt was about to enter this war. Aside from his family, he had thought about nothing else for months. He could almost taste the fear and anticipation that now blanketed this vast room.

Some of his fellow greenies looked pumped, ready to drop, hungry for blood, but many of the faces on either side of him also looked deathly grim. Some prayed silently, others prayed in juddering, nervous whispers.

A greenie in front of Matt pitched his neck forward and made a strange gagging sound as if he were attempting to stop himself from puking. Despite Matt’s nervousness, he remained calm. He knew this was going to be a day to remember, but he also knew this day had been coming for a long time, so it was hardly a shock. And the fact that it arrived a few days earlier than anticipated changed nothing. He was here to fight. He was here to protect and defend. And he was also here to avenge.

Barbee moved away from the table and allowed a moment for everyone in the room to absorb the briefing. “Any questions?” he asked, knowing there would most likely be none. He scanned the silent, untested crowd, knowing exactly what they were feeling. He’d been here numerous times himself, racked and stacked, waiting to break atmo. No matter how battle-hardened one was, atmo-drops were a terrifying thing to experience. “It may not look it, but I know exactly what each of you are feeling right now,” he declared. “And as I look out among you, in many ways, I see myself reflected back…” He moved closer to the edge of the stage, his eyes boring into the crowd. “But I tell you what else I see. I see men and women of all races, religions, and creeds, unified to embark upon the greatest crusade our species has ever known. You have striven towards this moment for many months, and the eyes of Earth are now upon you. Take comfort in knowing that the hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere travel with you into the furnace of battle. In company with our brave USC brothers and sisters-in-arms, you will play a vital role in bringing about the ultimate destruction of the Wraith war machine. Your actions will bring forth freedom and security for your family, your loved ones, as well as countless future generations. For the service you are about to undertake in this great struggle in which we are engaged, I give you sincere thanks.” He snapped to attention and made a rather unorthodox gesture of goodwill by saluting them. “Good hunting, greenies!”

That did elicit some whoops and hollas from the crowd, but it was mostly a lackluster response. From Barbee’s reaction, it looked as if he was expecting it to be. The giant elephant in the room was the fact that many of these greenies were going to die before they even reached the surface of Epsilon.

Barbee knew it, and so did they.

Matt felt a sudden jolt, and his row of exojackets began to move again, shifting with the other rows, organizing themselves into their pre-ordained platoons and squads.

Once again, the ground underneath split open, and the greenies entered a huge deployment bay that was buzzing with urgent activity and the whine of heavy hydraulics.

In the center of the bay, hundreds of drop-pods spiraled out in a circular pattern. There must have been at least three hundred in total, possibly way more. They sat there on the aprons like brass church bells, patiently waiting for their occupants to arrive, their reinforced hulls gleaming under the stark deck lights.

The Drop Signal Officers down here who coordinated logistics and readied the pods were known as Ramp Rats. They scurried about the deck in various teams, tinkering with equipment and supplies. They wore bright orange vests over their uniforms and looked akin to flight deck crews one might see on a conventional aircraft carrier.

“Christ… will you take a look at that,” muttered the greenie next to Matt. “We’re in it now, dude.”

Hearing the distinct musicality of an Upper Midwestern accent, Matt peeled his eyes away from the scene below to acknowledge the American man suspended next to him.

He was about six or seven years younger than Matt, with deep-set eyes that seemed at odds with his pudgy red cheeks and heavy-set build.

“Baptism by fire,” Matt replied.

“A-fucking-men.” The young greenie was a live wire of energy. He threw Matt a confident grin and nodded back. “Name’s O’Donnell. Chris.”

Matt gave him a quick look to return the nod. “Matt Reeves. Good to meet you.”

“You bet. Good to meet you too.”

They were coming up on their designated drop-pod. The open hatch offered tantalizing glimpses of the dimly lit interior. From this angle above, the pod interior appeared to be a nest of metal brackets and thick cables.

Other rows of exojackets had already been detached from their turbo-lift arms and were being slotted into upright positions, assisted by their designated Ramp Rat crews.

“T-Squad One!” barked the Ramp Rat standing nearest to the open pod, watching them descend to his position. Like the Prep Officers Matt encountered earlier, he also sounded British, although way more cockney. “Right, listen up you lot! There are twenty-five pods in total assigned to your platoon, and each pod gets a nine-man squad. As an example, pod one is Pale Rider Four. This will be your positioning. First position: Jackson, Maynard, Akim, Beckett, Lee. Second position: O’Donnell, Davis, Reeves, Lopez…” As Matt’s row came to a halt over the open hatch, the Ramp Rat continued announcing seating positions.

Matt hung suspended in the air as he went into a queue, waiting to be inserted into his chair, and glad his squad were the first to go. He pitied the others who would have to hang suspended above their pods, possibly for the next thirty minutes while other squads went before them.

“Here we go, baby,” huffed O’Donnell with excitement as he was lowered in through the hatch. Matt could hear pistons hissing and metal clamps snapping into place around O’Donnell’s exojacket once he was secured.

Matt was next. The other greenies watched nervously as he was lowered into the pod, suspended within three concentric rings.

Another Ramp Rat scaled the rungs of a small ladder on the pod’s hull and climbed half inside, gently guiding Matt into position. “Those of you already locked in should be feeling pretty snug about now,” he said. “The roll coupling dampeners you are secured to are gimballed. They’ll pitch and yaw on all three axes when required, so don’t be alarmed if you start spinning. But if anyone feels like they are not secure, you must inform me immediately. If you can feel or hear something loose or rattling, you must also inform me immediately. Your bracket comes loose during your drop, you’ll bloody-well be a Jackson Pollock before you even break atmo.”

The rings around Matt’s exojacket snapped into place, fastening him into position. Despite the size of the pod, he had to mentally suppress the feeling of claustrophobia that was threatening to surface. It was a natural reaction, given the fact that he was completely unable to move apart from turning his head. The turbo-lift’s giant mechanical arm detached from Matt’s jacket and slowly retracted out of the hatch with a high-pitched whine. Once the Ramp Rat had checked Matt was secure, he climbed back out of the pod and disappeared.

Design-wise, there was nothing in here apart from a series of small viewports studded around the hull, which because of their size and thickness of their armored glass, only gave limited views of the outside world. These pods were not designed to give their occupants access to any stunning space vistas. They were really nothing more than hunks of reinforced steel and polymers, solely designed to get combat infantry to a planet’s surface in one piece without burning up in the atmosphere. Matt thought it gave the impression of being strapped inside a larger version of NASA’s old Gemini re-entry capsule he once read about in school.

The cockney Ramp Rat suddenly reappeared, sticking his head through the hatch with a grin. “Your pod is looking good, greenies. We are drop commit. Big day, big smiles, yeah?”

No one was smiling, except O’Donnell.

Kim Maynard, a fresh-faced brunette from upstate New York, barely out of her twenties, lifted her head to the ceiling and closed her eyes as if trying to block out her surroundings. In another life, she might have been a glamor model. In this life, she was a trained killer.

Jacketed next to her was Amjad Akim; a thirty-something Wisconsinite with Egyptian heritage. He carried the build of a brawny weightlifter in his prime. He dropped his head and closed his kind eyes, praying softly.

Across the aisle, Henry Wilson bit his lip nervously. Much like O’Donnell, he was wired and ready to get down there. There was a hint of buzzed red hair just visible beneath his helmet, and his fair complexion was the kind only Irish people from Boston were blessed with.

“Hatch closing. T-minus five minutes to drop!” yelled the cockney Ramp Rat. “Have a smooth ride down. God be with ya!”

As he disappeared, a warning beacon began to drone outside. Ramp Rats could be heard barking orders to clear the deck.

There was another loud hydraulic whine as the submarine-style hatch of their pod lowered. It clamped shut with a heavy thud, making them feel as if they’d all just been sealed inside a giant bank vault. The tension was now palpable, and the heavy breathing among greenies was almost deafening.

When Daniel Lee, a skinny Japanese American kid from Honolulu, suddenly craned his neck forward and puked over himself, the other greenies were wound so tight, they hardly noticed.

Except for Maynard. “Nice. Real nice,” she said, grimacing. “Well done.”

Martina Lopez, a steely-eyed Chicano from LA, also grunted with disgust. “Turn this pod into a chunder bucket before we drop? Awesome job, kid.”

“Go easy on him, folks. He’s just nervous,” said Dylan Davis from across the aisle. Built like a diesel engine, he was a fifty-two-year-old Texan who worked offshore oil rigs before the invasion. “Besides, maybe it was a tactical chunder.”

“That’s a thing?” asked Maynard, uncertain if he was joking or serious.

“Sure it is. You’ve never eaten the breakfast buffet at Caesars?”

Maynard rolled her eyes and turned away, knowing he was full of shit.

“Easy on the boomer humor there, old man,” jeered Lopez. “Not all of us are over ninety.”

Davis leveled a big fuck you smile at Lopez. “Try fifty-two, cupcake.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I don’t know, ask me when I’m ninety.”

Lopez hacked out a laugh and shook her head. She liked this guy.

Once Lee had managed to compose himself, he wearily looked up at Maynard and Lopez, the fear of combat still overriding any embarrassment he may have had. “Sorry about that. I get motion sickness.”

Lopez snickered. “Hate to break it to you, Chino, but we ain’t movin’ yet.”

“Prepare for drop. T-minus two minutes,” said the calm female voice over the pod’s internal comms system. This was the pod’s Bitchin’ Betty.

“Yo, let’s go already!” yelped Beckett, a tubby Jewish thirty-something from Yonkers.

“I hear that,” replied O’Donnell, almost unable to contain his excitement now. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“You think this is a show?” queried Jackson, his cynical dark eyes burning into O’Donnell from across the circular aisle. Jackson was an older African American man from Chicago. He had sketched a giant Cubs logo in marker on the side of his helmet. “This is probably gonna be the first and last drop you’re ever gonna take, boy. Maybe try and savor the moment a little.”

O’Donnell was just trying to find a release for his nervous energy. By the slightly bewildered look on his face, he didn’t get Jackson’s bleak idea of humor.

“Sixty seconds to drop…”

Maynard, Wilson, and Akim now looked as if they were each starting to regret their decision to volunteer for this, hearts firmly caught in their throats, waiting for the inevitable point of no return. The others in the group did not fare any better either. The quick round of verbal jousting between some of them was a welcome relief from the building tension, but it was far from being a circuit breaker for the deep fear that now blanketed the pod. They were about to drop into the middle of an interstellar war. Humor could only carry them so far.

Matt’s eyes remained focused and emotionless. During tense situations like this, he would normally fidget with his wedding ring, but he was unable to move. Instead, he made a conscious effort to keep his breathing even. His gaze locked on the small viewport on the opposite side of the hull while he mentally cycled through his landing procedures.

Outside he could see a red warning light somewhere nearby, its beam sweeping across the deck like a lighthouse beacon.

The HUDs displayed across everyone’s faceplates suddenly flashed to life again, raining new streams of data related to their upcoming drop.

“Thirty seconds to drop…”

Matt felt he did not need to track any of that stuff just yet. He decided the best thing he could do was close his eyes and breathe deeply, continuing to calm himself mentally.

“Twenty seconds to drop…”

Matt could feel a low rumbling starting to build underneath him now. The bracket he was fixed to was starting to vibrate a lot stronger. He figured they were moving into position over the deck’s bay doors.

“Ten seconds to drop. All pods are in the green…”

Matt worked his jaw, his nostrils flaring as he took some of the stagnate air into his lungs. Any second now…

“Initiating drop vector… Release.”

Apart from a hard metallic snap above them, it took a few seconds for the greenies to realize they had just detached from the Intrepid and were now plummeting through space towards the surface of Epsilon.

Matt cautiously opened his eyes to steal a glimpse outside.

There were no stars due to the planet’s surface glow, so there was nothing visible except the velvety blackness of space. He could not see any other pods or ships in the fleet either. Surprisingly, it all felt rather tranquil and serene. The vibrations were still a little jarring, but there was no uncomfortable friction.

That ended the second the pod’s external thrusters kicked in.

Without warning, the pod lurched and began throttling along its vectored course, headed towards the DLZ. Everyone felt their stomachs pitch as sickening G-forces kicked in. When the pod began to adjust its angle of insertion, the greenies all tilted with it. With each passing second, the metal vibrations inside the pod were getting stronger and more intense. They were now hammering towards Epsilon’s atmosphere at supersonic speeds.

Suddenly, they began to hear faint thuds against the hull, quickly followed by brilliant flashes of light.

At first, Matt thought it was Epsilon’s stormy cloud banks rushing up to meet them, but when he saw tracer fire streak past the viewports, he knew the Wraith were unleashing their batteries on them.

Then, there was a world-shaking jolt as the pod began to spin wildly. It felt as if they had just been struck by a runaway train.

Maynard and Davis started screaming as everyone sat there, bouncing and heaving, helpless against their restraints, praying the pod didn’t tear apart before they reached the surface.

Even O’Donnell was now deathly quiet, his eyes pinched shut with fear.

“Approaching altitude threshold. Drifting east,” said the pod’s Bitchin’ Betty in its usual prosaic tone. “Warning, warning, vector degrading...”

That didn’t sound good. Lee and Akim wailed in terror as the pod rolled sharply on its side until it began corkscrewing. This drop had quickly turned into the carnival ride from hell.

Matt could feel all the calmness he had acquired earlier starting to spiral away from him. Panic was rising. Blood was now thundering in his ears.

“Readjusting… maintaining course integrity… vector correcting… vector corrected.”

The pod rocked as it swung back on course like a pendulum, a blast of hot steam now hissing from somewhere inside, threatening to suffocate everyone.

Peering through the flashing HUD on his faceplate, Matt stole another glance outside.

Through the exploding flak that washed over the pod, he could just make out the hazy tinge of Epsilon’s stratosphere cutting against the blackness of space. They had broken through and were no longer suborbital. Sound came blasting back into their ears as tracers continued to strafe the pod. Even through the padded cushioning of their helmets, it was deafening, like the banshee wail of some demented sea monster.

“Beginning final landing approach. Pressurization systems initiated.”

Matt’s eyes now ticked over the altitude and vector read-outs displayed on his HUD. The pod had managed to self-correct and stabilize its trajectory, but they were still descending at a speed of nearly three thousand miles per hour, and he could feel every bit of it.

“Eighty-thousand feet. Beginning descension rate analysis. Good on track.”

The pod began to shake even more violently as it screamed towards the surface at terminal velocity. The whole thing sounded like it was about to break apart at any moment. Matt was now extremely anxious to discharge from this bone-rattling missile. This was not a fun ride.

The air was starting to get heavy. He struggled to focus on the G-Limiter in his HUD that was creeping towards five-G’s. The sense of acceleration was tremendous as gravity kept pressing his spine harder and harder against the inner support pads of his exojacket. He was unable to fight it. If the G’s continued to increase, they’d all be passed out within the next ten seconds. They’d also be flat as pancakes by the time they reached the surface. Not the most ideal way to land on an alien planet populated with hostile enemies.

“Ten-thousand feet. Finalizing stabilization contingencies.”

The relentless shuddering made it almost impossible to see anything outside, but Matt could vaguely make out some jagged mountain ranges in the distance now. Due to the nauseating speed, they looked to be suspended, as if nothing outside was moving at all.

During its summer season, Epsilon’s equatorial peaks were not capped with water-ice, but rather, a thick slurry of Carbonyl sulfide and silicon. Due to the highly combustible and flammable properties of sulfide, it was not uncommon to see mountain peaks set ablaze from the intensity of the sun. Some projected columns of fire that could stretch miles into the sky and were visible from space. The soldiers stationed on Epsilon called the largest of these enormous flaming peaks, Mount Boom.

Just as Matt thought he was going to grey out, the pod’s velocity began to rapidly decrease. Within seconds, he could feel the G’s weakening, but he was still fighting to stay conscious.

“One-thousand feet. Engaging external dampeners.”

A series of ventral flaps exploded around the bottom rim of the pod, sharply pitching it forward before leveling out again. The pod was no longer falling, it was drifting. Stabilizing thrusters continued to blast jets of steam, keeping the pod upright as it kicked up huge clouds of dust.

“Ten-feet. Flaps purged. Commencing glide-to-stop protocols.”

The pod began to tilt again, skidding across the rocky desert floor like a runaway hot-air balloon until it became a controlled slide, finally easing to a halt.

They were pod-down in the middle of Epsilon’s sweltering badlands; unaware they had landed miles away from their DLZ.