The 18th Race: Book 02 - In All Directions

by David Sherman

  The Duster let out a shriek and tried to wrest its leg from Mackie’s grip, but only succeeded in throwing itself off balance. Mackie wrenched the leg upward, twisting the knee joint far enough to disjoint it. The alien let out a shrill cry, and thudded to the ground when Mackie let go of its leg.

  With all three of his opponents down, Mackie took a few seconds to look around for his men.

  On his right, Orndoff had a Duster by its head and was spinning it around. To his left, Horton was stomping a downed alien. Farther away Cafferata was swinging the butt of his rifle at another’s head and neck. All three Marines had red staining their uniforms, but Mackie couldn’t tell if the red was the blood of humans, or the slightly different red of the aliens’ blood. Beyond his men, he saw other Marines grappling with Dusters, some against more than one. Approaching shouts sounded like more Marines were on their way to aid first squad.

  He didn’t have time to analyze the situation; another Duster was almost on him, its bayoneted rifle probing straight at him at groin level. And Mackie’s was still stuck in the ribs of one that he’d already fought. Mackie bounded upward, legs spread. Not high, but enough to clear the rifle, which went between his thighs. He came down on the alien’s forearms, his belly slammed into the Duster’s beak, jamming its head back on its long neck. The impact hurt, but Mackie didn’t have time to consider what injury he might have suffered. His hands reflexively snapped up, under the alien’s jaw, knocking its head back. The thing began to fall forward from its momentum, but Mackie’s body blocked its motion, and his weight bore its front down. Mackie swiveled, swinging his left leg up and over to disengage from his foe. With one hand he grasped the alien’s weapon, and with the other slugged it in the side of the face. In an instant, he had the unfamiliar rifle in his hands, and used it like a club to knock the Duster down and pummel its head into the ground.

  The Duster that had Mackie’s bayonet sticking out of its side was still alive, writhing in agony, flopping the Marine’s rifle side to side. Mackie stomped on its neck as he bent to grab his rifle. The alien spasmed. Mackie got a good grip on his rifle, twisted, yanked, pulled it free.

  Crouching, he looked around for another enemy to fight. While he’d been engaged, second squad and some of the machinegunners had arrived to reinforce first squad. Dead and wounded Dusters littered the ground around the Marines. Some of the Marines were down as well. But Mackie couldn’t take it all in right away; he was faint from loss of blood and collapsed.

  “It’s about time you woke up, Mackie.”

  Mackie turned his head toward the side and saw Hospitalman Third Class David E. Hayden kneeling next to him where he lay on the ground.

  “Hey. . .” Corporal Mackie started, then had to work some saliva into his mouth and swallow. “Hey, Doc, what are you doing there?”

  “Patching you up, what do you think?”

  “Patching. . .?” Mackie started to pat his belly and ribs, but flinched at the pain and stopped.

  “Don’t worry,” Hayden said. “You’ll live. And you’ll be back to full duty before Sergeant Martin decides to give your fire team to Cafferata.”

  “How about Orndoff and Horton? They’re mine, I need to know.”

  “Horton’s wounded about as bad as you. Orndoff wasn’t as dumb, he barely got scratched.”

  Mackie nodded, satisfied; all of the Marines he was responsible for were alive. That was important. “But we won?” he asked.

  “The standard definition of victory is whoever holds the ground when the shooting stops is the winner. We’re still here, the Dusters aren’t. So, yeah, we won.”

  Mackie looked around and saw spindly-branched trees with bushes growing where sunlight reached the ground. “This is where we fought?”

  “Yeah. We’re waiting for transportation back to Jordan. Before you ask, I don’t know when it’ll get here.”

  Mackie fell back, and grimaced at the pain that lanced through his rib wounds from the impact.

  “Now rest easy,” Hayden said, patting Mackie’s shoulder. “I’ll check on you later.” The corpsman stood and continued his rounds.

  Mackie’s eyelids suddenly felt heavy. He closed them, thinking Doc must have slapped me with a sedative. In seconds, he was sound asleep.

  Orndoff was there when Mackie woke up again. This time he recognized the ground cover he was laying on, keeping him off the dirt, weeds, and pebbles.

  “How ya feeling, honcho?” Orndoff asked.

  “I’ve been better. How’re you?”

  Orndoff shrugged. “A damn sight better’n you.” He raised his left arm to display the field dressing wrapped around it. “Just a scratch. Nothing serious.”

  “That’s your second wound.” Mackie shook his head. “How’s Horton? Doc didn’t tell me much.”

  “He got a leg wound, a bad one. A Duster kicked him hard, gouged deep into his thigh. He damn near bled out before I got a tourniquet on him. Doc’s pumping him full of plasma and whole blood.” He took a deep breath, nodded. “He’ll pull through all right.”

  “And the rest of the squad?”

  “Pretty much everybody got hurt.” Orndoff looked unfocused into the distance. “I heard someone say the platoon had better’n fifty percent casualties, with most of ‘em in first squad.”

  “How many dead?” Mackie choked on the word.

  Orndoff shook his head. “Lieutenant Commiskey made us stay in our squads and fire teams when the Dusters broke and ran. I haven’t been able to get around to see how anybody else is doing. Staff Sergeant Guillen chased me back when I tried. Told me my ass was his if I didn’t stick with you.” He shrugged. “That’s why my pretty face was the first thing you saw when you came to.”

  “How’s Martin?”

  “Dinged. Worse than me, not as bad as you.”

  “Where’s Horton?”

  Orndoff pointed with his chin. “On your other side. Doc’s keeping him under until he’s sure he’s got enough blood in him.” He cocked his head. “Sounds like transport’s on its way.”

  Mackie listened and heard the drone of approaching air-cushioned vehicles. In minutes, five “Eighters” hove into sight. They were air cushioned, amphibious vehicles, each capable of carrying a reinforced rifle platoon. Four were enough to carry an entire company, three if they squeezed in. But the casualties required more space, so regiment had sent five.

  “All right, people, let’s get the wounded aboard first,” Captain Carl Sitter’s voice came over the company freq.

  “Platoon sergeants,” First Sergeant Robert G. Robinson followed up, “you know your platoon’s assignments. Get it done.”

  Platoon sergeants barked orders over their platoon freqs. Squad and fire team leaders raised their voices, repeating the platoon sergeants’ orders. There weren’t as many raised voices as there should have been; too many of India Company’s squad leaders and fire team leaders were casualties. Still, the boarding of the casualties, followed by the able, went smoothly enough, and quickly. It wasn’t long before India Company was on its way back to Jordan.

  Field Hospital, Jordan, Eastern Shapland, Semi-Autonomous World Troy

  On the second day after its fire fight against the Dusters, India Company held a formation. They formed up outside the battalion’s field hospital rather than on the battalion parade ground, because several of the wounded, even though out of intensive care, were still bed-ridden. Lieutenant Colonel Ray Davis, the battalion commander, spoke first.

  “Marines, I know you suffered in close combat against the Dusters. Some of you are still suffering. Some, absent comrades, will suffer no more. But I assure you, the Dusters suffered more than you did. They left more of their own dead in third platoon’s area alone than India Company had Marines in the entire engagement. Their losses were horrendous. Whatever their unit strength was to begin with, they are no longer capable of functioning as a unit of that size. India, Three/One, however, is.

  “But you won’t have to. India Company is going into batta
lion reserve until your wounds are healed, and your absent comrades are replaced and integrated into the company.

  “Thanks to you, we now know the location of a major Duster underground base and how to identify their entrances. The 6th Marines are in the process of reducing the base you found.

  “Marines, you did an outstanding job. In this action you acquitted yourselves in the highest tradition of the Marine Corps, and you will again and again. Every time the Dusters have come up against you, they have been severely bloodied and thrown back with devastating losses. Ultimate victory will be yours.”

  Davis bowed his head for a moment, then raised it high and said forcefully, in a pride-filled voice, “3rd Battalion, 1st Marines has a long and proud history. You carry on in the best tradition of that history. Three/One is the best battalion in the Marine Corps, and I am proud and humbled to be your commander.

  “Now, many of you received wounds in this recent action. For some of you it was a second wound suffered against the Dusters. I wish I had the Purple Hearts medals to award to you now, but we will have to wait until medals come from Earth. But I do have the printed citations, and your company commander will hand them out to you in an appropriate ceremony.

  “Marines, I salute you.” He raised his right hand in a salute.

  “COMP-ney, a-ten-SHUN!” battalion Sergeant Major Harry L. Hulbert bellowed.

  Every one standing snapped to attention. The bed-ridden did as well as they could.

  “PRE-sent ARMS!” Hulbert called out, and everyone who could saluted, and held his salute.

  Davis looked over the company before cutting his salute and about-facing to march away.

  Hulbert let the battalion commander get twenty meters away before shouting, “OR-der ARMS!” the command for the Marines to cut their salutes. He saluted the company commander, Captain Carl Sitter, then followed the colonel.

  Sitter waited for Davis and Hulbert to reach their vehicle and leave before facing his company. “Platoons, report absent comrades.”

  First Lieutenant Christian F. Schilt saluted Sitter and sounded off. “Sir, first platoon, three absent comrades.”

  Second Lieutenant Herman H. Hanneken then reported, “Sir, second platoon, five absent comrades.”

  Second Lieutenant Commiskey reported, “Sir, third platoon, seven absent comrades.”

  Finally, First Lieutenant Ralph Talbot reported, “Sir, weapons platoon, three absent comrades.”

  Twenty-five “absent comrades.” Nearly one out of seven members of the company. Far too many, far too heavy a loss. But not all of the twenty-five had been killed. A few, pitifully few, were too badly wounded to be returned to full duty in the forseeable future, if ever. Twenty-five billets in the company to fill.

  “The platoons need to be reorganized and some Marines will be promoted to give you rank commensurate with your positions. Some replacements, but only fifteen or so, not more than twenty, will come from the division’s shore party and various headquarters units. When they arrive and are assigned, you will need to integrate them as quickly as possible.

  Platoon commanders and platoon sergeants, I want your recommendations for reorganization and promotions in two hours.

  Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours.”

  Gunnery Sergeant Charles F. Hoffman stepped forward and saluted. “Sir, the company is mine. Aye aye, sir.” He watched while Sitter led the company’s officers and first sergeant away, then about faced.

  “Platoon sergeants,” he ordered, “when I dismiss you, take your platoons and keep them together, ready to reassemble.” He looked from one end of the formation to the other, noting without expression how many of the Marines were laying on beds or leaning on crutches instead of standing at attention, then said, “COMP-ney, dis-MISSED!”

  The company was reassembled in less than an hour. The platoon commanders and sergeants had already decided how to reorganize their platoons, and which of their Marines needed promotions, so most of that hour had been taken up with getting approval from Lieutenant Colonel Davis and the promotion warrants printed for awarding.

  Captain Sitter held a brief ceremony to award the Purple Heart citations to the wounded Marines, followed by the promotions.

  The first replacements arrived the next day.

  Chapter 7

  Force Recon compound, Headquarters, NAU Forces, Troy, near Millerton

  The Navy in orbit searched the surface of Troy for gravitational anomalies which could indicate the presence of caves or tunnel systems that the Dusters were believed to use to hide in and to move about undetected. Infrequently, when the Navy found such an anomaly, the Navy also found Dusters on the surface. On those few instances a Marine or Army battalion was sent to do battle. More often, there was no sign of the aliens visible on the surface. On those occasions, Marine Force Recon was sent to investigate, to discover whether or not the aliens were using the caves or tunnels. Usually, they didn’t find any sign of Dusters.

  But they always had to check. Just in case.

  “Attention on deck!” Gunnery Sergeant Ernest A. Janson bellowed.

  “At ease, Marines!” Captain Walter Newell Hill, commanding officer, first platoon, First Force Recon Company boomed as he strode into the company classroom where two squads waited. First Lieutenant George H. Cannon, first section commander, accompanied him.

  The ten Marines of third and fourth squads resumed their seats in the two rows of folding chairs near the small stage that Captain Hill jumped onto.

  “We have a mission,” Hill began.

  No shit, most of the enlisted men thought, but none said out loud. There’s no other reason we would be here now.

  “The Navy found has another anomaly with no visible sign of Dusters on the surface.”

  Which is what we are for, most of them thought. To find out if any bad guys are there.

  “Here is the satellite view of the area of the anomaly.” Hill pressed a button on the lectern he stood next to, and a screen behind him lit up with an overhead view of several square kilometers of scrubland. “This is the area of the anomaly.” A dashed line appeared overlaying the landscape. A narrow, many-doglegged section appeared on the south side, with several alcoves of various sizes sticking off its sides. The farther it went, the larger the alcoves became. It terminated in what must be a large cavern, or amphitheater. Three short legs led off the cavern to the northwest in different directions,

  “N-1 suspects those legs are entrances to a cave-tunnel complex. Your mission is to determine whether they are indeed entrances, and whether there is any sign of Dusters using them. You are not to enter the tunnels, if that is in fact what they are. You are to avoid contact with the enemy if they prove to be there. Remember, your mission is to snoop and poop and gather intelligence, not to fight.

  “Transportation into and out of the area will be provided by Eagles from MMH-628, cover will be provided by AH-5 Cobras, from MAH-115.

  “Third squad, your call sign is ‘Raider,’ fourth squad is ‘CAP.’ Control is ‘Big Two.’

  “Are there any questions? If not, your platoon sergeant will provide you with maps, detectors, water, rations, and anything else the mission requires.

  “Good hunting.” He stepped off the stage and headed for the classroom exit.

  “Ah-ten-HUT!” Jenson bellowed, and the ten Marines of the two Force Recon squads stood and came to relaxed positions of attention.

  Cannon followed the company commander. As he passed his men he said just loudly enough for them to hear, “Go get ‘em, tigers!”

  Jenson waited until the officers were gone, then stepped to the front of the stage and waved a come-here gesture. “Gather around,” he said. The ten joined him. “Here’s your maps. Test them now.” He handed each squad leader what looked like a thin roll of fabric.

  The squad leaders accepted them, unrolled them, snapped them to rigidity, and pressed various controls that appeared on the edge of each.

  “Full power,” third squad’s Staff
Sergeant William J. Bordelon said.

  “Full power,” Sergeant Joseph R. Julian of fourth squad said.

  They pressed other controls and each pad displayed a matte map of the Force Recon area, centered on them. More controls enlarged the area shown, or gave a tighter view. Another brought up blue dots and rectangles, showing the location of people and vehicles.

  “My map seems to be working fine,” Bordelon said.

  “Mine too,” Julian said.

  “You will go in here and here,” Janson said, pressing buttons that brought up an X on each map. “These are your primary extraction points.” He brought up a Z on each map.

  “Here’s motion and scent,” Jenson said, handing over detectors. “We’ll test them outside. I’ll issue water and rations later.”

  The squads spent the next two hours studying their maps and making their plan of maneuver.

  Later, fully equipped, they gathered at the compound’s vertical takeoff and landing pad where two T-43 Eagles waited for them.

  Captain Hill and First Lieutenant Cannon joined them. The officers looked them over.

  “If there are any Dusters where you’re going,” Hill said, “they’ll have a damn hard time seeing you.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Bordelon said, not necessarily believing the company commander. He and the other Marines going on this mission knew what had happened to the first platoon of second Force Recon Company before VII Corps was assembled and left Earth to retake Troy. The Force Recon field uniform was patterned in such a way as to make the eye slide past it, rendering the wearer nearly invisible to the naked eye. The Dusters had almost wiped out the entire platoon, so they knew the aliens must have some way of seeing them no matter how nearly invisible they were to human eyes. But they weren’t about to gainsay their company commander, so neither Bordelon nor any of the others said anything other than, “Yes, Sir,” when he said the Dusters wouldn’t be able to see them.

  “Good hunting, Marines,” Hill said. He and Cannon shook each of their hands before they boarded the aircraft.

  Scrubland, fifty kilometers from Jordan, Eastern Shapland