The Eagles flew zigzag routes, touching down frequently on high grounds and hollows, until the Marines jumped off five kilometers from the anomaly; third squad to its east, fourth to its west. The Eagles made several more touch-and-goes away from the anomaly before turning back to their squadrons’ airfields. The multiple touchdowns were to prevent watchers from knowing exactly where the squads were dropped off.
“Get ready, we’re approaching your drop point,” a voice buzzed in Staff Sergeant Bordelon’s headset.
Bordeon took off the headset and hung it on a hook in the cabin. That was the signal for the squad to prepare to jump. He turned on his shoulder-mounted camera and looked to see that his men did as well.
Where third squad dropped off was the sunny side of a defile. Knee-high bushes grew among the rocks and small boulders that speckled the ground, evidence of an ancient rock slide. Spindly trees popped up, mostly in the bottom of the defile. Fourth squad came down in a north-south oriented defile, with ground less rocky. Bushes here frequently rose to waist high, and trees were more frequent and not as spindly, although none of the Marines would characterize them as shade trees. In both areas, insectoids flitted and buzzed around the bushes once the interruption of the Eagle and disgorgement of the Marines had settled. Avians swooped among the insectoids, seeking a meal. High above, other avians glided on rising thermals. Occasionally one dove at a swooper, and sometimes caught its own dinner.
Bordelon looked all around, moving his torso so the camera picked up all directions.
Third squad went to ground on the shady side of its defile, a hundred meters from where they’d exited the Eagle. They formed a five-pointed star, with their feet touching in the middle. Lance Corporal Kraus, the best shot in the squad, carried its only rifle. The others were armed with sidearms; Force Recon’s job was intelligence gathering, they believed that their mission was a failure if they got into a fire fight, so they went lightly armed.
They waited, watching for anybody coming to investigate the touchdown of the aircraft.
After a half hour’s wait without seeing or hearing any sign of someone coming to investigate, Staff Sergeant Bordelon checked his map to verify that the squad was where it expected to be. The Marines were in the right place. He got onto his comm and sent a two word message: “Raider, moving,” then tapped Corporal Stein and pointed. He didn’t get an answer to his message, and hadn’t expected one.
Stein rose to his feet and started along the defile. Bordelon followed, then came Lance Corporals Kraus and Roan. Sergeant Vaughn brought up the rear.
Stein followed the defile for a kilometer before stopping and looking back to his squad leader for insttuction.
Bordelon pointed to the left, where the top of the defile had crumbled into a V-shaped notch. Stein headed for the notch, stepping carefully so as to not dislodge any of the stones on the slope. He stopped just below the notch and eased to the side before cautiously rising up to where he could see through it. Seeing no threat on the land beyond, he darted through the notch, keeping bent low enough to not show above the notch’s side and dropped twenty meters beyond it. The other four Marines followed rapidly, all staying below the top of the notch. They took the same five-point circle they had when they first went to ground.
This time they only waited and watched for fifteen minutes before Bordelon signaled Stein to move out again.
They went bent low on a tangent to their objective, keeping out of the sightline of anyone who might have come straight out of the suspected tunnel entrance. The ground here was less rocky than in the defile, and more trees grew, providing limited concealment from potential hostile viewers. Along the way they zigged and zagged, sometimes heading more directly toward their objective, sometimes away from it. Moving slowly and never straight, it took three hours to get within three hundred meters of the possible tunnel mouth. The ground steadily rose.
Again, they went to ground in a five-point star. Bordelon deployed his motion and scent detectors for the first time. He spoke into his comm, “Raider in place.” Again, he expected no reply, and didn’t get one.
The motion detector was set to show only movement of something half the size of a man or larger, so the flitting insectoids and swooping birds didn’t register on it. For the half hour they waited, neither did anything else. The scent detector didn’t note any wafting chemicals that would indicate the possible nearby presence of a Duster.
Bordelon kicked into the cluster of feet in the center of the star—the signal for the squad to rise and move into the next phase of the mission. He sent another two word message, “Raider, seeking.”
The five Marines spread out on line, ten meters from each other. They alternated looking around with looking at the ground.
“Tracks,” Vaughn, on the left of the line, said loudly enough to carry to the others and no farther. It was the first word any of them had said out loud except for Bordeon’s comm messages since they boarded the Eagles back at the Force Recon compound.
Everyone stopped and went to a knee, looking in different directions. Except for Bordelon, who went to Vaughn’s side. There, crossing Vaughn’s path left rear to right front, were the distinctive taloned footprints of several Dusters.
Bordelon followed the tracks with his eyes—they went directly to the so-far unseen location of the suspected tunnel mouth. He signaled Vaughn to come with him. Along the way they gathered Roan. When they reached Kraus, Bordelon signaled Stein to join them. All five lowered to a knee and put their heads together.
“Tracks, leading there,” Bordelon said softly, and pointed where they led. “We go. Be ready.”
While the squad began an oblique approach to the suspected entrance, the squad leader sent another terse message, “Sign found. Investigating.”
The tracks disappeared into a meter-wide gouge in the sloping ground. Bordelon stopped his squad and advanced alone, with his detectors held before himself. The motion detector didn’t register anything, but the display of the scent detector started jumping as soon as he extended it toward the opening. Carefully, he continued up the slope to where he could lie above the entrance. He stretched both detectors to aim into the tunnel. The motion detector didn’t register anything but the scent was strong.
Found ‘em! he thought, and shot a thumbs up at his men. Back on his feet, stepping softly with the scent detector extended, he walked along the ground in the direction of the tunnel, and onto the roofs of some of the side caverns shown in the Navy scans. He was looking for scents rising from ventilaiton shafts. He thought there must be some, but either there weren’t any or the shafts had baffles that absorbed scents.
Deciding that further search would be futile, he returned to his squad. A few meters from the tunnel entrance, he pulled what appeared to be a large pebble out of his pocket and dropped it on the ground. The pebble wasn’t as innocent as it looked. When activated by a given radio signal, it would radiate a pulse, that guided on, allowing Marines to home directly on it, and to the tunnel entrance.
He pointed the direction for Corporal Stein and sent another message as the squad began its movement, “Raider leaving objective. Success.”
It took third squad two hours to reach its extraction point, where they waited twenty minutes for an Eagle to respond to Bordelon’s signal that they were there.
Force Recon compound, Headquarters NAU Forces Troy
Fourth squad returned to base nearly an hour after third; they’d had to investigate three possible tunnel or cave entrances.
Captain Hall delayed the debriefing of third squad until fourth squad returned. When both squads were assembled in the company classroom, he handed the debriefing to First Lieutenant Robert M. Hanson, First Force Recon Company’s S-2—intelligence—officer.
Staff Sergeant Bordelon went first. Hanson’s eyes glowed at the finding of strong Duster scent emanating from the cave entrance. Captain Hall grinned a predatory grin. Lieutenant Cannon looked at third squad with obvious approval. They eagerly watched
the vids the Marines had taken, especially of the tracks leading to the tunnel’s entrance. They were mildly disappointed that Bordelon hadn’t found any ventilation shafts.
Then it was third squad’s turn.
“Sirs,” Sergeant Julian began, “The landscape on the northwest of the subject area isn’t as rocky as what Staff Sergeant Bordelon described in his sector. It’s still scrub forest, but with more trees and fewer bushes.
“We found no sign of Dusters until we approached the suspected entrances. There were a few footsteps, but not from as many individuals as third squad discovered.” The vids he showed made that clear. “These entrances, it’s pretty clear, are smaller than the one to the south. My best guess is only one of these entrances is in use, and that simply as a way into open air when Dusters feel the need to get out of the cave.” He shrugged. “At least that’s what I’d think if the enemy was human instead of alien. One of the other two gave no detectable scent, it probably wasn’t broken all the way through.”
He had more to say, but nothing of significance. Neither did any of his squad mates, they thought he had covered everything they’d discovered.
“Outstanding, Marines,” Captain Hall said at the end of the debriefing. “I’m sure whatever unit is sent to clear out that nest will find your intelligence immensely valuable.
“That is all. Gunny Janson, take charge. After they’ve showered and changed uniforms, you may sound the liberty call.” He left the classroom with the other officers in tow.
“You heard the man,” Janson said when the officers were gone. “Get yourselves cleaned up and take off on liberty. Base liberty, of course.”
The ten Marines headed for their quarters and a shower. Liberty call didn’t mean much, there wasn’t really anywhere to go.
The next day the two squad leaders met with the officers and platoon sergeants of Company I, Third Battalion, First Marines to plan the company’s approach to the cave-tunnel complex. The following day, the two squads went out again, to prepare to guide India Company to the cave-tunnel complex—and to assure that the Dusters were still there.
Chapter 8
Ward 3, Field Hospital 4, near Pikestown, West Shapland
“Up and at ’em, Mackie. The doctor tells me he needs this bed.”
Corporal John Mackie, dressed in a hospital gown and thin robe, looked up from the book he was reading to see his squad leader, Sergeant James Martin standing at the foot of his hospital bed. Then he looked around the ward where eight of the twelve beds were already empty, and back at his squad leader. “Sure he does, Sergeant Martin. What do you think he’s going to do with it?”
“He’s a doctor,” Martin answered, stepping around the bed to Mackie’s side and lowering his voice. “How do I know what he’s got planned? Maybe he’s got something on with one of the nurses and needs a horizontal surface. Have you seen them, the nurses? Some of them are pretty choice.” He looked toward the nurses’ station, beyond one end of the ward. The station was the pivot point for this ward and two others. The fourth side opened into a corridor that led to the main entrance of the field hospital.
Mackie snorted. “No shit, I’ve seen them. What do you think I’ve been doing here? Can’t spend all of my time sleeping and reading.”
Martin laughed at that. “If almost anybody else in the squad said that I’d think he was joking. But you actually read a lot.” He clapped Mackie’s shoulder. “How’s your gut?”
Mackie patted his abdomen. “I’ve got a scar, but that’s about it. I heard you got wounded, too. How are you doing?”
“I’m a Marine sergeant. I heal faster than mere corporals.”
“Yeah, sure. But you’re okay?”
“I was released a couple of days ago. You’re the last man from first squad who hasn’t returned to duty yet. Even Horton’s back, and his leg was hurt worse than your tummy.”
“Then let’s go.” Mackie stood and opened the slender locker that stood next to the head of his bed. It held two field uniforms, his pack, and gear harness. The pack was empty and nothing hung on the harness. In seconds, he had his miniscule collection of toiletries swept from the bedside stand into a carrying case, which he put in the pack along with his book and library crystal. Another minute and he was out of the hospital gown and in uniform.
“Follow me,” Martin said, and stepped out, toward the nursing station and the exit. Mackie fell in a pace to his left and rear.
“Corporal Mackie,” the nurse at the station, a lieutenant junior grade, said sternly, “I don’t want to see you back here. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.” Mackie said with a grin at her as he passed.
She smiled at the “ma’am,” as she was only a couple of years older than he was.
Out of her hearing Mackie said to Martin, “The Navy sure makes good nurses.”
“Oh, yeah, the best.” Martin agreed, remembering a night back in Riverside when he’d met an off duty nurse, and the night had turned into a weekend.
Firebase Zion, near Jordan, West Shapland
Firebase Zion was a barren place, as such advance positions usually were. The vegetation had been removed inside the base’s combat-wire perimeter, and fields of fire had been cleared some four hundred meters beyond the wire, making a rough circle nearly a kilometer in diameter of denuded ground. Holes, the beginnings of bunkers, had been dug a few meters inside the wire, with narrow zigzag trenches connecting them. Inboard from the bunkers were square tents, each capable of housing six men. Most of them had their sides rolled up, exposing cots that stood on plasteel pallets. A discarded packing crate squatted by each cot. A larger tent more or less centered in the compound served as kitchen and mess hall. A road cut through the field of fire from the north and terminated in a gate wide enough to admit an Eighter in the wire fence.
The Eighter that transported the now-recovered casualties from the hospital to the firebase rolled through the opened gate and pulled up in front of the command bunker, an unfinished hole with a roof that did little more than provide shade. Captain Carl Sitter heard the vehicle coming and stepped into the open as the Marines were jumping out of the vehicle. The platoon sergeants had also heard the Eighter coming and headed for the CP, where they stood off to the side.
“Detail, fall in at attention!” Gunnery Sergeant Robert Robinson ordered.
In seconds the seven Marines who’d just been released from the hospital, and the four squad leaders who escorted them on the Eighter were in line facing their company commander.
“Welcome back, Marines,” Sitter said. “I’m very glad to see you. Not only because you are well again, but because the company needs you.” He paused to look each of them in the eye. “There are still Dusters out there, and indications are they plan to hit us again.
Before they do, we have work to do. We need to finish making this firebase a strong defensive position, and we have to go out there,” he gestured toward the landscape beyond the perimeter of the firebase, “and locate and neutralize any Dusters that are still in the area, break up any assembly points they’re making.”
He turned to face Robinson. “Gunnery Sergeant, the detachment is yours.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Robinson didn’t salute, not here where an enemy sniper might be watching for such a sign. As soon as Sitter ducked into the CP bunker, Robinson turned to the platoon sergeants. “Take your Marines to your areas and get them settled in. But do it quickly. You have your orders, brief your men and get ready.
“Do it.”
Staff Sergeant Guillen pointed a finger at Martin and Mackie and crooked it in a “follow me” gesture. The two stepped out briskly to join their platoon sergeant who was already heading for third platoon’s part of the perimeter.
“We haven’t had any contact since you got hit,” Guillen said, looking at Mackie, when they caught up. “But we keep finding signs of somebody being out there.”
“What kind of signs, Staff Sergeant?” Mackie asked. He and Martin hadn’t discusse
d what was happening on the trip from the hospital, other than who the new men were and how they were fitting in.
“Fresh scratch marks in the ground, like from claws. Fresh scat. The kinds of thing that we’d think were made by a bear, or a big cat on a different world.” He shook his head. “But nobody’s seen a big predator here. Or any kind of animal much bigger than a middle size dog.”
Martin listened as intently as Mackie did to the explanation; he hadn’t heard any of that during the two days he’d been back. But then, third platoon hadn’t put out any patrols during that time.
“Has there been a lot of sign?” Mackie asked.
“Not much. Just enough to make me pretty sure there are still Dusters in the area, just like the Skipper said. And they aren’t staying underground.”
When they reached the squad area, Guillen told Martin, “Get him settled in, then take him to Sergeant Adams for his weapons and other gear.” That was the end of talking about what they’d seen on patrols.
“Aye aye,” Martin said. To Mackie, “Right here, all the comforts of home.”
The comforts of home didn’t amount to much. They consisted of a pair of two-man tents with their sides raised for ventilation, and a couple of boards laid across two stacks of sandbags at a tabletop-height for a man sitting on the ground. A field-expedient stove squatted a few meters from one end of the table and a water-dispensing camel was an equal distance from the other.
“We don’t get the squad tents?” Mackie asked when he saw the tent he was assigned to.
Martin shook his head. “Squad leaders and up.”
Then they were with Mackie’s men.
Mackie was pleased with himself because he remembered his new man and was able to greet him by name.”How’s everything going, Horton? How’s your leg? Any problems fitting in? Everybody treating you all right?”
“No, Corporal,” PFC Horton answered. “Ah, I mean, yes, Mackie.” He stood from where he’d been lounging in the shade of one of the tents and shifted foot-to-foot.
The 18th Race: Book 02 - In All Directions Page 7