The 18th Race: Book 02 - In All Directions

by David Sherman

  “Sir, TF 7 has to escort an entire army, not simply a reinforced corps. It needs to be larger than TF 8.”

  “I see. Well, Admiral Stickney, coordinate with Admiral Moffett to escort ARG 28, and with General Talbot to get at least one Marine Combat Force on its way to Troy as soon as possible.” He paused, looking at Madison, then said to Stickney and Moffett, “For purpose of this movement, you will report directly to Fleet Admiral Welborn.”

  Madison opened his mouth to protest, but shut it when he saw the glare Hobson gave him.

  “That is all. Everybody, do it now.” Hobson stood. In a moment, he was the only one left in the War Room. He headed for his office.

  Chapter 18

  Command Post, Advance Firebase One, Semi-Autonomous World of Troy

  “Sir,” Corporal Owen McGough, second platoon’s communications man said, holding the comm out to Second Lieutenant Theodore Greig, “it’s Six. Wants the Actual.”

  Greig took the offered unit and said into it, “Two-Six Actual. Over.”

  “Two Actual, wait one for Six Actual.”

  Greig held the comm, waiting impatiently. He had to reorganize his squads into something that could at least marginally function as a platoon. And where was that transportation he’d requested?

  “Two Actual, This is Alpha Six Actual,” Captain Harry Meyer’s voice came over the comm. He and the rest of 10th Brigade had finally made planetfall. “Transportation for you and your boys is on the way. ETA, thirty minutes. I say again, three zero minutes. Can you hold out that long? Over.”

  “Six Actual, Two Actual. We are not currently under attack. What do you mean, ‘transportation for me and my boys’? Over.”

  “Two, you are being withdrawn. I’ll explain when you get here. Be ready to board when your transportation arrives. Bring your dead and the CBs. Alpha Six Actual out.” With that, the transmission went dead.

  “Platoon sergeant, to me,” Greig shouted.

  Sergeant First Class Alexander Quinn came pounding up to Greig from where he’d been checking the disposition of the remaining soldiers in the bunkers.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, panting slightly.

  “Get the boys ready, we’re pulling out,” Greig said with a grimace.

  “Really? Hot damn! I’ll be glad to see the last of this place.”

  Greig looked at him grimly. “We paid for this patch of ground with a lot of blood, Sarge. It belongs to us. I don’t like leaving.”

  Quinn looked back at his platoon commander just as grimly. “That’s right, sir. We paid with a lot of blood. And if we stay here, we’re liable to pay a lot more blood. Maybe all of our blood.”

  Greig had no reply to that. Instead he said, “Get me the CB boss. Then start getting our boys ready. Make sure our dead are ready for tranport.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quinn ran off.

  “What do you need, Mr. Greig?” Lieutenant Commander William Kelly Harrison asked when he reached the CP. “I don’t have much time, my people have a lot of work to do.”

  “Sir, I have orders. Transportation is on the way. We’re all pulling out.”

  Harrison looked around at the body bags that were lined up near the CP, and the bodies that hadn’t yet been bagged.

  “Probably a good idea. I don’t think they’ll give up with just the one assault.”

  “Instead of repairing and strengthening our defenses, I want you to prepare them to be blown as soon as we’re out of here. I don’t want any defenses left for the Dusters to use when we come back. Can do?”

  Harrison nodded. “Yeah, we can. How much time do we have?”

  “Less than half an hour.”

  “We can blow the bunkers in that time. What about the wire?”

  Greig looked at the wire barrier, festooned with the bodies of the Dusters who’d sacrificed themselves to make bridges, and others who were killed trying to cross the once- living bridges.

  “Leave it. The Dusters will be able to see the bodies hanging there from a long way off. It might give them pause about attacking humans again.”

  Harrison looked at the wire with the alien bodies hanging from it, and at the forest beyond. He nodded. “Either that or make them attack even more ferociously the next time.” He took his leave and went to put his men to work arming the bunkers to be blown.

  It only took a few more minutes for the soldiers to finish collecting and bagging the dead.

  Quinn put them to work staging all of their gear and supplies to be put aboard vehicles when their transportation arrived. He hoped it wasn’t those Marine Scooters again, although he did like the Hogs with their firepower.

  All was ready when a convoy of six M117 Growler armored personnel carriers, the vehicles the platoon should have had to begin with, two five ton trucks, and two Marine Hogs as armed escort, arrived.

  The soldiers and CBs tossed their gear and supplies into one truck, and hurriedly but reverently stacked the bodies in the other. Then the surviving soldiers and CBs piled into the Growlers. The convoy was moving five minutes after it arrived.

  Firebase 17/10, under construction, a few kilometers from Millerton

  The temporary base for the First of the Seventh Mounted Infantry was bustling, with squad tents and larger being erected. Sergeants shouted orders, troops moved from place to place in groups or marching formations. Vehicles drove around raising dust. Heavy equipment was digging trenches and holes, and piling up berms, wire was being emplaced. Officers and senior noncoms moved about looking like they had important places to go and important things to do.

  Captain Meyer greeted his second platoon commander when Greig reported to the tent that temporarily served as the company command post. “Good to see you made it through, Greig. And damn sorry about your losses. First Sergeant Beaty is putting together a memorial service for them.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Greig said, somewhat stiffly. He was thinking about how Meyer, Beaty, and the rest of the company were just arriving planetside when he and his platoon were fighting off hundreds of Dusters. He thought his platoon would have lost many fewer men if the entire company had been there. Whose idea was it anyway, he wondered, to stick a lone platoon out in the middle of nowhere, with no more support than a Mobile Intelligence platoon that was somewhere else most of the time?

  “The Top is situating your boys. You’ve got a few days rest while you integrate new men from the Brigade’s Whiskey Company.” Meyer smiled crookedly “You hadn’t heard about that, had you? The top jarhead ordered every division and brigade to assemble a Whiskey Company to provide replacements for combat losses. Anyway, I think you’ll get enough cooks and bakers to reconstitute your platoon. In a few days, the battalion will be moving into a new firebase.

  “Top Beaty will show your boys the chow tent, the latrines, and the shower point.

  “If you have no questions, that is all for now.”

  Greig could think of many questions, but none of them were ones Meyer could answer to his satisfaction. So he said, “No questions, sir,” saluted, and left the CP tent. Off to his left he saw the company first sergeant supervising the placement of a rank of bayonetted rifles being stuck in the ground, a helmet perched on each and a pair of boots below.

  He told himself that dust thrown out by the vehicles and heavy equipment got in his eyes and made them water, that he wasn’t really crying.

  Marine Corps Air Facility Jordan, Eastern Shapland

  When the call from battalion came in for India Company to pull back, Captain Sitter wasn’t surprised, he’d expected as much.

  “We’ll blow our fighting works,” he told his assembled platoon commanders and platoon sergeants at an officers’ call. “We’ve already got our vehicles, so we won’t have to wait for any to arrive when we’re ready.

  “How long will it take your engineers to ready the fighting trench to blow?” he asked First Lieutenant Alexander Bonnyman, Jr.

  “We can have the trenches, wire, and the major debris piles ready within two hours, sir.”


  Sitter shook his head. “Leave the barrier wire and trench up. Only blow the fighting trench and the biggest piles and bigger pieces of wreckage. I don’t want them to have much to block our fields of fire when we come back.”

  “In that case, maybe an hour.”

  “Good. The rest of you, put details to work moving our casualties and any equipment we aren’t leaving behind into the vehicles. Have the rest of your Marines ready to fight off another assault, should the Dusters come at us again. And leave the alien bodies where they lay. Show those sonsabitches what happens when they tangle with Marines.

  “Questions?”

  There were none, Sitter’s orders were clear.

  “Then do it.”

  The platoon commanders and platoon sergeants left the command post to carry out the orders. Sitter turned to his executive officer, First Lieutenant Edward Osterman.

  “Go to the dispensary and ask the surgeon which casualties are most ready to be moved. Ask if we need a triage to board them for removal.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Osterman headed for the makeshift dispensary.

  Sitter called battalion and requested medevac for the most seriously wounded. Battalion made no promises, but promised to try. Two Pegasus SAR birds arrived to take out the worst wounded. They were escorted by two AT-5 Cobras.

  The Dusters didn’t come back

  Firebase Zion, near Jordan

  During India Company’s absence, a platoon from Kilo Company had moved in to hold it. Battalion commander Lieutenant Colonel Davis was at Zion waiting for India Company’s return.

  “Well done, Captain,” Davis said and shook Sitter’s hand. He saw the company’s other officers and NCOs moving the platoons into their assigned areas and nodded his approval. “I want your Marines to know that I think they did an outstanding job at the MCAF. I’ve seen vid. The Dusters’ tactics are astonishing. I guess they just don’t understand.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think they have any idea of what they’re up against.”

  “The question is, are they few enough for us to stand against until relief comes?”

  Sitter perked up at that. “Has word come that a relief force is on its way?”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure it will come shortly.” Davis turned to the west. “Look over there. See the construction going on? That’s a new firebase. Kilo Company’s going into it. Then we’ll do another to the east for Lima Company. The new firebases are each half a kilometer from FB Zion, close enough to provide mutual support. Another firebase will be to your rear. That’ll have the headquarters and support company and an artillery battery.”

  He looked in the direction of the destroyed MCAF Jordan. “For all we know, the Dusters have shot their wad. But there’s no way to know for sure. The Navy is still searching for Dusters, and any anomalies that could signal a cave where they’re holing up. Word hasn’t come down yet, but I strongly suspect that we’ll be running search and destroy patrols.

  “In the meanwhile, First Marines now has a Whiskey Company. Over there,” Davis indicated a small formation of Marines standing nervously some meters to his rear, “are your replacements. Get them integrated as quickly as possible. There’s no telling how soon you’ll be going on patrol, and I want them to at least begin feeling comfortable in their new squads. With any luck, you won’t have to go before your lesser wounded are well enough to go with you.”

  Sitter looked beyond the battalion commander at a dozen Marines standing at ease, if not with ease, in two ranks. They were all armed, and each had a ditty bag at his feet and a pack on his back.

  “I see their weapons. Do they have all their gear?”

  Davis nodded. “All you have to do is provide them with platoon assignments. They’ve got everything they need.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Once more, Captain, you and your Marines did an outstanding job at the MCAF. It’s just too bad we had to abandon it.”

  “It was.”

  “Carry on. And remember to tell your Marines I know what an outstanding job they did.” With that, he headed for his vehicle and back to where his headquarters firebase was under construction.

  The platoon from Kilo Company piled into its vehicles and returned to the rest of their company.

  Sitter looked for his first sergeant, and saw him heading in his direction.

  “Well, Top,” he said, “we’ve got replacements from Whiskey Company. Let’s meet them.”

  “Sounds like an excellent idea, sir,” the Top said. He followed Sitter a pace to his left and rear as they walked the few paces to the dozen new men, who came to attention, uncertainty on all of their faces.

  “Marines, I’m Captain Carl Sitter. This is First Sergeant Robert Robinson. I’m sure you know why you are here. But in case any of you didn’t get the word, India Company has just returned from a substantial engagement with the Dusters. They had overrun MCAF Jordan, and we went to fight them. The aliens used human wave tactics to attack us. They weren’t successful, we killed hundreds of them. We don’t believe they’ve given up. You are here to replace the seven Marines we lost, and five of our worst wounded. The first sergeant will assign you to platoons, and the platoon commanders and platoon sergeants will put you in squads.

  “Don’t worry about what you’re going to do. No matter what your MOS is, you’ve all had training as infantrymen, and you’ve fired your rifles for qualification—more than once if you’ve been in the Corps for longer than a year. When you’re in your squads and fire teams, pay close attention to what your NCOs tell you. They’ve all gone up against the Dusters several times and beaten them every time.

  “I’m sure you will do well. We are Marines. Marines always win their battles.”

  He turned to face Robinson. “First Sergeant, the detachment is yours,” and walked off.

  As he left he heard Robinson barking at the new men, putting a little fear of god into them. As if they needed more fear. Damn, I hope we don’t have to fight again very soon. If we do these cooks and bakers and clerks are liable to get killed.

  Chapter 19

  Camp Zion, near Jordan, Western Shapland

  A week after India Company fought the Dusters at MCAF Jordan, Sergeant Martin, Corporal Mackie, Lance Corporal Cafferata, and PFC Horton were recovering from their wounds. Cafferata was back with the squad, although on light duty. The others were mostly recovered. The only member of first squad to be killed in the action had been Lance Corporal John Dahlgren from first fire team. Lance Corporal Edwin Appleton, a clerk from the battalion’s S-1, personnel section, who had been assigned to Whiskey Company, replaced him.

  None of the Marines would admit it, but the lack of action—or threat of action—was making them bored.

  “You’re lucky John,” Corporal Joseph Vittori said when the squad’s fire team leaders had a chance to relax, sitting against the face of a bunker, looking out over the surrounding landscape. They weren’t doing it consciously, but they were watching for anything out of the ordinary, anything that could signal the approach of danger from the front. Their rifles looked like they’d been placed without a care, but all three could grab their weapons and have them in fighting positions at an instant’s notice.

  “What do you mean, lucky?” Mackie asked. “Me and two of my men were wounded at the air facility. How’s that lucky?”

  “For one, you didn’t get anyone wasted. I lost Dahlgren.”

  “You say ‘For one.’ That implies a ‘For two.’ Spit it out.”

  “My newbie? He’s a pogue. He was a clerk in S-1.” Vittori grimaced and shook his head. “A goddam pogue.”

  “Hey, man, I got a pogue to replace Zion.” Mackie shrugged. “No big deal, you just have to supervise him more closely than anybody else in your fire team, that’s all.”

  “More closely,” Corporal Bill Button said. “You know what that means, don’t you? It means more than your other men combined. It means so closely that you maybe don’t pay enough at
tention to what you’re doing yourself and get your young ass blown away.” He ducked away from the slow round-house punch Vittori threw at him.

  Mackie laughed and Vittori glared at him.

  “Horton’s a fucking PFC. He’s your bottom man. Appleton’s a goddam lance corporal. That makes him my number two. I can’t afford to spend all of my time supervising him, I have to rely on him to help me with my other men.” He spat at his feet and scuffed some dirt over it. “And I almost had Dahlgren up to where he wasn’t a liability.”

  “Better you than me,” Mackie said.

  “Come on,” Button said, ignoring what he’d said about Vittori’s new man needing more supervision. “The man’s a lance corporal, he’s gotta know something. How much supervision can he need?”

  “I had to show him where to put his bayonet so he could get to it in a hurry if he ever needs it, that’s how much.”

  “Jesu gott,” Button swore. “I feel for you, brother.”

  “Hey, Joe,” Mackie said, “you’re senior fire team leader. You’ve been a corporal longer than either Bill or me. Hell, you’re next in line in the platoon to make squad leader. You can deal with it.”

  Button slowly shook his head. “I hate to say it, Joe, but it sounds like you’ve been screwed, blued, and tattooed.”

  Their subconscious minds were so intent on watching for danger from the front that none of them noticed Sergeant Martin approaching from behind. The squad leader listened for a while before interjecting himself.

  “You’re all corporals,” Martin said. They all jumped at the unexpected voice. “You’re all fire team leaders.”

  “Oh, hi there, boss,” Vittori said, looking up.

  “Skootch over, let me get in there,” Martin said. The others made room for him and he joined them sitting against the bunker’s front, favoring his right leg which was still mending.

  “See anything out there?”

  “A few avians,” Vittori said.

  “I saw a dust devil,” Button added.

  “There’s no cover for a Duster within three hundred meters,” Mackie said. After a few seconds he added, “Of course, that didn’t stop them from coming up underneath us in that house on Clover Sugar Place.”