Revolt on Alpha 2 (Nick Walker, United Federation Marshal Book 8)

by John Bowers

  There were too many of them, coming too fast. The Star Marines couldn’t kill them fast enough. Nick realized he needed grenades, but it was too late for that. They were ten yards away, and they were throwing grenades.

  He ducked as the first one hit two feet in front of his hole and bounced over it, to explode behind him. He leaped up again and fired four rounds, dropping two more rebels, but two more grenades were arcing through the air toward him, and they both landed in his foxhole.

  He leaped out and rolled to his right, barely in time. The grenades erupted, but the foxhole contained the blast and the shrapnel shot straight up. His ears rang from the blast, but he stumbled to his feet. Two rebels were right on top of him, coming at him like a solarball line. He didn’t have time to fire, they were too close. He swung his rifle butt and caught the first one in the face, smashing his cheek, then the second one hit him and he went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

  The Freak was on top of him, and he was heavy. His hat had come off and Nick was surprised to see that he was bald. The beard in his face was streaked with grey. The guy must be nearly fifty, but he was strong…and determined.

  He was also exhausted. Nick could hear him wheezing even as they struggled. The Freak still had his rifle and, holding it in both hands like a barbell, jammed it down onto Nick’s throat, trying to crush his larynx. Nick tried to throw him off, but the impact of their collision had knocked the air out of him, and now his throat was being crushed and he couldn’t breathe. Desperate and close to panic, he twisted his head to the side to open his airway; he managed to catch a breath, but only one. His own rifle was pinned under the rebel’s legs and he couldn’t get to it, didn’t have room to aim it even if he could. He slugged the man’s temple with his fist, but the aging rebel just pressed down harder with his rifle, using his weight to increase the pressure, hoping to snap his neck. Nick’s fist had no impact.

  Rifles blazed around him, the air was filled with shouts and screams and gunfire and whizzing projectiles; he felt a blast of heat from a nearby grenade, heard Rudy shouting for help, heard a rebel damning the Star Marines to hell.

  Nick reached for his canteen belt, found his bayonet, and tugged it free. His vision was dimming, he was out of air, his strength was waning.

  This is it, Walker! You always knew it would end here, you just didn’t know when or how.

  Yeah…

  But not without a fight!

  Gripping the bayonet in his right hand, he jammed it into the rebel’s side, but the blade struck bone and glanced off. He heard the rebel grunt in pain, smelled his musky sweat, but the man pressed even harder with the rifle. A sharp pain. A flash of light shot through his brain as the pressure on his vertebra compressed a nerve. Nick stabbed again, a little lower, and felt the blade sink a few inches, but still the rebel bore down on him, rocking now to increase the force of his weight.

  The first rebel, whose cheek Nick had broken, was on his feet again, looming over him. He saw Nick’s bayonet and lunged for it to save his comrade, but Nick saw him in time and managed to get his right leg up; as the rebel dived forward, Nick’s combat boot intercepted his chest and shoved him back. He fell, but wouldn’t stay down long; Nick jerked the bayonet out of his attacker’s side and brought it up to eye level, where he plunged it into the man’s neck. The older man jerked in agony and Nick heard him grunt. Hot blood spilled over his wrist and knuckles, but the pressure on his neck was still there.

  He pulled the bayonet out and stabbed a second time, then a third—and a fourth.

  Blood sprayed his face like a hot shower, bathing him in crimson. Finally, after four or five seconds, the pressure on his neck relaxed and the rebel, dying or already dead, rolled off him and fell onto his back, staring at the overhead flares with glazed eyes.

  Coughing, choking, Nick rolled to the side as the other Freak made a second try. He came at Nick with his own bayonet—actually a hunting knife—and lunged. It was a valiant effort, but the man’s training must have been lacking—his lunge was ineffective and left him open to retaliation. Nick, on his knees, intercepted the attack and grabbed the rebel’s knife hand before the blade could strike home. He twisted the arm and the knife fell free; still wheezing for air, Nick flipped him onto his back and straddled him. In the light of the flares he now got a good look at his opponent, and realized this one was much younger, probably still in his teens. Nick held down his right wrist and poised the bayonet for a strike.

  The kid saw it coming, but reacted without fear.

  “God damn you to Hell for all eternity!” he rasped.

  “He probably will,” Nick replied. “But you get to go first.”

  He drove the bayonet through his heart.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  The kid’s body convulsed with shock and his mouth popped open. For two or three seconds his breath rattled in his throat, then stopped altogether. His eyes glazed and he lay still.

  Exhausted, Nick rolled off him and crawled toward his rifle. The battle still raged around him, but was losing momentum. The machine guns had stopped firing and the sound of rifle fire diminished. He heard no more grenades. He looked around to see what threats remained and was gratified to see that it was over, or almost over. Black and white-clad bodies, most of them bathed in red, lay sprawled in every direction. Star Marines were crawling out of their holes, some bleeding; all of them looked dazed, as if they had never been in battle before. Nick’s throat felt as if it were made of yogurt; his neck ached, and breathing was an effort.

  He checked his rifle to make sure it wasn’t fouled, inserted a fresh magazine, and then sat with his arms across his knees, feeling adrenaline surge through his blood. After a couple of minutes, as they always did after a fight, the shakes hit him. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his arms.

  It took a moment for his head to clear. He heard voices around him, men talking, men moaning, Cpl. Starling treating the wounded.

  “How many did we lose?” he heard someone ask.

  “Dunno yet. But I think it could’ve been worse.”

  “Whose hole is that? It’s full of dead Freaks.”

  “I think that’s Aquino’s.”

  Nick’s head jerked up. Rudy!

  He had completely forgotten the kid. He scrambled toward Rudy’s foxhole and peered over the side. Rudy was sitting there with his back against the side, eyes open, not moving. In the hole with him were three dead rebels. His helmet lay on the ground above the foxhole.

  “Jesus Christ! Rudy!”

  I promised the kid I’d take care of him! God, is he dead?

  “Rudy!” Nick leaned over the hole and reached for him, but the foxhole was only wide enough for two men, not four—Rudy was pinned to the side by the dead bodies around him. Nick couldn’t get a grip on him, so he started dragging the Freaks out. They were slippery with blood, but he couldn’t determine what wounds they had. Not that it mattered. He jumped down inside and knelt beside his young friend, who still hadn’t moved.

  “Rudy! Are you okay?”

  Rudy wasn’t moving. He wasn’t breathing. But his eyes were open.

  “Rudy…”

  Rudy’s head turned slowly toward him, and he blinked. His eyes, which had been glazed, took on a spark of life.

  “Nick?” His voice was weak.

  “Rudy! Are you okay? Were you hit?”

  “Nick…where were you? I was calling…”

  Nick gripped him under the arms and lifted him halfway out of the hole. Someone—Avila, maybe—gripped his collar and pulled. Together they got Rudy out of the hole and stretched him out on the ground. Nick climbed out and knelt beside him, feeling him for wounds. Rudy’s fatigues were sticky with blood, but Nick couldn’t find any wounds. After a moment he relaxed, and just stared down at him.

  “I’m sorry, Rudy. I had two of them all over me. They damn near killed me. What happened to you?”

  Rudy stared at him a moment, as if in a dream. He swallowed and took a br
eath.

  “My rifle jammed…well, I guess I forgot to change magazines. Two grenades came in, but I threw them back, and then…”

  “You’re covered in blood. Are you hit?”

  “I don’t think so. They came into the hole after me, one—one after the other. I used my bayonet. It—it was all I had.”

  Nick grinned, then laughed.

  “Looks like it was enough. I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you? You’re one hell of a Star Marine!”

  Rudy stared at him as if Nick’s words were in another language, incomprehensible. Then, slowly, he seemed to understand. He managed a grin, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “I guess I am, huh?”

  “Damn right you are.”

  Nick tousled his hair, then pulled out his canteen. He unscrewed the cap.

  “Take a shot of this. You’ll feel better.”

  Rudy lifted his head; Nick held the canteen for him and he drank, then lay back again, breathing deeply.

  “Just rest here,” Nick told him. “As soon as he has time, I’ll get Starling to check you over. Just to be safe.”

  Rudy nodded and closed his eyes.

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  Nick stood up. He saw DuBose headed in his direction.

  “How is he?” the sergeant asked.

  “I think he’s okay. He killed three Freaks with nothing but his bayonet. He’s just a little shook up.”

  “Good. How about you?”

  Nick cleared his throat, which was still sore.

  “Still standing.”

  “No injuries?”

  “My neck is a little sore.” Nick pointed to the two dead rebels he’d killed. “That old guy tried to break my neck, but he botched the job.”

  DuBose ignored the dead men. He peered at Nick’s neck.

  “You’ve got a pretty serious bruise there. Better have Starling look at it.”

  “I will. How’d we do? Lose anybody?”

  DuBose grimaced. “David Hall took a grenade in his foxhole, didn’t survive it. Juhl is pretty badly hurt—I think those skimmers got him. He’ll have to evacuate.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Could have been worse, I guess.”

  “Yeah. It could always be worse, but that don’t make it good.”

  Thoop! Thoop! Thoo-thoo-thoo-thoo-thoo-thooop!

  Nick looked up, alarm in his eyes. DuBose also turned around to look. The P-guns in the town square were firing again. From where they stood they could see nothing, nor could they hear the shells passing overhead, but something was definitely happening.

  “Wonder what that’s about?”

  DuBose chinned his helmet mike and contacted Lt. Jaeger. After a brief conversation, he turned back to Nick.

  “Insect drones located the rebel staging area two or three miles west of here, including some of their artillery. P-guns are hitting them to prevent another attack.”

  Nick nodded in satisfaction.

  “Wish our main artillery was closer, but this is better than nothing.”

  “The arty is moving up. I expect they’ll probably set up in this area, which will give us support for the next twenty-five miles or so.”

  “Any idea when we’re moving out?”

  “Nope, but I don’t think we’ll be here long. First Division is less than two hundred miles west of us, coming this way. The goal is to hook up with them.”

  “Two hundred miles! Shit, they’re moving a lot faster than we are.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think they’re hitting as much resistance. They had a hell of a fight down around Lancalpha, but once they captured that and then cleared Crawford Hill, they had the Freaks on the run for a while. But the tighter we squeeze the Freaks, the tougher the opposition will get. Reduce their territory and they have no choice but to stand and fight.”

  Nick grunted. “Sounds like fun.”

  Chapter 18

  Saturday, 18 August, 0435 (CC)

  The rebel flares eventually died out, bringing darkness to the landscape. The Star Marines remained in their holes, alert to the possibility of another attack even though the parabola guns had spent thirty minutes plastering the rebel staging area. Four HVMs arrived to evacuate the wounded and as many dead as could be carried out. No one slept much the rest of the night, but no further attacks materialized.

  Daylight dawned on a grim scene. Nick crawled out of his foxhole and stared in dismay across the field to the west; for nearly three hundred yards, the ground was littered with dead rebels. He couldn’t even begin to estimate how many bodies he was looking at, and didn’t try, but clearly it was the deadliest battle he had seen since Goshen.

  “Jesus Christ!” Kopshevar breathed. “Will you look at that!”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  “How many do you think there are?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Five hundred?”

  “At least.”

  Rudy Aquino joined them, his face ashen. He looked as if he were in shock.

  “You okay, Rudy?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Get any sleep?”

  “A little. Kept waking up. I thought they were coming back.”

  Nick gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.

  “You did good, Rudy. We all did good, but if you ever had any doubts that you had it in you, I think you proved yourself last night.”

  “No shit,” Kopshevar added. “They ought to give you a medal for that.”

  Avila walked up in time to hear Kopshevar’s comment.

  “Are you fucking nuts? You don’t get a medal for killing just three men! Shit, he only did it because he had to. He didn’t have a choice.”

  Nick felt a stir of anger. He turned to face Avila.

  “What’s your point? None of us had a choice.”

  “That’s right, none of us did. So why are you treating him like a fucking hero? He was hiding in his foxhole the whole time.”

  Nick took a step forward to confront Avila.

  “So was I! So were you! Did you have to take lessons, or does asshole run in your family?”

  Avila, an inch shorter than Nick, glared up at him.

  “I wasn’t hiding in my hole! I was shooting back.”

  “From your hole! I didn’t see you standing upright out in the open. If you had, you’d be dead now, so cut Rudy some slack. He killed three men in hand-to-hand combat, in his foxhole, without room to maneuver; that’s a hell of a lot more impressive than shooting men who are out in the open.”

  Avila sneered.

  “Fuck you, Walker. You always have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “And you just shit on everybody around you. You’re not a team player. Why did you even enlist?”

  “Why did you?”

  Nick was tempted to flatten Avila’s prominent nose, and might have if he hadn’t been distracted. Kit Carlson and Rod Meredith had been standing a few feet away listening to the argument. Carlson suddenly turned to Meredith.

  “Hey, Rod, have you ever felt your skin crawl?”

  “Yeah, sure. Lots of times.”

  “How did it smell when your asshole crawled past your nose?”

  For two or three seconds time seemed frozen, then the spell was broken. Rudy and Kopshevar exploded into laughter, as did Meredith. Nick and Avila, very much against their will, found themselves fighting not to laugh in order to maintain their mutual hostility.

  They lost the battle. In spite of everything, they doubled over in laughter, tears streaming from their eyes. The joke wasn’t that funny, but the timing was superb. Nick took a step back and sat down, too weak to remain standing. Avila also backed up. He turned to Carlson.

  “You asshole! We were just about to duke it out. Why did you have to say that?”

  Carlson, grinning, winked at him and walked away.

  *

  Lt. Jaeger arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by Capt. Seals. They collected the squad leaders for a short
conference, then Seals moved on to another platoon. DuBose returned to his squad.

  “Okay, listen up. Cap’m wants us to check all those rebel bodies and make sure there are no threats among them.”

  “How can they be a threat?” Avila asked. “They’re dead.”

  “Maybe they’re dead. Cap’m said we should check each one and make sure. If we find any wounded, bring them back here for treatment, but more important than that, check for booby traps. It’s possible the rebels may have rigged some of the bodies with mines or grenades. After the shooting stopped, they had time to do that. It’s also possible that some of them are just playing dead, waiting for us to walk out there and expose ourselves. Watch your ass.”

  “Aw, shit, we’ll be out in the open, completely exposed.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. So Cap’m is sending a couple of gunsleds to cover us. If anybody opens fire on us, the sleds will take them out.”

  “Fuck.”

  Avila wasn’t the only one complaining. Nick didn’t like it either, but understood the risk.

  “The sergeant’s right,” he said. “Back in the Twentieth Century, pre-Federation, the Japanese army used those tactics against the old U.S. Marines. They rigged their dead with explosives, and some of their wounded used grenades to blow up the corpsmen.”

  “Why would they do that?” Kopshevar demanded. “That’s fucking suicide!”

  “They didn’t care. They were fighting for what they considered a higher power.”

  “And so are the Freaks,” DuBose added.

  “Jesus!”

  “Yeah. That higher power.”

  Avila turned to Nick.

  “How do you know all this?” he demanded. “Were you there?”

  “No. It was a couple of years before my time.”

  Several men snickered.

  “Smells like bullshit to me.”

  “It’s not bullshit,” DuBose said. “It’s historical fact. You haven’t been with us very long, Avila, so you may not know this, but Walker is our unofficial historian. That’s why we call him the ‘perfessor’.”

  “Perfessor my ass. Walker, did you even go to college?”

  “Not yet. Did you ever read a book? Except for the dirty pictures, I mean.”