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

by John Bowers

  It was more than just a feeling, it was a certainty, like a premonition. He knew that many soldiers in ancient times had felt the same way, even mentioned it to their comrades, and inevitably, most of them turned out to be right. The thought didn’t scare him—he’d been through too much already to be truly frightened anymore—but he did feel sad. Sad for his mother, sad for his sister. Sad for all the years ahead of him that he would miss. Sad that his father, were he still alive, would be heartbroken.

  But it was for a good cause. Some men were destined to live long, productive lives, others were not. It was better to die this way, fighting to free the people of Alpha 2, than to be killed in a hovercar crash, murdered in a barroom brawl, or just throw his life away for no good reason. In no way did he feel like a hero—he didn’t need that kind of adulation—but he hoped someone would remember, perhaps on his tombstone, that he had died doing good things. He would never make the history chips, but maybe, a hundred years in the future, someone, perhaps a young boy, would read his epitaph and be moved to learn that Private First Class Nick Walker, 33rd Star Marines, had given his life to prevent others from living in slavery.

  That would be his legacy.

  It would be enough.

  ***

  A string of HVIs appeared on Tuesday morning from Firebase Sierra. Four of them set down on the high school campus and forty men wearing the distinctive patches of 21st Star Marines disembarked. Nick and the other men of Echo walked out and watched as their noncoms lined them up and gave them orders. Capt. Seals and the lieutenants of Echo walked out to meet them. The sergeants saluted and their men snapped to attention. There was some conversation that lasted five or six minutes, then the sergeants began cutting their men into small groups.

  Nick watched with interest with Kopshevar and Rudy at his elbow.

  “What do you think?” Kopshevar asked. “Don’t look too intelligent, do they?”

  Nick grinned. “We probably didn’t either, the day we landed.”

  The newcomers, in groups of four, five, six, and eight, received their orders, then returned to the sleds and unloaded their gear. Laden with rifles, field packs, and in some cases heavy weapons, they lumbered across the dry grass toward Echo Company. Lt. Jaeger led four groups toward his platoon and met with his sergeants, making assignments. DuBose shook hands with four of them, then turned and led them toward his squad. First Squad, looking skeptical, glared at the newcomers as if they were raw boots. DuBose introduced them.

  “First Squad, we have some new faces.” He turned to the newcomers. “I don’t have all your names in my head yet, so sound off.”

  Looking a little uncomfortable, they spoke one at a time.

  “Private Jerry Akers.”

  “Private Andrew Wilson.”

  “Private George Custer.”

  “Corporal Antoine Zimba.”

  DuBose then rattled off the names of his squad, after which the two groups stood staring at each other. DuBose frowned.

  “Did I just go deaf? I don’t hear anybody welcoming them.”

  Nick stepped forward and extended his hand, shaking with each of the new men. When he got to George Custer, he pinned him with narrowed eyes.

  “Did I hear your name right?”

  Custer nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

  “Yeah, ‘fraid so. You’ve heard the story?”

  “I have.”

  “Not everyone has. I was hoping…”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m probably the only guy in this company who ever read a history chip. I won’t say anything if you don’t.”

  Custer grinned and nodded.

  Nick turned to Zimba, a black man whose accent sounded like flute music.

  “Zimba, huh? Where are you from?”

  Zimba smiled. “Zimba’we.”

  “Wow. What a surprise.”

  Zimba laughed.

  The rest of the squad followed Nick’s lead, and soon everyone was deep in conversation. After Wayne Juhl’s return from hospital, and with the new replacements, 1st Squad now had eleven men, only two short of a full card.

  When he got the chance, Nick pulled DuBose aside.

  “Sergeant,” he said in a low voice, “you’re not going to put Zimba in charge of a fire team, are you?”

  “Why not? He’s a corporal.”

  “He’s a cherry! They’re all cherries. I know it’s not their fault, but nobody is going to want to put his life in their hands until they’ve been shot at a couple of times.”

  “Relax, Walker. I’m gonna put Zimba with CC and Juhl. They operate the SAW and he can’t mess them up without really trying. You know what a hothead Juhl is—if he doesn’t like one of Zimba’s orders, he’ll tell him to fuck off. CC will too.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  “I don’t want them all in one team, because they might get each other killed. We don’t have enough men for four teams, so I’ll put Custer and Akers together with one of your guys, probably Kopshevar, and give you Wilson.”

  “Oh, come on, Sergeant, don’t take Kopycat. Take Avila instead.”

  “I dunno…Avila’s such a prick they might decide to shoot him.”

  “Give him his stripes back. He was a corporal before he got busted.”

  “I can’t give him his stripes back. Only the El Tee or the captain can do that.”

  “Then talk to one of them. Tell them that Avila has redeemed himself.”

  DuBose eyed him warily.

  “You expect them to swallow that?”

  “Probably not Jaeger, but the captain might.”

  DuBose blew air through puffed cheeks.

  “Walker, why do I let you steamroll me like this?”

  “Uh…because you’re a soft touch?”

  DuBose laughed.

  “Fuck you. Go claim your new man, and inform Avila that he has a new team to lead.”

  Nick grinned and nodded.

  “Thanks, Sergeant. You won’t regret this.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt that I will.”

  Sunday, 23 September, 0435 (CC)

  Men in the field rarely knew much about what was going on outside their immediate area of conflict, but Capt. Tim Seals believed it was important for his company to know as much of the big picture as possible, not only to encourage them when things were going well, but also to stiffen their resolve when they were not. On Sunday morning he called his company together for a briefing.

  He delivered both good and bad news.

  In the west, 32nd Star Marines had finally captured Devon Station and were now only four hundred miles away. In the south, elements of 1st Division were pushing north and west from Hamilton and two battalions of the 33rd were driving north from Three Rivers. The rebels had fallen back a hundred miles to consolidate their defense and fighting was fierce. The net was closing on the Coalition, but they were fighting harder out of desperation.

  The bad news was that the enemy was getting resupply from off-planet. Civilian satellites had detected several fleets of unauthorized cargo shuttles breaking atmosphere over the northern pole and making landfall in rebel territory. Whether they carried men or equipment was not known, but the enemy’s artillery capability had intensified over the past couple of weeks, so it was assumed that the main cargo was military hardware.

  Federation Command, Seals told them, had come up with a strategy to shorten the war. The rebels were still over-extended in the south, but if their homeland could be captured, they would either have to surrender or see their farms and homes destroyed. Trimmer Springs was only a hundred fifty miles north of Monroe Falls; attempts to capture it through the mountain passes had failed twice, but a drive north across the plain was more likely to succeed. The rebel homeland was just a few miles from Trimmer Springs and the rebels would probably abandon the town if their homes were threatened.

  Command had decided to go for broke and try to pinch off the serpent’s head.

  Fourth Battalion would advance north out of M
onroe Falls toward Trimmer Springs; 31st Star Marines would keep pressure on from the east, and 32nd Star Marines would swing northeast from Devon Station. The double thrust would hit the homeland from two directions. If the plan succeeded, the homeland would be isolated from rebel forces in the south.

  Second Battalion would remain in reserve at Monroe Falls until they were needed.

  “Based on body counts and prisoner information,” Seals concluded, “Command estimates that we have killed or captured around thirty thousand rebels. The original estimate of their forces put them at a hundred thousand, so that’s a significant loss, but they still have us outnumbered.”

  Chapter 28

  Friday, 5 October, 0435 (CC)

  A couple of days after Seals’ briefing, 4th Battalion went on the attack. The Fed Infantry moved back into the positions they had vacated, and 2nd Battalion remained encamped around town. No one complained. They were only a couple of miles behind the defensive line, but considered it a “rear area”—defined by fighting men as any place more than ten yards behind the most forward foxhole. By that definition, Monroe Falls was halfway between the front line and home.

  They weren’t getting shot at, but neither were they idle. Echo enjoyed considerable downtime, but Seals insisted they keep fit and ordered daily calisthenics. They also conducted two-man patrols around the town. Monroe Falls was considered secure, but was not out of danger. Rebel artillery was still within range, even though no shells had fallen since they arrived—and Seals was concerned about the possibility of infiltrators, since an ammo supply dump had been established just northeast of town.

  Patrols were conducted on a daily basis, each platoon taking its turn. The men worked in pairs, walking the streets, talking to citizens, watching for threats. One patrol captured four looters who had broken into a department store. Another caught a couple of young boys playing with a plasma grenade; Alvin Kopshevar and his partner spotted the boys just as they were trying to get the pin loose.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Kopshevar demanded, his voice shaking. “Why were you pulling that pin?”

  The offender, a boy of about eight, merely shrugged.

  “We wanted to see what would happen.”

  Kopshevar looked at Pvt. Wilson, who had turned white with fear. Kopshevar knelt beside the kid, his own hands shaking.

  “Listen, this is not a toy! If you had pulled that pin, you and your friend would be burned to ash, do you understand me? This whole city block would be nothing but burning rubble. Half the town would be on fire! Do you understand?”

  Unimpressed, the boy nodded again.

  Kopshevar handed the grenade to Wilson and caught his breath.

  “Okay…where did you get it? Where did you get the grenade?”

  “Over there.”

  “Over where?”

  The kid pointed toward a nearby alley.

  “It was on the dead guy’s belt.”

  Kopshevar frowned.

  “What dead guy? Show me.”

  The two boys marched toward the alley, then pointed to a spot ten yards away where several trash bins sat in disarray. Extending from between two of the bins was a pair of combat boots.

  Kopshevar felt his blood run cold. He glanced at Wilson.

  “Stay here. Don’t let those kids go anywhere.”

  With a quivering heart, he unslung his rifle and advanced into the alley. By the time he reached the trash bins, he could see the entire body sprawled face-down on the ground. At first he thought it was a Fed Infantryman, whose uniforms were very similar to those of the Star Marines—but the shoulder patch told the rest of the story.

  He leaned over the body without touching it, then backed a few feet away. He chinned his helmet mike.

  “Sergeant DuBose, Kopycat. I need you here on the double, and you better bring the lieutenant.”

  His helmet comm crackled.

  “What’s up, Kopycat?”

  “Looks like we found a casualty. I think it’s one of the guys from First Platoon.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the alley on Front Street, about half a block north of Main.”

  “Do you need a corpsman?”

  “You can bring one, but I think it’s too late for that.”

  Within five minutes, not only Jaeger and DuBose had arrived, but so Nick Walker and Rudy Aquino. Pvt. Wilson held the two boys at the mouth of the alley, where several other citizens had also gathered. Lt. Tran Li, 1st Platoon’s CO, arrived a minute later with 1st Platoon’s corpsman, Cpl. Jackson.

  It was a grim scene. Jackson checked the body and told them what they already knew—the man was dead. Tran identified him as Pvt. Schroeder, one of the replacements assigned to him a few days earlier.

  “I’ll check the schedule,” Tran told the others, “but I think he was on patrol last night.”

  “Who was his partner?” Seals demanded. “And where is he now?”

  Tran stood up, looking ashen.

  “I don’t know, Captain, but I will find out.”

  “Be quick about it. If we have another man missing, we need to find him.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Tran turned and strode away, taking the corpsman with him.

  Seals turned to Jaeger and DuBose.

  “We also need to find out what happened. This could be the work of an infiltrator, or it might be some civilian who doesn’t like us very much.”

  Nick Walker had been standing nearby as the officers conferred. When they moved away, he stepped closer and took a look at the body. He hadn’t met Pvt. Schroeder yet, since he was from another platoon, but this was no way for a Star Marine to die, and he felt a mixture of regret and anger. He knelt beside the body.

  Schroeder had been shot in the back, the entry wound just left of the spine near the shoulder blade. He was still wearing his helmet—he had fastened the chinstrap—and still had his rifle. His canteen belt was intact, complete with canteen, magazine pouches, a holstered pistol, and what looked like a full complement of grenades. Only one hook was empty…the one where the boys had removed the plasma grenade.

  Nick stood up and looked at the blood pool under the body, then took a few steps back and inspected the ground around him. He saw red splotches leading back toward the street.

  “Captain?”

  Seals turned toward him.

  “What is it, Walker?”

  “Sir, this man was shot on the street. Look at this.”

  Seals and DuBose joined him. Nick pointed.

  “There’s a blood trail leading back to the sidewalk. I think he was shot on the street and ducked in here for cover, but he never got any farther.” He looked up. “Okay to turn the body over?”

  “We just called the city cops. Why do you want to roll him over?”

  “I want to see the exit wound.”

  “What, are you a forensics expert now? What will that tell us?”

  “If the exit wound is lower than the entrance wound, it means the killer was somewhere above the street. Sir…we may have a sniper in town.”

  Before Seals could respond to Nick’s request, they heard a siren approaching. A moment later, a Monroe Falls police car screeched to a stop at the mouth of the alley and two men stepped out. One was the police chief, a greying, beefy man in his late forties. The other, who was about the same age, was in plain clothes. He was introduced as the police department’s only detective.

  Seals explained the situation, then they inspected the body. The detective took digitals with a small camera, made a few notes on an electronic pad, then, with the chief’s help, rolled the body. The exit wound was just above Schroeder’s canteen belt. Nick watched as the detective worked; he rolled the body onto its side, checked both wounds again, made more notes, then stood up.

  Without a word to anyone, he tracked the blood trail back to the street; it led to the left, about twenty feet from the alley, and stopped. The detective knelt over the spot, where a splash of blood had congealed, then pu
lled a plastic pencil from a pocket and poked at a chip in the sidewalk. Frowning, he lifted his gaze and stared at the side of the wooden storefront where another, much larger chip was visible. A few micrograms of shavings and wood dust lay scattered about.

  He stood up and gazed across the street. On that side stood a four-story hotel. He scanned the windows on the upper floors, then spoke for the first time.

  “The bullet probably came from one of those windows. The angle of the wounds suggests that the shooter was above the street firing downward. I’m guessing the fourth floor.”

  He pointed to the chip in the side of the building.

  “The bullet passed through the victim, struck the sidewalk, and ricocheted upward into the side of this store. The bullet is probably still inside the wood.”

  Seals glanced at Nick with a surprised expression. Nick merely shrugged.

  The police chief spoke next.

  “How do you want to handle this, Captain? Normally we would autopsy the body, but since you guys are military, I don’t want to step on your toes. Would you prefer to deal with it?”

  Seals blew his breath out between puffed cheeks.

  “Quite honestly, this is outside my experience. Can you give me a few minutes to think it over?”

  “Sure. We’ll dig the bullet out in case you need it, then we’ll head back to the station. Let me know what you decide.”

  “Thank you. What about these two perpetrators?” He pointed at the two small boys, who were taking everything in like a pair of sponges.

  The chief grimaced.

  “I’ll deal with them. I think their mothers will be very interested in what I have to tell them.”

  Seals nodded and shook hands with both men.

  Then he turned to DuBose.

  “Sergeant, I want that hotel searched, especially the rooms on this side. I want everyone in those rooms interrogated—and be careful. Let’s assume that we’re dealing with an enemy agent. Let’s get it done.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain.

  “Walker, Kopshevar! You heard the captain. I want you two up those stairs right now. Watch out for civilians, but treat this as an enemy action. Get going.

  “Wilson, Aquino—get around the back of that hotel and don’t let anyone get past you. If the shooter is in there, I want him captured or dead before you come back.”