Operation Sierra-75
Page 24
“Thank you, Corporal,” Taggart said. “Round up the platoon. Check weapons and ammo. We’re outta here in five minutes.”
“Yessir.”
“He’s a good man,” Frost observed, as the Corporal moved away to carry out Taggart’s orders.
“Yeah,” Taggart agreed. “He’ll make a good sergeant someday.”
“So what was that you were saying about the recorder?”
Taggart stared through Frost for a second, as though it was a subject he didn’t want to go back to.
“If the aliens could access the data in the flight recorder, especially the course logs, where would that lead them?”
“Straight back to Earth,” Frost said, a look of horrified realization creeping into her eyes.
“Yeah, straight back to Earth.” Taggart sighed again. He jerked his thumb toward the edge of the encampment where the men had gathered. “All right, Gunny, let’s get them organized and get the hell out of here. We’ll bivouac one more night at the wreck. We’ll recover whatever we can of Cabot’s survey records, take the voice and data recorders with us. The ship may be lost, but we can still take the data her crew died to gather back to Earth with us. And there’s a lot about this cockeyed planet that the brain-boys back home will want to know about. That ruined city, the time distortion, not to mention the Mashers. We’ll head back to the LZ in the morning.”
Captain Taggart squatted on his hams, looking up at Onawa Frost. When he spoke again, there was a tone of weary reluctance in his voice.
“As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think we’re ever going to find those missing crewmen. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re dead. Michelli said the ship suffered explosive decompression. My guess is that they got blown out of the ship when she lost pressure. It’s not only Cabot’s crewmen we’re going to be leaving behind. Kowalski and Ake are still missing, too. If any of them are still alive, then, in all likelihood, the Mashers have them. If that’s the case, they’ve taken the prisoners to another village. We haven’t seen any indication of that. Gunny, I’m afraid they’re all dead.”
“So you’re saying we don’t continue the search?” Frost said. She was not questioning her captain’s orders so much as confirming them.
“I’m saying we can’t. According to our scouts, there are a lot more aliens on this rock than we’ve seen. We’re way down in strength, and we’ve used up an awful lot of our ammunition. Under these circumstances, I’d rather not go into another major engagement. Even if we bring in Third Squad from the LZ, we aren’t going to be in much better shape than we were when we first got here.”
Taggart sighed and rubbed the back of his neck through his environment suit.
“I know it violates our most basic tradition, Onawa, but this time, we’re gonna have to leave the lost behind.”
* * *
Twenty-four hours later, the sadly depleted rescue party prepared for the long hike back to the landing zone. Ensign Michelli had recovered enough to walk under his own power. Two of Taggart’s Marines were not so fortunate. They would have to be carried by their comrades.
“Boss,” Gunny Frost said quietly, broaching a subject none of the rescuers wanted to deal with. “What are we gonna do about the dead?”
“I don’t know, Gunny. Any suggestions? We’ve got twelve fit Marines and half a dozen medics. We can’t have Dade or Black lugging body bags. We don’t know if we’ve seen all the Mashers on-planet. We still need our scouts out on point.”
“Yeah, and that leaves us sixteen able-bodies to carry two wounded and thirteen dead. The numbers just don’t work out.” Frost sighed deeply. “It’s your decision, Captain, but, the bodies of Cabot’s crew have been out here a long time.”
“Gunny, those people lost their lives in service to the Union, the same as my Marines.”
“Yessir, I know that.” Frost laid a hand on Taggart’s shoulder. “Max, don’t you think we should let their families remember them how they were? Those folks back on Earth don’t need to see their loved ones in that condition. Let’s bury them here, and allow their families to remember them as human beings, not as rotting corpses.”
“All right, Onawa,” Taggart nodded. “Thanks. I didn’t think about it that way. We’ll bury them, and mark the spot. If someone wants to mount a recovery operation, at least they’ll know where to dig.
“One other thing, Gunny. Round up whatever explosives we’ve got. I want to destroy the ship.”
“Sir?”
“I think Cortez is right. The Mashers aren’t—and never were—Neo-Sov mutants or slaves. Still, I don’t want them looting the ship any more than they already have. Good people died aboard her. I don’t want those filthy little bastards getting any use out of her, not after all this.” Taggart swept his right hand in a broad arc, indicating the rift valley and the rescue team that had fought and died trying to save Cabot’s surviving crew. “Besides, we know that the Sovs are exploring the Maelstrom, same as we are. I don’t want them stumbling onto the ship and salvaging anything useful out of her.”
“All right, boss, I’ll see it gets done.”
* * *
The shadows of night had blanketed the floor of the rift valley by the time the rescue team, burdened with the dead and wounded, reached the broad shelf that had been its bivouac the night before they moved down to the crash site. Taggart glanced at his chrono. It was only sixty-odd hours since he had last stood on this rim of stone, looking into the bleak, narrow canyon.
He pulled his binoculars from their case and switched on their low-light systems. The shattered hulk of Union Survey Ship Cabot glowed a faint green-white in the starlight viewer. For all her hurts, there was still something elegant about her. But soon even that last vestige of beauty would be wiped out. Without lowering the binoculars, he gave a single jerky nod.
“Fire in the hole,” Frost said, repeating the ancient demolitions warning twice more before throwing the protected toggle switch on the radio detonator unit she held in her hand.
Almost immediately, Taggart’s starlight viewer was blanked out by a bright white flash. A few seconds later the sound of the explosion reached his ears, sounding like the rumble of an imminent thunderstorm. When the low-light imager cleared, there was nothing to be seen but a ruined pile of twisted steel smoldering sullenly in the night.
“That’s it. Gunny, deploy your sentries. We’ll bivouac here and start out again at first light.”
Frost acknowledged the order and went to work.
Dr. Cortez approached, standing beside Taggart, gazing at the faint red-orange glow that had been the survey ship.
“Captain, I understand why you left Cabot’s crew down there. I’ll support your decision.” She hesitated, then, seeming to come to a decision, plunged ahead. “Captain Taggart, it’s true I don’t like you much. Maybe I never will. We just don’t see eye to eye on so many things. But you’ve given me a few things to think about.”
“Uh-huh,” the Marine officer replied in a noncommittal tone.
“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Cortez said. “Whether the Neo-Soviets are involved or not, the presence of the Mashers has added another wrinkle, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, Doctor.” Taggart nodded. “And a damned hostile one at that.”
“Captain?” Frost broke in. “The pickets have been deployed, and I’ve got the platoon settled in for the night. Anything else?”
“No, Gunny, thanks.” Taggart sighed. “You go get some sleep, and we’ll all go home in the morning.”
Thomas S. Gressman lives with his wife Brenda in the foothills of Western Pennsylvania.
When not writing science fiction, he divides his time between leathercrafting, Civil War and Medieval historical reenactment, Irish folk music, and a worship music ministry.
Operation Sierra-75 is his fifth book. His previous works include Sword and Fire and Shadows of War, the Battle Tech® Twilight of the Clans series, and Dagger Point.
r /> Thomas S. Gressman, Operation Sierra-75