The Forgotten Outpost

by Gus Flory

  Their vehicle drove slowly down a street lined by restaurants, coffee shops and stores that sold tactical gear. Uniformed soldiers walked in packs along the street. Soldiers sat in cafes sipping warm beverages.

  “So, this is where the brass hang outs,” Chief said.

  “I see a lot of rank out there,” Moxley said. “Majors, light colonels, full birds, lots of master sergeants.”

  “Not too many junior officers or lower enlisted,” LT said.

  The LTV pulled into a garage and parked. They exited the vehicle and walked out onto T-FORCE MAIN’s central corridor. Diego and his team saluted every time a higher-ranking officer walked past.

  They entered the large glass doors of the T-FORCE headquarters building. A soldier scanned their badges and had them deposit their handhelds and electronic devices in small lockers.

  They walked down a hallway lined with portraits of the four generals who had served here during and after the Titan War that ended three years prior.

  A sign over a large door read: “The Cave.”

  Diego and his team entered under the sign and walked into a briefing room dominated by a large horseshoe-shaped table. Behind the table were rows of seats that ascended a stepped platform. Officers talked loudly in groups in the crowded room.

  “Room! Attention!”

  Everyone snapped to attention as Maj. Gen. Freitas entered the room.

  “As you were,” Freitas said as he sat at the head of the table.

  Col. Butcher sat next to Freitas. The T-FORCE Division intelligence officer, information officer, operations officer, political advisor and a few others sat around the horseshoe.

  Diego and his team sat in some open seats at the rear of the room.

  “As you are all aware, the upcoming verdict in the war crimes trial of Tiberius Marko is causing us to increase our security posture,” the general’s political advisor said.

  The political advisor began speaking about the upcoming verdict and what it meant in the different cities and regions on Titan. A large screen at the front of the table displayed the image of Marko, and of protesters in front of the courthouse in downtown Cassini City.

  Unlike the others around the table, the advisor was wearing civilian clothes—a shabby suit and tie. He was balding and had a disheveled intellectual look. As Diego listened to the man talk, it dawned on him that the advisor was Oscar Bennett.

  Diego scanned the people in the seats. He sighted Pristina Sage. She was sitting in the front row just behind Bennett, along with two other political analysts. They were taking notes on tablets as Bennett spoke.

  “Whatever the verdict is, we most assuredly will see protests. But I see no indication that the protests will escalate to violence, at least not anything more than a few broken windows and perhaps some vandalism. I don’t expect them to last more than a few hours before the crowds dissipate. Subject to your questions, that concludes my brief.”

  “No questions,” Freitas said, and turned to his intelligence officer.

  The intelligence officer then began his portion of the briefing, analyzing different organizations and communities around Titan and their capacities for violence.

  The brief seemed to drag on forever as each member of the staff informed the general of his or her area of concern.

  “Two briefings back to back is a cruel form of torture,” Chief whispered to Diego.

  When it was Col. Butcher’s turn to brief, he was quick and to the point, as was his style, informing his commander of the status of his forces and their readiness to respond if called upon.

  As the briefing continued, Diego stole glances at Pristina Sage. She sat primly in her chair. She wore jeans, a white button-down shirt open at the neck. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  Chief elbowed him. “I see her, too. Foxy.”

  At the end of the briefing, Gen. Freitas reminded everyone to attend Gov. Cone’s speech commemorating the end of the war on Titan. The general would be speaking as well in the main atrium in downtown Cassini City.

  Gen. Freitas stood from his chair. Everyone in the room stood and saluted. The room filled with a din of voices as the officers filed out of the room.

  “Major Zanger. I’m Pristina Sage, political analyst for your commander and his staff.”

  “Hello,” Diego said, shaking her hand as the crowd filed around them. “Grace Hsu told me all about you.”

  “She did, did she?”

  Diego smiled. She smiled back. Her blue eyes seemed electric. Sparks buzzed up and down his spine.

  “Will you be attending the Governor’s speech?” she asked.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’m sorry for you. Cone talks and talks and talks. If you get the chance after the speech, come find me. We can talk.”

  She smiled, turned and walked out of the room, following Oscar Bennett.

  Chief raised an eyebrow at Diego.

  “Smokin,’” LT said.

  Diego and his team walked down the corridors of T-FORCE MAIN and exited the post at the main gate with a crowd of officers. They rode a subway car to Cassini City’s main atrium. The officers and senior NCOs carried pistols in holsters on their hips. Military Police armed with K4 rifles were with them serving as security.

  Their group emerged from the subway into an expansive plaza beneath a clear domed ceiling. The city’s towers could be seen through the dome, rising into Titan’s orange and yellow sky.

  People walked in every direction across the plaza—past fountains, gardens and open cafes, all lit in artificial sunlight. Centering the plaza was a large statue of Albert Einstein.

  At the far end of the plaza, a crowd had assembled in front of a stage. A podium was atop the stage. Behind it stretched a giant Solar System Federation flag.

  The soldiers walked across the plaza toward the stage. Media had assembled in a press box. Diego recognized some of the journalists from the transfer of authority ceremony at Camp Hammersteel a few days before. He sighted Judy Reza and her cameraman. Reza looked impatient, checking the time on her handheld.

  People were taking seats in rows in front of the stage. Hundreds of people stood around the peripheries. The soldiers sat in an area toward the stage reserved for military members. Gen. Freitas, members of his staff, and Col. Butcher sat in chairs up on the stage off to the side of the podium.

  “Without further ado, Governor Fareed Cone.”

  The crowd clapped.

  Cone strode to the podium as The Governor’s March played over the sound system. The tune was set to music from a song that was popular during the war—a song of hope, fortitude and victory over evil.

  “I’d like to thank all of you for coming out on this special day, the three-year anniversary of the end of hostilities on Titan,” Cone said. “I’d like to thank all our citizenry, our police and our first responders, and especially our military—all of you who have worked together and sacrificed to keep us safe, unified and at peace.”

  The Governor was a skinny man, dressed in suit and tie. He had thinning hair and was mostly bald at the top. He was an energetic speaker with a bright smile.

  He introduced Gen. Freitas and Col. Butcher to applause from the crowd.

  “Give a big round of applause to all our military members, would you? Everyone in uniform, please stand up. Let’s all give them a big Titan welcome.”

  Diego stood with the other soldiers as the crowd clapped enthusiastically. But he noticed that a significant minority were not applauding, some even crossing their arms.

  “We’ve seen difficult times,” Cone said, “and we’ve suffered hardship, but our wounds are healing. Let me be clear. It hasn’t been easy, but brighter days are—”

  An explosion erupted like a thunderclap in the center of the seating area. The kinetic force of the shockwave hit with fire and fury, ripping apart human bodies and throwing chairs high into the air.

  Diego felt as though a cannonball had smashed him in the shoulder. He was thrown into the ai
r with whiplash violence, twisting and turning at breakneck velocity, he felt as though his limbs would be ripped from his body. He smashed through fencing and crashed to the floor.

  His head rang. Blood flowed from his temples. He was disoriented, confused. He looked up to see body parts flipping through the air, bouncing off the high atrium ceiling, splattering on the floor and people and chairs.

  Shouts and screams and acrid smoke filled the atrium. Blood was everywhere.

  Armored men appeared on both sides of the crowd. Their armor and helmets were black. Their mirrored visors were down. They were armed with rifles. They began firing into the crowd.

  “Pop-pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop.”

  Screams and wails and shouts of panic.

  The armored men shot down the military policemen and security personnel with accurate bursts of their rifles. More men in black armor appeared. They fired into the crowd, shooting down stunned and fleeing civilians.

  Diego unholstered his pistol as he lay on the floor. His vision was blurry. His head ached in pain.

  LT stood from between a tangle of overturned chairs. The big lieutenant had his pistol extended in front of him. He fired several shots, hitting one the armored men, dropping him. A direct hit. His armor-piercing rounds had punctured his target’s chest plate.

  LT turned and took aim at another of the men in black armor.

  Two of them turned their rifles on LT and fired quick bursts, hitting him several times, center mass. Blood exploded from LT’s back. His body fell stiffly to the floor.

  4. Robodan

  Diego stood and fired three rounds, hitting one of the armored attackers in the visor, dropping him, before ducking behind a support column.

  The angry blasts of machine-gun fire were deafening. Diego ducked as he ran to LT. He found him lying between chairs and debris. A large puddle of blood had pooled around his inert body. Three bullets had struck him in the chest and another through the throat. LT’s face had lost its color.

  Diego felt for a pulse but found none.

  “LT…”

  Screams, machine-gun fire and the acrid smell of gunsmoke were overwhelming. Carnage surrounded him. An alarm blared. The sound of police sirens grew louder. From between the chairs, Diego searched for Chief and Moxley.

  One of the men in black armor was up on the stage. The black form grabbed the microphone and raised his rifle.

  “Remember Ceres. Remember Vesta. Death to the Federation. Death to Imcels. Long live the Republic.”

  He dropped the microphone and looked out at his comrades firing their weapons. He gave one of them the OK sign with his thumb and finger, then a thumb’s up, and jumped from the stage.

  Police arrived at the far end of the plaza. The shooters retreated, firing bursts in the direction of the police. They had hostages, four of them, pulling them by the hair and pushing them with their rifles.

  One of the hostages was Moxley. The armored men rushed their hostages toward a corridor.

  A second explosion rocked the plaza. This time the blast came from above, shattering a section of the atrium ceiling. Large shards of acrylic plastic cut through the air like buzz saw blades. Titan’s thick atmosphere and freezing cold rushed through the destroyed section of the ceiling and flooded the plaza. People screamed and ran for the corridors.

  Diego stood and ran for the men in black armor. He bounded in the low gravity, leaping over chairs and bodies, high into the air with his pistol pointed forward. One of the armored men took a bead on him with his rifle, but Diego fired off quick shots as he landed, hitting his target center mass and knocking him flat.

  The armored men turned. Diego fired several rounds causing them to scatter. They fired their rifles wildly in his direction.

  Diego dove for cover behind a pillar.

  Machine-gun fire riddled the pillar. He had three rounds left in his pistol and another fifteen rounds in the magazine on his belt. His pistol was no match for K4 rifles.

  Titan’s orange and yellow air was engulfing the interior of the plaza. The temperature was plunging. Alarm lights flashed red and a siren wailed. The corridors around the plaza were sealing. The emergency ventilation system roared as it tried to suck out the frigid orange mixture of nitrogen and methane and replace it with life-giving oxygen.

  Diego peeked around the pillar and sighted the armored men retreating down a corridor. Two of their hostages made a break for it. One was immediately shot down.

  Diego stood and fired off three rounds before they could shoot the second hostage. The hostage ducked into a storefront as the armored men fired at Diego.

  Diego took cover behind the pillar and dropped his empty magazine. He loaded his last magazine, stood and then leaped from the pillar, soaring high through the air, firing his pistol down toward the corridor entrance. The armored men ducked inside it.

  Diego landed at the entrance and leaped forward flying headfirst into the narrow corridor. One of the armored men whipped around to fire his rifle, but Diego shot him down.

  Diego landed on his heels, skidding on his boots down the corridor. In the dim light, he saw two civilians, a man and a woman, and one of the armored men standing in the corridor. The armored man pushed the civilian male against the wall and lifted his rifle. With one hand, he fired a burst into the man’s stomach, killing him.

  Diego fired his pistol. His bullets sparked off the shooter’s black armor. The armored figure grabbed the woman by the arm and tried to pull her down a perpendicular hallway, but she pulled away. Diego fired again trying not to hit her. The armored man struck the woman in the head with his rifle and raised it to shoot her, but Diego fired several shots, sending him fleeing down the hallway.

  A fusillade of bullets burst out of the hallway and chewed into the walls, throwing up an explosion of shrapnel.

  Diego leaned his back against the wall next to the hallway corner. The dead hostage lay on the floor. Diego recognized his bearded face. He was Oscar Bennett. The female hostage was on her knees. Her black hair covered her face. Diego grabbed her and pulled her away from the fatal funnel.

  A grenade rolled into the corridor from the hallway. Diego kicked it back down the hallway with his boot. He scooped up the woman and leaped forward. The grenade exploded with an eardrum-bursting blast. The powerful concussion burst from the hallway and ricocheted ninety degrees down the corridor.

  Diego flipped in the air and landed on his shoulder, skidding across the floor still holding the woman in his arms. He scrambled to his feet pointing his pistol back down the corridor.

  The woman wrapped her arms around him as he carried her. They re-entered the plaza, which was now deathly cold and filled with a choking, yellow mist.

  Diego carried her toward a sealed door that led out of the plaza. With his pistol, he shot out the lock panel, and, with all his might, forced the door open and pulled himself through, sliding the door shut behind him.

  The woman gasped for air. Blood flowed from her black hair down her face. In the light, Diego immediately recognized her.

  He dropped to his knees still holding her.

  “Are you OK, Pristina?”

  She looked up at him with her blue eyes.

  He brushed her hair aside to examine her wound, but she quickly pulled her head away.

  “It hurts, Major.”

  Diego examined the open wound beneath her hair. He pulled his knife from his belt and sliced through his sleeve, pulling off a long strip of fabric. He tied it around her head and pressed it onto the wound to stop the bleeding.

  “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her down an arcade lined with shops and restaurants. People were taking cover behind clothing racks, sales counters and restaurant tables.

  Diego waved down a man driving an electric cart.

  “Emergency room,” Diego said. “Fast.”

  Diego boarded the cart and sat in the front seat holding Pristina in his arms. Her arms were wrapped around him ti
ghtly.

  The man turned the cart around and sped down the shop-lined corridor that had emptied of people. He shot nervous sidelong glances at Diego and Pristina as he drove.

  “Active shooter?” he asked. He looked closely at the blood smeared over their clothes. “Is this a drill?”

  “Mass casualty attack,” Diego said. “Terrorists somehow bypassed security.”

  Diego pulled out his handheld and called Chief, then Moxley, but got no answer. He called the battle desk. “Main, this is Dragon 85. LT Obuyaye is dead, killed by small arms fire. I say again, Lieutenant Obuyaye is dead. Chief Yanez and Staff Sgt. Moxley are unaccounted for.”

  “Dragon 85. Say again. Lieutenant Obuyaye is confirmed dead?”

  “Affirm. Have Chief Yanez and Staff Sgt. Moxley reported in?”

  “Negative. We have 12 Soldiers unaccounted for. Two confirmed dead. Three now.”

  There was a long pause. “Is LT really dead?”

  The battle desk NCO on the line was Staff Sgt. Ozawa. He and Obuyaye often joked around with each other and had mutual friends back home.

  “Roger.”

  Diego reported to Ozawa all he had witnessed, the number of terrorists, how many he believed he had shot and where they had fled.

  “Copy, Dragon 85. Return to T-FORCE MAIN. Out.”

  Diego looked down at Pristina. Her eyes were closed. Her face was pressed against his chest.

  “How do you know it was terrorists?” the man driving asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see anything strange, out of the ordinary, injuries and wounds that looked like moulage?”

  The man tried to touch Pristina’s head, but Diego blocked his hand.

  “Moulage?”

  “Moulage. Crisis actors. Don’t you watch Alan James? He’s going to call this a false flag attack. A ruse to frame the Noer. Declare martial law and round up Noer leaders.”

  Diego looked at the man driving. The man had a lazy eye, a beard and was overweight. He wore a stained T-shirt and sleeveless utility jacket. His bulbous gut pressed outward against his shirt.

  “Drive faster,” Diego said. “There’s no one on the concourse.”