Scouts Out: Books One and Two

by Danny Loomis

  As all the connections were made, the readouts listed what was wrong with him. Shattered spine, both lungs collapsed, heart seized due to the trauma of a bullet passing so close to it, spleen ruptured. The man was dying before their eyes.

  Doctor Allen made the final connection one minute after the chamber was activated. Colonel Grayson’s rapid descent into death was slowed, and stopped. Gradually, reluctantly, his traumatized body was stabilized. Even the legendary powers of the regeneration chamber were being strained beyond its engineered specifications.

  The doctor stepped back and sighed. It would be several hours before they’d know if he would make it. “Good job, troops. It sounds as if we might have some more business in a minute, so let’s get ready.”

  * * *

  After his first shot, the Undertaker paused long enough to signal his three fellow snipers. All of them opened up on any and all targets of opportunity. In the first fifteen seconds, ten soldiers died. Within another thirty seconds, all four snipers had expended an entire magazine of ammunition. They ceased fire and began a silent retreat.

  * * *

  Ian was in the air when word of the attack came. He tapped into the command tac net and learned of Colonel Grayson’s grievous wounds. Fifteen other casualties, all within one minute of sustained sniper fire. His mind iced over, intensified his concentration.

  He keyed on to the flitter pilot’s frequency. “Drop us on the back side of the next ridge.”

  They nosed down, and within a minute were on the ground. He waved the pilot off, and forgot him, focusing on the hunt. He moved rapidly until just below the crest of the ridge, kneeled and beckoned to Pointy.

  Once helmet-to-helmet, he was able to communicate without using commo. “These guys’ve got some kind of hot shit electronic gear. We need to keep our emissions to a minimum for awhile.”

  They low crawled to the front, military crest, of the ridge line and found a small depression lined by shrubs for temporary cover. Their position overlooked the next ridge beyond which was the task force camp. Pointy was examining the gulley in between by the time Ian began to sight through his rifle’s scope.

  The slope from the opposite ridge dropped gently to a narrow stream, and climbed sharply towards them. A faint trail slanted from the top right side of the ridge down to the left, crossed the stream and made a sharp right turn eastward. It then snaked between two huge trees to the top of their ridge. From there it faded out.

  Ian felt the heat of the day through his camouflaged fatigues. He missed the invisible convenience ghillies gave them. A thin rivulet of sweat ran down his spine, pooled in the small of his back. His clarity of vision and mind was enhanced by total concentration. He knew it was twelve hundred meters from here to the top of the other ridge, and four hundred to the stream. His scope’s range finder verified the distance, and noted the vertical difference.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Ian whispered.

  A shuttle roared overhead, quartering the area. When the sound died away, there was a flicker of movement where the trail touched the top of the opposite ridge. Pointy held up one finger. Ian watched through the scope as the soldier scuttled over the ridge and began to move down the trail. His scope’s crosshairs floated along with the gooner, stopped when the soldier stopped to sniff the air, moved with him again as he approached the creek.

  His finger began to tighten, hesitated, and eased off.

  “Pointy, I’ve got a spooky feeling about this. I think we might have another sniper waiting for me to shoot this one, so he can bag us.”

  Pointy shivered. “That’s cold, man, using your buddy as a piece of bait. What makes you think he’d do that?”

  “Remember the type of animals we’re dealing with. Remember the farmhouse.” He came to a decision.

  “That gooner’s all yours,” Ian said, watching the figure move across the stream. “Once you nail him, stay put ’til I call. Don’t want you to wander back in at the wrong time.” Pointy signaled assent and crawled back over the crest of the ridge.

  Ian focused on the far ridge line, examined every clump of vegetation and promising dip in the earth someone could make into a hide. The image of a little girl’s beseeching eyes momentarily drifted across his consciousness. Ian shook his head. No time for that, emotion would get him killed. Concentration on the hunt was needed.

  Movement. A faint image on the crest of the ridge. An impossibly long shot from here, but doable. His finger tightened. A burp of sound came. As the round impacted the area he’d targeted, he started in surprise. A decoy. Even as the thought flashed across his mind he rolled left. A round snapped through the space just vacated. Damn, this guy was good. Ian got behind the bole of a large tree and began to crawl backwards until over the crest of the ridge.

  He rolled onto his back, gulped in air and tapped into satellite recon. The image on the inside of his face shield showed a single spark on the opposite ridgeline. He was coming over the top now. Time for one shot.

  Ian came to one knee and sighted back over the crest at the suspected area. Hesitating, he swept his scope left, then right. There. He squeezed off a shot, knowing as he did so he’d missed. He dropped to all fours and scrambled right fifty meters. He eased back to the top of the ridge line. Nothing.

  * * *

  The bullet cracked by the Undertaker’s ear. He flinched, dropped and rolled to the bottom of the slope. Once in the stream, he regained his feet and sprinted south, fear and rage giving him impetus. No one had ever come that close. Not ever! He would gain the top of this next ridge, and swing back. He should have known this one was at least somewhat competent. It had taken two decoys to draw fire from him. Even then he’d realized his mistake fast enough to save his life.

  He dropped to the earth next to the stream and froze in place for five minutes, listening, smelling, using all his senses to detect any presence. He crawled up the slope of the gulley. Once on top, he would become the hunter. It was at times like this when Captain Vogel felt totally alive. Man hunting man. There was no stimulant or narcotic that could match the emotions when doing what he loved best. He crawled on, teeth bared in a smile.

  * * *

  Ian heard the fading sounds of someone running to the south, down the stream. Sudden silence. Trying to flank me, he thought. He linked with satellite recon, obtained an updated map of his immediate area. Looked like the ridge line dipped further on. Another four hundred yards southwest, a knoll dominated the area. If he could get to the top without being spotted, it wouldn’t matter if he was flanked. He’d be able to keep his tactical advantage of height, but it would pin him in place. The only way he’d be able to move would be towards distinctly unfriendly territory. Worth the risk he decided, and sprinted towards the knoll.

  Minutes later he collapsed on top of the small hill. He took several deep lungsful of air to steady his breathing and surveyed the area to his east for signs of movement. Ian started his sweeps from the base of the hill he was on, and scanned back and forth in hundred meter slices up to the edge of the gulley. No movement yet. Time to make a hide from which to shoot. He crawled into a pile of rocks. By moving a few around, he was able to build a nice sniper’s perch. Ian scanned the full length of the gulley for any motion or slight flash that might reveal where the gooner was. An hour went by without any sign. He felt sure the enemy was still there, waiting for him to make a mistake.

  * * *

  Captain Vogel, snug between two large trees at the edge of the gulley, was also searching. He examined every bush, rock, and shadow. It was just a matter of time. This was his forte. He could always recognize a human, no matter how well he tried to break up or camouflage himself.

  Something caught Vogel’s eye on the knoll almost directly west. That pile of rocks. Yes, he thought, settling his sights on his target. I think I found you, my friend. Say goodbye. His finger took up the slack in the trigger.

  * * *

  Ian saw movement. Not much, just a stick wavering, maybe in the breeze—wai
t. It was the muzzle of a rifle, pointed at him. He fired without thought, fired again. He switched to full auto and emptied an entire magazine into the space between the trees.

  He dropped behind the rocks that fronted his hide and slapped a full mag into his Webley. “I got you, man,” he whispered. “I got you that time.” He moved several meters to the side and scanned below. No sign of a body, but the rifle was still there, in the opening between two trees where his opponent had been wedged.

  “Eagle Four, this is Eagle Five,” he commed.

  “This is Eagle Four. Go.”

  “What’s your situation?”

  “Captured me a gooner, man. Ran into my arms. What about you?”

  “I think I got mine, but no evidence at the moment. I’m four hundred meters southwest of our original position, on a small hill. Target was four hundred meters almost due west, on the lip of the gulley. Come on over, but move with extreme caution. This guy was good, so I don’t trust him even if he’s dead.”

  “Wilco, out.”

  An hour later Ian and Pointy squatted next to the rifle dropped by the Undertaker. They’d found a blood trail down to the stream at the bottom of the gulley, but lost it there. Two patrols were moving into the area to dig him out now.

  Pointy shook his head and indicated the splash of metal on the front muzzle of the Mauser. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you tried to put a round down his barrel.”

  “Pure luck,” Ian said. “The first I saw of him was the muzzle pointing at me. Thought I was dead meat for sure.”

  “Speakin’ of meat, I think you knocked a little off him,” Pointy said, nudging the thumb and forefinger severed from Vogel’s left hand by the initial round which had splashed from the end of the barrel, sending metal splinters down its full length. Several tooth fragments were also on the stock of the rifle, held there by dried blood.

  Ian scooped up the rifle and grisly remains, to include one complete tooth. “We’d better get back. I’ve called in a shuttle to pick us up at a clearing a couple hundred meters west.”

  On the ride back to camp, Ian felt drained. Never had he come so near to death. Even when badly wounded, it hadn’t felt this close. Without the advantage of his bio link, he would have died today. He smiled wanly. Wouldn’t need to worry about a big ego after this one.

  That evening’s de-brief was muted. The entire LRS platoon was present.

  “Colonel Grayson’s condition is best described as stable,” Boudreau said. “The physical damage was so great it’s been touch and go, even though he literaly fell into a regen tank. The docs say if he survives the next two days, he’s got a good chance.”

  There was a moment’s silence while those in the room digested the information.

  “On a brighter note, the big picture looks good.” He flicked on a holo projector, showing an up-to-date tactical map of the area of operations.

  “Known enemy activity is in red.” Half a dozen red ciphers sprang up on the board, all widely spread across the western seaboard. “Last week we had triple that number of reports. I believe we’re starting to see the effects of our counter-insurgency tactics.”

  Thirty yellow ciphers filled the rest of the map. “Here’s our number of confirmed contacts with the rebels over the same period of time. It’s resulted in confiscation of forty tons of food, fifty-three vehicles, and five aircraft. Sixty-seven rebels were wounded or killed, and twenty-eight Alliance soldiers captured or killed. Franny just returned from task force HQ where he got the latest information about the sniper attack on us this afternoon. What can you tell us, Staff Sergeant?”

  Franny stood and moved to the front of the room. “We were attacked this afternoon by four of the most experienced snipers the Alliance had left on this planet. They got to within four hundred meters of our perimeter using advanced electronic devices to turn our sensors off and on. Once close enough they stayed hidden for two days, waiting for a target to show up. In this case, Colonel Grayson.”

  “We got enough of an advance warning that we were able to have a reaction force on their asses minutes after they shot us up. Corporals Shannon and Winters took on the western two, which resulted in one captured and one wounded. J.C. and Blade nailed the northern one, but Valkyrie had to wait a couple extra minutes too long for me to get on the ground, so we missed the guy on the south side of the line.”

  Franny picked up the Mauser Ian had brought back, and pointed to a small engraved plate inset into the side of the stock. “We were curious about the inscription we found on Irish’s souvenir. Turns out to be a presentation weapon from the First Secretariat of the Alliance ‘For services rendered’. Made us even more curious, so we politely asked Pointy’s guest whose weapon it was. Anyone ever heard of an Alliance sniper nicknamed The Undertaker?”

  There was an immediate stir. “Jesus God,” Staff Sergeant Williams muttered. “That’s the boogeyman they talk about at the sniper’s school.”

  “Yeah, and for good reason,” Boudreau said. “He’s registered more kills than any man on record. They say he can’t be beat one-on-one.”

  “Til now,” Brita said with a smile. “Looks like he’s met his match this time.”

  Ian felt his face go hot. “Yeah, but he’s still alive.”

  Pointy snaked his hand into Ian’s shirt pocket and brought out a sealed vial. “He got away, but you ended up with the trophy,” he crowed, tossing the vial to Franny. “Take a look at that.”

  “A finger, plus a thumb. And a tooth?” Even the normally unflappable Franny looked startled.

  “That’s what we found next to the rifle. I’d say Irish put the fear of Orion in that peckerhead.”

  “Have you started collecting body parts from your victims, Irish?” Franny asked with a tight little smile when he passed the vial to Boudreau. It was against regulations to do so, and was stringently enforced by the Confederation military.

  “Those are for Mad Mike. At the time, I thought the Colonel was dying or dead. I was gonna, I dunno, put it on his grave or something. Not sure what to do with it now.”

  “I know what to do,” Boudreau said softly.

  * * *

  The medical corpsman had volunteered for graveyard shift ever since Colonel Grayson’s traumatic entrance to their tent. Every hour she checked her ward and spent several extra minutes next to the Colonel’s regen tank. She could still hear the wet, meat-ax sound of the bullet tearing through him. The sudden crushing weight as he fell on top of her, and how she helplessly laid there so terrified she couldn’t move, just watch and feel the gush of his blood all over her.

  She shook her head, tried to dispel the deep sense of guilt that gnawed at her. So damned helpless. For the first time in her life, she’d wanted to kill someone. Sighing, she stood and began her rounds.

  Since there were only five occupied beds tonight, it was only a few minutes until she approached the regen chamber that held Mad Mike. She started in surprise at what she found. Someone had attached a vial and note to the foot of his chamber. Curiously she picked up the note and began to read. Tears filled her eyes, making it difficult to finish.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered, a tremulous smile forming. “Yes. I’ll make sure he knows about this when he wakes up.” She took the vial and firmly taped it onto the top of the regen tank, where Mad Mike would see it if—no, when! he came out of his coma.

  STAR’S END: REBEL HEADQUARTERS (Day +70):

  Colonel Racine grew more despondent as he leafed through the week’s report. Another seven deaths in the north, thirteen captured in and around Richland. The steady drain of manpower was taking its toll. At least the erosion of support had stopped, was in fact beginning to build once more.

  “Six more months,” he muttered. “If we can hold out, we’ll have the public behind us.” Or enough support to have the desired political impact. The destruction of Camp Three was a personal relief. He’d always felt uncomfortable being even partially funded by illegal drugs. The death of Major DeVries and the
other Alliance soldiers was a pleasant bonus. Too many good men lost, though. He rubbed his eyes, frustration gnawing at him.

  The communications tech knocked and entered his office. “Colonel, you have a call on the secure frequency. Alpha Three.”

  Racine looked up in surprise. Alpha Three? That was a Camp Three call sign. He hurried to the comm room.

  “This is Sierra One, go ahead Alpha Three.”

  “This is Alpha Three. We’ve just arrived at Point Five Zulu. Is the Undertaker there?”

  Racine’s mind sped into overdrive. Alliance troops, just in from Vertland, asking for a man who had disappeared several days ago.

  “This is Sierra One. The Undertaker’s busy. You need someone to guide you in?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “I’ll be there in two hours. Would you like hot chow laid on when you get here?”

  “That’s a roger, Sierra one, and thanks. I’ll expect you in two hours, and make it enough food for a company. We’ve been eating patrol rations for ten days.”

  As he cut the connection, Racine’s eyes lit up with an inner flame. He turned to the commo tech. “Have Captains Tace and Young meet me in the operations room in five minutes.”

  The two officers hurried into the ops room as he put the finishing touches on an overlay to the tactical map.

  “We’ve got Alliance troops coming, gentlemen. One company in size. Apparently they were sent north prior to the demise of Camp Three.”

  He tapped a circle on the map. “They’re at Point Five Zulu, here. I’m going out to meet them and will guide the bastards along this trail, which dips down into a small gully. It then parallels the stream for about a kilometer before coming back out—here.”

  Racine gestured at Captain Tace. “I want you and your company on the high ground above the trail, about two hundred meters after it drops down into the gully. Arm everyone with extra grenades and light machine guns. Place booby traps between you and the trail they’ll be on. Have one heavy machine gun on either end of your line, plus a squad of your best men on the eastern end of the line to attack any who aren’t inside the kill zone when the ambush is sprung.” He looked at the other officer.