by Danny Loomis
Gronking sounds of beam weapons being fired echoed through the caves, which could only mean… “Marines,” he shouted, moving back to the berm. “The marines are here!” In the main cavern green forms turned and ran towards the far tunnel.
“We can’t let them get away,” he shouted. “They can’t pass on information about the aircraft!” He stumbled forward, managed to drag himself out of the chamber and began a shambling run towards the retreating commandos. From all around the cavern forms arose and joined him in his attack. With increasing frequency the green-clad enemy stumbled and fell, the majority not reaching the entrance leading to their escape. Single-mindedly Ian picked up speed until he was running full out. He entered the tunnel on the heels of the Alliance soldiers.
As he caught up, he cut them down with his staff, assisted by an Enforcer on each side. Several loud, booming explosions ahead of them caused the enemy pause, which allowed Ian and his forces to plow into them even as they attempted to surrender.
Gradually Ian came back to himself. He leaned against several large boulders thrown up by the rear guard commandos when they blew down the tunnel just before it reached the next cavern. None of the commandos who had entered the cavern survived. All died either during their attack or under the blades and guns of the Enforcers and himself in this tunnel.
Ian turned, movements sluggish. His mind forever captured the horrors he saw at his feet. Dozens of commandos slaughtered, many of them unarmed and attempting to give up. Abruptly he bent over in a spasm of retching which continued until he was completely empty. He gripped the staff tightly, curled in upon himself and felt tears threatening.
“What are your orders, Ian?” Aosi asked, kneeling beside him.
He lifted his head, stared through Aosi and the others. “No matter what…” He coughed, cleared his throat and started over. “Aosi, you will pass the word. It was on my orders this was done. Your people shouldn’t have to bear the responsibility for this. Let an off-worlder take the blame.”
“That’s impossible, Ian. You are one of us,” Aosi said, and helped him to his feet. “For good or ill, what was done here today was done by all.”
Slowly they turned and moved towards the main cavern, many having to be helped.
VANPORT AIRFIELD (DAY +57):
General Lambert dispassionately watched two shuttles land what was left of the Commando Battalion. Twelve shuttles loaded with six hundred men and equipment, and only two came back with troops, most of them wounded.
Ambulances swarmed around both aircraft while their rear loading doors lowered, and the wounded were whisked away. Major Vogel appeared walking haltingly with the help of a cane, left leg in a splint. He still managed to draw himself to attention and salute.
“Report, Major,” Lambert said, returning his salute.
“We penetrated two separate caverns, General. In the first one we destroyed over two thousand small arms and five tons of ammunition. As we were pushing out the defenders they detonated a large amount of explosives. I was caught in the resultant rock fall and unable to stay with the rest of my battalion when it penetrated to the main cavern.”
“What damage did you do there?” asked Lambert.
“Unknown, Sir. All attackers were killed before they could withdraw to our location. I was left with twenty-four effectives and forty wounded. I would label the mission a success but for the unacceptably high level of personnel losses.”
“I agree with you, Major. It can’t be deemed a success with such high casualty rates. I’m afraid I’ll have to relieve you of command. I’m disbanding the battalion.”
Vogel closed his eyes for a moment, wavering on his feet. “I understand, Sir. What now?”
“You’re to be shipped back to the Ragnarok immediately. It’s preparing to break orbit and head out system within the next 48 hours.”
“One request, sir. Could you send the remainder of the commandos with me? I can use them as government liaison troops.”
“Under the circumstances, that would be for the best. I’ll leave it up to you to organize their transfer.”
“If that’s all, General, I’ve got a lot to do in a short period of time.” Stiffly Major Vogel saluted and moved back to the shuttle.
Lambert watched him hobble away with a twinge of regret. Poor damn fool. He’d never know his battalion had been set up as a sacrificial goat for the offensive he’d planned. It wasn’t the Major’s fault the attack had failed. Poor execution and bad luck had caused him to call it off after only one day into it.
If the Edoans had stayed closed up with Vanport in the tunnels he’d have cut their forces in half and been able to defeat them in detail. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case. His commanders had been slow in realizing this, and hadn’t reported back to him until they’d traversed the entire underground route back to Vanport without meeting resistance.
He snorted disgustedly. Was it too much to ask for at least one of his commanders to have a level of intelligence above a buck private? He marched away, striving to keep anger from his face. Back to the drawing board. There had to be a way to defeat these damnable Edoans!
* * *
The remnants of third squad gathered around a table next to the chamber where the aircraft were located. Each had laid out their personal weapons in readiness for Ian’s inspection. As usual, Corporals Burbank and Wells intermingled their weapons. Ian picked up one of the heavy needlers next to the fire plug twins, quickly and effortlessly breaking it down into its basic parts. Barrel, trigger housing assembly, stock. He ran his finger along the underside of the barrel and held it up for inspection, noting a slight residue of carbon. “Uh-oh. First weapon I pick up is dirty. Not a good sign,” he said, putting the barrel down. “Both of you can spend another hour tonight on all of these,” he said, gesturing to the two light and heavy needlers, plus the grenade launcher.
Moving to Blade’s display, he rapidly disassembled both his needlers and grenade launcher without comment. “Not bad, Blade. Looking good.” He started to move on but hesitated, picking up two of the four knives displayed. “Well, I’ll be. Blade, I’ve never seen you with a knife this dirty before.” A brownish spot no larger than the head of a match was evident where the blade of the knife met the hilt. He shook his head and moved on to Pointy.
“You find anythin’ wrong I’ll kiss your ass,” Pointy said, sticking his chin out.
“That’s ‘kiss my ass Sir’,” Ian said, rapidly inspecting the weapons on display. Finding nothing but sparkling clean weapons, he shook his head in disgust. “You must be having Lissa clean your weapons. I don’t remember the last time you passed a weapons inspection the first time around.”
“That’s not all she cleans,” sniggered Burbank—or was it Wells?
“Fuck off, you creeps,” Pointy said. “Havin’ an extra two hours off tonight makes me work harder, that’s all.”
“Hey, Irish, show us your new toy,” Blade said. “I hear you were pretty good with that thing yesterday,” he said, gesturing at the wooden staff in a corner of the room.
Ian’s face lighted up as he retrieved the staff. When he’d tried to give the staff back to the Enforcers, they’d insisted he keep it. “You’ve earned it,” was Nim’s comment.
A quick twist on the upper third of the staff caused the twelve centimeter spear point to appear. A full turn backwards, and it sank back into its slot. A twist of the lower third of the staff caused the entire length to collapse into less than a meter in length.
“Clever,” Pointy said. “Great for close-in fighting.”
“Leaves a nasty dent when you hit someone on the head, too.” He tossed it to Pointy, who made a few sweeping and jabbing moves with it before passing it to Blade.
First Sergeant Nance came hurrying into the room, a smile on his face.
“Glad I caught you fellas together. Got some good news for a change. Warrant Boudreau just recovered consciousness.”
Ian felt the weight of the world lift from his shoul
ders. “That’s great! When’ll he be able to get on his feet?”
“Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. He needs treatment in more than just a regen tube. His spinal damage isn’t healing like it should. Needs to get proper care at the hospital back on Alamo. He’s requested to be put in stasis until we can do that, but he wants to talk to you guys first. Follow me.”
Entering the clinic they kept Warrant Boudreau in had a sobering effect on all of them. Filing into his room, all were silent.
Boudreau was in a normal hospital bed, seemingly asleep. “You’d think everyone had just entered a morgue,” he said opening his eyes and smiling. “Hi, guys. How’s it going?” Everyone crowded around, relieved comments ringing off the walls. “Jeez, Sir,” Pointy said, “You need to take charge of our squad again. Irish keeps makin’ us call him ‘Sir’ and inspectin’ us. Got no time for the important things in life.”
“Important things such as young ladies named Lissa?” Boudreau asked with a smile. Everyone realized at the same time he wasn’t moving his arms or legs, only his head. They casually moved to the foot of the bed, so Boudreau could see them. “Well, fill me in, boys. What’s new?” he asked.
The next half-hour passed quickly. Finally, Boudreau cleared his throat. “Fellas, I’m afraid I’ve gotta get ready for stasis now. Could you leave me with Irish for a minute?” With cheerful farewells they trooped from the room, leaving Ian with his platoon leader.
“Tell me about it,” Boudreau said.
“Wh-what do you mean?” a startled Ian asked.
“I’ve never seen you with such a solemn look on your face before. Plus you’ve developed that thousand-kilometer stare which probably means you had to make a decision that got people killed.”
“Pretty good guess,” Ian said, a pressure building behind his eyes.
“I also heard some rumors about your leading a charge into a tunnel against some commandos.”
The dam burst, and tears coursed down Ian’s cheeks. In surprise he reached up and touched them, then began helplessly sobbing. Finally, mercifully, he felt himself run down, until he was able to regain control.
“Sorry, Sir. Don’t know where that came from…”
“I do. Now tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”
For twenty minutes Ian gave his commander a briefing on what was to become a legend on the planet Edo—the Battle of Fells Cavern. At the end of it, Ian felt completely drained of energy and emotion.
“I suppose you now consider yourself to be guilty of a war crime.”
“That’s right, Sir. I only want it to be recorded it was my decision, not anyone else’s.”
“Ian, I’m too tired right now, or I’d discuss this with you in more detail. Suffice it to say you aren’t. Captain Stanton can explain it in more definitive terms. Go talk to him about it. And do it tonight, you hear me?”
Ian straightened and nodded. “I’m sorry for my actions just now. Not sure what brought it on.”
Boudreau smiled. “I am. And it lets me know you’re crossing over the hump on your way to becoming a good leader. Now get out of here and let me get some rest. I’ll see you back on Alamo.”
Captain Stanton had just sat down for an early supper when Ian caught up with him. “Sir, Warrant Boudreau thought I needed to have something explained to me a little more than he could at the moment.”
“Sure, Irish. Lay it on me.”
Once Ian had finished his explanation, Stanton leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Jesus, Ian. You sure come up with some weird ones. Let me clarify this by asking you a few questions. You know the difference between a warrior and a soldier?”
“A warrior is willing to die for his country. A soldier is willing to kill for his.”
“You gave a necessary order at a critical time. It was the correct one, and what occurred was horrific, but had to be done. You did what any good soldier would’ve done. You killed for what you feel is right, to defend not only an ideal, but a people. Plus, one piece of information you didn’t have is the leader of the Edoans declared the invading forces were pirates and that Article twenty-two was in effect. That means the forces attacking their planet were to be treated with no quarter or pity. If we had it in our power to do, we would be obligated to destroy every man-jack of them without taking prisoners.”
Ian felt overwhelmed. “Good grief. I’ve never heard of anything like that before, Sir.”
“I remember it from my days in college. One of our political science classes. It’s never been enacted before, but now that it has I suspect Edo will be very busy in the galactic courts defending the reasons they made such a declaration,” he said. “If we get rid of the invaders, that is. In the meantime, it gives us license to do whatever’s necessary to remove the enemy from this planet.”
“Thanks, Sir.” Ian came to his feet. “You and Warrant Boudreau have managed to make me feel like part of the human race again.”
The Captain smiled wryly. “Welcome back. By the way, be at the briefing tomorrow after breakfast. Bring Pointy with you.”
Next morning the officers and NCOs of Captain Stanton’s command hurried through their breakfast as several Enforcers joined them, sitting patiently while the others finished their meal. Elder Enforcer Nim had managed to fit himself between Lieutenants Gomez and Novak, which reinforced his diminutive size. Both marine officers kept glancing at him while he sipped a cup of tea. Finally Lieutenant Novak could hold his curiosity in check no longer.
“Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, how do you manage to drink without getting your mask wet?”
A quiet chuckling sound rippled from around the room where other Enforcers had found room to sit. “Fifty years of practice, Lieutenant,” he said. “With that much experience even you could do it. The most challenging, though, is to eat a bowl of rice smothered in gravy.”
“Why do you wear the mask?” Lieutenant Gomez asked, not realizing the social gaffe of such a question in Edoan society.
Nim threw back his head and guffawed. “How refreshing to have you marines around. Direct and to the point. Enforcers have worn these masks for over two hundred years. Back then, our birthing creches had become divided into social units, which evolved into political groups, and even more dangerous into feelings of nationalistic pride at being from ‘B.C. number five’ or whichever one someone may have felt allegiance to.” He shook his head.
“Some of these groups gravitated towards violence. A small group of us were from none of the birthing creches, since our forefathers had been the ones who were adults when our ship arrived here. It was decided our planet needed a group of ‘enforcers’, individuals who would police the creches, and assist with the enforcement of our few laws. Thus we became known as Enforcers.” He took another sip.
“Many at first responded negatively to our policing of them, and it put our families at risk of reprisals if we were identified. That was long ago, and we haven’t had any problems in well over a hundred years. But we are creatures of habit, and it has become a point of honor to never uncover your face except in certain very rare instances.” He looked across the table at Ian and made a slight bow of acknowledgment.
Captain Stanton stood at the head of the table and tapped a spoon on his cup. “Since we’re all here, let’s get started. We need to discuss the recent attack, where we stand both strategically and tactically, and our equipment status. Then we’ll get into the meat of the matter. What our next steps will be. I’ll begin with the Confederation casualties…” Over the next five minutes, he grimly detailed the wounded and dead, both Confederation and Edoan.
“…so all of our wounded except those injured most severely will be back on their feet within a week. The development of a more efficient nano-med, which everyone was inoculated with, reduced the time spent in recovery. That’s the good news. I asked Warrant Throop and First Sergeant Nance to compile a list of our equipment losses. Warrant, could you give us a rundown on our aircraft?”
“Thanks,
Sir,” Throop said, rising to his two meters-plus height. “We had twelve of our attack shuttles damaged to a varying degree. Only eight are serviceable. One Wasp is still functional, the others are too damaged to fly. We’re workin’ on getting all of the Wasps capable of flying soon as possible, and at least eight of the damaged shuttles. The other four are probably not gonna be able to fly.”
“How about pilots?” Stanton asked.
“We got fifteen shuttle pilots left but only three Wasp pilots, unless we count Staff Sergeant, er, Ensign Shannon. Lieutenant Perry lost an eye and won’t be able to get it regenerated until we get back to Alamo. He can still boss, but can’t fly.”
“Good report, Warrant,” Stanton said. First Sergeant, how about weapons?”
“Slim on weapons, Captain. We lost the majority of our stockpiled needlers and grenade launchers, and most of the ammunition for them. Only two thousand light needlers with an average of five magazines of ammunition for each, two hundred heavy needlers and forty magazines each. Grenade launchers are our most critical, only two hundred left. At least there’s lots of ammunition for them. 400 cases.”
“How about explosives and booby traps?” one of the marine NCOs asked. “Weren’t they stored in a different area?”
“You’re right, Gunny. Most of our explosives are still intact, as well as several thousand booby traps of different types.”
Stanton looked around the table. “Is Louis here? Ah, Louis! What’s the status on our manufacturing capabilities? I know the factory area was hit pretty hard.”
“Yes it was.” Louis came to his feet. “All our production lines were destroyed. The robotics were either ruined or badly damaged. We’re in the process of moving our tools and dies back to a safer cavern and setting up there. Until we’ve made more robots to help on the lines, we’ll be using people like we did in the old days. You can expect us to be set up in seven days, and weapons production will begin the day after.”