by Brian Dorsey
A flash of movement to her left told her Shara had positioned himself. Looking toward Daemon again, she saw the dog stand tall from his crouched position and its fur settle.
Martin saw why the dog had relaxed. There was someone laying in the water a few meters in front of Daemon.
“Shara, move up,” ordered Martin as she slowly walked toward the body lying in muck. Nearing the body, she closed her eyes and turned her head slightly as the musky, putrid smell of death filled her nostrils. Pushing out a heavy breath and gulping hard to gain control of her stomach, she took the final steps toward the corpse. “Ranger,” she said aloud, recognizing the tattered and muddy uniform.
Although the rapidly changing temperature of the planet made it difficult to determine the time of death, she could tell it had been a while, especially given the signs that scavengers had started in on the decaying flesh. As she tried to push the stench from her mind, she heard the tramping of boots in the mud as Shara approached.
“There’s three dead Rangers over there,” he reported, pointing back toward his last position.
Martin slowly scanned the full 360 degrees around their position. She was growing concerned. Rangers didn’t leave their dead behind to rot if they could help it, especially if they won the fight.
“And there’s another body over here,” added Shara, “but it’s not a Ranger.”
“Let’s have a look,” replied Martin as she looked down toward Daemon. “Daemon, patrol,” she ordered to the dog so he would scout the area while her and Shara checked out the bodies.
Approaching the other Ranger’s bodies, it was clear they had been in a fight; weapons were scattered around the bodies and spent magazines and casings littered the tufts of ground protruding from the swamp. Even though they had started to decay, Martin could make out bullet wounds on two of the bodies. Her attention quickly shifted to the third Ranger’s body when she noticed an officer’s sword, partially concealed by a large fern, lying next to it.
She moved closer to examine the body. There didn’t seem to be any gunshot wounds but the dead officer’s uniform was slashed and blood-stained in several places with a massive gash just below his neckline. Readying herself for the morbid task, she took a deep breath and pulled the shirt of the dead officer open. “Damn,” she said aloud as the full blast of the putrid stench hit her like a wave crashing against a beach. Shaking her head to fight off the urge to vomit, she continued to inspect the body. “Someone’s very good with a blade,” she said as she stood and faced Shara. “I don’t like this. None of our guys did this so that means somewhere out there is someone good enough to take out four Rangers.”
“Well they got one of them,” replied Shara as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped over a fallen evergreen.
“Is it a merc?” asked Martin.
“I…don’t…think…so,” huffed Shara as he hefted a body across the fallen tree. “But it definitely ain’t no Ranger.”
Martin stepped closer to examine the body. The dead man’s clothing was a mixture of military and civilian attire with an animal fur cloak dangling from his neck, no doubt a makeshift protection against the cold weather shift. Despite his ramshackle attire, the man wore a tactical vest with high-grade gear including several knives.
“Look at this beauty,” declared Shara as he pulled a sword from the muck and held it up for inspection.
The sword reminded Martin of the Praetorians’ sword but a little longer. “Let me see,” she said.
Shara carefully tossed the sword in Martin’s direction and she snatched the blade by its handle.
“Nice,” she acknowledged, gripping the sword tightly as she slashed it back and forth through the air. It was almost as well balanced as her own sword. Holding the blade to her face, she noticed a circle within a circle with three dots in the innermost circle. “What’s this symbol?” she asked as she tilted the sword so Shara could see the marking.
“Dunno, Ma’am,” replied Shara, “but it’s a work of art.”
“Deadly art,” added Martin.
“The best kind,” said Shara, a smile coming to his face.
Shara was starting to grow on her. “Check the bodies for any gear we can use,” she ordered as she stuck the blade into the felled tree.
As Shara checked the bodies for supplies, Martin went through the dead officer’s pockets. Her stomach churned as she looked for intel on or around the decaying body of the officer. Trying to inhale as little as possible, she quickly rifled through his pockets and a small pack lying nearby.
“I don’t see any environmental gear,” noted Shara. “Maybe they have a camp nearby.”
“Maybe,” replied Martin as she stood and turned away from the body, taking in a deep breath. “Or maybe they set the gear aside like us…or maybe they had land or air transport.
“This whole deal is a little creepy, LT,” added Shara. “These Rangers out here dead and that guy with the ratty clothes and badass sword…I don’t get it.”
Martin was uneasy too. Rangers weren’t easy to kill and at least one of them had been killed up close and personal. “We need to keep moving,” she said. “But keep—” She stopped mid-sentence, hearing the sound of Daemon barking nearby. Brining her rifle to the ready, she motioned to Shara, who had done the same, to move forward as she made her way to a flanking position.
The discovery of the Ranger’s body only heightened Martin’s focus as she moved to the sound of Daemon’s barking. After a few meters, Martin heard Shara’s voice through the tactical circuit.
“There’s more dead up here,” reported Shara.
“Rangers?” she asked.
“For the most part. You should get up here Ma’am.”
“Roger,” replied Martin as she quickly made her way to what looked like an abandoned road made of dirt piled over the swampy terrain. Long neglected, ferns and small saplings had started growing over the road. Looking to her left, she saw Shara step into the road from the swamp and wave for her to come to him.
“This must be how the others got here,” declared Shara as he pointed toward a wheeled vehicle just off the road, its front tires axle-deep in the swampy water.
“That thing’s a wreck,” said Martin as she inspected the large truck. “And it’s definitely Terillian,” she added, noticing the armored siding covered with digital camouflage plating. The body of the truck was riddled with bullet holes and displayed several scorch marks from small explosions.
Martin slung her rifle over her shoulder and pulled a pistol from her belt as she moved next to the truck. Pulling herself up by a handle on the truck’s door, she swung the piston into the cab. Inside were the bodies of two Rangers, their bodies torn apart by gunfire.
“It looks like there was a charge set in the road back here,” reported Shara.
“Yeah,” she replied as she knelt to see the twisted and burned undercarriage of the vehicle. “It looks like they set off the charge and it rolled off the road here.”
“There’s more Ranger bodies in the road,” added Shara.
“Probably killed in the initial blast,” declared Martin.
“There’s another body over here…like the other one we found.”
Martin acknowledged Shara with a nod as her attention was drawn to a symbol smeared on the truck in what appeared to be blood. It was the same double circle with three marks that were inscribed in the sword. “Who the hell are these people?” she said aloud.
“I dunno, Ma’am,” replied Shara, who had joined her beside the wrecked vehicle. “But they’ve killed at least nine Rangers and only lost two of their own as far as I can tell.”
Martin racked her brain for an answer. ‘Who could be good enough to do this?’ she thought. No other Guardsmen were on the planet. Praetorians might have been good enough but there were the ProConsul’s personal henchmen. Mercs? These guys weren’t dressed like mercs. She looked up toward sky searching for an answer. “No,” she said suddenly. “It couldn’t be.”
&n
bsp; “What is it, LT?” asked Shara.
“They’re all supposed to be dead,” she said as she pulled the data pad from her vest and opened the search menu. Holding the pad to her mouth she said, “search Phelian Mercenaries.”
“Phelians?” blurted Shara. “It can’t be.”
As the page displayed, Martin skimmed over the data aloud:
“Native to Charlie 5, formally known as Phel, the Phelian Mercenaries were a group of highly trained assassins and spies with a history tracing back before the First Terillian War…known for tremendous physical skill and bravery in combat…prowess rooted in Phelian warrior culture where all males were trained from birth to be warriors. In 4755 standard time, ProConsul Tradar Epialius declared the Phel enemies of the Humani civilization. Senatorial Order 083-55 ordered the Elite Guard to bring the treacherous warrior class to justice…subsequent operations…the last operation, led by Captain Venarius Tyler Stone resulted in the eradication of the warrior class. Total casualty numbers of between 4755 and 4774…Phel estimated dead 2,322…Elite Guard casualties,” she paused as she read the number. “Shit…543 dead, 460 wounded, 32 missing—presumed dead.” Martin knew the history of the wars and had recited some of the names of the Guardsmen killed in the little war but she had never done the math. “That’s more per year than we’ve lost fighting the Rangers since I’ve been in the Guard.”
“From what Sergeant Yates has told us,” added Shara, uncharacteristically shaken, “the Phel are no fucking joke. He said the closest he came to dying in hand-to-hand combat was against a Phelian.”
She had heard the stories. A Phelian warrior was every bit as good as the average Guardsman or Ranger, maybe better. She let out a long sigh as the situation weighed on her. Jackson was injured, as were others. They were stranded on a desolate planet with both weather and animals that could kill them. And now not only Rangers, but Phelian warriors, were out there. ‘Hell of a first command,’ she thought to herself, wondering if it would also be her last.
“Should we head back, LT?” asked Shara.
Martin weighed her options. The others needed to know that both Rangers and Phel were in the area. But the mission was to link up with Jolly and Blake and scout the old base. And she couldn’t abandon the mission, she was too dedicated—and stubborn. She drew in a deep breath and spoke. “You take Daemon and head back to warn the others,” she said. “I’ll keep moving and link up with the others and get back on schedule.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” replied Shara.
“Daemon 867. Assign new handler Shara, Michael…” she paused and looked toward Shara.
“Cooper, Ma’am,” said Shara, providing Martin his middle name.
“...new handler Shara, Michael Cooper. Codeword Praetorian,” she ordered as she gave the war dog a pat on the head.
***
With Shara and Daemon on their way back to warn the others, Martin moved quickly toward the rendezvous point near the abandoned base. She knelt on one knee, allowing her leg to sink into the muddy ground as she checked her map to confirm she was at the right location. Given her delays, Jolly and Blake should have already been there.
After a few steps, she noticed a bulge on the ground in front of her. Martin brought her rifle to her shoulder and scanned the area as she mechanically moved toward the object. Her body tingled as her senses heightened. She focused her eyes for the slightest movement and listened for any signal of danger. Less than three meters from the object, she recognized the form. It was another dead Phelian. “Damn it,” she mouthed as she slowly turned in a full circle to sweep for threats.
Reaching the body, she looked down to see several fresh bullet wounds. She checked for a pulse. ‘Dead…but not long,’ she thought as she felt the warmth of the body. “Jolly, Blake, come in,” she spoke softly into the tactical circuit.
Silence.
Martin sensed movement behind her and quickly spun to face the potential threat. Looking down the barrel of her rifle she saw an outstretched arm reaching upward from the swampy water. Rising to her feet, she recognized the wounded man. It was Private Blake. “Shit,” she cursed softly as she made her way to Blake’s position.
She could tell he was severely wounded. Blood seeped from bullet wounds in his chest and rolled down the sides of an already soaked shirt. His left leg was nearly amputated below the knee. Blake’s face was pale and his eyes were barely open as he looked up toward her. Then she saw the marking on his forehead—the same one on the blade and written in blood on the Terillian vehicle was carved into Blake’s forehead.
“Sons of bitches,” she cursed.
Blake attempted to speak but instead grimaced with pain and coughed up a bright red glob of blood.
“Let me check you out,” said Martin in as soothing a voice as she could muster. “It’ll be okay,” she promised as she opened Blake’s shirt to check his wounds more thoroughly. Martin struggled to keep a positive look on her face. He had at least four bullets in his chest. She gritted her teeth as she saw his lower torso. Blake’s stomach was ripped open, his intestines spilling into the muddy water around him. All she could do was ease the pain. “Let’s get you some meds,” she smiled as she checked Blake’s gear.
“Gone,” he coughed.
Martin looked down to see a neuro-injector in one of Blake’s hands and another still protruding from his right thigh, half submerged in the muddy water. Grabbing one of her own neuro-injectors, she administered another dose to the dying Guardsman. She watched as Blake’s tightened face slowly loosened as the pain killers did their job. “Where’s Jolly?” she asked.
“They took him,” replied Blake, his voice so weak that Martin had to lean in until her ear almost touched Blake’s blood-stained mouth.
“How many?”
“Five or six,” he coughed again.
Martin felt the warm splash of Blake’s blood against her cheek.
“But I got that bastard. And Jolly—” Blake coughed again, this time much weaker than the last.
“I think they’re Phel,” replied Martin. “But I—” Martin paused as she noticed Blake’s eyes locked in a far off gaze. She placed her hand over his neck and watched his chest for signs of breathing. She noticed the blood, which had been oozing from the wounds in his chest with each beat of his heart, no longer flowing. No pulse. He was dead.
“Shit,” cursed Martin as she pounded her fist against Blake’s chest.
Now she had a new mission—get Jolly back.
Chapter 9
Martin felt the warm, muddy water envelop her body as she lay prone in her concealed position. Ignoring the buzz of insects and the occasional sting of a bite, she looked through the scope of her rifle toward the group of Phel warriors walking across the open landscape where the wetlands transitioned to tundra. Two warriors dragged the semi-conscious Jolly by his shoulders while one walked a few meters ahead and the fourth a few meters behind. Scanning forward about 1000 meters, she saw another figure standing by an embankment protruding from the moss and rock-covered terrain. ‘That’s got to be the entrance,’ she thought to herself, recalling the data link she had read on the abandoned Terillian base. Built during the last war, the base itself was fully underground to help prevent detection and to provide a low-engineering solution to the drastic temperature shifts. If the guard hadn’t been posted, she might not have noticed it at all.
Martin weighed her options. She had no idea how many Phel were in the abandoned base. A gunfight at their front door would draw more, if there were more of them. But she couldn’t let them get Jolly inside. Her course set, Martin swung her rifle back to the group, making note of their position before returning to the guard at the embankment.
She inhaled and exhaled deliberately, concentrating on the beating of her heart. The data screen on her scope read 1100 meters. Wind: 4km/h NE. Barometer: 762mm Hg. Moving the scope to scan the area, Martin soon found what she was looking for—a small shrub moving back and forth in the gentle breeze. Using the movement of the brush
to estimate the wind at the target, she moved the scope back onto the guard, making the necessary adjustment.
Her finger pressed against the trigger. She took in a slow, controlled breath and held it while she increased the pressure on the trigger. The rifle cracked and recoiled. Now Martin swung the rifle toward the group. She selected the Phelian in the rear and fired just as the echo of her first shot roared across the tundra. The Phelian crumpled to the ground in a red mist.
“Shit,” declared Martin. The others had disappeared into the cover of the tundra.
But there was no wild wave of gunfire. They were too good for that—needless firing would give away their position. Scanning the area, Martin looked for any signs that would indicate a target. She looked for the outline of a body against the low horizon, a reflection of light off metal, a—
“Gotcha,” she mouthed as she saw a small bulge in the bushes move to the right as the rest of the ground cover swayed to the left.
She slid her finger back over the trigger. Now that she had a focal point, Martin saw the outline of a body materialize against the landscape. Her rifle rang out again and she saw the body jerk and go limp.
She heard the unmistakable whizz of bullets over her head as the others returned fire. The remaining Phel didn’t have her exact location, but they were close. She quickly scanned the landscape for muzzle flashes, but the firing stopped before she could identify their locations.
Minutes passed.
As each side waited for the other to act, Martin’s thoughts drifted to Jolly. How badly was he wounded? Could he move on his own? Was he even still alive? ‘Focus,’ she thought to herself. ‘Make them blink first.’