That left the Alliance fighters, which had been under constant guard, as the only ones left to engage the enemy. The rebels kept inserting enough fighters to the battle to keep the Alturians and Kalendens fully occupied, leaving the remaining rebel fighters to attack ground positions.
It was unfortunate that Lieutenant Magill was unaware of these facts as he drifted off to sleep as it would have made a great deal of difference in the outcome of his life because of events that were about to unfold.
* * *
Magill, was sleeping soundly when the battle began. He thought it was a dream when he heard Corporal Wakely shouted “Wake up, Lieutenant! We’re under attack!”
“What?”
“Wake up!”
Just then an air-to-surface laser beam sliced through Magill’s tent with a brilliant crimson flash, which helped him to wake up very, very quickly.
“What the hell’s going on?” he shouted to no one in particular.
An impact missile blowing up a fuel dump 50 kilometers away answered his question. The heat from the nuclear shock wave vaporized the fabric of his tent, but his sleeping bag was made of Baccharite fibers, which provided protection up to 1200 degrees Celsius. Like a tortoise, he pulled his head in at the sight of the flash, just in time to avoid being incinerated. Corporal Wakely was not so lucky. Magill stuck his head out and saw that all that was left of his friend were ashes and smoldering flames. He retched at the sight, then stood and, in a crouch, started running with the sleeping bag draped over his shoulders. He was bare footed and in his underwear. His clothes were atomized and his shoes had melted. What was left of the jungle was on fire all around him and huge trees and branches crashed down around him.
He remembered a small lake about 100 meters to the northeast of his tent, so he ran in that direction in his bare feet, trying not to inhale the acrid smoke. His feet were being scorched by the burning grass and falling debris, the hair on his legs quickly singed off and the hot air tore at the linings of his lungs and the skin on his face. The fires were so intense that it was difficult to inhale any oxygen, making each breath desperately labored. In his panic, he was barely aware of other figures stumbling through the night in the same direction. Just as he thought he couldn’t take anymore, he reached the lake and jumped in. There wasn’t a lot of room, since everyone else who survived had come to the lake as well.
Life is full of contrasts. While the air was scorching hot, the lake itself was fed by a cold spring from deep within the planet. The blast had instantly vaporized several centimeters of water from the surface, but the spring had already restored the lake to its natural temperature of one or two degrees above freezing. The shock to Magill’s nervous system took his breath away and he found himself foundering, wrapped in his now-soggy sleeping bag and in real danger of drowning. He gasped for breath, but got a mouthful of water. Panicking, he swallowed even more and began to slip under the surface. He tried desperately to expel the water in his lungs, but couldn’t reach the surface. This is it, he thought, as his arms stopped flailing. Suddenly he was grabbed by his hair and pulled to the surface. A hand was now slapping him on the back as he coughed violently and water flooded out of his mouth. A giant breath filled his lungs as another round of coughing finally cleared the remaining water.
“You’re okay. Take a second to get your breath.” Magill struggled for a moment, but the hand yanked his hair a little harder.
“Ow, that hurts,” he cried. But the act of shouting calmed him down enough to start treading water. Now he was glad he didn’t have any clothing on to weigh him down. His sleeping bag floated nearby.
“What’s going on?” he asked the nameless face in the dark.
“It looks like the rebels are more sophisticated than the Loyalists gave them credit for. From what I can see from the flashes in the sky, they’ve launched a massive attack all along the line.”
Magill recognized the voice of Marine Major Ernest Wilkerson. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see Wilkerson peering anxiously into the night sky.
“If the rebels are as organized as I think they are, we can expect a ground assault within the next hour or two. As close as we are to the city, they’ll have to move through our position to reach the main gate.”
Magill’s body was going numb. He couldn’t think of enemy troops right now. He was anxious to leave the water and said, urgently, “Major, we’ve got to get out of this lake or they’ll find me frozen at the bottom.”
“Of course. We should get moving.” Wilkerson pointed Magill in the right direction, retrieved their sleeping bags, and together they swam to the shore opposite the explosion. Wilkerson stayed close, in case Magill had any trouble. As they waded out onto the beach, which was surrounded by a shallow marsh, the heat from the trees burning in the distance actually felt good against Magill’s skin. The sand on his feet, however, told a different story. The flesh was raw from burns and he cried out in pain as he tried to put weight on his legs. He tried to make progress, but fell forward in a heap, sobbing in agony.
Wilkerson rolled him over onto his back and looked at his feet. He paused so his voice would be steady, “I’m sorry, soldier, but your ‘uniform’ doesn’t give me any indication of your rank or name, even though I’m sure we’ve met before.”
Magill looked down at his bare legs and torso, his body matted in ash and slime, and found strength for a modest laugh. “I see your problem, Sir. I’m Lieutenant Junior Grade Sean Magill of the Allegro. I recognize you from our morning briefings.”
“The Allegro? Pietr Jesik’s ship? He’s a good man – a strong leader.”
“Yes, Sir, the best.”
Wilkerson could see the desperate look in the young man’s eyes and wanted to keep him talking. “Magill?” Wilkerson pondered the name. “Weren’t you one of those academy students involved in the Cambriol incident?”
Magill never knew what to expect when someone asked this question. In the civilian population he and Eaves were generally seen as heroes. In the military, however, they were often looked upon as careless renegades who got lucky.
“Yes, Sir, that’s where I first met Captain Jesik.”
“You guys were nuts, but thank goodness you were there. When I watched the replay of the video recordings, I couldn’t believe the reflexes of your pilot. I doubt one-in-a-hundred could have pulled off that maneuver.”
“He’s my best friend,” Magill paused to steady his breathing. “Probably engaged in the air battle right now.”
“Ironic, isn’t it—the soldiers on duty were all killed, while those of us who were snug in our sleeping bags are alive.” Then he looked Magill straight in the eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve got a real problem, Lieutenant. Your feet are burned terribly, but we’ve got to get moving or the rebels will kill us right here on the beach.” Wilkerson pulled off his shirt and tore it into bandages that he wrapped around Magill’s feet. They sat for a few moments to gain their bearings, while other half-naked soldiers and marines crept up on the beach.
Magill liked Wilkerson, because he always appeared calm and in control. And, right now, that was exactly what Magill needed, for as one who worked to be perfectly prepared for any contingency, uniform pressed and starched, hair trimmed and combed, he was unnerved by the present circumstances. Looking down at himself, he thought, I’m on an alien beach in nothing but my boxers, surrounded by a burning jungle, feet throbbing and enemy troops about to overtake our position. How can this be happening? And all of it just a few minutes away from a calm and relaxed sleep.
He’d never felt so disoriented or vulnerable in his life. More than that, it was his fault that his feet were burned. The military gave men the option of sleeping in their clothes, (including heat resistant socks when in battle), or undressing. Those who chose to undress were required to keep their clothing under their sleeping bag just in case something like this happened. Magill had followed orders, but when Wakely called him, he’d rolled over, leaving his clothing exposed. It was at
that precise moment that the nuclear blast ended Wakely’s life and destroyed his own protective gear.
Why didn’t I keep my uniform on? he agonized. The answer was that he’d never been able to sleep very well and did sleep better when undressed. Plus, he liked to give his uniform and shoes a chance to air out. It had never been a problem, since he could fully dress himself in well under the thirty seconds required of all personnel in battle conditions. Now I’m crippled! He almost hyperventilated at the thought of holding everyone else up if they had to carry him.
Wilkerson immediately saw Magill’s distress and pulled himself to a standing position. After what they’d been through, these men needed action. “Attention everyone on the beach!” The men had been talking among themselves, but immediately quieted down at the obvious authority in the major’s voice.
“First, you should know that I’m Major Ernest Wilkerson of Kalenden. Is there anyone on the beach who outranks me?”
When no one spoke, he continued, “Then I’ll assume command, regardless of your regular service unit. The rebels fired a small nuclear warhead, which means we’ve all been exposed to a potentially lethal dose of radiation. We have to get into the city as quickly as possible to find medication.”
“Excuse me, Sir,” a somewhat timid voice said out of the darkness.
“Identify yourself!”
“Corporal Wallace Bingham, Medical Corps. My kit was covered by my sleeping bag and I was able to retrieve it after the blast. I have enough medication for at least fifty people.”
Wilkerson drew a deep breath. Here was a small sign of hope in the midst of the nightmare. “Very good, Corporal. We all need to move across the marsh to the campsite over there. It looks like the small knoll provided some protection from the flash – at least I see signs that some of their equipment is still intact. Once we get there, Corporal Wallace will administer a radiation antidote to all personnel.” He paused to collect his thoughts. The sooner the better, since the antidote preserves the DNA signature it finds at the time of administration and the goal is to have as little mutation from the radiation as possible. “Now, everyone take two minutes to pair up and then form over here so we can get a count. And render assistance to anyone who was partially incapacitated by the explosion. Any questions?”
No questions were forthcoming and the survivors started forming up. When everyone had hobbled into formation, Wilkerson counted a mere twenty men of the more than two hundred who had been in camp. “I suppose even twenty is a miracle,” he muttered under his breath.
It was exasperating to not have complete uniforms. He didn’t know who were officers, non-coms, or enlisted men. But, time was short and he had to know who he was dealing with. “Men, quickly, I want each of you to tell me your name, rank and unit. Also tell me if you’re wounded or otherwise incapacitated. And having the crap scared out of you doesn’t count.”
Some men laughed and started the report. When finished he found that he had two Lieutenants, one Sergeant, one Corporal and an Ensign. Six officers out of twenty were too many, but at least he had men who could provide leadership. He quickly made the uninjured Lieutenant his second-in-command and then ordered the Sergeant and Corporals to pair up with the most seriously injured. Some had had a hand burned off because it was outside their sleeping bag when the blast hit, while others had hair singed, causing weeping wounds to their scalp. A few besides Magill had foot burns, as well. Wilkerson put his arm down to help the young Lieutenant to his feet, but the pain was so great that Magill passed out. Wilkerson pulled his arm up and over his own shoulder, distributed the weight of Magill’s body on his back and attempted to bend down and pick up his and Magill’s sleeping bags. A soldier came up and picked up the sleeping bags without a word and the ragtag group started silently into the swamp.
The heat of the explosion had incinerated the grass above the waterline, which thickened the mud they waded through. Wilkerson fell a couple of times, but others always helped him get Magill back on his shoulder. Eventually they reached solid ground.
What a sight greeted them. Before the blast, this had been an Alturian camp on the edge of a forest. They’d built the camp on the north side of a small hill, which had sheltered their equipment from the blast. The pattern of the explosion drew air from this area, leaving the men who somehow survived the crushing impact and heat of the blast to suffocate from lack of oxygen. Many were still in their tents, looking like they were asleep.
Most of his men sat down where they could, exhausted from the effort of traversing the swamp. When the mind is overwhelmed, it saps strength from the body once the initial crisis is over.
“Corporal Bingham, please administer the anti-toxin. Choose anyone to help you.”
Bingham and a friend rose and moved from soldier to soldier, administering an old-fashioned syringe shot. When Wilkerson looked surprised, the Corporal explained, “My auto-canister lost all programming from the magnetic pulse of the blast, so I have to give the shots manually.”
“No problem,” Never in his life had Wilkerson worried about an auto-canister; it was merely something doctors had when they needed it. They were so simple to use that even he could have administered the anti-toxin if there hadn’t been a medic to do it. Yet, now his life was in the hands of a twenty-year old boy who had paid enough attention in his training class so that he knew how to use a needle. It was at times like this that he appreciated the thoroughness of the military.
As he was about to give an order to rifle through the dead Alturians’ belongings to find uniforms and supplies, he heard a rustling in the forest.
“Everyone, hit the ground!” he ordered.
“Identify yourselves,” came a voice from the trees. Wilkerson recognized the accent as Alturian.
“I’m Major Ernest Wilkerson from Kalenden. I hold a First Rate clearance from the Alliance Council.”
“Password?”
“Sirian Sunrise!”
“What are you doing in an Alturian Camp?” the voice called back.
It was perfectly appropriate for the Alturians to be suspicious. After all, the rebels knew the common language as well as anyone else and since it had been hundreds of years since Alturus and Kalenden had any contact, who could tell for sure which accent was authentic? Given the obvious depth of the rebel’s intelligence operation, it wasn’t at all unreasonable to question if they’d stolen the password.
Wilkerson decided he needed to show some trust, so he called back, “May I please stand so you can see and talk with me? We’re all unarmed – in fact many of us are undressed and injured.”
There was hurried consultation in the bushes and then permission was granted for him to stand up.
Wilkerson stood and told the hidden figures in the trees what had happened. When instructed, he had all his troops stand to show that they were unarmed. At that point the Alturians moved out of their hiding places into the camp.
The Alturians were darker skinned than Kalendens, perhaps because their system-star burned hotter than Kalenden. But they had the same ethnic diversity and, if not for their accent and uniforms, could easily pass as Kalendens. When fifteen Alturians entered the center of the camp, their leader approached Wilkerson and gave him a formal salute. “My name is Captain Arnaud Desani of the Alturian Royal Grenadiers. May I ask what your intentions are, Major?”
“I’m afraid I have something rather unpleasant to ask of you. The only troops in our camp to survive were those asleep in their sleeping bags. Most are without uniforms or weapons and unprotected from the elements. I was hoping to acquire the shoes and uniforms of your fallen comrades. I hope this request in no way dishonors you or them.”
Wilkerson braced for a hostile response and was surprised by the mildness of the reply. “These men are dead and have no use for uniforms. Of course your people can take whatever they need. We intend to do so, as well.” Desani continued, “Do you have any seriously wounded? My assistant, Captain Carling, has medical training.”
Wilk
erson thanked the Captain and asked if his assistant could assist Lieutenant Magill with his feet. Magill was lying on the ground near the lake, now awake and conscious, as a soldier periodically poured cold water on his soggy bandages. The pain was unbearable and he writhed back and forth, almost delirious. The Alturian Captain moved to Magill, knelt by his side and lifted his head to her lap. Magill looked up into the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen in his life. They were like dark brown pools of warmth, set in an exquisite face, framed by short, dark brown hair. He seriously thought he must have fainted and was dreaming.
“What is your name, Lieutenant?” the girl asked soothingly.
“I’m Sean Magill,” he replied weakly. “I mean Lieutenant Magill.”
For a moment he was embarrassed by his condition, but as he looked down at his filthy body, she rubbed his hair gently and said, “It’s fine, Lieutenant, you’re just fine. I can help with the pain.” Her voice calmed him for a moment. He certainly needed help, for the pain from his feet was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He wanted to reach down and tear at his feet, but knew that would be disastrous.
Tears streamed down his face as he tried to stifle a sob, “I can’t stand the pain! My feet hurt so badly!” He buried his face in her lap. It was humiliating, but the pain was simply unbearable.
Reaching into her kit, she kept talking, “My name is Tara. I’m going to give you something to drink that will calm you down and ease the pain.” She held a cup to his lips and he drank the bitter liquid. To his amazement the pain eased within seconds and he felt his body go limp as his eyelids grew heavy.
“I can’t go to sleep,” he pleaded, “we’ve got to escape or the rebels will get us. I need to stay awake…”
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we’ll escape. Now, you just relax, let go.” He looked up into her face and was astonished once again that anyone so attractive could actually be touching and caressing him.
Assault on Cambriol: The Manhattan Trials Page 8