From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  The only sign that this was the intended destination was a collection of six or seven army jeeps. They were scattered around the field, for what purpose Jackson didn't know.

  Keir appeared; he was fully dressed but had managed to leave his backpack somewhere to save carrying it around.

  “OK, everyone, move directly to the yellow marker,” he pointed into the field at one of the jeeps.

  On its radio antenna there flew a sheet of luminous yellow cloth. The whole company was now beginning to move.

  Jackson noticed that the other units were congregating around different jeeps, each one flying a different coloured flag.

  No sooner had they all gathered when the air filled with the sound of helicopters. In the centre of the field a smoke canister started belching out orange smoke.

  The first drab green chopper landed whipping the clouds into miniature cyclones.

  From the chopper, orderlies started removing stretchers. They quickly emptied the hold and loaded stretchers laden with wounded onto the waiting train.

  As soon as the aircraft were vacant a squad of soldiers moved up and embarked.

  The field now had half a dozen helicopters loading and unloading.

  “B squad!” Keir shouted over the noise of the rotors.

  He pointed, “Move onto that chopper there,”

  Lan, Jackson, Keir and Nasim joined the two-dozen or so other men from their platoon and boarded the aircraft.

  Onboard the helicopter the rest of the men were relaxed and surprisingly jovial. They showed no concern that moments ago these seats were taken by the chewed up, broken bodies of young soldiers just like them.

  It was a taboo they all conspired to sustain.

  For the majority this was just another assignment. For Jackson, Lan and Nasim it would be their first taste of a battlefield.

  All three were sitting in the same row of this ambulance turned

  troop transport. Jackson sat on the aisle with Nasim by the window and Lan sandwiched in between.

  The chopper built up power and took off into the sky. Jackson's head spun from the speed of it all. From leaving the train to getting airborne could only have taken ten minutes. He guessed that the routine was so well polished because of the frequency and urgency.

  Jackson looked around the cabin, Nasim was enthralled gazing out of the window and Lan was hushed as usual. Jackson quickly came to realise that he was the only one nervous.

  The conversation from the row behind spilled over.

  “I killed four of those Terran scum in as many minutes!” boasted a loud and brash soldier.

  Bravado fired the account of his last mission. The soldier continued graphically describing the agonising death throes of his victims. After only a few minutes Jackson found the man's account irritating and distasteful.

  Nasim was beginning to feel queasy, the turbulence of the flight and the gory details combined.

  “Would you mind talking about something else,” he asked in a reticent tone.

  “Yeah, it's grating on me too,” added Jackson.

  “Shit! Who are these wet pussies!” the soldier bellowed.

  There was a round of laughter from his audience.

  “Wait 'til you've wasted your first Terran. Then you won't be so squeamish,” offered the soldier.

  “I already have,” remorse weighed down Jackson's words.

  The macho soldier picked up Jackson's tone but misunderstood its sentiment.

  “The first two or three are always the hardest. Once you've got a dozen confirmed kills like I have you'll be fine,” came the advice.

  “I'll bear that in mind,” Jackson said calmly to mask his frustration at the soldier’s heartlessness.

  The brash soldier had dehumanised the enemy, as a good grunt should, reducing his murders to the status of a playful prank. It was worse than the slaughter of cattle; at least they weren't demeaned and humiliated. Remembering Ramage's advice about not giving them an excuse to eat him alive and Keir's about his Terran accent he held his peace.

  This veteran may have killed a whole platoon of men but his tally was still shy of Jackson's by about five thousand.

  There had been a serial killer executed just before the war Jackson recalled. He had confessed to the murder of fifteen people, but the police believed the actual total was far higher. His crimes had caused outrage from the media, Jackson reflected on the relative insignificance of that maniac's actions. A human life was a precious and sacred thing, yet he had accounted for the work of hundreds of psychopaths. The sheer number of dead numbed his morality. He was responsible for what was little more than a massacre.

  But if he could stomach his own ugliness he could put up with the odd propaganda story from his colleagues. He decided to try and distract himself.

  “Hey, Lan, is Nicola your ex?” asked Jackson disengaging from the conversation behind.

  “What?” Lan was shocked.

  “Take it easy, buddy. I was just curious. You were mumbling some stuff about her last night after you got back to sleep. I assumed she was the ex-girlfriend 'cause you've never mentioned her by name.”

  “Yeah she's my ex,” he looked off into space at the admission.

  “She was the reason you signed up,” Jackson said sympathetically.

  “Sort of, yeah. I just had to get away. Try and get her out of my mind.”

  “Has it worked?” Jackson knew what the answer was but he didn't think Lan did.

  “All I seem to do is think about her. I haven't even seen her for, what must be close to a year now,” he looked back up at Jackson.

  Lan's eyes reflected his despair, “I don't know if it counts that I was asleep for six months of that. She'll have finished her first year at university by now.”

  “I flew my first jet turbine at the end of my first year,” Jackson looked out of the porthole to get a glimpse of the rotor.

  “What was she studying?” Jackson asked out of curiosity.

  “Biology,” answered Lan.

  The brash soldier behind butted into the conversation, “No she ain't. If she's doin' biology the medical corps will have drafted her cute little ass straight away.”

  “Yeah, well what's it to you pal?” Lan was hauling himself out of his chair.

  The brash soldier laughed, “Ooh, the little boy's upset!”

  Lan lashed out with his fist at the man. Stretching over the seat his fury was tempered by the confined surroundings.

  The big soldier grinned from ear to ear showing luminous white teeth. As Lan tried to scramble over the seatback the soldier just laughed easily fending of the attack.

  Keir returned from the flight deck to find a brawl in progress.

  Jackson hauled at Lan's waist bringing him back into his seat.

  “Agstaff, Shorey cut it out! OK listen up!” Keir barked at the pair.

  He paused for the altercation to subside knowing that his authority would break it up.

  “We land in ten minutes,” he started, “Once we've landed we are to head directly to Field Command for briefing. We will not be stowing our equipment. Keep all of your kit with you.”

  Keir eyed Lan and the brash soldier called Shorey, “It looks like we're all goin' to get the chance to get physical.”

  The soldier’s grin dropped and he relaxed back into his seat.

  Keir sat down and strapped himself in.

  Jackson stretched across the aisle and said to Keir, “Lan's new friend's lost his tongue.”

  “Like Shorey we all laugh and joke about the missions we've done, not the ones we're on. The frivolity comes if we make it back in one piece,”

  Jackson looked round to see Shorey reading from a small black book, his lips moving as he sounded out the words.

  “Where's my faith?” Jackson thought.

  The rest of the flight was quiet and subdued. As soon as they touched down they were ushered into a large green tent. Seated in neat rows there were about fifty soldiers all dressed in the same dark camoufla
ge.

  Into the room walked a similarly dressed officer. The whole room snapped to attention. The officer's presence was so powerful that even Nasim stood up.

  “At ease,” he called out and the troops seated themselves again.

  “Gentlemen welcome to operation Retribution,” he said as he took centre stage.

  “You have all been training for this mission for some time now although none of you will have known the details.”

  The officer turned and pointed to a massive map behind him, “Fort Veruct is thirty Kliks to the west of our current position. It is here that the Terran Alliance has its only permanent base on Neotra. The base itself is only about three miles square but it has perimeter defences supported by a number of firebases at these locations.”

  The officer pointed out jagged red icons around the map.

  “At nightfall this forward line of defence will be breached. The largest offensive in Neotran history will pour through these openings, cross the river Ome and seize Veruct,” the officer turned back to face the troops, “Timing is crucial. Surveillance satellites show that Terran supply vessels will be in orbit within the next thirty hours. Because of the success of the Neotran Navy out of Greda, Veruct's relief column has been badly mauled on its way into the system. High Command have calculated that they have lost over seventy percent of their strength and therefore are no longer in a position to assist an offensive,”

  The officer looked round at the stern faces in the room.

  “If the Alliance cannot wage an offensive campaign they have two choices. Dig in or, as you grunts would put it, bug out,” the officer managed to raise wry smiles from his audience by using the trooper slang.

  “This is where you come in. Your unit will be inserted into the heart of the Veruct spaceport and command centre, here. You will be split into two teams with each team responsible for locating and capturing one of two men,” the officer revealed two enlarged pictures.

  The first photograph was a posed shot in front of a Terran flag. The man with neatly combed, peppered grey hair stood at attention in a dress uniform with a row of battle ribbons on his chest smiling for the camera.

  “This man is General Weston, the Terran forces supreme commander in the Neotran theatre of operations,” the officer raised a smile, “He will be the easiest to locate. As the ranking officer he will be overseeing the evacuation. Until the convoy gets into orbit the only place he can do this from is the command and control bunker at Fort Veruct spaceport. Right in the heart of their defences.”

  The briefing officer looked across at Keir's group, “This is Captain Zinner of the Bavashee or at least the best picture we have of him.”

  A grainy and badly enhanced still from a security camera showed a muscular man with short blond hair. Even without a close up of the man's face the trio of new recruits next to Keir recognised him immediately.

  “You may be aware it was he who led the assassination against the President. The second group have a more unpredictable quarry. As the senior officer in the Bavashee on Neotra, Captain Zinner could literally be stationed anywhere. After consulting a...” the officer's words dried up, “a specialist observer, we believe that he is also within close proximity to the spaceport. With the aid of forward advisors the second team are to locate Captain Zinner.”

  The officer turned back to his map again, “The insertion will be timed to take place just before the climax of our final assault, before they have time to get key personnel off-world to safety. Once you locate your targets make every effort to secure them and make contact with the leading elements of our attack.

  “If you cannot secure the targets your orders are to eliminate them,”

  The officer looked round the room for one last time, “Your section leaders will fill you in on the logistical details. Good luck.”

  At which he saluted and left the remainder of the briefing to his subordinates.

  Section 35

  “General.”

  “Colonel Revar,” acknowledged Weston.

  “What brings you out of the bunker at this late hour?” Revar enquired.

  “I was just on my way to my apartment. Need to get a few hours sleep in comfort before tomorrow's big show,” Weston placed a hand on Revar's shoulder, “I take it the last preparations have been made?”

  “Yes, Sir. Admiral Stenel has co-ordinated the naval involvement and I personally oversaw the faking of the evacuation,” Revar smirked, “I've had four units sneaking up to the front and coming back to the spaceport all day. Each time they got back I made them change uniforms and sneak back to a different part of the line to do it all over again. The poor boys didn't know if they were coming or going.”

  “This place has been strangely quiet with all our reserve strength hidden in the forward firebases, I take it the inflatable tanks by the hangers were your idea?” asked Weston.

  “Yes, Sir, thought it worth while to have a few decoys made,” Revar said proudly.

  Weston smiled and blew a light puff of air through his nostrils.

  “Something funny, sir?” asked Revar.

  “Just being clever,” Weston smiled, “do you know the origin of the word decoy?”

  “No,” admitted Revar.

  “Literally it means duck cage,”

  “As in the fowl?” quizzed Revar.

  “Yes, it described a cone shaped pond with a trap at the narrow end. If ducks landed on the water they could be chased up the pond and into the cage,” Weston pushed his hands together in a V simulating the course of the snare.

  “Is that true?” Revar was wary of what sounded like a tall tale.

  “You sound doubtful,”

  “It does sound a bit...” Revar wanted to sound tactful, “far-fetched,”

  “Like I said, I was just being clever,” Weston said apologetically.

  Revar gave a nod, “I see the metaphor, Sir,”

  “Told you I was being clever,” Weston paused for a moment, “maybe too clever for my own good,”

  Revar asked, “Which worries you most; that they won't fall for the trap or that when it's sprung it won't succeed?”

  “You're very sharp Revar,” Weston tapped his adjutant on the chest, “I'm worried about all that and everything else beside. That's my job,”

  “I'm always keen to help, Sir,” Revar offered.

  “I know and you've done a wonderful job over the past few months. So good in fact that I've recommended you for promotion.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” surprise almost robbed Revar of his voice.

  “All I'm waiting for is approval from Earth and the commission's yours,” Weston looked out over the Ome valley.

  “By this time tomorrow we'll know if it's paid off,” said Revar with a hint of nerves in his voice.

  “If you stare out over to the front lines you can see the reflections of the explosions lighting the underside of the clouds,” Weston pointed out.

  “Yes, Sir, that you can,”

  “If it weren't for the fact that each time you see a flash people died, the sight could be quite beautiful,” Weston stared into the distance, “Remember that, Colonel. Your decisions cost lives and it's your responsibility to make the decision that will cost the least lives in the long run.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Revar solemnly said.

  “The difficulty in those decisions is we never know what the most expedient course is,” Weston turned to look at Revar, “That my friend, is my biggest worry.”

  “Well, Sir, it's late,” Revar took a look at his watch, “and I was just on my way to join my Battalion,”

  Weston patted Revar on the shoulder, “I'd better not keep you back; we'll both have busy days tomorrow.”

  Revar's underground journey to join his soldiers was short and lonely. Most of Veruct's reserve troops had already been reassigned and the units feigning the evacuation had stopped at nightfall. Almost all the supplies had left Veruct for the firebases leaving the confined railway to ferrying wounded back from the front.


  Swiftly the miniature carriage delivered Revar to his destination. A plaque on the wall confirmed he was in the right place “Firebase East Beta” it read.

  “Not very original, but functional,” Revar thought.

  “Colonel Revar!”

  He looked over in the direction of the voice. A well-muscled infantryman walked over to him and saluted. Revar addressed him by the rank on his sleeve.

  “Sergeant,” he acknowledged and returned the salute.

  “Do you have any baggage I could carry for you, Sir?” the Sergeant politely enquired.

  “Travel light, move fast,” Revar said tapping his sidearm, “Are you in a position to brief me Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Sir. I can update you on the way to your quarters, or would you prefer to go straight to the field headquarters.”

  “Very perceptive,” Revar noted, “Field H.Q. Sergeant, if you would lead the way.”

  “Certainly, Sir, the tunnels have been rebuilt since your last inspection. This way, Sir. The Com' bunker was demolished in a bombing raid a few hours ago so we're co-ordinating things up top in a commandeered artillery pit.”

  The two men made their way through narrow corridors with low earth ceilings. The bunker network was cramped but tidy.

  “Always a good sign of morale,” Revar thought, “Men who had lost their discipline slacked off.”

  A dull thud shook the tunnel and a light rain of dirt was dislodged.

  The Sergeant seemed not to notice and continued uninterrupted, “The Neotrans are launching sustained waves of missiles and bombers. But our air defence is coping. We're taking out about ninety percent of their aircraft and about eighty percent of their missiles.”

  “Good. How's the attrition rate?” asked Revar, “Even with such a high success they're still sending a lot of munitions our way.”

  “Sir, the attacks are causing damage; the Com' bunker for one, but the biggest concern is our ammunition stocks. If their offensive continues at this level we will be out of ordnance within the day.”

  Revar paused for a moment in the dank passage, “It's make or break for either side. They're pushing as hard as they can before we get re-supplied and they hope to crack us tonight.”