“At ease. Okay, as you probably already have heard by now our Company is going to be attached to the 14th Special Forces Group for the duration of this upcoming battle. The 3rd Platoon has the honor to work with the Dark Horse Commando Squad – Captain Rex Fischer’s Squad. I met with Captain Fischer just a little while ago and he wants just one squad from our platoon; the rest of us will be providing security support for a plasma mortar brigade in town. So, who’s going to volunteer or do I have to pick someone?” Forsythe said, and then crossed her arms in front of her.
Lander glanced over at Briggs and Nettleson, both of them looked reluctant. Briggs had a deer-in-the-headlights look about her and Nettleson - head down - was kicking the ground. Lander thought about how in his younger days he would’ve volunteered without question, but now? Now, he had a family to think about, and he knew that going to the front wasn’t going to improve his odds of getting back to them.
“Sergeant Lander?” Forsythe said.
“M-Ma’am?” Lander responded, a sense of dread coming over him.
“I want your Squad to work with the Dark Horse Commando Squad, since your squad members have had the most combat experience. I sure you already know what an amazing honor this is, Sergeant Lander; don‘t let me down,” Forsythe said.
“Y-yes, ma’am, we’ll do our best,” Lander said as though he were having an out-of-body experience; someone else speaking in his place.
“Very well. I want everyone back at the Platoon tent by 1800 hours. We’ll have a short briefing, and then dinner,” Forsythe said. She saluted, turned back around, and then got back into her JLTV.
Lander turned around slowly as Forsythe left. Neither Nettleson nor Briggs looked at Lander as he walked back to his squad. Lander wasn’t really concerned about what they thought. There was no getting out of it now. He glanced off to his right at the western ridge. The tree-line was only a few-hundred meters away. It was dark now; dark enough that one could slip away and not be noticed.
The thought flashed through his mind. He was picturing everything, as though he had already gone through with it. He imagined the mad dash, evading patrols, biding his time until he could sneak back into town. He would go to his house, grab his family, and then head north away from it all. It all seemed so easy, so straight forward. The thought, however nice it may have seemed, faded quickly as the reality of his current situation settled and then sunk in deep. There was no escape. There was no avoiding it. He and his squad were going to the front.
Chapter 19
“Good luck tomorrow, Lieutenant Forsythe,” Fischer said. Forsythe saluted and then drove off in her JLTV.
“And here I thought I was crazy, Fish. Don’t you think it’s a little reckless of you to take only one of the reservist squads?” Rhodes asked as he stared off at Forsythe’s vehicle and then looked back to Fischer.
“It’ll be fine, Rhodes. It was reckless to even put the Reservists on the front in the first place; at least this way we’ll have more of a reserve when we fallback into town,” Fischer said.
“Yeah, but why do you want Harlan and I to keep the full platoons, why not just give us a squad each?” Rhodes asked.
“You two are going to be on the flanks and you know the robots always aim for the dead center of any defensive line and then spread out once they make contact. The plan is for my squad to draw in the Mark Fours. I’ll then have Akiyama take out the point defense lasers and Jones hack them. I think if we can control one or two of the Mark Fours, we may be able to even up the odds. I just need you and Harlan to watch my flank and make sure none of the Mark Threes get too close,” Fischer said, trying to sound confident in his own plan, so that even he might start to believe it.
“That sounds like a good a plan as any, I guess. So, I’ll take care of the Mark Threes and Harlan can worry about the rest of the trash. I think as long as we make sure none of the Mark Threes get disabled too close to a Four we should be all right, right?” Rhodes said.
“Yeah, as long as we keep everything together in front of us and take the Mark Fours on one at a time, we’ll have a decent shot at this,” Fischer said.
“Hell, Fish, you’re starting to make me feel like we might actually have a legitimate shot at this one, ha-ha,” Rhodes chuckled.
Fischer saw Harlan coming up the street from the direction where Forsythe drove off.
“What’s up? You guys wanna grab a drink or something?” Harlan asked as she walked up to Fischer and Rhodes.
“Yeah sure, I saw that there was a Feral Bison Wings in town,” Rhodes said, licking his lips.
“Ehh… I just came from there. That place is filled with Regs. I did scope out this dive bar downtown though. There were only a few people in there,” Harlan said.
“Ugh… stupid Regs, I like Bison too,” a disappointed Rhodes said.
“Really? Bison is overpriced, loud, and their chicken wings are boiled,” Fischer said semi-jokingly.
“Whatever, Fish. You say that about every wing joint that isn’t Packett’s Fiery Wings,” Rhodes said, rolling his eyes.
“Well, I mean, once you’ve had the best,” Fischer said smugly.
“Yeah… yeah. Okay, Harlan, lead the way,” Rhodes said as Fischer and Rhodes began to follow Harlan as she walked to the direction of downtown.
*****
The three of them were getting close to the bar, according to Harlan. They were now in sight of the old courthouse. The downtown area was peppered with classic park-style street lights -- remnants of some revitalization effort that a lot of small towns went through during the turn of the century -- a lot of the street lights weren’t working properly and a few of them were not working at all.
“Geez… I guess Grantsburg spared no expense sprucing up this part of town, huh?” Rhodes said sarcastically.
The electric hum from the still working lamps was just loud enough to overpower the steady hum from the south.
Harlan looked at Fischer and then pointed over to the courthouse. “So how did it go earlier? Is that building usable at all?”
“Yeah, sort of. The interior supports are rusting away, but I think it’ll support a small number of troops with no problem. My biggest concern is that it probably won’t withstand too many hits though,” Fischer said.
“I see. So, Fischer, what happened to Lieutenant Brookes? I went by your squad’s tent earlier and she wasn’t there,” Harlan said.
“Heh… yeah, she trudged around the flooded basement of that courthouse and came out all covered from her waist down in a nasty sludge. She went back to go get cleaned off. I had Cross check on her as precaution. That sludge was honestly the worst smell I had ever smelled; worse than Rhodes when it’s burrito night at the mess,” Fischer said with a smirk.
“Hey, I can’t help it if that’s the only edible thing that they serve there. A person has to eat to live, you know?” Rhodes said.
“Anyway, I don’t think she knows that we’re going to be over here,” Fischer said.
“Well, that’s a shame, hopefully she’ll show up, maybe,” Harlan said.
“Or if she’s smart she’ll go to Bison, like we should’ve,” Rhodes said.
“Nah, besides we’re here anyway,” Harlan said.
Harlan had brought Fischer and Rhodes to a small, old, red-brick building. The two front windows were boarded up with two-by-fours and particle boarding covered up the windows. The front glass door was blacked out with a crude coating of black paint and an unlit neon sign that read “Jimmy’s” hung over the top of it. There were no cars parked out in front; absolutely no indication that it was anything other than an abandoned building.
“Umm… Harlan, are you sure this place is even open?” Rhodes asked as he looked up at the unlit sign.
“Sure, I’m sure,” Harlan said as she reached for the door handle.
The door didn’t budge as she tried to open it.
“Maybe we should find another place,” Fischer said as he looked around.
“No, it’s
cool. This door sticks, that’s all,” Harlan tugged it a little harder and this time the door opened; a waft of cigarette smoke made its way out.
The three walked inside the small bar, which had five, red-vinyl booths on the left wall and a small number of stools at the bar itself to the right. There were a few patrons inside scattered throughout the bar; each seemingly in different stages of depression as they huddled over their beer mugs. The bartender, a middle-aged, balding man was washing a glass with a stained-yellow wash rag. He glanced at the three as they came in, but paid them no more attention than that.
“Inviting place,” Rhodes said as he whispered into Harlan’s left ear.
“Sush, come on,” Harlan quietly said.
Rhodes and Fischer walked over and sat at the second booth from the door, while Harlan walked up to order.
“I feel like I need to get a tetanus shot after this,” Rhodes said jokingly, causing Fischer to snicker.
“Here we go, three frosted mugs and a pitcher of their cheapest domestic,” Harlan said as she put the mugs and pitcher on the table and sat down next to Rhodes.
“Heh… so their only beer?” Rhodes asked sarcastically.
“Well, any beer is better than no beer,” Fischer said.
“I would disagree, Fish,” Rhodes said, and then poured his beer into his mug.
“No one’s making you drink it, dingus,” Harlan said.
“Ha! Yeah, Rhodes. Cheers,” Fischer said as he held up his mug to toast.
“To victory,” Fischer said.
“To victory,” said Harlan and Rhodes.
“Ugh… this is why I hate frosted mugs,” Rhodes said as he stuck out his tongue in disgust after tasting his beer.
“Yeah, I taste it too. It tastes like it was frosted with garden hose water or something,” Fischer said.
“I don’t taste anything, but beer,” Harlan said, continuing to drink.
“Let me out so I can get another glass,” Rhodes said.
Harlan shook her head no, while continuing to drink.
“Ah… sit tight, Rhodes, I’ll get us some new glasses,” Fischer said as he slid out of the booth.
“Thanks, Fish,” Rhodes said and then shook his head at Harlan.
Fischer walked up to the bartender who was cleaning a mug.
“Hey, your name wouldn’t happen to be Jimmy, would it?” Fischer asked the bartender.
“Sure, that’s what the sign outside says,” the bartender said, probably with a hint of sarcasm, but Fischer wasn’t sure.
“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Rex Fischer, would it?” the bartender asked as he threw his rag over his shoulder and put the mug away.
“Yeah, how …”
“Yup, I remember your face from all of the propaganda crap they used put out about you ten years ago. They haven’t been putting much out about you lately. What have you guys been doing, anything?” the bartender asked.
“Look, umm…”
“Call me Jimmy.”
“Look, Jimmy, I don’t control what gets out there, but I can assure you that my squad and I have been out there busting our asses, and we’ll be out there busting them tomorrow, so that this lovely little town doesn’t become an asterisk on our situational maps,” Fischer said.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to imply …”
“Yeah, so how about some unfrosted mugs, you do have two clean ones, don’t you?” Fischer asked as he leaned over the bar.
“Yeah… h-here you go,” Jimmy said as he handed Fischer two unfrosted mugs
“Thanks, Jimmy,” Fischer said, and then turned around and went back to the booth.
“Geez… Fish, what was that all about?” Rhodes asked.
“Nothing, you know how these civvies can get sometimes,” Fischer said, and then poured his beer from his old mug into his new one.
“I don’t know. Can you really blame them, Fischer?” Harlan said as she finished off her beer.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” Fischer said defensively.
“Never mind,” Harlan said as she looked to her left and avoided eye contact with Fischer.
Fischer thought about reminding Harlan about how hard they fight to protect these people and how they never seem to be thankful or appreciate it, but Fischer decided that it wasn’t worth pursuing, not until he had some more beer under his belt anyway.
“I think we should end our night at one pitcher. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow,” Rhodes said as he finished chugging his beer and poured another.
“Agreed,” Harlan said, still looking off to her left.
After quietly finishing off their pitcher in silence, the three got up from their booth and Harlan went up to pay the tab.
“Don’t worry, Harlan, I’ve got this,” Fischer said, and then quickly grabbed out some cash from his wallet. Harlan stuffed her money back into her pocket and without saying anything, or looking at Fischer, headed out the door with Rhodes.
“So how much do I owe you?” Fischer asked, holding up twenty credits.
“Nothing, your money’s no good here,” Jimmy said, polishing up another mug.
“Okay, thanks,” Fischer said, stuffing the money back into his wallet as he headed for the door.
He looked back and saw neither the bartender nor any of the other patrons looking up at him as he left. Outside the air had grown colder, the energy seemingly being sapped by the ever present electric hum.
“Well, I’m going to Bison. You guys wanna join?” Rhodes asked.
“No, I’m gonna turn in,” Harlan replied.
“Fish, you in?” Rhodes asked.
“Nah, you go ahead,” Fischer said.
“All right, your loss,” Rhodes said, and then jogged off towards the restaurant.
Harlan and Fischer then walked back towards the garrison area, where their squad tents were. Harlan was walking slightly ahead of Fischer.
“What’s wrong with you, Harlan?” Fischer asked without really thinking.
“You’re such an asshole,” Harlan muttered.
“What?” Fischer said, even though he heard her.
“I said you’re an asshole,” Harlan said more clearly, as she continued walking.
“Oh come on, Harlan, are you mad about what I said to that bartender? Damn civvies always complain because …”
“Jesus, will you shut the fuck up, Fischer? How about you look around once in awhile, these people don’t give a damn about what you did ten years ago, hardly anyone does; hell, even I don’t anymore!” Harlan said.
“I don’t care about that, I care that we’re not getting the thanks and recognition we deserve,” Fischer said.
“What? You want to be the world famous hero again, is that it? Feel like your star is fading?” Harlan berated. “Look around at this town, Fischer. Have you ever noticed how each town we go to seems to get worse and worse, time after time? You complain about the civvies, but their situation deteriorates each day, and they barely hear anything about this damn war. Wouldn’t you get frustrated by that too?”
Fischer looked around and even though Grantsburg had a thriving industrial base; the town was still in bad shape and as he thought about it, all the other towns that they had been to were just as bad. He had never really seemed to take notice; he was so fixated on protecting them from attacks. They were nothing more than objectives on a map, and from experience; it was the best way to think about them.
Fischer didn’t say anything more. Harlan and he remained quiet for a few moments. She then looked up at the clear, night sky, its waxing crescent moon floating high above.
“You know, Rex; I haven’t heard anything from my parents in over a month. I haven’t let it get to me, but when I saw you up there responding callously to that bartender, I don’t know, I just – this fucking war,” Harlan said as she rubbed a tear out of her eye.
“I’m sorry, Harlan, I had no idea. They lived close to the Beltway Front, right?” Fischer said, and then came up close to Harlan.
“Yeah
, I don’t understand. They didn’t live that close to the hot-zone, but every time I tried to call, I got a ‘service is down in that area’ message. My e-mails went un-replied. I thought we won that one, didn’t we?” Harlan said as she finally made eye contact with Fischer.
“I’m sure they’re fine, Harlan. Communication and power might just be down, that’s all. I’m sure you’ll hear from them sooner or later,” Fischer said, and then tried to put a hand on Harlan’s shoulder, but she quickly moved away from him.
“I’m not so sure, Rex. I’ll see you for the morning briefing. I’m… I’m gonna go,” Harlan said, and then walked off down the cracked sidewalk toward the garrison area.
Fischer walked over to an old, paint-chipped wooden bench underneath one of the broken street lights to his left, and sat down. He watched as Harlan walked away, and then disappear around a corner down the street. Fischer crossed his ankles and leaned back on the creaking bench. He thought he was probably the first person to sit on it in years as he put his hands behind his head and stared up at the night sky.
“Oh boy …” Fischer sighed.
The electric hum had gotten just a little louder now.
Chapter 20
“You still smell vaguely like the sludge,” Jones said to Brookes as she returned from the showers. Jones was sitting at the radio near the entrance of the tent, listening through his headphones, and writing stuff down.
“Thanks,” Brookes said, and then sat down on her cot to put on a clean pair of pants. Cross came up to her and dug through her medical bag.
“Whatcha doing, Cross?” Brookes asked, though she knew full well it involved a needle or a pill, or both.
“I’m going to give you something to help prevent a possible Staph Infection,” Cross said, and then pulled out a syringe from her medical bag.
“Okay, why?” Brookes asked, she guessed it probably had to do with that sludge she walked through earlier.
“Well, it’s just standard operating procedure for those exposed to unknown biofilms in stagnant water without proper protective gear,” Cross said as she flicked the hypodermic needle. “Lift up your right sleeve, please.”
Robot Wars: Thrown Into the Fray Page 12