Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  “That’s good enough, damn it!” Gordon cursed as he watched another of the rangers fall under the withering fire of the fort’s machine gun turrets.

  Lieutenant Garrett’s platoon had made it to within one hundred yards of the glacis and were crouched or kneeling in place, returning fire at the closest turrets. Gordon watched as a rifle grenade from one of the rangers struck a turret dead-on, exploding harmlessly against the thick steel. A second later, that ranger fell over on his side.

  “They’re losing too many,” Ward hissed. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “This is part of the plan,” Gordon replied. He wished that made this easier to watch.

  Suddenly, one of the rangers — Lieutenant Garrett, though it was hard to tell in the dark — stood up, waved his hand, and started running back to the woods. The others leapt to their feet and followed a second later.

  Gordon shook his head, each second grinding past as Garrett and the rest of his troops sprinted toward him. Another one fell, and another, caught in the back by the hail of bullets from the fort’s machine guns. Explosions burst behind them as one of the fort’s artillery turrets joined in. “Come on. Come on.”

  Two more rangers vanished in an explosion. Another fell face forward like a rag doll.

  But then Garrett was leaping into the woods, turning, and hustling the remainder of his troops into the tree line, shouting encouragement at them as they passed.

  “Good job! Come on! Back to the rendezvous point! You can make it!”

  Gordon waited until the last ranger had run past him and into the woods before hitting his shoulder mic. “Foxtrot, this is Victor Five. Repeat, target Alpha-Alpha-one-seven-four-five, over.”

  Gordon got to his feet, keeping his head down as bullets began to thwack into trees around him. “Let’s move.”

  He pulled Corporal Ward to his feet, flinched as shells whistled overhead. He looked over, saw balls of fire appear on the top of the fort. He knew they weren’t doing much, but it felt good to punch back.

  “Raven Two-Six, this is Victor Five. The rest of the platoon is falling back. We’ll be on station.” Gordon called into the radio as a tree exploded nearby, shooting fragments of wood in all directions. The fort wasn’t letting them run away without trouble.

  “Copy.” Lieutenant Rankin’s voice crackled over the radio.

  Another shell exploded fifty yards to the right. Dirt and small pieces of wood rained down on Gordon’s helmet and body armor. If this didn’t work, they’d be in real trouble in a second or two.

  “Lieutenant!” Gordon shouted over the crash of more shells slamming into the fort. “Prepare our exit!”

  Garrett nodded, pulled a rifle grenade from his belt and began fitting it to the muzzle.

  “Sir, look!”

  Gordon followed Ward’s pointed finger toward the fort, could barely see the outline of the turrets vanishing into the fort in the dimness.

  “Hide in your hole, you bastards!” Ward’s shout was all but lost as another set of shells struck the glacis, spitting fire into the night.

  Gordon couldn’t blame him for his rage, not after what they’d seen happen to Garrett’s platoon.

  “Don’t celebrate yet, Corporal.” Gordon glanced over, saw Garrett kneeling down and angling his carbine with its butt in the dirt, the rifle grenade pointed into the air. He turned back toward the fort, straining his eyes to make out the main gate. Shut tight.

  They waited, listening to the whine of the shells. Where were they?

  “We… We could make another go of it, sir.” Garrett looked up at Gordon, wiped sweat and dirt from his face. “They may not come out if we—"

  “There!” Ward interrupted.

  Gordon’s heart surged into his throat. A sliver of light appeared, growing into a rectangle. The main gate was sliding open. And from inside came pouring the shapes of people, weapons catching the light from the fort’s interior as they rushed outside and into the dark. For a moment, he fought the urge to laugh, thinking of clown cars from ancient silent films. There were so damn many of them.

  Gordon saw Ward step back slightly.

  “We hold our position,” Gordon said. “Stand fast.”

  The scream of the charging people became audible over the shellfire. Sweat trickle down Gordon’s forehead.

  “Hold on…. Hold on.” He raised his arm.

  The wave of enemies was closing the distance. Only a few hundred feet now. Then the rectangle of light began to narrow into a slit and, after a second, vanished completely.

  “Now!” Gordon moved his arm down in a slashing motion, and he heard the muffled boom of Garrett’s rifle grenade. A second later, it detonated, and Gordon heard agonized screams as the explosion cast the attacking crowd into light for a second.

  “That pissed them off.” Ward shouted over the shellfire.

  Gordon didn’t respond, but he shouldered his rifle and fired a few times, knowing he’d hit his mark. There was no missing with a dense group like that.

  Flashes and the crack of weapons fire told Gordon that Ward and Garrett were doing the same. Bits of wood flew off of trees, clods of dirt spat into the air. The air hissed as bullets from the oncoming group knifed into the tree line.

  Gordon fought every urge to run. They had to wait, had to keep harassing the enemy, keep them interested, committed to the chase. If the enemy gave up on following them and returned to the fort, the plan was shot.

  They were so close now. One hundred yards. Fifty. Gordon fired three more shots, turned, and shouted over the din. “Let’s move!”

  Ward nodded and plunged into the trees in the direction the rest of Garrett’s platoon had vanished. Garrett stood from where he was kneeling behind a tree, took a hard look toward the fort, and Gordon knew that he wasn’t looking at the enemy, but at the third of his platoon that was still lying out there.

  “Lieutenant, after you!” Gordon put his hand on the man’s shoulder, gave him a slight push.

  Garrett sprinted into the woods, and Gordon followed, stopping and firing behind him every few dozen yards. The enemies seemed to have taken the bait, were still chasing after them.

  This might actually work.

  They were only twenty yards behind, crashing into the forest, firing wildly after the Alliance troops.

  Gordon fired his rifle, then reloaded on the run, following the dim form of Lieutenant Garrett into the night. The scream of charging thousands followed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Hold your positions… Wait until my order.”

  Jack squinted out as the flood of enemy troops moved off into the trees a few hundred yards to their left. He’d heard the radio traffic — Osterman and his team were pulling back. Now they only had to wait for the enemy to pass out of sight. Easier said than done.

  “Christ, they’re like ants,” Henrikson whispered from nearby.

  “Keep your head out of your ass, Private,” Flores responded.

  Jack couldn’t blame them for their agitation. Watching Garrett’s platoon get cut to pieces had been hard enough. Standing by while an entire army chased after Osterman’s team just rubbed salt in the wound. Jack bit his lip.

  He wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t let fear for his friend, for the other rangers, slip into his thoughts. He had his own team to worry about.

  Jack watched the shells explode on the outside of the fort, let the noise empty his mind of worry. He had to admire the artillery crew’s work. The rounds were consistently striking right on the fort’s superstructure. Not one had fallen short onto the surrounding plain. That was something of a relief considering he and his group were about to run across that area. Danger close? Safety distance? All of that was out the window.

  “They’re all in the woods.” Flores interrupted Jack’s thoughts.

  Jack nodded, more to himself than anyone else. Just a minute longer.

  He waited just long enough for the yells and battle cries of the enemy force to start fading in the distance, then s
tood up, turned to face the blackness of the woods behind him, and waved. The marines and rangers slipped out of cover, their footsteps silent as they moved toward him.

  Jack gripped his rifle tightly, turned around, and started running. The trees disappeared from around him, the comforting closeness of the vegetation giving way to the naked openness of the plain. Jack felt the soft, spongy grass under his boots as he ran toward the fort, the acrid smell of explosives burning his nose. Shells whistled overhead and detonated on the fort, drowning out the sound of the others running beside and behind him, washing him with noise. He fixed his eyes on the dark shape of the fort, watching the low silhouettes of its retracted turrets. One of the turrets disappeared for a moment in a direct shell hit, then reappeared as the smoke dissipated, completely undamaged. If the garrison realized that the small shells weren’t capable of penetrating the fort’s defenses while Jack and the others were still in the open…

  But they were getting close to the gate now. Just a bit farther. Just a bit farther.

  The air crackled as more shells sailed overhead, exploded. Jack flattened himself against the cold, hard retaining wall of the entrance tunnel, breathing hard and looking behind him at the rest of the group, shadows streaking across the open ground. He scooted along the wall and peered into one of the exterior guardhouse’s gun ports. It was empty and dark inside, and Jack could see the door to the interior guardhouse shut tight. No doubt the artillery had scared whoever was manning the fort’s gate, and they’d retreated inside.

  Flores came to a halt beside Jack. “Are we clear?”

  “Clear.”

  “Morrisseau! Wu!” Flores slung her carbine over her shoulder. “Get on it!”

  The entire group had made it across now, and they pushed themselves against the gate and the retaining wall of the fort’s glacis, minimizing their exposure. Two of them ran toward Flores, who opened a small keypad just to the side of the gate.

  Jack flinched as another shell exploded, watched as Wu and Morrisseau took apart the panel. Morrisseau, small and wiry, pulled a cable from inside the panel and handed it to Wu, who knelt down and pulled small a computer pad from his pocket. He connected the cable, his features lit up by the glow from its screen.

  “Shit!” One of the marines cursed as another shell detonated, much closer than before.

  “Any day now, Captain.” Jack shouted over at Flores, who was saying something he couldn’t hear over the din to Wu. Then she turned around, gave a thumbs up.

  “Prepare to breach!” Jack motioned to the others around him, and they arranged themselves on either side of the gate. Flores and Private Hartnett, one of the marines, took up the front positions, pulled grenades from their belts.

  Jack arranged himself behind Flores and looked back at Wu, who was hunched over his pad.

  Wu raised his hand.

  A second later, the door began to slide open, the loud grind of the gate’s motor audible even over the artillery.

  Before the gate had opened six inches, Flores and Hartnett tossed their grenades through the crack and looked away. Jack did the same.

  Explosions. A flash of light lanced out across the ground from the gap in the opening gate. Screams.

  “Go! Go!”

  Jack heard Flores’ shout, saw her vanish into gate, and followed.

  Smoke assaulted his lungs and stung his eyes as he took in the details. A wide corridor. The mangled body of an enemy on the floor. Blood spattered on the walls. Bits of glass and metal from grenade fragments and exploded light bulbs. Two more enemies stumbling out of the guardhouse, covering their eyes and waving pistols around.

  Flores and Hartnett knocked them over, silenced their surprised screams with bayonets. Jack caught movement to his left, saw another enemy clambering to his feet a few yards down the corridor. Jack aimed his rifle, thought twice, and then ran toward him, knocking him back down to the ground with his rifle butt. Looking anywhere but at the man’s face, Jack pushed the point of his bayonet past the poor bastard’s desperate hands and into his chest. He planted his foot on the enemy’s torso, withdrew, and punched the blade in again. The man went limp.

  Fighting back his nausea, Jack withdrew his bayonet. They had to hold off from firing their weapons as long as possible. The explosion of the grenades could be mistaken for artillery, but the sharp crack of rifle fire would give them away. The farther they could get inside the fort before they had to start fighting, the better.

  Jack looked behind him. The rest of his troops were flowing in through the fully opened gate. Flores was running toward him with Private Fletcher in tow. They stopped beside Jack, breathing hard.

  “Alright, Fletcher,” Jack clapped the private on the back. “Get us to the command center. Shortest route.”

  Fletcher nodded, then ran off down the corridor with Flores. Jack waved to the rest of the group, and then followed. The corridor continued, then opened onto a large, brightly lit bay, which was empty except for a jeep Jack recognized as Colonel Neville’s. Just beyond, the corridor ended, and a staircase rose up and to the left. The concrete walls echoed with their footsteps, a stark contrast to the noise outside, which had faded to a muffled rumble.

  The group came to a halt as Flores and a handful of marines and rangers crept upwards, clearing the landing at the top.

  “So far, so good.” Lieutenant Arnot appeared at Jack’s side.

  Before Jack could respond, Lieutenant Squires walked by and muttered, “Don’t jinx it.”

  No kidding.

  Fletcher signaled that the landing was clear, and Jack ran forward, taking the stairs two at a time. At the top of the landing, he found Flores, Squires, Fletcher, and a few others with their backs against the wall, ready to move around the corner. Jack made eye contact with them, moved into position, and began creeping around the corner, clearing the corridor beyond one pie-slice at a time.

  Then he saw them, and the corridor exploded into gunfire.

  “Send all our forces to the west tunnels. Keep them out!” Tom shouted at the messenger, who stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up into the command center. The telephones only serviced the bunkers, turrets, and guardhouse, and without a radio, they’d resorted to sending runners back and forth to the various lines of defense in the fort.

  The runner nodded and sprinted away.

  Damn it!

  The enemy attack force had seemed to retreat, and when their artillery had started again, Tom had given in to the Supervisor’s suggestion, ordered the turrets down, and sent out most of the fort’s garrison to catch the retreating Alliance forces. He wasn’t about to let them melt into the woods again, and if his people could catch them fleeing and packing up their cannons, they could wipe them out for good.

  But he’d kept back a couple hundred troops. The Supervisor had called it an unnecessary precaution. Then someone had heard an explosion down at the main gate, probably a shell strike. The guardhouse hadn’t answered the telephone, so he’d sent some of his people to investigate. They’d run headlong into an Alliance attack force. Unknown strength, unknown numbers. And no way to call back the unit running after the other Alliance force. To make things worse, judging from the targeting scanners, the enemy warship was doing a number on the fleet.

  Tom turned on his heels, strode over to Jordan. “Are you ready to fire?”

  Jordon nodded, wincing at the distant sound of gunfire echoing down the corridor — and getting closer. “We’ll have target lock in a moment.”

  “Begin the launch sequence.”

  “Enemy vessel destroyed,” Isabelle said as another one of the enemy warships split in two, spewing fire and atmosphere into space as it began to drift into the planet’s gravity.

  Four down. Sixteen to go.

  Kim gripped the armrest of her chair, took a deep breath. This was going better than she could have imagined. Out of effective range of the enemy fleet, the Verdun’s was tearing her adversaries apart with its main guns. Every time the enemy ships attempted to
close the distance, the Verdun would blast one of them apart and the others would retreat, try to re-shuffle their formation.

  If this continued, they would have the enemy fleet demolished in no time.

  “It’s only a matter of time before they decide to rush us and accept whatever losses they take in the process.” Holsey’s voice broke into Kim’s thoughts, articulating her own concerns. “Once they’re in close, they’ll run circles around us. Our advantage will disappear.”

  Kim swiveled her chair around, took in Holsey’s grim expression. At least someone else here was sharing Kim’s cynicism. All the rest of the bridge crew seemed to be enjoying the fireworks show of the exploding enemy vessels.

  “I agree.” Kim spun back around. “Mr. Stetler, begin plotting a trajectory away from the planet.”

  “Away from it, Ma’am?” Stetler looked back over his shoulder at Kim, his brow furrowed.

  “Correct. If the enemy fleet rushes us, I want to maintain our gravitational advantage as long as we can. We’ll turn it into a running battle if we have to, but we can’t let them get close.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Stetler bent over his controls and began working.

  The bridge lit up again as a volley of shells from the Verdun split another enemy ship into pieces.

  “Enemy vessel destroyed,” Isabelle confirmed. “Enemy target lock. Recommend evasive maneuvers.”

  Chills skittered down Kim’s spine. “What the hell?”

  She swiveled around in her chair. “Fowler, report!”

  Fowler was shaking his head, sitting straight in his chair. “Someone on the planet is pinging us with an EM beam.”

  The bottom fell out of Kim’s stomach. “From where?”

  “From a set of structures in the mountains near the fort.” Fowler swallowed hard. “It’s an illuminator. They’ll have positive lock in—”

  Kim interrupted Fowler. “Holsey, have fire control direct the secondary guns to load time-fuse shells. Put all anti-fighter and anti-ordnance turrets on alert and feed in the coordinates of the fort. I want an effective flak screen. Keep the main guns on the fleet. Keep them busy!”