Tinaree: Trial By Inferno (Shadows Of Peace Book 1)

by Nic Plume

  Further down, the hallway made a left turn in front of a doorway that was blocked from the other side with rubble, indicating another, at least partial collapse of the building. From the scorch marks, it looked like that corner was where the defenders had made a major stand, which seemed odd and out of sync with the meticulous defensive plan. Why would somebody who put so much thought and effort into their defenses choose a hallway with two attack angles but no retreat routes to make their stand? If they had time to set up defenses, they had time to find a better location.

  Before Dean got close enough to investigate the seeming dead end, he noticed a hole in the wall to his right that had been blocked from view by one of the barricades. It looked like the work of an APSCIT, an Adjustable Plas Shape Charge with Impact Trigger. Dean stepped through and into a small room that might have been a pantry. A few more steps brought him through a much more complete doorway into the kitchen. Scorch marks adorned the walls and cabinetry. The smell of ozone oozed from every surface. So, this was where they made their last stand. But how did they get here from the hallway corner? The door in the far wall, or what was left of both, had clearly led to the one in the hall corner, but it was also blocked by rubble.

  That puzzle would have to wait until Dean had resolved his issue with the two targeting lasers that had jumped to life on his chest.

  The lasers were sourced from the carbines of two men who stood guard over three bodies on the far side of the kitchen’s central island. Their uniforms, gray utilities with dark gray boots and belt, covered by black combat harness, identified them as Intergal troopers, even without seeing the identifying flag on their shoulders and back. Their high-tech gear and lack of visible name and rank insignia identified them as Special Forces. The shorter of the two mumbled something too low for Dean to make out, but otherwise both stayed silent.

  "Commander Richards." A third trooper entered the kitchen through a doorway to the two troopers’ left. "Squad Commander Vando Mason, First Squad, 615th SF, sir," he identified himself with a nod. "This area is hot." He spoke respectfully but his tone clearly indicated what he thought of Dean entering an active combat zone. He signaled his squad members to lower their weapons but didn’t bother introducing them. It was surprising that he’d introduced himself. With Special Forces, if you wanted to know who somebody was, you usually had to ask.

  "Not anymore," Dean replied.

  Waiting until the two troopers had lowered their carbines, Dean stepped around the buckled center island. He didn’t see any severe wounds on the man and two women lying by the far wall.

  Mason followed his gaze. "They’re stunned."

  The three wore Tinareean-made civilian clothing consisting of casual pants and simple shirts. Their boots were more utilitarian—possibly military, but not Intergal. The man was unshaven, with stubble maybe a few days old. All three were dirty and had rips and tears in their clothing. They looked to be in their early twenties, with the male appearing slightly older than the females. They were a little haggard, but not undernourished—more slim and trim, although slim wasn’t a good word to describe the man’s bulk. Standing, he was probably a head taller than Dean and had at least one and a half times his shoulder span. Aksel might not be good with names, but he’d nailed their descriptions.

  "We found them like this," Mason said. "But in the hallway." He nodded behind him.

  "ID’s?"

  "Nope."

  Dean looked at him. "You sure?"

  Mason studied him as if weighing his answer. The taller of the guards beat him to it.

  "We do know how to use a scanner." After a near immeasurable moment he added, "Sir."

  Dean ran his gaze up and down the trooper, then turned back to Mason.

  "So, why aren’t they cuffed?"

  "The scanner marked them as friendly," Mason explained. "But gave no further information."

  "Hmm." Dean looked back the way he’d come. "Did you make the hole?"

  "No, sir." Mason shook his head. "Other than moving them out of the hallway, everything is as we found it."

  "Traverse?"

  "I don’t think so." Mason shook his head. "Found two outside the building, three on the rubble, three in the big hallway, and four that are still buried under that." He nodded toward the blocked door behind his troopers. "But none in here."

  "Then, how did they get knocked out?"

  "I would guess some kind of a concussion charge or grenade that was lobbed before its owner got flattened."

  "Who made the hole?"

  "Still working on that."

  "Where are the other two?"

  "So, you believe these three are part of the five evacuees Chick-Chara reported?"

  "They fit the description."

  "Whose description?"

  "The doctor who treated the injury of the fifth guy."

  "Did this doctor contact Chick-Chara, pretending to be one of our FOs?"

  "No, Doctor Mitalius had no way of contacting the Evac unit. Which is why he contacted me."

  "Ah." Mason studied him. "Did you contact the evac unit?"

  "To inform them that the QRF was on its way, yes." He chuckled and tapped the rank insignia on his chest. "This works pretty well to get people to do what I want them to. Trumps pretending to be an FO any day."

  Mason smiled. "All right. Well, I think we found the fourth person." Mason paused. "He was killed a few blocks away. It looks like they were caught in an ambush."

  "Do you have an ID on him?"

  "Yes," Mason nodded. "Mica Oilmen. A local teen—"

  "Who was scheduled to go up with the first evac," Dean finished for Mason.

  He released a slow breath. Another innocent casualty. Kids were the hardest.

  Mason gave him a moment before continuing. "Now, here’s the interesting part. Our sensors picked up the shootout, but by the time we arrived, it was over. About a block out, a casualty marker popped up that led us directly to the dead ki—to Mica,” he corrected himself, "who was lying in a side alley. The marker had no signature and the kid had nothing on him that could have triggered it. On top of that, the team I left behind to recover the body and investigate the scene just reported that they found the ambushers. All of them were killed by a bullet commonly used in our high-powered sniper rifles. Although the sniper seemed to have missed a few times."

  "So, you're saying somebody was helping them?"

  "Not only that, but they again helped with the fight here." He paused to gauge Dean's reaction. "The two bodies outside and one on the rubble pile were killed the same way as the ambushers, with the same style weapon. Furthermore, three of the bodies we found in the hallway were shot from behind, from outside the apartment, which would suggest that they didn't merely have support from afar, but that someone came in close and personal."

  "Someone who had access to Intergal comm codes and our battle net."

  "Well, when I first heard about the ghost FO, I suspected battle fog—partial and unclear messages and intel causing confusion and misunderstandings. But after the ambush scene and now this, I'm not so sure."

  “Okay. Mica in the street, and these three…that still leaves one evacuee unaccounted for."

  "Maybe that's our sniper."

  "No." Dean shook his head. "The man was hit in the abdomen with a plasma slug and functional only through X-3." He looked at the three on the floor. "And since none of these three have that kind of wound, he’s the one we’re missing."

  "So, that's why they took refuge here." Mason mused.

  "Plasma?" the taller guard said. "Without armor? He must've had a good medic with him."

  Dean searched the two females for the telltale bandaged fingers Aksel had told him about.

  "That one." He nodded at the brown curly-haired female. "She dug it out with her fingers."

  The short guard blew a low whistle. "Wonder if Medici would do that."

  He suddenly cringed in pain and stuck a finger under his helmet to rub his ear. The other guard grinned and
shook his head. “Don’t mess with the medic who knows how to manipulate your comm.”

  "Do you believe they're ours?" Mason asked Dean.

  The room fell silent with three sets of eyes scrutinizing Dean. He wouldn't be surprised if the rest of Mason's squad was listening in remotely.

  "Do you?" he returned.

  Mason shrugged. "We don't recognize them, but that doesn't mean they couldn't be transfers we hadn't met."

  "Scanner says they belong,” the taller guard said.

  “It said friendly, not belong. And friendly doesn't make them ours,” the shorter guard replied.

  "Maybe Black Ops?"

  "That would make them ours, but not necessarily friendly." Mason replied, but his gaze stayed on Dean.

  Well played, Dean had to admit.

  "They found something," Mason suddenly said and turned to disappear through the door behind him.

  The two guards had perked up, too, so the comm call Mason was reacting to had come across the squad net.

  Dean followed Mason along the short hallway and into the last room on its right. It was a child's bedroom with its furniture scattered about, including a wardrobe that stood at an angle to the far wall. An SF was disappearing into a hole in the wall the moved wardrobe had uncovered.

  "Got a body," he called back.

  Mason slipped through the hole, Dean hot on his heels.

  They entered another bedroom, an adult's this time, clearly belonging to the neighboring apartment. Clothing lay strewn across the floor. Otherwise, the room looked untouched by the damage the building had suffered. Two doors, one open and leading into a hallway and the other closed, were the only other exits. The SF who had preceded them into the room stood bent over the bed. A patch on his shoulder identified him as a medic. Once Dean stood straight again, he could see what he was working on. A young man with a blood-soaked wound patch across the abdomen lay on the bed. He wasn't moving. Were they too late?

  "He's alive," the SF said and tucked his med-scanner back in its harness pouch.

  Dean released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Mason gave him a curious sideways glance and then looked at the SF returning from the hallway.

  "All clear," he reported. "It's a dead end this way."

  Mason acknowledged him with a nod and a quick hand signal and then turned to his medic, who studied the display of a med-scanner he’d pulled from the injured man's belt.

  "You got an ID?" Mason asked him.

  "Nope," the medic replied, "but the data in this scanner matches his bio ID." He nodded to the man on the bed. "They used it to store his treatment history. Don't know why they didn't also add his personal data."

  "They probably assumed that he would pop up on an ID scan,” the SF by the door said.

  The medic snorted. "Shows you how well that worked. Two is one, one is none also holds for personal identification." Seeing Dean’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated. “Having only one of any critical item means you have no back up. So, if it’s important, you need to have at least two of them, because one of them will break. They always do. And if you carry only one, then you will end up with none. But if you carry two, then you will still have one.”

  “Anyway," he continued. "This med-scanner is registered to Doctor Aksel Mitalius." He paused. "Does that ring a bell?"

  "Yes," Dean replied.

  The medic looked at him expectantly.

  "This is the fifth evacuee." Mason said.

  "But he ain’t ours," the SF at the door said.

  "So, neither of you recognize him?" Mason asked. When his two squad members shook their head, he exhaled in frustration.

  Dean couldn't blame him. The last six months had been rough, especially on the SF troopers left with the Task Force. Three-quarters of their numbers had been wiped out in one strike. And there had been no time allowed to properly mourn them. With the Task Force still on mission and in comm silence, Commander Kilrian had refused to hold a memorial service or notify Command. At the same time, with the three SF Units' survival probability near zero, he’d refused to even consider mounting a rescue operation on the grounds that it might endanger the success of the main mission. And lack of manpower had forced him to deny any requests to build one into the new battle plans. Any rescue operation or investigation would have to wait until the main mission was complete. For all intents and purposes, the lost SF Units were considered dead and written off until then.

  The QRF call had been a glimmer of hope that had lit a fire in Mason and his squad. If they found survivors, or proof that at least some of their brothers and sisters have survived, Kilrian might approve search and rescue operations. Even if they had to do it on their own time, which Dean was sure some of them were already doing. But now, this chance had evaporated.

  Dean understood their frustration. He had studied the reports and watched the footage those reports had been based on over and over, trying to understand what had gone wrong, what he could've done to avoid the massacre. The answer was, nothing. He and his team had done everything right. Someone he’d never met, who had never set foot on the Cartage, had betrayed the mission. A slip of the tongue, a pointed question, a stolen comm code, and four hundred thirty-one people had paid the price—but maybe only four hundred twenty-seven.

  Dean looked at the medic. "Can he talk?"

  "He's awake, but critical," the medic replied. "He's at the tail end of his tenth X-3 shot, and from what I'm seeing on this scanner, I'm not giving him another one." He looked at his squad commander. "He needs to be evac'ed ASAP."

  "I need to talk to him," Dean insisted.

  "You can try, but I'm not sure how coherent he is."

  The medic stepped away from the bed to make room and got on his comm. "We need a medevac."

  Dean stepped beside the bed and knelt. The blood hadn’t merely soaked the wound patch but soaked his clothing from his chest to his knees. It was a surprise the young man hadn't died from sheer blood loss. His clothes were civilian, something a local teenager would wear, but the boots were military, mid-calf strap-ons, possibly Intergal issue. They looked old and worn, as would be expected if they’d been worn for six months straight. His black hair was a ragged, matted mess, his skin covered in blood and grime. His breath was shallow but steady, and his eyes, partially open. He looked younger than the other three, easily by three or four years. Could he really be SF? But, they’d already accounted for the three teens in the group. Dean shook off his doubt and forged on.

  "Trooper," Dean turned the man's head to be within his field of vision. "Identify yourself." He paused and then repeated his order more forcefully. It took a moment, but the desired reaction finally came. The man's eyes fluttered open and slowly focused on Dean, first his face, then his uniform and the insignia on his chest. He moved his head to take in the room. Pausing, first on the medic and then on Mason, who watched him closely. Mason's hand suddenly flickered, giving the SF signal for 'all clear'. The young man visibly relaxed, and then focused back on Dean.

  "SF4 Mark Taylor," he said slow and low, but clearly audible, "First Squad, 315th SF Unit."

  The words took a visible toll, but Dean couldn’t let him rest. Not yet.

  Beside him, Mason pulled out his datapad and started typing.

  "Are you alone?" Dean asked.

  Mason's eyes suddenly widened, and he turned his datapad for Dean to see. It showed a picture of the young man, much cleaner and less battered, in SF utility uniform. In the background, the logo of the 315th could be seen on a bulkhead.

  The medic immediately got back on his comm. "Where’s my med-evac?" Listening to the reply through his earpiece, he answered, “That’s a no-go. We have four of ours, and they need to go now.” He paused again to listen. "I don't give a damn. Get your asses up here with stretchers."

  Taylor drew a couple of unsteady breaths with closed eyes, then refocused with a last push of energy.

  "No, sir," he rasped. "My teammates Patonee, K’Kaya, and A’Tourie should be in th
e vicinity." With each phrase, his breath became more ragged.

  Mason continued typing on his handheld while Taylor spoke, nodding shortly after he input each of the names Taylor listed.

  "They're the CHiTs Mitwa told us about arriving at his brother's unit halfway through train-up.” Mason looked at the others. “That's why we didn't recognize them."

  Dean looked at him. CHiTs were newly-graduated Troopers with zero combat experience. They weren’t assigned to units readying for deployment. Especially not when the unit was already that deep into train-up.

  The medic turned to Mason, “Boss, the pilot says he doesn’t have authorization to take the wounded to the medical ship. He was told to take them to the ground medical site."

  Mason looked at the medic, "Can they handle him?"

  The medic shook his head.

  "Take them to my ship. I’ll take them up myself,” Dean ordered.

  "Sir, your shuttle isn’t equipped for a medical transport, plus your mission—”

  Leave it to SF to know details of my mission, Dean thought, aloud he said, "Squad Commander Mason, my mission is my concern. Load the casualties on my ship.”

  Mason hesitated only a moment, "Yes, sir." He then turned and started for the exit. He had barely made it to the hole when Dean’s call spun him back around.

  "Mason."

  "Sir?" Mason’s voice was clear, his gaze alert, yet Dean could sense a deep weariness and mistrust behind that mask.