Shadows

by William A. Webb

  “Sergeant, leave six men with me and take the rest forward as planned.”

  Although never having fought in a military unit before, Riidono had fought in plenty of life-or-death battles. Without hesitation, he named six men to join Cutter, who deployed them along both sides of the bridge, their guns trained on the fleeing citizens. It wasn’t a second too soon.

  There were knots of women, tightly packed, at a distance of about thirty yards. At a cry, they all fell to the ground, revealing several men with rifles trained on Cutter’s group.

  “Fire!” Cutter cried and squeezed the trigger of his Thompson. Holding the weapon firm, he put three rounds into a stocky man who was slow to aim, and knocked him backward. Holding the trigger down, he emptied the magazine into the other three militiamen as rounds from his platoon ripped into them. Screaming women scooped up crying children and fled in all directions, but no more shots came their way.

  He turned around and spotted two militiamen running down the riverbank, too far away for his sub-machine gun. Two more lay in the mud near the river, one groaning and rolling in pain. That’s when he noticed one of his own men hanging half over the bridge, face down. Blood soaked the back of his face wraps. When his friends pulled him back onto the stone, Cutter saw a bullet hole over his right eye. Images of dead men flashed through his mind, Americans from his platoon and other units, Germans, French civilians; death was death, and it didn’t care who you were. Now he’d gotten another man killed.

  In that moment, though, something changed inside him. Although a volunteer for the US Army, he’d never wanted to bring death to anyone. But that seemed to be his destiny, and if it was, then he’d kill, and if somebody shot him while he stood in the open, then so be that, too.

  After instructing his men to join Sergeant Riidono, he descended onto the river flats and stalked toward the wounded militiaman, his boots sucking up and dropping clumps of mud. Stinging insects swarmed his face, so he pulled the covering over his nose and shaded his eyes from the glare of sunlight off the stagnant water.

  The wounded man saw him coming and reached for his weapon, clawing in the pebbles and mud for a rifle too far away to reach. Blood stained the front of his robe, a shade of red brighter than the dark maroon of his face paint. Seeing he couldn’t get his rifle, the man dragged himself toward the water, leaving a smear of blood on the shore.

  He got within three feet of the river when Cutter stepped on the back of his right leg, near the ankle. Standing on the joint, Cutter heard bones snap and the man screamed in pain. Using the toe of his boot, Cutter rolled the man onto his back and stuck the gun barrel against his forehead.

  “Don’t kill him!” cried a voice from behind.

  Craning his neck, Cutter spotted Riidono trotting toward him, leading three other men. Squinting against the sunlight, he waited while the sergeant inspected the dead men wearing the same paint. Moments later Riidono joined him.

  “These are J’Stull,” he said. “Men of the satrap.”

  “Do you know that because of their paint?”

  Riidono nodded. The dying J’Stull—and he clearly was dying—held up his hands, pleading. But whether he was pleading for help or a quick death Cutter couldn’t say. The man tried to speak, but coughed blood after every breath, and while Cutter spoke the local language fluently, he didn’t know it well enough to make out the garbled words.

  “Yes, that is their color. Do you see the two small blue dots over his left eye? That is the mark of his standing.”

  “Is he important?”

  “In your army he would be an officer. Not a high officer, but not a common soldier, either.”

  “Like me.” Cutter pressed harder on the gun. “Ask him where they took your healer.”

  “I am unsure if he knows, Lieutenant.”

  “You’ll never know unless you ask, and make it snappy, this guy won’t last much longer.”

  The sergeant’s eyes reflected his thoughts. Riidono didn’t ask what snappy meant, or why Cutter wanted him to interrogate the prisoner. After asking if the J’Stull soldier knew of an important woman brought captive to the city, the man surprised Riidono by answering yes, he had heard about it from a friend who went on the raid.

  “They took her somewhere into the tunnels; he doesn’t know where.”

  “Is he holding out on us?”

  “I believe him, if that is what you mean. He knows death is near and fears condemnation of his spirit.”

  “Ask him about important people who might be in the city.”

  Riidono did so and had to lean close to hear the response. Coughing out the words, he sprayed the sergeant’s face with his blood, until his breath weakened too much for it to do more than bubble on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest slowed and finally stopped.

  “It was difficult to understand his words, but, if I heard correctly, there are three men of importance he knows about. One he names Waornaak, who he described as an important militia leader who beats women. Another is a militia leader named Zeesar, who is also the F’ahdn’s yuzbazzi. He said Zeesar skulks about the city listening to conversations for the F’ahdn, or so he believed. The last is Yukannak, the silci for the satrap, which means he speaks for the satrap. We will know him by his elaborate gold and silver paint.”

  “Why gold and silver?”

  “They are hard to obtain and cost much.”

  Even after the man died, Cutter continued to stare at him. In his mind he saw the aftermath of a different battle, one in the hedgerows of France in 1944. A twisted corpse lay beside a narrow road overhung with tree branches, wearing the unique camouflage of a Waffen-SS panzergrenadier. A helmet nearby was marked at the left temple with a swastika, and by the SS Sigrunen on the right. He was little more than a boy, a teenager of sixteen or seventeen who’d never known any leader other than Hitler. Cutter wanted to hate him but couldn’t.

  “Captain? Did you hear me?”

  “Mmm…?”

  “Shouldn’t we tell Lieutenant Tanavuna what we have learned?”

  “Eh?” Cutter shook off his reverie. “Yeah, sure, let’s do so.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 10

  Winds atop the plateau filled the air with dust and bits of dried vegetation. For Tanavuna’s men, it was a daily occurrence, and they knew how to deal with it. The younger men formed a semi-circle facing away from the gusts, using their bodies as shields for the older men who formed a second semi-circle. All of them had pulled up their face coverings to protect their eyes until the gusts died down.

  As the fighting tapered off in the city below, Tanavuna couldn’t sit still. Instead, he paced, frequently asking Major Moorefield’s radio man if Captain Cutter had called. The man answered “no” every time and pointed out that a call from the platoon leader would probably come using the platoon’s radios.

  Kesteluni’s spirit called to the young hetman; he could feel her nearby, and he knew that if he dashed down the stairway into the maze of tunnels dug into the plateau, his men would follow. His impulse was to do just that. Waiting as part of a coordinated effort was not how his people reacted when danger threatened. But Major Moorefield had warned, during the briefing on his part in the mission, that charging into an unknown combat environment would only get his men killed; he needed to let the assault troops open the way first. So instead, Tanavuna paced, waited, and cursed.

  The smell of burnt gunpowder on the breeze, combined with the sounds of battle echoing through the stairs leading down into the rock of the plateau, did nothing to alleviate Tanavuna’s worry. If anything, it made it worse. He had decided to lead his men into the tunnels anyway, orders be damned, when Captain Cutter finally called.

  “Desperado Six’s team has done all they can, Shadow Five,” Cutter said. Tanavuna heard tension in his voice. “They’ve secured all known exits from the city and pushed forward as far as practical. Opposition is disorganized and temporarily suppressed. Desperado Six is sending a runner to lead you to our forward po
sitions.

  “He will show you the entrances from the plateau that command believes lead to the Inner City. There’s also a breach in the wall and a few other potential entry points. Use them or not; it’s up to you. Not all are secured, and we can’t say what’s waiting on the other side. Have you devised a plan of entry?”

  Tanavuna hesitated. Six months of intensive training in the Offworlders’ way of war had been enough to instill more than basic small unit tactics, but there was still so much to learn. He didn’t dare admit he only knew one way to go about his mission: go with all of your men and overwhelm the enemy. Except that wouldn’t really work in a system of tunnels and passages against an unknown number of enemies. Only then did his desire to rescue Kesteluni dampen enough for him to realize what was expected of him.

  Even though Cutter wasn’t physically there to witness his nervousness, Tanavuna licked his lips before answering. “I had thought to charge through the tunnel, but the enemy would expect us to do that.” He waved away the tiny insects buzzing near his eyes. “So, I will do as I do when hunting for meat. I will send Sergeant Brakkel down with Second Squad to move through the main tunnel from the place of plants and keep the J’Stull focused on what they expect to see. Third Squad can enter through a breach point in the wall, move into the Inner City, and come up on the enemy holding the tunnel from behind. I will go with Third Squad. That will let us search more area for Kesteluni and the persons of interest.”

  “If the enemy is running away, don’t stop him.”

  “I understand, Shadow Six.”

  Cutter started to say something else, but then waited through a burst of gunfire before resuming. “I have intelligence for you on the HVTs, but remember that the lives of two dozen men are in your hands. They are willing to die for you, and some probably will; don’t waste them.”

  “I would never do that. They are my friends, my family.”

  “No, Shadow Five, not anymore, they’re not. Now they’re your soldiers, the men you lead into battle knowing they won’t all come back. Trust your training.”

  Tanavuna nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Cutter passed along everything he’d learned about the HVTs and said he’d move north through the Outer City with First Squad. They would spread out in a mutually supporting skirmish line, at best speed, theoretically capturing any persons of interest or pushing them toward the Inner City where Tanavuna’s men could capture them.

  “And you agree to my plan of action, sir?”

  “You’re the man on the spot, Shadow Five, and I trust your judgement. Do what you think is best.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “The only men you owe thanks are those following you into battle, Shadow Five. Shadow Six out.”

  * * *

  Major Moorefield’s guide found Tanavuna atop the plateau overlooking the cache site, along with a handful of men deployed there as an observation point. He directed Sergeant Brakkel and Second Squad to the stairs leading down into the triangular draw filled with medicinals and other materiel, and from there to the tunnel which led into Imsurmik and the homes of the wealthy. The guide was an Ashbander but his habits and the way he wore his robes suggested he was from a larger village. The appraising glances he directed at the men from Nuthhurfipiko weren’t entirely friendly. Conflict between villages over scarce resources was common, and grudges might last for generations.

  Tanavuna turned to get his own men moving when he overheard one of Moorefield’s men speaking with another.

  “What did you just say?” Tanavuna asked, whirling to face the man.

  “Sir, I—”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we found tire tracks north of the city, and it was strange because they stopped without going anywhere.”

  “Show me!”

  Sergeant Brakkel was already descending the stairwell cut into the plateau, with Second Squad right behind him. Sergeant Scussian was about to follow the guide down to the breached wall. On hearing Tanavuna’s command, he stopped and turned back.

  “Lieutenant, doesn’t Major Moorefield expect you to join him in the Inner City right away?”

  Tanavuna squinted, thinking. Scussian was right; those were his mission orders from Major Moorefield, but he needed to pursue any clue as to Kesteluni’s whereabouts. Maybe those tire tracks were nothing. It wasn’t much to go on, after all, and changing the mission plan based on hope and instinct went against all of his training. Yet he also knew that he was going to do exactly that. He also had an excuse—a thin one, it was true—but an excuse all the same.

  “We were ordered to find alternative exits that might be used by HVTs to escape, and I was given discretion in doing that. Find Major Moorefield and tell him I’m taking three men with me.” He pointed out two of the older men, Ammaii and Kuun, plus Kuun’s younger brother, Unaa. “Take the rest of Third Squad and reinforce Second Squad. Brief Captain Cutter on the situation but wait until I’ve been gone for ten minutes. Until you link up with Major Moorefield, you’re in tactical command. If these tire tracks amount to nothing, I’ll join you soon.”

  Scussian’s expression showed that he wanted to argue, but he didn’t; Tanavuna had a reputation for fairness and patience…unless you argued with him. The sergeant nodded.

  “Take me to this place with the tracks,” Tanavuna said to Moorefield’s man. “And be fast; time is not our friend.”

  “I’ve got a small truck, Lieutenant, but I should ask Major Moorefield first…”

  “I will accept the responsibility.” The muzzle of his M14 shifted slightly in the man’s direction. “Now show me this place!”

  * * *

  Standing in the powered vehicle, Tanavuna gripped a rail as it bumped across the plateau. He and his men scanned for any sign of wheel tracks. By that point, Sergeant Brakkel had to be well into the tunnel and moving toward Imsurmik underground. Part of Tanavuna still thought it was a mission he should have been leading instead of putting it off on his two sergeants. Either of them could have investigated the mysterious tire tracks…should have investigated them, not the only officer on the spot.

  Yet wheel tracks to nowhere had to be explored; those were his orders. He had said nothing about the feeling that it would lead him to Kesteluni because, despite his agreement to carry out the primary mission first, he couldn’t bring himself to pass up a chance to find her. It was selfish, reckless, and dangerous, but—in the moment—he didn’t care.

  “We will get her back,” Ammaii said. Even with his face wrapped against the blistering sunlight, the deep-cut lines in the man’s forehead showed his age. He’d been a close friend of Tanavuna’s father. “I’ve known Kesteluni since she was a baby, and I’ll die before I let these scavengers have her.”

  Kuun, never a talkative sort, nodded in agreement, as did Unaa and Tanavuna; more words weren’t necessary.

  “There,” said Moorefield’s man, pointing ahead. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Tanavuna jumped out. Trotting near the tracks, he motioned for the others to stay back. He walked back and forth parallel to the ruts in the dirt but always a few yards away from them. Then he waved his men forward.

  “Many have passed here on foot, and their tracks end where the wheel tracks do. They came from the airship towers—” he pointed behind them, “—and several days have passed since these prints were made. There must be a way underground. Look for some type of door.”

  Kuun found it within a minute and signaled them over. Ropes ran under the dirt and were affixed to a scrub tree as camouflage. Brown leaves clung to its dead branches, but under the punishing suns it was only one among thousands. Seconds later, they had the door’s seams outlined clearly in the dirt, but from thirty feet away, it was invisible.

  Tanavuna followed the tracks leading to the trap door ten paces to the west, from the direction of Nuthhurfipiko. Shading his eyes, he could make out the trail for more than a mile.

  “They brought Kesteluni this way,” he said with conviction that brooked
no argument. “We will find her through this door.”

  Moorefield’s man ran back to the vehicle to inform the major of their discovery and to get further orders. Tanavuna already had the orders he needed, though: investigate any additional ways into the city. For a brief flash, he wondered if the order had originated with Murphy or Cutter, and if it was Cutter, whether the captain had foreseen the situation confronting him. His mind shifted back to action.

  “How do we get in?” asked Ammaii. “We have no explosives powerful enough to blast it open.”

  “No, we do not.” One thing Cutter had emphasized throughout his leadership training was that logic and calmness always prevailed in stressful situations. Leaders who gave in to emotion invariably failed in their missions. Tanavuna had always been quick to anger and fast to act, but he realized in that moment that Cutter was right; he needed to stay calm and think. Sure enough, it worked; he called back to Moorefield’s man. “Do you have any rope?”

  “No, sir!”

  “A heavy staff or rod?”

  The man paused, rummaged in the short cargo bed, and trotted back holding a metal shaft an inch in diameter and three feet long. One end was beveled and the other had snapped off cleanly into a flat end.

  “Will this do, Lieutenant? It’s a broken strut. But, sir, Major Moorefield says to secure the exit and wait for reinforcements before making entry.”

  “Did he say how long before they get here?”

  “No, sir. But I would guess a half hour, maybe more.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Sir, he sounded—”

  “I heard you!” Tanavuna said and then repeated one of Cutter’s favorite lessons, “But guesses are not the basis for sound decisions.”

  The irony didn’t go unnoticed that he had guessed the tire tracks might lead to Kesteluni, and then reversed the axiom for his own advantage. But the moment for worrying about such contradictions had passed.