The Soldier

by Terrance Mulloy

  That presented another notch of concern for Roberts. There was no way of contacting anyone above, and vice-versa. They would have to wait until an officer ventured down to notify them it was clear to exit. Of course, that was assuming any officers would be left after this attack.

  Roberts staunched a yawn and took a standing position against a far corner of the bunker, leaning against the wall to watch two medics clean an injured officer’s leg wound. Both were no older than twenty; Combat Medic Technicians from the USC’s Royal Medical Corps, most likely originally deployed from Britain’s largest Field Hospital in Yorkshire.

  As Roberts watched them calmly work in the dim light, she realized she was the oldest person down here. That made her feel slightly uncomfortable, especially as these officers were now all looking at her for leadership. She remembered how she felt around some of the older officers when first arriving here as a young Officer Cadet almost three years ago. Funnily enough, the commanding officer that gave her the most flak was a twenty-eight-year-old captain from Slough, who Roberts was convinced, after turning down her sexual advancements, had made it her sole mission to make her life here as miserable as humanly possible. After hearing that captain had perished in the field at the hands of the enemy, Roberts made a promise to never treat any of the younger officers with the same abusive behavior and disdain as that captain did, despite her own burden of responsibility now becoming almost overwhelming whenever she dwelled on it for too long.

  The last attack on this base was devastating, not just in the loss of life, but also in the general morale among the officers. Camp Suffield was not a major Forward Operating Base, or a combat outpost, or a fire support base. It was originally constructed as an armory and supply waypoint for passing convoys and was tiny in comparison to some of the larger USC bases scattered around Epsilon. Understandably, when Roberts and the rest of her light infantry regiment were assigned to Vanguard, they assumed this would mostly be a boring and noneventful position to be stationed at for the next three months, with the real fighting concentrated in the northern regions of the planet where the bulk of the British and American forces were operating. Little did they realize how wrong they would be. Over the past week, everyone here had seen their fair share of heavy action, including those not injured, and Roberts could not help but feel a bond with these men and women – even those she did not know by name, only by rank.

  Still lingering on her thoughts, she idly glanced across the room and caught sight of an unfamiliar face. One she was certain she had never seen before.

  Sensing a pair of eyes on him, the male officer immediately turned his back towards her while fidgeting with something across his uniformed chest. He then slinked away between two massive support columns, disappearing into the darker recesses of the bunker. From what Roberts could discern, whoever this person was, he was deathly pale and scarecrow thin.

  That realization struck her like a snake bite, causing her to take off after the mysterious officer, her frown deepening as she walked briskly to catch up with him. “Excuse me, officer,” she called out, careful not to arouse any unwarranted concern from those trying to rest and recover. “May I have a word?”

  With his back still to her, the mysterious officer ignored her and kept moving back towards a small gathering of medics who were unpacking some IV fluid bags out of a supply crate.

  “Officer,” she stated more firmly this time, her right hand now hovering over her holstered pistol. “Halt!”

  The officer ignored her and kept moving.

  “I said, halt!” Roberts yelled louder this time, enough to get the entire room’s attention.

  Several of the nearby medics stopped what they were doing to watch the commotion.

  The mysterious officer finally obeyed, stopping to turn slowly, giving Roberts a slight smile as he raised his arms.

  Roberts stared at the officer, still not comprehending until she spotted something in his left hand.

  A small switch, with wires snaking down his wrist and disappearing into the sleeve of his camouflaged combat shirt.

  “…No…” Roberts gasped, her face pale from blood loss upon realizing she was staring into the eyes of a Wraith Infiltrator.

  There was no time to process the how and when, as every soldier on Epsilon had already heard the persistent rumors of classified intel reports claiming the Wraith were abducting entire platoons off the field, only to replace them with near-identical Infiltrator’s weeks later. These cloned spies could be inserted back into troop rotation, hiding in plain sight for months, possibly years, even fighting alongside the USC as they worked to undermine and sabotage major military operations from within.

  However, that wasn’t Roberts’ main concern at that very moment. Her main concern was that this Infiltrator was wearing something akin to a suicide vest underneath its uniform.

  As she drew her sidearm and went to fire, the Infiltrator detonated its vest.

  Thirty-Five

  Matt was still busy strafing lines of Dupes while Mace floored the TAV at maximum speed across the courtyard, carefully weaving around rubble and debris.

  The turret relentlessly chopped into the alien enemy, bright blue tracers slashing the humid air. Matt could feel the return fire sparking off the vehicle’s armored hull as Mace tried to keep the wheel steady. All around them they could hear nothing but the crackle of gunfire, screaming, and shouting. The chaos of battle.

  And at the center of it all was the Stalker.

  It towered over the Dupe horde like some ancient edifice, its pincered legs crunching towards the center of the base, firing its cannon at some officers who were falling back to find cover. As the projectiles raked them mercilessly, they all exploded like watermelons.

  Slumped behind the wheel, Mace felt an almost paralyzing sense of loss wash through him when he saw those officers perish.

  What remained of the British resistance was getting slaughtered by this thing. The Stalker gave the enemy an unfair advantage, and for Mace, that was the sole reason why this machine was now the ultimate grand prize in this fight.

  Mace began purposely driving in a wide S-formation, working his way closer to the center with each pass while Matt continued drilling any ground infantry attempting to advance. He was still careful to maintain distance, as getting too close to a Stalker was never a good idea.

  However, he was aware the operators driving it had already used up their most powerful arsenal of thermal missiles and were now left with the smaller projectiles. That implied they were inexperienced, much like the previous driver they had encountered with WarBarbie. While still devastating at close range, these smaller missiles were much less effective at a distance. Mace planned to keep the Stalker at bay while continuing to circle the outer perimeter, thinning out the ground infantry before dealing with it exclusively. He knew that would come at a significant cost. The remaining British officers were dropping by the second, and without any air support, rotary javelin crews, or mobile mortar units, they had no way of taking the Stalker out with the measly numbers they were clinging to. The way Mace saw it, he and Matt were the best and only hope of taking out that Stalker.

  At least, in theory.

  As Mace went to steer around an L-formation of Hessian sandbags, the ground underneath them suddenly ruptured into the swollen shape of a mushroom cap, spewing flame, concrete, and gravel into the air with enough force to toss the TAV like it was a toy car. Exposed power mains that had been dug deep into the earth snapped like toothpicks, spraying jagged shrapnel as the vehicle flipped onto its side. When the huge subterranean explosion gave its final belch, the massive crater collapsed back into itself.

  Matt and Mace violently rag-dolled, the vehicle flipping and spinning until it came to rest on its side like some enormous, beached whale.

  After a long, jarring moment of silence, Mace coughed and groggily stirred back to consciousness. He awkwardly turned his battered body to see Matt down in the turret basket, hanging upside down from the gunne
r’s chair. “Greenie, you still with me?” he yelled out.

  After a few seconds, Matt groaned, turning his head to stave off the shock that was threatening to paralyze him. “Yeah... I think so.”

  Still catching his breath, Mace looked at the contorted position he was in and snickered. He could still feel a steady flow of warm blood down his arm. Despite his secondary wounds, his original shoulder wound had been torn open. “I don’t fucking believe this… two TAV crashes in less than two days. Maybe God is trying to tell me something.”

  “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t keep driving these things. It’s bad for your health.”

  Mace turned to look back at Matt and hacked out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.” Remembering he was minus a helmet, he reached up and pressed the manual, multiband receiver MIC fitted to his vest, making a call to Hollsworth. “Vanguard, this is TAV Bravo. Do you copy?” Static hissed back at him, causing him to wince. “Hollsworth? Roberts? Do you copy?” More static. Mace huffed with frustration.

  “Sir, that explosion was an IED,” Matt said, painfully hoisting himself to his feet to go and assist Mace in the driver’s cab.

  Mace looked at him approaching and blinked sleepily, shaking his head. “No… it was way more powerful. The way the ground mushroomed, and the force of the detonation...” As Matt reached him and began to lift him off the ground, Mace looked around the lopsided vehicle as if assessing their external location. “I think we’re right over the base’s power bunker.”

  “I thought the base had no running power.”

  “It doesn’t. Whatever exploded down there was something else.”

  Careful not to put pressure on his wounded shoulder, Matt turned to the battered Praetorian with a knowing look. There was only one conclusion both could draw upon; that explosion was a bomb of some kind. “That’s where Roberts and her team were keeping the injured. Sir, we need to get down there.” Matt straightened his legs and began to lift Mace upright.

  Mace’s lacerated face contorted with pain as he got to his feet. “We can’t help them, greenie.”

  Matt paused, noticing Mace was now bleeding heavily from his wounded shoulder. “Sir, you’re badly wounded.”

  “Have been since we got here.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  “No need, I’m fine. Just get me back to the turret basket.” Clinging to Matt, he hobbled back into the lopsided basket, but as he stepped through, he began fumbling around for something, aided only by the dim electronic glow of the turret’s targeting HUD.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Help me get it, greenie.”

  Matt saw what he was looking at on the ground.

  The lost bottle of Cognac.

  Matt reached down and grabbed it, handing it to Mace. His eyes lit up as if he’d just discovered a nugget of gold. “Ah… there you are, sweetheart. Not a scratch, I hope.” Grunting with pain, he slumped back down on the ground, pressing his back against the wall. He took a moment to tenderly examine the engraved bottle, wiping smeared blood away before taking a large pull. He tilted his head back and sighed with relief, savoring the burn. “Oh, man… you gotta hand it to the French. They make the only bottled liquor that can survive a TAV crash.”

  Matt could see Mace was starting to fade. “Captain, I gotta get you to safety.”

  Mace looked up at him, and with his usual cynical demeanor, smiled, baring bloody teeth. There was no such thing as safety out here and both men knew it. “I like you, greenie. Never thought it would, but your unwavering optimism has grown on me.” Mace pulled out the data chip containing the enemy intel and held it out for him. “Take it. You know what to do.”

  “Sir, you need to hold onto it. I’m getting you out of here.”

  “Greenie, I wasn’t asking. Take it.”

  Matt held his gaze and took the data chip, securing it in a small storage pocket on the right thigh of fatigues, just above his knee-pad inserts. Then, he cocked his head slightly as if suddenly realizing how quiet it had gotten outside. “You hear that, sir?”

  Mace turned to where he was looking. “Hear what?”

  “Nothing. The fighting’s stopped.”

  “That’s because there’s no one left on our side. You should think about getting out of here while you still can.”

  Before Matt could respond to that, shadows shifted outside the viewport behind Mace, followed by the clack of footsteps. Matt thought he could also hear some inaudible grunts and commands being whispered. He lowered his faceplate and began searching for his felled rifle.

  Then, there was a metallic clunk as the turret hatch next to Mace suddenly opened, its metal hinges moaning like a rusty old bank vault.

  With casual ease, Mace pulled his pistol, aimed it at the hatch, and fired, draining his cartridge.

  The hatch slammed shut with a loud clang.

  Mace then calmly ejected his spent cartridge, his good hand moving slowly from blood loss. Mumbling to himself, he began patting his supply pouches for some fresh ammo.

  That’s when the hatch swung open again.

  As Matt drew his pistol to fire, two incendiary grenades were dropped inside, the shock of what he was looking at robbing him of any movement. They bounced against the interior bustle, landing between two frame rails. Without hesitation, he dove for them, snatched each one off the ground, and tossed them back outside, shoulder ramming the hatch shut again.

  The explosion blew the hatch back open and rocked the vehicle, hurling Matt back into the gunner’s chair with a bone-crushing thud. There was a short beat of silence until angry alien voices could be heard outside again. That move really pissed them off.

  Before Matt could pick himself up and fully recover, a Dupe started crawling through the open hatch, holding a large, serrated combat knife. When it spotted a now semi-conscious Mace slumped next to the hatch, it rose to its feet and went to thrust the blade into Mace’s neck, exuding a loud wail of aggression.

  But Matt had already sprung up, tackling it around the waist and driving it to the ground as he jammed the muzzle of his pistol against its forehead. He fired two successive bursts, black blood flecking his faceplate. The maneuver was clinically precise as it was deadly.

  When another Dupe outside responded by firing a volley of rounds through the hatch, Matt dropped to the ground again, a fountain of sparks showering the TAV’s interior. With blood now pounding in his ears, he kicked the hatch shut with the heel of his boot as more rounds peppered it from outside.

  Mace, using every ounce of strength he could muster, stretched his hand out and locked the hatch internally, throwing the clamp arm down with a loud snap before collapsing onto his side. “That’s not gonna hold forever.”

  As Matt staggered to his feet and waddled over to Mace, more rounds could be heard pinging against the vehicle. Already grossly outnumbered, he knew it wouldn’t be long until more Dupes arrived to force their way in. It also wouldn’t be long until Mace passed. He had to act. “Sir, stay with me.”

  He grabbed Mace by the collar of his armored vest and hoisted him upright once more, blood now laced across his right cheek like wet string. The sudden jolt of Matt moving his body was enough to cause Mace to groan with pain. “Ow… fuck’s sake, greenie…”

  “Sorry, sir, but we gotta find a way out of here.”

  “Just let me bleed out, son. It’s over. Go. Get out of here.”

  “Captain, with all due respect, please shut the fuck up while I think.” Still holding Mace upright by the collar, Matt frantically looked around the turret basket, trying to spot either of the two rifles they had lost earlier in the crash. They might have simply fallen between some stowage racks. Easy enough to recover if he could afford the time to go rummaging for them.

  He glanced down at the pistol he was still holding in his other hand. Hardly sufficient firepower against an enemy that no doubt still numbered in the hundreds. He looked back up and took a deep breath.

  They were trapped in here.

  Th
e Dupes outside would only need to drop a few more grenades through the hatch again and they’d be done. This vehicle was now a coffin.

  It was then he realized that because of the lopsided angle, the locked hatch that was in the troop cab had now become a hidden escape hatch, aimed downward. If there was enough room between the vehicle and the ground, they could crawl through and wait until the Dupes breached the turret basket, then slither out from underneath the wreckage and disappear.

  Wishful thinking. Matt could not help but snicker at this ridiculous inkling of hope that had now taken root in his fatigued mind. But the sheer audacity to think they were somehow going to survive all this was still enough to mobilize him into action.

  Hearing more voices outside, he gently rested Mace against the hull and hustled over to the escape hatch, carefully opening it.

  As suspected, the explosion made underneath them in the power bunker had cratered the ground, providing a naturally formed crawlspace that was wide enough and deep enough for them to climb down into.

  He swung back and started dragging Mace’s limp body towards the hatch. “Sir, I need you to stay as quiet as you can.”

  Mace grumbled something in reply as Matt pushed him through the open hatch. He hit the uneven ground with a hard thud, causing him to yelp in pain.

  Matt froze before continuing, listening for any enemy activity that would indicate they just heard Mace’s cry. When another muffled rattle of gunfire pinged against the turret basket’s hull, he knew it was time to move. He slid out of the hatch on his belly, making sure to close it as quietly as possible behind him.

  When Matt rolled Mace onto his back, they met eyes. Mace did not have long. “You gotta leave me, greenie. That’s an order. I can’t walk.”

  “Quiet!” Matt hissed as he gingerly peered out from underneath the vehicle.