Kingdoms Fury

by David Sherman

  Then a thought struck him and he stopped in mid-stride. His escort stopped too and looked at him questioningly. He shook his head and smiled. Dominic de Tomas continued walking, head held high, apparently oblivious to the destruction, and unconcerned that in the next second a salvo might vaporize him and his men.

  Having established himself as a hero and a leader, he was finally being forced to act the part.

  Chapter Six

  "Sir, we recovered a Skink body," Commander Daana, 34th FIST's intelligence chief, reported. Following the successful counterattack against the Skinks, the staffs of both FISTs were briefing Brigadier Sturgeon.

  Sturgeon cocked an eyebrow at Daana and waited for him to say more.

  "It's not intact, sir. Just the lower half; pelvic structure and legs."

  A corner of Sturgeon's mouth twitched. He knew the Confederation's xenobiologists could get a great deal of information from half a body, but he wished the recovered part were the upper half. The head, thorax, and upper abdomen would tell more about the biology of the creatures than just the lower abdomen and legs. Not least of which would be information on how to more easily evade and kill them. The upper half probably held whatever sense organs the Skinks had that allowed them to "see" chameleoned Marines.

  Sturgeon didn't ask if the remains were properly preserved—as though anybody knew how to properly preserve the alien flesh. Instead he asked, "How soon can it be lifted to the Grandar Bay?"

  "It's already being loaded onto an Essay. It should be in a drone on its way to Earth by the end of the day." He left unsaid, Unless the Skinks have moved one of those damnable guns to a position where it can hit the Essay.

  Both FISTs had already given him their casualty reports, including the Kingdomite casualties. It felt to Sturgeon as though the battle in defense of the high ground to Haven's northeast was a pyrrhic victory. The trigger-pullers of the Army of the Lord's 82nd Division had been killed almost to a man, and 26th FIST had lost more than fifty Marines, dead or severely wounded. Heavy losses, but maybe not too heavy. The Skink casualties had also been horrendous. Sturgeon had no idea how large the enemy force was, but no army could easily afford to lose soldiers by the thousands, as the Skinks had in that fight. And he suspected the Skinks had even less chance of getting replacements for their losses than the Marines did—unless more were already on their way. Still, as badly injured as the Army of the Lord was by the loss of the best part of an entire division, the rest of the army was intact, and there was still a population base in the tens of millions from which to draw replacements and reinforcements. And without a local population base from which to recruit, the Skinks had to be reeling at least as badly as the Kingdomites.

  "Four?" Sturgeon asked, moving along.

  "Sir," Captain Shabel, 26th FIST's logistics officer said, "food is still making its way into Haven and Interstellar City unimpeded. The Skinks don't seem to be interested in disrupting the food supply." He shook his head—if he was commanding a siege, cutting off food and water to the defenders would be one of his top priorities. "More important, the engineers from the Grandar Bay tell me they expect to complete the blaster power pack replenishment facility tomorrow. We won't have to worry about running out of power for our weapons."

  That was another point in favor of the Marines and Kingdomites—the Army of the Lord had its own arsenals. As soon as the replenishment facility was in operation, ammunition for the Marines wouldn't be a problem either. The Skinks had a finite supply of munitions with no replenishment. Unless more of them were on their way.

  No matter how pyrrhic Sturgeon felt the counterattack victory was, he knew the best course of action was to aggressively follow up on it, to pursue the Skinks while they were trying to lick their wounds.

  He didn't ask for a report from the operations chiefs; he knew they wouldn't have anything to say. Instead he said, "Threes, your commanders will brief you on what I want. Everybody but the FIST commanders, dismissed." The officers quickly gathered their materials and exited the briefing room.

  Brigadier Sparen and Colonel Ramadan leaned close to their commander as soon as the door closed behind the last staff officer.

  Brigadier Sturgeon wasn't the only commander who felt the Marine victory was pyrrhic.

  The Great Master showed his teeth in a grin as he looked out over the Senior Masters and more senior of the Masters assembled before him. Graceful females had already served the steaming beverage to them and departed, save for the one who knelt by his knee.

  "The Earthmen Marines believe they have achieved a victory over us by defeating our attack against the northeast portion of their defensive ring." As his voice rumbled, his breath rasped through his atrophied gill slits; the sound of an ice dam on a mountain rivulet breaking on a spring morning. "They think they won, but they are wrong. We killed an entire division of the local pond scum soldiers, as well as many Earthmen Marines. The lives of eight thousand Fighters were a small price to pay for so great a victory.

  "I have observed this Earthman Marine commander. He is a brave commander, but also a cautious one. A bold commander—" He lifted a hand in a gesture that suggested he humbly counted himself as a bold commander. "—would follow that ‘victory’ by pursuing the ‘defeated’ foe into his lair. This Earthman Marine will not. Instead, he will attempt to pin us in the territory he and the pond scum have already conceded to us."

  His grin broadened, the smile of a large shark about to devour an injured dolphin. "He does not know the extent of the land under our control, or the number of paths we have to move out of his way undetected by his surface surveillance devices, or the Earthman navy's ‘string-of-pearls.’

  "This Earthman commander will send his Marines out in small units, units which we will individually entrap and destroy!"

  The assembled Over Masters and more senior of the Senior Masters rapped the tiny cups on the lacquered tables and roared their approval of the Great Master's plan.

  "You're shitting me, right?" Corporal Claypoole demanded.

  Sergeant Linsman jumped on the straight line he'd just been handed. "I'd never shit you, Claypoole. You're my favorite turd. Besides," he shrugged, "that really is our orders."

  Claypoole looked at Corporals Kerr and Chan for help, but they looked at their squad leader like it was just another day at the war.

  "Me and Wolfman," Claypoole continued. Hey, he was a Marine. If no reinforcements were coming, he'd fight the battle by himself. "Me and Wolfman, just the two of us. You want us to take a platoon of Kingdomites who haven't worked with Marines out there and get them killed."

  Linsman slowly shook his head. "It's not what I want, Rock. It's what the brigadier wants." He stepped close to Claypoole and jabbed a finger against his chest. "The brigadier doesn't want you to get the local boys killed!" He emphasized his words with more chest jabs. "He wants you to take them out and teach them how to kill Skinks." Jab. "And the last I heard," jab, "what the brigadier wants," jab, "the brigadier gets!"

  "All right, all right!" Claypoole sputtered, backing away from Linsman's finger. "But why us?"

  "It's not just us," Linsman shouted, becoming frustrated. "It's both FISTs. Every fire team and gun team in both FISTs is taking command of a platoon of local yokels and taking them out to find, fix, and fuck the Skinks! Do you understand me?" He leaned forward so his face almost touched Claypoole's.

  Claypoole wished he were wearing his helmet. If he were, he'd slide the chameleon shield into place and move away from his squad leader. But he wasn't so he had to stand there and take it.

  Staff Sergeant Hyakowa came by before Claypoole could voice any more objections.

  "Listen up, people," Hyakowa said. All the Marines of second squad, third platoon, turned their attention to their platoon sergeant. "As of yesterday, everyone in this platoon has gone up against the Skinks at least once—and beat them. Most Marines in this platoon have gone up against them several times—and beaten them. About half of you met them on Waygone. We beat them the
re too." He paused and looked each of them in the eye. "They've never beaten us. They gave us a hell of an ass-kicking once, but we came out on top that time too." He neglected to mention that if 34th FIST's Air hadn't come up with a defensive tactic that saved them from the Skinks' buzz saws, that fight might have ended differently. Nor did he mention the ambush that killed Gunnery Sergeant Bass and the men with him.

  "The Kingdomites don't have that advantage," he went on. "They've lost too many battles and too many lives when they've gone up against the Skinks. There aren't enough of us to win this war. We have to show the Army of the Lord that the Skinks can be beaten. And we, third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST, are the best people to show them that. Because we've done it more often than anybody else. Most of you also have experience leading Kingdomite troops. Many of you have led other indigenous troops. Those of you who don't have the experience, Lieutenant Rokmonov and I will help your squad leaders and fire team leaders teach you.

  "I expect this platoon to take that battalion—" He paused to remember what it was called, shook his head when he did. "—the Lancelot Guardians of the Faith, and turn them into the best Skink-killing battalion in the entire army. They'll be joining us within two hours. We begin operations as soon as we integrate with them." With, "Sergeant Linsman, carry on," he left to visit the gun squad.

  Linsman watched Hyakowa walk away. When the platoon sergeant was far enough away, he turned back to his squad. "You heard the man," he said to all of them, though he looked at Claypoole. "We will do this thing."

  Claypoole silently hung his head.

  Corporal Claypoole was furious. Just the two of them to take that platoon out and get it killed. Claypoole knew he was a good Marine, a good infantryman. He knew he had leadership abilities and that he'd demonstrated them in the past. He also knew that Wolfman, Lance Corporal MacIlargie, was a good Marine infantryman. Give the two of them a platoon of well-trained, well-armed, indigenous troops with high morale, and he knew he and Wolfman would acquit themselves well and kick ass on any similar-size unit they ran up against. But these Kingdomites had been hurt so badly by the Skinks, they were afraid of them. Not the individual fear of personally being killed—all soldiers faced that fear—but the fear of knowing they were going to lose any fight they got into. When troops have that fear, they're going to get killed. It just wasn't fair to make him and Wolfman, just the two of them, take the platoon out and get those soldiers killed. Not counting the fact that he and Wolfman were going to get killed too!

  Sure, they were going to get killed. This terrain was exactly the kind that favored the Skinks. It was marshy, channeled with tiny rivulets and larger streams, slowly flowing water that skimmed over most of the ground that wasn't channeled. Stalky things that looked like reeds lined the streams and nearly filled the rivulets. Lightly flooded ground was studded with tufts of something that resembled grasses. What passed for high ground carried trees whose droopy foliage was too wet even to be called scraggly. It was nothing short of Skink heaven.

  Mother Corps wasn't treating her Marines right. Nossir! If Gunny Bass was still around, Claypoole thought sourly, I bet he'd have talked the brigadier out of this!

  The Kingdomites didn't have any morale, and probably didn't have any unit cohesiveness. When Claypoole met Second Acolyte Priestly, the platoon commander, he didn't seem to object to taking orders from the very junior Marine noncommissioned officer. And when Claypoole and Wolfman gave orders, none of the Kingdom soldiers looked to their own leaders to see if they should obey.

  So there they were, he and Wolfman, just the two of them, and a platoon from the—Claypoole shook his head at the ridiculous name—Lancelot Guardians of the Faith, way the hell and gone out here, ten klicks from the Haven-Interstellar City defenses, two klicks or farther from another patrol, looking for Skinks who, if they deigned to be found, would kill these soldiers. And most likely kill him and Wolfman into the bargain.

  This was a seriously messed up situation.

  Well, he was a Marine. Marines were expected to do more with less than anybody else. The merely difficult we do immediately, he thought, the impossible might take a little longer. And if anything was impossible, it was this situation.

  Claypoole got out his UPUD Mark III and examined it. Its infra display didn't show anything larger than a smallish dog within a kilometer of the platoon's position. He called up the caves download from the string-of-pearls and saw they weren't in easy striking range of a known or suspected cave outlet either.

  "Hold up," he said into his helmet comm. The platoon stopped, accordioning by squads as the squad leaders relayed the order to their men. Claypoole muttered, off circuit, about the stupidity of the Kingdomite high command in keeping comm units out of the hands of the troops. As if a small unit leader being able to communicate directly with all his men would promote heresy. "Assemble on me." He raised his helmet's chameleon shield and rolled up a sleeve so the soldiers could see where he was. He watched as they listlessly moved into a rough formation in front of him.

  "You out of whatever excuse you've got for a mind, Corporal Rock?" MacIlargie asked on their private circuit. What he said might be insubordinate, but he said it with proper military courtesy.

  "Shut up and cover my Six," Claypoole said on the same circuit.

  "The platoon's assembled, Acting Second Acolyte," Priestly reported with a dull voice when the ranks were formed.

  "Thank you, Second Acolyte." Claypoole nodded at the Kingdomite officer. To all he said, "Listen up. Rear rank, about face. Get into prone positions and keep watch. The rest of you, sit in place." When they did as he ordered, he moved close to the front rank so everybody could hear without him having to yell.

  "Look at you," he began. The Kingdomites looked anywhere but at themselves. "You call yourselves soldiers, but you look like a bunch of criminals headed for the gallows. I'll bet you think you're going to die today." The soldiers, even the prone watchers, seemed to fold in on themselves. "Well, let me tell you something. The Skinks can be beaten. I know that. Acting Platoon Sword MacIlargie and me, we were in the Swamp of Perdition when we killed more Skinks than we could count. Sure, they killed a lot of Marines, but we got all of them." In fact, he wasn't sure all the Skinks in that battle had been killed, but that was beside the point. "We were out in the countryside, working with your defense garrisons. The defense garrisons, working with Marines, routinely beat the Skinks every time we fought them. We went onto Hymnal Hill and Heaven's Heights after the Skinks overran the high ground and we kicked them off it.

  "Here's something else: a couple of years ago, Acting Platoon Sword MacIlargie and me, with the rest of third platoon, went to an uninhabited world called Society 437 to find out why the scientific mission there had stopped reporting. What we found was Skinks. Nobody had ever heard of them before. They had weapons we'd never heard of. They could do things nobody was supposed to be able to do; they could see us, somehow, in our chameleons, and they could breathe underwater. And they were fearless.

  "You know what happened? I'll tell you what happened. We killed all of them. They killed one of us. That's it, just one.

  "Are you listening to me? Do you hear what I'm saying? I'm telling you that Acting Platoon Sword MacIlargie and I are accustomed to beating the Skinks every time we fight them. And I'm telling you that Kingdomite soldiers working with Confederation Marines also beat the Skinks."

  "They wiped out an entire division on the heights," someone, Claypoole couldn't see who, said. "There were Marines with that division."

  Damn! Claypoole had hoped nobody would mention that. "That's true," he agreed. "They did it because the 82nd Division was relying too much on surveillance devices the Skinks were able to get around, and the Skinks used all those buzz saws to cover their attack. They aren't going to do that to us. Now, let's find us some Skinks and kill them."

  "Acting Second Acolyte?" A soldier looked at Claypoole, the first sign of attention he'd seen from the platoon. "Do you think it's possible the
Lord will allow us victory?"

  Claypoole looked at the soldier for a moment before replying. "I can't speak for the Lord," he finally said, "but a few good Marines insist on it." He looked about for other questions. A couple of soldiers seemed to be considering what he'd said and looked less dull, more ready. It wasn't much, but it was an improvement.

  "On your feet, soldiers. We've got Skinks to find and kill."

  When the Kingdomites reformed into their patrol formation, they were a bit less listless than before.

  Claypoole wasn't the only Marine convinced he was on his terminal patrol that day. Corporal Doyle knew profoundly that he and everyone else was going to get killed on his patrol. He shook so badly he had trouble holding onto his blaster. He remembered vividly the heavy casualties 34th FIST had suffered in the Swamp of Perdition and was fully cognizant of the fact that only the strike by the FIST's Raptors had saved the infantry. He hadn't gone into any of the bunkers on Hymnal Hill, but he had on Heaven's Heights, and saw the Kingdomite soldiers the Skinks had killed there. And he knew the marsh was perfect Skink country. He was convinced that he and Corporal Kerr and Lance Corporal Schultz were going to die that day. The pending deaths of the soldiers from the Lancelot Guardians of the Faith whom the three Marines were leading didn't cross his mind; their fate was a foregone conclusion. Why had he let Gunny Bass talk him into becoming a blasterman instead of letting First Sergeant Myer court-martial him and send him to a nice, safe brig somewhere far, far away from the Skinks?