by Dan Cragg
Witnesses disagreed on what happened next. On the crystal recorded by several cameramen at the scene, it looked as if Chloe Mayham struck Officer Riggs with her bullhorn and that is what his fellow officers claimed they saw. Mayham’s supporters, who were right behind her, swore the instrument slipped and struck Riggs by mistake. Riggs reacted instinctively, slamming his truncheon into the side of Mayham’s head. People standing nearby actually heard bone shattering as he struck her. The police line surged forward. The media had a field day.
But Chloe Mayham’s protesting days were over. And so was Calvin Riggs’s career as a Capitol Police officer.
President Posterus’s shoulders slumped. Gabs Stukas, her Minister of Information, waited patiently for her to continue. “Gabs, I called you here because I want you to prepare a very important press release.” She took a deep breath. “I am going to sign an executive order withdrawing our troops from the Coalition army on Ravenette. I am composing a letter to inform Preston Summers now. I want you to read both documents and prepare a press release.”
“A very wise decision, Madam President. Er, how is General Henricus going to take this? If I may ask.”
Posterus put a hand to her brow. “Very badly, Gabs. When he learns of it, very badly.”
“You haven’t told him?”
The President shook her head slowly. “Nor anyone else in the cabinet. You’re the first to know of it.” She smiled weakly. “We’ve talked the issue to death,” she said wearily, “and I’m tired of it all. I’m the commander in chief, Gabs, the chief executive of this Union. I made the decision to sign the order and I’m going to stick by it, come thick or thin.” She handed Stukas a crystal. “The final versions of the order and the letter are on this crystal.”
“Very well, ma’am.” Stukas took the crystal and hefted it speculatively.
“Yes, is there anything else?”
“Uh, when will you send the message to Summers?”
“Directly. In your press release you can use the past tense and tell the public the order and the message were issued today. By the time I approve the release, our withdrawal from this war will be a done deal.”
It was done, but too late for the Mylexan forces on Ravenette and too late for Corporal Calvin Riggs Jr.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was no space where the companies could assemble to be addressed directly by the company commanders. So Captain Conorado, like the other company commanders in the three FISTs going on Operation Backdoor, had the Marines of Company L assemble in the tunnel, wearing their helmets with all screens up, and addressed them via the all-hands circuit in his own helmet.
“I just got back from a commanders’ call at FIST headquarters,” Conorado said. “It’s time to earn your pay again, Marines. I know we recently returned from a raid-in-force where we encountered more resistance than we’d been led to expect. I also know that not all of the injuries some of you received in our recent actions have had enough time to fully heal. But if that lack of full healing would endanger you, you would have been evacuated to orbit.
“As I said, we had some surprises when we went to Gilbert’s Corners. I can tell you this: this time there are no surprises. This time we know up front we’re going up against fresh troops who might outnumber us, might be better armed, and are more than likely better armored. We will engage them following an amphibious landing on what may be the most difficult beaches I’ve ever heard described. This time, we won’t be on the defensive; we’ll be on the offense. We will dictate the timing and the pace of the battle. And this time, we’ll have all of our weapons with us.
“Here’s what you need to know before we move out…”
It didn’t take the Marines long to prepare themselves to board Dragons. Neither did they have to wait long once they were ready—General Cazombi’s hastily assembled staff managed to get everything moving quickly. The Dragons splashed into the water at the southeastern corner of the peninsula, out of sight of the Coalition forces besieging the Bataan garrison, and headed toward the horizon at low speed to keep rooster tails from rising high enough to be seen from the land beyond the peninsula. Because of the relatively low speed of the Dragons crossing the ocean beyond Pohick Bay, it took more than an hour for them to rendezvous with the waiting Essays. The suborbital flight to 34th FIST’s landing zone covered five times the horizontal distance, and much more than that on the ascent and descent, but took less than half as much time.
A squad from 4th Force Recon Company met 34th FIST at the LZ.
Sergeant D’Wayne Williams stood in the dark at the edge of a small grassland. Williams gave the infra flashers that marked the LZ a final look, then glanced at the infra wind cone his squad had erected. Satisfied that all was in order, he removed his helmet and gloves, and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He looked up at a distant roar and saw the exhausts of the first wave of three Essays in their final approach to the landing zone, even though he couldn’t see the shuttles themselves against the dark sky. In another minute they were down and three Dragons set off their air cushions to rumble out of the Essays’ rears. The Dragons sped away from the Essays, which lifted as soon as they were clear. Almost as soon as the first three Essays were gone, a second trio touched down. Williams estimated that it would take less than five minutes for all twenty Essays to land their Dragons and head back out to wherever they were headed. His mission briefing hadn’t included information on where the Essays were going once they’d dropped the FIST that fourth squad, 4th Force Recon Company would be guiding.
Two Dragons, one from the first wave of Essays and one from the second, peeled off from the ones that were forming up behind the touchdown area and headed around the edge of the grass toward Williams. The Force Recon squad leader faced the Dragons and held infra panels out to his sides to make himself more easily visible. The first Dragon stopped fifteen meters away, the second just to its left and rear. The roar of their fans rumbled down to low, steady growls. The Dragons’ rear ramps clanged open, then two Marines came around the side of each vehicle. Like Williams, they had their helmets and gloves off, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. One of them marched directly at Williams, the other three hung back a pace and to his flanks.
“Sergeant D’Wayne Williams, sir,” Williams said, saluting the lead Marine, “Fourth Force Recon. My squad will guide you to your first objective.”
Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon returned Williams’s salute. He didn’t look around for the other Marines in Williams’s squad; he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to spot them.
“I’m Brigadier Sturgeon,” Sturgeon said. “Glad to see you, Sergeant Williams. What’s the situation at Objective Alpha?” Objective Alpha, the encampment of the 7th Independent Military Police Company, and a POW camp—34th FIST’s first objective on Operation Backdoor.
“Sir, it’s three hours since we were last there, but at that time, everybody was drunk, getting drunk, or already passed out—even the sentries.” He shook his head. “A platoon of pogues from Fleet Marine Headquarters could prance in and take the place without firing a shot.”
Sturgeon chuckled.
“I left a couple minnies in place to keep an eye on things, sir,” Williams continued, “but we’re beyond their transmission range. I’ll be able to give you an update when we get close enough.”
“That sounds good to me, Sergeant.” Sturgeon turned to the man on his right. “Commander Usner, as soon as the Dragons are down and in formation to move, move them out.” Then back to Williams. “You and your squad are going to fly ahead of us, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. We can be in our puddle jumpers and hovering in front of your lead elements as soon as you’re ready to go.”
Sturgeon turned to look at the Dragons assembling several hundred meters away, then into the sky to see the final Essays approaching. “Better get your squad into their puddle jumpers now, Sergeant,” he said. “We’ll be moving out in a couple of minutes.”
“Aye aye, si
r.”
The twenty Dragons moved in four parallel columns of five vehicles. Each column followed a Force Recon Marine who flew just below treetop level through the thin forest land south of the landing zone. The chameleons worn by the Force Recon Marines were even more effective than those worn by the infantry Marines of the FISTs, but the exhausts from their puddle jumpers was very clear in infrared. The commander of each lead Dragon watched the flying Marines in infra, and gave verbal directions to the drivers, who watched their paths in visual. Except for one of the columns, which traveled along a “semi-improved” road. At least “semi-improved” is how the Marines characterized the road. The contractor who had built the road skimped on materials, so even though the road was little used, it was potholed and eroding at its edges.
Forty-five minutes after the Dragons bearing 34th FIST pulled out of the landing zone, Sergeant Williams called a halt, and the Force Recon Marines landed, Williams next to Brigadier Sturgeon’s Dragon.
“Here we are, sir,” Williams said when Sturgeon dismounted and joined him. He held his UPUD where the FIST commander could see its display. “This minnie is on a windowsill—about chest height. The other is on top of a barracks near the POW compound. This is what they’re looking at right now.”
Sturgeon looked at the display. “May I?” He held out his hand and Williams gave him the UPUD. The display showed what was obviously a temporary camp, even though it was composed of buildings rather than tents. The buildings had all the hallmarks of hasty construction: The structures weren’t aligned in proper military manner, not all the walls were plumb, occasional gaps showed between roofs and walls, the roads were unevenly graded and they were oiled rather than paved, the street lighting was irregular. Maintenance was spotty at best. A door hung ajar on a barracks. Cracked and broken windows hadn’t been repaired. Some streetlights were out. Litter marred the grounds.
“How do I get the view to move?” he asked.
Williams did something Sturgeon couldn’t see, and the view began slowly oscillating side to side. Williams slipped off a glove and pointed to a touch key on the UPUD. “Sir, press that to toggle to the rooftop minnie.”
Sturgeon watched the view move through a full 180 degrees and back, then toggled to the other minnie, which was already turning at Williams’s command. “How do I get close-up views? Like I want to see that.” Sturgeon pointed at an indistinct form on the ground in front of a barracks.
“I have to give commands to the minnie, sir,” Williams answered. “Let me know what you want to see, and I’ll have a minnie look at it.” He used a control box to stop the minnie and refocus it on the form Sturgeon had indicated. Enlarged, it was a body, a soldier supine on the ground in front of a barracks, passed out or dead.
“Pull back and rotate more.”
Williams did as Sturgeon ordered. He stopped the minnie and adjusted its focus on request so Sturgeon could take closer looks. All together, he saw more than a platoon’s worth of soldiers on the ground or propped against building fronts. They saw only a few soldiers staggering about from one building to another, carrying bottles from which they occasionally drank.
“Drunk, getting drunk, or already passed out,” Sturgeon finally said. “It looks like you characterized the situation exactly, Sergeant. Must have been a hell of a party last night. Now I want to take a look at the POW compound.”
Williams worked his controls to give Sturgeon the best possible view of the fenced POW compound. Sturgeon studied it. The camp looked exactly the way it had in the intelligence briefings. The buildings were better constructed than the barracks buildings, the compound itself was surrounded by a razor-wire fence that might be electrified, two guard towers overlooked the brightly lit interior of the compound, and only one building was lit from within. Even the gate was slightly ajar as it had been when Force Recon first visited. Sturgeon looked at the guard towers. If they were manned, the guards were out of sight, likely as drunk as everyone else seemed to be. He handed the UPUD back and put his helmet on to contact his staff to plan their next step.
Company L went the last three kilometers on foot; three kilometers was as close as Brigadier Sturgeon thought the Dragons could get to the camp without making enough noise to alert people inside it.
First and second platoons were to enter the main camp from opposite directions, gather everybody who could be made mobile, and secure those too insensate to move on their own. Third platoon was responsible for securing the POW enclosure and gathering the POWs. The battalion’s surgeon and BAS corpsmen accompanied third platoon, so they’d be on hand to give medical treatment to any POWs who needed it. The assault platoon set up security on the south side of the camp to stop any enemy forces that came upon them before the camp was cleared.
The sun was just peeking above the horizon when Company L moved in.
“On your feet, you!” first platoon’s Corporal Wilson said loudly as he kicked the feet of a man lying sprawled on the bare dirt in front of a barracks. Wilson didn’t look up at the sound of feet running past him and pounding up the short flight of stairs to crash through the door of the barracks. “Drop your cock and grab your sock, soldier!” Wilson said louder, and kicked the soldier’s booted feet harder than before. He ignored the sounds of men being forcefully awakened inside the barracks. When the prostrate man at his feet didn’t move, Wilson took a step closer and kicked him in the hip. “I said on your feet, you worthless scum!”
The soldier gave out a low moan and rolled away from Wilson’s kicks. The Marine moved in closer and swung his instep hard at the soldier’s buttocks. “I said get up and move, dammit!”
“Leemee ’lone,” the soldier mumbled. “’M sleepin’.” He curled into a loose fetal position, but sprang straight when Wilson planted a boot in his posterior again.
“You don’t want me to bend over and yank you to your feet, you sorry excuse for a soldier,” Wilson said and kicked him in the ribs.
“Aw ri, aw ri,” the soldier mumbled, and struggled to move around and raise his upper body. “Ah’m geddin’ up.” He looked up and saw Wilson’s disembodied face hovering above him. He shook his head violently, then abruptly heaved, and bent lower to puke between his splayed legs. When he finished throwing up, he wiped a bare arm across his mouth, then looked up again. “Ah ain’t wakin’ up. Ah’s still asleep. Ain’t no ghost face hangin’ inna air ’bove me.” He dropped his head on his chest and started to topple over toward Wilson, who kicked him in the ribs hard enough to straighten him back up, but not hard enough to knock him over the other way.
“I’m not a ghost, you dipshit,” Wilson snarled. “I’m a Confederation Marine, and you’re my prisoner!”
“Ah ain’t no pris’ner,” the soldier said, his voice less of a mumble. “Ah’s a MP. Ah guards pris’ners!”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” Wilson said. He reached down to grab the soldier’s shirt collar, then yanked him to his feet. “You’re not fit to guard a shithouse, you slimy turd! And now you’re a prisoner of war.” He shoved the soldier in the direction other Marines were herding other prisoners. The soldier stumbled and fell hard on his face. The fall did more to wake him up than anything else had; he scrambled to his feet and spun around, fists clenched and raised, looking for whomever had knocked him down. He ignored the blood that flowed from his nose and mingled with the vomit still on his face. He saw Wilson’s face, and without noticing that he only saw the face, charged the Marine, milling his arms.
Wilson gave the charging MP a curious look, then stepped aside and put out a foot to trip him. The soldier squawked as he sprawled to the ground. In a flash, he was back on his feet looking for his tormentor. Fresh blood flowed from a cut on the corner of his forehead. He spotted Wilson’s face and charged again, once more wildly swinging his arms. Wilson easily dodged the flailing fists and slammed the butt of his blaster into the middle of the soldier’s back, knocking him down again.
Wilson moved quickly and planted a foot between the soldier’s legs
, high up so the front part of his boot pressed onto his testicles.
“You know,” the Marine said, “we could keep this up until you seriously hurt yourself. Or you could just be a good boy and go with the rest of the prisoners.”
The soldier flinched from the pressure on his scrotum, but didn’t struggle. Instead he looked forward and saw other members of the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion walking along with their hands on their heads, toward a gathering place in the middle of the camp. At first, nobody seemed to be guarding them, but then he saw a hovering face. He looked around and saw other hovering faces. Carefully, so as not to agitate the man whose boot was putting pressure on his balls, he looked over his shoulder and saw a face hovering above his back.
“Confed’ral Marines?” he asked.
“Confederation Marines,” Wilson confirmed. “And you’re my prisoner.”
“Yassah,” the cowed soldier said. “You wan’ me to git up and go wit t’others?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Ahh, uh, kin ah move?”
Wilson stepped back. “You can move.”
“Thank you, sah.” The soldier eased himself to his feet, brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, put his hands on top of his head, and joined the column of MPs shuffling toward the collection point.
Corporal Wilson shook his head sadly. “Those are soldiers?” he asked himself. “How the hell have they managed to keep us pinned up in Bataan for all these weeks?”
Wilson turned at a throat clearing behind him. His platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant DaCosta, had come up without Wilson hearing him.
