Raptor Aces

by Brian Bakos

  “Yes,” another man said. “We did our share.”

  Omzbak surveyed the grim, silent wall of men facing him. They were all ready to fight, so a violent response on his part would be suicidal.

  “You should get inside, Chief,” Comrade 15 said, “before things get nasty.”

  Omzbak knew he was beaten, but he couldn’t resist a parting shot at his spineless followers.

  “You think it’s that easy, huh, just walk away?” he said. “Remember what happened to Comrade 19.”

  “Whoever did that is long gone,” Comrade 15 said. “Besides, there’ll be four of us looking out for each other.”

  “Really?” Omzbak sneered, gesturing toward the surrounding darkness. “And you must have lots of friends out there, too, huh?”

  “I aim to find that out for myself,” Comrade 15 said.

  He took an abrupt step forward and thrust his face down into Omzbak’s, his eyes blazing angrily. Omzbak jerked back with surprise.

  A bullet struck Comrade 15 in the temple, splattering blood and brains everywhere. An instant later, the sound of a gunshot arrived.

  “Get down!” Omzbak shouted.

  Comrade 15’s body had barely hit the ground before the others joined it in the dirt. Off in the distance, Omzbak spotted four figures coming toward them. His tactical mind made rapid calculations. The approaching enemy did not have the fluid, practiced movement of experienced troops; they seemed like amateurs.

  “You three, go flank them on their left,” he commanded.

  The men, who only moments before were defying him, instantly obeyed, making their way back toward the tree line.

  “What about us, Chief?” Number One asked.

  “We go inside, that’s what,” Omzbak said.

  Number One barked a malicious laugh. “Yes! Let them go meet their ‘friends.’”

  Automatic weapons fire punctuated the night, along with the sharp report of a rifle. Muzzle flashes joined the star glimmer. Omzbak scrambled to his feet.

  “Let’s go!”

  Ignoring the discomfort in his injured thigh, he led the way into the blur.

  ***

  “Back to the room!” Stilikan cries.

  “W-why?” I ask. “I thought you were taking me home.”

  Stilikan grabs my arm and starts to pull me along. Only then do I realize that it is actually Bel who is giving me orders.

  “I’ll have you know I’m in command here,” I protest.

  “Shut up, or I’ll pop you again!” Bel says.

  We’re almost back to the big room when Bel dives to the ground, taking me with him. We peer back toward the way we’d come.

  Two figures materialize at the flashing light. I cannot make out their faces. One is of medium height, and thin. The other, with its towering bulk, leaves no doubt as to who it is – Omzbak!

  I leap up. “Hey!”

  The submachine gun barks in my hands, spraying a torrent of death toward the two figures. Something’s wrong. The men should have fallen, but they are completely unharmed. How could I have missed?

  “Get down!”

  Bel drags me to the floor and rolls with me behind an outcrop. Bullets come our direction, but are absorbed by the stone with dull thuds. I shove a fresh ammo clip into my gun but hold my fire. There is simply nothing to shoot at.

  A dead silence sets in. The explosions have cleared my thinking, and the last of my Stilikan fantasy departs.

  “How the hell did I miss them?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” Bel says. “They looked like sitting ducks.”

  It’s a baffling mystery. I’m aware that my own perceptions may not be reliable, but Bel has also been deceived. His face is hard and alert, his eyes are sharp. He does not have the look of someone given to hysterics.

  The truth dawns on me. I didn’t hit them because they weren’t really there. This is the pee cave where things are not as they appear; we see only the shadows of things. So, while I wasted ammunition blasting at phantoms, the real men were someplace else preparing to take us out.

  The enemy does not suffer from such illusions, though, as indicated by the accuracy of his gunfire. He’s had a long time to familiarize himself with the deceptions of this place. Yet again, Bel has saved me from ruin.

  “Where are they?” he says. “Can you see them?”

  I peer along the passageway. It is indistinct, blurred. There seem to be any number of rock projections and indents where the enemy might be hiding.

  “It’s an illusion,” I say. “They aren’t where they seem to be.”

  “I figured something like that,” Bel says.

  Then the worst possible thing happens. Three figures are materializing by the flashing light.

  “More partisans.”

  “Damn!” Bel snarls.

  Then we can see who the figures really are – Trynka, Katella, and Sipren.

  “Look out!” we shout together.

  The three figures drop down as a hail of bullets comes at them. Bel and I shoot back, aiming as best we can at the origin of the gunfire. A deadly fight takes place over the heads of our comrades.

  “This way!” I shout.

  They crawl toward us; Trynka and Sipren are dragging Katella between them. At last, the enemy ceases firing. We pull our comrades behind the outcrop.

  It is clear that Katella has been slain. A smear of blood trails his body, and numerous bullet wounds cover him. Sipren’s face is ashen; Trynka is crying wildly.

  “Katella! Katella!” she wails.

  I wrap an arm around Trynka and try to console her. Her tears soak my shoulder. My own anguish threatens to overwhelm me – Katella, dead! My oldest comrade taken from me. I feel weak, unmanned.

  You’ll all die if you aren’t strong. Snap out of it!

  I can’t afford the luxury of grief ... not now. I grab Sipren with my free hand and shake him hard.

  “What happened out there?”

  “T-they got Grushon,” Sipren says through trembling lips. “They just ... opened him up like a ripe watermelon.”

  Another stab of anguish assaults me. My stomach heaves at this awful description, and I try to avert my eyes from the even more awful reality lying nearby.

  “Did you get any of them?”

  “Katella shot one at long range ... the entryway moved,” Sipren says. “He tried to get the leader but hit another one instead. The others ran into the woods ... after they killed ...”

  His voice trails away, and his eyes stare into distant horrors. I can’t press him further, he’s on the verge of collapse.

  “It’s all right now,” I say. “Settle back and close your eyes.”

  Trynka’s sobbing has lessened now. Bel murmurs soothing words to her in the slobe language. Quiet begins to settle onto our nightmare world.

  My comrades have brought the sniper rifle with them. I grip its cold lethality and peer out to the unknown.

  “I’ll avenge you, boys,” I mutter. “Count on that.”

  56. The Flameless Hell

  Matters settle into a grim deadlock. The enemy seems content to wait us out. He is trying to use the environment against us, I reckon, and seeks to grind us down at no cost to himself.

  The strategy is working. Sipren appears to be shell shocked, gazing off into space and refusing to talk. Thank heaven nobody is injured, as I don’t think he’s capable of performing his medic duties. Trynka is prostrate with grief; there is no way of telling how she’d react to renewed fighting.

  An exhaustion that is more than physical is dragging us down – it’s a mental and spiritual disorientation. We are so stressed by our surroundings that we are wearing out. This could have fatal consequences. The Enemy does not suffer from such limitations, at least not as much. This is his domain.

  I force myself to regard Omzbak and his deputy as a depersonalized ‘other.’ If I think of them as the torturers and murders of Stilikan, I’ll lose my head and do something foolish. I cannot afford that.


  The second man is the deputy commander, I’m convinced. Who else would stick with Omzbak after the whole rest of the band has run off?

  In our group, only Bel looks rock solid, but even he is having trouble keeping alert. He is constantly blinking his eyes and shaking his head.

  “We have to stay sharp, no matter what,” I say.

  “Agreed,” Bel replies. “It’s getting tough, though.”

  I shift my position on the rock floor.

  “Where do you think they’re hiding?”

  “Judging by the direction of the gunfire, I’d guess somewhere over that way,” Bel says.

  He gestures off to our right. The area once seemed to be little more than a vague blur, but now I can make out more details. I’m beginning to see everything better.

  I can tell now that there really isn’t a separate passageway. Everything is all one large, spherical space around which there are many niches, ledges, and outcroppings. Jagged stalagmites, some as high as four or five meters, thrust themselves upward in places.

  A dim glow of unknown origin illuminates the place, obscuring any view of the ceiling. The overall impression is savage, horrid – like a vision of Hell without the flames.

  “There must be some way to outflank them,” I say. “I’ll go look for it when my vision adjusts better.”

  “Go for it whenever you’re ready, Eagle-eye,” Bel says.

  I flinch at the sound of the common nickname, but I push the association aside. I am nothing like that scum who murdered the slobe boy, I must hold onto that. I am not a monster. I have to be ice cold.

  My eyes continue to adjust, and I can make out our surroundings better all the time. I can certainly see Katella’s body well enough. Someone has pulled his jacket over his face, and Trynka clings to him. Quiet sobs wrack her own body.

  A hot stab of guilt penetrates my ice coldness. Katella had been my wingman, my oldest and most faithful comrade. He’d backed me against the whole squadron even though he was severely injured. Yet I’d grown distant from him, taken him for granted. My relationship with Bel had seemed so much more interesting and important.

  Why did he have to die like this before I could tell him how much I valued his loyalty and friendship? As is so often the case, Bel seems to read my thoughts.

  “I miss him, too,” he says. “I’m glad we became friends toward the end.”

  I feel a need to punish myself further.

  “Look what’s happened,” I say. “I didn’t want any of this.”

  “Who does?” Bel replies.

  “Everything is my fault.”

  “We all volunteered,” Bel says. “You didn’t force anybody.”

  “But the losses!”

  “What did you expect during a war, Dye?”

  “The war’s over,” I say. “We could have surrendered to that army patrol. We could be waiting for the POW exchange right now.”

  Bel gives me an irritated look.

  “Perhaps,” he says, “or they might have shot us on the spot. Have you considered that?”

  “Well, no I ...”

  One thing about Bel, he never helps you to feel sorry for yourself.

  “Let’s just finish what we came here to do and then get the hell out of this place,” he says.

  He looks off into the distance, signaling the end of the conversation.

  More time passes. Who can say how long? Time seems to move differently down here. The malaise, as I’ve come to call it, makes further inroads on my mind. I feel my mental processes slowing down. I know that if I don’t get moving soon, I’ll become totally immobilized.

  “All right, I’m going now,” I say.

  I abandon my machine pistol and seize the rifle.

  “I’ll cover you from here,” Bel says.

  I crawl away from our enclosure, half expecting a hail of bullets to greet my maneuver, but nothing happens. Rifle cradled in my arms, I maneuver to the next outcrop, then on to another. I’m not far from our position, but I can no longer see it. Or maybe I could see it but am looking in the wrong direction.

  Everything is a lie here. You have to look beneath the surface to see the real things. That being the case, I should not head off to our right, as logic dictated, but should follow a leftward path.

  I dodge between the outcrops and stalagmites, keeping a sharp eye out for the Enemy.

  The ground is rising. I follow it until I’m walking on a broad ledge with sheer rock face on one side and a panorama of the flameless Hell on the other. Cover is abundant on my ledge, and I make good use of it, hunched over in my stealthy progress.

  Am I going the right way? My sense of direction, usually quite good, is of little help. But I am developing another sense of navigation that is exclusive to this domain. I continue on my way, trusting to luck and intuition.

  The high path takes me round and round; vertigo threatens me, but I shut my mind to it. I’ve given up any attempt at logic and rely solely on my ‘Ghostie’ eyes to see me through. The flameless Hell tries to amuse itself with my mind. Various fantasies attempt to intrude, but I let them pass like water through a sieve.

  The rifle is solid and true in my hands. I grasp it tight, as if I am holding onto my very soul. It represents reality in this land of smoke and mirrors. My progress is slow and torturous, I have lost sight of my comrades. I am adrift in an alien world.

  Then, just as I am about to give up hope ... I find the Enemy!

  They are below me, perhaps 75 meters away, but who can judge distances in this place with any confidence? I can only see one man, actually, the deputy commander. Black hatred surges in my heart. My teeth grind so hard that they seem ready to shatter.

  Forget all that – ice cold!

  So, where is Omzbak? Perhaps he is resting up from his long round trip to the woodcutter’s cabin. Maybe he is lying somewhere out of sight. If I wait long enough, he should appear.

  But I can’t wait. The malaise is draining my energy by the moment. In this confusing atmosphere, my chances of hitting my target are not outstanding to begin with, later on they will be nonexistent. Another thought intrudes: What if Omzbak isn’t there at all but is sneaking up alone on our position?

  There is no time to squander. Through my rifle scope, I can see the deputy leaning against the rocks of their little fortress, arms crossed over his chest. He’s in the crosshairs, this should be an easy shot.

  Then I pause. I thought I had as easy shot the last time, too. Is the man really there, in my sights, or is he somewhere else? I close my eyes and rely solely on instinct. I feel my rifle shifting position.

  Images of Stilikan flash through my mind. I see him running in the field of spring flowers, battling with Papa, flying his fighter plane. I hear my own little boy voice assuring him: “If anybody ever hurts you, I’ll chase them down and smash them!”

  My finger tenses on the trigger.

  ***

  Number One waited eagerly for the order to attack, aching to get more Mag blood on his hands. But the Chief had ordered a delay.

  “We’ll give them time to stew in their own juice,” he’d said. “They’ll fade soon enough; then we’ll jump them.”

  The Chief had then lain down to rest his injured leg and had left him to stand watch. Despite his impatience, Number One understood that this waiting strategy was sound. He was well aware of the exhaustion and bewilderment the hideout imposed on people when they first entered. He’d experienced these symptoms himself when he and the Chief had sought refuge here.

  In his mind, he journeyed back to the events which had brought him to this strange place ...

  He’d been carousing in a neighboring town that night. He recalled the riotous dice game, the free-flowing alcohol, the money he’d won which purchased the disgraceful tryst with the bar girl. And finally, his stumbling progress through the night until he collapsed in the woods amid a drunken stupor.

  He returned shame-faced to his village the next day, fearing a tongue
lashing from his wife. Instead, he found ... the unspeakable.

  If only he’d been there! If only he’d known of the attack; somehow, he could have protected his family. He would never forgive himself. He’d taken a good woman for granted, and his three wonderful children, as well.

  But all those family responsibilities had been too much for him; they’d held him back from the life of excitement he’d always craved. The frustration drove his constant drinking – or so he’d told himself.

  Well, he was getting plenty of excitement now, wasn’t he? He’d trade all of it just to glimpse his precious family once again. So vivid was his longing, that his loved ones actually seemed to appear before him, wavering in the dim light. Tears of joy sprang from his eyes.

  A bullet struck him in the chest, penetrating his heart.

  His final thought: I’m coming!

  57. Pursuit

  The gunshot roars in my ears like the voice of God on judgment day. The man tumbles over. The fatigue that has been oppressing me vanishes amid a burst of triumph.

  Yes!

  Joy surges through me as I chamber another round. I pray fervently that Omzbak will reveal himself next. And moments later, he does appear, rolling along the ground like some bloated leach. I shoot but cannot hit the moving target.

  I fire again, but Omzbak is up now, retreating into the dimness. Below me, all turns into swirling chaos. I hear Bel’s voice.

  “Over there! He’s getting away!”

  Bel rushes across the hellscape firing bursts from his machine pistol; he carries my abandoned weapon slung over his shoulder. Trynka accompanies him, howling a battle cry. Even Sipren has regained his power of movement and is running along with the others.

  I descend from my ledge and follow them. My sense of distance is still badly distorted, and sooner than I’d thought possible, I am standing with the others beside the man I have just shot. His face wears a rapturous expression, as if the death I’ve given him is a joyous event.

  “Pig!” Trynka spits on the corpse.

  So, I have finally struck down one of Stilikan’s murderers. I feel oddly unfulfilled, though, as if I have slain someone of no consequence. Maybe it’s that idiot grin on the man’s face, mocking my achievement.

  “Omzbak went off that way,” Bel says, gesturing toward the left.

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  I can’t take my eyes off the dead man. Here is the second enemy I’ve killed – unless you want to count all those children burned to ashes by the death orders I delivered in my airplane.