Memories of her deceased husband arose. The father he has never known was a hero, she thought. He had stood up for what was right, and against what was wrong. His convictions had led to sacrifices, which in turn, had led to his death. Was he selfish? Am I?
The sudden faint and distant crackle of blaster fire jostled Tatiana to the present and into a crouched position. Head on a swivel, she scanned the thick greenery for the direction of the noise.
More weak sizzles hissed and spat off to her left. She crept in the direction of the firing, its intensity looming louder with each tentative step forward.
Voices and laughter now accompanied the firing. And so did grunts and howls.
A clearing emerged and Tatiana flattened herself onto the ground. Low-crawling forward, she edged up to the precipice of a deep pit that looked like a zoo exhibit. Inside it, bright lights illuminated the area.
“Again!” Eagan Rodenmeyer said, shouting. His voice resonated off the concrete walls.
A line of several reptilian-humanoids of varying heights and sizes clad in crimson exo-armor raised their hands. They aimed blaster pistols at tall, heavy neoprene targets set up in the lush thicket at the center of the pit.
Tatiana jerked back from the pit’s edge. She turned her head to the side and squeezed her eyes shut.
Boosted by amphitheater-like acoustics, Rodenmeyer’s voice echoed out of the pit again. “Fire!”
The sound of plasma energy bolts split the air. Laughs, grunts, and howls followed.
“Well done, soldiers, well done.”
Tatiana squirmed up to the edge and peered into the pit again. The creatures holstered their pistols and then stood at parade rest.
Rodenmeyer worked with an associate who Tatiana hadn’t seen before. Shorter than Eagan, the man held a scowled countenance and stood on a stocky, muscular frame. He waddled behind the creatures, looking them up and down as if inspecting them.
“Doshi,” Eagan called out.
The angry brick shithouse with a high and tight blond flattop pivoted and strutted up to Eagan, who stood in front of the group of lizard-men. Doshi halted, assumed the position of attention, and then saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“Get the God Dust armaments.”
“Yes, sir!”
Doshi scampered to the side of the pit, stopping just outside of the illuminated area. Barely discernible, it looked to Tatiana as if he entered a secured room built inside the pit’s concrete wall.
While he waited on his partner, Rodenmeyer punched away at a hand-held datacom. Occasional hands raised among the squad of reptilians. Nodding at the ones who raised their hands, Rodenmeyer exchanged vocalizations that were a mix of what seemed like Pidgin English, grunts, hisses, and hoots.
Returning to the group, Doshi pushed a black hover cart. A single oversized set of grayish-green exoskeleton armor hung from a rod over the top of the cart. The upper chest—which had a faded, thick cobalt streak on it—and back piece hung separate from the leggings. Arm pieces lay on the cart next to a round, muted silvery metal shield and doubled-edged short sword similar to what ancient Roman soldiers carried.
Doshi halted the cart—which hovered about a meter off the ground—next to Rodenmeyer. Once he finished, the stocky grunt resumed his position behind the group of lizards.
Rodenmeyer pounded away at the datacom one last time, and then plopped it into a side satchel. He strode up to the cart and grasped the shield. After taking the short sword in his other hand, he sidestepped and centered himself in front the group. He raised the shield and sword above his head, and then slowly moved his arms back and forth. The lizards grunted, hissed, and nodded.
Knowing some limited background about the weapon from reading stolen CISOS files, Tatiana anticipated Eagan’s intentions. She narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow. “It shouldn’t work,” she said, whispering.
Rodenmeyer lowered his arms, rolled his shoulders and neck, and then banged the flat part of the sword’s blade once against the front of the shield.
More grunts, hisses, and nods.
Then, two more sword slaps against the shield, only harder than the single first one.
Rodenmeyer snarled. He twisted the blade, and then banged one of the sword’s sharp edges against the front of the shield three times in hasty, angry succession.
“You possess the wrong kind of soul, Eagan,” Tatiana said, muttering.
Then, one by one, Rodenmeyer had each of the crimson-armored lizard-men imitate his actions with the shield and sword. He called them up, one at a time, until they all had their opportunity to bang sword against shield.
“Red-chested beasts,” Tatiana said. “They don’t have the right soul, either.”
By the time it was all over, Doshi had wandered up and stood next to his dejected boss. “We don’t know all about this stuff yet. Maybe it’ll work with one of the troops in the next batch.”
Rodenmeyer sighed and shook his head. “Eh, just put it away. Take the soldiers in and get them bedded down for the night.”
Abraham Harel’s agitated voice suddenly erupted through both Rodenmeyer’s and Doshi’s comms. “Eagan, it’s urgent that I see you first thing.”
Rodenmeyer held up his hand at Doshi and waved him along. Doshi nodded and then motioned for the soldiers to move out. The reptilians shuffled forward while Doshi pushed the hover cart along.
“Something wrong, Abraham?” Rodenmeyer said.
“Another ship approaches. It’s presenting intermittent REF signatures.”
“I’m on my way,” Rodenmeyer said, starting to run.
“But that’s not all,” Harel said.
Rodenmeyer halted his steps and listened closer.
“The Kolesnikov woman is missing.”
Overhearing the exchange, Tatiana lost her breath. She reeled away from the precipice. A sharp ache churned in her gut.
<> <>
Captain Hans Krieger arrived on the hangar deck and pulled Eastaway aside. “A word, please, Lieutenant.”
Stepping away from his platoon, Eastaway followed Krieger toward the edge of the hangar bay and stood near its enormous closed doors. Krieger turned to the subordinate officer and sighed. His red, baggy eyes alerted Eastaway to some bad news.
“More unpleasant chatter about the Chinese Conglomerate,” Krieger said.
“What do you mean?”
Krieger glanced left and right, and then said, “They’ve really ramped up movements. Something’s going to break out soon.”
“They’ll pull us off Oeskone if that happens?”
Krieger hesitated, glanced around the expansive bay again, and then settled his gray eyes onto Eastaway. “Certain folks upstairs have just suggested if we withdraw in a hurry, some assets may just get left behind.”
It took a moment for Krieger’s surreal words to register with Eastaway. But as his mind wrapped itself around the implications of what the intel officer just disclosed, anger, frustration, and dismay established a heavy foothold on him.
“Was Beach involved in this?” Eastaway said.
Krieger offered a modest nod.
Eastaway’s limbs felt weighty despite the exosuit’s mechanical assist. When he finally spoke, the lieutenant’s words violated protocol. “What kind of fucking bullshit is this, Krieger? Have they lost their fucking minds?”
“Jerod, I am an intelligence officer so I can protect people and save lives. Their statements are contrary to everything I stand for.”
“You and me both.”
“If we bug out while you’re below, mission be damned. Hunker down, hide out, survive.” He put a hand on Eastaway’s shoulder. “I’ll do what I can for you.”
After Krieger departed, Eastaway turned around and watched his platoon ready themselves. From what he could tell, Beach’s apparent scorn for him also extended to endangering his soldiers. The impetus for his commander’s contempt escaped Eastaway’s understanding, making Beach’s boldness feel even more malevolent.
He closed
his eyes and asked God to protect his troops again.
“Boss, everything okay?” Sergeant Sapp said, his voice cracking through the intercom. He spoke to his platoon leader on a private channel.
Eastaway opened his eyes and gazed at Sapp across the bay, who stood with hands on hips next to their busy soldiers.
“Intel suggests we pack extra rations, water, and power packs,” Eastaway said. His next command violated Beach’s previous orders. “Have Corporal Fisher bring along three DOGs too. Please make sure it gets done.”
Chapter 5
The Swamp Swallowed Him Whole
Growing nausea heaved up from Eastaway’s gut and pummeled his heart. With unsteady and sweaty hands, he fumbled while he finished armoring and suiting up. An abrupt communication from a bridge officer interrupted his nervousness.
“Uh, Lieutenant Eastaway?”
“Go ahead.”
“This is Gunnery Control. Just wanted to let you know we’ve fired a defoliant shell into the drop zone as planned.”
“Roger that.”
“It’s some fast-acting, awful shit. But give it at least an hour to clear out the area.”
“Will do.”
“Also, it takes about a day to settle down, so no one should breathe unfiltered air in its vicinity for at least that long.”
“Thanks, Gunnery, but we won’t be sticking around the drop zone long enough.”
“Roger, good luck. Here are the final defo grid coordinates.”
Eastaway forwarded the data from gunnery control to his troops, along with a warning about the deadly defoliant, adding, “Apparently, it’s worse than Sergeant Sapp after an evening of beans and ale.”
Close to an hour later, Captain Beach made a befuddled appearance. He offered slurred and confusing words of encouragement to the platoon. As Beach spoke, his eyes drifted and appeared unfocused. All of his behaviors were unusual for him.
Eastaway heard only muted, meaningless static. He guessed Beach had stood before them intoxicated, but he sensed no accompanying odor that confirmed his suspicion.
After Beach finished talking to the group, he did not attempt to speak to Eastaway in private. He offered no personal well wishes typical from a commander to a subordinate officer before leaving on a mission. Beach simply meandered off, looking lost as he wandered toward the hangar bay’s exit.
Eastaway turned around and saw his troops lined up, ready to board the dropship. Many of them held raised eyebrows, others snickered, and a few shook their heads.
“What the fuck?” Sapp said.
“At ease,” Eastaway said. He swiveled and strode up next to Captain Beach, who was across the hangar deck and nearly out the door at that point. “Sir?”
Beach halted with jerky, mechanical movements, but he did not turn to face his subordinate. With his patience thinning, Eastaway stepped in front of the captain. Like a mute puppet on invisible strings, Beach looked him up and down, as if inspecting him.
“Sir, do you have any mission updates for me?”
The marionette finally spoke in an awkward, halting voice. “Move out of my way.”
Eastaway sniffed the air and searched the blank expression. He found no hint of synth-whiskey odor or signs of bloodshot eyes. Baffled, and just plain fed up, he said, “Yes, sir,” and stepped aside.
Beach exited and Eastaway rejoined his soldiers, some of whom were boarding the dropship. As he approached the group, Sapp started to say something. Anticipating another raucous comment from his platoon sergeant about Beach in front of the troops again, Eastaway cut him off with a stern glare and quick shake of his head.
“You must admit, it was pretty weird,” Sapp said, as Eastaway stepped up next to him.
“Crazy weird,” Eastaway said. “But let’s not let that son of a bitch spoil our fun.”
“Roger that,” Sapp said. He spun around. “Well, hurry up, ladies. We’ve got some air to catch.”
The platoon finished loading into the dropship and then its hatches closed. Eastaway moved toward the flight deck and stood behind the pilots. After interior pressurization, the giant hangar doors rolled aside, revealing the lush jungle planet of Oeskone below.
The descent from the Slipstream toward their exit altitude of 25,000 meters above the surface continued for fifteen minutes. Oeskone’s dark surface grew larger in the dropship’s windshield as it passed through multiple layers of atmosphere. Chatter over the intercom abated as they drew nearer to their destination.
Once over the drop zone, the pilot steadied and hovered the vessel. He flashed a thumbs- up, at which point Eastaway turned around and faced his soldiers. “Time to fly,” he said.
With that, everyone unbuckled and stood. The pilot provided barometric pressure readings so everyone could properly set their altimeters for the impending five-and-a-half minute or so drop at approximately 4,700 meters per minute.
Lowering his head, Eastaway said a brief prayer of safety again for his troops. Amidst his prayer, he felt abrupt and unexpected waves of transient dizziness undulate through his body. The sickness dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, allowing Eastaway to finish his appeal to God.
Elevated above his platoon near the flight deck, Eastaway watched over his troops. With the exception of Corporal Viktor Vinetsky, everyone busied themselves with final preparations. Vinetsky stood motionless, and his eyes held an empty gaze.
Scanning the corporal’s vital signs data feed through his HUD’s optical interface, Eastaway saw that Vinetsky’s heart rate and blood pressure ranged much higher than normal. He connected to a private comms channel and said, “Corporal, you feeling okay?”
After a few seconds, Vinetsky finally said, “Uh, just a little dizzy. Felt like I was going to barf. Weird. Did you just hear that?”
“Hear what, Corporal?”
“That hissing sound?”
The only hissing sound would have stemmed from the dropship’s depressurization, which had not yet occurred.
“No, I didn’t,” Eastaway said. Several silent seconds passed and so he prompted his subordinate again. “Corporal, you still with us?”
In a flat, even tone, Vinetsky said, “Uh, yes. Doing much better now. Must have been something I ate.”
“You going to make it for this one?”
“Yes, sir, I’m fine, fine….”
Eastaway scanned Vinetsky’s vital signs again. Although still a little higher than usual, the data indicated a lowered heart rate and blood pressure than before.
“All right, Corporal. Set your altimeter and check your gear.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eastaway switched over to another channel, tuning in Sapp, Sergeant O’Malley, and the other NCOs, and said, “Keep an eye on Vinetsky. He seems a little off, but he says he’s fine.”
Overlapping acknowledgments from the NCOs alleviated some of Eastaway’s concerns, but not entirely.
The pilot switched several interior indicator lights to green and depressurized the cabin. With that, the starboard-side hatch slid aside, and everyone queued up for the drop.
Sergeant Sapp, at the head of the line, said, “See you all in the jungle.” And with that, he flung himself out the open hatch.
Eastaway acknowledged each of his soldiers as they approached the hatch. He made eye contact, nodded, and patted their shoulders. He hoped to convey some evidence of the honor he felt serving with them.
As he passed by Eastaway, Specialist Elias Fisher shook his hand despite the bulky gloves covering their hands. “My son said ‘Momma.’”
“He’ll say ‘Dadda’ soon, too.”
“Yes, sir!”
Despite offering Eastaway a weak thumbs-up, Corporal Vinetsky appeared otherwise disengaged as he passed his superior on the way out the hatch. Uneasiness crept its way into Eastaway’s gut once again.
One by one, though, his platoon’s troops ambled by him. They plunged into the darkness where they transitioned into a missile in the night. PFC Sylvia Holt brought up the rear
.
“We saved the best for last,” Eastaway said.
Holt smiled and said, “See you on the ground.” Then, out the door she flew.
Eastaway followed her and switched to night vision. As an essentially uninhabited and undeveloped planet, Oeskone projected no illumination from civilization. Surrounded by darkness and freezing temperatures, Eastaway and his troops fell deep into a gloomy coldness. The exosuit’s construction fulfilled essential survival needs, but the internal heater worked overtime to maintain temperature in a comfortable range.
An alarm sounded inside Eastaway’s helmet. He winced at the abrupt clamor. His heart rate shot up.
Sergeant Sapp’s voice cut through the noise and he spoke over the joint intercom channel. “Corporal Vinetsky, what’s your status?”
Eastaway scanned the alarm data. It indicated Vinetsky had powered off his exosuit. Under that condition, none of his life support equipment performed its normal functions, and depressurization was underway. His comms remained shut off, and his chute would not open without power. He could release it manually, but without life support and pressurization, unconsciousness would overwhelm him, preventing him from performing the simple act that would save his life.
“Answer me, Vinetsky!” Sapp shouted.
Multiple troops chimed in, lending their concerned voices to aid their comrade.
Only silence answered them.
Eastaway scanned Vinetsky’s vitals and saw low indicators across the board. He was an unconscious, nearly frozen bullet screaming toward the murky wilderness below.
Sapp and others shouted at Vinetsky in vain. Nothing woke him. Nothing saved him.
The swamp swallowed him whole.
<> <>
Although only roughly fifty meters in diameter, the defoliated drop zone offered its other new arrivals a site to touch down without incident. Vinetsky reposed nearby, below ground, outside the zone. Sergeant O’Malley tagged an estimated waypoint for his corporal’s final resting place.
As much as Eastaway’s remorse compelled him to perform some kind of recovery operation, he accepted that no time existed for it. The best sentiment he could muster to help abate his guilt was to hope the REF would retrieve Corporal Vinetsky’s remains in the near future so his family could have their only son home again.
Resurgence Page 6
