From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  Weston's mind was buzzing. He hadn't slept well but it had been better than he would have got in the busy atmosphere of the command bunker. He checked the time. It was just a few hours before dawn.

  How many hours before the reinforcements arrive? Weston struggled with the arithmetic but the only figure that would come into his head was the fact that he'd only had three hours sleep. He'd had a fitful slumber, unit strengths, logistics, intelligence reports had all danced around his dozing mind to prevent him from getting a proper rest.

  Weston dressed and left his apartment. He made his way out across the spaceport back to the command bunker to oversee the culmination of months of hard work.

  As he walked across the concourse Weston could see through bleary eyes that the distant clouds still echoed with the flashes of explosions. He was too groggy now to appreciate the eerie beauty. To him each splash of colour was a reminder of the spent munitions and the loss of life.

  “I need a coffee,” Weston said out loud to no one.

  Suddenly the whole base was bathed in a brilliant white light from the east. Weston raised an arm to shield his eyes. The sky ignited in a dazzling illumination a hundred times more intense than any sunrise.

  An instant later it had abated. In the far distance flame rolled beneath a mushroom plume of muddy debris.

  Weston marched into the command complex, “I want to know who launched that nuke, where it hit, and have they gone for an all-out strike!”

  Most of the men in the room were surprised. This was news to them.

  From a console monitoring tectonics an operator shouted out, “Seismic activity grid reference one hundred and twenty lat. by eighty four long. Possible ground detonation. Approximately ten megaton yield.”

  The room erupted with noise as everyone started talking at once.

  “One hundred and first infantry report nuclear blast some twenty Kliks west of their position,” one man reported.

  “Can't raise the eighty fifth! Possible electro-magnetic interference,” called another signals man.

  “Surely the Neotrans aren't mad enough to launch a nuclear strike? Extensive nuclear attacks destroy a planet's ecosystem; they couldn't be that foolhardy?” said Admiral Stenel.

  “Are there any more birds in the air?” Weston asked a Radar Officer, ignoring the question.

  “Can't tell, Sir. The E.M. wash has taken out forward stations,”

  “Get a satellite scan and surveillance drones in the area. Find out what we've lost and what's still viable,” Weston's calm voice was an anchor in the sea of turmoil.

  Bit by bit the information began to fit together.

  A Signals Operator piped up, “The Firebase East Alpha has been blown off the face of the map.”

  “That isn't good enough, soldier, I want a report not a headline,” said Weston.

  “It's a full scale attack,” said an adjutant, “They're hitting us on all sides. East Beta and North Alpha have both reported incidents of small units infiltrating our lines and trying to detonate nuclear charges but both attempts were intercepted.”

  Weston called to the Signals Operator, “Get that information out to the other firebases.”

  Weston looked back at the other commanding officers in the room, “A bomb has been infiltrated through the base's perimeter. Were there any reports of an assault before the detonation?”

  “No, Sir, and no air attack warnings either.”

  “Which probably meant a team of sappers. It either happened too fast or had gone unnoticed by security,” Weston surmised.

  “If it were a fast attack that would mean an escalation in the suicide bomber tactic,” Admiral Stenel said out loud, “If security hadn't noticed, then in all probability that meant a mole. Both give us cause for concern.”

  “Unlikely, not impossible but unlikely. All our men are vetted on a continuous basis and considering we've stopped two other infiltrations, I'd say the Neotrans were playing a numbers game,” General Weston countered.

  “We lost the Ptolemy to a martyr; maybe my strategy has back-fired. Instead of sapping Neotran morale and confidence, our assassinations have hardened their resolve,” Weston pondered.

  “Sir, the surveillance drones have picked up Neotran armour and mechanised infantry pushing into the eastern sector gap,” reported the signals operator.

  “OK, get the orbital missile platforms on-line. I want to shunt their spheres of effective fire to give increased cover to the eastern front. Somebody work out a solution for that.”

  Admiral Stenel waved a finger at one of his men.

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” acknowledged the naval officer as he turned to interrogate his consul.

  “Air Chief,” Weston called, “Re-arrange flight paths to beef up the cover in the battle zone. Shuffle everything closer to the action but don't leave us vulnerable on the west.”

  Weston scrolled through troop details on the main screen, “Get the holding units on standby. Move them all closer to the eastern front. Set them in the secondary and tertiary defensive positions.”

  “Shouldn't we move them into the gap, Sir?” asked Admiral Stenel.

  “Not yet, wait until we have a clearer picture on East Alpha,” Weston answered, “This may not be their main thrust.”

  “What about the threat of further nuclear attacks?” the Admiral asked.

  “I don't think there'll be any more nuclear explosions in the eastern sectors. They've committed their forces. Not even the Neotrans would go to the trouble of bringing their troops forward only to vaporise them,” said Weston.

  “Paratroopers have been landing behind our lines. They're making movement near impossible. They're hampering the reinforcements from getting into position,” reported the signals ensign.

  “What's the news at the breach?” asked Weston.

  “We still haven't been able to establish communications with those units that survived the bomb,” answered the signals operator.

  “What's the ETA on the convoy?”

  “Just over three hours,” confirmed Admiral Stenel.

  Weston looked over the flickering view screen. It was a flat, oval table. Information of any kind could be displayed inside its military grey edging. He traced his finger over the deepest enemy penetration and drew an imaginary line back to the spaceport on the map. With the skill and deft touch of a pianist he called up flight plans and troop strengths, then details of the weapons status and paths of his orbiting missile platforms. As he watched, the payloads diminished, each one counting closer to zero.

  He called up an image of the inbound convoy from Earth. A graphical representation of their orbit leapt onto the screen in garish yellows and greens.

  “It's going to be close,” Weston said.

  “Can we still evacuate?” asked an adjutant.

  “No, even if I ordered an evacuation now we wouldn't have enough time before the Neotrans overwhelm us,”

  “Anyway there are no longer enough ships to carry everyone,” Admiral Stenel's voice carried an air of disdain.

  It was the Admiral’s way of saying, “I told you so”.

  “We wouldn't be in this mess if your predecessor hadn't screwed up at Greda,” Weston thought but he knew better than to create friction at this crucial time.

  “Can the garrison hold out for three hours?” asked Stenel.

  Weston didn't answer.

  “How many Legacies do we have on base?” Weston asked.

  A staff officer checked his logistics readout, “Just one, Sir.”

  “Captain Zinner, attached to the Bavashee,” Weston pre-empted, “Have him and his men rig the base for demolition.”

  “Sir?”

  “If we are overrun I'll be dammed if they're getting their hands on anything! And get him to place a couple of Bavashee on that door,” he pointed to the entrance to the bunker, “If the Neotrans break through I want our best men here to protect us.”

  “General Weston!” the communications ensign broke through the throng of hig
h-ranking officers, “General, Sir! They're in the perimeter defences of firebase East Beta.”

  “That's our whole Eastern flank exposed!” one of the assembled staff announced.

  “The Commander has ordered in a Blind Fire attack on his position,” said the ensign, “surely that's a mistake, Sir?”

  “Who's in command of East Beta?” asked the General.

  The ensign answered, “Colonel Revar, Sir.”

  “Of course, it's his division holding there. Open a channel to the base.”

  From his position in front of the console the signalman switched on the main speakers, “You're through now, Sir.”

  Everyone hushed as the room filled with the sound of the transmission.

  “This is Firebase East Beta, over.”

  “This is General Weston. Get me Colonel Revar on the line.”

  “Yes, Sir!” the reply was peppered with interference. Voices and explosions could be heard in the background.

  “General Weston, Colonel Revar here, go ahead over,” his voice mixed with the static and blurred.

  “Can you confirm your request for Blind Fire? Over,” Weston's voice was raised to pierce the crackling and popping of interference.

  Much of the distorting noise was the result of small arms fire at the site of the transmission. From the sounds of it Revar was in real trouble.

  “Affirmative! Affirmative, Blind Fire has been requested! Over,” Revar barked.

  “Is there no other option Colonel? Over,” it pained Weston to question one of his best officers but it was because Revar was one of the best that he didn’t want to lose him.

  “Negative! It's hand to hand here. They have breached the perimeter. There is no other option. We have a division of shielded tanks in the compound. Neotran Paratroopers with man portable missiles are knocking them out. If we can take them out, the armour will have a chance of holding.”

  “We can't afford the number of wounded Blind Fire would generate,” Weston's concern for his men was genuine but foremost in his mind was the safety of his prodigy.

  “General, given the choice, I think they'd prefer that to being dead. Now please authorise the strike! Over and out!”

  “Carry out the order immediately!” Weston's voice was calm but forceful.

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” said one of the naval officers. “Reactors building to full power, target co-ordinates locked.”

  A green light blipped on the officer's consul, “Maximum power.”

  Weston looked at the officer and nodded, “Fire.”

  “Blind Fire away.”

  High above the battle zone a weapons platform ignited. An invisible stream of laser light and electromagnetic energy burst out towards the planet. Too strong to be interrupted by the wispy clouds, each blast of energy swept over the chosen topography.

  From overhead a loud whistling pierced the sounds of battle. It sounded like a flaming meteorite was hurtling down to crush them.

  In the midst of battle Colonel Revar screamed to his men, “Close your eyes!”

  But it was too late for most.

  The noise from above drew the attention of the combatants. As they looked up the laser's lights scorched them.

  The rays, which were too low a frequency to burn deeply, did cause discomfort as they ran over the combatants. Revar winced as the beam singed the exposed flesh on the back of his neck, causing no more discomfort than a hard nip.

  For those men who had looked up the damage was more critical. The retina focused the sharp beam of high intensity light. The laser reacted violently with sensitive retinal cones searing them flat.

  Revar kept his eyes tight shut, hands against his face, crouched down low.

  He heard men screaming and crying out with pain and from behind him a blinded soldier blundered into him.

  Knocked off balance Revar instinctively threw his hands out and opened his eyes to judge the distance to the ground.

  The world was bathed in iridescent blue light which stung his eyes. Revar let out a scream of pain as his eyes incinerated. A misty liquid like half-cooked egg whites floated across his pupils and Revar was blind. Writhing on the floor of the artillery pit his screams of agony joined those of the injured around him. The sounds around him had begun to change. No longer was there the urgent chattering of guns. The firing had been replaced by the wail of the wounded. Both Terran and Neotran troops had been deprived of their sight in a swift and agonising moment. Around him stumbling blindly were not only the enemy soldiers but his men as well.

  “Damn you, Revar!” he screamed out loud, “Why didn't I warn them!”

  Revar cursed himself for not alerting his own men, the fear of the Neotrans finding out and the swiftness of his action preventing a warning.

  In the calculated military decision it had seemed necessary to preserve life and defend the firebase. But what a weighty trade off, sacrificing these young men's sight and his own. They had become casualties to their own terrible weapon and the need for secrecy.

  Gunfire shattered Revar's remorse. The Terran troops sealed in their armoured tanks were unaffected from the rays. Now they laid waste to the helpless enemy.

  “For Gods sake no!” Revar screamed against the carnage.

  “Hold fire!” he called out to the blackness, “Hold fire damn you!”

  He groped aimlessly in the darkness desperately trying to halt the massacre but his command went unheeded.

  Section 36

  Keir's squad arrived at one of the frantic forward camps in the small hours.

  Tanks and personnel carriers passed through in an endless line, their caterpillar tracks squeaking metal on metal with a mechanical rhythm.

  Walking in the opposite direction casualties were filtering back through to field hospitals, passing the fresh divisions on their way forward. Jackson was transfixed by the figures emerging from the darkness. Groups of men, some walking, some being carried, skin torched black. The procession was never ending. Men whose tunics were plastered in brown lumps of gore lumbering on crutches with butchered limbs, stumps of raw flesh bandaged and bloody, these were the fortunate minority. One of the returning soldiers looked unscathed by the violence that had touched his comrades. He was being helped along with the aid of two walking wounded. Jackson watched him, curious about his affliction.

  Without warning a jet screeched low overhead and the man fell to the ground convulsing and screaming. Two comrades knelt down beside him. One of them cradled him in his arms, as one would do with a distressed child.

  It was frightening that over the cacophony of bombs, aircraft and armoured vehicles, the screams of the wounded could still be heard. Jackson stood up to offer his help.

  “Where are you going?” Keir demanded.

  “They need help,” replied Jackson.

  “You can't help them, all you'd be doing is getting in the way,” Keir said.

  “I can't just sit here and watch them!” complained Jackson.

  “That's exactly what you'll do. We could be leaving any minute. Try and get some rest, you won't get a chance later on.”

  Jackson sat back down with the others. The rumbling explosions and the activity of the camp conspired to deprive them of respite. The cold and damp aggravated the orchestrated chaos that ensued around them. It was a different kind of discomfort but the feeling in his stomach was the same. Last time Jackson had felt like this had been in the cold cabin of Lupus Alpha. The doubt gnawed at him. People would die today, maybe not by his hand this time, but people would die. Would it be one of his friends? Were they fated like Shen or Mornan?

  Jackson looked round at his comrades as they sat among the supply crates.

  Lan sat straight-backed on his plastic basher with ammo clips fanned out in front of him. The magazines were being methodically checked, cleaned and loaded. The mound of bullets buttressed between the slick plastic of his shelter half and his crotch slowly diminished as each magazine passed muster.

  Nasim sat cross-legged, muscles relaxed,
head bowed. His chest slowly heaving with each measured and controlled breath. He could have been mistaken for being asleep if it weren't impossible to sleep with the all encompassing din around them.

  A short distance away Keir was talking to another officer. Unlike Nasim his muscles seemed galvanized by the chaos. The immediacy of war like an amphetamine to him, keeping him alert and ready to pounce.

  Shorey, the man who had been in the scuffle with Lan, was writing a letter. He sat with his back against a packing crate. One hand clutched a disposable pen, the other clumsily cradled the paper. He held his torch in his mouth and shone its dull, red light onto the creased note. His strong features were relaxed and passive. The look was one of deep concentration as if every word were a battle. Jackson watched him wrap the paper around the black book he had been reading on the plane. From another pocket he produced a clear plastic bag that already contained his wallet and a gold chain. He placed the bundle inside and sealed it. The whole package was dropped into a large brown envelope and addressed.

  “Right! Let's move!” shouted Keir and he clapped his hands together, “We've got four choppers fuelled and ready to go. Take your base kit only. You won't be staying long so leave your bashers, sleeping bags and the like here. Med' kit, gun and ordinance are all you need. OK, let's go!”

  The group of soldiers jumped to their feet and quickly packed what equipment they needed. Keir walked over to where his rucksack lay. He discarded his helmet into the pile and picked up a few extra magazines of ammunition.

  Lan hurriedly loaded his last few shells as he walked over to the landing pad.

  “Where the fuck's you're helmet?” barked Keir.

  “I put it in with my stuff like you,” Lan said, unaware that he had done anything wrong.

  “I know what I'm doing with my head, you don't. Now get it on and keep it on!”

  Lan felt unjustly picked on. The other men were wearing an assortment of berets and bandannas. Like a child who had just been scolded he whined at Keir, “Why, when no-one else is wearing theirs?”