From the Torment of Dreams

by Iain McKinnon

  “A helmet distorts what you hear so most of the team don't like using them. You, however, cannot distinguish between a gun shot and your mommy doing your daddy, so you keep your tin hat on your head!” the stress was evident in Keir's voice.

  He had been in combat all too often. He knew men died because of stupid mistakes, because of lack of communication, because of a hundred reasons. Keir had to watch out for everything that could get him or his men killed.

  “It's going to be hard enough staying alive without having to play wet nurse,” he thought.

  But he did have to. All the demands and the pressures were weighing him down.

  “So what if I get a little cranky,” Keir thought, “so what if I snapped at my men. It made them pay attention didn't it?”

  Keir knew that was exactly what he needed.

  Shorey paused before boarding the transport. He passed the brown envelope to a member of the ground crew. Patting him on the back he handed the technician some money. From where Jackson sat in the cabin he couldn't see how much had been given but the recipient looked pleased. Their conversation was drowned out by the noise of the turbine but it was short, with a lot of nodding. As Shorey boarded, he looked back at his courier and fixed him with a hard stare. The technician gave him the thumbs up to reassure him.

  “What now?” asked Jackson as Keir took the seat in front of him.

  “The choppers fly low and fast with a group of fighters escorting them in.”

  “But the fighters' stalling speed is lower than the helicopters' maximum so how can they?” said Jackson.

  “They constantly zigzag across our path so as not to overtake us.”

  “Won’t that mean they’ll be easy targets?” asked Jackson.

  Keir nodded and signalled the pilot to take off.

  Tracer fire lit up the night sky and across the ground below were pools of light, remnants of vehicles and installations still engulfed in flame. Anti-aircraft shells exploded alongside them, buffeting them like kites on a windy day. Watching the spectacle Keir wished he had brought his helmet if only to sit on.

  The fighters desperately tried to cover the choppers but their targeting systems could not keep track of all of the threat warnings. They fired decoys, counter measures, swept the path of aircraft and surface to air missile sites. But the dangers were far too numerous to be met.

  As Keir looked out of the window the inevitable happened.

  From the port side, one of the choppers took a flack shell square on the nose. The casing fragmented as the phosphorous contents ignited. Burning shrapnel cut through the helicopter. The molten grains pierced a fuel tank and the whole body was consumed in flame. One of the rotors, blown free by the explosion, spun off.

  “Fuck!” Jackson screamed and instinctively ducked as the blade came hurtling towards them.

  The rotor smacked against the door. The metal screeched and buckled as the blade sliced through into the cabin. Jackson jumped back in a motion that was pure reflex. The tip twisted and sheered with a crack. Wind whistled into the cabin through the long tear in the door drowning out Jackson's terrified panting.

  The blade rattled and kicked sawing a deeper gash in the door until suddenly it flicked out and hurtled away into the black sky.

  Keir watched as the stricken chopper plummeted. He could see his blazing comrades struggling to escape. With burning fists they pounded against the windows, desperately trying to save themselves.

  The fuselage's metal frame stayed in one piece as it fell blazing to the ground. It shattered on impact spewing burning debris, another bonfire on the battlefield.

  Keir wanted to scream out in horror, but knew he couldn't.

  “I'm in charge here, I have to stay in control,” he repeated this mantra to himself, over and over again.

  Nasim watched from behind Keir's shoulder. His view was restricted but he had seen enough to know what had happened to the trailing chopper. He struggled to cope with the turmoil as they flew away from the remains of the other helicopter. He shuddered and tried to push the clambering dread from his mind but even with his eyes screwed shut Nasim could see the ensuing death.

  Jackson warily eased himself back into his seat and said nothing. The noise inside the cabin was made horrendous by the gaping hole in the door and the wind chill made Jackson shiver against the cold. He didn't feel he had the right to voice a complaint but it wasn't the difficulty that kept him from talking.

  Everyone on board was silently praying that their pilot had enough skill or luck to pull them through.

  Section 37

  Zinner's headset buzzed into life. As he took the orders his buddy continued setting the plastic explosives. His companion listened to the half conversation his commander was having. Both of them were dressed in dark green overalls held firmly in place by the combat webbing that carried their essential equipment. On their shoulders was an emblem, a shield of blue and white stripes with a set of wings spread across the centre.

  “121st Airborne Battalion” curved above the wings. The Bavashee wore the emblem when they were incognito. If the base was overrun and his Special Forces captured, it would do them no good to be recognised as Bavashee. Much better to blend in and camouflage their identity.

  “I'll send over two men personally,” Zinner paused to listen.

  “We have not placed all of the charges,” there was a faint crackle of voices on the headphone.

  “Yes, Sir, I understand,” he looked down at the soldier busily working away.

  “A division of Neotran tanks have broken through the defences. We've got sixty or so vehicles pushing in on the spaceport.”

  “Won't the mines ringing the base take care of them?” Hutch asked his commander.

  “They'll hamper their advance but with all the reserves at the front if they do break through Fort Veruct will be easy meat. So command want us to help defend the base,” explained Zinner.

  “What about pulling back some of the regular troops from the front line, I mean, Captain, we're Bavashee, not grunts.”

  “I understand your reluctance but apart from the naval gunners and a handful of ground crew we're all there is. The front-line units are in enough shit as it is. We've had two firebases overrun in the past hour and the rest are running short on munitions.”

  “We're all goin' to be in the shit if those reinforcements don't get here soon.”

  Zinner nodded, “Continue planting the charges for now. I'm going to pull the rest of the men off demolitions and set them to defending the spaceport and command bunker.”

  “I understand, Sir,” Hutch acknowledged.

  “If the Neotrans break through the inner defences, no doubt High Command will want us to stand to the last man.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Hutch said solemnly.

  Zinner looked Hutch in the eye, “We're worth more than all the reinforcements on those ships.”

  He squatted down and bringing his face up close spoke softly, “It's common knowledge among the Special Forces that there's no contingency plan for an evacuation. Weston's gambling it all on the reinforcements arriving in time.”

  Zinner looked around as if to double check that no one else was listening, “Hutch, once you're finished here, secure a jeep, or two, and provisions. If Weston's plan doesn't work we'll have to go to ground at the last moment.”

  “Yes, Sir!” said Hutch. He was visibly pleased at his commander's orders and that he had been charged with such an important task.

  Zinner wasn't a coward. He had no fear of capture or even death, but he knew his worth and the worth of his men.

  There were only a handful of his kind left in the universe, it would be a waste of resources to let himself be neutralised.

  “Right, I'm heading out front. When you've got your work done call me, but guard the jeeps until the rest of us get there.”

  “Roger that, Sir,” Hutch said to Zinner as he set off down the corridor.

  Around the corner two more Bavashee were busy working on t
he demolitions. One of them set up the explosives while the second man covered him. They were both time-served soldiers whom Zinner knew and more importantly trusted.

  “Leave those charges,” he ordered, “Hutch will finish them off. General Weston wants a couple of extra guards at the command bunker.”

  The two men left their task and stood up.

  Zinner halted one of them by placing his hand on his shoulder.

  “Lieutenant Yeng,” he said quietly. “If the base is overrun, do your damnedest to evacuate the Chiefs of Staff. Hutch is going to try and get us transport out.”

  “Yes, Sir, you can rely on me.”

  Zinner whispered into Yeng's ear, “If there is no chance of escape we can't afford for them to fall into enemy hands. They would be a valuable source of information to the Neotrans. If all else fails it will be up to you to deprive the Neotrans of that advantage.”

  Yeng silently nodded a confirmation before heading off in the direction of the command bunker.

  Zinner watched until Yeng disappeared round the corner.

  “OK,” Zinner thought, “Let's get the spaceport defended.”

  Jogging towards the exit he pressed against his earpiece with his index finger and spoke, “Borderman, Zinner here. How far on are you?”

  An almost unintelligible crackle came back in reply.

  “Good. Finish off where you are and meet me up front with your team.” Zinner ordered.

  There was another short burst of chatter over the speaker.

  “That's OK. I'm leaving Hutch to tidy up where that's concerned.”

  Zinner trotted calmly out of the administration building. Not all of the explosives had been set but he was happy Hutch could handle the rest. All of the sensitive files held at Fort Veruct would be destroyed, denying the Neotrans any information, if they took the fort.

  He walked out of the building and into the predawn light. The air was damp, laden with early morning dew. The clouds, thick and dark from the smoke rising off countless fires. A cold and cutting breeze whipped up and Zinner picked up a bitter odour, like burnt rubber.

  On the concourse in front of him were the burning wrecks of aircraft. The blazing hulks looked all the more threatening with Zinner's infrared vision. Hot plumes of smoke billowed up and currents of warm air wafted around the debris. Planes buzzed frantically overhead, engaging each other in a murderous struggle for air superiority. Their hot exhaust fumes making them appear like fireflies to Zinner.

  The sound of heavy artillery brought Zinner's focus to a hastily positioned anti-aircraft gun. Its guns hopelessly fired into the heavens. The fighters flying overhead were mainly Neotran but a few outnumbered Alliance craft were successfully engaging the enemy. It was obvious to Zinner that the fighters buzzing the spaceport travelled too low and too fast to be threatened by the gunners. All that the gunner crews were doing was providing an expensive source of noise.

  A glimmer of movement caught Zinner's attention. A light shimmer of heat some way off. A puff of hot air had risen from behind a hill. The port at Veruct was surrounded by farmland on three sides. A rich plain rolled gently down to the river Ome. The fields were overgrown with neglect now but some way off in the distance Zinner could see the shimmer of exhaust fumes.

  He marched over to the anti-aircraft gun, his eyes still firmly on the heat haze.

  In the distance Neotran tanks came into view. They trundled down the banks of the Ome fording the waters at their shallowest point. In the lead were the path clearers, battlewagons fitted with what looked like massive grey rolling pins strapped to the front. Pushing forward, the rollers caused the mines in their path to detonate. Sharp splashes of light erupted in their path and earth was thrown high in the air by the explosions. The blasts' effects were absorbed by the heavily armoured vehicles, a blast that would have killed the occupants of the tanks behind.

  Four of these machines paused before belching out a bright yellow flame. The fire was the exhaust of multiple rockets but these missiles didn't have a payload. Behind them thrown out in a long narrow line they pulled a beaded net evenly spaced with gunmetal canisters.

  The missiles, spent of fuel, fell to the ground dragging their nets behind them. As the canisters along the length of the net hit the ground they exploded in series forming a ripple of blasts along its length. The ground erupted with the flash of mines being detonated and the path clearers began ploughing forward unmolested. Behind them, travelling safely in their wake came the lead elements of a Neotran tank division.

  “You there!” hollered Zinner at the man in charge of the anti-aircraft gun.

  The sailor turned round. He was in his early twenties and wore the stripes of a corporal. The deep blue overalls labelled him as Navy, it was the Admiralty who traditionally maintained and defended their own ports.

  “Train your gun on those incoming tanks,” Zinner pointed in the direction of the river.

  “Our orders are to defend the base against air attack,” said the Corporal firmly.

  “Your air cover is endangering our pilots and doing little else. Now if you don't start knocking out those tanks there won't be anything left here to defend.”

  The Corporal took a look at Zinner’s regimental emblem, “In whose world do the Paras order the fleet around?”

  He turned back to his men and gave a chuckle at his own drollness.

  “Don't make me pull rank on you,” said Zinner in a cold voice.

  “You can't,” the Corporal pointed to his insignia and said, “I'm Navy and you're Army. You don't have the authority!”

  Zinner pulled his pistol from its holster, “Let me put it another way,” He pressed the muzzle of the gun into the corporal's forehead and flipped the safety catch off, “Which would you prefer, a bullet or a medal?”

  The corporal looked into Zinner's icy blue eyes.

  “OK, men, bring the elevation of the gun down and open fire on those tanks.”

  Zinner sheathed his weapon in its holster and bent over to speak to the gunner.

  “Hit the four in the lead first then start hitting the ones that have crossed the river.”

  “What if they start firing back?” asked the ensign.

  “They'll want to get across that open ground as quick as they can. If they fire at you on the move they've got no chance of hitting. If any of them stop and aim their turret in your direction take them out,” Zinner placed a hand on the gunner's shoulder to reassure him.

  “Don't worry about the ones over on the other bank, you're well out of their range.”

  Zinner knew that most of what he'd just told them was a lie but he couldn't be certain they'd stay and fight if they knew their chances of survival.

  Section 38

  “Touch down two minutes,” Keir's voice came over the headsets.

  Shorey picked up his gun. It was larger than the rest of the squad's and took a belt of ammunition as opposed to magazines. Jackson wondered how he could use it without getting tangled up in the ribbons of ammunition that festooned his torso.

  Keir slid open the damaged door and Shorey clipped his gun onto a support and pointed it through the open hatch. The first rays of light could be seen on the horizon. The glow of the sunrise swathed the brass casings of Shorey's bullets in a pink and red hue.

  Suddenly the helicopter's guns started firing.

  “Thirty seconds!” Keir's shouted to the men.

  Shorey's gun opened up, the noise was horrendous, spent shells flew from the breach and the cabin filled with the sharp musky smell of burnt cordite.

  The chopper hugged the contours of the fields, flying so close that the landing skids brushed the long grass. Sharply it banked up and over the perimeter wall of Fort Veruct. Jackson's stomach sank as the chopper dived back to the deck. This time they were hovering above streets, darting in between buildings.

  Dead ahead Jackson could see the blackened sides of wash walls surrounding the spaceport launch pads. Many of the surrounding buildings bore the scars of the
Neotran bombing raids, their steel and concrete bodies smashed open to the elements. Some of the craters were still smouldering and at least one of them was the product of a plane crash.

  The chopper violently rocked back and forth as it flew an evasive pattern. With frightening speed the chopper traversed the canyons of buildings to the spaceport. The craft jolted and dropped to the ground. Thrown forward in his seat by the landing Jackson fumbled to release his safety belt. Nerves and adrenaline conspired to rob him of his dexterity.

  “Go! Go! Go!” cried Keir, and the first men were out even before the helicopter's skids had hit the ground.

  Jackson's fingers found the release and he darted out from his restraint.

  As planned the chopper had landed right in the centre of the spaceport near to the command bunker. They were slightly off the runway, close to hangar buildings and warehouses.

  The first two men in Keir's squad dived out and lay forward of the helicopter. Both of them had their rifles resting on their bipods, covering the landing zone.

  Next Lan, Jackson and Nasim dived out and took up covering positions halfway between the chopper and the building in front of them. Lan's training in the Alliance gave him the most professional edge of the three. Even though Jackson and Nasim had the same uniform as the rest, it was obvious that they were not a regular part of the team. All three of them ran out and knelt in a firing position. They scanned the way ahead for Terran troops.

  “Neutralise all enemy personnel encountered,” the briefing echoed in Jackson's mind as he took up position. He just hoped he didn't have to “neutralise” anyone.

  “Phrases like that turned the whole thing into an arcade game, dehumanising the enemy so you didn't think about who you were killing”, Jackson had thought at the briefing.

  Now there was no time to think, just react. To stay alive.

  Lan could see some dead soldiers ahead of them, probably ones that Shorey had killed when he was firing out of the door.