"All stations, flash! Enemy forces crossing phase line Mecca. Infantry and tangos."
General Lane's voice cut in. "How many, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, they've brought their entire Second Brigade on line."
Static filled Dekker's headset as they waited for General Lane to respond. Mortarmen from Dekker's weapons platoon dropped to the ground and opened fire with their carbines against the advancing infantry pushing their comrades onto the flats. Smaller than the R-51 the infantry companies used, the carbines had a shorter barrel and fired a smaller caliber round. By comparison, they looked and sounded like toy guns. Dekker wanted to look away, but forced himself to watch as the mortarmen offered up a pathetic hail of small caliber fire that managed to slow some of the advancing Terran Guard troops. But the distance between the Highlands and the safety of the bunkers continued to be counted by the bodies of riflemen falling to enemy fire as they ran across the flats.
Dekker felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle and he gritted his teeth. "Come on old man."
Finally, he heard General Lane's voice. "Two Bravo Delta, take your heavies and set up a firing line to cover our withdrawal."
"Marine Six, Two Bravo Delta, please confirm. Did you say withdrawal?"
"That's Right, Major. I figure we have about five minutes before they get around us. So how about less chatter and more clatter."
"On our way."
The ground shook beneath Dekker's feet as Major Walker's Cataphracts started to move towards the line. Even at this distance, he could hear the electric sheen of their gyros, the dull whine of electric motors and servos and the the steady groan of hydraulics lifting tons of steel, all punctuated by the snap of compressed air valves as the machines walked forward. They all combined to create what was known as 'the growl', and it was an effective weapon against the morale of any enemy. There was nothing subtle about the Paladin's Cataphracts - the enemy had fair warning.
The air reverberated with a heavy steel thump as their plasma cannons latched into place, followed by the crackling hiss of their plasma injectors heating their massive canisters. Dekker pulled his head further into his shoulders in anticipation. The barrels of the plasma guns flashed with a metallic screech as thermite plasma canisters leapt from each barrel and streaked across the sky. Travelling faster than the speed of sound, they created a sonic boom loud enough that it sounded like thunder as they flew over the heads of Dekker's men.
A canister hit the ground, ejecting its outer casings to spray the surrounding ground with a mixture of thermite and ignition fluid which came together to create a super heated plasma that lit off in a brilliant blue haze. Every Terran Guard soldier within 50 meters of a canister was incinerated. Six more canisters thundered over their heads, slamming into the ground and bursting open to create a 700 meter plasma barrier putting up a wall in front of Dekker's battalion. His squad leaders immediately took advantage of the cover and ran their man back across the flats to the MEF perimeter bunkers. A few of them fell to sporadic arms fire from Terran Guard troops recovering behind the line of plasma fire as it dissipated. Marines stopped to pick them up and help them the rest of the way.
"Two Bravo Delta, Enforcer Six Actual. That's some pretty good shooting for a bunch of ass drivers. Fire for effect."
"You bet, Enforcer Six. They're falling back Colonel. I think they just needed a touch more of encouragement."
Dekker started to smile, but stopped short when he heard the next transmission from one of the pilots. "One Charlie Four, eight enemy tangos moving fast on the line." The tanks that were escorting the flanks of the Terran Guard infantry barreled through the line of plasma fire, which was now nothing more than a thin veil of white smoke.
The ground stopped shaking as the Cats halted their advance. Another chorus of steel thumps rang out as they swung down their rotary cannons. For a full minute, all Dekker could hear was the clatter of mechanisms preparing the guns to fire on the advancing tanks as they tracked down the slope of the Highlands. Nothing stood between them and Dekker's men except thin air. He had to force himself to breathe as he counted off the seconds while the Cats reset their systems to engage the tanks.
One of the tanks wheeled its gun to point straight at Major Walker's Cat. Dekker gritted his teeth when the barrel recoiled. The tank round slammed into the Cat's left leg. The Cat started to step forward and Dekker heard the screeching wail of grinding metal.
The tanks raced towards them. A second volley from their gun rails pounded the ground around Dekker's Marines running across the flats. Marines who weren't cut down by steel shrapnel from the tank rounds flopped to the ground and started crawling the rest of the way to the bunkers. Without slowing down, the tanks let off another volley, peppering the ground with shrapnel that sent up plumes of dirt around Dekker's men. Through gritted teeth, Dekker said, "Come on, come on."
Behind him, rotary guns stuttered and jerked as their tracking computers zeroed in on their targets. The Cats creaked and swayed back as their rotary guns thumped out three rounds from each side. The steel bolts cut through the sky, cracking the air with a snap of thunder above Dekker and his men. The tanks chasing down his men stopped as the bolts ripped into their hulls and turned them into shimmering smears of molten metal.
Dekker let out a sigh when he heard Lt. Simmons say, "All stations, Second Brigade is falling back to their compound. First Brigade is setting up defensive positions just behind the crest."
General Lane cut in next. "Marine Six, all stations, consolidate your lines and report."
Dekker closed his eyes and let his face pull into a long grimace, stoking an aching ember of anger that welled up inside him. Marines stopped running and surveyed the ground, looking for wounded comrades and picking up men who were still crawling across the ground. Dekker watched as one of them crouched down next to a body that wasn't moving. The Marine laid his hand on a dead man's chest, shook his head and stood back up.
As Marines dragged their comrades to the bunkers, corpsmen scurried among the bodies, checking wounds and slapping recovery kits on those that could be saved.
Dekker stepped out of the bunker and crouched down next to a Marine with a wound in his belly oozing dark red. The man's face was pale and encased in a glean of sweat. The Marine looked in Dekker's eyes.
Looking over his shoulder, Dekker asked, "What's the story here, Doc?"
The corpsman attending to an injured Marine laying next to him glanced at Dekker's Marine and said, "He'll have to wait." He slapped a pain kit on the man's arm and peered into Dekker's eyes, not wanting to say anything more than that, not wanting to tell him that his Marine was a low priority casualty because he probably couldn't be saved and would have to wait until they recovered those that could.
"Send him now," Dekker said. "My authority."
"Aye aye sir," the corpsman said. He fished a recovery kit from his pack and slapped it on the man's chest. He smacked the top of it and stepped back as an orange haze flowed out over the Marine and transported him to the medical recovery chambers deep below the MEF compound.
Price to Pay
Sentinels of his nightmares, the chambers stared back at him. Steel encasements choking the air inside them, with convex plastic windows so he could see the dead space trapped within, they whispered to him even as they sunk a dagger of futility into his heart. Stand there. Witness what the soul of no man can endure. And I will show you who you truly are.
Dr. Sall had long given up trying to determine which came from his nightmares and which were real - the difference between them wasn't enough to make either a solace from the other. What strength he had to endure came from knowing that the nightmare for the Marines who would soon writhe within the clutches of the chambers was far worse. They would need his help. If he didn't run, he could save them from their agony. If he stayed, he could bring the comfort of unawareness and pull them from the claws of suffering that was torture just to watch, but impossible for the man inside the chamber to endure. Thirt
y seconds was all he needed. If he could stay for that long, ease the victim to the gurney standing next to him so his technicians could flood the victim's body with sedatives, he could save them from what the chamber had done to them. After that, it would be a simple matter of life or death.
He clenched his fist, counting his own pulse by habit as his heart rose up to his throat. One of the technicians stared at the floor. Another quietly checked the portable monitoring equipment fastened to the side of the gurney. The yellow housing was faded and scraped from years of use. The small screen still worked, but many of the red LED readouts flickered or displayed only partial segments as some had burned out and there were no replacements. A faded white sheet, frayed along every edge, was draped over the gurney's thin pad. A needle dangled at the end of the tube from an I.V. bag hanging on a flimsy infusion pole. The rails, made from the green resin common in so much of the equipment brought by the MEF, were sturdy but scratches and deep grooves had been dug into it from the countless trips where technicians had scraped the gurney against walls and doorways running it frantically from the chambers to the recovery bays.
A deep hum filled the room as the chamber in front of them activated. Deep inside the concrete walls behind it, coils surged with current and the hum rose until it became a steady vibration he could feel crawl from his feet and through every bone in his body. Behind the thick plastic windows covering the thick steel chamber door, cold steam started to seep into the interior with a hiss. The green LED counter above the chamber door flickered to life : 153. One of the technicians whispered, "Oh my God." Sall clenched his teeth as an unseen mechanism squealed and then filled the room with a loud clunk. A grating buzzer started to sound at one second intervals.
"Alright people," Sall said. "Incoming casualty." A loud purge of steam jetted into the chamber, filling it entirely with a thick white cloud. The hum rose in pitch as another mechanism beneath the floor slammed into place with a clang. The chamber now glowed with a pale green light as a form began to emerge inside the steam. Sall closed his eyes when he heard the gurgling of something that wasn't yet a man struggling to breathe. The hum leveled off and the form coalesced into something that looked vaguely human. The form wretched and coughed and then a hand slammed against the the chamber door window. A man screamed from both somewhere far away and just inside the chamber. A pair of eyes appeared from behind the steam.
The steel latches on the chamber door thumped open and it swung out on screeching hinges. The technicians reached in to grab the man, dragged his limp body out of the chamber and lay him on the gurney. Disoriented and swimming in panic, his eyes darted around the room. His feet flailed and his legs began to spasm as his mind remembered how to work the muscles of his body. A technician grabbed the I.V. needle and slipped it into the man's arm while another pushed in the plunger of a syringe fastened to the I.V. tube. The man stopped flailing almost immediately, but his eyes still fluttered with panic.
Dr. Sall inspected the body. A wide swath of bandage stretched across his torso was soaked in blood. A technician grabbed another bandage from the resin shelves slung underneath the gurney and unrolled it over the old one, pulling it tight and tying it underneath his back.
"Let's go," Dr. Sall said.
The withering squeak of the the gurney's wheels echoed off the concrete walls as one of the technicians pushed the gurney as fast as she could without losing control. While clear liquid dripped from the I.V. bag, the man's head lolled as consciousness started to elude him.
"Hit him," Sall said.
One of the technicians clutching at the rails of the gurney reached out with his hand to give the casualty a hard smack on his cheek. The man grimaced and then wailed in pain as he became aware of his surroundings again.
"Stay on point, Marine," Sall instructed.
The man gasped, held his breath and then blurted out, "Sir." He writhed on the gurney and started methodically punching his leg, lurching in pain each time. Suddenly aware of his surroundings, he asked, "You can fix this, right?" Dr. Sall didn't respond as they swung around a corner and down the passageway towards the recovery bays.
As they approached the metal door to the medical bay, Sall eyed the camera above the frame and the door slid open. As they crossed the threshold, Sall's team yanked the gurney to a halt and backed it into a recovery bay. One of the technicians pulled a stretched headband from a metal peg above the casualty's head. Wires snaked from the headband to a yellow console filled with monitors, dials and switches. The technician lifted the man's head and carefully slid the band over his forehead. The man's head had gone limp and he did not react to the movement.
"Dammit," Sall muttered. He gave a quick look to the technician, who then turned and hit the casualty again. The man coughed and gagged, then sucked in a gurgling breath.
"You still with us Marine?" the technician asked.
"four oh" the man grunted back.
Colonel Dekker walked deliberately down the passageway that Sall and his team had been running down just moments before. His field utility blouse was smeared with smoke and blood and the sheen on his boots, made from a black resin fabric resembling leather, was covered in scrapes and scratches between patches of gloss from where he had shined them before the battle. He marched stiffly and carried his cover in his left hand. A short brush of hair sprung from his scalp, almost as if called to attention. As he approached the door, he stuck his right arm straight out in front of him. As the door slid open he slapped his palm against the cool metal frame and the door receded into the wall behind him. He stopped in the bay, looking right then left until he found the casualty recovery team that was already checking the telemetry from their scans of his wounded Marine.
"Dr. Sall," he said. The doctor looked up with a flat stare.
"Colonel."
Dekker moved next to the gurney and looked over the Marine stretched out in front of him. His eyes stopped at the bandage. Blood had soaked through both layers almost to the point of dripping. He shifted his gaze back to Sall, but the doctor ignored him, instead focusing on the monitors as the head band extracted information from the casualty so they would know every condition that needed attention.
"Doctor?"
"Wait," Sall hissed. He poked at a button on the telemetry console and shook his head. "He was 153, Colonel. He shouldn't have been brought back."
"It was on my orders, Doctor." Dekker said.
"Meanwhile, Marines we can save are waiting on a man who is already dead."
"Doctor," one of the technicians said softly.
The Marine's eyes shot to Dekker. "Sir?"
Dekker moved around to stand next to him while Sall continued to jab at the monitor, switching between displays, all of which told him the same story. Finally, the main display lit up with a final message: INOPERABLE.
"Doctor," Dekker said. When Sall turned to look at him and shook his head, Dekker's shoulders slumped. "Is there anything you can do for him?" he asked.
Sall's jaw tightened. "General, it's not a guideline. It's policy. There's nothing I can do."
Dekker closed his eyes and let a thin frown tug at the corners of his mouth.
Everyone watched the I.V. in silence as the diagnostic system automatically mixed a cocktail of drugs and sedatives to ease the Marine's pain and induce rest. A virtual rainbow of liquids flowed through the tube and Dekker felt his heart sink.
All eyes shot to the patient's face when he grunted, "No."
"Dammit, why is he still up?" Sall asked. Nobody responded. There was nothing any of them could do about it now.
The Marine looked at Dekker and said, "Sir. You don't have to do this. I can still fight. I'll get through this."
Dekker looked into the man's eyes. They glistened with despair and a plea. Dekker's face sagged and he suddenly felt the weight of his own aching body.
The Marine started muttering, "No no no no no." Dekker eased his expression and looked at the man as if he were his own son.
"That's
fine, Marine. You've fulfilled your duty and have earned the right to retire from battle."
"No sir, no. I can fight. You'll see." A technician reached into the cabinet beneath the diagnostic unit and pulled out a long black tube. She discretely inserted it into the I.V. valve and then pulled out a black grip with a squeeze trigger that regulated the tube's flow. She held it out to Dekker, waiting for him to take it.
Dekker reached down to touch the Marine's forehead and said, "You have fought valiantly, in keeping with the highest traditions of honor, duty and service to your people. You reflect great credit on yourself and the Colonial Marines."
Dekker reached out for the trigger grip as if it were a coiled snake.
"No sir. please."
Dekker squeezed the valve trigger to start the flow of fluid through the black tubing. "Remember, Marine. So that they shall not perish." The man blinked at him as he started to fade. "Say it, Marine. Tell me your oath."
The Marine's eyes fluttered and his breathing grew shallow. He took in a last breath and whispered, "So that they shall not perish."
Dekker dropped the grip on the gurney and closed his eyes.
In a sterile voice, Dr. Sall said, "Time of death: 29.17 colonial zone time."
Dekker swung around and pounded towards the door without looking back. Once on the other side, he leaned against the wall and stared at a flickering light fixture anchored in the concrete ceiling. Around the corner, the hum of a chamber's coils reverberated through the floor and the clang of steel filled the air as it assembled another casualty. Dekker felt a shudder when he heard a man scream. He slumped down against the wall and buried his face in his arms. He wanted to stand up and run. He wanted to keep running until his legs gave out or the acrid air of Shoan'tu seared his lungs to the point that all they had left was his own scream of agony.
Instead, he forced himself to listen as another chamber rumbled to life while his Marines screamed out against the darkness.
The Terran Mandate Page 3
