by Mark Harritt
Verjon waited for more information. The scout leader didn’t get the hint and the silence broadened. Exasperated, Verjon prompted him with a hand gesture, “Continue.”
Understanding lit the scout’s eyes, “Ah, yes sir. Well, we found three blood trails, but whatever wounds they have don’t seem to be slowing them down substantially.”
“Minor wounds then?”
The scout leader nodded, “Yes sir.”
Verjon walked out from behind his desk, pacing as he thought about this new information. He turned back to the scout leader, “How much ammunition have we expended today?”
The scout leader thought about how many bullets he’d fired, “A lot, sir. We’ve been using suppression fire to try and pin them down, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”
“And, with all that ammunition expended, we’ve only identified three blood trails? They have no entrenched positions and we haven’t seen any of their dead or wounded?”
Still anxious, the scout leader answered, “Yes sir. I mean, no sir.”
Verjon ignored the scout leader’s grammatical hiccup, “And your other scouts haven’t seen anybody through the brush. You can’t even tell me what size force we’re facing out there?”
“No sir.”
Verjon continued, thinking aloud more than actually wanting input from the scout leader, “Other than the original ambushes this morning, with the explosion at one ambush site, and the sniper at the other ambush site, there have been no major engagements.”
The scout inclined his head to affirm the Caon’s statement, “Sir, just so.”
Verjon turned away from the scout leader, pondering the situation. Something wasn’t adding up here. If there was a substantial force out there, there should be evidence of them. More trails, more wounded, more sightings of the enemy. Ghosts in the woods, again. Hell, his men couldn’t even give him a description of the hostiles they were facing.
Verjon continued, “We can’t pin them down and force them to fight us. They’re too damn fast, and they can retreat endlessly ahead of us, picking us off as they do so.” Verjon walked back to his desk and sat down, “Still, they continue to inflict losses on us.”
The scout leader spoke, “Sir, if I may?”
Verjon looked up at the scout, “Yes?”
“Sir, as long as they can keep retreating, they can continue to snipe at our soldiers. There is no way we can engage and kill them as long as they stay out in front of us.”
Verjon growled at the young scout leader’s restatement of what Verjon had just said. It was the truth. Right now, the advantage was with the enemy. He had to stop their retreat so that his men could kill them. He looked at the imagery on the table. The terrain wasn’t conducive to him stopping their retreat in front of them. There were no natural obstacles that would slow them down. In fact, if this kept up, when the enemy moved down into the larger valley beyond this one, with a larger maneuver area and more vegetation, there was no way that his men would ever find them.
He wished he’d had the foresight to bring a biologic, one of the trackers. With blood trails, the enemy soldiers would never be able to escape. This situation, however, was not one that he’d contemplated when he came out here to find and kill the thregari that had destroyed Jarni Mig’s unit. The biological was still an option though if they lost them down in the larger valley below.
The conversation was disrupted by another man walking into the tent. Both Verjon and the scout leader’s eyes swiveled to note the arrival. He wasn’t one of the grey men. He was tall, thin, fair complexion, with golden brown hair, normal looking as hominids went, except for the throat pouch below his jaw line. It was bluish in color, and slowly expanded and contracted as he breathed. His hands were different as well. He only had three fingers on each hand, though the outside finger was larger, as if two had fused together. He wasn’t wearing anything that looked like combat gear. Instead, he was wearing a one piece, dark blue coverall with the sleeves rolled up at the elbows.
Verjon didn’t acknowledge his presence, instead turning back to the scout. He contemplated the information he had, “There can’t be a large presence of hostile thregari out there. There can’t be, otherwise we would have seen them on the battlefield. There are a few men out there sniping our forces.” He paused, thinking, “If I can get men behind them, then maybe I can ambush them, fix them in place and crush them.”
Verjon looked across at the man who had just entered the command tent. Verjon jabbed his finger at him, “Shar, you’re going to take me, and a group of ten men into the air with you tomorrow. We’re going to fly beyond the front lines, find an open position behind them, and insert two teams so that they can hopefully find and kill these bastards.”
Verjon looked back at the scout leader, “I want you to gather up nine more scouts. Break them down into two teams. Have them here, at this landing zone, ready to go three hours before sunrise.” He pointed at the door, indicating that the scout leader should go.
The scout leader nodded, “It will be done, Caon Verjon.” The scout leader turned and walked out of the tent, his relief written across his features. He’d survived an encounter with Caon Verjon without being beaten to a bloody pulp.
Verjon turned his attention to the pilot, “Shar, I want you to go out and do a reconnaissance to find landing zones where we can insert the teams. I want several choices, so don’t just screw around and bring me back two locations. I want at least three locations for each team. You got that?”
The pilot inclined his head in a slight bow, barely sketching the proper level of decorum, “As you wish, Caon Verjon.”
Verjon motioned the pilot forward, and unrolled a map, “These are possible locations that I’ve identified. Go out and check them, then come back.”
The pilot walked over and frowned at the low tech paper in front of him. It took him a few seconds to figure out the markings on the paper imagery, and then he located the landing zone they currently occupied. A moment later and he was able to identify the approximate locations that Verjon had identified.
Verjon looked at the pilot, “Any problems with those?
Shar shook his head, “No, Caon Verjon.”
Verjon looked away from the pilot, dismissive, “Do you have anything else for me?”
The pilot shook his head, “No, Caon Verjon.”
Verjon grunted, not expecting the pilot to say anything else. He turned back to look at Shar. Had he been slightly faster, he would have seen the look of disdain on Shar’s face, “Good. Report to me when you’re done, then make sure you’re ready to go in the morning.”
The pilot inclined his head again, with just enough deference, but not one iota more, “I will be ready.”
Verjon motioned for the pilot to leave. The pilot turned on his heel and left the tent, ducking to clear the top of the door as he went through. Verjon stared at the pilot’s retreating back. Right now, he needed the pilot, but that would change once he’d killed the enemy soldiers out there. When that was done, he would deal with this pilot’s lack of respect.
Verjon hated dealing with thregari. None of them showed the deference they should to the Turinzoni, who were a superior race. No matter though, that would change when the father, Zongun Duu, brought those other races to heel and the Turinzoni were the masters. Then they would purify the worlds of these lesser thregari mongrels.
He set his mind back to the task at hand. He stared at the map in front of him. In his gut, he knew there weren’t that many of the enemy soldiers out there. There was no evidence that there could be. Surely, if there were more soldiers, the observers he’d sent up with the aircraft would have seen something, anything. There was no way that a large force could hide all day from observation. He picked up a glass of Aguer and took a drink. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow would be the day that he found and killed this small force of enemy soldiers.
Of course, the Lord Caon Rathon wanted him to take prisoners so that they could be interrogated. The Dostori Rev wanted pris
oners so that she could spend a few days watching them being tortured. Verjon spat on the ground at the thought of the Dostori Rev. He had a strong stomach, but some of the things that she did with the thregari made him decidedly uneasy.
Verjon just had to make it through this year. The Lord Caon’s forces would be replaced by others, and Verjon could go home. It would be a glorious time to return, mating with as many women as possible before he was sent to some other hell hole to kill thregari. The Turinzoni were very careful about capturing the seed of successful warriors to produce as many offspring as possible. Yes, it would be a great homecoming for him.
His stomach growled. He realized that he hadn’t eaten, “Guard!”
One of the guards stuck his head through the door.
“I’m in need of food,” Verzon growled.
The guard bowed, “I will tell the steward.”
The guard left, and Verzon stared back at the map, tapping it with a finger. Tomorrow then.
----------------------------------------------------
The shadows coming off the mountains were starting to blend into twilight. Mike massaged his hand to try and ease the pain. The Aleve he’d taken wasn’t doing anything to stop the dull ache. His missing finger continued to throb in time with his heart beat. The finger, what was left of it, was a continuous ache that wouldn’t go away. Mickey’s soft rumble carried across their hide site, “Stop doing that. It ain’t going to stop bleeding if you keep rubbing your hand.”
They’d chosen this location because the thick underbrush would better hide the red glow of the pen light that Mickey was using for his surgery on Everett. In thirty minutes, once the light decreased toward night, he’d have to switch off the light. They were too close to the enemy to keep it on longer than that. The electric light would stand out like a beacon in the night, leading the enemy to them.
Mike cursed, “They shot off my finger.”
“Yeah, they did. But they left you the bottom joint, so it’s not that bad.”
Mike glared balefully at Mickey, who was working on a wound that Everett had sustained through the muscle on the left side of the abdomen, “No, you left me the bottom joint. I had two before you cut the upper part away.”
Mickey shrugged as he worked on Everett’s wound, who winced as Mickey probed the wound, “Had to do it. I needed skin to fold over the top. Besides, part of the middle joint was shattered. There wasn’t a whole lot left.” Mickey stopped sewing and pointed at Mike, “You had two thirds of that joint, tops. And, it was easier to cut through the joint instead of the bone.” He pointed at Mike, “You’re lucky you have such a skilled surgeon to stitch you back up.”
Everett took out the leather strap in his mouth that he was biting down on and spoke through clenched teeth, “Will you both shut the hell up so that he can get finished?”
Mickey picked up a bottle of Motrin, shook the Infantry candy out, and handed it to Everett, “One more, but that’s all you’re gettin’.”
Everett went for the Motrin like a five year old after M&Ms. He grabbed the 200mg Motrin and popped it into his mouth, followed by a swig of water. Then the leather strap went back in. Most of Mickey’s meds had been used trying to save Roberto’s life. Now, they only had Motrin and Aleve to take care of the pain. Everett was biting down on a leather strip that Caul had given him. Mike could hear grunts and groans coming from Everett, but the leather strip was keeping him quiet for the most part.
They’d been lucky today with what few injuries they had. Mickey’s leg was a little tight, and he couldn’t run as fast. The wound that Everett had sustained required a little more surgery, with the bullet lodged just below the skin in the muscle tissue. It wasn’t close to any arteries, but it was oozing as Mickey probed for the bullet.
Mike looked down at what was left of his ruined finger. Mickey had done an excellent job, cutting away the damaged bone and folding over a flap of skin to seal the wound. There was a bandage around the hand that made it very hard for Mike to grip his rifle. The white bandage was wrapped with a charcoal grey piece of cloth that Mike had cut from one of his t-shirts to cover it. Still, part of it showed through. Mike was thinking about rubbing some mud into the bandage to mute the stark white color. Mickey would have a fit if he did that, of course.
After Mike lost the finger at mid-day, he couldn’t say if he’d hit any targets at all. Tom had done the lion’s work to keep the hostiles off of them. Now, he sat away from the hide site so that he could keep an eye and ear out for approaching enemy. Caul and Geonti were out doing a scout, looking to see what the grey men might be up to. Mike wouldn’t doubt that their new game of slit the throat would increase the body count of the hostiles tonight.
Mike looked at Tom, “How the hell did you not get shot today?”
“I’m skinnier than you guys.”
“They shot my finger.”
“Evidently you have fat fingers,” Tom pronounced in his slow drawl.
“Got it!” Mickey gleefully announced, “Hold out your hand.”
Everett held out his hand and Mickey opened the forceps and dropped the bullet into his palm.
“Are you done?” Everett groaned.
Mickey shook his head, “Still have to suture and put a bandage on. Sleep on your side tonight so you don’t screw up the sutures. When we get to a safer location, I’m going to have to open you up again so I can make sure there isn’t more in there, but in this light, it’ll have to do.”
Everett groaned at the idea that Mickey was going to have to cut into him again tomorrow.
Mickey started sewing. Mike watched his smooth, even motions as he stitched Everett up. With the final stitch, Mickey put a bandage on Everett, “It doesn’t feel so bad now, but you’ll stiffen up a little in the morning.”
“Doesn’t feel bad my ass,” Everett grumbled.
“No, not your ass Everett. That’s where Mickey got shot,” Mike pointed out.
Now it was Mickey’s turn to glare at Mike, “Upper thigh, Mike, upper thigh.”
Mike grinned, “Yeah, whatever.”
With the bandage in place, Everett sat up. He looked at Mike, and then he looked at Mickey, “Damn we’re a rag tag bunch.”
Tom’s voice drifted softly across the hide site, “Speak for yourself. Ya’ll need to learn how to dodge a little bit better.”
“Well, it could have been a lot worse today,” Mike pointed out.
Everett grimaced as he shifted his weight, “Yeah, at least we all made it back here. And, it’s the end of the second day, so Matki’s tribe should have gotten away.”
Mike nodded, “Possibly. Still, the longer we keep the grey men hunting us, the more likely it is that they’ve made it to safety.”
“I don’t know if we can keep this up, Mike. They came close to punching our ticket several times today,” Everett motioned to Mickey and himself. Mickey was putting up his surgery kit, accounting for all of the tools with his flashlight before the evening light was completely gone.
Mike frowned. That had been true for him and Tom as well. The broad front that the grey men were using had been a much better strategy than the one they used the day before. Whenever Mike and Tom engaged the larger force, grey men from the right and left tried to wrap around the two soldiers, trying to envelop them. The resulting arc allowed the grey men to concentrate their fire on Mike and Tom. There had been a point when Mike didn’t think that he and Tom were going to get away.
Everett was right. Mike didn’t think that they could stay as close as they had today. The only good thing about today, besides not dying, was that their ammunition rate of consumption was way down. Since their strategy was to entice and lead the grey men further down the valley, they’d avoided extended exchanges of gunfire. They might have to draw back even further to make sure they didn’t get entangled and overrun.
If the mechs didn’t show up in time, they’d have to make sure that the grey men didn’t stray too far from them when they moved into the dragon valley. The
last thing that Mike wanted was for the grey men to do an extended reconnaissance of the area. There would be no way to hide the existence of the compound if that happened. The team would have to move around the southwest side of the dragon valley, leading the grey men further down toward the plains where the large dinosaur sized herbivores and dragons ranged. Between the dragons and the grey men, that would probably be a one-way ticket for them.
Mike turned to Tom, “Well?”
Tom spit, “Everett’s right. They’re too many of them out there. If we stay close, we’re going to get killed.”
“Mickey?” Mike asked.
Mickey finished putting away the surgery kit, then he turned and sat down, looking at Mike, “Well, we have three wounded today. If this continues tomorrow, the odds aren’t in our favor. They have too many men putting too much fire down on us. One mistake, and it’s all over.”
Mike nodded, “Yeah, I agree. I think we need to stay out further ahead of them. Hell, I don’t care if we even kill any of them tomorrow. Odds are pretty good that they’ll start down the valley after us anyway. They might waste half the day before they figure out that we’re gone. The turn with the waterfall into the higher ground towards the necropolis isn’t too far from here. They may even split their forces to go looking for us in that direction as well.”
A low hiss came from Tom. He heard something moving around out there. The team was instantly quiet, tense, ready to grab their rifles if need be.
“It’s Caul and Geonti,” Tom quietly announced.
The tension relaxed. The two hunters slipped quietly into the hide site. Mike looked into Caul’s face and saw tension there. Mike’s questioning face made Caul walk over and tap the pocket that Mike kept the translator in. Mike slipped it out and turned it on.
“What’s up, Caul?” Mike asked.
“The grey men, they aren’t as trusting tonight as they were last night. They are guarding in groups of three to make sure we can’t sneak into their patrol bases tonight. They have patrols out as well. I think they are going to look for us tonight,” Caul reported.
