“Michaels, report.” The commander tried again on his handheld radio. “Michaels, I say again, report.” He heard nothing from the infantry leader. He looked at the tank commander, who avoided his gaze, fearing that he would be forced to take his vehicles up the questionable path, to face an unknown force. His assembled crew had begun to remount their vehicles. “This could be bad,” the tank commander muttered.
“Forward!” The commander ordered, as he jumped inside an APC behind the lead tank. The driver of the lead tank looked back at the commander apprehensively for a second before closing the hatch. The armored column consisted of three medium tanks and three armored personnel carriers. Retreat meant nonpayment by the client, and they all knew it, so retreat was not an option. The commander rode exposed in the turret of his APC, waving his arm forward for the remaining APC’s and tanks to follow. Halfway up, the lead tank encountered the first smoking remains of the infantry. Thermite and plasma grenades dropped from above the road, along the plateau’s ridge line, had done their jobs well. Fewer than a dozen of the mercs were left. The ones who remained all crouched behind a large, blackened boulder. Michaels stood up and stared at the commander, with his silly-looking yellow scarf and medals, as his APC rumbled past, the driver maneuvering carefully so as not to go over the side. The dead were pulverized beneath the tracks of the armored vehicles.
“The lead tank is approaching,” the colonel said into his helmet mike. “Wait for my command.” The colonel watched the lead tank approaching slowly, its progress impeded both by the dead and by the large rocks on the narrow trail. Calmly, he raised his arm. He was now positioned with the plasma cannon crew, one hand resting on the gunner’s shoulder. When the lead tank and the first APC were in full view, he noticed a curious figure in the APC, wearing a yellow scarf and stoically pointing forward with his outstretched arm, as if he was leading a cavalry charge from the old days.
The colonel dropped his raised arm, signaling the gunner. The pulse cannon erupted in a massive energy discharge. The lead tank took a direct hit and stopped in its tracks, its frontal armor melted. The driver’s hatch flew open, and a smoking figure, partially on fire, tried to escape the inferno inside the tank. He fell in a hail of fire from the entrenched troopers. The snipers under Cruwell’s command fired and eliminated the curious figure protruding out of the top of the APC. The colonel almost wished they hadn’t done that; interrogating the apparent leader could have been informative. The two other tanks tried to disengage, but there was nowhere to go. They succumbed to several well-thrown thermite grenades. The remaining APC’s met a similar fate.
That ended the battle; all that remained was to take prisoners. Cruwell emerged from his concealed position, and the colonel came forward. He motioned for the reserve squad to come forward as well.
“Sergeant, find me a prisoner.” Matthias and his squad quickly proceeded down the road in tactical two by two formation, covered by the snipers and the entrenched troopers. The colonel’s forces had not suffered a single casualty, and he began to think of alternate plans of aggression. Perhaps there was a supply base or garrison nearby.
Matthias had no sooner rounded the bend in the road when he encountered a group of three badly mauled men, their hands raised in surrender. Their mismatched uniforms were almost grafted to their bodies from the intense heat caused by the grenades, which had burned or melted the fabric as well as the soldiers’ skin. A fourth man, appearing almost unscathed, stepped in front of the others. He was weaponless, and his hands were raised. He addressed Sergeant Matthias.
“I am Michaels. We surrender and demand treatment according to the articles of war.” Michaels fully expected to be shot on the spot, as was usual when mercs were captured. Sergeant Matthias gave Michaels the once over and, apparently satisfied, motioned for two of his troopers to come forward. “Search them for intel,” Matthias said as he looked Michaels directly in the eyes. “Were you in charge of this attack?”
Michaels looked around before pointing to the figure slumped over the open hatch of the knocked-out APC. “No, he was,” Michaels said as he stared at the ground. “I tried to warn them …” His mumbling voice trailed off. Matthias’s troopers surrounded the ragtag bunch and searched them for intelligence, going through their pockets and gear before leading them up the road. Two of the mercs needed assistance, unable to walk on their own. Two troopers removed the dead commander’s body from the turret hatch and laid it on the ground. A single large bloodstained hole gaped open on his chest, and a thin trail of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. A few pieces of brain were also on his shirt, perhaps his own or perhaps someone else’s. A large part of his head was gone, thanks to another sniper round. His eyes had grayed over and stared into nothingness. Matthias knelt beside the corpse and fingered the tarnished medals, noticing that many of them were very old. The bright yellow scarf was now soaked with blood.
“The war is over for you now,” Matthias muttered. He closed the eyes of the commander for the last time. After many years and many battles, the lines and creases that marked what was left of his face finally showed peace.
CHAPTER 8
The colonel sat behind a plain metal desk in a featureless room that had been hastily cleared out for use as a command post inside the bunker complex. “Was this the only attacking force we can expect?” he asked of the prisoner seated across the desk from him.
Michaels sipped water from a metal cup. One of the troopers guarding the door offer him a synthetic cigarette; Michaels pushed it away politely with his hand. He took another sip from his cup of water before responding to the question.
“No. We were given orders only to secure the bunker perimeter, not to go inside. The client told us that a special force would come by nightfall and secure the complex.”
The colonel leaned in closer, with Matthias standing to his right. “Who hired you? How many will this force consist of?”
“I don’t know. Only the commander had contact with the client. We were assembled only a week ago before convoying here. The reaction force likely will be another merc force; a small one, most likely, given the objective and the expected resistance. They will arrive by air. With the scarcity of aircraft and personnel in this sector, it can’t be that large.”
The colonel leaned back in his folding metal chair; apparently satisfied with the answers. He lit a black cigar he had liberated from the dead commander’s body. The smoke gave off a peculiar odor, reminiscent of sweaty socks. “Indeed. This is getting more interesting.” He turned to Matthias. “I want a report from Scotts on how much combat equipment we can salvage. We have a few hours before sundown. I want an accurate report on food, ammunition, and water,” he said as Captain Cruwell saluted and exited the room.
Michaels looked at the colonel with a hint of recognition, perhaps from some long-ago campaign, or perhaps only from a photo reproduction. Michaels had read many a battle report in which this legendary officer had come away victorious under seemingly overwhelming odds. Some had even speculated that he was a creation of the enemy’s propaganda machine, created to instill fear. His eyes narrowed, focusing more intently on the colonel, trying to place him, and with more curiosity. “Were you present on Alsace Sigma? That was my first platoon command when I served in the cluster militia. The regiment was routed even though we had superior numbers and equipment.”
The colonel smiled and sat back, slightly amused. “I was there. Your commanders made many foolish decisions. It was easy to anticipate their movements.”
“How did you escape the pincer envelopment? Your forces from your previous counterattack were stretched very thin. We thought we had you for sure.” Michaels questioned the colonel much as an eager student might question a respected professor.
The two men conversed about military history and strategies as the preparations were made outside, becoming more urgent as darkness took hold outside.
“What do we have, Corporal?” Matthias asked Scotts, who was supervising his troopers
at the end of a corridor as they brought equipment and supplies up from within the bunker. They had tried their best to clear a path down the hallways; however, blood and brains remained splattered on the walls and floor, and the occasional small body part had been missed by the cleanup crews. The bodies had been cleared and placed in adjacent rooms.
Matthias turned to address his superior. “Sarge, we have seventeen thermite and six frag grenades. We have six power packs remaining for the plasma cannon. Food and water are sufficient; this bunker was adequately stocked probably for at least the next three months. The troopers have one to two cells left for their EMR’s, and maybe one magazine each.”
“We will make do with what we have,” Matthias said.
The defensive lines were reoccupied and the troopers re- suited in full armor. The drop pod LZ was nearly overgrown with vegetation, leaving no evidence it was used earlier. The knocked out mercenary vehicles on the trail leading up to the plateau might give away the trap, but Matthias determined that it was worth the risk. Michaels stated that his group of mercenaries had been ordered to observe strict radio silence, so that the new force may not have been alerted. This almost seemed to be too easy.
Matthias roamed among his troopers in the defensive line around the perimeter of the bunker. As darkness descended, the sergeant and his men found themselves frequently looking into the dense forest, trying to identify strange sounds from within it. The distant approach of engines could be heard getting louder and louder as the ship approached. It appeared that Michaels had been honest, and an attack force was approaching. He confirmed a delta shaped shuttle craft descending from the clouds visually. Matthias dared not use his radio for fear of interception. He grabbed a trooper next to him and sent him into the bunker to report to the colonel.
“Tell the colonel we have a space craft approaching. It is too far away to tell the class. ETA possibly five to ten minutes.” The trooper hurried inside the bunker, where he ran headlong into the colonel and Scotts. Seeing the two apparently in important conversation, he didn’t speak right away.
Corporal Scotts monitored the approaching craft. The colonel was behind him, staring intently at the data displayed on the overhead monitor. “What am I looking at Corporal?”
“Sir, I am downloading the bunkers’ transmissions from the last 72 hours. Anyone they were in contact with, we will know and maybe we can find out who sent in the merc force.
“Good work,” the colonel said. Seeing the trooper standing in the doorway of the bunker he asked, “What is it troop?”
“Shuttle approaching sir!” the trooper said.
The colonel turned to Scotts and said, “Have our captured merc meet them outside. Hopefully we can take this shuttle without firing a shot.
Scotts nodded in agreement. He exited the security room and walked back towards the genetics lab. The surviving remnants of the mercenary force were sitting against the wall under the watchful eye of a lone trooper.
Scotts spotted Michaels kneeling down, tending to his wounded comrades. Michaels stood up, straightened his uniform, and looked at Scotts as he approached.
“I don’t think you are telling us everything about your contract,” Scotts stated matter-of-factly. “I think you know more about this bunker than you are letting on.”
“What I told your colonel is the truth.” Michaels looked Scotts directly in the eye as he spoke. “I will say one thing. When the client approached the commander and me with the contract, I had heard other firms turned him down. It was rumored the man was an Auger-Seer from Hellenheim.”
“An Auger-Seer? That is absurd,” replied Scotts.
“Is it? When was the last time you were in fringe space? Your Auger- Seers are everywhere, working out their own plans as they see fit.” Michaels sat down on the concrete floor, his back against the wall. “Anyway, I just said it was a rumor. It was a large contract, one that could set us up for awhile. We didn’t question who he worked for.”
The colonel had been listening for the past few minutes. “Whatever was on that shuttle wasn’t meant to be found by us,” he said.
Scotts and the colonel locked eyes briefly, both of them thinking the same thought. Maybe it was en route to the highest bidder, whoever that may be.
The colonel and the Scotts both headed to the surface, with Michaels and the lone trooper trailing them. Matthias met them just inside the door of the bunker. Matthias nudged Michaels towards the LZ with the barrel of his slug thrower as four troopers followed closely behind. Michaels looked up and waved to the approaching craft as if everything was just fine
“I see the ground forces, preparing to set down.” The pilot began the landing sequence, and within minutes, the craft had touched down, throwing up a huge cloud of sand and burnt vegetation. Michaels stood alone in front of the lead craft, shielding his eyes from the debris with one hand.
After the pilots shut off the engines, Michaels dropped his arm. The ramp to the rear of the craft opened. The craft’s pilot and copilot were followed by a twelve-man security squad, armed with submachine guns. Four scientific personnel wearing white overalls followed them out. The squad leader approached Michaels with a puzzled look on his face.
“Are those your casualties on the road? Where is the rest of your unit?” Michaels casually eyed the squad leader. “I am the last of my unit. I implore you to drop your weapons. You are surrounded.”
The squad leader looked around, bewildered as he noticed heavily armed troopers aiming the rifles at them. He quickly realized the situation and unslung his submachine gun placing it on the ground, then motioned for his squad to follow suit.
“Wise move.” Michaels said.
“The shuttle is secure,” Matthias said. All the personnel that had exited were kneeling on the ground with their hands up. The rest of the troopers from the perimeter had made it to the LZ.
“Sergeant,” the colonel ordered, “prepare for an immediate evac. No sense on waiting for Raus to give us a ride.”
The colonel approached Michaels, who leaned against the hull of the shuttle, two troopers guarding him. The colonel relit the stub of his strange- smelling cigar.
“I cannot take you with me. You and your wounded comrades are on your own.” He gestured to the security squad from the shuttle, “They will accompany us for interrogation.” Michaels nodded, straightened out his uniform, and smartly saluted the colonel. “There are enough provisions for you to hold out for some time.”
“Yes sir. It has been an honor and a privilege.”
The colonel returned the salute. “Good luck to you.” The colonel walked to the rear of the last shuttle. All of the troopers had loaded up, Scotts was behind the controls with Matthias in the co-pilots seat even though he had no clue what he was doing.
With one last look at the bunker, the colonel climbed the shuttle’s ramp and disappeared inside, the ramp closing after him.
Michaels, from the safety of the bunker entrance, watched the shuttle turn into a tiny speck in the atmosphere, marveling that he was still alive. He made a promise to himself that if he ever made it home, he would quit the merc life and open a bar on some remote planet.
CHAPTER 9
“This is Colonel Chuikova’s commandeered shuttle requesting landing clearance,” Scotts said into his headset. He watched as the rendezvous coordinates came up on the computer screen almost immediately.
As the shuttle began its approach to Admiral Raus’s flagship ship, the colonel emerged from the cargo hold.
“We have you in our grid,” Scotts heard the reply in his headset. “We will take care of the rest. Welcome back and please relay to the colonel his presence is wanted upon the bridge upon arrival.” Scotts surrendered control as the craft headed toward the flagship.
The colonel made his way to the bridge of the flagship. The Emperor’s Fist was the last of the massive battle dreadnaughts that once were used to quell planetary uprisings. At one time, the ship and its weaponry could turn rogue planets into lifeless
rocks. Now, the war necessitated that the pride of the fleet act as little more than a troopship. Many of the original laser cannon batteries had been removed and redeployed for defensive positions on Hellenheim. Multiple missile launchers now constituted most of the ship’s offensive firepower. Nonetheless, The Emperor’s Fist remained a symbol of pride for the navy.
When the colonel reached the bridge, he received an enthusiastic greeting from the dreadnaught’s aging commanding admiral. Captain Cruwell stood behind the admiral and came to attention. The small, slightly stooped, white-haired admiral removed a monocle from his left eye and grasped the colonel’s gloved hand in his. The men contrasted each other sharply. The admiral appeared more like a professor than the most powerful and successful naval commander of the United Consortium of Planets.
“Please, gentlemen, let’s retire to my quarters,” the admiral suggested. He indicated a door opening from the side of the massive bridge. The colonel put his hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“Relax, captain. You got the bulk of the men and equipment out. You did well.” Cruwell relaxed a little, letting out a deep breath. He wasn’t sure how the colonel would react knowing he was almost left stranded.
The three men walked past two marine guards posted outside and entered. Artifacts gathered throughout the admiral’s extensive military campaigns filled the space. The captain took a keen interest in several items, including a large collection of exotic swords.
The admiral took a seat in a large leather chair behind a cluttered black desk. He produced a box of cigars and opened the lid, offering the contents to his guests. The colonel immediately removed one from the box and put it in his breast pocket. The captain nodded politely and took one.
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