by T. R. Harris
1
Another artillery shell slammed into the side of the mountain, rattling walls and raining dust and dirt down on the heads of the assembled officers. Grimy hands covered open cups of coffee as lights flickered and nerves frayed a little more. Dust-flavored java was the drink of the day and the men accepted it, along with the musty smell of the moist granite walls and the hopelessness of their situation. The bombardment had gone on for five days, relentless in its monotony and perseverance. The intention was not to destroy the fortified underground complex, but rather to demoralize the enemy. In that regard, the strategy was working.
There were five officers in the dimly lit room, huddled over a map of the alien landscape outside the confines of the bunker. The map detailed a modest-sized mountain designated as Site A, within which the seven hundred trapped Humans fought for survival. Across a wide valley—split by a meandering river at its center—was Site B, another mountain peak but this one three times the height of the Human sanctuary. The aliens controlled the high ground, with half a dozen powerful ballistic artillery batteries and a three-beam laser array aimed at its smaller cousin ten miles away.
“This is a bunch of crap,” barked Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Jackson. “We have twenty-five shuttles ready to get our troops into space, and they’re sitting idle in the launch bays. Sir, are you sure we can’t get any help from the fleet?”
Major General Eddie Larson shook his head. “They’re in full retreat, colonel. Without the ground bases providing supplies and fuel, they’ll be lucky to slip past the system and make it to ES-10. I’ve given direct orders for them not to send help unless we have a viable plan for evacuating the planet. I’m not about to risk the lives of several thousand sailors on the off chance they might be able to rescue us. But having said that, timing will be everything, gentlemen. We only have two days left to figure a way off the planet. If we fail, it won’t matter what we do after that. There’ll be no one up there to meet us—except the friggin’ Qwin.”
“Ungrateful assholes,” growled Marine Major George Wier. “We come all the way out here to free these native bastards from a hundred years of Antaere rule and this is the thanks we get.”
General Larson understood the junior officer’s frustration. He didn’t like giving up territory his troops had bled and died for. And even if he did manage to get the remainder of his force off the surface, the planet was already lost.
Eddie Larson was a lean and fit fifty-one-year-old Marine with thirty-two years in the Corps, and he knew the Qwin would make a big deal out of his death or capture. Having once been the third-highest ranking officer in the Human fleet, he was now destined to become a trophy kill for the Qwin, and on a distant alien world six hundred light-years from Earth. But even worse than that, the deaths of the last seven hundred troops under his command would be remembered as the greatest single loss of Human life in the entire war to date, and with his name forever linked to the tragedy. It was a shitty way to end a distinguished military career.
That only goes to show why you should never underestimate your enemy, Larson thought. He and the rest of Earth Command had been caught fatally flat-footed by the Antaere skill at propaganda and information manipulation. Three months ago, the aliens took a seemingly localized event and turned it into a Grid-wide act of unspeakable insult to all believers of the Order. The destruction of the Temple of Light on Iz’zar—supposedly by a group of renegade REVs—was now being made out to be the single-most horrific event in the two-thousand-year-history of the religion, and the aliens were using it to rally billions of natives on a dozen worlds against the Humans. Overnight, alliances dissolved and angry mobs moved against the forces from Earth. The irony in all this was that the Humans had been invited to these distant worlds to help liberate them from the tyranny of the Antaere. Now they were getting a pointed boot in the ass and told to leave.
Larson knew it was just a game; the outcry was mostly manufactured and the protests staged, yet on a grand scale…and very effective. And along with the breakdown of local support, the Humans were now forced to withdraw from their planetside strongholds, requiring the three fleets operating within the Grid to pack up and head for friendlier space around Earth.
As a result, Larson was left orchestrating a hasty evacuation of his seventeen-thousand-strong command from the planet Borin-Noc—also known as ES-6. But then the riots began, stranding Larson and the last seven hundred members of his unit in the underground complex designated as Site A, fighting for their lives.
The tunnels and chambers within the mountain were well known to the Humans—both here, as well as in the neighboring twelve-thousand-foot-high peak ten miles away. They had been carved out by the Antaere over a hundred years ago, and when the Earthlings arrived to liberate the planet, they found detailed plans for both sites. Unfortunately, the Qwin and their native supporters reached the taller peak first, taking the high ground and leaving the Humans at the mercy of the artillery batteries and laser array, each ready to pick off any escaping shuttles should they show themselves. A few days before, Larson had sent two drone ships into the sky above their small mountain retreat. They were cut down immediately by the lasers before gaining even a thousand feet above the shelter of the mountain. Sending his troops out to face such a certain outcome was not an option.
But doing nothing had the same effect. Through reports he’d received from forward stations, Larson knew the Qwin weren’t taking any prisoners. They couldn’t. They had worked the local religious fanatics into such a frenzy that any captured Human military personnel were being dragged away and brutally murdered, over the half-ass protests of the Antaere to observe the conventions of war. Even the Humans on the various Earth Standard planets living in their sequestered enclaves were fighting off native insurgents, despite the Antaere promise of non-aggression against the long-term immigrants and generally believers of the Order.
And now, if Larson couldn’t find a way to get his men off the planet within the next forty-eight hours, he was left with only two prospects: death by starvation or death by suicidal action. The general grimaced. There was a third option, and that was to attack. But that, too, was listed under the column labeled suicidal, even if they’d take a few of the enemy with them in the process.
That was the reason for the grim meeting taking place in the cold and dank room under the four-thousand-foot-high peak of Site A. And General Larson would keep his command staff there until they came up with a plan—any plan—win, lose or draw.
A sharp knock came at the door to the conference room and two men entered without hesitation or permission. One was a Marine captain, the other an E-7 gunnery sergeant.
None of the officers in the room showed impatience or annoyance with the interruption; in fact they welcomed it. It took their minds off the matter at hand.
“Excuse me, general, but Gunnery Sergeant Garcia has something he wants to say,” reported the young officer. His name was Winston Howell and his uniform displayed the small running-man-silhouette insignia of the REV Division. He was a medical officer, the head of Arturo Garcia’s recovery team.
General Larson was already shaking his head.
“I know what you’re going to say, gunny, and it’s out of the question. We can’t spare the recovery team, and besides, you’d have no back up. We don’t have enough following troops or equipment to hold the ground even if you got it for us.”
“I understand, sir,” said the tall, good-looking young man with a chiseled jawline and intense dark eyes. “That’s why I’ll go in alone.”
All the officers straightened up in their chairs, all except Larson. The senior officer stretched out a wide grin.
“That’s very noble and courageous, gunny, but I can’t see how that would be possible, even for a REV.” He turned the map so the two men standing near the table could see it. “First, you’d have to cross a valley ten-miles wide that’s crawling with Noc, and then scale halfway up the mountain before even reaching the entrance to the Qwin compl
ex. And that’s not counting the fact that you’d be lugging an impossible load of over five hundred pounds of equipment, and without your REV-enhanced strength to help. And if that wasn’t enough, you couldn’t be activated until you were right outside the laser command center.”
“Sir, we’ve thought of all that,” said Captain Howell. “I have nine volunteers already lined up—including myself—who will accompany Gunnery Sergeant Garcia. We’ll carry his armor, weapons and ammo, while providing cover support for the operation. I’ll also be the one to administer the NT-4 dosage at the proper time.”
“Excuse me, captain, but are you anxious to join Gunnery Sergeant Garcia in his quest to become a martyr?” asked General Larson.
The young officer firmed his jaw. “No sir. We’ll just get him on station and pointed in the right direction. After that, we’ll head back to catch the last shuttle off the planet.” Howell placed a hand on the shoulder of the REV. “Besides, if we hung around all we’d do is get in the way, and that’s not a smart thing to do, not with an activated REV on station.”
“It’s nothing personal, captain,” said Garcia, smiling. “REVs prefer to work alone.” The young Marine non-comm turned his attention to General Larson. “Sir, every time a REV is activated, we think it’s our last Run, and yet still we go out. This time when I go, I’ll know for sure.”
“Son, where I come from, we call that suicide.”
“It’s better than starving to death inside this fucking cave, sir, and it just might save the rest of the unit.”
The general looked at the faces of the other officers. Each was covered in dirt and twisted from the strain, yet still proud and determined. Larson knew each of them would make the same offer as the young REV, if they had the ability to make a difference. Hell, so would he.
“Are you sure about this, gunny?”
“Yes sir, absolutely.”
General Larson scanned the faces of his command staff. In turn, they each nodded their agreement.
“Very good, gunny; it’s your call. However, you are aware that without getting Twilighted you’ll keep running until you cascade out. I’ve seen the pictures, son. It ain’t pretty.”
“Yes sir, I’m fully aware of the consequences. They’re the same ones I’ve lived with for the past eleven years.”
The twitchy smile on the young man’s face betrayed his true feelings. Larson knew the REV would do what he had to for the good of the command and the Corps. Even so, few people were prepared to look death in the eye…and spit. Gunnery Sergeant Arturo Garcia would do just that, although reluctantly. There was no other option.
“We’ll get things started on our end, gunny,” said Larson. “And son, you bring honor to the Corps.”
“Thank you, sir. We all have a job to do…and mine isn’t over, not yet.”
“Semper fi,” said Larson. The other men picked up the clarion call of hard-charging Marines everywhere, even here on an alien world hundreds of light-years from home.
2
The mission was set to begin at oh-dark-thirty the next night to give the passing fleet time to get into position. General Larson arranged to have two battle-cruisers ready for the rendezvous. There would be some fighting at the outskirts of the system, but afterwards the ships would have a clear shot at the planet. The Antaere would be on high alert afterwards, but that couldn’t be helped. They already had their deadly laser array manned and primed to pick off any shuttles lifting from the surface. It would be Gunnery Sergeant Arturo Garcia’s job to make sure that didn’t happen. The shuttles were already loaded and waiting for the word. There would be no turning back once they emerged from their mountain hideaway.
The volunteers for Garcia’s insertion team were all members of his medical recovery unit, yet this mission would be like no other they had ever gone on before. Nearly all REV ops began with an orbital drop to a land-based target, with the REV locked away in an injection pod and already encased in his heavy armor and weapons. He would be fully-activated by the time he reached the surface, making the five hundred pounds of equipment and ammo a non-issue. But in this case, each piece of equipment—both Arturo’s and the team’s—had to be lugged ten miles over alien terrain under a cloak of darkness. In addition, the team carried small jet packs on their backs, which they would use for a quick exfiltration from the alien’s mountain fortress. By then, the whole world would know of Arturo’s attack, so stealth would no longer be necessary. The only concern at that point would be getting the men to the other side of the river as quickly as possible. The packs didn’t have enough power to carry them all the way to Site A, but it would get them close—and in a hurry. As General Larson had said, timing would be everything, and he meant it. If the team didn’t get back in time to catch the last shuttle, they would be left on Borin-Noc.
It was also a stark reminder of the mission’s parameters that the ten-man team carried only nine jet-packs.
The men rode in an armored personnel carrier to a spot about two miles from the river.
“I’ll be waiting for you, Mr. Howell, but don’t be late,” said the driver as the men disembarked.
The whites of the Marine captain’s eyes glowed in the dark, set off by the black grease paint on his face. “Just stay in touch with headquarters and monitor our progress, master sergeant. And if it looks like we’re in trouble, then go. You don’t want to be left behind.”
The huge black NCO stepped back into the rear of the APC. “Good luck, sir. See you in a few.”
Howell gave the man a quick nod then rushed off to join his men.
They all wore black camo fatigues and watch caps, with non-reflective paint on their weapons. Arturo’s armor, guns and ammo were carried in several strapped up packages and divided among six of the men. They helped each other hoist the heavy loads onto their backs, while two unburdened Marines took the lead and disappeared into the forest to scout ahead.
Howell crouched down next to Arturo. Both men had rifles, but no packs; the captain being the ranking officer, and Arturo the dead-man-walking.
“Are you ready, gunny?” Howell whispered.
“I would be if everyone would stop asking me if I’m ready…sir.”
The young Marine was nervous. Although he’d spent eleven years as a REV, this mission was different. Howell knew it, the men knew it…and Arturo knew it. The captain tried to imagine what he must be going through but gave up after only a few seconds. It was too depressing.
“I just hope I don’t fuck up, sir.”
“You’ll do fine. Now, let’s move.”
The valley between the two mountains had a typical high-Alpine climate—dry, cool air, with the occasional patch of stubborn snow left over from the harsh winter. It was summer on this part of the planet, and now the open ground sprouted tall, wavy grass, while conifers—similar to Earth pine and fir—filled the rest of the valley in thick, verdant forests. The river was at a low stage yet was still unable to be crossed except by three vehicular bridges spanning the shallow gorge. The main thoroughfare ran past Site A, across the river and then up to the base of the taller mountain, before turning north, following the river to the nearest native town eighteen miles away.
The ground was firm and dry for most of the trip, with only the random marshy bog of thawing tundra, and the team made good time. The scouts communicated by throat mics to the other eight Marines. On this side of the river there were very few natives and the ones they did encounter were locals, traveling by fossil-fuel transports along the main road, hoping to avoid the fighting that was taking place between the two mountain fortresses. The men deftly hid as the few cars passed by, before resuming their trek, skirting along the edge of the road, while remaining within the cover of the forest.
The common belief was that the warring parties were secure for the night within their mountain sanctuaries and not traipsing about the forest in the dark. The Qwin—for all their success at empire building—were not very adept at the tactics of war. They hadn’t fought one in
over four hundred years until running up against the Humans, and their lack of imagination and preparedness was showing. None could imagine the Humans mounting an attack, and as a result, the Qwin were safe and warm inside their mountain retreat, without a single squad patrolling beyond the entrance to the complex.
Although that made the team’s task simpler, it didn’t make it simple. There were still ten miles of forested terrain to cross while carrying the heavy load. All it would take would be one curious native to spot them and make a phone call…and the mission would be over, with the troops under Site A condemned to a tragic end.
The first choke point came when the team approached the main bridge over the cold, rushing waters of the Alpine river. There was a guard station here—not on the lookout for Humans surreptitiously attempting to reach the alien stronghold a few miles away—but as toll collectors for the crossing.
Anticipating this, the Humans had fashioned a sign in the native language that read: Toll Booth Closed Until Further Notice. They figured none of the locals would complain about the free passage, even if a couple of the toll collectors had to pay with their lives. Night-scopes focused on the attendants, before two quick puffs of gunfire cleared the way. After placing the sign in the window of the guard shack, the team quickly crossed the bridge and disappeared once again into the depths of the forest.
The land sloped radically upward from this point as the twelve-thousand-foot-high peak climbed into the heavens. A wide side road cut off from the main one and began a long series of switchbacks, gaining three thousand feet in elevation to reach the entrance to the alien fortress. Only specialized trucks could scale the incline. There was one up ahead, straining its electric motors to carry the load of artillery shells up the grade—a constant chore considering the persistence of the alien bombardment of Site A. Fortunately, the shelling had ceased for the night, although the Humans knew the laser array was still active and alert. The quieting of the bombardment was more for the benefit of the sleeping Qwin and their native supporters, rather than any merciful reprieve for the Humans. Come daylight, the shelling would resume, and with a fresh supply of armament for the gun crews.
