Honor of the Legion

by Leo Champion

  Bellis opened his mouth to shout something back, but Bogdanov placed a finger to his lips: no. Don’t give away our position.

  He heard feet stomping.

  “They’re around here somewhere,” one of the pursuers muttered to his buddy.

  And then they appeared, looking in different directions.

  Bogdanov moved fast, swinging his pick at the head of the man with the revolver. A gunshot rang out and someone screamed; the man with the revolver ducked, fired again as Bellis threw himself onto the other man. Steel rang against steel as that man blocked Bellis’ swipe, a knife in his other hand.

  Bogdanov struck again, and this time the end of his pick slammed into the revolver man’s chest, cutting deep in. The man screamed but didn’t drop the revolver, firing a wild shot that went over Bogdanov’s shoulder to where Bellis and the other man were fighting.

  Bogdanov pulled the pick back and swung it again into the injured revolver man’s throat, driving deep in as blood fountained. A bile of revulsion hit Bogdanov through the adrenaline; so far as he knew, and he was fairly certain of it, he’d never killed anyone before. The pick had thunked sickly as it went through flesh and veins.

  But no time to think of that now, as he turned toward Bellis and the other man. Bellis was clearly getting the worst of it, was bleeding and staggering as the man moved in for the kill.

  Bogdanov didn’t think; instinct and adrenaline made the decision for him as he raised the now-bloody pick and slammed it down on the top of the man’s head. Bone crunched and the man fell on his face, a moment before Bellis himself crumpled backwards, hands still pressed over his stomach.

  “You OK, Bels?” Bogdanov asked.

  Bellis shook his head.

  “Cut me in the gut. Wide open.”

  “Let me see.”

  Wincing, Bellis moved his blood-soaked hands away to show a deep, heavily bleeding slash several inches long. So far as Bogdanov could see through the steadily flowing blood, it looked like it had gone in deep too.

  With medical help it would have been a survivable wound. There was no medical help for hundreds of miles.

  “They got me good, man,” Bellis breathed.

  “Shit,” said Bogdanov, not wanting to voice the thought in his head: This is not a survivable wound. Jimmy Bellis is going to die.

  For a few long moments they squatted there, looking at each other.

  “I’m not going to make it,” Bellis said presently.

  Bogdanov looked away, not wanting to meet his friend’s eyes.

  Slowly he shook his head.

  “No.”

  Bellis sighed.

  “Well fuck.”

  Bogdanov was silent. There was nothing to say.

  “At least he died too,” said Bellis. “Thanks for killing his ass.”

  Gut wounds can take hours of pain to kill you, Bogdanov thought. But the chance of getting medical attention out here was absolutely zero. He didn’t want to voice his thought: want me to make it quick?

  At least there was a gun to do it with. Bogdanov was fairly certain that even for a friend, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to cold-bloodedly cut anyone’s throat.

  He went over to pick it up. It was a heavy snub-nosed revolver, and when he inspected the chamber he found two rounds remaining.

  Looking over its messily dead owner, he found a knife and a small waist-pouch that, yes, held the reloads he’d been hoping for. Six six-round loads in circular quick-loaders. He took the pouch and went to Bellis, who’d been watching.

  “Dmitri, I’m Catholic,” said Bellis.

  Bogdanov nodded.

  “I’d say your last rites, but I don’t know them.”

  “I don’t mean that. I… I can’t commit suicide.”

  He wants me to do it, thought Bogdanov.

  He gave another nod.

  “If you get out of here. There’s a girl in West Palm Beach. Florida. Jessica Cantrell.”

  “Jessica Cantrell in West Palm Beach,” said Bogdanov, commiting it to memory. “What do I tell her?”

  “I always loved her and I’m sorry. Just tell her that James Bellis – I went by James then, she knew me as James not Jimmy – always loved her and he’s sorry. Promise me you’ll find her and tell her that?”

  “Swear to God I will,” Bogdanov said.

  Bellis groaned in pain and closed his eyes. Bogdanov found himself wishing he could say something, but nothing came to mind. There probably was nothing anyway.

  “James Bellis always loved her and he’s sorry,” he repeated.

  “So… very sorry,” breathed Bellis.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Do it, Dmitri.”

  Bogdanov moved toward Bellis’ head. He forced himself to place the pistol against the back of his skull.

  “Do it. Now,” said Bellis firmly. He closed his eyes.

  Bogdanov’s finger closed over the trigger, but he couldn’t bring himself to do the final bit of pressure.

  “Now, Dmitri! While I’m ready!”

  Bogdanov swallowed and pulled the trigger. The gun boomed and Bellis went limp, blood continuing to flow from his stomach.

  Oh God.

  Bellis had dog tags.

  Jessica Cantrell in West Palm Beach, Florida, Bogdanov thought. He always loved her and he’s sorry.

  He had a purpose now. Get to where he could have access to social media and find this girl. His friend’s last wish.

  That meant he had to survive.

  He had to push Jimmy’s death aside, and make it out of here. Make his death worth something.

  Going over the corpses of their two pursuers, Bogdanov found the knife that had killed Bellis, but it was still a knife. He folded it shut and put it into one pocket. There was a large water canteen on the revolver man, and a pouch of ten ration bars.

  The revolver man had taken a regular Legion shoulder’s blue shirt, which had layers of kevlar woven in. At first – because of the blood covering the front of it – Bogdanov was reluctant, but kevlar might keep me alive. Not against rifle fire, or even heavier pistol bullets – that was why you wore actual armor when you were expecting action – but musket or low-caliber pistol bullets it could stop.

  It would improve his chances, was what mattered. He unbuttoned his shirt, exchanged it for the blood-sticky blue shirt that at least fit reasonably well.

  He looked over the scene one last time, checking for anything left he could take. Nothing.

  And if I don’t get moving soon, they might send a follow-up occurred to him.

  He had everything he could carry. It was time to head out west, alone.

  * * *

  “Kimmy and Jack still aren’t back,” Longneck Simon reported to Kaggs. “And we got the runners down. It was Bogdanov and Bellis.”

  Kaggs wasn’t surprised. Those two had always been goody-two-shoes; yessir, no-sir, avoiding fights.

  “And they took down Kimmy and Jack, I guess,” Kaggs said. There had been a couple of gunshots, over the horizon – and then nothing.

  Sending more men out, since Kimmy and Jack had apparently been jumped and killed by the two scumbags? Might just get them killed. Maybe they should have just let the two go in the first place.

  But no, Kaggs decided.

  “Let them go,” he told Simon. “And let’s get moving again. To Diamond North.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Teams of Black Gangers had worked through the night, digging a ditch around Fort Hubris. The nomads had watched but kept their distance; they’d lit cooking fires and at one point when the wind had come up, the delicious smell of roasted meat had come toward the fort where Legion men, Black Gangers and combat engineers ate MREs, reduced on Croft’s order to two-thirds rations, two a day.

  Croft had tried to sleep, uneasily on his cot with people ordered to wake him if anything changed. Nothing had, and he woke on his own around seven o’clock to see that the Ganger work teams had made good progress on the defensive ditch.

/>   Working with picks and shovels, the heavier construction equipment having been left abandoned along the route of the intended railway, they’d averaged a three-foot start around the perimiter of the fort. It wouldn’t be more than a minor impediment to an attack, and the nomads would have no problem filling it in with dirt or rocks from the abandoned city – but minor impediments added up and he did have the labor.

  He found MacGallagher where he’d expected to, in the company signals office. The bearded chief signalman was drinking a cup of coffee, gestured at a pot as he rose to greet Croft.

  Croft shook his head.

  “Maybe later,” he said, although he’d have liked some. Duty first, though. He’d err on the side of going without. “Any developments?”

  MacGallagher shook his head.

  “Jamming still as strong as ever. We’ve confirmed it’s everywhere, though, across all frequencies. The damn eaties and their Euro overlords won’t have communications of their own to speak of.”

  “Meaning they’ll be running from whatever playbook they’ve set up in advance,” said Sergeant Robinson, who was sitting at his desk on the other side of the room with what looked like maps open on his laptop computer. “If we can find that…”

  “You’re overthinking, I told you,” said MacGallagher. Croft had the impression the two had been going on like this for a while. “It comes down to we’re surrounded and we’ve got to hold out until help arrives. How are we going to grab one of their advisors – and what good would it do even if we did know?”

  “Never hurts to know things,” Robinson shot back.

  “Well, let me know if anything changes,” said Croft as he headed out, leaving the two to their argument.

  Up a solid stone staircase to the wall, a couple of men from the field kitchen passing him going down. He returned their salutes.

  The desert air was still and quiet except for the grunts and digging sounds of Black Gangers working outside. From the parapets, men eyed the nomads a mile away. Croft waved away a few salutes; you didn’t do that kind of thing in sight of the enemy, which on the walls of Fort Kandin-dak you technically were.

  He wished he’d asked Robinson or MacGallagher for an estimate of their numbers. It looked like thousands. So far doing nothing, just surrounding the fort from outside the range of most of its weapons.

  “Sir,” said Andrews, coming up. The tall, brown-haired soldier had, in one hand, a printed field manual. Medicine, probably.

  “Private Andrews,” said Croft. “What’s up?”

  “Any idea what the nomad fuckers are going to do, sir? Are they just going to sit there like they are and starve us out?”

  “No idea,” said Croft honestly. “You know where the other officers are?”

  “Lieutenant Henry went to bed at dawn. I think the others might be on top of the blockhouse.”

  “Thanks.”

  Croft greeted other men – Private Blanket, Corporal Pantaleo, PFC Cook with his M-255 squad gun and Private Gartlan nearby as Cook’s loader; little black Private Johnny Montague and lean, whip-smart Hassan Khaliq – as he passed along the wall. Everyone seemed uneasy; watching, waiting, anticipating.

  Nominally they were guarding the Black Gangers digging the ditch at the base of the wall, but in practice surrounded by nomads the convicts weren’t going to run anywhere. Perhaps one man in four was giving them any attention.

  The calm before the storm, Croft thought.

  Up the steps to the corner blockhouse, which bristled with heavy weapons. Two big mean belt-fed 40mm grenade launchers overlooked the area in two directions, covering the gates and the area to the east. Three .50 machine-guns were set up on the parapets, and further back were a pair of mortars.

  Nomads were moving, Croft could see even without assistance, around the walls of the old city.

  “Sir,” said Master Sergeant Ortega, looking up from the 40mm launcher he and SFC Atkinson had been inspecting. Sergeant Garza and a couple of Second Squad men were with them, as well as a dozen Fourth Platoon men Croft didn’t know actually manning the heavy weapons.

  From below came shouts and a whipcrack as one of the MP overseers urged his probably-by-now-exhausted convicts on.

  “Morning, Lieutenant,” the NCOs said.

  “Morning, guys. Anything happen during the night?” he asked.

  Ortega shook his head.

  “I say we use the mortars, sir,” Atkinson said.

  “We have a total of a hundred and eighteen shells for them,” said Croft.

  “Yeah, but – sir, we can hit their clusters easily with them. Maybe provoke them into doing something. Or going away.”

  “Doing something could involve attacking us,” said Croft. Not that he was hopeful about this, but it was possible: “They may just decide to go away on their own. They’ve got to realize they’ll take losses attacking this place.”

  “And we’re not going to achieve anything just plinking away at random ones,” said Garza. “Except wasting ammo and, like the LT said, pissing them off.”

  For a while the men just stood there, looking out toward the ruined city and the nomads that surrounded them.

  “Very well,” said Croft presently. “I’m going to get some coffee. Let me know immediately if anything happens.”

  They were besieged. The initiative was totally in the hands of the enemy; the only action they could take at this point, which the perhaps-impatient Atkinson had suggested, would probably be counterproductive. Either the enemy would attack or they’d withdraw; all anyone in Hubris could do was wait.

  Croft wondered if Godfrey’s Landing had really been like this. When you thought about that legendary siege you thought of desperate assaults and counterattacks, but it had lasted more than a year and a half. Most of that would have been downtime, General Edwards and his men – including Croft’s father, then a junior lieutenant himself – waiting for the enemy to do something they could react to.

  Down the stairs to the field kitchen, which was just inside the fort’s heavy steel gates; a prefabricated booth of counters with stoves behind them and a couple of men Croft didn’t know manning them.

  They recognized him, though.

  “Coffee, sir?” he was offered, with a gesture at an urn.

  “Sure,” he said and took a cup this time. It was strong and hot, and he sipped it as he continued his morning inspection of the fortress – past living quarters where off-duty engineers, he saw when he peeked through one doorway, were asleep in bunks.

  From the observation tower built on top of shipping crates in the center of the fort, the United States flag hung mostly limp with its thirteen stripes and seventy-three stars. A telephone handset at the base allowed communications with anyone manning the top of it, and Croft picked it up now.

  “Tower,” came the response.

  “It’s Croft,” said Croft. “Any developments?”

  “No sir. But we just got here.”

  Croft had given Nakamura and First Platoon charge of the observation tower, with a ‘suggestion’ the men on watch be rotated every two or three hours so they’d stay fresh and alert. During the night, and the early morning, it probably wasn’t such a bad shift. But the men up there during the heat of the day were going to have a bad time without cover. He wondered if some kind of an awning could be arranged for them.

  He wondered where the hell Gardner and Newbauer were, what had happened to the people above him.

  He wondered what was going to happen next, but all he could do so far was wait.

  Damnit. He hated it when things were outside his control.

  * * *

  It was a little past ten – 10:08, said the expensive digital chronometer on Croft’s wrist – and he’d been sitting in his office mindlessly reviewing maps of the areas around the fortress, when Corporal Pantaleo knocked urgently at the half-open door.

  “Sir? Lieutenant Henry wants you at the blockhouse, sir.”

  Croft got to his feet.

  “Sure. He
say why?”

  “Someone’s coming. Tower confirms. Lot of dust, big party arriving from the east he says.”

  “Got it. Thanks Pantaleo.”

  Something, finally happening! Croft took his M-25, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried out of his room, the maps lying on his desk as he hustled across the courtyard toward the top of the gates.

  Someone was definitely coming, and the nomads surrounding them had moved in force to greet whoever it was. Through his binoculars, Croft made out riders on zaks – riders on zaks and the shape of a Mutt!

  And a truck, two trucks.

  It was hard to see through the dust, and the day had already gotten painfully hot, but whoever had come had stopped. Lots of nomads gathering.

  “Mortars?” Atkinson suggested. “Big cluster.”

  “I think I see humans there,” said Dunwell, putting her own binoculars down.

  “Euros,” said Atkinson. “Take out their advisers…”

  “No, lots of humans,” said Croft. He put his own binoculars down. The nomads were massing, but he wouldn’t fire on them just yet; a lot of the work gangs, including his own First Squad, were unaccounted for and might be prisoners. Could well be here.

  “Sir,” said Williams, “I suggest we wake everyone still asleep and get ready.”

  Oh, good point.

  “Do that,” said Croft. “Williams, take some men and help him. And bring those damn Ganger work crews inside already!”

  * * *

  “Sir, a moment,” von Kallweit said to Lavasseur as the exhausted prisoners – they’d been driven hard through the past day and the night, rotating in groups to sleep in the two captured trucks – were herded into a group surrounded by Qing nomads and a few human advisers. There were about a hundred of the Legion convicts and twenty-five or so Legion soldiers, including the little black monkey who was apparently the acting company commander.

  Lavasseur turned irritably, a little envious of his deputy’s apparent ability to sleep in the saddle. Although he’d been riding in the back of the captured Mutt, he himself hadn’t been able to even doze. He’d made up for it by taking a couple of amphetamine pills, which left him wired and twitchy in the bright sun.