Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  “They haven’t changed the issue sidearm since I was your age, have they?” Jordan held out his hand to accept the pistol that Owens thrust toward him.

  “No, sir. M7A1, forty-five caliber.” Owens’ voice shook with fear.

  “Just like old times, then.” Jordan tried to smile. He hadn’t touched a pistol since basic training, but they didn’t need to know that.

  The thunder of boots on metal crescendoed, and something hard began to pound on the hatch. A second later, Jordan heard the hiss of a welding torch biting metal. Whoever was out there must have come prepared — or raided the tool shop on their way up.

  Jordan slapped a magazine home, racked the slide, saw Owens and Williams do the same. A white-hot glow appeared near the door’s locking mechanism. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Jordan wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. Spots danced before his eyes. He looked and saw a puddle of blood under his wounded leg. It figured he’d get mangled in his first real fight. That was his luck. He fought away the dizziness and trained his sights on the hatch.

  The locking clamps began to flex and give way, and Jordan rested his finger on the trigger. He’d be damned before he’d let them have his ship. And as the hatch gave way and he opened fire, he repeated the words in his head with each shot.

  My ship. My ship. My ship.

  Chapter Two

  Lieutenant Christine Flores peered through her binoculars toward the harbor, careful to keep the lenses shaded by the fat leaves of the bush she was lying beneath. A huge column of smoke was still rising over the water, the occasional muffled boom breaking through the air like a distant firework.

  Air hissed from between Christine’s teeth. They’d first heard the sound of explosions a half hour ago, when the trail had crested the saddle between two hills and come into view of the dockyards. Christine had ordered the platoon off the road, and they’d contoured around the reverse slope of the taller hill. Then she’d taken half of Sergeant Meyer’s rifle squad — Corporal Lazaar, Privates Clos, Miller, Harris, and Henrikson — and crept to the shoulder of the hill, leaving Sergeant Néri to set up positions overlooking the trail and the road beyond. She’d been pleased to see her platoon operate so smoothly and so quietly. Kensington may be the middle of nowhere, but they were still rangers, and she’d made sure they learned how to act the part.

  It hadn’t been easy.

  The imbecile who’d commanded her platoon before her had let them get lazy, ignoring protocol, sticking to vehicles and roads and ignoring facilities that could only be reached by foot patrol. Christine had arrived with a batch of fresh officers Major Parks had chosen to “tidy up” the unit before he’d been transferred, and that’s exactly what they’d done. Extra patrols, early morning PT, and a merciless emphasis on technique and procedure had honed the entire company quickly. Her satisfaction at seeing her own platoon patrol had almost made up for being stuck on Kensington. Becoming a ranger officer was a ruthless ordeal. Brutal physical fitness regimens, medical screenings and vaccinations to make sure she wouldn’t get sick in the wilderness too easily, endless marksmanship training and weapons drills. She’d been as proud of the ranger badge on her sleeve as she was of anything else she’d ever done. It had almost made up for everything she’d lost that year.

  When she’d received her commission, she’d hoped to be stationed somewhere close to Ryan. He was all she’d had left, and she hadn’t wanted to be so far away that she couldn’t visit him on leave. But then her assignment came — a three-year billet on Kensington. She and Ryan had agreed to postpone the wedding until she was back. With Ryan’s income from the academy and the extra stipend Christine would receive for being assigned a “difficult” billet, they’d actually have money for a real party by then. Waiting sucked, but she owed the rangers everything. They had saved her, given her a purpose and a job to do. No matter where the rangers asked her to go, Christine would give them her best.

  Still, saying goodbye to Ryan had been hard.

  Christine shook her head, tapped her engagement ring against the barrel of the binoculars. No time for that now. She raised the lenses to her eyes again. An enormous tan shape seemed to be hovering over the smoke, although at this distance, it was hard to tell.

  Could it be part of the smoke plume?

  She blinked, and the shape was gone. Christine heard a rustle behind her. She turned her head to see Corporal Lazaar crawl up beside her, the long-range radio unit on his back, carbine in hand.

  “Ma’am, the platoon is holding position. We’ve contacted the rest of the company. Everyone’s checked in.”

  “Good.” Christine nodded. “What are they saying at the fort?”

  “They’re having trouble with communications. The relay network seems to be out of order.”

  “Of course, it is.” Christine rolled onto her side, slid the binoculars back into their leather case. Nothing surprised her where the fort was concerned, not since Major Parks had been transferred. Parks, the commanding officer of the Third Ranger Company, had been an excellent soldier, and the perfect counterweight to Colonel Neville, the fort garrison’s do-nothing leader. Neville was great with paperwork and organizing supplies. Word was he’d been a logistics officer for a long time. But he was not a leader. He didn’t know when to take charge and when not to micromanage. Worse, Neville’s career was his one real concern. Christine had no doubt he’d throw any of them under the bus without a second thought to advance himself. Christine had seen where that kind of attitude led, in uniform and out. She knew the price leaders like Neville exacted on those around them, and that made her hate the colonel more than anyone else on Kensington.

  While Major Parks had still been around, things had been okay. Parks had taken charge more than once to make up for the inadequacies of Neville, working hard to keep the aging Kensington facility in operational condition and the bored garrison motivated. Everyone, even the fort staff, had viewed him as the real leader on the planet. Unfortunately, someone further up had noticed the major’s skills and decided to transfer him and his command platoon to a “more urgent” billet. Apparently, the military needed the more experienced officers and staff closer to the border with the Milipa to form a new ranger unit. As usual, Kensington personnel were left to do more with less while they waited for a replacement officer and staff for the ranger company. Christine’s heart had sunk when she’d heard that Neville would act as the rangers’ CO in the meantime. As the senior officer among the fresh batch, Christine had been forced to be the liaison between the colonel and the rest of the rangers, a position she loathed because it meant talking to Neville on a regular basis.

  “What are their orders?” Christine slung the binocular case around her neck.

  “They think the train to the docks may have derailed and exploded. They want us to meet Third Platoon and investigate.”

  “Get them back on the line and tell them the smoke is coming from the water—”

  Another distant explosion interrupted Christine. They both turned their heads toward the harbor as a rapid series of booms broke through the air.

  “Damn.” Christine shook her head. Something was wrong, but somehow, she couldn’t believe it was a train wreck. She looked back at Lazaar. “Tell them we think it may be coming from the destroyer that was due today, and the explosions sound like weapons fire.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lazaar dragged himself backward through the bushes.

  Christine took one more look toward the harbor before crawling after Lazaar. After a few meters, the dense brush opened onto a small glade. Clos, Harris, and Miller knelt around the perimeter of the clearing, their carbines trained into the woods. Henrikson and Meyer were helping Lazaar to his feet.

  Christine stood and dusted the dirt and twigs off her olive-green uniform. She nodded at Lazaar, who activated his handset.

  “King One, Raven Five-Six, we’ve got eyes on the source of the smoke, break.”

  As Lazaar exchanged information with the fort, Christine c
rossed the clearing to where she’d left her patrol pack. She hauled the pack onto her knee, adjusted the weight, and slipped one arm through the strap. The helmet and body armor strapped onto the pack’s exterior clanked as she hefted the pack onto her back. It only took a few days in the blazing sun of Kensington to realize that wearing armor while on patrol was a fast track to dehydration and heat exhaustion. Christine pulled her carbine from where it hung by its sling on her shoulder, then turned to face Lazaar, who was stowing his handset.

  “The rest of the company is pulling back to occupy bunkers one through ten.” Ali’s voice strained slightly as he adjusted the weight of his transmitter pack. “We’re to continue and investigate with Third Platoon at the rail line, as before.”

  “Finally getting some exercise!” Clos flashed a smile toward Christine. They’d already patrolled close to seven miles with full combat loads.

  “The rail line?” Sergeant Meyer shook his head. “Why don’t we bring a marching band with us as well?” Following the low-lying riverbed and cleared of all brush for two hundred yards on either side, the rail line was the perfect place to meet — if you wanted to be seen from every hilltop within several miles. Rangers knew better.

  Christine nodded. “I agree. Corporal?”

  She turned to Lazaar. “Get Third on the line and tell them to rendezvous at Bunker Fifty.” The approach to the overlook would allow them to keep to the forest trails and steep ravines, concealing their location. Something was not right, and the last thing Christine was about to do was risk her platoon’s safety by using shit tactics.

  After Lazaar relayed the information, the group hiked back down the hillside toward the rest of the platoon. The sun was directly overhead now, and Christine could smell the sweet odor of grasses and plants curing. The monsoon season was coming. How anything survived on Kensington long enough to reach it was a mystery to Christine. The dossier she’d been given when she’d been assigned to the planet had explained that it was close to its sun, just barely within a habitable zone for humans. Christine had found that fact interesting, but it wasn’t until she’d stepped off the troopship and the heat had smacked her in the face that she’d realized what it meant.

  They reached the spot where the platoon had been and came to a halt. The unit had done a good job hiding itself. They were absolutely improving. Christine scanned the woods, taking the opportunity to run her troops through the familiar test. She’d never failed to find them, but hopefully the day would come when she couldn’t.

  “You, Salzman!” Christine pointed to a glint in the bushes twenty meters from her. “Cut the reflection on that scope if you don’t want a bullet through it!”

  Frustrated groans issued from all around them, and one by one the members of the platoon melted from the woods and assembled around Christine. Sergeant Néri stepped forward. A foot taller than Christine and built like the mountains they patrolled, Néri had been in the Ranger Corps longer than anyone there. It never ceased to impress Christine that he could move his bulk through brush without making a sound.

  “No movement on the rail line or any of the roads we can see,” Néri murmured. “If anyone’s out there, they’re still at the docks.”

  Christine nodded. “If we pick up our rear ends and get down there fast enough, we’ll catch them before they leave.”

  Bunker Fifty was about six miles away. The platoon would need to hike quickly.

  “Ma’am,” One of the soldiers craned his head over the other rangers. “Are we assuming there’s a hostile presence on Kensington?”

  “Hope for the best, Francis,” Christine said, making eye contact with each of her rangers. “Assume the worst. That’s what they told me in basic, and it’s never led me wrong.”

  Actually, Ryan had been the one who always said that, but Christine wasn’t about to talk about her fiancé with these guys. It was better that she keep her own vulnerabilities to herself. When she was with her rangers, she was a commanding officer first and a human being second.

  Christine explained their destination, and in short order the platoon had gathered their gear and was ready to march. They contoured the hill back to where they’d left the road and crossed to the other side. Before them, the ground rose sharply to another hilltop before plunging down to a gorge with a fast, shallow river cutting through it. The platoon skirted the hill’s summit, and then followed its shoulder as it blended into the lip of the gorge. Keeping just below the crest of the ridge, they paralleled it, the rush of the river drowning out all other sounds. Christine watched as the ranger to her left stumbled, his khaki gaiter caught by a thorny bush. She pushed herself to keep up the pace, not let any of her fatigue show. Somehow, knowing she had to act a certain way in front of her troops made physical exertion easier. The pain just didn’t seem important when she had a platoon to run.

  As the gorge curved northward, the rail bridge spanning it came into view. The rangers found the familiar trail that cut down the gorge to the river, and followed it. The trees in the bottom of the gorge were immensely tall and close together, their silvery bark and shaggy, blue-green foliage clumps reaching for the sunlight. It had taken the rangers several months of trial and error and consulting old maps to find a quick way through. An old road snaked beside the river, no doubt constructed when the bridge was built to allow access to the pilings. Overgrown and hidden from view, it provided the perfect conduit to cross the rail line undetected.

  The rangers passed under the bridge and along the access road until it started climbing back up the side of the gorge. They left the road, but paralleled it up the side of the gorge, stopping for a few minutes to take water. Christine peered between the trees at the sun. They were making good time and had many hours of daylight left. If their pace held, they’d be with Third Platoon in an hour and in position to overlook the docks within four, giving them plenty of time to find a defensible position to make camp before nightfall.

  After a mile, the gorge deepened and the noise of the creek increased as the water sped faster downward. Where the creek emptied into the main river, the platoon cut over the crest of the ridge and toward a broad hill, its summit a cap of lighter blue-green, cleared of trees. Christine strained to hear any sounds from the dockyards, which lay only a half mile beyond the hill, but the air was silent, other than the footsteps and breathing of her own troops. Whatever had been happening at the docks had ended in the hours since they’d started their journey.

  At the base of the hill, the rangers came to a halt.

  “Tell third we’ve arrived,” Christine said, wiped sweat from her forehead.

  While Lazaar keyed his handset, Christine leaned back against a tree. She remembered when her father would drag her along on his “wilderness” hikes in the recreation parks back home on Artemis. He was always so happy to leave the factories for a day, and Christine never made it easy on him. She’d never seen the point of walking around in the woods. She couldn’t help but smile, considering how ironic it was that she worked in the wilderness for a living.

  If Dad were here, he’d point that out.

  The voice of Lieutenant Squires in her radio headset broke through Christine’s thoughts.

  Third Platoon was on the other side of the hill. Lazaar looked to her for a response.

  She keyed her shoulder mic. “Raven Three-Six, Raven Five-Six Actual, copy. We’ll meet you on the east side at the tree line.”

  Christine faced her troops and motioned them to follow. They moved quickly up the hill and established a position right below the edge of the summit clearing. In the middle of the clearing sat Bunker Fifty, its reinforced concrete walls stained with streaks of black. The artillery pits next to the bunker were filled with water, which reflected the sunlight as it rippled slightly in the breeze. Christine made a mental note that they would need to empty the pits before they moved on.

  Each platoon worked facility maintenance into their patrol schedules, but with so many emplacements to worry about — some two hundred bunke
rs, shelters, redoubts, and gun pits — there was very little they could actually do but slow the rate of decay. Christine guessed that, in ten years, without real renovations by the Army Engineers, many of the bunkers, already leaking and beginning to crumble, would be unusable. She tried to imagine what it must have been like during the war, each bunker armed and manned to capacity with howitzers mounted in the pits, a full regiment garrisoned at the fort. So much effort had gone into building fortifications for only a few years’ use before letting them fall apart.

  Christine’s eyes caught movement, and she recognized the slender, lanky form of Lieutenant Squires walking toward her, his platoon in tow.

  “Have a pleasant trip up?” Squires smiled and held out a hand.

  Christine took Squires’ hand and shook it impatiently. The lieutenant always seemed to be extra nice to her. Even mentioning Ryan hadn’t kept him from trying to flirt. She didn’t have time for bullshit. “What have you managed to see?”

  “Nothing yet. We came up the ravine to the north. This is our first chance to look.”

  Christine slung her carbine over her shoulder. “Lazaar, Harris, you’re with me and the lieutenant. Sergeant Néri, set up the platoon to cover the spur from the rail line.”

  “Third Platoon, cover the ravine and the road,” Squires added, turning to his troops. At least he knew how to do his job, even if he couldn’t take a hint.

  Squires led the way around the clearing, Christine a few steps behind with Lazaar and Harris. Christine heard Squires sniffing the air.

  “Someone leave the turkey in the oven too long?” Squires coughed.

  Christine wrinkled her nose as the smell hit her. Melted electrical cables, burning industrial lubricants — and the unmistakable odor of scorched flesh.