Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  Neville had gone on to insist that the rangers wait for Lieutenant Ames’ platoon to drive the pack howitzers from the fort to Bunker Fifty. If Christine were going to make a stupid attack, she at least wanted to do it quickly and efficiently. While they’d waited for the guns to arrive and be hauled up the hill and assembled, the number of combatants — there’d been three hundred to start with — had dwindled. Now there were only some one hundred left, sitting around the warehouses, smoking and talking among themselves as they waited for the tender to return.

  Christine glanced to the empty woods to the north, looking for any sign of movement. There were two hundred of the bastards out there, likely more — after all, the rangers had arrived after the fighting in the harbor had ended — and here they were turning a blind eye to the enemy’s movements and rushing into an attack.

  At least the plan was simple. Squires’ platoon would fix the enemy position with fire, drawing them out of the warehouse complex and to the left. Then Christine’s platoon would move forward and around to the right, using the rail line and its gravel bed as cover. They would destroy the enemy with closer-ranged flanking fire, then rush forward to take any survivors prisoner once the enemy force had been reduced. The pack howitzers would target any pockets of stiff resistance. If the bad guys wouldn’t surrender, well… Christine’s eyes flicked to the warehouse’s open cargo door, where the bodies of Navy men and women had been thrown like garbage. Her grip tightened on the fore stock of her carbine.

  Christine looked back down the line and saw that her troops were in position, their eyes on her. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees and glinted faintly off the metal of the rangers’ carbines and bayonets. A cool breeze blew steadily from the direction of the water, the whisper of air through foliage the only sound other than the murmur of the enemy soldiers below. Christine raised a hand, palm forward, into the air, saw the NCOs down the line do the same. They were ready. Shifting her body slightly, she looked over her shoulder and up the hill, where Squires’ platoon was stationed on their left. Squires gave a thumbs-up.

  Christine turned to her weapon, aimed her sights at a man sitting near the cargo door, and waited for the explosion of gunfire from Third Platoon. The enemy soldiers jumped to their feet and looked up the hill, and for one moment Christine thought they’d seen Squires’ troops. Then she heard it — a deep, growing roar coming from… where?

  Christine waved a palm-out hand in front of her face, signaling the group to hold fire, saw Squires repeat the gesture out of the corner of her eye. The sound grew louder and louder, filling the air and making the ground vibrate beneath her. Christine realized what it was a second before she was cast in shadow. She instinctively flinched as a massive shape flew high overhead. A ship was landing.

  Christine blinked as the vessel moved out of the sun and the hot gust of its lift thrusters whipped through the trees. The enemy soldiers were frantically grabbing their weapons and disappearing around the warehouses toward the docks.

  Good God! Was this their ship?

  Christine motioned her troops to stay put and lifted herself off the ground. She dashed up the hill, her feet maneuvering through the roots and branches. She saw Squires run up the hill, too, and adjusted the angle of her climb to meet him. They ran on together, their breath coming fast as they fought the grade of the hill. When they’d climbed high enough to see over the warehouses, they stopped, looking out toward the water through a gap in the tree canopy. The ship was hovering a few hundred feet above the water.

  “Is that a cruiser?” Squires panted.

  “No.” Christine slung her carbine over her shoulder. “It’s too big.” She reached for her binoculars.

  “Did we have another ship due in?”

  Christine thought for a second as she withdrew the binoculars from their case. “No, not for three weeks.”

  “Christ.” The fear in Squires’ voice was obvious. With the communication relays out and no chance of help from any ship but the scheduled patrol destroyers each month, a warship that size could dominate the system.

  Christine steadied her breathing and trained her binoculars on the ship. Blue-grey Alliance paint scheme with standard red and royal blue trim. The ship started to descend toward the water, and she refocused her binoculars on small black letters near its bow. Christine could barely make out the words.

  RAS VERDUN.

  “Three hundred feet… Two fifty!” Stetler called out the dropping altitude from the helm as the deck vibrated and shook.

  Kim gripped the armrests of her chair, trying to ignore the feeling in her stomach. She’d never liked roller coasters, the sensation of falling. Landing operations ranked among her least favorite aboard a space vessel.

  “Gently, Mr. Stetler,” Kim called out, trying to sound casual.

  “One hundred feet,” Stetler continued. “Firing final thruster sequence.”

  Kim felt the rate of descent slow, heard the faint roar of the lift thrusters from outside.

  “Touchdown,” Stetler said, bending over his controls.

  The hull lurched, bumped, and then was still. The thrusters whined and faded into silence. Kim breathed a sigh of relief, took a deep breath to chase away her lingering nausea.

  “Chief Baudouin, announce secure from landing stations, and then try to get Kensington on the line again.” Kim called out to the communications operator, a tall woman with green eyes and blond hair done into a regulation bun.

  “Aye, ma’am.” Baudouin repeated the command on the ship’s intercom.

  “Chief Hatfield.” Kim turned toward the shipman manning Wilcox’s station, a thin man with dark brown hair and a mustache. “Call the launch bay and tell Mr. Wilcox and Major Osterman to deploy their supply crews. Tell Commander Frost to stand down the fighters.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hatfield turned to his controls.

  Kim stood, shook her head, her stomach still protesting the rapid descent to the planet. She walked forward and leaned next to Stetler, placing one hand on the back of his chair.

  “Mr. Stetler, you and I are going to define the word ‘gently’ sometime.”

  Stetler looked up at her, the corners of his frown tugging upward slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll bring the dictionary.” Holsey’s voice sounded from her booth.

  “Captain?” Baudouin’s voice held a note of concern.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “We’re receiving a transmission from the station.” Baudouin looked up from her computer screen and over at Kim, her forehead scrunched in confusion. “They’re asking us to verify our identity.”

  “What?” Holsey crossed the bridge to stand next to Baudouin. “Did you not identify us when you called out?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. They want full confirmation tones, and they want the captain’s authorization.”

  Kim frowned and rounded the helm console to stand beside Holsey.

  “Did they give any reason?”

  Baudouin picked up her handset and keyed the button. “Kensington, Victor One-Five-Five, please explain request for identification.”

  Holsey reached out and flicked a switch, piping the communications chatter onto the overhead speakers.

  “Victor One-Five-Five, Kensington.” A man’s voice, colored with more than a hint of annoyance, rang from the speakers. “Submit to identity check to ensure friendly status.”

  Baudouin shrugged and looked up at Kim and Holsey.

  “Isabelle, lock in and transmit the ID code.” Kim said.

  “Right away,” Isabelle’s disembodied voice responded. The ID code, kept only by the AI officers, was a series of tones assigned to each ship used to identify it at long range.

  “Tones received,” the voice said. “Standby.”

  “Kensington, Victor One-Five-Five, will you now identify reason for this procedure,” Baudouin said.

  “Victor One-Five-Five, Kensington, negative.” The irritation in the voice was becoming more obvious. “Ca
nnot identify reason until we have cleared you.”

  Holsey looked at Kim, concern written on her face. “If there’s something going on here, we need to know.”

  “I’ll start by finding out who the hell this idiot is,” Kim said, grabbing a spare hand mic, her patience gone. “Kensington, Victor One-Five-Five Actual, this is Captain Kim Morden, commanding officer of the Verdun. You will specify exact reason for identity check.”

  There was a long pause. “Kensington, Victor One-Five-Five, there has been an attack at the docks in your area by an unknown enemy force. We are checking your identity to ensure you’re not—”

  Fear bolted through her as she flicked the speaker switch, cutting off the voice. “Baudouin, deal with that idiot.”

  She turned to Hatfield. “Chief, are Wilcox and Osterman’s tenders in the water yet?”

  “They’re already on the shore, ma’am.”

  “And the fighters?”

  Hatfield looked at his computer screen. “They’ve started stand-down procedures. It’ll take few minutes to get them up.”

  Holsey swore under her breath.

  Kim suppressed her mounting fear, kept her voice calm. “Call the crew back immediately!”

  Chapter Six

  Jack stepped out of the crowded interior of the tender and into the blinding sunlight. The late afternoon heat hit him like a wave as the craft’s engine spluttered and shut off. Jack loosened his tie and stepped out of the way as Major Osterman the six marines he’d brought as escort filed off the transport. Jack watched as Osterman blinked in the light, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “Didn’t dress for the weather, did we?” Jack grinned, pointing at Osterman’s body armor.

  Osterman fixed Jack with a gaze that clearly said, “Shut up,” and turned to the other marines. “Secure the docks!”

  The marines scrambled up the dock toward the shoreline, Osterman jogging behind. It was good to see Gordon out and about again, if it was for a simple exercise like this. His wounds from the battle with the Frontin had been so severe that it had seemed the infirmary would never let him go. Osterman’s charming, levelheaded presence had been keenly missed at staff meetings, and Jack for one was happy the man was back with his marines again.

  Jack turned and watched as the second tender grumbled to a halt behind the first. The hatch opened, and another six marines emerged from inside, running to catch up with the first group, their rifles reflecting the withering sunshine, their grey uniforms and armor a perfect match for the faded paint of the silent cranes and machinery up and down the dockyards.

  “I think we’ve had the day saved for us,” Jack said, bending to look back inside the tender. The dozen crewmembers buckled inside laughed and began to extricate themselves from their seats. One by one, they stepped past Jack and out of the craft, which was opening its cargo bay. The top of the tender’s blocky rear section opened like a book, a small crane unfolding automatically. When Jack saw that the other tender had done the same, he turned to check on the marines, who had reached the juncture of the dock and the shoreline now, about a hundred yards away, and were setting up behind a tarp-covered pile of crates.

  Jack squinted down the shoreline at the endless expanse of the dockyards, shimmering in the heat. He frowned, looking for any sign of movement. The lift cranes were still, like skeletal fingers jutting up here and there from the clutter of crates, parked trucks, and palette lifters arranged along the docks. The long line of tall warehouses glowered back at him, their front cargo doors closed. Behind the warehouses, the steep-sided hills, one of them with what looked like a bunker sitting atop its cleared summit, were like silent, blue-green sentries.

  Where the hell is everyone?

  Jack started after the two work crews, who were walking together in a clump toward the marines, when he heard the pilot call out from inside the tender.

  “Commander?”

  Wilcox ducked inside, grateful for the coolness of the air-conditioned crew compartment.

  “Yes, Mr. Piskorz, what is it?”

  Piskorz, a muscular man with dark stubble on his square jaw, turned around in his chair to look at Jack, one eyebrow raised. “Commander, I’m getting a call from the Verdun. We’re to return immediately.”

  “Are they worried we’ll get heatstroke?” Jack chuckled.

  “No, sir. We have a report of enemy activity in the area.”

  Jack’s humor evaporated in an instant. “Get the engines started.” He ran back out onto the dock, cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted to the rest of the group. “Pack it up!”

  The sound of the tender’s engines drowned out Jack’s shout. One of the marines turned to look at Jack, who raised both arms and waved them toward himself. The marine nodded and turned to the other troops and the personnel gathered around him. A second later, Jack saw him stand up, then fall to the ground, clutching his arm. For half an instant, Jack wondered what had happened. Then the boom of a rifle shot carried over to him.

  A crewmember jerked and fell as the rest of the group hit the deck. Jack did the same, dropping to the hot metal surface of the dock as the roar of gunfire split the air.

  “Verdun, we’re taking fire from shore!”

  Jack heard the pilot calling out over the smack of bullets on the tender. Ahead of him, the marines at the barricade were returning fire. Jack followed the direction of their rifles and glimpsed the forms of people spread out behind various vehicles and crates along the dock. They were popping out from behind a crate, firing toward the Alliance personnel, then ducking back into cover. Jack spotted an enemy trooper pointing a long tube toward his direction. It was only when the rocket burst from the front of the tube that Jack realized what it was.

  “Christ!”

  The rocket missed the tender by a few feet, exploding in the water. Droplets showered Jack, who covered his face and head protectively.

  “Sir! I need to lift off!” Piskorz called from inside the tender.

  “Not without them!” Jack pointed to the Verdun teams at the barricade.

  “Then get them here!”

  Jack looked toward the barricade, then back at the pilot. “You’re crazy!”

  “Sir! I need to go!”

  Jack nodded, his mouth going dry. He took a deep breath, then stood. He dashed forward, but dove onto his stomach again as the crushing roar of machine guns erupted from behind him. Jack looked and saw that the tenders had opened fire at the enemy positions with their machine gun turrets. On the shore, the enemies scrambled for cover. Jack took the opportunity to launch himself to his feet and sprint to the pinned-down work crews.

  Jack slid to a stop next to Major Osterman, ducking behind a cement barrier.

  “You’ve got to get them up!” Osterman was fitting a rifle grenade to his weapon’s muzzle. “We’re stuck here until they move!”

  Jack looked at the crewmembers plastered to the deck, covering their heads, shouting. Somewhere, someone was screaming. Most of them had never seen ground combat. Neither had Jack, for that matter. The other marines popped over the barricade and fired in staccato bursts.

  Jack winced as a bullet sizzled over the barricade.

  “We’ll cover you,” Osterman shouted. “Get them up.” Osterman turned around, aimed his rifle toward the closest enemy barricade and touched off the grenade. The barricade exploded, and Jack saw several bodies — or at least parts of them — thrown clear. His stomach turned.

  “Get them up!” Osterman kicked Jack, who lurched forward and onto his feet.

  Not wanting to be hit, he stumbled forward toward the crewmembers.

  “We’re getting out of here!” Jack shouted, but none of them seemed to hear. He grabbed the collar of the nearest crewmember and hauled him to his feet. Somehow this broke the spell, and the rest followed, standing up to a low crouch. Jack heard the marines launch another grenade, another explosion. Jack glanced over his shoulder. Between the fire of the marines and the tenders, the enemies seemed to be pinned down.<
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  Jack led the crewmembers back down the dock toward the tenders. They were fifty yards away when a jet of fire and smoke streaked by, striking Piskorz’s tender full on. The craft rocked backward and exploded, ripping the dock apart next to it. Jack tasted blood, realized he had dropped to the dock again. He forced himself to his feet, dragging the crewmembers with him. But the fire from the shore had increased again, and a woman to Jack’s left pitched to the ground, then a man just ahead of him fell limp. Jack stepped over the body and kept running, pushing the rest of the group ahead of him.

  Marcus lowered himself into the cockpit of the Stallion he’d been given, pulled his helmet and air mask closed.

  He was getting back to work sooner than he’d thought.

  The cockpit slid shut, muffling the noise of the klaxons blaring on the launch deck, the rumble of the other fighters’ engines spooling up.

  His hands moved to the controls, punching in the settings for planetary flight mode, and an underwater launch. He hadn’t done this sort of thing in a while, his mind racing back to the endless times they’d practiced this in flight school.

  The bay door opened in front of him, and water flooded upward, swirled around his craft.

  “Water equilibrium in twenty seconds. Standby.” The computer’s pleasant, relaxed voice spoke to him.

  “Come on. Come on.” He activated the holodisplay, every nerve aching to get going. People — their people — were being attacked out there. Damned if Marcus was going to allow some other asshole to take more of the Verdun’s crew.

  “Equilibrium achieved,” the computer said.

  Marcus pushed the control stick forward, his body thrown backward in his seat as the Stallion shot downward and into the inky green water.

  Jack was almost to the remaining tender, was starting to reach for the door.

  “Shit!”

  Another rocket surged past and exploded beside the craft, which started backing away from the dock.

  “No, damn you!” Jack tried to wave for the tender to stop, but it was turning, picking up speed, and surging for the Verdun. Another crewmember fell, holding his leg. Bullets whistled and thwacked around them. Jack pulled his people back down flat against the pier. He looked back at the marines at the barricade. No longer held back by machine gun fire, enemy soldiers — at least a hundred — were closing in, moving from cover to cover. One of the marines fired toward the oncoming group, dropping two of his targets, but the surge of attackers continued unabated.