Osterman’s face hardened. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Good.” Jack turned to the radio pack sitting next to him, shiny with rainwater. He hauled it up and onto his back, adjusting his stance as the weight sank onto his shoulders. He picked up his binoculars and looked through them in time to see Squires emerging from the warehouse with his team. Jack sighed with relief when they did not stop to paint an X.
Unhooking the radio handset from its shoulder clip, he depressed the side button.
“Victor One-Five-Five, Victor Six, come in.”
The radio fizzled, and the voice of Chief Baudouin responded. “Victor Six, Victor One-Five-Five, go ahead.”
“We’ve cleared the secondary warehouses. Seventeen bodies accounted for. Please advise.”
There was a long pause. Jack listened to the sound of raindrops plopping into mud, plinking off Osterman’s armor, and smacking against his raincoat. Then the radio crackled again.
“Victor Six, Victor One-Five-Five. Hold position until other units can join you, break.”
Wilcox keyed the handset again. “Go ahead.”
“The captain and Colonel Neville are sending the rest of the combined force to your position for an immediate attack on the barracks.”
Surprise bolted through his chest, and Osterman pursed his lips tighter. Jack raised the handset to his mouth. “Copy, out.”
“At least they’re moving fast,” Osterman said as Jack tucked away the handset. “I’d like for this to be done with.”
“You and me both.” Jack started down the hill toward where he could make out Lieutenant Flores directing troops into position, the squish of Osterman’s boots on soaked grass following him.
Jack tried not to think of the possibilities of an approaching battle, focused instead on an odd sense of excitement. It wasn’t that he wanted to be in another firefight. But he did want Osterman to see him in one. This time would be different. Osterman would see what Jack was made of.
Chapter Eleven
Kim watched as Chief Baudouin turned from the communications station and looked in her direction, acutely aware of Colonel Neville’s eyes on her. She’d caught him looking somewhat below her collar a few times, and she was rapidly losing patience.
“Ma’am,” Baudouin stowed her handset. “Commander Wilcox confirms. All other units en route.”
“Good.” Kim willed herself to look at Neville, whose eyes flicked up to hers from southward. “Colonel, I’m concerned that committing all of our forces to the attack will leave the rest of the complex unsecured and undefended in case of a counterattack.”
Neville smirked. “Trust me, Captain, we’re plenty secure. You have the rest of your marines here on the Verdun, and I have the garrison at the fort, a whole platoon.”
Morden shook her head. She’d agreed to an immediate attack because she’d wanted to strike before the enemy force had a chance to react. If they were at the barracks, she wanted to catch them before they could disappear into the forest. But Neville had insisted that the rest of the ranger company, including the artillery section, join in the assault, and despite his confidence, Kim doubted that a platoon was an adequate defense for the fort.
“A proper attack, with proper force behind it, will ensure all of our safety. We wouldn’t want the operation to fail for lack of numbers.”
Kim couldn’t argue with that. And since the Verdun’s marine compliment was so reduced after the battle in Derek’s Triangle, it wasn’t far from the truth that the entire ranger company was necessary for the attack.
“Of course,” Neville was saying. “You could spare more marines from the Verdun…”
No way in hell. Kim had seen the bodies of the Barracuda crew being carried to the ship’s morgue. She wasn’t about to let the same happen to the Verdun, and so long as they were in the water and vulnerable, the ship would stay at security alert with enough marines on board to repel an assault.
“Colonel, now that the Verdun has been re-stocked, I’d like you to return the fort to manage station operations. I need someone in charge over there.”
Neville’s face worked into an exaggerated frown. “And here I was hoping I’d be aboard for dinner with you.”
Kim raised an eyebrow.
“And your officers,” Neville added.
Kim saw Holsey look toward Neville from her station and roll her eyes.
“I’m afraid not, Colonel. There’s work to do. We still have extensive repairs to complete, communication relays that need to be looked at, and you have a station to repair and put back in order.”
Neville shook his head. “You Navy types have no sense of fun. Very well.”
Neville walked toward the door, clicking his tongue like he was scolding a child. “But you must let me entertain all of you while you’re still at port.”
“Possibly. Good afternoon, Colonel.”
Neville exited, and Kim sensed a collective relaxing of tension in the room.
“He likes to talk, doesn’t he?” Stetler called from the helm station.
“He’s probably just lonely,” Urquhart answered. “But I guess… Yeah, he does. It’s nice that he wants to get to know us better.”
Leave it to Callista to find something positive about everyone — and miss Neville’s ulterior motives. “Yes, very nice, Lieutenant.”
Holsey’s scoffing sound made Kim turn around.
“He’s an idiot. I think you’re wasting your own time being diplomatic with him and not telling him to shove off.”
“You’re absolutely right, Commander.”
“Good.” Holsey said, looking back down at her work. “I’m glad we agree.”
Kim smiled, and for a split second, she thought she saw Holsey do the same.
Neville stepped into the jeep, slamming the door behind him. “Be quick about it, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver looked back at him from the front seat then bent forward to push the ignition. A second later, the vehicle’s battery kicked in, and the jeep grumbled forward.
Neville twisted in his seat to look out the small back window. The tender that had brought him to shore was backing out into the dark green water, turning slowly back toward the Verdun, which looked huge compared to the dockyards.
“Cold bitch,” Neville murmured.
“Sir?” The driver’s voice came from the front seat over the hum of wheels on asphalt and the patter of rain on the roof.
“Just drive.” Neville didn’t feel like explaining. Besides, it wasn’t the business of some corporal.
Neville had spent the day trying to let Captain Morden know he was interested in her, and she’d all but thrown him off the ship. He’d thought she’d appreciate the attention. After all, command could be lonely. Rules forbade commanding officers from romancing their subordinates, no matter how appealing they might be. A fellow leader provided a rare opportunity to have some fun. Then again, Neville had met plenty of women who just didn’t seem to like it when men were nice to them. A peculiarity of the species, he supposed.
Neville looked to his right out the window at the ruined section of docks that the Verdun fighters had obliterated. The least Morden could do would be to pay for the damage her people had done with a friendly dinner. It would take months to get the facility fully operational again. Then again, there were miles of undamaged docks to use and only a few destroyers per month to use them on. There would probably be no need to repair the damage. Clean it up a bit, salvage what could be salvaged, and move on. Neville had learned to economize where he could. The fools who had stuck him here gave him few resources, and he was savvy enough to know that the less he bothered them, the more likely they’d let him out.
The view of the docks gave way to big, blocky warehouses and then the shaggy, blue-green wall of the forest as the jeep left the dockyards and followed the road paralleling the rail line. Neville looked out the windshield at the far-off mountains, their rounded peaks gleaming with a thick coat of snow. Below
them was a broad hill, its summit a long, flat line, bare of trees. He could just make out the green bump of the fort’s superstructure and the road leading up to the front gate. Neville scowled. It might as well be a prison.
Neville saw three jeeps ahead, heading in the same direction, the pack howitzers loaded into their rear cargo beds. Behind them marched a platoon of rangers — Lieutenant Ames’ artillery section and Lieutenant Mahoney’s heavy weapons platoon by the looks of them — with some of the Verdun marines. They were moving slowly, and Neville figured they were probably on their way to meet the rest of the attack force. Just like the rangers to drag their feet.
“Pass them,” Neville barked.
“Yes, sir.”
The driver cranked the wheel over to the right, and the vehicle surged past the marching soldiers, whose heads were bent forward under their armor and rain jackets. No doubt seeing the gold lion’s head he knew was painted on the outside of his vehicle, they watched him drive past. Neville was tempted to flip them the bird. The rangers had been a problem for him since Major Parks, their old commanding officer, had left and Neville had been given temporary charge of them. They’d made it clear they didn’t think he was able to lead them, especially Flores. Had he not needed every officer he could get, and had he thought Command would back him up, he’d have sent Flores packing as soon as Parks’ desk was emptied out. As it was, he could only hope she’d catch a stray bullet and be sent home with a medical discharge. At least then she wouldn’t have a chance to contribute anything unfriendly to him in the incident report.
Damn! He’d almost forgotten all about that. Neville put his face in his hands. He’d wasted so much time on Morden, he’d neglected to begin working on the report. It absolutely had to come from him. It was the only way to make sure the report reflected the truth and no one’s personal vendettas or judgments. But since Morden had operational command, writing the report would fall to her, and she seemed to be on Lieutenant Flores’ side.
A damn female conspiracy.
Neville pondered the possibilities as the jeep climbed above the surrounding hills and up the slope to the fort. By the time they crested the hill, Neville had formed a plan. He’d return to the Verdun tomorrow, apologize to Morden for having apparently made her uncomfortable, and offer to take the report off her hands. She had so much to do with repairing her ship. Neville couldn’t help but smile. It would be so easy.
Neville looked ahead at the fort, its dreary details thrown into bright relief by the late afternoon sun. It was a huge, steel-reinforced concrete maze, three stories tall, covered with eighteen feet of sand, another twenty-four feet of concrete scree, and then capped with thirty feet of dirt. Tunnels joined the main superstructure of the fort, which contained the barracks, powder magazines, main gun turrets, kitchens, galleys, armories, workshops, power generators, communication machinery, lavatories, and infirmaries, to the front entrance, counterscarp galleries, and the small, armored hanger in back. All but impenetrable, even from orbital bombardment — or that’s what he’d been told when he’d arrived.
The outer wall, its earthen shell covered with grass, sloped up in front of them. On the other side, Neville knew, the walls dropped into a ditch running around the fort’s superstructure. Counterscarp galleries built into the wall and facing into the fort defended the ditch with interlocking fields of fire. The superstructure rose fifty feet, its top dotted with five machine gun turrets and four larger artillery turrets, each with twin 155mm guns and each with its own smaller observation dome, and four artillery casemates protruded from its sides. Crowning the superstructure was the flag of the Royal Alliance, fluttering in the soggy breeze, a communications tower, and the truly massive heavy artillery turret, twice as big as any of the others, with its two 400mm guns.
Old junk on an ugly pile of dirt, in his opinion.
He’d found it impressive at first, but when he’d learned the counterscarp galleries had been stripped of their machine guns and that the supporting artillery pits on either side of the fort had been emptied, he’d known he was truly in a backwater. At the very least, the missile batteries were intact, their metal hatches flush with the sheer rock wall of the mountainside a half mile behind the fort.
The jeep pulled into the gate, and a soldier peered through the empty machine gun ports of the outer guardhouse, built into the wall of the entrance tunnel. The soldier saw the painted lion’s head, and disappeared. A second later, Neville heard a buzzing sound, and the massive metal gate retracted to the left, a second gate retracting to the right just behind it. The driver pulled the vehicle forward, and the hum of the jeep’s motor became a fierce growl as it echoed off the walls. Immediately inside the gate was a second set of machine gun ports — these ones actually had weapons in them — and the door leading into the guardhouse. The soldier emerged from the door and saluted again. Neville waved him off.
A minute later, the jeep was parked in the fort’s garage and Neville was climbing the stairs to the second level, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the fort’s interior. The walls were smooth concrete, painted with directional signs, a red line running at chest level indicating that the area was bombardment-proof. Light bulbs, covered with steel cages, were spaced along the ceilings of the narrow corridors, joined by the nest of cables and wires that linked the fort’s electrical and information systems together.
The corridors were empty, as usual. The staff of a dozen and garrison of fifty were a token compared to the two thousand the fort was designed to accommodate. Even with the full ranger company present, the fort didn’t feel full. Neville reached the end of the corridor, turned left, returning the salute of the soldier walking from the direction of the south artillery turret, and stepped into his office, shutting the door behind him. He’d no sooner stepped to his desk than a knock sounded behind him.
“Come in!” Neville plopped down into the seat behind his desk, which was covered with stacks of paper and empty coffee cups.
Captain Sam Holden, a short, strongly built man with thinning hair, perfect posture, and boots that could be used as mirrors stepped inside and saluted.
“Glad to see you’re back, sir.”
Neville doubted that. “Anything new?” He leaned back in his chair.
“Attack forces have called out that they are almost ready to move.” Holden eyed the mess on Neville’s desk.
“Good. Make sure the machine gun turrets are manned tonight while all the rangers are gone.” Neville put his feet on the desk. He knew Holden hated it, and right now, he didn’t feel like dealing with the captain’s stodgy formalities.
“Yes, sir.” Holden was obviously trying not to look at Neville’s boots. “Shall we man the counterscarp galleries as well?”
“No need. They don’t have machine guns as it is, so why bother?” Neville couldn’t help but smile at Holden’s discomfort.
Holden nodded, looking down at the floor. “Yes, sir. Will we expect you in the command center? We’ll need you there once the attack begins.”
“I’ll be there momentarily. Dismissed.”
Holden turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Neville sat back upright, putting his feet back on the floor. He wriggled off his boots, then swiveled to face his computer terminal. As it turned on, he considered how he would phrase his incident report. There would likely still be a couple hours before the attack, and he wanted to complete a draft before then. Morden would be more willing to let him take over the report if she saw he was diligent. The command center could wait for a while. With that in mind, he started typing.
Chapter Twelve
Tom jogged the width of the barracks complex, shouting orders, inspecting the positions his warriors were setting up, and trying to ward off the feeling of guilt in his chest. Tonight, they would win a great victory for the Legion, seize a great prize, but the defenders of the barracks would pay the highest price.
People were rushing every which way, lugging machine guns, building b
arricades, the pale rags they were wearing fluttering behind them as they ran. They would make one hell of a fight; that was for sure. Their martyrdom was assured, and the movement would continue, thanks to what they would help it achieve tonight. Still, Tom hated what lay before them.
“Careful with that!” Tom shouted at a man and a woman jostling a crate of mortar shells between them as they ran. At least they would be well armed, even better than before. The armories of the Barracuda had made sure of that.
He reached the eastern edge of the complex, saw the outlines of a few final stragglers heading into the woods in front of him. Most of the strike force had already left hours ago with the Supervisor. Only the ones who had stayed to help set up had remained. Tom had waited until the last moment, but it was time to go. He turned around, took one last look at the barracks. The rain had cleared, and the last rays of the sun raked the top of the treetops, throwing all the colors into saturated relief, and dyeing the dull metal of the bunkers bright red. Compared to the ash and decay of his home world, it was staggeringly beautiful.
Tom couldn’t help but shake his head and smile. How putrid a galaxy it was that a decaying military camp in the forest on a backwater outpost should be an improvement to anyone. To some of Tom’s people, this was probably the nicest place they’d ever lived. This thought cut the last chains of guilt from his chest.
The Supervisor was right. The movement required sacrifice, and it was a gift to die in a place like this rather than live back home. What they did here, the lives they would take, the people they were losing, were necessary, every one of them.
Feeling suddenly light despite the weight of the rifle on his back, Tom turned and walked into the woods. Tonight would be the best night of his life.
Outpost Page 9
