Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  “Hands up!” Tom fired a couple shots over their heads. One of them reached for a sidearm, but a shot blasted from behind Tom, and the soldier’s head split open, showering his comrades with blood. The rest of them reached for the ceiling.

  “You,” Tom turned pointed at six of his people. “Stay here and guard them. Kill anyone who resists.”

  Tom left the room and ran back out into the hallway. He spotted a sign that said “COMMAND CENTER” and pointed toward a staircase at the end of the hall and to his left. To his right, a solid stream of his people — the rest of the attack force — was running to join him. Waving to them, he led the way down the hall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Captain Sam Holden threw open the gun locker in the command center, the emergency doors clanging shut. They wouldn’t last forever, but they’d give him time.

  Sam withdrew a rifle, slung it on his back, and then took the others out one at a time, passing them to the waiting hands of the others in the room, eleven in all, not counting Colonel Neville and Sergeant Gram, the radio operator, who were still at their stations.

  Sam turned to face the gathered command center staff. “Sergeant, get a barricade in front of those doors. Use anything you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir!” Sergeant Brécourt, a broad, bear of a man, dashed over to the set of heavy metal tables arranged in the center of the room. The rest of the group followed, helping him tip them over and haul them into place, papers flying everywhere, coffee cups shattering on the concrete flooring, the noise barely audible over the blaring alert klaxon.

  “Corporal, help me with this.” Sam motioned Corporal Cassas to join him.

  She turned from where she was helping set up a barricade and ran over to Sam, her long black ponytail flying behind her. Beyond the sealed doors, a few more rifle shots rang out, their sound muffled by the heavy steel.

  Sam took one end of a large crate filled with magazines and infantry helmets, waited for Cassas to grab the other.

  He glanced to his right, toward the radio operator’s station, set in the middle of the huge line of control consoles and computer screens running the length of the back wall, facing the door. The colonel was leaning over Gram, yelling into the handset.

  “God damn you,” he was saying. “We need support now! We’ve been attacked by an unknown number of enemy soldiers.”

  Sam tuned out Neville’s voice, lifted the crate with Cassas, and lugged it to behind the barricade that the other soldiers had set up. Hands dug into it, pulling out stacks of magazines. Sam took out a helmet and pulled it onto his head. Something banged against the door, and sweat beaded on Sam’s forehead.

  They’re trying to ram their way in.

  “The Verdun is pulling out.” Neville’s voice sounded high, on the verge of panic. “They’ve been attacked as well.”

  Sam looked over at Neville, who was staring into space, his face ashen. “Sir, what about our ground forces?”

  Neville looked up, his eyes distant. “They’re still at the barracks.”

  Sam took a step toward Neville, trying to jar him out of his dazed state. “What are your orders, sir?”

  “My orders?” Neville shook his head. “Evacuate. Alpha Blue.”

  Sam waited for Neville to address the group, but the colonel just stood there, looking dazed, silent. Sam wanted to smack the man across the face. He didn’t have time for this. He turned around and faced the rest of the group.

  “The fort is compromised. We need to make it unusable to them. Lock out main systems, break anything we can get our hands on, then we need to get out of here. As command staff, we know too much about the fort’s systems, and we’d be a liability if captured. We either escape, or we die trying — take our own lives, if necessary. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” The defiant reply came back as something banged against the door again. The soldiers tucked themselves in behind the barricade, slapping magazines into their rifles.

  Sam turned to Cassas, who looked at him through bright brown eyes. She’d recently been assigned here, the newest member of the command center team, and every time Sam saw her, he felt for a moment like he’d slipped into a high school classroom. So damn young. Too young to die.

  He would not let that happen.

  “The silo launch keys, get them!” Sam handed his ID card to Cassas.

  Cassas took the card in hand, nodded, and ran to a control console set into the wall on the right side of the room, sliding the card into a small terminal. Sam jogged to the silo launch controls, just to the left of the radio station, and faced the huge bank of buttons and switches. The chairs where they had all been sitting and working only minutes before were tipped over or pulled out and facing in odd directions. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Neville sink into one.

  Sam focused on punching in the buttons to bring up the silo launch interface. The computer screen in front of him flickered on, displaying the status of the missiles. There were more than twenty still available and ready to fire from the mountain silo. Air hissed through Sam’s teeth. He’d been well acquainted with missiles like this when he’d done a tour near the Milipa border. A solid hit from one of them could knock a capital ship out of space. Sam accessed the security programming, typed in the code to access the lockdown protocols.

  “Captain!” Cassas’ voice called out from behind him.

  Sam turned, saw Cassas tossing a ring of keys toward him. He caught it, then rifled through the keys to find the right one. He worked it off the key ring, inserted it into the port next to the control pad, and turned it to the right. The computer screen flashed blue, then went red, the words SYSTEM LOCK appearing on it.

  “What else, sir?” Cassas was at Sam’s side, holding out his ID card.

  “I’ll get the radio. Take Gram and open up that access panel,” Sam pointed to a massive metal hatch set into the left side of the room.

  Sam took the card and searched for another key. He found it, took it off the ring, and handed the key ring to Cassas. Sergeant Gram, a tall, skinny man with red hair, stood up and followed Cassas over to the access hatch.

  Sam turned back to the control panel, pulled out the key, then walked past Neville to the radio station. Another bang came at the door, followed by muffled shouting. Sam picked up the handset, and flipped a switch to turn on the PA system.

  “All remaining Army personnel, we are code Alpha blue, Alpha blue.” He heard his own voice reverberating around the fort, put the handset on top of the radio booth. He hoped to God everyone still remembered what that meant. Under Neville, running drills had never been prioritized. Alpha blue meant the fort was hopelessly overrun. Any remaining personnel — at this point Sam guessed some of the turret crews and maintenance groups were probably still free — were to sabotage their stations and then secure the entrance to the fort on the bottom level, allowing the top members of the command crew with strategic knowledge to escape. If they were able, they were to then hold on to as much of the fort as possible until reinforcements could arrive.

  Sam turned to the radio’s computer terminal, brought up the files containing its decryption algorithms. The Alliance military used only certain encrypted radio channels. Without a computer and the proper algorithms, they were impossible to monitor without a skilled code breaker and specialized equipment. Sam typed in the command to purge the system, and then inserted the key into the hole beside the computer. The screen flashed, then went blank. Sam removed his key, stepped back, and pulled his rifle off his shoulder. He slammed the butt of the weapon down, smashing the computer, the radio station, the controls.

  Satisfied, he ran over to Cassas and Gram, who were heaving open the back access hatch. He stopped in his tracks and listened to the sounds at the door. The bangs were gone, replaced by shouts and light taps.

  They’re placing charges!

  Sam doubled his pace, reaching the small antechamber just as the two soldiers pulled the door fully open. He looked inside, his eyes running over the small ha
tch on the floor and the set of switches and keyholes built into the wall. He took the keys back from Cassas, found the right one, and inserted it into the seventh keyhole from the left. He turned it to the left, flicked down the switch controlling the power to the control console, then turned the key to the right twice, locking the system. He withdrew the key, and looked to his right. The screens were flickering off one by one, the glow of the controls and screens fading.

  Good. Just about everything.

  BOOM. The room shook and a thunderclap rent the air. Sam realized he was on the ground, pulled himself to his feet, taking his rifle off his back and pointing it at the door. The door was bent inward, warped, smoke billowing from cracks in the cement and steel around it. Sam lowered his rifle, realizing that the door had held. It couldn’t handle another blast. It was a damn tough fort. Under better leadership…

  Sam put his rifle on his back again and helped Cassas and Gram to their feet. He then turned to face the soldiers crouched behind the barricade.

  “ID cards.” Sam coughed as the smoke filled the air. “Give them to me!”

  The soldiers dug in their pockets, pulled out their cards, and held them out. Sam ran from person to person, then looked for Neville. He spotted him, still sitting in the chair. Sam dashed over to Neville, who dug his card out of his front pocket and offered it to him.

  “Cassas, grab me a trash can. Gram, get me one of the emergency flares.”

  Sam double-checked the ID cards, made sure he had them all, and added his own to the stack. Cassas appeared a second later with a metal trash can, Gram behind her with a red flare, normally used to mark hallways when power was out. Cassas set down the can, and dropped the cards in it. Sam turned to Gram, took the flare, and pulled the tab from its top. It spit and hissed as it ignited, washing out the room’s pale fluorescent lighting with a red glow. Sam stuck the burning end of the flare into the can, coughed as the acrid smell of burning plastic wafted up at him. When the cards had been reduced to a pile of black slag, Sam dropped the flare into the can and turned to face everyone in the room.

  “It’s time to go—”

  Another jarring explosion interrupted him. The lights flickered, and Sam heard someone scream. He looked toward the door, saw a gaping hole, the door hanging to one side. Bits of concrete covered the floor. Sam turned to Neville, who had pulled a pistol from somewhere. Neville pointed the weapon toward the door and fired a few shots into the smoke.

  “Let’s get you out of here, sir.”

  Sam grabbed Neville around the shoulder and hauled him to his feet, just as rifle fire exploded behind him. He turned, saw Sergeant Brécourt and the others mowing down several attackers as they rushed into the room, Cassas and Gram firing as well from near the back access hatch. Bullets thwacked into the dark command console, shattering one of the screens.

  Sam pulled Neville low, then dashed across the room to join Cassas and Gram. He left Neville beside the two soldiers, then turned to the hatch set into the floor. He cranked the hatch open, revealing a dark, vertical tunnel, a ladder set into its side. The emergency escape to the cisterns.

  “Take him! Sam shouted to the Cassas and Gram, pointing at the colonel. They slung their rifles on their backs and grabbed Neville, pushing him down onto the ladder. Neville started climbing down, and Cassas and Gram followed a second later. Sam looked over at the barricade. The bodies of enemy soldiers were piling up in the doorway. Bunched up as they tried to enter the room, they made easy targets.

  Sam waved to catch the soldiers’ attention. “Let’s move out of here!”

  Brécourt nodded, and Sam could see him turn to four of the soldiers, his mouth moving, the sound of his shout lost over the crack of rifles. Four of the soldiers — Fletcher, Gosse, Becker, and Maher — moved from the barricade and over to Sam, filing one by one down the escape hatch. A bullet struck into the wall nearby, and concrete fragments were blasted in all directions, grazing the back of Sam’s hand and stinging his face.

  “You too!” Sam called out, waving at Brécourt and the five remaining soldiers — Wang, Queen, Heysen, Banks, Schmidt. Brécourt met Sam’s eyes, held them, and shook his head.

  Sam winced as another bullet struck nearby, realization hitting him like a fist. Brécourt and the others were going to buy time for them to escape.

  “You son of a bitch!” Sam shouted at the top of his lungs. He couldn’t just leave them there. He had to leave them there.

  Brécourt saluted, then turned back to his rifle, shooting down two more attackers as they crossed the threshold.

  Sam looked at the soldiers at the barricade, and saluted back. Then he slipped into the tunnel, closed the hatch above him, and climbed downward in the darkness.

  Sergeant Brécourt watched as Private Heysen crawled over to the back access hatch, locked it, then came back to the barricade. They’d need to hold out as long as they could, though at the rate ammunition was disappearing from the crate, their stand would be brief.

  Brécourt aimed his rifle around the side of the table, dropping two enemies as they charged through the door. Every shot had to count. Bullets whistled through the doorway from outside, where Brécourt could make out the forms of enemy troops popping out from around the corner, firing, and then running back into cover.

  There have to be hundreds of them.

  Already the bodies of the attackers covered the floor, a couple feet thick in the doorway. As fast as new waves of enemy troops rushed in, Brécourt and his troops shot them in their tracks. It felt like hours dragged on as the firefight continued. Brécourt saw Private Schmidt pop up to fire to his left, then jerk and fall to the ground, a huge hole blasted out the back of his helmet. Brécourt ignored the tight feeling in his throat, reached over, and pulled the magazine out of Schmidt’s rifle. The other soldiers were still firing, doing their best to not look at Schmidt. Before today, these men and women had been desk officers, requisitions personnel. But they were going to die like soldiers.

  Brécourt fired again, shooting through one enemy and into the man behind him. He felt his bolt lock to the rear, dropped his magazine with a clatter, and slapped Schmidt’s magazine into the gun. Releasing the bolt, he found more targets, shooting them each in turn.

  “I’m out!” Queen shouted, ducking behind the barricade and looking over at Brécourt.

  “Me too!” Heysen set his rifle on the ground.

  Brécourt pointed into the crate. “Grab some grenades. Keep fighting!”

  Queen and Heysen each grabbed one of the twenty or so round grenades, pulled their pins, and threw them out into the corridor. Brécourt ducked behind the barricade as they exploded outside. He heard screams from the corridor beyond.

  They must be bunched up tight out there.

  More enemies charged through the doorway, splattered with blood, their eyes white with fury. Almost mechanically, Brécourt, Wang, and Banks cut them down with rifle fire, before Queen and Heysen tossed grenades into the corridor beyond. All too quickly, the pile of grenades dwindled, until Brécourt saw Heysen and Queen reaching for the last three grenades.

  “Leave those,” Brécourt said. He saw comprehension dawning on the young soldiers’ faces, the grim determination in their set mouths.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Banks fired over the barricade, then tucked back behind it, setting the rifle on the ground. A second later, Wang looked over at Brécourt, his voice calm despite the tears on his cheeks.

  “I’m out, too.”

  Brécourt, turned, shot two attackers clambering over the mound of bodies into the room, felt his bolt lock back. Numbly, he met the eyes of the others.

  “Fix your bayonets.”

  The soldiers reached into the crate, pulled out the bayonets, unsheathed them from their dented scabbards, and fit them onto their rifles. Brécourt reached in, took the last three grenades, and shoved them into a pouch on his belt.

  Three enemies were rushing the barricade, firing wildly. With a scream, the soldiers stood a
nd met them with cold steel. Brécourt saw Heysen fall, shot through the chest. He lunged forward, caught the attacker beneath the chin with his blade, felt the man’s neck snap as he twisted the bayonet and withdrew it, then turned to see Queen and Wang showering the other attacker with strikes from their rifle butts. Banks was on the ground next to them, clutching a wound on his arm. There was a clinking noise, and Brécourt saw a small, round object land next to Queen.

  “Grenade!” Brécourt dove back behind the barricade, but he was too late. The very air exploded, and a wave of heat and pain washed over him. Brécourt shook his head where he lay, gathering his senses. He looked around, tried to find Queen, Wang, and Banks, saw what was left of them draped over the barricade like broken rag dolls. He heard footsteps, and tried to crawl. Pain shot through his legs. He looked over his shoulder, saw shards of shrapnel sticking from his calves, and a dozen enemies creeping into the room. He turned onto his back, tearing the grenade pouch from his belt. Black spots danced against his vision, but he willed himself to stay conscious. He pulled one of the grenades from the pouch and held it and the pouch together in his hands.

  The enemies spotted, him, moved toward him. One of them was saying something about taking him to a Supervisor.

  You don’t have me yet!

  Brécourt smiled, and pulled the pin.

  Sam stepped onto the narrow walkway that ran around the edge of the enormous cistern, felt the ground vibrate gently, a distant boom carrying from above. He looked up the dark ladder, pushed aside the emotions in his chest. They still had a long way to go.

  “What the hell is the plan?” Neville had regained his voice, which echoed off the damp concrete walls.

  Sam ignored him, pointed at Private Fletcher. “Move us out.”