Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  “Tell me that was my dehydration playing tricks on me.” Squires greeted them as they reached the trail.

  “Sorry, Nate, but your mind’s working fine,” Flores said.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Garrett hissed.

  Osterman spoke up. “We need to pick the pace up here.”

  “I don’t want us still moving when it’s bright out,” Jack added, taking a step forward.

  Flores nodded. “Then I suggest we take this stuff off.” Flores pointed to her body armor. “It slows you down.”

  Jack shifted a little on the spot. “And if we’re caught in an ambush?”

  “We won’t be, so long as we follow ranger protocol.” The challenge in Flores’ voice was obvious.

  Jack didn’t want to give her a chance to disrespect the chain of command again, but she had a point. Moving in rough terrain in this armor was like trying to run a marathon in a straitjacket. “Agreed. But make it quick.”

  “Aye, sir.” Flores ran off back toward the front of the line, Arnot and Garrett in tow. A collective sigh of relief passed among the troops, no doubt getting the word that they would be hiking without armor now.

  Jack dropped to one knee, set his rifle down, and slipped his backpack off. He carefully unclasped the fasteners that held his cuirass together on either side of his body, and slipped it off. Beside him, Osterman was doing the same. Jack watched how Osterman strapped his armor and helmet to the outside of his backpack, then copied him.

  “You seem to be quite comfortable in this kind of setting, Major.” Jack gave the strap on his pack one last, firm tug, the armor clanking softly.

  “My unit served with a ranger company when I was a lieutenant,” Osterman said, standing up and wincing. “You learn a few tricks like that in the field.”

  Jack stood and slung his rifle back over his shoulder, flinching slightly as his pack pressed the freezing, sweat-soaked cloth of his uniform shirt, no longer insulated by the armor, against his skin. It was much more comfortable without the armor, cold sweat notwithstanding.

  After a few minutes, they were hiking again, their increased pace more than making up for the time they’d taken to remove their armor. The trail stayed at a mellow grade before climbing slightly and curving around the shoulder of the ridge. It dropped down and through another ravine before gaining a steep hillside, the sounds of the fort’s artillery fading behind them. This one was at least completely dry at the bottom. Jack could do without the mud, thank you. He peered above him, the dark form of what looked like a concrete bunker silhouetted against the brightening sky.

  The rumble of fighters faded into hearing, and the troops scrambled for cover. Jack crouched under a tall, dense bush next to a ranger private he didn’t know, watching the sky. The dark shapes cruised low over the treetops, the warm burst of air from their engines blowing through the foliage. Jack covered his eyes with his hand, blocking the spray of dirt and small twigs from the ground, the smell of leaves and rain-damp earth joining the scent of burnt fuel. Jack saw the soldier next to him fidgeting with the rocket launcher on his back, almost wished he could give the order to fire. But then the fighters moved off, the sound of their engines fading into the sky.

  The troops picked themselves up and continued hiking toward the top. The trail curved around the hill in an undulating spiral, but Jack sent the order up the line to leave the designated path and hike straight up the hillside. Faster, more direct, but one hell of a climb. The steep rocky slope was strewn with some kind of plant that thrust its long barbs up from the ground in tufts.

  “Ouch!” Jack bit back stronger words as one of the barbs went right through his right trouser leg, just above the gaiter.

  “Those suck the big one,” Squires whispered from Jack’s left.

  When they finally reached the edge of the trees just before the cleared area around the bunker, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. The bunker didn’t look like much, its grey concrete spotted with greenish clumps of moss and washed with streaks of black from the rain. The steel observation dome at its top was colored red with the patina of age. Regardless of how the bunker might look, Jack knew from reading the schematics that it had enough facilities below ground to support and supply up to two hundred soldiers. With more than four hundred bodies under his command, it would be a tight fit, but at least there was probably something in there to sit on. Its gun ports were like dark eye sockets, the warm breeze whistling past them. The temperature was rising quickly as the sun peeked above the eastern horizon, the air heavy and damp.

  Jack took a step forward into the clearing, but Squires put a hand out, stopping him.

  “You’re visible from any of the nearby bunkers, if someone’s watching with a spotting scope. We have to wait until dark.” Squires dropped his hand out of Jack’s way, clearly feeling like the matter was settled.

  Down the line, the rangers were setting up where they were, and the marines, looking slightly confused, were copying them. Jack saw a few of the stretchers being set down, the wounded men and women on them groaning softly as they came to rest on the ground.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough,” Jack said, looking Squires dead in the eye. “I want the wounded moved inside the bunker with the medical personnel. I want them out of this heat.”

  Squires stared at Jack for a second. “Yes, sir,” he finally said, turning to the nearby stretcher-bearers and issuing orders.

  “Major,” Jack turned to Osterman. “I’m placing you in charge of getting the bunker squared away. Lieutenants Flores and Arnot will be in command of placing fortifications here. We may be here for a while.”

  Osterman nodded. “Yes, sir.” He walked off to find Flores and Arnot.

  “We’re ready, sir.” Squires’ voice caused Jack to look around.

  The sixteen stretchers were in hand again.

  Jack listened for a moment for any fighters. Hearing none, he nodded at Squires, who led the train of stretchers out into the clearing and up the hill, the marine and ranger field medics in tow. They were just about at the bunker when Jack heard the sound of brush cracking to his left.

  “What the hell is going on?” Flores was striding toward him, her mouth pressed into a frown, Major Osterman a step behind her.

  “We’re moving the wounded into safer facilities.” Jack said, squaring himself to Flores.

  “You’re exposing our position.” Flores glared up at Jack, crossing her arms.

  “Possibly. But my guess is that they’re all over at the fort still. We need to take advantage of the time it takes them to reorganize to set up here.” Jack kept his voice even, but he felt his temper beginning to rise.

  “You don’t know that for sure. You’re making a mis—”

  “Lieutenant!” Jack cut Flores off, stepping toward her. “To be frank, I’ve put up with a lot from you. You may not like my orders, but you will follow them.”

  Osterman shifted uncomfortably behind Flores, and Jack thought he saw him nudge her slightly with his elbow.

  Flores raised her chin, keeping eye contact with Jack, her dark eyes glittering. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Prepare defensive positions around the area. Major Osterman,” Jack looked up at Osterman, whose face was set in hard lines. “Please see to the bunker. And I want both of you to pass on the word. All officers will meet in one hour for a briefing. Dismissed.”

  Flores saluted stiffly, then turned on her heels, Jack and Osterman watching her go.

  “I think you’ve got a problem you need to deal with,” Osterman said finally, a slight grin tugging at the hard line of his mouth.

  “I’m glad you agree.” Jack turned and walked up toward the bunker, where the stretcher bearers were filing inside one by one with their burdens.

  “I don’t think you understand.” Osterman’s voice held a steel edge.

  Jack felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, found Osterman’s face a few inches from his. “Major, what are you—”

  “You are the pro
blem, and you are going to deal with it right now.”

  Jack grit his teeth to control the anger that filled him, flushed his face hot. “Back off.”

  Osterman let go of Jack’s shoulder but stood his ground. “I don’t know what your problem is or what you think you’re doing, but you need to stop blowing off the advice of the ranger officers, and you need to stop now.”

  Jack stepped backward and pointed at Osterman’s chest. “You’re out of line, Gordon.”

  “We are in deep shit here.” Gordon continued almost as if he hadn’t heard Jack speak. “They know this terrain, they know this style of combat—”

  “And I’m just a desk jockey, is that it? If you don’t think I’m fit to command here, why don’t you and Flores start a club?”

  “There it is again,” Osterman said, his brow furrowing. “What is this shit about whether you should be in charge or not? No one is saying—”

  “Bullshit.” Jack spat the words under his breath and ignored the furtive glances of a pair of marines walking by. “You’ve been critical of me since the docks.”

  “This situation is over your head. You’re not an infantry officer, and you don’t have experience with ground combat. These people do, and so do I.” Osterman stuck his thumb over his shoulder, toward where the rangers were setting down equipment packs, unfolding entrenching tools.

  “See!” Jack held his arms out to either side, didn’t care who heard him anymore. “You don’t want me in command.”

  Osterman opened his mouth, but Jack cut him off, his throat tightening.

  “And I suppose you think Flores is right. I suppose you think I’m responsible for everyone we lost at the docks and at the barracks. Hell, just throw the Triangle in while we’re at it. I wasn’t there, I wasn’t doing my job, so people died. Just blame me for all of it.”

  “Do I, or do you?”

  Jack stammered, looked for words, couldn’t find them. “I… I don’t... I did the best …” He trailed off and stared at the ground.

  “I see,” Osterman murmured.

  For a while, neither of them spoke.

  Osterman cleared his throat. “I think Flores is way out of line in how she’s handling this. I don’t know what her issue is, but she needs to shape up or spend some time in a brig.”

  Jack met Osterman’s eyes, but said nothing.

  “But she has a point,” Osterman continued. “You need to stop acting like a man who has something to prove and start acting like a leader. We’re going to need a damn good one to get off this rock alive.”

  “And you’re going to help me with that, huh?” The words came out more sarcastic than Jack had intended them to.

  Osterman sighed. “Yes. And I expect Flores can too, if you can reach her. You’re a good officer, Jack. I’ve known you a long time. You made it through the war just fine, and I think you can get us out of this. But until we’re back on the Verdun, this is going to be a different kind of fighting, stuff you haven’t seen before. Learning about it from people who know will only help you make the right choice.”

  Jack shifted on the spot, not sure whether to be touched by what Osterman said or pissed off. “You think they’ll work with me?” Jack looked down toward the trees, saw Flores attacking the ground with her entrenching tool, her back to him. Jack snorted. “I’d be surprised if they forgive me for breaking their protocol.”

  Osterman shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. There’s only one person who needs to worry about forgiveness.”

  “And that is?”

  “You,” Osterman jabbed Jack in the middle of the chest. “For yourself. There’s an officer named Jack Wilcox that you’ve been blaming for things that aren’t his fault. Knock it off.”

  Jack shook his head, fought a sudden wave of emotion that stung his eyes, removed any trace of feeling from his voice. “If... if you say so, Major.”

  “I do.” Osterman shifted the weight of his pack, winced, then smiled. “Good. Glad we worked this out. This shit is getting old. Now, let’s get inside and find some water.”

  Osterman set off up the hill toward the bunker’s entrance, and Jack followed a few steps behind, his friend’s words still ringing through his mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Christine paced back and forth by the machine gunner’s nest, hands clasped behind her back, her thumb pressing tightly against her ring. She was not in the mood for some damn meeting, least of all with Lt. Commander Wilcox. The man just begged to have his ass handed to him, but, for reasons of rank, Christine wasn’t allowed to do that. She could deal with Osterman. Sure, sometimes he supported Wilcox, but he was a fighter, a jarhead at least. Wilcox was another one of these damn officers who’d spent too much time with their ass off the ground. She’d dealt with the colonel long enough. She wasn’t about to have some other idiot pull rank on her.

  Guilt tugged at Christine, but she pushed it away. So what if Wilcox had a point? She’d guessed that the enemy was still down at the fort herself, that they wouldn’t be observing the bunker just then. But when she’d seen those stretcher-bearers stepping into the open…

  “That temper of yours is a work in progress, babe.” Ryan’s words came back to her. She could see him lying on his side in bed, his grey eyes seeing right through her, his sandy hair tousled, the intensity of his gaze making her heart pound. The bastard! He always knew exactly what to say, knew how to tread the line between pissing her off and wooing her. He might as well quit being a teacher and become a tightrope walker.

  Under Ryan’s imagined gaze, Christine’s guilt intensified. Maybe she had reacted incorrectly. She’d seen Colonel Neville disregard her unit so many times, and to be fair, Wilcox’s orders had got them in trouble at the barracks. Incompetence cost lives.

  Christine thought of the troops she’d had to leave behind at the barracks, stacked in that building like fucking sacks of flour. She clenched her fists and tried to shake the image out of her mind — only for a worse one to replace it.

  Smoke. A burning house.

  Her breathing accelerated, her heart pounding, a bolt of panic searing through her. She paced left, then right, closed her eyes, shook her head again, and bent forward. She placed her hands on her knees, focused only on breathing.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  She stayed like that for a few minutes, then stood again, her mind clear. She wiped her eyes and hoped no one had seen her. No one but Néri and Squires would understand. Her thoughts returned to Wilcox. If the man was another Neville, she’d make damn sure she’d keep him in line.

  “But what if he isn’t?” Ryan’s voice played through her head again.

  She felt the press of her ring in her palm, took a deep breath. No, she didn’t trust Wilcox. He hadn’t earned that yet, and he’d set himself back in her eyes at the barracks. Did he even give a damn about Kensington? About any of the troops his error had cost them?

  She saw Wilcox standing next to Squires in her mind, pointing at the wounded soldiers sweating and groaning in the thick, humid air.

  “I want the wounded moved inside the bunker with the medical personnel. I want them out of this heat.”

  Guilt pried itself into Christine’s chest. When had Neville ever showed concern for his troops like that?

  She didn’t like how the answer made her feel.

  Wilcox may have given orders he wasn’t qualified to give, ignored the advice of people who knew how to fight on the ground. He may have been one of these arrogant desk officers who couldn’t see past his own fleur-de-lis. But another Neville?

  “Christine, you can’t blame everyone forever for what a few people did.” Ryan’s voice returned, and she saw him staring at her, an eyebrow raised.

  No, Wilcox was not Neville. Or at least she’d wait a bit to find out for sure. If she just shot off her mouth without thinking, she’d be the same as Neville, and she wouldn’t let that happen.

  “Thanks, Ryan,” she whispered.

  Christine shook the growing se
nse of guilt out of her mind and turned to survey the defenses the combined force had set up. They’d gathered downed branches and laid them in a deep pile circling the hill a hundred yards or so below their position. Anyone trying to assault their position would get tangled in it, though it was far too wispy to provide an enemy any cover if they tried to hide in it. Then they’d dug shallow scrapes, piled stones in front of them, and covered those with dirt to prevent bullets from blasting rock fragments at them. It was hard work, especially after a battle and an overnight hike, but the troops had got through it just fine, even faster than she expected. They’d spaced the heavy machine gunners out around the perimeter and on the flanks, then concentrated the mortars so they could fire toward the most likely avenue of attack, the ravine and the trail to the east. The pack howitzers had been left partially assembled. Should the Alliance troops need them, they could simply drag the carriages up into the empty gun pits next to the bunker and lock the barrel and recoil assembly into them.

  Now that the work was done, half the company was manning the line while others were laid out behind them, napping. They needed everyone at their best. If the enemy had managed to take the fort, they likely had a very large force at their disposal. Perhaps not the best trained, based on what she’d seen at the barracks, but strength of numbers was sometimes enough. Only by putting every factor they could control in their favor could the Alliance force hope for a victory. And that certainly wasn’t going to happen if everyone nodded off, like the private next to Christine was doing.

  Christine nudged the woman in the side with her boot. “No time for that, now.”

  The private — Lloyd — shook her head and sat up straight, taking hold of the spade grips of her machine gun.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Lloyd looked up at Christine, then over at her assistant gunner, who was also snoozing. “Wake up, Dale!” She slapped his helmet.