Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  Dale gasped and looked around wide-eyed. “Ammo’s coming, ammo’s coming!” He blinked, seemed to realize he wasn’t under attack, then flushed red.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” He looked at the ground.

  Christine fought the urge to laugh, keeping her face serious. “I suggest you two find a way to stay alert. Tic-tac-toe or something.”

  The two soldiers nodded, blinking hard. At least they wouldn’t have to wait long until they could trade places with the napping soldiers and have a break. As a matter of fact, she wouldn’t mind one herself. Christine suppressed a yawn, squinting through the foliage toward the sky. The sun was beating down again, its heat made all the worse by all the moisture in the air. The smell of warm, wet wood filled Christine’s nose as she took a deep breath, trying to keep herself alert.

  “Lieutenant, they’re waving for you.” Lloyd’s voice shook Christine out of her stupor. She turned, saw Major Osterman motioning for her from just outside the hatch to the bunker. She listened carefully for the sound of the fighters — they’d passed by again a half hour ago — before stepping out into the clearing. It was a walk of about one hundred yards to the bunker over cleared ground. Before this mess, the rangers had carefully kept the summit around each bunker clear. At last the damn thing was being used now and that work was paying off.

  As she neared the bunker, her sight line cleared the top of the trees. She could see other bunkers dotting the nearby hills. If only they were garrisoned! Designed to support each other with gunfire, they’d form a formidable boundary to whatever force was attacking them. Then again, if Kensington were fully garrisoned, Christine doubted that the enemy would have even been able to reach the fort, let alone attack it.

  Christine looked ahead to the bunker door, set into an alcove on the side of the structure and covered by a machine gun port.

  “We’re about to get started.” Osterman gestured for Christine to enter.

  Christine stepped inside, blinking at the sudden lack of light. The interior of the bunker was the same as when her platoon had last serviced it a few months ago. A polygonal concrete room with a steep spiral staircase in its center that lead to the observation dome. Eight gunnery alcoves were spaced evenly around the room, each with a pair of marines standing guard next to their squad support light machine guns. Not as good as the heavy machine guns that would have been installed there during Kensington’s prime, but they’d do. In the floor was an open metal hatch, a concrete staircase leading to the lower levels, which Christine knew housed a few barracks rooms, supply vaults with food and ammunition, a lavatory, a kitchen, a water cistern, a compact generator, a radio and basic computer workstation, as well as a small infirmary. The air smelled stale, heavy with the odor of moist, crumbling concrete and moss. At least it was cooler inside.

  Christine walked to the hatch to the lower level, Osterman a pace or two behind her. She stepped down the long, narrow staircase, her footsteps echoing slightly, then turned right when she reached a narrow landing. She flattened herself against the wall to let a marine private walk by, the corridor too narrow to let two walk abreast. At the end of the corridor were a few supply vaults and an open door leading into the radio room. She walked to the doorway and stopped, looking inside. Wilcox stood next to a small steel table, the other officers clustered around him. Squires, Garrett, Rankin, Mahoney, and Ames were there, next to the three marine lieutenants, Arnot, Colion, and Perez. Flores raised her chin and walked inside, meeting Wilcox’s eyes.

  “Let’s get started.” Wilcox held Flores’ gaze for a moment before he looked toward the others. “How are your units coming along? Do you have everything you need?”

  “Our MGs expended a lot of ammo during the fight.” Mahoney, a petite, green-eyed woman with blond hair drawn into a bun behind her head, spoke up. “We’ll need to re-stock.”

  “We’ll open up the ammo lockers and see what we’ve got.” Wilcox looked past Christine’s shoulder. “Major, that’s your responsibility.”

  “Aye, sir.” Osterman’s voice sounded from behind Christine.

  “Anyone else?” Wilcox’s eyebrows raised slightly as he looked from face to face. Other than Squires coughing in the moldy air, no one spoke. Christine shook her head, fighting the jagged edges of her fatigue.

  “We’ve got a big problem in front of us,” Wilcox said.

  No shit.

  Christine could guess that.

  “The fort has remained off the radio. If we had any doubt about whether it’s been taken, I think we can lay that to rest. The Verdun is gone. We’ve tried sending encoded radio pulses, but we’ve received no response. The range of this bunker’s communications set is limited, and probably doesn’t extend outside a low orbit. Either the Verdun is outside our range or… unable to respond.” Wilcox’s jaw tightened when he spoke of his ship.

  Christine couldn’t blame him. If her platoon were somewhere she didn’t know about and possibly in danger, it would affect her, too.

  “From my point of view, we have two objectives,” Wilcox continued. “First, we need to determine the size and disposition of the enemy’s force, and second, we need to re-take the fort as quickly as possible, while the enemy is off balance.”

  Christine’s pulse kicked up a notch, all fatigue fleeing her body. She knew what the fort’s defenses were. If the enemy garrisoned it even halfway properly, it would be one hell of a tough nut to crack.

  Garrett stepped forward. “Sir, hadn’t we better stay and hold out here and wait until the next ship comes for maintenance?”

  Wilcox shook his head. “That could be weeks.”

  “Three weeks,” Flores added, picturing the docking schedule in her mind. She’d always kept it memorized so she could plan her platoon’s patrols accordingly. After the Barracuda, there wasn’t another ship due until the Leclerc, a cruiser that passed by every three months to replenish its air reserves and take on supplies.

  “Three weeks.” Wilcox nodded. “In that time, there’s no telling how many more warships the enemy could bring here, each with additional reinforcements. Based on the numbers we saw at the barracks, it’s clear that they’ve been amassing forces for some time. They wouldn’t leave the majority of their people to deal with us and then send a handful to take the fort, so we have to assume that most of their force is still intact. The force at the barracks was just a rearguard to tie us down while the main body attacked the fort.”

  A mutter passed around the room.

  Most of the force still intact?

  That could be thousands, if the six hundred at the barracks had really just been a distraction.

  “How do you suggest we attack the fort, sir?” Lieutenant Arnot’s face showed more than a little apprehension.

  “The usual way, Lieutenant. Frontal assault, but with a twist.”

  What the hell does that mean?

  Christine could not believe what she was hearing. A frontal assault against that fort could only end one way — a massacre. She was about to shoot a reply at Wilcox when he pulled a small data pad from his breast pocket.

  “I’ve….” Wilcox seemed to struggle for a second. “After our last engagement, I’ve taken some inspiration from the official ranger field manual.” Wilcox placed the pad down on the table.

  Christine bit her lip, grateful she hadn’t said anything. He’d stopped short of admitting a mistake — and how could he, if he wanted to maintain the respect of the other officers? — but the gesture surprised her anyway. No, she decided, he was no Neville.

  “I’ve studied the topographical maps of the area.” Wilcox pointed at rolls of maps on the table. “There is a ravine that runs on the fort’s south side. If we stick to it, we can get within two hundred yards of the fort undetected. If we use the cover of night to our advantage, we may be able to get under the fort’s machine guns undetected. I think it’s safe to assume these people are not yet completely familiar with the fort, and we won’t be able to expect the best defense from them.”

 
; Christine shook her head. Wilcox had a point, but she didn’t like the plan all the same. It meant exposing themselves, and they just didn’t have the numbers to pull it off. If the machine guns saw them… She’d be surprised if any of them made it to the ditch, and then there were the counterscarp bunkers to contend with. But the plan was better than she’d expected. Clearly Wilcox had taken his reading seriously. Using the ravine was straight-up ranger.

  She’d watched Ryan give critical feedback to his students once, and Christine tried to remember just how he’d expressed himself, the mix of praise and criticism, delivered with a warm smile.

  “Sir?” Christine cleared her throat.

  Wilcox looked at her, frowning slightly, clearly expecting a fight. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “I think this is a decent plan.” Christine spoke slowly, trying to copy Ryan’s upbeat intonation. “But I think there are ways we could improve it also.”

  Wilcox blinked, taken aback. He glanced over Christine’s shoulder at Osterman, then back to Christine, his face relaxing. “Let’s hear it.”

  Jack studied Lieutenant Flores’ face as she leaned over the map, explaining her strategy. It wasn’t what he would have thought of, but he liked it anyway. At least Flores seemed to have stopped seeing him as the enemy. She wore a slightly scrunched expression, as if what she was doing was very difficult for her. Politeness had not been her forte, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless.

  “I think if we try to attack the fort right off, we’ll get cut up pretty bad,” Flores was saying, looking Jack in the eye.

  The other ranger officers around the room nodded.

  “Even if we can slip in under the turrets?” Lieutenant Colion raised his eyebrows, clearly skeptical.

  “That’s a big if.” Squires stepped beside Flores, pointing at the block shape on the map representing the fort. “And we’d have the counterscarp bunkers to deal with. If we got past those, we’d be fighting a huge garrison in the corridors of the fort. Anyone here ever deal with a fort of this design?”

  Lieutenant Arnot raised his hand, as did Major Osterman, who nodded. “A big ‘if,’ to be sure, Lieutenant. But how you can assume they will be manning the fort properly?”

  Flores straightened up, turning her head to the side to direct her voice toward Osterman, who was standing behind her. “I think if they managed to take the fort, it’s ‘cause the garrison were sitting on their thumbs. Even with a small garrison, if the fort was properly manned, they’d be able to cut up any attackers, especially untrained ones. They won’t make the same mistake that let them get the fort.”

  Jack shook his head. “Just because the fort was taken does not mean the garrison acted incompetently. There could have been other factors at play. They may have been overwhelmed.”

  “I know the defenses there. And the fort hasn’t been run well in a while, sir.” Flores crossed her arms. “Under Nev—”

  “I see your point.” Jack interrupted.

  He hadn’t much liked Neville either, but he wasn’t going to allow any officer to be insulted at the meeting, even a foolish one. A low snicker ran throughout the room. Apparently, Neville’s command was unpopular with more than just Flores.

  “What is your plan, then?” Lieutenant Arnot looked at Flores.

  “I think we should attempt to draw them out a bit at a time instead of striking where they live. We can weaken their garrison enough that when we do attack the fort eventually, we’ll have a better chance of taking it. At least we may not be as badly outnumbered anymore.”

  Jack frowned, thinking back to what he’d read about the fort, a glaring problem presenting itself in his head. “There’s one thing you’re forgetting, Lieutenant. The silos. So long as they have them, they can control the skies and repel whatever task force eventually comes here. Getting those silos is our number one priority—”

  “Before the next Alliance ship arrives, yes, sir.” Flores finished Jack’s sentence. “But we already agreed that could be weeks.”

  “It’s possible the garrison managed to lock the silos.” Lieutenant Rankin spoke up from Jack’s left.

  “We’re betting the garrison dropped the ball, remember?” Squires grinned in spite of the grim topic.

  “But what about the Verdun?” Lieutenant Perez’s voice cracked slightly as he pronounced the ship’s name. No doubt he was as worried as Jack was. “They could still be out there.”

  “If they’re as smart as your Captain Morden seemed, they’ve high-tailed it to get reinforcements. If they couldn’t make it out of the system, well…” Flores trailed off, looking at the floor.

  Jack wouldn’t accept that possibility, couldn’t accept it. The Verdun would come. They just needed to give her time.

  “We have the advantage in the wilderness,” Flores continued. “We draw them out and take them down. In a few days or weeks when we’ve softened up the garrison sufficiently, we can strike the fort with a greater chance of actually taking the damn thing.”

  Jack realized that all eyes were on him. He cleared his throat. “It’s taking some risks. We could end up wasting enough of our strength that an attack on the fort is not possible, and there’s no guarantee that the enemy won’t continually reinforce their numbers. However…” Jack met Osterman’s eyes. Osterman nodded ever so slightly. “I think it’s less of a risk than attacking that fort straight off,” Jack finished.

  “I’d say we have a plan.” Osterman smiled. “How will we break up our force to pull this off?”

  Jack pondered for a second, thinking back to the ranger manual. “I think we’ll devote our four ranger rifle platoons to staging the ambushes. Marines will stay here with the ranger artillery and heavy weapons sections and keep the home fires burning.”

  Rangers were better suited to the wilderness fighting anyway, while the marines would do as well as any at defending a fixed position.

  Jack met Flores’ eyes again. “Lieutenant, please prepare your plan and submit it to me in an hour. As the senior ranger officer, I’m counting on you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Flores’ mouth tugged slightly at the corners. Was there a smile in there?

  “Anything else?” Jack looked at the other officers, who shook their heads or stared into space. “Very well. Dismissed!”

  As the rest of the officers filed from the room, Jack met Osterman’s eyes.

  Osterman broke into that damn disarming grin of his. “See? What did I—”

  “That’s enough from you.” Jack fought back a grin. “Get to work on re-supplying those units.”

  “Yes, sir!” Osterman turned and walked from the room, Jack staring after him.

  Maybe this situation wasn’t going to be so bad after all. So long as the Verdun could return soon… Jack’s mind leapt to the faces of everyone he knew on his ship. He looked out into the corridor, making sure he was alone, then sat down, putting his head in his hands.

  No, this was as bad as it could get.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Why the hell are you smiling?” Tom wanted to pick up his rifle and throw it into the Supervisor’s face. He’d just spent ten minutes explaining the situation, but the man seemed completely uninterested, his legs propped up on the desk of the fort’s previous commander — a name plaque said COL. R. NEVILLE — an infuriating smile on his face.

  “My dear Tom!” The Supervisor shook his head. “When will you learn to not concern yourself with the little things?”

  Little things?

  Tom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Even with the fort’s meager garrison caught off guard, they’d still lost more than two hundred warriors before all the defenders’ barricades had been overrun. Supervisor Brack had failed to seize the battlecruiser. The forces at the northern sea, where they had staged their warships, weren’t any closer to cracking the AI on the Barracuda, despite having tortured a handful of the ship’s crew. Worse still, the Alliance force that had attacked the barracks had slipped into the woods and disappeared. Even patrolling
fighters were unable to spot troop movements through the dense forest canopy, though it didn’t matter now that the Supervisor had ordered them to join the fleet in orbit.

  The fort’s radio set was damaged, and its decryption computer destroyed, forcing them to use one of their own weaker, mobile radios. Even once the fort’s communications equipment was back in order, they wouldn’t be able listen in on the Alliance’s encrypted channels. The silos had been completely locked out, and their attempts to crack the code had failed. Even torture wouldn’t help — which relieved Tom, to be honest — since none of the surviving soldiers had had access to the system or sufficient clearance to open it up. Half the fort’s command staff had managed to escape during the battle, while the other half had severely damaged the command center by blowing themselves up. To add insult to injury, the reinforcements they’d been expecting were late. While Tom had made some of his people who came from construction trades draw up plans for a series of special barricades to defend the fort’s corridors, he feared they wouldn’t be of much use if the Alliance arrived in force.

  Tom took a deep breath, tried to remember that the man in front of him was a servant of the movement and thus a brother, no matter how foolish he seemed.

  “Supervisor,” Tom began, keeping his voice even, “there could be a military expedition on their way here. If the battlecruiser escaped—”

  “Uh-uh!” The Supervisor wagged his finger, interrupting Tom. “Brack said they damaged the ship’s engines. At sub-light, it would take them years to get anywhere.”

  “Until they repair their engines.” Tom crossed his arms, giving his hands something to do other than slapping the Supervisor, which is what he wanted to do.

  “And before they get a chance, our ships will find them and either destroy them or seize their vessel.” The Supervisor put a simpering, pitying expression on his face. “You work yourself up over nothing. Relax. It’s all going well.”