Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  As dumb a strategy as these mass charges were, they might actually pay off. At this rate, the Alliance troops would run out of ammunition sooner than they’d be able to kill or wound every enemy soldier. They needed bigger guns.

  Gordon bit his lip as he lined up another shot, fired. With all the small-arms fire in and around the valley, he could barely make out the sound of the shells from the pack howitzers flying overhead. They were still sending the occasional shell toward the fort every couple minutes, trying to add to the confusion of whatever garrison had been left there and help Wilcox and the others with their job. He hated doing anything that would jeopardize the attack on the fort. If that fort didn’t fall, if it kept shooting off its missiles…

  For all you know, the Verdun is already gone, jarhead.

  Gordon shuddered, dropping another opponent with a shot to the chest. He couldn’t use the artillery. Not yet.

  What do you think will happen to Wilcox’s team if these guys wipe you out and get back to the fort?

  Gordon didn’t get a chance to answer the question, a shout to his left interrupting his thoughts.

  “Reloading!”

  Gordon glanced at the machine gunner to his left, who was flipping open the weapon’s top cover while the assistant called for a new box of ammunition from the runner.

  “Keep them back! Pour it on!” Gordon pumped the trigger, sending shots into the bristling darkness, heard the rhythm of rifle shots from up and down the trench increase. With the machine gun out for a few seconds, the enemies were sure to make ground toward the Alliance position. The troops dug in on the sides of the valley were protected by the small cliffs that prevented the enemy from running up to them. The trench was the weak point in their defenses, and it wouldn’t take long before the enemy figured that out.

  Gordon felt the bolt of his rifle lock back, lowered it from his shoulder, and reached for a fresh magazine, but a raw shout snapped his attention back up in time to see a group of at least fifteen enemy troops rushing toward him, close enough now to see clearly in the darkness. Several of them fell to the fire of the rangers, but the rest pushed forward. In a few seconds, they’d be in the trench.

  Gordon felt out his ammunition pouch, found nothing, felt for another.

  “For fuck’s sake!” In one fluid motion, he dropped his rifle and tore his Colt from its holster, clicking off the safety. At this distance, there was no aiming. He emptied the magazine as quickly as he could point the weapon and pull the trigger. Each shot was a kill.

  Not good enough.

  Gordon stepped to the side as an attacker jumped into the trench beside him. He swung his pistol and cracked it across the back of the man’s head, pitching him forward. Gordon spun around in time to dodge a rifle butt swishing past his head. He let his opponent’s momentum carry him off balance and struck out with a kick to the man’s leg, tripping him. Gordon holstered his pistol as he ducked down and pulled the stunned man’s rifle from him. He punched the butt down into the back of his opponent’s neck once, twice. Gordon heard a snap, dropped to one knee, and racked the bolt on the enemy’s rifle, ready to shoot down any more of the attackers who’d made it into the trench.

  He saw Private Willard’s body leaned against the back of the trench as if taking a moment to rest, his hands laid over several jagged holes in his armor. Private Heinkel was lying still on his side, a knife sticking out of a gap in his breastplate. The rest of the rangers seemed to be faring better, shooting or beating down the last of the enemy troops who’d rushed them.

  The machine gun stuttered to life again, and Gordon let out a tense breath. The moment of vulnerability had passed — until the next reload.

  “Fix bayonets!” Gordon pulled the magazine out of his opponent’s rifle, dropped it, and recovered his own weapon. “Take whatever ammunition you can off the enemy.”

  Gordon repeated the command to fix bayonets into his headset, then dropped to one knee again to see to his own weapon.

  He loaded his rifle, then slid his bayonet out of its scabbard and fitted it to the end of the weapon. The next time those bastards made it to the trench, he’d be ready for them. But it would take more than a knife on the end of a rifle to keep him and his troops alive. Gordon nodded to himself, his decision made.

  He spat out the blood in his mouth, the quick motions of hand-to-hand fighting giving him a painful reminder of each and every one of his old wounds.

  No stopping now. Push it.

  Gordon jogged down the narrow trench, past the rangers who were once again firing their rifles into the oncoming enemy. Mortar shells were bursting among the attackers in the valley again, though at a slower pace than before.

  No doubt the mortars were starting to run low, too.

  Gordon spotted Corporal Li and his bulky radio pack ahead, hunched over slightly as an enemy grenade exploded in front of the trench. He reached Li and dropped to kneel, breathing hard and trying to massage his aching chest through his armor.

  “Corporal, get Ames on the line.”

  Li fired one more shot toward the enemy, then squatted down next to Gordon.

  “Aye, sir. What am I telling him?”

  “Instruct them to fire on the valley, known point zebra. Blast these bastards apart.”

  Li glanced over the lip of the trench, then looked back at Gordon, his eyes wide. “At this distance, sir? Any shell falling short will—”

  “Get them on the line, Corporal.”

  Li shook his head, but he unlatched the radio’s handset and began calling in fire coordinates.

  Gordon didn’t like the distance either, but—

  The sky lit up again as another missile sped upward, streaking fire behind it as it arced toward the burning debris falling from space, painting the northern sky with so many shooting stars.

  There was no other choice. They had to hold this valley until the team finished inside the fort. With any luck, that wouldn’t be long.

  “Son of a bitch!” Garrett’s voice cut through the roar of weapon’s fire. “They’re coming again!”

  Gordon stood up, saw the massive wave of people running toward the trench in the dying light of the rocket’s engines.

  Then again, any amount of time could be too late.

  You live or die here. Nothing else matters.

  Gordon sighted his rifle and fired.

  The wall of sound inside the fort was unreal. It assaulted Tom’s every sense, surrounded him, crushed him beneath it. Every gunshot, every scream was captured and amplified in this damn concrete maze the Alliance had built. If only he could just let the bastards have it.

  At least the enemy artillery had stopped pounding the fort. Though at this point, Tom doubted it mattered, and he’d take the muffled boom of the enemy’s shells over the roar of his rifles and machine guns.

  “Have you seen Smith? Have you seen the Supervisor?” Tom zigzagged through the barricades, squeezing past soldiers running the other way, toward the barricades on the opposite side of the command center and the main group of Alliance troops. Their faces were tight, closed, and Tom’s mind flashed to the lines of workers he’d seen outside the factories of home.

  You were supposed to save them. What have you done?

  Tom reached the end of the barricades and the corridor beyond. A pair of his troops was emerging from a nearby munitions storage closet, hauling a pair of ammunition cases between them.

  “Have you seen Smith?

  Without breaking his stride, one of the two men wordlessly stuck his thumb back over his shoulder. Tom pushed past the soldiers, ran down the corridor, and reached a staircase down to the lower level in time to see Smith reach the bottom and disappear out of sight.

  Tom bounded down the stairs, turned, and saw Smith running down the hallway toward a T-junction. Stacks of supplies and half-empty crates of ammunition were lined against one wall. The oppressive sound of fighting was echoing from down the hallway to the right. To the left was the corridor to the hanger.

 
“Supervisor!”

  Smith stopped in his tracks, spun on his heels.

  “Where are you going? Our people need you in the command center. They need you to be strong for them.”

  Smith looked over his shoulder in the direction he’d been running, looked back at Tom. He licked his lips, which then broke into a grin. The Supervisor stepped toward him, hands out to either side.

  “Tom! Thank goodness! There’s still time. Come with me. The Alliance has another force clearing this level.” The Supervisor spoke quickly, spouting out words almost faster than Tom could follow them. “We don’t have the barricades down here. Our force won’t last long. Don’t worry about your things. We’ll have quite enough supplies in our—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Tom’s words stopped the Supervisor in mid-stride, though the man’s greasy smile remained as wide as ever. He was silent for a moment as a set of troops ran past the two men and turned right at the end of the hall to join the defenses.

  Finally, Smith cleared his throat. “There’s no need for a man of your talent to die here, Tom. We have other battles to lead, other ways to help our movement.”

  Tom shook his head, a ringing that had nothing to do with the deafening noise filling his head.

  “You’re running away! Coward!” Tom spat the words at the man in front of him, wishing he could break every one of those perfectly white teeth.

  “Tom,” The Supervisor stepped forward again, his palms toward Tom in a gesture of surrender. “I know this fort has captured your attention, but there are more important things to do. Other fights to win. The Legion will be fine without this planet.”

  “You mean this — what did you call it — this great, strategic outpost? You yourself said—”

  “Tom, things have changed. It’s a new situation we’re in. I’m merely adapting to it.”

  Tom shook his head. It was so obvious now. The way the man had never taken any part of this mission seriously. Having that small tender brought to the fort for his private use. Tom slowly moved his hand toward the holster at his hip.

  “You never thought we would succeed here, did you?” Tom angled his pistol hip away from the Supervisor, fought to keep his voice even. “I don’t think you even wanted us to.”

  The Supervisor stopped again, and put his hands to his sides. Tom noticed one of them come to rest next to his bulging pant pocket.

  “Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom. Tom, you misunderstand me.”

  “Do I?” Tom took another step back, his muscles coiling, tensing. “Then why are you abandoning us?”

  “You take this too personally.” The Supervisor chuckled, his eyes darting between Tom’s face and holster. “I know you care about your people. Who knows, many of them will probably survive to be captured. But we’re not abandoning them. We’re saving ourselves for their sake. To make sure their sacrifice meant something.”

  “Save the bullshit, Smith, if that’s actually your name.” Tom’s finger ached to feel the trigger under it. He slowed his breathing, readied every nerve for action. “Why are you here, and who do you work for, really?”

  The Supervisor’s smile dissolved.

  They drew and fired at the same time. A bullet whistled past Tom’s ear, and he stepped to the side and fired again from the hip. His shot went wild, and the Supervisor sprinted away. Tom raised the pistol to fire, but broke his aim to tuck behind a stack of ammunition boxes as Smith spun around and fired. The bullets thwacked into the steel cases, and Tom sprang up again to shoot.

  “Dammit!”

  Smith had vanished around the corner toward the hangar.

  Tom shot to his feet and took a few running steps down the hall before stopping in his tracks.

  Let Smith run. Tom wasn’t going to leave his people without a leader, not now, and not for a scumbag like the Supervisor. If there was any chance of succeeding against the Alliance forces, Tom needed to be in the command center, where he was most useful. If he survived this fight, he’d find Smith. Find him, figure out who he really was and what his angle in all of this had been.

  Tom shoved his pistol back in its holster, then turned and dashed back the way he’d come, taking the stairs two at a time and sprinting down the corridor toward the barricades. He passed the munitions closet, saw the long, olive-green tube of a rocket launcher.

  Yes, he’d find Smith. Find him, and kill him. But first, he had to keep this fort out of the Alliance’s hands long enough to shoot down the enemy warship. And he’d find a way, if only to live to wipe that smile off Smith’s face for good.

  Tom leaned inside the closet, hefted the launcher into his arms, picked up a case of rockets, and shuffled toward the command center, his tall frame bowed under the weight of his new burdens.

  Chapter Thirty

  Jack ran, his rifle clamped in his hands, bayonet forward, the strange, garlicky smell of burning phosphorous filling his nose, his lungs, his head. He rounded the corner of the last barricade, leaving the cluster of troops waiting their turn to follow his lead. The air sighed and buzzed with bullets that knifed through the thick, white cloud in front of him. He could just make out the shape of a barrier that blocked off most of the corridor directly in front of him, and, to the left, the outline of the entrance into the last barracks room.

  He turned toward the barracks, accelerated his pace, picking out the sounds of fighting coming from inside.

  Gunshots.

  Screams.

  The thud of boots running behind him.

  He plunged forward, entered the room. Suddenly, as if a veil were lifted from his eyes, he broke through the wall of smoke. He almost skidded to a stop as he took it in. Most of Captain Flores and Lieutenant Perez’s platoons were there, struggling with at least as many of the enemy fighters. Hand to hand. Bayonets and rifle butts. Firing at point-blank range. Splintered bunks. Flipped-over furniture. A half-dozen enemy troops were behind a stack of tables in the corner, firing indiscriminately into the turmoil and toward the entrance, toward Jack.

  Jack dodged to the left, heading for the edge of the massive room and a good angle on the assholes in the corner. He hit the wall, scooted forward against it to reach the concealment of a stack of rations crates. But just as he was raising his rifle, he saw someone running toward him out of the corner of his eye.

  He stepped to the side, letting his opponent slam face first into the wall. The man staggered back, swinging a knife blindly through the air. Jack jabbed the butt of his rifle into his opponent’s midsection. He gasped, stumbled, and toppled into the crates, hitting his head again as he fell. Jack lowered his rifle and sprayed a couple shots into his enemy’s torso. The man jerked and was still. Jack knelt behind the crate, glanced back toward the entrance of the room, and saw Lieutenant Arnot and some of his platoon emerging from the smoke. They started toward the brawl in the center of barracks, but Jack waved, caught Arnot’s attention.

  “Lieutenant! Over here!”

  Arnot and his troops dashed toward him, knelt down.

  “Sir?”

  “They’re enough guys in the brouhaha. Help me take these bastards out.” Jack pointed at the enemy troops in the corner, who were still shooting frantically into the room.

  Jack straightened up, rested his rifle on the top of the crate, and sighted in on one of the enemy soldiers.

  Jack fired, winced at the blast of Arnot and the other marines’ rifles.

  The enemies dropped one by one. The last two turned, tried to shoot at their killers, but fell before they could fire.

  Satisfied, Jack turned toward the fighting, which was continuing even over the bodies of those who had already been cut down. Jack saw a ranger beat to the ground by the rifle butts of two fighters. He saw a marine stabbed from behind through a crack in his armor.

  With a yell, Jack charged into the crowd, Arnot and the others behind him. He almost tripped on a marine who hit the ground in front of him. One of the enemy troops stepped over the marine, raising a rifle ov
er her head like a club. Jack’s temper flared, and he lunged forward, driving his bayonet into the woman’s ribcage. She dropped her rifle and reached for the bayonet, grabbing onto the end of Jack’s rifle, and pulled on it as she sagged to her knees. He twisted his weapon, then kicked the woman to the ground as he withdrew his blade. Seeing that Arnot was helping the marine to his feet, Jack looked for someone else to fight and threw himself into the brawl.

  His nerves buzzed white-hot in his skull. Thought, reasoning, evaporated away. He kicked, punched, slashed, stabbed, and crushed. He lost track of the individuals he killed, the combat blurring together as rage and adrenaline filled him, consumed him. He wouldn’t let these bastards kill any more of his troops, or kill his shipmates on the Verdun, even if he had to rip each one to pieces with his bare hands. He knocked down an enemy and pounded at his skull with the butt of his rifle, again and again.

  “Sir!”

  Jack could barely hear through the fog in his brain. He kept slamming the butt of his rifle down into the red mess of his opponent’s body.

  “Sir! Wilcox, he’s down.”

  Someone grabbed him, and he spun to hit the person with his elbow, only to find himself looking into Flores’ brown eyes.

  “He’s down, sir. Relax.”

  Jack stared back at Flores, fighting to control his breathing.

  “It’s all right. You got them.” Flores’ voice was calm, even.

  Jack swallowed and nodded, his thoughts clearing. He looked around. Bodies were heaped on the ground, and the surviving marines and rangers were helping one of the platoon medics see to their wounded and taking up positions by the entrance in the dissipating smoke. Jack was glad to see only a handful of marines and rangers on the ground next to the heaps of the enemy. He spat onto the body of his mangled opponent and nodded at Flores again, who let go of him.