Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  They’d done it. The realization washed through her. The fort was theirs.

  She looked back at Wilcox, who was still standing there, looking at his opponent. He turned to face Christine, his face softening from rage to something else, something worse.

  Was that concern? Concern for her? Did she look that bad?

  Fear lanced through her, but she tried to smile. “You… You found the back door?”

  The slightest grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t think I’d get lost, did you?”

  Gordon needed a second, just a second to rest. Let the enemy charge again, but not before he caught his breath. He slumped down onto an open space on the floor of the trench, careful to slip between the bodies lying there. He kept his weapon in hand, bayonet pointing in the air. He could hear the long whistle and ear-splitting noise of shells exploding in the valley below. They’d shelled the bastards, shot practically every round they had at them, and still there were more. There had to have been at least two thousand men and women in the enemy force to start with. Gordon couldn’t begin to guess how many of them could be left. The fact that the Alliance troops only had the ammo to shoot at them whenever they charged probably explained things. Soon, they wouldn’t even have that. Only the artillery would save them at this point.

  “Sir!” Lieutenant Garrett’s call interrupted Gordon’s thoughts.

  Here we go again.

  Gordon used the butt of his rifle to push himself to his feet, groaning at the ache in his chest. He tasted blood again, spat it out. He didn’t bother to check his ammunition. It had been gone for a while now.

  Gordon looked over the lip of the trench and saw—

  “What the hell?”

  In the flickering light of a flare, he could see enemy troops emerging from cover, from behind piles of bodies, and running back down the valley. There were still a lot of them, at least two or three hundred, but, by God, they were retreating.

  “They’re giving up!” Garrett’s tired shout was repeated down the line.

  Gordon’s heart leapt — and then fell.

  They would return to the fort, they would trap the attack force, and everything would be lost. Then again, since the fort hadn’t fired any new missiles in a few minutes, Wilcox’s group had probably succeeded. That, or the Verdun had already been destroyed.

  “Mr. Garrett, prepare your platoon to attack. Signal the other platoons to move in after us. Get Li to repeat the signal over to the artillery.”

  Gordon turned, saw Garrett’s expression fall.

  “Understood, Sir.” Garrett turned around. “Corporal Li! Li, get over here!”

  Gordon looked for the radioman, couldn’t see him. Had he been hit?

  “Li!” Garrett called again, his voice all but drowned out by the now useless shells falling in the valley.

  “Here!” Li emerged from down the trench, walking slowly, radio handset to his ear.

  “Corporal, you ain’t paid by the hour. Hurry—”

  Li waved his hand to silence the lieutenant.

  “Copy that, Sparrow Two.” Li looked up, a huge grin spreading over his face. “Sir, you won’t believe it. Tac-Two!”

  Gordon’s hands flew to his headset, adjusted it to the Tac-Two channel in time to hear the last snippet of radio traffic.”

  “…Take cover and do not approach the enemy. Sparrows out.”

  Sparrows? Could it be?

  Not believing the voice on the radio, Gordon listened for the sound, heard it. Faint, growing louder, but there, even under the explosions of the artillery.

  “Corporal, tell the arty to cease fire.”

  A few seconds later, the shells stopped, but the valley was far from quiet. The sound filled the air, rumbled through Gordon’s chest, brought ragged cries of joy from the rangers in the trench and up on the hillsides.

  The Verdun’s Fighters!

  And there they were, strafing the forest where the enemy force had run to, the rapid stream of tracers from their machine guns lighting it up, rocket fire blossoming among the trees.

  Gordon let himself slide down the trench, suddenly feeling as if he could fall asleep right there.

  Of course, they’d need to move in to mop up any survivors and take any prisoners they could find, but for the moment, he was glad to let the flyboys handle it. For the moment, he could rest.

  Marcus cheered as the glowing salvo of shells from the Verdun struck home. Two of the massive charges hit the lead enemy ship amidships, splitting it in two, the sudden decompression of air causing the pieces to spin off like deflating balloons. The other ships were turning, trying to scramble out of the way.

  “No, you don’t.” Marcus tilted the control stick, pointed his bird toward one of the ships on the edge of the fleet. It was trying to pull away, sneak out of the group. “Vipers, let’s keep this herd together. Hit the ships pulling toward the flanks. Cyclone Squadron has the bottom.” With one squadron having left the battle to go relieve the ground forces, and most of their ammunition expended, the remaining Alliance fighters would need to coordinate their maneuvers carefully.

  Marcus waited just long enough to see that the rest of his squad mates had joined him before he accelerated and shot toward the fleeing ship. The distance between them shrank, and his cockpit lit up, the warm glow of another exploding enemy casting his controls into high relief.

  He fired his payload, watched the enemy ship crack apart as the squadron unleashed burning death upon it.

  This battle was as good as over.

  “It’s bleeding through. Grab me another bandage.”

  Jack followed the medic’s directions and pulled a blue-and-white package out of the trauma kit, ignoring the sting of his own wounds. He tore the package open, and handed a soft, white gauze pad to the medic, who placed it on top of the soaking red bandages already on Flores’ wound. The medic pressed in, and Jack winced, imagining the pain Flores must be in. But Flores didn’t flinch, or cry out. She was muttering something, her eyes opening and closing. She was slipping away in front of them, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  He looked around the command center, at the marines rebuilding the sandbag barricades at the entrance and piling the bodies of the enemy in the corner of the room. None of the rangers were there, though. Squires’ platoon was with Colion and Perez’s units, securing the rest of the fort, clearing out the last pockets of resistance, searching for where the fort’s garrison was imprisoned.

  And Flores’ soldiers?

  They’d seen their leader’s wounds and been rooted to the spot, looking down at her where she lay.

  “She won’t survive a trip down the back access,” Sergeant Néri had spoken up. “We need to unblock the main corridor and get her to the infirmary. Let’s get to work, Fifth Platoon.”

  Tired as they were, bleeding from their own scrapes and minor wounds, they’d moved as one into the hallway, attacking the pile of rubble with entrenching tools, the butts of their rifles, their bare hands. They were still there, the thuds and bumps of their efforts audible inside the command center.

  But by the frown the young medic was wearing on his thin face, Jack knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

  They were too late.

  You stupid son of a bitch!

  Jack cursed himself. If he’d been faster, if he’d moved just a little more quickly. Hadn’t stopped here, said that there…

  He’d climbed out of the access hatch, hauled himself off the ladder from the cisterns, and seen that bastard standing over Flores, ready to blow her head off. He’d tried to shoot his opponent down, but his shots had missed. He and the man had run out of ammo at the same moment, and the man had dashed for a console — the silo console, Jack now knew. After losing so many under his command, Jack had enjoyed knocking the man down, ending his life with his bayonet. He’d thought for a minute that Flores was okay, that he’d saved her. But then he’d seen the holes in her side and known he’d failed...again.

  It’
s the Triangle all over again.

  Flores had been cogent at first, asking after the other platoons, the progress taking the fort, but she had drifted away from them. It was unbelievable how many of the hostiles Flores had taken alone. A whole platoon’s worth of them. Then again, that surprised Jack less than the fact that she’d been hit. He’d seen people die before — some of them had even been friends. But Flores wasn’t supposed to one of those ones. She had always seemed so untouchable, so confident. It shook him to see her like this.

  “Sir,” the medic said, softly, meeting Jack’s eyes.

  Jack held the man’s gaze for a second, shook his head.

  No way in hell!

  “I’ll get you more bandages.” Jack rummaged through the kit, blinking hard. “And here’s more clotting powder.” Jack tore open the packages, handed them to the medic, who took them — and placed them on the floor.

  “Sir, unless you’ve got a couple pints of blood to replace what we’ve already used, and an IV drip—”

  “Don’t you fucking say it!” Jack stood, paced on the spot, running a bloody hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Don’t you dare. You stick with her.” Jack pointed at Flores, his voice rising.

  “Sir,” the medic murmured again. “There is nothing for me to stick with.”

  Jack stopped, stared at the medic. In the man’s eyes, eyes that had seen more death than any eyes should, Jack saw certainty.

  He nodded, and the medic stooped to pick up his kit, then walked away. There were others to treat, others to try to save. Flores? She wasn’t his concern anymore.

  Jack wouldn’t leave her.

  He knelt down, looked for her hand. Her left hand was balled up at her side, but her right was open, laying on her chest. She looked so still. Was she already dead?

  Jack picked up Flores’ hand, held it in his own. It was cold, but he could feel the faintest pulse at her wrist.

  She stirred, and her eyes opened. She looked up at him, and her brow knotted.

  “Sir, you… crushed. The… hall collapsed. How’re you…?” She spoke slowly, pausing to take shallow, rattling breaths.

  Jack shook his head, painted a smile on his face. He’d already told her this a few minutes ago.

  “We got through. We did it, Captain. You stopped them. We have the fort.”

  Flores closed her eyes, let out a little sigh. Then she frowned again. “Pla…platoon?”

  “They made it through. They’ll be back in a minute to take you to the infirmary.” Jack glanced out the doorway, hoping against hope that one of the rangers would burst in and say that the hallway was clear. But the sounds of work still echoing from the corridor told him that wouldn’t happen.

  Flores nodded, coughed. “Néri… Keep them … order. Don’t… Let… Get… lazy.”

  “Sure thing.” Jack wiped his eyes with a free hand. “You’ve done a good job with them, Flores. They’re damn fine rangers.”

  Flores tried to laugh, but settled on a cough. Blood trickled out of her mouth. “Tell…Mom and Dad. They’ll… wanna know.”

  Weren’t her parents dead?

  Jack hid his reaction to her increasing delirium, gave her hand a squeeze. “You bet they will. They’re proud of you, Captain. Damn proud.”

  Flores’ head lolled to the side, and for a second, Jack thought she was gone. But she coughed again, then looked up at him. Her eyes had a glaze to them, and Jack felt as if she were looking right past him, through him.

  “Ryan?” She smiled faintly. “Y…you know… you could duck… out of that sun. Let me… See you. Just… ask me… already.”

  Jack looked above his head, saw a light fixture directly over him. The glare must be in Flores’ eyes. But who was Ryan?

  Jack shifted himself, looking up at the light to make sure he was out from in front of it. “Uh...” He began, not sure who he should pretend to be. “Is this better?”

  He looked back down at Flores, whose gaze was fixed in front of her.

  “Captain? Flores?” Jack squeezed her hand again. “Christine?”

  She was gone.

  Jack stayed there, holding her hand in his, holding it tightly, as if it would save him from the raw surge of emotion that welled up from his chest, closed his throat, filled his head, stung his eyes.

  He looked down at her other hand, still closed tightly around something. Not letting go of her right hand, he gently took hold of her left. He carefully turned her wrist and eased her fingers open so that her hand was palm-up in his.

  And in it was a single, gold ring.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Heat. It shimmered in waves over the trees and the metal forest of the bristling docks, fighting with the cool breeze coming off the water, and soaking through Kim’s uniform jacket and into her skin. Over the past two months, heat had become synonymous with Kensington in Kim’s mind, and, she imagined as she shielded her eyes against the sun, always would be.

  The planet’s rainy season had dragged on for a few weeks, washing every operation on Kensington with thick, dark mud, but at least it had offered the occasional cool respite from the sticky, humid warmth. But now the rain was behind them, and the oppressive heat saturated every moment spent outside the Verdun’s climate-controlled interior, an unbroken chain of blinding, blistering days and sweltering nights.

  Today, though, Kim didn’t mind. It was worth the discomfort, if only to find a moment alone, the first in a long time.

  The activity of the past few months had been demanding of captain and crew. After reducing the enemy fleet to ashes, the Verdun had landed the rest of its marines, who, with the help of the rangers, had begun the long task of clearing all remaining enemy forces from the surface of the planet.

  The fort had been first, its labyrinth of barracks, munitions bays, and storage rooms requiring a full two days to completely secure. Then, based on intelligence obtained from one of the few enemy soldiers taken alive, the Alliance forces had located the Barracuda, set down in a natural bay sixty miles north of the dockyards. Guarded by only a few hundred disorganized troops, the destroyer had been easy to liberate, and casualties had been mercifully light.

  Kim breathed in the sweet, dry scent of trees curing in the heat, of earth, of sunbaked clay, let it carry out the memory of the stench that had filled the Barracuda. Had she not seen the horrors within that ship with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed them possible. The followers of the so-called United Worker’s Legion had forced the Barracuda crew and the personnel they’d captured on the train and at the warehouse complex to sit in their own filth, down the hall from where the rotting bodies of their slain comrades had been piled. Some of them, including Commander Agrum, the ship’s executive officer, had barely been alive when the Alliance forces had liberated them. Kim’s nausea at the reek hanging inside the ship had been nothing compared to her reaction when she’d seen the jury-rigged instruments of torture that the enemy had devised to wring the Barracuda’s command codes from her crew. Whatever compassion Kim had had left for her enemy, a human enemy at that, had evaporated in that moment.

  Despite their travails, the men and women of the Barracuda hadn’t cracked, and, thanks to the concentrated efforts of Commander Cadogan and his medical crew, were recovering well. The same could be said of the many other personnel wounded by enemy action on the ground and aboard the Verdun. Physically, at least. Kim suspected that few of the servicemembers who had served through the Battle of Kensington, as some of the crew were calling it now, were completely unhurt, be they marines, rangers, or Navy crew.

  Some were hardly themselves anymore.

  Lieutenant Commander Wilcox, once affable and talkative, barely spoke to anyone anymore, unless it was to deliver a report or give instructions. Kim hadn’t pushed him to talk about it, not yet anyway. She’d known enough from the after-action report of his experiences on the planet to know he needed time and space.

  “When I got to Captain Flores, she was beyond help,” Wilcox had said, his eyes
staring at a point on the wall behind Kim’s head. “She died shortly thereafter. Without her… I doubt we’d have climbed out of that access hatch alive.”

  “You did everything you could, Commander.” Kim had tried to reach him, to let him hear her pride in him. “Your attack against the fort was remarkably successful, given the tactical limitations of the resources you and Major Osterman had at your disposal.”

  “I intend to recommend Captain Flores and Major Osterman both for commendations,” Jack had continued, as if Kim hadn’t said a word. “The officers and enlisted personnel of our marines and the ranger company will figure prominently in my report as well. Permission to be dismissed?”

  Kim had peered up at him, searching for something, anything to say. Nothing had come to her. “Granted. Dismissed, Commander.”

  Yes, two traumatic encounters in a row had taken their toll on the Verdun’s crew. At least they had a heavy workload to distract them. Once Kensington had been secured, the Verdun had limped through the solar system, stopping at the communications relay stations that the Legion had destroyed to cover its invasion and cut the planet off from the rest of the Alliance. The Verdun’s sorry condition and lack of spare parts for the wrecked relay drones had complicated the crew’s repair efforts. Thankfully, the Leclerc had arrived a few days ahead of schedule and taken over the operation, allowing the Verdun to finally land and join the Barracuda for repairs.

  The fact that Lieutenant Geonor and his team were still standing was a testament to the stubbornness and tenacity of engineers everywhere. Between the old damage from the Frontin and the Verdun’s new wounds, the list of necessary repairs had been staggering, the most Kim had seen for one ship since the worst battles of the war. Rumors had circulated among the crew that the Verdun would be planetside for a year, maybe two.

  “We better get ready to go camping in the woods,” Stetler had chuckled at one staff meeting.

  “I know how to pitch a tent,” Urquhart had offered.