by Taki Drake
“This is Adrian Matthews, LogiconX Central. How may help you Lt. Marcos?” said a disembodied, male tenor voice.
“You can get me a competent group of logistics support! The idiots that you sent dumped stuff on the ground and demanded that MARINES act as their mules! They didn’t even radio in and could’ve been shot out of the sky. ImpMEC expects better, and I damn well want it, now!” half-shouted the infuriated officer.
“I am truly sorry, Lt. Marcos, but that was the only team that we had available.”
“You find me a better team, or I will be bouncing this up to my command!”
The voice responded soothingly, “We will see what we can do.” The abrupt sound of a closed communication channel echoed within the room.
The lieutenant stared in shock at his communications staffer. “Did he just hang up on me?” A silent nod was his only response.
Muttering angrily to himself, Marcos left the room to get his soldiers ready for patrol. He would not forget what just happened.
Search and No Rescue
Blue Squad had been left to secure the base while Red Squad scouted for signs of the missing scientists and any indication of the mercenaries. Lt. Marcos had led the squad himself. He had no desire to be in camp with Lavalley and the so-called support group. Abandoning Sgt. Dreyer to deal with them was a relief. He was confident that the sergeant would be able to cope with the demanding civilian. Personally, he never wanted to see or speak with the support manager again.
It had been six hours of frustrating search. No definitive sign of either group could be found. Some of the scouts had reported trails of hooved creatures, but those trails had disappeared into the rocks of the hilly area. It was as if the mercenaries had teleported away.
As the scouts came back into camp, a change in atmosphere seeped into their weary heads. The pile of boxes and crates had disappeared. Where the obviously abandoned structures had looked lifeless and unwelcoming, a subtle change had morphed the environment into an ordered and vibrant site.
Lt. Marcos stopped in shock, looking around in bewilderment. Sgt. Dreyer approached the officer, stopping to salute briefly. “Welcome back, Sir! Cook has meals ready, and all base facilities are established and functional.”
“What the hell happened, sergeant?”
“About an hour after you left, Sir, a different shuttle delivered a replacement logistics crew and removed the previous one. This team is much smaller but appears to be extremely capable. However, it may provide its own challenges.”
“I don’t care how small it is or what the other problems are if they know their job and don’t get in the way of ours.”
“Yes, Sir. The logistics lead is waiting to be introduced. You’ll find this group to be very different, Sir.”
The sergeant led the way to the smallest of the buildings. It had previously been used by the researchers for the small medical office, logistics, and supply. When the weary officer had last seen the building, it was a scene of massive disarray. Broken furniture, ripped furnishings, smashed equipment. There had been nothing in the area that was usable.
It looked like a different building. Not only had all of the debris been cleaned up, but the entire structure was spotlessly clean. There were desks with orderly in and out baskets, work chairs and guest seating, working monitors, printers and other devices. He could see through several open doors into what looked like a state-of-the-art medical clinic and a pristine supply room. The entire building screamed competent organization.
With a smile on his face, the lieutenant turned toward the person waiting to greet him. Opening his mouth to deliver a compliment, instead, he stuttered in shock, “You are a woman!”
“That was correct the last time I checked,” the grey-haired woman answered with a straight face. Taking pity on the stupefied officer, the woman continued, “We replaced the previous logistics and support group. I hope you will be pleased with our level of services. If I might, I would like to introduce you to the rest of our team. Is that acceptable?”
When the lieutenant nodded speechlessly, the woman continued, “I am Corda Devlin, and I head this logistics team. There are four others in our group. They are, starting on my right, Irene Franks, medic, and cook.” Corda indicated a comfortably rounded woman with long braided hair and a pristine apron wrapped around her waist.
“The third member of our crew is George Havelock. He is our purser and quartermaster.” The slightly built man to the left of the cook nodded his head in greeting, shifting slightly as he leaned on his cane.
“Our maintenance and repair member is Dorothy Coleman.”
“Howdy!” a deep, gravelly voice issued from the throat of the largest woman that the lieutenant had ever seen.
She must be almost 7 feet tall! he thought in shock. Numbed, he stammered out a greeting in return.
Corda continued, “Our last team member is responsible for general building set up, security and logistics.” She put her hand on the arm of the small woman standing next to her, finishing with, “I would like to introduce you to Alana Myers.”
The woman looked like a stiff wind would blow her over. She was tiny, her head not even reaching the lieutenant’s shoulder. Meeting her blue-eyed gaze, the man automatically straightened. Her piercing look seemed to go right through him, calmly evaluating him.
Feeling on the defensive somehow, Lt. Marcos finally found his voice to abruptly say, “How can you expect to support our group with only a small group of women and a crippled man?” Behind him, a look of absolute horror crossed Sgt. Dreyer’s face. He opened his mouth to try to intervene, but a small headshake from Corda stopped what he was about to say.
A steely and implacable tone entered Corda’s voice as she responded, “There is nothing in the contractual agreement with LogiconX that states required genders. Our functional support will cause no basis for complaint. If your soldiers have problems with females in camp, I would expect you and your noncoms to enforce discipline. Agreed?”
The flustered lieutenant, aware that he had made a significant error, further compounded it by responding, “Just don’t expect my soldiers to be lifting and carrying for you!”
“Hah! They haven’t needed to, and we would not trust anyone else with our gear, anyway,” was Dorothy’s contribution to the discussion.
Before any further insults could be offered to the group, Sgt. Dreyer leaned over Lt. Marcos’ shoulder and reminded him that the mess was open. A further suggestion that they probably should go eat allowed him to extract his senior officer before any more problems could be created.
Looking over his shoulder, Ted saw their support group huddled in conversation, a variety of expressions displayed on their faces. He was not sure if he was relieved, comforted, or worried that most of the expressions tended toward amusement.
Escalation
The camp ran flawlessly. Meals were flavorful, abundant and on time. Requests for supplies were fulfilled within minutes or hours. Lt. Marcos had no basis for complaint, but his embarrassment at his initial reaction to the support group continued to cause a strain in his interaction with Corda and her team. Rather than be forced into admitting his error, he effectively shunned his infrastructure group. All of his requests, orders, and demands were funneled through one of his noncoms.
Their commanding officer’s treatment of the logistics group set the tone for the rest of the platoon. Except for Sgt. Dreyer and several soldiers, the general interaction of the platoon and the support group was restricted to functional requests and strained platitudes.
The separation had escalated to the point that the support group no longer shared meals with the platoon. In fact, the soldiers never saw the women or the quartermaster in the mess, other than when the cook was supervising the serving of the meals. The rest of the support group tended to come and get their meals on trays and leave.
The troops were generally confused about the whole thing. While the lieutenant avoided them with embarrassment that could be interpreted as anger, the supp
ort team was pleasant and respectful to everyone, no matter what their rank. It became a general topic of discussion in the fractured base.
Comments about the inappropriateness of females and the disabled in an ImpMEC base peppered mealtime conversations. Sgt. Dreyer tried to stifle some of the comments but found it difficult since the other platoon sergeant and corporals appeared to share the consensus.
He kept an eye on the cook when the grousing and commentary became too thick. Interestingly enough, no expression of anger or insulted hurt ever crossed her face. She remained pleasant and efficient, ensuring that the platoon had far better food than they had ever eaten before.
The situation escalated when one of the squads encountered a group of the mercenaries. The sounds of weapon fire brought the entire encampment to alert. Snapping orders at his men, Lt. Marcos dispatched a message to his commander while ordering the base to further lockdown.
He was about to instruct the logistics group on appropriate behavior when he noticed that the support buildings were closed, window shuttered, and the motor pool emptied. It was somewhat of a surreal situation when everything that he would have ordered was already done. He spared a brief thought on how civilians would know what to do in the situation before turning his attention back to the remainder of his command.
The tension in the camp raised as sporadic battle sounds were heard for another 10 minutes. When the tightened expectation had reached a climax, a terse comm from the scouting squad came in. “Took fire at 0324-4871, four WIA. 12 enemy confirmed, no known enemy casualties. Current disposition is not in contact, RTB.”
It took another 30 minutes for the squad to return to base. Their sudden appearance out of the woods kicked off a flurry of activity as the wounded were moved to the medical area and Lt. Marcos demanded a briefing.
Cpl. Martinez gave his report while sitting down. The man looked exhausted with dark circles under his eyes, the bloodied bandage across his head emphasizing how much the situation had changed.
“We were surprised on the edge of a ravine by the charge of 10 or 11 of the Centrax horse-looking creatures. They are armed with long-range weapons that managed to damage some of our armor. Anderson and Nandu were our scouts at that time, and they took injuries immediately. We went to ground and return fire.”
Lt. Marcos grimaced and asked, “What else can you tell me about their fighting methods?”
“Not much, Sir. They engaged briefly almost as if they were testing us and then retreated into the woods. We advanced cautiously, but it was as if they disappeared.”
The lieutenant pulled out his area map, rolling it out and weighting it down with rocks and available coffee cups. He and the noncoms bent over the map pointing and discussing options for investigation.
A gentle hand on Cpl. Martinez’s arm drew his attention to the female medic standing next to him. Gesturing wordlessly, she drew him up and helped him get to the medical center for treatment. Gratefully, he leaned on her as his vision blurred and the blood continued to drip down his face.
Teased and Taunted
It had not been a good three days for Lt. Marcos. His attempts to locate the enemy force had been frustrated multiple times by their ability to appear and disappear. They had sent out a squad in full battle armor two more times after the initial enemy engagement. The first time, they found no sign of the enemy on their outward spiral but were ambushed two-thirds the way back to base from a rocky overhang.
The Centrax had taken the high ground, firing down onto the squad. Only the available cover enabled Sgt. Dreyer to prevent additional casualties. Three more of the soldiers had acquired minor wounds, but this did not seem to be a significant problem.
The support and logistics group was operating at an extremely high level of efficiency. Although the lieutenant was too focused on his efforts to come to grips with the enemy, Sgt. Dreyer and the other noncoms were aware of just how much of an advantage the platoon had in the base personnel. Injuries that would normally have kept people out for several days seem to heal in a day or less. Requests for supplies and ammunition were met immediately.
Ted Dreyer knew something strange was going on. The supply room door was usually open, and he had glanced into it seeing the stack of ammunition rising about 4 feet from the floor. After several of the encounters, he had been checking on one of the more badly injured soldiers and had glanced automatically into the supply room. He continued onto the medical room, stopping just short of the door in shock.
The ammunition pile had quadrupled. Instead of two stacks 4-foot tall, there were at least eight, and he thought perhaps the overall stack was taller.
He knew that there had been no resupply shuttles during the time they had been on base. So how had they gotten more ammunition? Before the sergeant could ask about this strange behavior a priority summons from Lt. Marcos broadcast over his communications device. Any weirdness in supply was scrubbed from his memory as he took off for their command area at a run.
The lieutenant was pacing when Sgt. Dreyer and the other noncoms charged into the command area. Grinning broadly, the excited officer half shouted, “Finally, I think we have the bastards! We have an image of what looks like their camp, half camouflaged by the woods about 40 miles north of here.”
Crowding around the area map, he began to issue orders. The excitement of finally being able to confront the elusive enemy seemed to have overtaken him. His rapid speech, flushed face, and shining eyes told the others that there would be no holding him back. Only when it was apparent that the lieutenant was pulling both squads out of the base, did anyone interject a cautionary word.
Typically, it was Sgt. Dreyer that asked, “I am sorry, Sir, but what forces are we going to leave to protect the base?”
Lt. Marcos’ response was hurried and dismissive, “It is highly unlikely that there will be anything going on here. There’s been no sign of an enemy attack at this location for the entire time we have been on the planet.”
Seeing the unspoken disagreement on the sergeant’s face, the young officer continued, “Since we are taking the fight to the enemy camp, they will concentrate on defending it. There will be no ability to attack the base in the meantime. Even if one or two enemy soldiers manage to break our containment to travel the 15 miles back here, the two walking wounded Marines that we are leaving should be enough to protect our useless gaggle of support people.”
“But, Sir…”
“That is all, Sgt. Dreyer! You have your orders, now execute them. We leave in 15.”
Taking the Battle to the Enemy
With usual Marine efficiency, the ImpMEC force was organized and started on their journey to the enemy camp within the ordered 15 minutes. As busy as all of the noncoms were, Sgt. Dreyer had made it a point of holding a hurried meeting with Corda and the wounded Marines that would be staying at the base.
As he expected, both of the soldiers were aghast at the battle orders. When the sergeant repeated that he was relaying orders, both Marines stared at him intently and shut up. Although he had expected some protest from Corda, she had only nodded her head and told him, “We will manage.”
Her look of serenity did not reassure the unhappy man, but there was nothing he could do about it. He did attempt to make some suggestions on locking down the buildings, etc., but Corda informed him that she would work with their two Marines and her staff to implement the safest strategies. Duty called, and Sgt. Dreyer returned to his men.
The platoon advance toward the enemy camp could’ve been taken from a textbook strategy manual. The lieutenant deployed his scouts and battle order as if he were on film. Everything was technically correct. Sgt. Dreyer had to admit to himself that the man was showing good judgment when it came to his troops but the sharp worry and regret about those left on base and ill-protected tainted everything. Ted kept his focus on his men and his orders, but the concern that he felt for Corda and her crew was a persistent shadow of danger on his mind.
The platoon had advanced to a
point approximately 4 miles from the enemy camp. Up to this point, there had been no sign of enemy soldiers or activity. Given the demonstrated power of the Centrax’s weapons, all Marines were in full battle armor, helmets locked, faceplates down. A wise precaution in unknown territory and one that proved fortunate when the main body of the platoon was caught in an ambush.
It was a messy encounter. The platoon was caught between two groups of the enemy, one entrenched under cover on the slightly higher ground, the other charging from the rear. Training and discipline took over. Back to back, alternating fire, picking their targets, the Marines finally were able to confront and kill their enemies.
The communications channels were crowded with incoherent shouts, terse reports, and commands. It was a messy battle, filled with the whining reports of weapons fired, the flash of some sort of Centrax beam weapon, and the confusion of hand-to-hand combat.
There was no time to think or consider. There was only the instinctive reaction of a well-trained fighting man when confronted with danger. The 20 men of the platoon held fast. Although the beam weapons scored damage on the Marine battle armor, none of the effects were critical.
The hand-to-hand combat results were somewhat different. Although the Marines were dressed in full battle armor, the Centrax’s equipment and exoskeleton bracing appeared to be an even match for the ImpMEC armament.
Never before had ImpMEC run into a race of beings that could field something to match their combat enhancements. In 1 to 1 close combat, the Marines took casualties. A chortling cry of victory from a Centrax throat was heard three times during the battle, signaling three Marine deaths. However, if the Marines would have shouted their triumph, their celebration chorus would have rung out many times more.
As with all battles, what seemed like a long time in combat was over in just a few minutes. The entire battle had taken less than a quarter of an hour when the few remaining Centrax disappeared into the woods. They left 26 bodies on the ground, each sprawled in boneless huddles. As the survivors retreated, they fired their beam weapon into the chest of each of their fallen comrades. An emblem on the chest piece of the fallen warrior’s exoskeleton flashed and then exploded with a sullen thud.
