by Daniel Gibbs
As the lot of them stepped over fallen soldiers, one of the bodies began to moan. Kenneth immediately took note and rushed over to where the noise was coming from. Pulling the corpse of a League soldier to the side, he discovered a TCMC Marine clinging to life. “I’ve got a live one over here! Corpsman!”
There was shouting and commotion as Taylor made his way back to Kenneth; Billings hovered over them while the nearest corpsman dropped his medkit next to the fallen Marine and began diagnostics.
“Hang in there, son,” Kenneth said. “We’ll get you patched up.”
“Just…” the wounded soldier said in a whimper. “Don’t want to die like this. Want to see my mom one last time.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” Kenneth asked him.
“Jerrod Connolly,” he said between gasps for air.
The corpsman stood up and walked over to Taylor; Kenneth overheard the conversation. “Lieutenant, nothing I can do for this man. If we had a surgical suite right here, it’d be fifty-fifty to save his life. We don’t have six soldiers to litter him back to the FOB. Best I can do is give him some painkillers to relieve his suffering at the end.”
Kenneth whipped his head around to see Taylor’s face scrunched up and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to leave him here to die,” he said. “That wouldn’t be right.”
“I can stay with him if you’d like,” the corpsman replied.
“I’ll carry him back to the FOB,” Kenneth interjected.
“You’ll what?” Taylor asked. “He’s got to weigh ninety kilos. I don’t care how many weights you lift. It’s a kilometer back.”
Kenneth stood, and his voice took on firmness and strength that seemed to come from some other point within him. “We’re not leaving him to die, and I’m not going to sit here and watch him die without trying to save him. That’s the absolute least I can do.”
“If you move him by fireman’s carry, you’ll kill him. He’d need a litter,” the corpsman said. “We’re coming down to the wire. There’s not enough troops to go around.”
“What’s his odds of living if I drag him back to the FOB?” Kenneth asked, using the acronym for Forward Operating Base.
“Ten percent, max.”
“His odds of living if he stays here are zero. I’ll take it,” Kenneth said.
“Hold on. I can’t send a security team with you,” Taylor said, growing exasperated. “We don’t have the men for that either.”
“We cleared out the area behind us. I’ll take the risk.”
“Boss, I’ll go with you,” Billings said from behind Kenneth’s back.
“No. Lieutenant Taylor needs you, and every available trigger puller. I’ll be fine.”
“But, boss…”
“No, Master Chief. That’s a direct order. I’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” Billings said, conceding the point.
“Any objections, LT?” Kenneth asked.
“No. I’d do it myself, but… I need to lead these men.”
“You do your job. I’ll do mine,” Kenneth replied before turning around and kneeling next to the fallen Marine. “Corporal…if you can understand me, my name’s Kenneth Lowe. I’m going to try to drag you back to the FOB for treatment. Stay with me, okay?”
“Yeah… okay.”
“Let’s go,” Kenneth said, unable to say anything more and trying to suppress the emotions building inside of him. He thought of his mother, and if he’d ever see her again. Pushing the thought down, he picked up the man’s legs and began to drag him down the passageway they’d come down, while the rest of the soldiers marched on toward the fight.
For the better part of twenty minutes, he labored half bent over, pulling the Marine along; a faint trail of blood smeared the deck plating behind them. At some point, Jerrod blacked out, and Kenneth quickly overexerted himself; regardless of how his muscles screamed in pain, he pressed on.
The sound of a rifle action clicking as a round chambered was the first indication Kenneth had he wasn’t alone. Not a practiced combatant, he’d focused on his objective of saving the young soldier. He hadn’t bothered to check the area or perform recon.
“Turn around, slowly, Terran!” a voice called out from behind him.
Kenneth let the soldier’s legs drop to the floor and slowly turned around. “No weapons in my hands, League.” He saw a League security officer wearing black combat armor standing ten meters down the passageway.
“No sudden moves or I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“I’m just trying to get a wounded man to safety,” Kenneth retorted. “How’d you ever get back in here? TCMC cleared this corridor thirty minutes ago.”
“They didn’t get all of us,” the Leaguer said defiantly. “You’ll never defeat the League.”
“Is that propaganda or do you believe it?” Kenneth asked with a thin smile. Inwardly, he was about to pee his pants again; no play to pull a weapon that didn’t result in his death came to mind.
The Leaguer shifted his grip ever so slightly on the rifle. “Stop talking, Terran. You’re my prisoner. I will take you to a holding area.”
“No,” Kenneth said, surprising himself in the forcefulness of the answer.
“Do it, or I’ll kill you, Terran!”
What the hell has gotten into me? “No, you won’t. I’m going to turn around and pick up the man I was carrying. Then I’m going to keep walking toward our FOB.”
“I’ll kill you!”
He’s just a boy, and it takes a twisted person to shoot an unarmed man in the back, Kenneth hoped as he slowly turned around, and picked up Jerrod’s legs. “Tell them I got the drop on you, son. Hell, don’t mention me to begin with.”
“Why is this man worth your life?”
He sounds puzzled. “Because he’s someone’s son, friend, father, and husband. Because every life is worth dying for. That’s what the League doesn’t get, and it’s why you’ll never win.” Kenneth grunted as he dragged Jerrod across the deck.
“You’re not worth wasting a bullet on! You can’t even fight, carrying that corpse,” the Leaguer replied as he lowered the rifle.
“He’s not a corpse yet. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“If I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
“Well, I guess I’ll try not to see you again because I don’t want to have to kill you,” Kenneth said between labored breaths, dragging Jerrod forward.
The last Kenneth saw of the League soldier, he was standing in the middle of the passageway, his rifle in its sling. It took another fifteen minutes of slow progress before he ran into a trio of Marines guarding an approach to the shuttle bay that friendly forces were staging out of.
“Halt!” a Marine in power armor shouted. “Who goes there?”
“Kenneth Lowe, civilian contractor.” He turned around slowly and showed his hands. “I’ve got a wounded man here. He needs medical attention, ASAP!”
“I’ve got corpsmen on the way,” the Marine said. “Where’s the rest of your litter party?”
“Just me. The rest had to press on.”
A group of corpsmen raced out down the corridor with a stretcher. They quickly put Jerrod onto it and hustled to move him while performing basic triage. “Breathing shallow, pulse faint but steady. Multiple projectile penetrations. Who brought him in?” one of them said.
“I did, Corporal,” Kenneth said.
“Any idea what he was shot with?”
“No. We found him after a firefight. Is he going to be okay?”
“Who knows?” the corpsmen that appeared to be in charge answered. “That’s up to God and the surgeon at this point. But I know this… he wouldn’t have survived much longer out there, so if he survives, he owes you a beer.”
Despite all the terror around him and the fear in his heart, Kenneth laughed out loud at the wisecrack from the corpsman. “Thanks, Corporal.”
“Yeah, whatever,” the man replied as they marched off carrying the stretcher. Kenneth wiped his
brow, which was soaked with sweat, and looked down the passageway he had just come down, unslinging his battle rifle and mentally preparing to walk down it once more.
“Where the hell are you, Kenny?” the voice of Calvin asked through his helmet’s commlink.
“Uh, I’m back at the FOB, Colonel. About to head back toward the front.”
“Who gave you authorization to leave your team?”
“I was carrying a wounded man back, sir. He was going to die without medical attention.”
“You yellow-bellied coward!” Calvin shouted, causing pain in Kenneth’s eardrum. “Get your ass back to the fight, or I’ll see you court-martialed myself.”
“Sir…”
“Shut up and move!”
At that moment, the events of the last hour caught up with Kenneth. He sank to his knees, his entire body shaking uncontrollably. What if Demood is right? What if I am a coward? What if I’m running away from the fight and trying to make myself feel better? he considered, dark thoughts cascading through his mind like driving rain.
Alone, vulnerable, he remembered back to his own experiences in boot camp and in particular, one drill instructor who was relentless, even when Kenneth had expended everything he had. “Don’t you dare think about quitting!” he would say. “You don’t quit! Whenever you quit at anything, you build on a muscle within your mind that allows you to quit. Never do it! Once you do, you’ll quit at everything, whenever the going gets tough.”
That drill instructor’s attitude and determination had helped him get through boot camp and shaped his character for the rest of his life up until now. I can’t quit. I can’t leave my friends, no matter what Demood says, Kenneth thought as he forced himself to his feet and took off at a jog down the passageway, back toward the fight.
35
The scene outside of the control room for Unity Station was one of slightly controlled chaos. TCMC forces had pushed up to form a pincer around the single point of entry to their objective, while what was left of the station’s security contingent and the League Marines staged a last stubborn stand. Bullets whizzed around Calvin as he stood behind the first line of Marines. Damn, that was close, he thought as his HUD warned him of a round traveling within an inch of his helmet.
“Where’s that heavy gauss machine gun, Master Guns?” Calvin shouted into his commlink, directed toward his senior enlisted Marine, Reuben Menahem.
“One damn minute, Colonel!”
“Well, hurry it up. We’re getting creamed up here!” Calvin shouted back as another Marine in front of him collapsed, the victim of repeated League shots to his center mass. “Corpsman!”
“Press them, Marines! Keep firing!” Calvin yelled, bringing up his battle rifle and sighting down on the nearest Leaguer he could see with the advanced optics. Squeezing the trigger, he was rewarded with the enemy pitching backward, the man’s rifle falling away. Once on the deck, he didn’t move.
“Colonel, perhaps we should think about pulling back to dress our lines and bring up additional heavy weapons?” Menahem asked through the commlink.
“You want to retreat, Master Guns?” Calvin replied, surprised that it was even suggested.
“If you want to call it that, sir.”
“Retreat? Hell, Master Guns, we just got here!”
“Yes, sir!”
While Calvin waited for Menahem and the heavy weapons to arrive, he and the rest of the Marines engaged the enemy. League troops fell like bowling pins while more of his troops than he’d care to admit were wounded or killed by hostile fire. As both forces thinned out, rough barricades were erected, at times out of bodies of the fallen, behind which both sides hunkered down and attempted to suppress one other. It was a blood bath for all involved; no quarter was asked nor given.
Finally, Menahem and the two other Marines that carried the heavy gauss machine gun rounded the corner; to Calvin’s relief, it was already loaded and they were pushing it into the field of fire.
“Marines, flatten!” Calvin shouted into his commlink, directed at both sides of his assault force. Instantly, the TCMC force pressed down onto the deck, leaving a clear firing lane.
Menahem held down the firing studs on the massive gun, holding on as it sent giant slugs down the corridor. A cousin of the ship-mounted magnetic cannon, it fired far faster and used electromagnetism to propel projectiles down its barrel. The resulting carnage was like a hot knife going through butter; Leaguers were cut down right and left as the barrage continued.
There’s a point at which every man and woman can’t take any more hell. Calvin momentarily pitied the League force as they tried in vain to return fire, only to be slaughtered all the more the instant someone raised their head above whatever makeshift cover they had access to. With no more targets, Menahem let go of the firing studs, and the passageway was suddenly quiet.
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” a panicked voice from the League side yelled. “Please, allow us to surrender.”
“Any tricks, we’ll kill you all,” Calvin replied, a hard edge to his voice. “Any at all. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear, Terran.”
“Toss all your weapons out in the open, then put your hands over your heads and walk out, single file.”
All at once, dozens of League rifles and sidearms were flung away; they landed all over the corridor. They’ve lost the will to fight. The first Leaguer stood up with his hands behind his head and walked toward their lines. Calvin immediately knew they’d won. It took a while for all of the prisoners to be herded toward the rear, where a security detail kept watch on them. Finally, he stood before the reinforced doors to the control room. “This cost us way too damn much.”
“Yeah, but it's ours, and we’re not leaving,” Menahem replied, stepping up next to him. “You got some friends that just arrived,” he continued, pointing to a group of people in combat armor, led by Lieutenant Taylor.
“Late to the party, Lieutenant?” Calvin needled.
“Better late than never, sir,” Taylor cheerfully replied.
“How’d you guys do?”
“Lost some friends. Leaguers lost more,” Taylor said, his face set in a hard look. “We ready to blow this door, kill these assholes, and go home?”
Calvin smirked and laughed. “You hear that, Master Guns? This soft fleet officer has some fight in him. I like it. Damn straight, skippy. I want this door rigged to blow five minutes ago.”
“Aye aye, sir!” Menahem answered, and directed the breach team forward. They placed explosive charges around the edges of the sealed door, linking them together with a remote detonator, which was handed to Menahem, who in turn passed it to Calvin. “Thinking you’d like the honors, sir.”
“Clear the area!” Calvin shouted as everyone took cover a safe distance away. “Fire in the hole!”
A monstrous explosion shook Calvin’s power armor, and the blast wave knocked over anyone who was standing nearby and not accustomed to such combat. As the smoke cleared, he could see where the door once stood, there was now a gaping hole. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, here’s the plan. We’ll volley pulse grenades into that room, charge through, and fire at will on anything that resists. Any questions?”
“Which one’s Will?” someone shouted.
“Anyone wearing a League uniform, smartass!”
“Hoorah!” various Marines shouted out.
“Pulse grenades, over,” Calvin screamed at the top of his lungs; Marines tossed half a dozen of the personnel suppression devices through the opening while enemy fire poured out, smacking the walls with ricochets. The second the pulse grenades went off, they charged into the control room. Calvin was the sixth man in, and Taylor was close behind. Stunned League security personnel tried to get their weapons up and were cut down by precise fire from the Terrans.
Calvin personally dispatched two League officers that drew sidearms on him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Taylor shoot another one in the chest when he tried to pull a knife. It took a few
minutes, but in short order, any armed personnel were killed or wounded, and everyone else surrendered. As more Terran Coalition troops poured into the control center, he allowed himself to relax for a moment; victory was achieved.
Amir absent-mindedly checked his oxygen readout for what had to be the five hundredth time; it still showed above fifty-percent reserves and hadn’t changed since he’d verified it last, about thirty seconds ago. This waiting is worse than death. Almost serene, he had a view few others would ever get of an epic battle between large opposing fleets; even with the limited optic range of his HUD, he’d been watching allied and League ships go at it for the last two hours. As the battle had moved away from his location, it had become safe enough for the fleet to send in search and rescue craft, escorted by limited amounts of fighters. Still linked into the CDF’s tactical network, he’d followed the performance of his squadrons and was pleased they’d, for the most part, achieved superiority in local space except for around Unity itself.
“This is SAR bird nineteen to Colonel Amir, come in,” a new voice said from within his helmet.
“SAR nineteen, this is Colonel Amir.”
“We’ve got a clear signal from you, and all pilots we can get to in this area have been picked up, per your orders, sir. Any objection to going home?”
“None at all,” Amir said. Insisting they get the rest of the pilots first was the hardest order I’ve ever given. Out here, alone and exposed to the vacuum of space is the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes, Colonel. Hang tight.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” Amir deadpanned in return.
The first indication that something was wrong was the flare of an engine from an icon marked on his HUD as a disabled League fighter. It zoomed off, Amir unable to track its movements against the blackness of space.
“This is SAR nineteen declaring an emergency! We’ve got a hostile heading straight for us. Request any friendly fighters to engage!” Allah protect them. “Colonel, we may have to double back for you,” the voice continued.
