A World of Hurt

by David Sherman

  Bass knelt next to the pond and splashed some water onto his sleeve. The infra image of his arm glowed less redly where the water evaporated off it. He quickly plunged his arm to the elbow into the pond, and immediately yanked it out. His arm was enveloped in a cloud of steam that rapidly whisked away.

  Yes, his lower arm definitely showed less brightly in the infra.

  "Everybody, splash water on yourselves," he ordered. "Don't stand in the water, it's too hot. But evaporation from the water will cool your chameleons."

  The men of third platoon gathered at the side of the pond, splashed water on themselves and on each other, and disappeared in a cloud of steam. When the steam cleared, they were marginally cooler than before, but the atmosphere was still well above body temperature, and they coughed and sweated copiously, even with their climates on the coolest setting.

  As soon as the steam cloud dispersed, Hyakowa began assigning fields of fire and Bass reported to Captain Conorado.

  "Good thinking, Charlie," Conorado said when he heard what they'd done. "Burning through that fire wall was dangerous, but it worked. And that was smart about the water."

  "I didn't see any other choice, Skipper. How's the rest of the company?"

  "I've got them moved outside the valley. The flames were too close." He paused. "I'm on top of the saddle, where I can see into the valley. It looks like the entire valley is spotted with fire for three or four klicks in. How far away are you? I'm in a blind spot for UPUD reception."

  Bass adjusted his UPUD's display. "A bit more than a quarter klick from the edge of the forest," he replied, then paused to cough. "All I can see from the valley wall to about sixty meters from me is fire."

  "How are you holding out?"

  "It's hot in here. The smoke is clearing, though. The fire's hot enough that the updraft draws it away from us."

  Conorado looked at the flames above the trees. There was smoke down low, and another band halfway up the trees, but not much above that for several yards, where it was caught and whipped away by the growing wind.

  "No injuries?"

  "Only minor smoke inhalation and heat."

  "Is everybody drinking enough water?"

  Bass knew his reservoir was empty. He touched his canteens. One was nearly empty but the other was full. "If the fire burns itself out soon enough, nobody'll go down from dehydration. But we're sweating a lot and we'll need a lot of water and electrolytes when we get out of here. Probably oxygen too. We've breathed a lot of smoke."

  "Any sign of enemy?"

  Bass cut off an ironic laugh; laughing hurt his chest too much. "Anybody in shooting range of us is a crispy critter."

  "Keep me posted."

  "Roger that, Skipper."

  They waited and watched. There was nothing else to do except hack up smoky phlegm and take measured sips of water--those who had any. The pond water, even if it was normally clean enough to drink, was clotting with ash and totally unpotable. Puffs of steam rose here and there as the Marines splashed pond water on themselves and the men next to them.

  "You okay, Wolfman?" Claypoole asked after they'd waited half an hour. The air still stank of smoke and it was still way too hot, but the fire was receding on all sides.

  MacIlargie cleared his throat and worked saliva around his mouth before spitting. "Yeah, I'll make it."

  "H-Hammer? How about you?" Claypoole felt odd asking Schultz how he was, since the Hammer was always better than anybody else in a tough situation.

  Schultz grunted and hacked up black phlegm. He'd been the first in the platoon to raise all his screens and let air movement evaporate his sweat, even though he knew that reduced the effectiveness of his climate; he also knew there was no enemy nearby to threaten them. If embers hadn't been drifting through the air, he would have taken his helmet off.

  "I guess that means yes," Claypoole murmured. He looked at Schultz more closely. It was hard to tell with his coppery complexion, and the ash and soot coating his face, but the big man looked flushed. Claypoole snorted. They were all flushed; they had to be in this heat. How hot was it?

  He didn't want to know.

  He looked around at the other Marines. It felt strange to be able to see them even though they were in chameleons. Yet they were all clearly visible, an irregular gray from the ash and soot that coated them. He wondered how much longer they'd have to stay in the clearing.

  He looked toward the valley wall. The fire was nearly a hundred meters away, and much lower than it had been. He blinked and lowered his magnifier.

  Yes! He saw areas that seemed clear of fire--it must finally be burning out.

  "Sergeant Linsman!" he croaked.

  "What?" his squad leader asked.

  "Look there." He pointed. "The fire's breaking up."

  Linsman didn't bother using his magnifier. He peered and saw holes in the fire. "Hey, boss! Fire's starting to go out."

  Bass looked and grunted, his throat too thick and sore for him to try talking. He lowered his infra and examined the fire and the ground in between it and the platoon. He cleared his throat and hacked.

  "Third platoon, on your feet. Follow me." He led them toward another spot, closer to the fire, where the ground had cooled a bit. He nodded to Hyakowa, whose throat was in better shape than Bass's. The platoon sergeant radioed in a report.

  "It's breaking up on this side too," Conorado replied. "I've got the corpsmen standing by to take care of you when you get out, and a Dragon is ready to ferry anybody who needs it to the hospital."

  Bass checked his UPUD's visual. The fire, which just minutes ago had been almost two hundred meters wide, was less than half that. Maybe another half hour, certainly less than an hour, and they could get out of there.

  In twenty minutes the fire thinned farther and there was a path thirty meters wide through it. The only problem with that was, an arm of the fire blocked passage to the saddle where the company waited. Bass reported in.

  "I'm going to take a page from your book, Charlie," Conorado said. He'd moved to where his UPUD could receive the real-time download. "Get your platoon into position." He marked his map where he wanted third platoon to go and transmitted it to Bass. "I'm sending a squad back in to heat up that blocking fire. As soon as it burns itself out, come on through. Use your plasma shields."

  "Roger, Skipper." Third platoon moved to within fifty meters from the still shrinking fire.

  First platoon's second squad went back into the valley. Fire burned less than a hundred meters from the wall; everything between fire and wall was ash and splinters of charcoal. Seventy-five meters to their right a blaze was eating through fallen trees and heavy brush. They got on line and fired volleys into that fire until it whooshed up in billows of overlapping balls of smoke-eating fire. Moments later there was a flame-free passage along the valley wall. They passed the word and waited to escort their fellow Marines out of the valley.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "Shirts off!" Doc Hough shouted as the Marines of third platoon came out of the valley. "Get those boots off. Strip down!"

  Panting and gasping, the thirty-two Marines of third platoon staggered into the cool air under the trees. Their chameleons, dried by the heat they'd been in, were coated with ash and crisp with absorbed body salts. Sweat no longer flowed down them in sheets; sweat barely ran at all, they were so dehydrated. Relieved at being out of the fire, most of them ignored the corpsman in favor of finding shady places to drop supine and pant, opening their shirts as they did so.

  Corporal Claypoole tried to suck in a chestful of cool air, and his body wracked so violently with coughs he had to roll over onto his hands and knees to hack out his lungs. At least it felt like he was hacking out his lungs. He was only vaguely aware of other Marines from the platoon also bent over, hacking and coughing, or of the shouts of the corpsmen ordering other Marines to assist third platoon.

  He staggered as someone began pounding on his back, and more black phlegm erupted from his throat and mouth. A hand clapp
ed a flexible cup over his mouth and nose.

  "Breathe through this," a voice said, and cool, refreshing oxygen filled his nose and mouth and made its blessed way into his lungs. Claypoole pushed himself upright and clapped his hands over the cup, holding it in place.

  It wasn't until someone started pulling his shirt off, forcing his hands away from his face, that he realized the cup was held on by a band that went around his face and head. He tried to protest the rough hands, but was told, "Just relax, keep breathing." His shirt was off and water sluiced over his head and torso, cooling him.

  "Turn around, sit." He rolled off his knees and sat. Hands grabbed his calves and pulled his legs straight, then removed his boots. The words "Lay down" were enforced by a hand on his chest, pressing him back. Then his trousers were tugged off and more water sluiced over him, bare head to naked toe. He tried to focus on whoever was tending him, but the cool, clean oxygen he was breathing, and the cool, wet--so very wet--water, relaxed him so much he couldn't force his eyes to do what he wanted.

  Then, "How ya doing, Claypoole?" another voice said, and a face hovered just above his. Fingers touched his forehead, gently raised his eyelids one at a time.

  He brought his eyes together, made them focus on the face. "Not too bad, Doc," he said through the oxygen mask to Doc Hough. "How about you?" His voice was rough and muffled, but his words were clear enough.

  "Better than you, that's for damn sure," the corpsman said. "You're dehydrated, Marine. Gotta get some fluids into you." He lifted Claypoole's blistered arm. "Gotta do something about this too." Using economical movements, he quickly attached an osmosis fluidizer to Claypoole's left arm, then applied a layer of skin to the blisters on his right. He looked up, and someone helped him lift Claypoole into a sitting position.

  Hough lifted the oxygen mask from Claypoole's face and held a squeeze bottle to his mouth. "Here, take some of this. Don't swallow. Swirl it around your mouth, then spit it out. I know you're thirsty, but don't worry, I'll give you more." He gave the bottle a squeeze as soon as Claypoole opened his mouth.

  Cool liquid shot into Claypoole's mouth, onto his palette, cutting through caked ash he hadn't realized was there until the fluid hit. Obediently, he swished it around his mouth, forced it back and forth between his teeth, and ballooned his cheeks, each in turn. The fluid quickly began to feel gritty and slimy. He leaned to the side and spat. The stream was gray with flecks of black.

  "Again," Doc Hough said, and squirted more into Claypoole's waiting mouth. Claypoole swirled and swished again; it took longer for the fluid to turn slimy-gritty. What he spat this time, it was clearer than before.

  "Open up, let me see," Hough ordered. He flashed a light into Claypoole's wide-open mouth. "You're getting there," he said. "Take some more. Hold it this time, let a little trickle down your throat, then rinse and spit again."

  Claypoole did as instructed. He didn't know what the fluid was, but it wasn't water. It had the same viscosity and feel as water, but there was a faint taste of something else. Metallic? Salty? He couldn't tell and he didn't care. He wanted to drink it all, but rinsed with the rest and spat it out, then held his mouth open for more.

  "Just a little now," Doc Hough said. "Don't gulp it, let it trickle down. I'll give you more later." He filled Claypoole's mouth from the squeeze bottle, watched to make sure he was swallowing the liquid slowly, then patted him on the shoulder and got up. "I've got to take care of someone else now, but I'll be back. Put your oxygen mask back in place when you finish drinking."

  Claypoole reached for the squeeze bottle, but Hough snatched it out of reach. "Later," he said. "Lay back down now and rest. You're being rehydrated."

  Claypoole lifted his face to the sky and let the not-water slide down his throat. He replaced the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and lay back, reveling in how much better he was feeling. Then he remembered and sat up abruptly, looking sharply around.

  He pulled the mask away and croaked, "Wolfman, Hammer, where are you?" His men, he was responsible for them, where were they? He was sure they came out with him, but his mind and eyes had been so blurry he couldn't remember for sure. Were they being taken care of, were they all right? Where are they?

  "Schultz! MacIlargie! Where are you?" He struggled to his feet, looking around manically at the prone and supine third platoon Marines who surrounded him--there weren't enough of them. "Where are you?"

  A hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him around. He found himself nose-to-nose with Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher.

  "You lay yourself right back down, Corporal Claypoole," Thatcher ordered.

  "Where are my men? I've gotta take care of my men."

  "MacIlargie's right over there, under that tree. Schultz had to be medevacked, but he'll be okay. Now lay back down like you're supposed to."

  "Medevacked? Hammer? Gunny, I have to go to the BAS to make sure he's all right."

  "He's not at the battalion aid station. He got too dehydrated in there, he went to the hospital. There's nothing you can do now, but he's going to be all right," Thatcher said calmly. Then he raised his voice and fixed the younger Marine with a glower that would have made First Sergeant Myer proud. "Now lay back down and let the fluidizer rehydrate you, or you're going to be standing in front of my desk wishing you had!"

  "Ah, lay down. Right, Gunny. Aye aye, Gunny." Claypoole was about to lower himself back to the ground, then turned toward the tree where Thatcher said MacIlargie was laying. "I'll just check on Wolfman first."

  "Belay that!" Thatcher roared. Everybody who could looked to see who the company gunny was chewing on. "You'll lay right back down right now!" He lowered his voice so only Claypoole could hear, and added, "You're concerned about your men, that's what a good Marine noncommissioned officer is supposed to be. I'm your superior, and I'm telling you your men are taken care of. It's my responsibility to take care of my NCOs. You're one of my NCOs. I'm telling you to lay down and rest. Now do it."

  Gunny Thatcher had said he was a good NCO! Claypoole exulted. I'm one of his NCOs and he's taking care of me. "Aye aye, Gunny." He pulled the oxygen mask back over his face and sat down.

  "On your back, Corporal," Thatcher growled.

  Claypoole lay back.

  "That's better. Now stay there until I, or one of the corpsmen, tell you it's okay to get up."

  "Aye aye, Gunny."

  Thatcher nodded crisply and moved on.

  Claypoole lay there, absorbing fluids through the osmosis fluidizer, breathing clean, cool oxygen. Knowing his men were taken care of. Thinking how Gunny Thatcher said he was a good Marine NCO. Or as close as the Gunny ever came to saying that.

  Mike Company had gotten out of the valley's forest fire in better shape than Company L--none of its platoons had gotten trapped, as third platoon had. Kilo Company's corpsmen came to help Doc Hough and Company L's other corpsmen treat the Marines of third platoon. In less than half an hour all had been cared for and were recovering--even the six who'd been medevacked to the hospital in Ammon weren't in severe danger, though they would need a couple days of treatment to fully recover.

  Commander van Winkle made the rounds of his companies; he wanted to check on his Marines as well as get firsthand explanations of what had happened.

  "We were attacked, sir," Captain Conorado said. "Our plasma bolts set off fires, and the fires grew. It's as simple as that." He looked toward the saddle that led to the valley.

  "Just like that, it grew," van Winkle repeated quietly. Captain Boonstra, Mike Company's CO, had told him the same thing--the fire simply started, and it spread as if the forest was tinder dry. Yet the forest hadn't been dry. The ground was damp, the foliage lush, and many tiny streams ran through it. A forest like that shouldn't ignite easily, nor should a fire spread through it so rapidly.

  Damn these people, he thought. No one had ever made a proper survey of Maugham's Station. There must be something in the chemical makeup of the forest vegetation that made it more susceptible to fire than forests
of other worlds. Even a cursory examination by the Bureau of Human Habitability Exploration and Investigation should have discovered that volatility. Evidently, BEHIND's initial study of Maugham's Station before the colony was established, when it had been an emergency way station, was even more casual than he'd imagined.

  But if the vegetation was so highly flammable, why weren't frequent forest fires recorded in the database on board the Grandar Bay? The number of forest fires worldwide that the string-of-pearls detected was well within the statistical norm for a world with the area of woody tracts of Maugham's Station.

  So what was different here?

  He needed to secure samples and have Brigadier Sturgeon send them to the Grandar Bay for analysis.

  "Where's Bass?" van Winkle asked. "I want him to tell me about what happened with his platoon."

  "He's over here, sir." Boonstra led the battalion commander to a tree, under which Ensign Charlie Bass was giving a corpsman from Kilo Company a hard time about his treatment.

  "--all right, I tell you. Take care of my men!"

  "Ensign, maybe you scare your own company corpsmen, but you don't scare me." The corpsman did his best to sound firm, but he didn't sound as tough as his words--Charlie Bass did scare him. "They wanted to medevac you, and so do I. Your lungs need to be suctioned to get the gunk out. We can still medevac you, you know. Now suck on this tube if you don't want me to put you on the next Dragon out of here!" He was trying to insert a flexible tube into Bass's mouth and down his throat when van Winkle interrupted him.

  "Ensign Bass, are you trying to damage Marine Corps property?"

  Bass twisted his face away from the tube and looked up. "Sir!" he said, harsh-voiced, and began to stand up.

  Van Winkle clamped a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rising. "Sit, Charlie." He glanced at the corpsman and gestured for him to leave them. When the corpsman was gone, van Winkle squatted next to Bass. "What the hell happened that you got stuck in the middle of a forest fire?" he asked.