CHAPTER 8
Major Perrin followed Colonel Jematé and Lieutenant Colonel Timmons toward a checkpoint in the gap of razor wire and electrified fencing around a squat building, the bottom level surrounded by blast resistant T-walls. The way into the building was a wide path bordered by more razor wire, with small anti-personnel mines scattered around the coils.
Jematé and Timmons were in their Cataphract suits, while Perrin followed behind. Wearing Flanker gear made the most sense as he was a staff officer and not meant to be commanding on the front line like his two superiors. Still, he was rated for the heavy armor, and it was harder to command authority over someone who was better armed, armored and taller than you.
In his opinion.
A pair of Dagger drones kept watch directly overhead the three officers. The surrounding Tabuk City was a mix of decrepit buildings and Hegemony-standard hab towers. The convoy had arrived without further attacks, though the infantry units stationed on the perimeter had been rather icy with them when they arrived.
“Evening, sirs,” a military policeman in Flanker gear said just outside the guard shack. “General Brooks is waiting for you. Got a matter of policy to go through before you’re authorized entry.”
The guard took out a pair of cylinders about the size of a thumb.
“Why do we need restraining bolts?” Timmons asked. “We’re all on the same side.”
“It’s policy.” The guard jerked one shoulder up. “Been a number of . . . incidents in the last couple of months. At other commands, not here. Boss runs a tight ship. Enhanced security measures were put in place. I don’t have the authority to allow un-vetted personnel in with active weapon systems. Sorry, sirs.”
“It’s fine.” Jematé popped a small panel open on his suit’s upper chest. He didn’t squat down to make the cop’s job of fixing the bolt to the receiver any easier. The breech on Jematé’s rotary cannon mounted on his back beeped and clamped shut, and red lights blinked on the frame holding it, as well as the frame with his mortar tube.
Timmons accepted his restraining bolt, and both continued through the razor wire-lined path with a serpentine turn in the center.
“Need your carbine and sidearm, sir,” the guard said to Perrin. Perrin’s face contorted in anger at the mere suggestion he could be disloyal to the Hegemony. He was about to argue, but the colonels didn’t seem interested in waiting for him. He grumbled and handed over his weapons.
“I need a receipt,” Perrin said.
“Oh, sure thing, sir.” The guard double-tapped a small screen on the back of his hand and a completed form blinked twice on Perrin’s forearm screen. “Don’t meet many that do things right by the book all the time.”
“Trust has to go both ways.” Perrin jogged after the two Cataphracts.
“—not even a threat briefing before we rolled out,” Timmons said to the colonel. “There’s a serious command and control problem on this planet, sir.”
“I agree with your assessment that things are . . . brittle,” Jematé said. “We’re not here to fix things, Paul. We’re here to perform our duties for the Hegemony.”
“The Command Sergeant Major will go into conniptions if we get jerked around again,” Timmons said. “Not that it bothers him, it’s that he has to tamp down on our soldiers. Who are justified in asking questions, if I may add.”
“You may, just not in front of anyone outside the battalion,” Jematé said. “Perrin, you have the support request drawn up?”
“Roger, sir.” Perrin held up a data wafer. “I’ll run it straight to the logistics desk when we get inside.”
“No, wait until we’ve seen the general. Let me kiss the ring before we go asking for favors,” Jematé said.
They entered the building. The inner walls were lined with sandbags and all the glass in the windows had been removed or blown out. The headquarters smelled of mildew and body odor. A folding table near where two hallways converged bore a decaying cardboard box overflowing with small soap bottles and the same plastic-wrapped toothbrushes dispensed in Hegemony prisons.
A major in simple fatigues and a gun belt waved them towards a hallway that curved around the operations center. Perrin tried to get a glimpse inside and spot where the logistics desk was but was hurried along by a forceful stomp from Timmons.
A Cataphract with a forearm-mounted double-barreled autocannon—better for close confines—stood in front a set of double doors. His helmet was painted with ash to resemble a skull. Kill tallies stretched across his chest from one shoulder to the other.
They waited for an awkward moment, the Cataphract refusing to acknowledge them. A door opened behind him and bumped against an axe mounted where the mortar tube or rocket launcher should’ve been.
“They’re cleared, Areca,” a dark-skinned man said from behind the door. The Cataphract took two steps to the side, never turning away from the Brettons.
“I’m General Brooks.” The man opened the door fully and slapped his hand over his heart in lieu of shaking hands with Jematé or Timmons.
“Bretton Eleventh, reporting,” Jematé said and touched his metal-shod hand to his chest.
“Come in, come in.” Brooks raised a hand and lights rose in the large office. The three-quarters waist-high ring of a battle management stations switched on and holo screens flickered to life.
Perrin noticed a battered Cataphract suit against the wall next to a cot with a single duffel bag underneath it.
“Sorry, I was asleep when you pulled in.” Brooks stretched his arms out, then picked up a faded yellow tennis ball from the battle station. “I understand you took some fire on your way in?”
The general held up two fingers and the holo panels switched to an overhead view of the city. Tabuk straddled a narrow river that ran along a mountain range. Open fields beyond the city were marked with dense minefields, and the closest peaks bore drone nests with nearly full complements of Daggers and Sparrow reconnaissance platforms.
“Five dead, six wounded,” Jematé said.
Brooks raised an eyebrow and put his hands on his hips.
“So, you’re at well over ninety percent strength? Fresh to the fight as well. Fantastic.” Brooks bounced the tennis ball off the floor and caught it. “There’s a lunar eclipse coming up and you’re aware of what that means.”
“Sir,” Jematé took a breath, “with all due respect, we do not know what that means. My battalion and I are true to the Hegemony, but we’ve been thrown out here with little to no explanation, an anemic threat briefing that amounts to ‘they’re out there, shoot ’em’ and our foundry units are still on our civilian transport.”
Brooks’ brow furrowed.
“When did you arrive? The only thing I’m tracking is the next courier from the Highest that’s supposed to come with my orders off this rock.”
Jematé brought the general up to speed on their arrival to Dahrien and Tabuk City.
“Oh . . . ain’t that something,” Brooks chuckled. “Not ideal. Not ideal at all. The marshal needed warm bodies to throw at a problem and he tossed you in my lap. Did you get—never mind. If I start talking about something you know, tell me to skip ahead.”
The general picked up a stylus and stretched it out into a pointer.
“The enemy has coalesced around the Red Banner, a quasi-religious organization that the locals have glommed onto. Their raison d’etre is to overthrow the Hegemony’s authority over the planet and they’ve been successful at it everywhere but the Capitol province and surrounding territories. My city’s the bleeding edge between the marshal’s law and the Red Banner. Forgive the pun.”
The planetary map appeared in a corner; everything on land but a small patch around the capital was shaded in red.
“The Hegemony controls that little?” Jematé asked. “The marshal’s map—”
“Were there piss bottles in Van Wyck’s office? Because he hasn’t left his room since he was ambushed and the Banner took his scalp but left him alive. Which didn’t do us many favors,” Brooks said. “The marshal got his stars because his cousin is one of the Most High. The Banner didn’t kill him as he would’ve been replaced by someone mildly competent. Which isn’t what we’ve got now.”
Perrin’s eyes widened as the general’s near-insubordination continued.
“But word from the Highest is coming.” Brooks smiled. “Me and my boys are almost set to go home. Soon as word comes. You all can hold down this fort. Where was I? The enemy.
“Computer, display western pedestrian cameras.”
New screens popped up. Groups of civilians walked through automated checkpoints and onto dirt roads leading East. Most carried heavy packs and dragged children along with them.
“The locals cycle back to their ancestral homes at lunar eclipses to commune with spirits or some such,” Brooks said. “At least, that’s what they say. They weren’t doing it until the Red Banner became a planning factor. I’m convinced they use the ‘pilgrimage’ to conceal the Banner’s movements and move the civilians out of harm’s way before an attack.”
“Why let them go? Keep them in place as a security measure to—” Perrin shut his mouth when Brooks shot him a dirty look.
“A commander to the north tried that. His entire command were scalped over a single night and their bodies hung to rot in the jungle. So I’d rather not fuck around and find out with my Flags, especially when I know most of them hate my guts for existing,” Brooks said. “We’re beyond the classic fight for hearts and minds here. We just have to hold out until the Highest sends a large enough relief force to kill our way to compliance.”
“Sir . . . killing civilians is not what the Hegemony expects of us,” Jematé said.
“That’s why the Hegemony has Skiens, gentlemen. They aren’t made with any sort of qualms.” Brooks rubbed his face. “Which is a big part of the problem.
“Computer, how many hours until the next scheduled courier from the Highest?”
“Next transit from the Elko system scheduled to arrive in fourteen hours” came from the battle tracker.
“So close.” Brooks smiled again. “None of my boys want to be the last one killed on this shithole. That’s a planning factor.”
Perrin made a mental note.
“Attacks aren’t guaranteed, but possible during the lunar eclipse,” Brooks continued. “You’ve had a brush with the Red Banner’s tactics, but they’ve got a good number of Alliance-designed light tanks and knock-off Shrike drones. Local manufacture, the Patty licenses which those shitheels claim is pirated, but no one believes that. The Alliance won the war and then just had to keep rubbing our noses in it. Hmmph.”
“That class of tank shouldn’t be an issue for us,” Jematé said. “Not with the plumbata missiles Cataphracts carry.”
Brooks nodded.
“You are correct, but the Flags figured out what our complement of missiles is and figured if they attack with significantly more tanks than that . . . we get overmatched. There’s a company of Wolverine tanks at an outpost on Highway Seven leading to Ifugao City. They can be here in less than an hour, but they’re also supporting the forward operating base at Port Abra.”
Perrin opened his mouth.
“And before you ask, the company’s sequestered from the locals as it’s a Skien unit. Locals don’t care much for them. At all.” Brooks tossed the ball up and caught it with his other hand. “Could’ve saved a lot of lives if even a platoon was stationed here, but the marshal outranks me, and I’m not interested in waking up with my hair cut down to the bone by trying to be cute and outsmart him.”
He tapped the end of the stylus in the holo and the map zoomed in on a trench line on the eastern edge of the city.
“You’ll relieve the Eighth Etruvia Infantry. They’re actually rotating out on schedule, for once. I’ve got bunkers and auto-gun emplacements through the sector so it’s not open trenches. Lunar eclipse is in . . . nine hours. Attacks usually happen plus or minus a couple hours from the planetary shadow completely crossing the moon,” Brooks picked up a paper cup of cold coffee, swished it around, and took a sip.
“Is there any specific intelligence about an upcoming attack?” Timmons asked. “I saw friendly units on the map in towns further to the East. Anything from them?”
“Yes, them,” Brooks chuckled. “Local militia units. Nominally under my command but the only convoys that ever make it to those towns are full of ammo and weapons sent by Central. Those same convoys would get hit on their way back after they delivered the supplies. I’ve had their regular re-supply drops held in my yard. Loggies don’t mind, paperwork they send up keeps Central happy and they sure as hell aren’t coming here to investigate.”
“Then what about those militia units? When was the last time they were inspected?” Jematé asked.
“The last time someone wanted to, they visited the incinerators with a tag on their toe,” Brooks said. “Are you going to believe what Central has on their boards or what I’m telling you?”
“Boots on the ground always have the best read,” Jematé said after a moment.
“Good, because I was about to invite you to go inspect them yourself and solve a problem for me, but you’re a sharp cookie. Brandon doesn’t produce idiot officers, nice change of pace.”
“It’s Bretton . . . sir,” Jematé said.
“Yes. Anyway . . .” Brooks wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “Captain Tharsis is in command of the Eighth. She’ll send an escort for you. Be in position in the next six hours. Rotations last a week. Whoever replaces me when the Highest sends reinforcements might change it. Send your foundry requirements to my S4. Heck, I’m almost done, I’ll approve anything.”
The general laughed and reached under the battle tracking station and pulled out a small bottle held against it with tape. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig.
He coughed and held it out to Jematé with a slight shake.
“No, thank you, sir,” Jematé said. “Is there anything else?”
“Dismissed.” Brooks wagged a hand at them. “I’m drinking to good news. The Flags hearing that the Most High are finally sending reinforcements might make them behave. Might, but they don’t know what’s good for them. Now shoo.”
The three Bretton officers left the room. Jematé and Timmons paused several steps away and just around a corner from the guard at the door.
“Perrin, take our requirements to the logistics office on duty,” Jematé said. “XO and I need to speak.”
“Moving, sir.” Perrin tapped the pouch on his chest harness and the data drive inside. The Tactical Operations Center was unusually quiet compared to what Perrin expected. The usual central battle command station was on a raised dais, with outward holo projections of the tactical situation in and around the city. He noted the Eleventh’s brief battle in a small callout box on the bottom left corner.
His presence in the TOC earned a few looks, but no one seemed particularly interested in him. Each staff section had a sign over the desk, and he went to the S4—Logistics and Supply—cluster. A single female soldier was there, her uniform blouse was hung over the back of her seat, and the sleeves of a too-big undershirt hung lower than her elbows. She was painfully thin and had sunken eyes.
“Hello, I’m Major Perrin with the Bretton Eleventh. General Brooks directed me to deliver our immediate logistics needs. Our own foundry units are still stuck back at the Malakal auxiliary void port and—”
“You just came from off world?” She rubbed an eye. “Did you come with word from the Highest? Are we rotating out?”
“We arrived separately from that . . . ma’am? Forgive me, I don’t know your rank,” Perrin said.
“Last name Nelson.” She glanced at the rank on his chest. “I’m not . . . exactly sure what rank I am. The major died a few weeks ago and we haven’t heard back from Control if my brevet promotion was approved. Or if it was even sent. The Adjutant went missing the same day the major was hit.”
“I . . . I’m sorry to hear that,” Perrin said.
“Got your reqs?” She held out a hand and track marks from needle injections were visible on her inner elbow and down her forearm.
Perrin passed the data drive to her trembling hand. She popped it into a reader and a flickering holo screen projected from it.
“Huh . . . that’s all? You don’t want any chem tubs?” she asked.
“What are those for?” Perrin leaned to one side and saw Jematé and Timmons engaged in an intense conversation.
“The tak tak flies. They’re bad this time of the year and give soldiers the trots. Drop some insecticide cubes in the chem tubs and then you’ve only got the roaches to worry about.” She shivered and banged open a drawer. She gulped down water from a bottle.
“Aren’t there chem tubs already in place?” Perrin asked.
She leaned forward and Perrin saw an ugly jaundice in her eyes.
“Little hint about Dahrien. If you’ve got something, don’t ever give it up. The Eighth won’t leave a damn thing behind for you. See, couple years ago this levy unit from goddamn nowhere was supposed to cycle off world and go home, but Central canxed their orders while they were on the tarmac waiting to board transport. They had nothing but their bare issue and were deployed to Kurdufa Province.”
“And?” Perrin asked.
“Kurdufa’s a no-go zone. All Red Banner and Flags. Entire unit got wiped when they tried to hold an already looted FOB. Ran out of ammo and everything in hours.”
“That’s horrifying. Who was held accountable?”
The woman snorted, then broke into a guffaw.
“You’re serious? Okay, new guy. I kinda like you so I’ll add a couple line items to your foundry queue for stuff you’ll need.” She winked at him. “I’m leaving with the general anyway and if the Hegemony thinks they can recall me to fix a property booking . . .” She laughed some more.
“Thank you,” Perrin said.
“And if you need anything,” she rubbed her track marks, “or you got anything . . . swing on by. There’s a market for just about everything here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. What’s the usual flash to bang time for this sort of a requisition?” he asked.
“You’re asking for some pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. Probably by the end of tomorrow. And you should get all of it delivered to you.” She leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “You request anything special or valuable and I suggest you pick it up from the foundry yourself. Things tend to evaporate during transit if they’re in demand.”
“I’ll also keep that in mind . . . ma’am?”
“Just Tonya.” She winked at him. “You need anything off the books, I probably know someone who’s got it.” She rubbed her track marks again.
“Thank you, Captain. Or Major. Tonya.”
“I’ve got the certs to make the Foundries purr.” She tapped against an imaginary keyboard. “That’s what matters. Stay safe out there.”
Perrin nodded at her and hurried to catch up with Jematé and Timmons as they headed for the exit.
Noah stood in the entrance of a flash-crete bunker. The inner walls were molded over, and the distinct smell of old urine and fresh feces drifted out from the dark corners. Crude graffiti of a woman prepared for intercourse adorned the back wall. A single tap light on the ceiling flickered intermittently.
“Noah, get in there and inventor—oh my God!” Mason put the back of his hand over his mouth as he came up behind Noah. “There’s a shitter dugout right over there. It works. I just used it.” He pointed down the trench.
“The cam feeds are up.” Noah leaned in and glanced at a bank of holo monitors showing open fields. “Why did they relieve themselves in here before they left?”
“Because they’re assholes. I thought Hegemony Marines were the only ones that did shit like this,” Mason said. “We’re not sitting in there until it’s clean. Man the gun point while I find some bleach or something.”
He turned his brother around and pointed him towards a small dome built into the trench topped with a pair of autocannons. Noah opened a curved metal door so heavy that he had to use his Flanker’s strength-assist ability to get it wide enough for him squeeze in. A single ratty stool, remote controls and displays were inside. Crumpled food wrappers and other garbage were smooshed against the floorboards.
The smell was noticeably better than the bunker, but still reeked of body odor and farts. Noah sat on the stool and tested out the controls. The display view shifted from side to side, and the crosshairs turned green as the aiming systems adjusted to target a low hill in the distance.
“Private Tallec.” Sergeant Corre rapped his metal-shod knuckles on the steel door. His helm face was open, the thick chin piece angled down. “How you doing?”
“The ammo cans reserves aren’t even.” Noah tapped a display. “I don’t know how that happened. I burn through the right side and the left will rattle itself out of alignment and we’ll have to reset them during combat.”
“No . . . how are you doing? Chaplains weren’t on our levy assignment. We’ve only got each other when things get bad,” Corre said. His face had a five o’clock shadow, blue eyes still sharp even though the rest of his visage spoke to exhaustion.
“Should be fine, sergeant. I had the highest score on the firing point sims back home . . . oh, you mean about Donan?”
“Yes, private, I mean Donan. We’re Bretton, not robots. It’s been go go go since we landed, but when you sit here alone and you’ve got time to process what’s happened . . . it catches up with you. There are plenty of old hands here that know what you’re going through,” Corre said.
“Roger, sergeant. I don’t—I don’t understand what happened to him. He was in the cargo bed when the front went up. How did it even . . . ?”
“Alliance bolter-head munition,” Corre said. “Designed to penetrate light armor and then explode inside the crew compartment of a vehicle. The enemy came prepped to take out the convoy; they weren’t equipped for fighting Cataphracts or determined Flankers like you. The bolter popped and tossed Donan out into the jungle where you found him. It was quick, at least.”
“At least,” Noah said. “What’ll happen to him now?”
“Hegemony policy is to cremate remains and transport them home when available. I processed his tags and the packet went back to Central. Priority traffic like that gets routed back to Bretton as soon as possible so his family will know soon. The LT and I will write letters to the family, that’s our duty. Would you write one too?” Corre asked.
“Me? I’m nobody, Sarge,” Noah said.
“You were his battle buddy. You’ve known him for a while, yeah?”
“He got drafted within a few days of the levy order from the Highest. I was passed over for pox exposure and didn’t think I was going to get to go. Him and a couple other guys from the football team that were drafted all reported to the recruiting center at the same time. I went with them and just . . . went inside. Turns out I was eligible to enlist and didn’t even need a med waiver for the scars. So I signed up to stay with him. Rest of the other guys are all over in third company.” Noah kicked at a roach as it scurried along the floor.
“Do me a favor. When you’ve cycled off duty, write up a letter to his family. Say what he meant to you but don’t mention the fight, that’s the LT’s job.”
“Roger, sergeant, can do,” Noah said.
Corre looked back at the dugout.
“Your bunker’s getting bleached from top to bottom right now. Go to bunker nineteen and crash for a couple hours. Either it was unmanned or the last guys in there weren’t a bunch of fucking animals because it only smells like mold and old food rations. Besco’ll take your spot here. Ask the doc for a sedative if you need it.”
“Thanks, sarge, but I think—”
“Did that sound like a request, private?” Corre’s tone hardened just enough to straighten Noah’s back.
“No, sergeant. Sorry, sergeant. Moving, sergeant.” Noah shoved the door open and slipped into the trench. Thunder rumbled through overcast skies and thick raindrops spattered against his head and face. Noah looked up as rain materialized out of the misty and low cloud ceiling. The drops were warm and had a faint smell of sulphur to them. He licked a drop from his lips and spat it right out.
Thunder rolled into a sharp crack and the rain came down in sheets. Noah bent forward slightly to protect his carbine and ducked into the other bunker.