COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 9
By Mya Thevendra
And so Ian, and the soldiers of Fort Sunderland settled into routine; night and day became meaningless, as body clocks were adjusted to follow the authority of the duty shift. The marines were awake and alert when on duty, and slept soundly and deeply when off. Days passed, and away to the northwest, the caverns unfolded before the scouting parties' unrelenting advance. The sun rose and fell, and the yellow ground burned and cooled; day by day, the TacCon's cavern map extended further into unknown regions. The marines worked on in the darkness, through winding tunnel, and across narrow ledge; using ropes and climbing hooks to delve into those passages out of reach, casting flares to illuminate hollowed chambers, from where yet more tunnels sprang out. Through searing day, and shadowed, dusty night, the marines worked on.
Eleven days passed with little event. Nearly five hundred miles of tunnel and cavern had been mapped, and yet the scouting parties had still found no sign of the objective. Seven days of harsh weather had put the Rippers' sand proofing to the test, and most had held up well, but a handful had succumbed, and with no replacement parts for the eroded rifles, they were rendered useless.
Away in the west, the Widow sun cast a ginger glow across the evening sky as it set, and on the temperate sand below, Ian, Sgt. Sheppard, and three squads of the Spider Monkeys trudged back to Fort Sunderland after another day of creeping in the dark. A solid day's work had been done, and the marines thought of little but food and rest as they covered the last mile and a half back to base. The basin lay before them, and Ian brought the group to the top of the rocky corridor in the cliff, when his earpiece crackled to life.
"Commander Latimer from TacCon, do you copy?" said the voice of Tactical Assistant Nicholas Holt, the TacCon staff officer who was sharing duty with Corporal O'Hanlan.
"This is Latimer."
"Commander, S.T.C.U. just reported incoming traffic."
Ian stopped in his tracks. Rather than continually waiting and hoping that the supply drop was going to arrive, Ian had instead decided to turn his thoughts to more immediate matters, and concentrate on the tasks at hand. After eleven days of immersing himself in the routine of scouting duty, as well as being occupied by his numerous responsibilities as Tactical Commander, Ian had almost forgotten about the dropship run scheduled for that evening. For a moment, he stood hopeful, anticipating Holt to come through with the news that the long awaited military supplies had finally arrived, and only a second after realised that the cargo would be nothing more than provisions and medical supplies.
"A dropship?" asked Ian, as he began down into the corridor.
"Checking…confirmed, one Osprey class dropship inbound, bearing 082 degrees. They've entered atmosphere and are on their way in."
"Have they made contact yet?"
"Copy that Commander, S.T.C.U. reports the incoming dropship has made radio contact. They've just declared their cargo, food and water rations, engineering apparatus and parts, Med equipment, personnel and military supplies."
"Very well, th-what?" Ian stopped a second time, but this time for good reason.
"Say again TacCon?"
"Confirmed, Commander. Incoming dropship is carrying personnel and military supplies"
"Where are they?"
"They're two kilometres out from the base, sir. They should pass right above you."
Ian spun round and peered into the sky to the east. Amid the background of crimson, and the glowing streaks of gaseous vapour high in the stratosphere, the profile of a Confederate dropship sat low in the sky, gleaming as it reflected the last, fading light from the setting sun. As it approached, the roar of its engines preceded it, and mere moments after, it thundered overhead, and down towards Fort Sunderland.
Ian gazed at the craft as it arced towards the base's starport. Military supplies: that meant only one thing, that the weapons, ammunition and armour that the marines had been waiting for, for so very long had finally been shipped. The personnel on board would have to be the Tactical Command officers, sent to assist Ian. They were a few days early, but so much the better, he thought. Sgt. Sheppard had listened to the conversation on her headset, and looked at Ian with bright eyes and a wild grin. Ian gave a soft sigh. He hadn't been waiting anywhere near as long as Murello and Deist for these supplies, or anyone else who had been assigned to Fort Sunderland from the beginning, but the wait had taken its toll. Short of the war being over, it was just about the best news he could have hoped to receive. With renewed energy and vigour, Ian hoisted his pack and turned to his unit.
"Come on, double time!"
The Spider Monkeys passed down into the basin and covered the two kilometres back to the base at speed. As they drew in, they could see the vapour trails from the dropship's engines still lingering in the air, tracing a path overhead towards the starport's landing pad, and they could hear the faint echoes of commotion as far above, ground crews went about unloading the vessel's cargo.
Once inside the barracks, Ian quickly stowed his gear, and activated the nearby com terminal, patching a line through to the T.C.U. Tactical assistant Holt's face appeared on the view screen.
"Holt, report." said Ian.
"Sir, the tactical officers have arrived: Lieutenant Hilary Platt, Lieutenant Jonathan Greaves and Lieutenant Commander Konig Verassin."
Ian hadn't heard of any of them, but that didn't surprise him. They had probably been transferred from far afield to plug the gap in the officer corps left by the enemy's attacks. Thirteen days had passed since Ian had arrived on Widow XII, and he had no ideas as to how the war might have progressed since then, no idea of how many officers or units might have been pulled from their assignment to replace the dead.
"What about equipment?" asked Ian.
"I'll send a copy of the drophip's cargo inventory to your terminal, sir."
Ian waited a moment as the information was fed through to the screen in front of him. A list of items scrolled into view, and Ian read quickly through. The dropship carried a full complement of fifty standard issue C-14 Impaler rifles along with ammunition, as well as eighty CM-16d "Shredder" machine guns; smaller and lighter than the C-14, the "Shredder" made up for it's poor range and low ammo capacity with its effectiveness in close quarters. In addition to these, there had also been two block crates of CFG-2 fragmentation grenades, with sixty grenades in each, and three more boxes of flares. It was a good turnout, thought Ian, and if equipment was still in short supply, as it had been when he had been assigned to Fort Sunderland, then this shipment was to be appreciated. Scrolling down to the bottom of the list, Ian saw the finishing touch; thirty-five suits of CMC-300 powered armour. It wasn't enough for everyone, but it didn't have to be; there were enough now to make sure that every member of each future scouting party would be properly protected. Once the resources had been found, the Engineering Bay could start making use of its construction templates, and begin manufacturing more of them for field use.
"Commander, there was another officer on board the dropship." Said Holt, "He's just been registered into the base mainframe."
"Who?"
"A Commander Harold Bellamy, sir."
Ian raised his eyebrows.
"Bellamy?"
Ian spoke the name in hushed disbelief. It was a surprise even greater then that of the arrival of the military supplies, and caught Ian entirely off guard.
"Where is he now?"
"Hold on, sir."
Ian waited as Holt retrieved his location from the Adjutant.
"He's in the officers' mess, sir."
Ian hurried out of the barracks, and up towards the shuttle terminal, where he barely made it through the doors of the waiting transport. Now, at the end of the day, people were returning to their quarters from the day's work, and the shuttle murmured with the conversations of civilians, engineers, technicians and operators, all worn out after their shifts. After nearly two weeks, Ian had become a little more recognised than when he had arrived, and here and there he was given a respectful nod or an acknowledging smile. In truth, he cared little for it, and especially not at this moment in time; right now, he was rather too preoccupied with the news he had just received to engage in pleasantries with strangers. Once inside the command centre terminal, Ian quickly made his way inside and into the upper ring, and then along the corridor leading to the officers' mess. He opened the door and walked in; inside, leaning against the small table on the far side of the room, and taking a slow sip from a glass of water was a near giant of a man. Standing well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, he was a daunting sight. Thick tresses of greying auburn hair crowned a grim, well-defined face. Clean-shaven, and dressed in the standard sand coloured combat fatigues; his bright eyes widened as Ian walked inside, approached him, and then clasped both hands around his shoulders.
"Harry!"
Commander Harold Bellamy took Ian's hands and shook them, a fond, heartfelt smile having swept across his face.
"Ian! Jesus, it's good to see you."
"My god Harry, what are you doing here?"
Harold Bellamy chuckled, and it was a sound that Ian had not heard in many a year, a sound that brought only the best memories to mind, and the warmest feelings to heart. Harold was one of those unruly Yanks that Ian had such a poor view of; born on the confederate world of Krigo Val, he had joined up with the Marine Corps when he turned eighteen. In the midst of scores of marines and officers who had been drafted from a life of crime via the resocialisation process, Harold was one of the few volunteers in the confederate marines, one of those who had joined out of loyalty to their home world, and to the cause of peace. He was one of the few who came through the colony wars with success, not merely survival to his name, and who had stood up to be counted.
Ian had first met him in 2575; Ian was twenty-three, Harold a year older. During the colonial revolt on Jenes V, Marine brigades from the Anglian worlds of Milo, Euripides and Ian's home world, Farris Minor, were drafted in to assist those platoons already dispatched from Tarsonis and Verda. The campaign was bloody, and raged on for many weeks; when the revolt had finally been stemmed, no platoon or brigade had been left with more than a third of its original number. The marines were forced to remain vigilant however, by small pockets of resistance who continued to strike out even though their rebellion had been crushed. While they dug in and waited for reinforcements to arrive and help contain the remnants of the rebel force, the exhausted marines cast aside their old unit affiliations, and combined to form new platoons, fewer in number, but each with a full complement of men.
It was in one of these new, joint units that Ian Latimer and Harold Bellamy first met. Ian had been stationed with the 124th "Journeymen", Harold with the 111th "Muskrats". With twenty-one men left between them after almost three months of fighting, these two units, along with the survivors from the 131st "Polaris Fire", were dissolved and merged together to form the 149th "Windtails", a unit which had survived through to the end of the colonial wars, and presently, still remained in active service. After fighting alongside each other through such bloodshed, in the midst of such terrible conditions, the marines from both Anglian and American origin had come to form strong bonds with one another, even though there were various disagreements about each other's methods and conduct. Even in his youth, Ian had harboured a certain mistrust of the American marines; they were seen to be rowdy and careless, while the Anglians were just as unfairly perceived as being arrogant and imperious. Ian and Harold had been assigned to a squad together, and against their prejudices, and as is usually the case with squad mates, the two became firm friends. Having survived numerous scrapes on Jenes V, the two of them went on to face ever more dangerous situations in hostile environments as they successfully completed four tours of duty with the 149th. There was a stark, yet affable contrast to their friendship; on the one hand, there was Harold Bellamy, a giant of a Yank who roared in battle, and was as lively and as cheerful as any soldier could be, and on the other was Ian Latimer, a wiry, pale Anglian, who ate his meals by himself, and who rarely spoke save to acknowledge orders.
Despite their skill, the Windtails never came through a tour of duty without taking losses, and as they watched their friends and comrades die, Ian and Harry learnt to watch each other's backs. The Windtails were periodically infused with new blood as new recruits and veterans alike were transferred in to replace those lost in combat, and after serving four tours of duty, Ian and Harry were given the option to either remain with the unit, or be transferred out themselves. Despite their fondness for the Windtails, seeing that nearly all of the original members had either been killed or otherwise declared missing in action pushed the two of them to decide that it was time to move on. Each going their separate way more than four years after they had first met, they had agreed to try and stay in contact with one another, and both had managed for a little while, but the different paths that both took after leaving the Windtails made staying in touch increasingly difficult.
Ian returned to serve in the Anglian Marine Corps, and after six years of steadily rising through the ranks, and two temporary commands, he was given full, permanent command over his own brigade; the 141st Spider Monkeys. Ian had built no reputation in his role as a marine commander, not even amongst the Anglian Corps; his was not a prestigious unit. Instead, he preferred to simply follow orders, achieve objectives as best and as efficiently as possible, and to make sure that his unit got home safely.
Harold Bellamy chose a significantly different path. After transferring out from the Windtails, he signed up with a succession of high risk, front line units: the 82nd "Brazen Stars", the 103rd "Vipers" and the 76th "Jagged Edge". Each platoon was well known to be amongst the first response units dispatched by Confederate Command to trouble spots, and as Harold improved his standing in the Marine Corps and moved from one unit to the next, successive high profile victories earned him a reputation as a man capable of getting results. After four years of fierce fighting in the colony wars, he was rewarded with various opportunities to command, and over the course of the next five years, Harold both acquired and relinquished authority over two marine platoons, one mobile armour division, and two confederate bases; he made a glamorous practice of taking up the reins of any high risk, heavy outcome situation that was in need of a commanding officer, and then passing over responsibility as soon as the situation had been resolved; he moved from glory to glory, and all the while the approving gaze of Confederate command was upon him. Since the start of the war, he had become one of the Confederacy's "Golden Boys", and these days functioned as an independent trouble-shooter, assigned by Command to oversee high priority situations, and ensure success for the Confederacy.
The two had lost contact at around the time that Harold had been given his first command, some six years ago, and in that time he had aged well. Approaching forty, he was in good enough shape to take down any younger marine who felt brave enough to try him; his physique showed little sign of flagging under the influence of time, and his keen eyes reflected a wit honed and kept sharp by the rigours of combat. It seemed as though time had hardened and ripened him, whereas in Ian's case, it had simply worn him down. Even his laugh was the same; it was deeper, and there was a stony rumble to it, but it had still sounded with the same vibrant energy of his youth. As Harold chuckled, Ian was reminded of the times when the two of them shared guard duty in the Windtails, long nights when Ian would listen intently to Harry's disgusting stories of war and lechery. They would come out with wild and comical plans for what they would do after the war had ended, and they would laugh with the defiant, youthful humour of boys wearing soldiers' uniforms. Harold would make light of any situation he could, even battle: after the fight was done, and even during, he laughed, as if the world meant nothing, as if no force could ever harm him. It was a good laugh, and for the fist time since he had arrived on Widow XII, Ian smiled openly.
"I'm having a drink," said Harold, smiling and holding up his glass, "It's like a furnace out there!"
"Harry!"
"Heh heh, I brought your supplies!" said Harold, smirking.
"I'll say you did. Eighty Shredders, that's not bad at all."
"Well, it's like my grandma used to say, you can never have enough fully automatic machine guns."
The two of them laughed, and it was like old times, as though the years had been stripped away. For a moment, they were back on guard duty, huddled against a wall in the rain with nothing save their limitless imaginations to entertain them. Harold put a great hand on Ian's shoulder.
"God sakes, Ian. It's been too long. It's been way too long."
Ian gave a gentle nod.
"You're right."
While Harold drew up a chair, Ian poured himself a glass of water, and brought the glass and the jug over to the table. Sitting down opposite Harold, he drained a full glass, and then poured himself another.
"Whoa," Said Harold "been out in the sun?"
Ian nodded from behind his glass.
"I was, heh, I was about to say…you're a little ripe." said Harold
Ian put down his glass and smiled.
"Yes, well, crawling around in hot caves for seven hours tends not to work wonders for the old body odour."
"Right, how's it going anyway?" Asked Harold, taking a sip from his glass. Ian leant back in his chair, and heaved a sigh.
"About as well as can be expected, I suppose. Progress is slow, but we're keeping at it."
"How's your unit?"
"The Spider Monkeys? I suppose they're all right. Managing well."
"You got a new XO, right?"
"Well, she's hardly new. She's been with us for fourteen months, now. How did you know? Been keeping tabs on me, have you?"
Harold gave a soft grin.
"A little. It's good to keep track of people; I doubt you've been doing the same."
"I didn't have to," chuckled Ian, "all I needed to do was turn on the television, and there you were!"
"Exaggerating a little don't you think?" Replied Harold with a sly expression.
"Yes, well, you've certainly made a name for yourself. You've done well."
"We all have." said Harold.
It struck Ian as being the sort of thing a sports coach might say to a losing team to cushion the blow. He imagined that in Harold's position, he would have had to make uplifting speeches to rally the troops, and he had probably become fairly adept at ad-libbing that sort of thing; he hated to think that Harold might use lines like that on an old friend, such as himself. Ian put the thought to one side as Harold spoke again.
"So…you got a woman as an XO. I never have thought you'd go along with that."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Ian with a raised eyebrow.
"Well, it's not that you were ever prejudiced or bigoted or anything, but, you were always a little..."
"A little?"
Harold bit his lip and smiled.
"I guess you were a little…narrow-minded. All those yank jokes your Anglian pals used to tell back in the Windtails, you never joined in, I know that, but you never disagreed. Even though you never said anything, I knew that you never really trusted us, not really."
"I trusted you, Harry. And in any case, it's not like your lot didn't give the same to us. All those jokes about Brits having to be ordered to go to the toilet and so forth."
Harold grinned and nodded.
"I suppose it doesn't really matter," said Ian, "in the end, we all worked well as a unit."
Harold leant forward and gazed down into his glass.
"Yeah, good old Windtails."
For a moment, the two sat silently, sparing a thought for their old unit, and the memories that had came with it.
"Anyway. Hunh, a woman." Harold smirked and shook his head.
"Hey, knock it off," said Ian, laughing, "Sergeant Sheppard's a fine XO."
"She is?" said Harry with a mock sneer.
"Bloody right. In fact, I'd go as far as to say she's the best XO I've ever had."
"Uh huh, and you didn't object to her assignment as your XO whatsoever?
Ian paused, his mouth open.
"Well, I..."
"Ha, I knew it! I knew it, same old Ian!"
Ian laughed and shook his head.
"Yes, all right, all right. Anyway, I've learnt better since then, lots better. She really is the finest officer I've ever worked with. I honestly couldn't do without her."
"Well, " said Harold, leaning back again, "I'd like to meet the woman who finally managed to impress Ian the chauvinist!"
"I am not a chauvinist. Anyway, it's probably not a good idea. Right now, she smells as bad as I do."
"Oh, that's nice, real charming!" laughed Harold.
Ian smiled, and finishing his glass, he set it down on the table.
"But, anyway, Harry, what an earth are you doing here?"
The cheerfulness ebbed from Harold's face, as he looked Ian in the eyes.
"Well, Ian, that's just it. It's…it's not good news."
Ian furrowed his brows and looked back across at his old friend, caught slightly off guard by the sudden change of mood. After a short pause, he spoke.
"Go on."
Harold rested a hand on the table, and spoke slowly, and sombrely.
"Ian, there's no easy way to tell you this, so I'm just going to come out and say it. I've been sent here by Confederate Command to relieve you of your duty, and to assume the post of Fort Sunderland Tactical Commander, effective immediately."
Despite having just drunk two glasses of water, Ian's throat felt suddenly dry.