COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 12
By Mya Thevendra
Another night passed. At some point in the early hours, the air conditioning system shut down, and while repairs were done, Ian's room began to swelter in the humidity. The heat sent Ian drifting in and out of sleep, and what little he had was once again troubled by dark dreams. He dreamt that he stood beneath a vast red sky, as if it were late in the evening, and around were leagues upon leagues of rolling green farmland. He was but a small child cowering at the enormity of his surroundings, and suddenly, unbelievably, the sky above began to descend upon him like a drape, crimson and terrible. Fear pressed him to the ground, and as the heavens fell, he felt the cold hand of death in his gut. Closer and closer, the redness drew, and as it struck, crushing him between itself and the land, he felt nothing; he knew only that he had died, and yet, he was still afraid.
Morning came, once again stealing any remembrance of his nightmare, but bringing painful memory of the previous day. Ian's mood was poor from the moment he opened his eyes. He washed and dressed, and after eating some food he had stowed in his pack, he left his quarters in the lower ring, and headed up towards the T.C.U. It was 0830. Today, he would be a spectator.
The TacCon was a flurry of coordinated energy; it was the busiest he had seen it since his arrival. A few extra staff had been drafted in, and the two tactical officers, Lieutenant Platt and Lieutenant Greaves were making sure that every last one of them was assigned to a task. Corporal O'Hanlan was on duty, and had taken up his station as squad coordinator, while the rest of the staff prepared the sensor arrays and tactical subsystems of the mainframe. Of the two officers, Lieutenant Platt had taken it upon herself to occupy the Commander's chair, in Harold's absence, while Greaves worked at one of the terminals adjacent to Corporal O'Hanlan, presumably so he could keep an eye on him. The view screens at the front had all been activated at once, and were ablaze with video feeds and sensor test screens; the normally dark interior of the TacCon had been flooded with a cold, green tinted glow.
As Ian walked past, O'Hanlan looked up briefly from his console, and the two exchanged nods. Ian got the impression that had their surroundings been less hectic, the young marine may have wanted to say more, perhaps to voice sympathies of some sort; Ian was averse to the idea, although he may have appreciated the thought, and decided it better that nothing was said. He stepped towards the rear of the room, at which point Lieutenant Platt spotted him, and promptly stood up.
"Good morning, sir."
Ian nodded briskly and then looked back towards the screens in front, squinting slightly in the emerald light.
"Don't mind me, Lieutenant. Just carry on."
Lieutenant Platt took her seat once again, retuning her attention to the chair console, while Ian walked slowly to the very rear of the room, and leant against the back wall. From here he could see almost the entire TacCon; little of the light from the front reached him, and as he stood in near darkness, he watched the surrounding activity from a bystander's point of view, unattached, uninvolved, and free from any responsibility. It wasn't a sensation which agreed with him, or disagreed for that matter; he felt a strange sort of isolation, as if part of him which he had never been aware of had been suddenly stripped away.
Ian continued watching, and at a little after nine o'clock, one of the secondary view screens on the front wall blinked as it flicked between receiver channels. Ian took a few steps forward, and peered through the green haze, as a video feed from the Main Barracks' exit bay flashed across the screen. Ian could see arrayed within the dim chamber the three squads from his unit which made up the scouting party, now fully clad in CMC powered armour suits. The last time he had seen any CMC gear had been two tours previous to this one, when the Spider Monkeys had taken up station on the border world of Menires Tor, and their familiar shape and motion was instantly recognisable. A rough crackle of static forced its way out if the TacCon's wall speakers, and then abruptly stopped, as the husky voice of Commander Harold Bellamy rang through the TacCon.
"This is Commander Bellamy. We're looking good to go, here; TacCon, give me an update, over."
The motorized hum of Harold's powered suit buzzed faintly through the speakers. Lieutenant Platt leant over and replied into her console microphone.
"All systems are optimal, sir. We're ready for you."
Ian stepped forward again, and watched as the camera view zoomed closer in towards the assembled marines. He immediately noticed that all of the helmets of the CMC suits had been modified; a smallish protrusion was visible on the right side of each one, and as Ian scanned over the terminals in the centre of the TacCon, it became clear what they were. To accommodate Confederate Command's wishes to capture footage of the marines' activities, each CMC suit had apparently been fitted with a small camera, which would transmit a signal back to the T.C.U. A series of terminals and their adjoining screens had been reset to act as data receivers for the live video feeds; they were currently showing static, but as Ian watched, the marines activated their new recording devices, and one by one the small screens flicked on. Each one showed a perfect point of view camera angle from each member of the scouting party, and Ian looked over at the terminal screens to see the faces of his unit from close-up. There was a look of readiness in their eyes, and a gladness to be back in fighting gear again; and yet here and there, Ian caught a glimpse of apprehension or unsteadiness. He had worked with the men and women of the 141st for four years, and whilst no great affinity may have formed between them, they had grown very much accustomed to one another. Being suddenly put under the command of another officer was bound to be at least a little unnerving, but Ian had trained them to be prepared for anything; although he had never had this in mind, he was confident his unit would do their duty.
In one screen he caught sight of the lively face of Sergeant Sheppard, who was already at work steadying the men and double-checking their gear. Over the terminals' speakers he caught a flash of a conversation between Sheppard and one of his unit; the marine had voiced her concerns about the change in command, and Sgt. Sheppard had done her usual good job in reassuring the men that all was well. She wore the same smile as the previous night, when the two of them had talked, and as Ian watched her preparing the unit, he felt his thoughts lighten a little.
Lt. Cmdr. Verrasin was also present, and Ian was able to both see and hear him through the monitors; in blunt contrast to Harold's broad American drawl, and the Anglian accents of Sgt. Sheppard and the Spider Monkeys, his thin, nasal voice was of apparently European origin. Whatever his ancestry, he gave the impression of a skilled officer, and a confident XO.
On the main bay camera, Ian watched the unit file towards the distribution alcove, as the newly arrived C-14 "Impaler" rifles were brought down on the conveyor belts. As the marines queued to pick up their weapons, Harold's voice sounded through the speakers once again.
"Look sharp Tactical, we're almost set. Lieutenant Platt, has Commander Latimer reported in yet?"
Lt. Platt acknowledged, and then looked around towards Ian, who stepped over to the nearest terminal with a com microphone.
"I'm here, Commander Bellamy." he said.
"Good morning! It's a fine unit you've got, Commander. And don't worry, I'll take good care of them. We're going to make some serious progress today."
With so many other people about, both in the TacCon, and in the exit bay, there would be no discussion of their argument the night before. Harold's words were spoken cordially, and mostly for the benefit of those around, to show the bond of friendship and loyalty between high-ranking officers. He must have met Commander Murello by now, and had probably gone through the same routine with him. Ian imagined he had most likely avoided Commander Deist.
Looking back over towards the video relay screens, Ian saw the continuing preparations within the exit bay. The monitors had already begun to record footage, and at some point in the future, it would be sent to one of the Military Relations divisions where it would be edited and spun into whatever promotional film they had in mind. As of now, the entire scouting party was effectively "on TV", and Ian expected that Harold would be making the odd uplifting speech or canny remark to add a little glamour to the proceedings. He had seen Harold in Confederate film reports before. In a similar way to how politicians might have a press team to help develop good publicity, it was apparent that Harold had been coached at least in some way, in how to act whilst in front of the cameras. When out of the spotlight, Ian was sure that he would be the consummate professional, but as soon as the recording started, Harold adopted a slightly different, almost artificial persona; he gave a thoroughly effective image of the daring and heroic Confederate Commander to send to the folks back home.
Ian's anger at the situation had subsided; and after the previous night, his weary sense of detachment had lingered on to some degree, and suddenly the thought of no responsibility seemed somewhat welcome. He leaned over again to the microphone.
"Good luck, Commander."
"Much obliged, Commander." came Harold's reply, "Okay, Tactical. We're on our way out."
The electrified groan of the main bay gate reverberated across the speakers as it opened, and with Harold and Lt. Cmdr. Verassin out in front, the party made its way through the access tunnel, and out into the morning sun. The day was hot, as usual, but the air was disturbed by a growing wind from the south, which had already begun to whip up sand and dirt.
Harold had arranged for three of the vulture riders to act as escort for the day's work, one of whom was Sgt. Gleason, and through the helmet cameras of the marines, Ian saw the three hover bikes parked outside the Barracks' exit ramp. After a brief rendezvous, the riders hurtled off to secure the route ahead as usual, while the marines began the slow march northwest; up out of the basin, and across the plains towards the caverns. With movement now aided by CMC servomechanisms, and the blistering heat of the Widow sun now negated within a controlled temperature power suit, the marines' journey would be a great deal less strenuous.
Ian returned to his hideaway at the rear of the TacCon, and settling against the back wall, he resumed his silent observation of events; events, which only the day before, he had been in sole control of.
The route was covered at a steady, determined pace, and Ian took casual note as he observed the tactical staff going about their work. He had rarely watched them specifically; in the usual order of things, they performed their duties in the background, stepping into sight only to receive his orders, and to provide him with important tactical information. As Lieutenants Platt and Greaves directed them, they worked swiftly and efficiently, testing systems, monitoring readouts and ensuring that every eventuality was prepared for. Even though much of it was overkill; the relatively small number of troops being coordinated meant that most of the staff were simply double or even triple checking each task, Ian was still quietly impressed with the apparent efficiency with which they went about their work, and struggled to find a member of the staff who wasn't engaged in one chore or another.
Ian turned his attention back to the video feeds, and watching through the monitors, he walked the route alongside his men. As they looked about them, Ian saw what they saw; The pale morning sky, the distant mountain range to the northwest, the spidery trails in the sand left by the cutting winds which blew at their backs; all were now familiar signs to Ian, who had travelled the route several times in the past two weeks. Part of him wished that he were out there now, in the gusting sand, leading his men. He felt shame of a sort, about his current predicament, and the stigma of having another officer command his unit had pressed to the front of his mind. He carried on watching, as the marines, with the wind at their heels, continued their slow march into the desert.
An hour and a half had passed, when the scouting party finally arrived at the rocky plateau; after which they advanced on ahead, and down into the wide, stony pit which enclosed the cavern entrances. The three vulture riders brought their bikes to a stop at the edge of the pit, and took up watch. Within the TacCon, the archived map of the tunnels stored in the mainframe was brought on-line, and O'Hanlan readied his console to begin directing the squads. The rest of the staff continued working, monitoring sensor readings and checking tactical systems, while Ian kept a keen watch on the scout team.
Harold split the party up into the three squads of which it was comprised, with each squad being led by one of the three officers present. After sending the other two groups ahead to the tunnel entrances in the northern and eastern sides of the pit, Harold stood on the verge of one of the openings in the centre, and activated the shoulder-mounted flashlights on his armour. Being fed by a much higher wattage than ordinary, gun mounted torches, the twin flashlights carved a wide gleaming shaft down into the blackness ahead. Ian half expected Harold to stop and take a moment to deliver some corny sound bite, but instead, Harold only looked back to check over his squad, and simply said:
"Okay, let's go, people." and headed inside.
After a brief lull in activity, the TacCon came alive once again, as the staff went about assisting O'Hanlan's efforts in tracking the three squads. Having performed this duty on a regular basis during the last two weeks, he had become quite proficient at it, and guided the marines through the caverns, to the points where each of the previous squads from Murello's unit had left off. Underground, and cloaked in darkness, the marines resumed their grim search; Ian sat against an illuminated handrail at the rear of the TacCon, and watched events unfold.
With each marine now wearing a CMC suit, tracking them through the caverns was made that much easier. Each suit had a radio set integrated into the helmet, as well as its own sophisticated signal booster, which drew power from the suit's primary energy coil. Effectively, it extended the range around the marines into which the base's sensors could penetrate, giving the Tactical staff a wider view when monitoring them on the sensor scope, although the heavy ionic compounds in the ground were still preventing them from scanning any other regions of the caverns.
As they worked their way deeper underground, the marines lowered their visors and activated their air purifiers, which quickly went to work filtering the toxic elements from the air. Across the radio channels, the low hum of powered armour echoed faintly inside the tunnels, as well as the sporadic com chatter of the marines as squad mates communicated with one another and with the TacCon. With torches blazing, the Spider Monkeys pushed onwards into the darkness.
Below ground, and hidden from the sun, time passed unseen for the marines, and ground was covered at an insistent pace; far above them as they worked, the sun rose to its peak, and began its downward arc.
Hours drew slowly by, and by 1800, almost fifty kilometres of tunnel had been uncovered. Corporal O'Hanlan and the rest of the staff had been kept busy coordinating the teams, and recording all of the new terrain data; the cavern map had expanded further than had been expected for one outing. With their movement assisted by CMC armour, the marines had been able to cover an extra ten kilometres of ground, but even so, were nearing the end of their strength. Ian had moved over to one of the sensor terminals, and had been following the party's progress on one of the contact displays. The squads, which showed up as small green blips on the display, had spread fairly far apart, and had indeed uncovered great lengths of unexplored tunnel.
Imagining that Harold would pull the team out within the next hour or so, Ian decided not to stick around; he had watched enough for one day, and had no particular desire to watch them trudge back to base. Having resolved to return to his quarters, and perhaps carry on with some reading, he stepped between a couple of the tactical staff to use the com microphone at an adjacent terminal. Feeling obliged to inform Sergeant Sheppard that he was retiring for the day, and to give Harold a congratulatory word or two about his good progress, Ian hooked into the internal squad channel used by the scouting party. While he did so, a nearby receiver console audibly relayed the radio signals from within squad number two, which Lt. Cmdr Verrasin had taken charge of. Ian was about to open the channel when the nearby radio chatter from the squad caught his ear, as one of the marines cried out. He turned his ear to listen in, and a commotion came through the radio feed from the marines.
"What going on?" said the voice of Lt. Cmdr Verassin through the relay speaker.
"It's all right sir." Ian instantly recognised the voice of Private Stephen Dawes, one of the longer serving members of the Spider Monkeys, "Don't worry, it's just Private Chimes. I think he tripped."
"Chimes!" shouted Verassin.
"Sorry, sir." came the muffled voice of Private Chimes, along with the sound of shuffling, presumably as the marine pulled himself to his feet.
Ian glanced over to the video feed, and put pictures to the sounds. Squad two had apparently entered another large cavern chamber, and had been traversing the chamber's floor, when Chimes had fallen.
"Watch your step," said Verassin, "there's a lot of loose rocks on the ground to trip on, keep your torches down when you walk."
"Sir, I didn't trip, I slipped on something…"
"What?"
As Verassin's voice paused, Ian looked over at the video screens. A flurry of flashlight beams bathed the ground around Private Chimes' feet as the other marines in the squad turned to see. A thick, wet glistening substance could be seen mired around the boots of the young marines armour. Ian watched from the viewpoint of another marine, as Chimes looked downwards.
"Oh God, that's…"
Chimes' voice shivered through the speaker, and Ian's heart stopped as the thought of what was on the ground struck him.
"Oh no, wait." Came chimes' voice, "It's Okay, it's, heh, it's just mud. Hey, wait a minute..."
"Mud?" asked Verassin.
"It is!" shouted one of the other marines, "Hey, woah! We've got mud down here!"
Ian could see Lt. Cmdr Verassin walk back to examine the ground, and then heard his voice once again.
"That's confirmed, it's mud, damn it! Tactical, we have definite high levels of moisture here!"
A few of the tactical staff had also been listening in on the conversation, and had alerted the two officers. Lieutenant Greaves stepped over to the video terminals to see what had caused the excitement. Upon seeing the wide, shiny patch on the sandy chamber floor, he nodded, a wide grin crossing his lips. Tapping into the squad channel, he spoke into his headset through to Lt. Cmdr Verrasin.
"This is Greaves, we copy, Lieutenant Commander. Please stand by."
Greaves quickly turned to the tracking console, where Corporal O'Hanlan was sitting, and checked squad two's position.
Ian took a step forward. Moisture in quantities like this meant one thing. The marines knew that there was no water in those caverns, not naturally occurring, at any rate; any moisture present would have to be the result of a chemical reaction. There were copious amounts of various gases and solid compounds in the tunnels, but in the two weeks they had been scouting the caverns, there had been no hint of any moisture; finding mud was a clear sign that a new chemical was present, and nearby.
Lieutenant Greaves turned aside and spoke into his headset once again.
"Lieutenant Commander, I recommend you perform a P.F.M. scan of the area to…"
"Already being done, Tactical, stand by." Said Verassin over the radio.
A moment after, his voice came through again, edged with excitement.
"Tactical, it's confirmed. We have very high levels of vespene compounds in the mud, as well as cerodite and exfilium deposits. my God, this mud's almost saturated with it!"
"Copy that, sir."
Verassin quickly tracked the moisture back to its source; a large region of the western wall of the chamber was caked with the same thick mud, and the floors of half a dozen passages which cut into the side were coated with it.
"All right, we have to be close, by God" came Verassin's voice as he spoke to the squad, "Split up into two man teams and fan out. Our objective must lie in one of these adjoining tunnels. I have a box of Truscan cigars in my quarters; the first team to strike gold may help me smoke them! Now, go!"
In the TacCon, Lieutenant Greaves had patched through to the other two squads, notifying them of what had happened; Harold was the first to reply back.
"God sakes! That's it, has to be! Tactical, squad one and I are about a mile and a half away, and are on route to Verassin's position." said Harold with a hearty voice.
Greaves acknowledged, and then relayed the message to squad two. Meanwhile, Sergeant Sheppard and squad three had checked in with O'Hanlan; they were also about a mile and a half from squad two, and after having circled through the tunnels in a wide arc during the day's scouting, had ended up fairly close to Harold and his squad.
"Roger that, Tactical, we're on our way in," came Sergeant Sheppard's voice across the com, "Commander Bellamy's only a few tunnels over from us; we'll head over to his position and join up."
Ian observed as squads one and three raced towards Verassin's position, while the marines of squad two dispersed, and began to hunt down the moisture's origin. Watching the readouts on the sensor screens, and then turning to the video feeds, all the while listening to the voices of the scouting party over the radio, Ian's heart began to quicken. The same anticipation, which drove the marines deep underground to cast off the fatigue of a heavy day's work, had gained hold of him as well. Trudging through the dark, day after day in search of the objective, and now, finally, it was within arm's reach. Sergeant Sheppard and squad three bounded into one of the tunnels ahead of Commander Bellamy, and the two squads continued on together, now still a mile or so from Lieutenant Commander Verassin.
The mood in the TacCon lifted perceivably, but it had passed Ian by. This glory, this triumph, what little there was to be had in finding minerals and gas, might have been his; but he felt no jealousy for it. He was a battered man, and quite without sufficient energy to feel jealousy; his resolve was broken. He felt weary, and could not shake the feeling of loss which had settled into him. As the chase continued, Ian stepped down towards Corporal O'Hanlan, still fairly busy directing the squads movement. He looked up at Ian, and turned, as if to acknowledge him, but Ian shook his head, motioning for him to stay focused on his duties. Deep below ground, squad two continued to scour the tunnels, while Ian and the rest of the staff watched, and listened.