COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 13
By Mya Thevendra
"Come on, come on…where the bloody hell are you?" Whispered one of the Spider Monkeys.
Four pairs of small video screens showed the slow advance of the marines, as they drove forward, seeking their objective.
"Damn it." came the voice of one of the others, "Bloody dead end."
Ian looked over to one side of the screen bank; one of the pairs, Privates Turner and Higson, had struck the end of their tunnel with no luck, and began back to the chamber. As Ian watched them walk back, Higson's viewpoint swayed a little, as if he was having trouble keeping a foothold in the cloying mud.
"Watch it, Mike." warned his squad mate.
Ian saw Higson's hand reach out in front and to the side to steady himself. At this point, he stopped walking.
"Hey Mike, what are you doing?"
What Private Turner hadn't seen, nor indeed had Ian or O'Hanlan, or any of the other tactical staff watching through the monitors, was that Higson's hand hadn't stopped when it hit the tunnel's side; it had gone right through.
"God, look at this, Paul." He said.
As he turned his head to see his own arm, which had gone through the wall up to his wrist, Ian and the others could see that the side of that particular tunnel was evidently only a few inches thick.
"Come on Mike, let's get this down!"
The two marines used the butts of their rifles to punch holes in the thin, dried wall of the passage, and then used their hands to tear away the rest, until a fair sized hole, large enough for one of them to pass through, at least, had been made. Stepping in front, Private Turner aimed his shoulder lamps into the cavity beyond; there was apparently yet another chamber, the floor of which could be seen beyond the opening, and with his rifle raised, he stepped through, Higson following on behind. Turner tilted his lamps upwards as they crept forward, and here and there, the beams met a solid surface, which sent the light gleaming and flashing back.
"Wait…flares." said Higson, cautiously.
Retrieving a flare pack from his suit's belt, he lit them all at once, and then separating them into individual sticks, he hurled them upwards out in front. After a few seconds, a thick rasping filled the air as the flares ignited, sending a cloud of red light into the chamber.
"Oh, Jesus."
Turner's sentiment was silently echoed by those observing in the TacCon. In front of the two marines lay the illuminated interior of the chamber, which was easily the largest which had been uncovered thus far; and lining not only the floor, but the walls and even the ceiling, and lying in great blossoming stacks which reached all the way to the top of the chamber, were hulking clusters of mineral crystals. As well as the red blush thrown off by the flares, there was a drifting pale green haze which lay further back; as the two marines walked on, and shined their lamps into the gloom, in the middle of a wide, shallow basin, a thick spouting jet of vespene gas could be seen forcing its way through the chamber's floor.
The tactical staff had paused momentarily to observe the progress of the two marines, and upon seeing the objective for themselves, broke into spontaneous applause.
Within the chamber, Turner opened his squad channel.
"Private Turner to Lieutenant Commander Verassin, do you read?"
"This had better be the news I think it is, Private."
"Affirmative, sir. We've located the objective; heavy concentrations of mineral deposits and vespene gas."
"My God, good work! All right, squad two, everybody get over there. Let's see it for ourselves."
Corporal O'Hanlan patched a line through to Commander Bellamy, and promptly informed him of the news.
"Ha! God damn it, that's it, we got it! Inform Lieutenant Commander Verassin that we're three minutes away, and Greaves, you tell that son of a gun not to start celebrating until I get there!" said Harold with a hearty voice.
Greaves gave a broad grin, and then passed the message on, while Ian returned to the com microphone, and spoke through on the open frequency.
"Congratulations Commander Bellamy." he said.
"Thank you, Commander Latimer, but I think we all deserve those congratulations. Everybody, job well done, damn well done. But remember, we've still got a lot of work to do."
The tactical staff responded well to Harold's praise, and while they carried on with their work, Ian went back to watching the members of squad two. Within a minute of Private Turner announcing the discovery, the rest of the squad had circled around, and entered through into the chamber. All eight of them, as well as Lieutenant Commander Verassin were standing at the front end, near the makeshift entrance, staring in awe at the sight before them. Private Helen Copeland gave a whistle.
"God," she said, as she drew her eyes over the deep blue mineral deposits, which had formed over the millennia into a series of abstract and almost beautiful shapes, "that ought to do it."
"All right people, let's see how far back this goes." said Verassin, as he started off further into the chamber. While the other squad members fanned out and pushed further in, Ian turned away from the screens. The work had been done, the objective had been found. He had been without responsibility of command for less than a day, and unsurprisingly, he had not adapted well to the change. He was a fish out of water, and would likely be so for the entirety of this campaign; and once again, he was without options of any kind.
Ian turned around to leave the T.C.U., and as he started on his way out, almost idly, he gave one last look at the video monitors, one last listen to his unit for the day. The first sound he heard was a wet squelch; the sound of someone skidding.
"Mike, you alright?" Said the voice of Private Jill Forbes.
"Whoa. Yeah, heh, I'm all right. It's this bloody mud."
Mike Higson's helmet camera panned down to his feet.
"It's, hey this- this isn't mud. What…Uhh, oh God it's cree-"
Ian had almost walked past the video relay terminal when he heard these last few words, followed by what sounded like metal being scratched. He froze, and then peered around to see what Higson was doing. The voices of his squad mates continued.
"What did you say? Mike? Hey, Tom, where is he?"
"He was just there," The video image from Private Thomas Shirlaw's helmet camera spun, as he looked around behind him, "just behind me. I sss…nnggg."
"Tom, what-"
Ian took a step back. At first glance is appeared that two of the monitors for squad two's video feeds had simply gone blank. Ian looked over to Private Forbes' monitor, and from somewhere off to the right, a shadow flashed across the camera view; the screen remained dark. Ian barely got a word out.
"What's…"
A noise shot through the radio channel that snapped everyone in the TacCon to stunned attention. The loud, single crack of a rifle discharge; it caused almost everyone to flinch with shock, and all eyes suddenly and rapidly turned to the video monitors. Perhaps half a second passed, when one of the speakers screamed.
"AaaGETITOFFMMM-"
In the next second, the screen relaying a feed from Verassin's camera shook, as the Lieutenant Commander ran back towards the others, the frantic sound of his heavy breathing rasping through the speakers, and off to one side before Verassin had seen it, was the obscured shape of a figure lying prone on the ground. All around him, a viscous, glistening fluid that wasn't mud was seeping across the chamber floor. A stride closer, and Verassin, having spotted the figure on the ground, turned his head to look at it. Through the shaking camera, and the haze of darkness, Ian had trouble identifying exactly what he was seeing; a fraction of a second later, a foot or two closer, and the shapes came into focus. Private Higson lay on the ground, his right leg ripped away above the knee, twisting violently as a man-sized creature reached through his shattered helmet visor with horrifically clawed forelimbs, and ripped his face apart.
Perhaps eight seconds had passed since Ian had heard the sound of scratching metal. His stomach had turned to ice. There was a nickname that the Anglian military had given to what was on the screen. They called them "little red bastards"; it was a gesture of defiance, wasted on an enemy who didn't even understand the concept, not to mention inaccurate, as experience had shown that many were not red at all, but were purple or green or even white. And at this moment, the one in front of Lt. Cmdr. Verassin, although it was reddish in colour, didn't seem very little at all. The American marines had a name for them as well, a much more widely used name; and it was the last word to leave Verassin's lips.
"God, zerglingsaaAAA-"
With alien speed, it leapt, another of its kind pouncing from behind. Verassin went down hard, and as metal was sliced open, his finger twitched against his rifle trigger, sending the horrific sound of automatic gunfire thundering through the cavern.
Nine seconds had now passed. Weeks with no enemy contact had slowed the reactions of almost everyone present. Four marines were down; the enemy had been sighted. Lieutenant Platt was the first to react.
"Contact! I repeat, enemy contact! Four men down, set TacCon to red alert!"
The air glowed as illuminator strips around the TacCon shone bright crimson. In front, Corporal O'Hanlan was about to make contact with squad two, when Lieutenant Greaves shoved him to one side and took over as squad coordinator.
"Squad two! Squad two! Please report!" he yelled into his headset.
On the monitors, four of the remaining five members of squad two had apparently been cornered along the side of the cavern, and were firing into the darkness at signs of movement that the video cameras could only barely pick up; the roaring chatter of Impalers blasted across the TacCon's speakers, accompanied by the nightmarish screeches of their targets. The fifth marine was running along one side of the chamber, his four squad mates some twenty yards in front of him; when his surroundings spun as he was brought down and set upon.
"TacCon! We're under attack!" spat the voice of Private Turner, pausing intermittently to fire his weapon, "Enemy units have taken the objective! It's, it's filled with them!"
Lieutenant Greaves had connected through to Commander Bellamy, who was still about half a mile from squad two.
"Commander! We have enemy contact!"
"What?"
"Squad two is under assault, four, no five men are down!"
"God damn it! Tell them to hold their position, we're on our way!"
Lieutenant Greaves quickly switched the channel over to squad two.
"Squad two, Squad two! Hold your position, I repeat, hold your position! Squads one and three are en route to reinforce! Squad two, do you copy?"
"Copy, TacCon!" came Turner's dim voice, muffled by near continuous weapons fire. In the midst of the hellish din, a distant sound was heard; a faint hiss of breath. Turner's video feed panned upwards as he looked at the cavern wall above where they were standing. Almost too quickly to see, a hideous mesh of shadowed forms fell from the darkness above. There was a sudden rush of movement, and amid the chaotic snapping of rifle fire, escaped the muffled, sickly sound of butchery. Within a second every video feed left from squad two had gone blank. Lieutenant Platt wasted little time.
"Commander Bellamy! Squad two is down! I repeat, squad two is down! Recommend you withdraw, immediately!"
Harold replied breathlessly, an edge of tension in his voice.
"Jesus! Copy that TacCon, show us the way out!"
The entire group came to a halt in the darkness of the tunnel, while in the TacCon, Lieutenant Greaves flashed his eyes over the cavern map, and cross-referenced it with the marines' position.
"Sir, take the tunnel behind you, the first one leading off to the right!"
"Got it, TacCon! We are heading back to the surface!"
Greaves glanced from display to display, searching for the quickest way back to ground level. Over at the other side of the TacCon, one of the staff called over to Lieutenant Platt.
"Sir, we've got sensor contact!"
"Show me!" barked Platt as she jogged across the TacCon to see.
"There, sir. Squad two's suits are still boosting the sensor signal…there!"
On the display, literally dozens of contact blips were funnelling out of the mineral chamber into the corridors around, and heading through the tunnels in one direction, before they faded from the sensor's reach.
"God, they're heading right for them," gasped Lieutenant Platt. "Greaves, get them out of there!"
"I'm working on it, damn it! Commander, there should be another junction about thirty metres ahead. Take the passage on the left, and carry on-"
"Wait, that's wrong!"
Corporal O'Hanlan sprang forward, and pointed to the map screen.
"Sir, that's not the right way! It's too far around, th-"
"Shut up Corporal!" snapped Greaves, as he turned back to the map.
"But, sir! I know these caverns!" insisted O'Hanlan, "There's a much quicker-"
"Damn it," yelled Greaves, "I said shut your fuckin' hole!!"
For the past few seconds, Ian's world had been spinning. It has started when his gut had frozen; the realisation that eight members of his unit had been slaughtered in front of his eyes had sent him into a hazy light-headedness. In the space of only a few seconds, his thoughts had raced. Was this fear that he felt? He had endured and survived dozens, even hundreds of combat engagements during his career, and had felt nothing like this. Once again, it had felt as though he were some bodiless spirit, detached from himself, watching his own demise. And then, he realised that he couldn't afford to be detached; the enemy was here, now, and his unit was under attack. He had to regain control. Suddenly, the slumbering soldier within awoke, and pierced through the haze like a streaking firebrand.
"Stand away, Lieutenant." Said Ian, stepping forward.
Lieutenant Greaves jerked his head around towards him, a look of frenzied defiance in his eyes.
"Sir? You can't-"
"Lieutenant stand away NOW!"
Lieutenant Greaves flinched as Ian's voice tore through him. He took a single step back, as O'Hanlan darted in and put his headset on.
"TacCon? What's going on up there, do you copy?" came Harold's livid voice across the speaker.
"Commander! Disregard the last message! Carry straight on, Straight on!" cried O'Hanlan into his microphone.
"Wha, God damn it! All right, TacCon, I copy!" replied Harold.
Lieutenant Platt yelled into her microphone once again.
"Commander, be advised, hostiles are on your tail and are closing fast!"
The next voice to come across the radio was from Sergeant Sheppard.
"Commander Bellamy! We've got to split up," she shouted, "give them two targets instead of one!"
"Go to it, Sergeant, I'll see you on the outside!" came Harold's puffing reply.
Ian glanced at the map screen to see the route that O'Hanlan had rapidly marked out for them to take, and spoke through into the console microphone in front.
"Sergeant."
"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Sheppard's voice was tinged with fear, but also a marked gladness to hear her commander's voice again.
"Cut right at the next opening" said Ian, "It runs parallel to the route the others are taking…and watch yourself!"
"Roger that sir, squad three cut right!"
Ian watched on the monitors, as eight of the fleeing marines, led by Sergeant Sheppard, flung themselves through a tunnel opening on the right, and sprinted on, their lamps cutting flailing beams into the darkness ahead. Adrenaline surged as they flew from peril, scant seconds separating them from the enemy behind. Suddenly, a warning alarm in the TacCon sounded a sensor contact in the marines' proximity, but one of them had already spotted it; Private Graham Smalls, running at the rear of Sergeant Sheppard's squad, twisted around as he ran, flicking his gaze behind him. A distant blur of movement brought him skidding to a stop.
"Contact! Little red bastards, right behind us!" he yelled, as he brought his rifle around to bear on their pursuers. The other marines ahead instantly stopped in their tracks, and Sergeant Sheppard screamed out.
"Smalls! Get your arse down!"
Smalls threw himself forward onto his knee; opening fire as he did so, while the two marines behind him swung their rifles up and fired over his head. Gauss fire perforated the tunnel space behind them, and in the glare of their lamps, as well as the muzzle flashes from their rifles, the Spider Monkeys caught sight of their enemy. Horrifically developed alien forms jerked and convulsed as weapons fire ripped through them. The bladed nightmares died shrieking and squealing, and the carcasses of those in front were torn apart by the ones behind as the heaving murderous throng pressed forward.
A second proximity alarm sounded out in the TacCon, and Ian saw on the sensor screen that some of the hostiles had spilled over into the tunnel that Harold and squad one had taken, and were in fast pursuit. The squad had spotted the enemy on their tail, and Harold shouted across the radio for them to engage.
"Squad! Stand your ground! Turn and fi-"
Suddenly a third alarm sounded, and across the speakers, the same devilish hiss could be heard. On the video screen, Harold's lamps shone on into the gloom, lighting up the tunnel in front. Harold staggered to a halt, and gasped sharply.
O'Hanlan's route had been quicker, and he had been right to contest Greaves' direction, but it was to no avail. Running at inhuman speed, the enemy had overtaken the marines along an adjacent corridor, and cut back into the passage ahead of them; jagged bodies, crawling across the walls and ceiling of the passage, flew into the light and leapt forward. With a curse, Harold lit up the tunnel with the rippling flash of his Impaler; as his rifle swung, two of the screeching shapes were eviscerated in the barrage, a third crashed into Harold, knocking him back and down to the ground. While two of the Spider Monkeys behind opened fire into the scuttling mass ahead of them, Private Phillip Beeley, who had been running directly behind Harold, grabbed hold of his arm as he fell, dragging him back. The thrashing figure that had cannoned into Harold lay almost on top of him; with one hand, Private Beeley thrust his rifle into the creature's torso and opened fire.
Watching in the TacCon, Ian saw the hideous shape flung backwards; a wrecked, bloody mass. Harold's armour had been shredded across the chest by the alien's claws, and even through the juddering video relay, Ian could see that he had been injured; thin, glistening trails of red spilled out from the cracks in his chest plate.
On the other monitors, squad three continued defending their position as the enemy advanced. The marines moved slowly back as they fired, swapping positions as rifles were reloaded. The hissing, crawling pack edged on, wading through the fleshy piles of their dead lying in front, occasionally making it close enough to spring forward, before being cut down. Ian was aware that it was only a matter of time before the marines ran out of ammunition, but knew that the moment they turned to run, they would be slaughtered. He, and those others watching were powerless to help; the marines were some eight miles distant, and cut off from any reinforcement.
At that moment, somewhere off to the side of the screen that Ian had his eyes on, was a stir of bloodied movement, as a pack of howling beasts erupted through the tunnel wall, and ploughed into the midst of the squad.
The video feeds from squad one flashed white as gauss rifles flared in the dark. Harold's team was firing in both directions: ahead of, as well as behind them. They were caught like rabbits in a den, as their vile assailants closed in on either side.
Beeley had pulled Harold back into the middle of the group, and was laying down fire at the enemy surging towards them from ahead. Their pursuers behind had closed to within ten feet, and pushed on, each forerunner buckling under the hail of thundering fire, before another slashed its way past. Closer and closer they pressed; Private David Freeman stood at the very rear of the squad, supported by Privates Clift and Newey, firing burst after burst into the approaching drove. Freeman yelled a curse as they broke through the battery of fire and leapt forward into the rear of the group. In the video screens, a chaotic, bloody melee ensued; Freeman was the first to fall, as two of the creatures drove into his armour with scythe-like claws, and hacked at his shoulder and torso. He died screaming as his left arm was ripped clear of his body; Newey staggered back, still discharging his weapon into the enemy, when three of the pack drove him down into the tunnel floor. Clift resumed a furious defence; firing continuously first into the three nearest creatures, and then into the advancing pack behind, he bought a few precious seconds more for those behind.
Ian winced as he saw Clift's wild rifle fire tear into Newey's savaged corpse; he could see no escape. His gut turned to ice as he watched, and turning back to the screens of squad three, his heart sank. Two of the screens had stopped receiving feeds, a third camera stared straight up, still and unmoving; the wet, grisly sounds of carnage continued to filter through the speakers. Ian's heart hammered like a piston as he saw what was happening.
Those creatures which had broken through the side of the tunnel mere seconds before had slain three of the squad with lightning swipes of their claws before being gunned down, but the chaos had given the hideous mob behind the marines the opportunity to cover the distance between them. A brutal close quarter struggle had erupted as the squad began to fire into their midst at the enemy. With a demon's screech, one of them leapt forward, pinning Private Smalls to the ground with its forelimbs. Sgt. Sheppard issued a cry of rage as she peppered the gruesome beast across its back, sending it reeling. Reaching down, she dragged Smalls back to the relative safety of the side of the tunnel. In the TacCon, Ian called into his microphone.
"Sergeant, Run! Now! Get out of there!"
Sergeant Sheppard gasped into her radio, raising her rifle again to fire as she did so.
"Sir, I...iiaagg-"
As Ian watched the video feed from Sergeant Sheppard's camera, a rushing shape obscured the screen, and the image shook. A muffled thump and the sound of cracking and scratching followed through the speakers. Ian's wavering voice was lost in the rising commotion within the TacCon.
"Whu- Lorraine? Oh, please God, no…"
Sixty metres away, and two video screens across, the survivors of squad two were being pressed closer together by the enemy on both of their sides. Clift and Private Cooknall had been engulfed by the rushing mass of claws and hooked fangs; their broken bodies lay somewhere beneath the alien tide which continued on into the blazing muzzle of Beeley's rifle. In front, Private Wilson watched as his squad mates ahead of him, Privates Bowen and Hurley were pounced on by two of the slavering beasts. Trying to pull Hurley free with one arm, he fired with the other, only to be set upon himself by two more of the creatures. The sandy floor of the tunnel ran thick with blood, as the marines' armour was penetrated, and three more lives ended beneath the aliens' slashing blades.
Beeley glanced back over his shoulder to find that only he and Commander Bellamy remained, and turning back around, he was thrown to the ground by the lead attackers, who had dodged around his rifle fire. As his abdomen was sliced open, his dying murmur was lost beneath the creatures' hellish baying. Ian stared blankly at the screens for squad three; not one remained active.
Harold's wheezing voice whispered through the speakers.
"Ian…"
"Harry, Jesus, hold on. Just hang on," said Ian through a dry throat, "we're coming after you. Just…"
"Nuh- no. No, s'too late for that, I think."
More than anything, Ian wished that he could see his friend's face, but he couldn't. All he could see was what Harold saw, as he lay on the floor of the shadowy tunnel: the skulking figures of clawed demons drawing ever closer. The TacCon had frozen in silence as Harold's voice sounded across his radio.
"Ian, you…you were right. It was your command. I'm sorry, Jesus, I shouldn't have taken it. I'm sorry."
"Oh God, Harry, please…" whispered Ian into his microphone.
"I'm sorry I took your unit."
Harold's video feed shook violently, as a blurry form streaked past. The sharp, wet sound of a hacking blade shot through the speaker; Ian thought he heard the sickly sound of a throat gurgling, when the speaker, and the video feed lost their signal.
"Harry? HARRY!"
Ian's scream cut through the silence like a bullet; all of the staff had been shocked into numbness by what they had just witnessed, and were now looking at him, as he stared open mouthed at the lifeless monitors. For a long moment, the silence hung heavily in the air. Eventually, Ian straightened himself, and then stepped back, his chest heaving slowly as he panted.
"All right," he said, his voice broken and breathless, "we're going out there."
"What?" hollered Lieutenant Platt.
Ian spun around to face her, his eyes frantic, "There've got to be survivors. We can't just leave them there!"
"Sir, there's no one! There's no survivors!" shouted Platt.
"You heard what I said!" snapped Ian, "Get, Get the other units suited up with whatever's left in the armoury. We're going out, damn it! I'm not going to just..."
"Commander Latimer, Sir!"
The voice was O'Hanlan's. Ian turned back to see a look of abject fear in his eyes.
"Sir, they're gone. they're all gone."
Ian stood still, while every other person in the TacCon watched him. He could see the fear of a young boy in O'Hanlan's expression; the fear of a boy forced to grow up too soon. Ian knew, that for all of his years, all of his experience, as he saw the look in O'Hanlan's eyes, he knew; that he might has well have been staring into a mirror.
His breathing slowed, and looking about him, he saw the expectant faces of the men and women of the tactical staff. This had been the last thing that any one of them had expected to happen. They could have endlessly argued the validity of the Confederate ComSat surveys that had found zero enemy activity on this planet, but it wouldn't achieve anything. His head slowly hung, and in that moment, sense returned to him. There was no time to grieve, no time for self-pity or for recklessness; it was time for him to be a soldier, once again.
"Lieutenant Platt." Said Ian, his voice low and steady.
"Yes sir."
"Get Sergeant Gleason and the other riders on the line, pull them back to base immediately, then get in touch with Commander Murello and Commander Deist, and inform them of recent events. We must assume that the enemy is on their way here. That gives us approximately thirty minutes to mount a defence." Ian turned back to Corporal O'Hanlan, "Get every marine on the base equipped and ready in five minutes, tool up with whatever's left; take it all, armour, rifles, grenades, gear is to be allocated by detail. Those squads acting on point will be equipped with the remaining CMC suits, as well as the Impalers. Get to it."
After a pause to collect themselves, the staff went back to their posts, and began to organise the base's defence. As the activity in the TacCon resumed, Ian looked back at the video monitors one last time, and then quickly walked out.