COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 14
By Mya Thevendra
Fort Sunderland was placed on full alert. Maintenance and technical crews around the base sprinted through red flashing corridors towards their positions, to prepare for the coming attack. In the Main Barracks, the two remaining units of marines rushed through into the secondary armoury, acquiring their gear from the distribution points directly outside it, before hurrying down into the exit bay.
After taking the first available shuttle to the Barracks, Ian ran inside, and up to the secondary armoury. Marines inside made way for him as he collected his gear; those men on the front of the defensive line had already been equipped, and Ian took his armament from what was left, a CM-16d "Shredder" machine gun, as well as survival gear, a light supply belt and a headset. Alarms whined, and the dark interior of the Barracks flared a dull red in the glow of alert bulbs on the walls and ceiling.
Having been deliberating the situation in his mind, Ian had come to a decision. He had hoped to be able to resolve this crisis somehow, but the gnawing instinct in his gut, which he was learning more and more to respect, told him that they were fighting a losing battle; he prayed it wasn't too late to gain a draw. While the marines continued picking up their gear behind, Ian opened a line through to the TacCon from his headset.
"TacCon from Latimer, do you read me?"
"This is Platt, go ahead Commander."
"I've decided, Lieutenant, that it's time for us to break the communications blackout."
"Commader, we're under express orders to maintain communications silen-"
"Lieutenant, if it were just a small enemy force, we might be able to contain it, but I have a strong feeling we're going to need support on this. I'm ordering you to send out a priority one emergency distress signal to Confederate Dispatch. Inform them of our status, tell them to send any and all available troops to reinforce us. Tell them that Commander Bellamy has been killed in action."
"Yes, sir"
"O'Hanlan, give me a sensor report…" said Ian through the cry of the alarms.
"Sir, there's nothing on the scope; we've got a clear reading all the way to the caverns, and we can't see a thing."
"I wouldn't be surprised, Corporal," said Ian, his voice grave, "if those tunnels extend further towards this base than we'd expected. If they do, and the enemy is still using them, they could burrow out of the ground right on our doorstep. Keep watching."
Ian closed the line and was about to head down to the exit bay, when the ten remaining marines of the Spider Monkey brigade came running into the corridor. Stopping as they saw Ian, they quickly stood to attention. They had not yet been notified of what had occurred only minutes before in the desert caverns; they had no idea that Ian had just watched the other twenty-four members of their unit being massacred, no idea that their Sergeant's lifeless, flayed body lay miles away in the dark underground. Ian looked emptily at them, frozen for a moment, before giving them their orders.
"Get kitted out. You're on rearguard."
The Spider Monkeys acknowledged quickly, and sprinted past to pick up their equipment. Ian stood still in the midst of the surrounding commotion, and lost himself in thought, but only for a moment. Slinging his Shredder under his arm by its strap, he started off down towards the exit bay.
Inside, marines from both units had begun pouring in, and Murello and Deist were already inside. The marines from the "Tommy's Curse" had finished gearing up, and were assembling in front of the exit gate, with Commander Deist standing grimly at their head. Murello stepped towards Ian as he entered, already sporting his pack and firearm, while the Jackknifes began to assemble behind.
"What's the plan?" he asked
"I want three squads from each unit to take up position on top of the basin's ridge, just above the corridor," said Ian, speaking loud enough so that the rest of the marines could hear, "the last two squads, and the Spider Monkeys will hold the ground directly in front of the base, as backup, or in case they burrow through underneath and straight into the basin."
"All right boys and girls, you heard him!" shouted Murello, and in the next few moments, the gate was drawn open.
The marines filtered quickly out of the barracks and into the evening sun, those squads assigned to the ridge running at full pelt across the basin's floor. Ian was amongst the last to leave the barracks, and accompanied the Spider Monkeys on their way out. As he ran alongside them, he debated within himself whether or not to reveal to them the fate of the rest of the unit. They most likely suspected something, and would eventually be notified anyway, but it was the difference between being told by their own commander, and reading it on a computer screen. He decided that it was his responsibility to deliver the news himself; now, however, was not the time. The Spider Monkeys reached their position, along with the fourth squads from the Jackknifes, and the Tommy's Curse, and as the golden sun sank into the horizon, Ian ran on and up towards the ridge.
Nearly twenty minutes had passed since contact had been lost with the scouting party. Ian huffed as he jogged up the rocky corridor, and up onto the plateau. In front, more than fifty marines were arrayed in a wide defensive line; those wearing powered armour stood at the head, their Impaler rifles pointed into the northeast. Ian spoke into his headset as he drew up.
"TacCon from Latimer, where are Gleason and the others?"
"They're closing in on your position, sir," replied Lieutenant Platt, "less than half a mile. they should be in visual range."
Ian glanced over to his right. The land away to the northeast was saturated with the crimson glow of the westering sun, and some way off in the distance, the smoke trails of three vulture bikes could be seen speeding towards the marines' line. Ian stepped up to the front, taking up position beside Commander Deist, and waited for the vultures to draw in. With the attention of the marines behind focused on the approaching bikes, Deist turned slightly towards Ian, still keeping his eyes on the distant riders, and spoke in his gravelly voice.
"Heard about your unit. Tough break."
Ian nodded slowly.
"We're heading straight for it, I think. Better learn to watch your back…Latimer."
Not sure as to what Deist had meant, Ian turned to face him. There was a look in his eyes that Ian couldn't identify. Since he had arrived, he had been a little wary of Ingo Deist; there was a strange, slightly unsettling quality about the man. He had a look about him now, and an edge to his coarse voice, which was not trickery, or menace, but rather gave the impression of a quiet piece of advice, which could be taken however Ian wished. As he opened his mouth to speak, Ian was interrupted by the blaring voice of Sergeant Gleason in his earpiece.
"Hey! What's going on?"
The riders had been well aware of the scouting teams fate, having been alerted by the TacCon as soon as the hostiles had been sighted but had been helpless to intervene, the tunnels being too narrow for them to manoeuvre their bikes inside.
"We're making our stand here, Sergeant. Get in touch with the rest of your squad and bring them out, and take your position on the line."
Gleason and the other two swung around to the wings of the defensive row, and powered down their engines, their bikes drifting lazily downwards and settling on the ground. While Gleason contacted the remainder of his five-man squad, a signal came through to Ian from the TacCon.
"Commander Latimer from Lieutenant Platt."
"Go ahead."
"Sir, the distress signal has been sent. Dispatch sent a reply back through the Sigma beacons; reinforcements are on their way."
"Good. That's all, Lieutenant."
The Sigma beacon relay system was a common method of accelerating stellar radio traffic; signals of sufficient priority that would ordinarily have a travel time of hours, days, or even weeks, could be hooked through a linked series of specialised cipher beacons to reach their destination in a matter of minutes. It would take a fair deal longer, however, for their reinforcements to arrive.
Ian turned to find Deist gone; he had moved across to the far left edge of the line. Giving no further thought to his remarks, Ian stared away into the northeast, watching for movement. The marines settled into their positions, their weapons armed. Commander Murello's voice spoke across the command channel.
"Well, now what?"
Ian peered across the long row of marines to see Murello on the right hand edge, some thirty yards away, looking back towards him.
"We wait."
And so they waited. They waited with their guns primed, and their eyes keen. Minutes passed, and gradually hours; and as the sun passed slowly out of sight, and dry, blustery night fell over the desert, they waited still. During the dark hours, Ian moved to the side of the line, and looked down into the basin. In the centre, was the distant, glittering shape of Fort Sunderland, the marines stationed close by still holding their position.
Thoughts of friends, and of faces made familiar through years of bloody strife, echoed through Ian's mind. He dared not think too closely of what he had lost, of whom he had lost; there could be no allowance for grief. The pain of their deaths had overwhelmed him, but he had steeled himself since. There must be no grief, he thought, not now.
The hours continued to pass, and eventually, the grey light of morning spread across from the east. Far to the right of the sturdy marines, the sun crept into the pale sky, and dusty heat rose once again. A still, scorching day gradually fell upon them.
The time was slowly approaching ten o'clock; the marines of Fort Sunderland had remained vigilant for almost fifteen hours. They had waited and waited, and yet there had been no sign of the enemy; nothing had come. Ian squinted into the east, and followed the line of the landscape around to the north, searching for any sign of movement, any shape, any hint at all of the enemy, but as the TacCon had confirmed repeatedly during the night; there was nothing there. Miles upon miles of nothing but empty, searing earth lay sprawled around them.
Through the night, and then the morning, barely a word had been spoken. Ian stood silent and unmoving, considering their next possible course of action, when the TacCon called through to him.
"Go ahead, Lieutenant." Ian replied.
"Commander, S.T.C.U. has detected inbound traffic. Two Buzzard class troop transports have just broken atmosphere."
"Buzzard class." Repeated Ian. The Buzzard type heavy transport, whilst one of the more dated vessels in the Confederate fleet, was still in wide use as a troop carrier, each capable of ferrying a platoon of up to sixty marines in its berth. With two of them heading in, the signs were good.
"Who are they carrying" asked Ian
"Hold on, sir, S.T.C.U. is relaying the transmission. Two platoons, the 174th and the 203rd, and an M.I.D detail, sir." came Platt's reply.
M.I.D., thought Ian; Military Investigation Division. Relaying the news of Harold's death had evidently pushed Confederate Dispatch to send more than just reinforcements. Small teams of M.I.D. investigators were sometimes dispatched to situations where dereliction of duty, or severe breaches of protocol had occurred. The death of one of the Confederacy's more prominent Commanders, on a planet that was evaluated as being free from any enemy presence, was easily sufficient call for them to be sent in.
"Commander," continued Lieutenant Platt, "the M.I.D. executive, Sergeant Major Sutton, is requesting to speak with you in person, as soon as possible."
"What? Have you informed him of our current status?" Ian asked, more than a little surprised that he had been asked to leave the line of defence in the middle of a hazardous situation.
"Yes, sir, but he's quite adamant. He wants to see you as soon as he lands."
Even though Ian outranked the head of the investigation team, the Sgt. Major's position as an official of the M.I.D. gave him superior powers of authority when conducting an enquiry; Ian had no choice but to comply. Leaving his position at the front of the line, Ian spoke to Murello through his headset.
"Reinforcements are on their way in. I'm needed back at the base; take over here, I'll be in touch."
"No problem."
Murello moved across to the front of the marines, while Ian cut through the line to the rear, and started back down into the basin. As he did, he looked back and caught Deist glancing back at him. The words he had spoken the evening before came briefly back to Ian's thoughts, before he broke into a jog, and headed off.
After descending through the broken corridor in the ridge, Ian kept a swift pace across the basin; half a kilometre in, or thereabouts, a low, distant whine heralded the approach of the two transports. Turning as he jogged, he saw the lumbering ships cut above the ridge above and behind him; the far-off sound of a jubilant cheer carried over from the marines as they flew down into the basin. In another second, the transports had passed noisily over Ian as he continued running, and as their belly thrusters flared, they brought down onto the starport's landing pads.
A team of on-duty technicians were the only people present in the exit bay as Ian came in through the access tunnel; the base was still frozen in a state of tense readiness, as maintenance crews walked their patrol routes through the dark, empty corridors of the base. Ian was the only person aboard the tube shuttle as it snaked through the tunnel network, and he took the opportunity to radio in to the TacCon.
"Lieutenant, what's the status of the M.I.D. team?"
"They've disembarked, sir. They've shuttled over to the command centre, and are waiting for you in the visitor's lounge." replied Platt through Ian's headset.
"Very well, I'll be there shortly."
There was no guard on duty as Ian stepped off the shuttle at the terminal; all of the marines on base were currently holding the defensive line in and above the basin. Ian carried on through and into the command centre, and after checking its location on a wall screen, he made his way through deserted, silent corridors to the visitor's lounge.
A small, relatively comfortable room, with padded chairs and a table in the centre; it was the first time Ian had been inside it. Inside, were waiting the four members of the M.I.D. team. One of them, a dark haired, older man with a thin moustache, rose from his seat and stepped forward.
"Commander Ian Latimer?", he asked in a soft spoken American accent. Ian gave a slow nod.
"I'm Sergeant Major Gregory Sutton, these are my staff member," he waved a hand across at his associates, who stood up from their chairs, "Lieutenants Gavin, Wren, and Macneil. We're well aware of your current situation here, Commander, but I'm afraid we really do have to ask you some questions. Things like this are best dealt with as soon as possible."
"Things like what?" Asked Ian warily.
"Well," began Sutton, gesturing for Ian to take a seat, "we were informed that an unknown number of enemy units attacked the scout team that was sent to locate the objective."
"That's right." answered Ian as he took his seat. Sgt. Major Sutton and the other investigators settled back into their chairs and began to watch him carefully.
"And during the attack Commander Harold Bellamy was killed. Is this true?"
"Yes."
"Were there any survivors?"
"Other than the vulture riders, no, none." answered Ian.
"And the marines who were assigned to the scout team, they were from your unit?"
"Yes."
"I'm very sorry. That must be a terrible loss for you." said Sutton, gently.
He was doing an extremely convincing job of sounding sympathetic and non-aggressive, and it would have likely fooled most other people, but Ian's instincts were warning him against something; there was almost no sincerity in Sutton's voice. There was more to it than a simple case of a investigator feigning concern to facilitate his enquiry, but Ian didn't know what.
"I'm sorry, Commander, I just have to ask a couple more questions, then we can finish. Now, in the time you spent searching the underground caverns, were there any signs of hostile activity?" asked Sutton.
"No. None."
"Uh-huh. And did you at any time suspect that there might be a hostile presence on the planet?"
"I wasn't sure. I wasn't ready to entirely accept the intelligence reports, let's put it that way."
"I see. Did you voice these opinions to Commander Bellamy when he took over command?"
"There were no opinions. I said I wasn't sure if there were any hostiles."
"Commander, you're saying that in the entire two weeks you spent in those tunnels, not one enemy unit was spotted, not until Commander Bellamy had entered, and the objective had been found?"
"Yes, that's right."
"And how do you explain that?" Asked Sutton, raising an eyebrow.
"I can't."
"Commander, is it possible that in some way, you did see a hostile signal, or did suspect that there were hostiles present, but failed to relay the relevant information to Commander Bellamy?
Ian narrowed his eyes, and stared at Sutton.
"And why would I do that?"
"Oh, for no reason; perhaps you were simply confident in his ability to handle whatever was in those tunnels. Perhaps you were reluctant to speak up for fear of contradicting the intelligence reports. Commander, I think it may very well be entirely possible that you may have failed to provide Commander Bellamy with the necessary information, in one manner or another. Don't you think?"
There was no doubt about it. He was being set up. Ian hadn't exactly figured out the whole of Sutton's agenda yet, but he was definitely being set up to take the fall for something; the arrogant bastard wasn't even trying to conceal it, thought Ian to himself. He was struck by the sudden realisation that he was trapped; two new platoons of marines were now on the base that Sutton could use as enforcers, should he choose to resist. But he wouldn't. There was no resisting the M.I.D., or the manoeuvrings of Confederate Command. Too many other people had tried and failed. He was beaten.
Before Ian could say anything, Sutton stood up, the rest of his team following suit.
"Commander Latimer," said Sutton gravely, "I'm going to have to ask you to come back with us to Sidaris, where there'll be a formal investigation of the events surrounding Commander Bellamy's death, and of your actions during those events. Commander Murello will be directed to take over as Tactical Commander," Sutton gestured towards one of his assistants, "Lieutenant Wren here will remain on the base for the next few days and transfer all of the relevant files and reports from the mainframe database back through the sigma relay. With Commander Bellamy's death, the Adjutant will have reverted back to using your authorisation code; Wren'll need it to begin accessing your files. Please escort her to the TacCon, and relinquish your code, then meet us back at the starport. Lieutenant Macneil will accompany you."
Ian slowly rose to his feet; Lieutenant Wren put her hand out, indicating for him to lead the way. Ian looked deeply into Sutton's eyes, but he did not push, he did not confront; there was no point. He, Wren and Macneil walked out, and headed towards the TacCon.
Ian's identification tests were passed quickly, one final time, and in this instance, the two guard booths were empty. With the security sensor above the elevator doors reading three people in front, all would ordinarily have to pass the I.D. protocols in order to gain entry, but not in this case. Wren and Macneil flashed M.I.D. identification cards over the security sensor, which automatically granted them access. The three entered the elevator, and descended into the T.C.U.
The TacCon had stood down to yellow alert, and the staff were still busy monitoring the defensive line, and the area to the northeast, as well as supervising the registry of the hundred-odd new marines who had been aboard the two transports. The morning shift had taken over, but Greaves, Platt and Corporal O'Hanlan had worked on through the entire night. Ian led Lieutenant Wren to the commander's chair at the back, where Platt was currently seated. Ian was about to ask her to step away, when Wren cut in front.
"Lieutenant, stand aside." She said sharply, brandishing her M.I.D.
Identification.
Platt got up, and after looking to Ian for confirmation, moved across to the other side of the TacCon. Ian sidled into the chair, and as Wren watched closely, he keyed in his authorisation code; at Lieutenant Wren's prompt, he went through the procedure of removing his name and rank identity from the key code. After he had finished, Wren moved in, and substituted her own name and rank details, thereby transferring the code over to her I.D. After finishing, she began searching through the secured tactical logs, pausing briefly to look up at Ian.
"Thank you, Commander, Lieutenant Macneil will escort you to the starport."
Ian stood still for a moment, and then started off towards the exit, where Macneil was waiting. As he walked down, some of the staff turned to watch him; Greaves and Platt were looking across from the far side, and Corporal O'Hanlan was still sitting at the tracking console, watching. Although nothing had been said, they had to have known what was going on. The presence of the M.I.D was a sign too blatant to miss. As Macneil opened the exit door, Ian stopped short of the doorway, and turned back.
"O'Hanlan." he called out. O'Hanlan took his headset off.
"Yes, sir?"
Ian gave a nod.
"You did well."
With those words said, Ian turned, and left the Fort Sunderland TacCon for the last time.
Macneil followed as Ian returned to his quarters to collect his belongings, and then the two shuttled across to the starport. One of the transports had already departed after unloading its human cargo, the other sat waiting on the landing pad, its engines roaring in the still air. Ian paced through the main hangar, his back pack slung over his shoulder, as flight crews performed maintenance checks and retracted the fuel lines from the now flight ready transport. With Macneil walking behind him, Ian stepped onto the tarcrete pad and walked across, glancing briefly across at the distant brown thread that was the line of marines on top of the basin's ridge, before stepping up into the transport's forward cabin.
Sutton and Gavin were already aboard, along with two marines, who Ian presumed were to be his escort; walking to the rear, he sat next to the view port and strapped himself in. A minute passed while the engines built up power, when the cabin jolted as belly thrusters forced the transport slowly into the air. The transport drifted forward, before the passengers were pinned to their seats, as the craft's boosters kicked in.
And so, with as little fanfare as when he had arrived, Ian departed Fort Sunderland. As the transport swung northwards, he peered down at the marines keeping their vigil below; the ground rushed by far beneath and faded into an obscure haze as the ship climbed, and within minutes, they had broken orbit. The cold void of space welcomed them, painting a glittering diorama around them; Ian stared out into the cosmos, lost in thought, catching sight of the mustard coloured form of Widow XII behind them. A few minutes more and the transport had put enough distance between itself and the planet to make its transit jump. The transport activated its warp engines; the thin whine of spinning turbines filled the cabin, and as particles in the flight path were torn apart, the vessel slipped into the warp, disappearing from view in the blink of an eye. To the occupants of the ship, the universe around them became a great rumbling streak of light; Ian's head lolled back from the acceleration, and he closed his eyes.