RECCE II (The Union Series Book 5) (39 page)

Icons flashed across my visor display as the pincushion
synched with me, confirming that it was ready to deploy. It wasn’t a grenade,
but it was a potent weapon that delivered the same shock factor as any
explosive device. The problem was that it was a directional weapon that was
designed to be used from a fixed position, not thrown up a corridor.

‘What are you gonna do?’ Weatherall asked nervously.

I didn’t have enough time to explain. It was a crazy
idea, and one that could so easily result in us all being cut to pieces, but it
was the only way I could think of regaining the initiative. Ignoring the darts
whipping past me, I stepped up to the open doorway and tossed the pincushion up
the corridor beyond. Then, just as I heard it clatter to the ground, I
activated it. A sudden, ear-splitting wail echoed across the building,
accompanied by a wave of dust that rushed over us, coating our equipment.

‘Go!’ I shouted, charging into the dust-filled
corridor.

Though I had no idea what direction it had been
facing when I activated it, it was clear that the pincushion had had a
devastating effect within the confined space. Tiny shreds of fabric and flecks
of masonry floated in the air like confetti, though where the tiny fragments of
furniture came from was anyone’s guess.

Rapidly advancing up the corridor whilst scanning
for targets, I found that much of the walls had been torn away in huge chunks,
revealing many of the rooms around us.

Two men suddenly appeared within one of the gaping
holes, causing me to fall backward as I narrowly avoided their fire.

Weatherall and Griffiths must have been just behind
me, because both of them returned fire almost instantly, cutting the two
hapless Militiamen down and then spraying the room with darts. Somebody
shouted, and I caught fleeting glimpses of more figures running between the
shredded barrack walls.

‘Keep going!’ I ordered, scrambling to my feet.

Nothing mattered anymore. My section was ruined and
no longer combat effective. Puppy was down, presumably being cared for by Wildgoose,
and I hadn’t seen Myers since entering the building. All I had left to work
with was two troopers, one of whom was already heavily wounded. There was
nothing left for us to do other than to keep killing and keep advancing until
either we all died or somebody ordered us to stop.

We advanced through the hole in which the Militiamen
had appeared, all our weapons firing as we stepped over the remains of the wall.
The running figures had disappeared into a nearby doorway, and we directed our
fire onto that in order to prevent from emerging once more.

Just as I reached the door, my rifle clicked,
causing a red error message to flash on my visor display. My magazine had run
out of ammunition, and it needed changing.

Changing a magazine is a drill which a trooper
carries out so often he barely even thinks about doing it. A press of a button
beneath the magazine housing deactivates the smaller magnets that feed the
rounds into the weapon itself, at the same time releasing the catch that
physically holds it in place. The magazine doesn’t quite fall away by itself, it
needs to be tugged downward to free it from the housing.

This time, though, rather than simply discarding the
removed magazine, I did something different. I threw it through the doorway,
aiming it at the wall beyond so that it bounced loudly. ‘Grenade!’

Somebody cried out in alarm, and boots scuffed
against tiles beyond the doorway.

Instead of pausing for the phoney grenade to
detonate, I charged into the room, sliding a fresh magazine back onto my rifle.

Several Militiaman were running with their backs
turned to us, trying to get away from the magazine that had landed harmlessly
in the centre of them room. My trigger finger went wild as I pumped darts into
them, sending them all crumpling to the ground.

Nobody was left inside the room, but I already knew
where my adversary was likely to be hiding. I opened fire against the far wall,
strafing along its length beside another open door. Somebody screamed, and then
a body fell to the ground inside the doorway.

Griffiths followed me up, magnets screaming as he
joined in, once again spraying the walls all around.

I flicked my rifle to automatic. There was no longer
a need to hold back. It was us versus the world. I fired the entire magazine
into the walls, not stopping until it was depleted.

‘Let’s just keep going!’ Griffiths snarled, letting
loose another long burst whilst I changed magazines again.

It was then that I became aware of a cheer
reverberating through the building, and I looked to see a wave of Boskers
pouring through the holes in the walls around us. There must have been an
entire company of them, sent by the Frenchman to reinforce us once we had
secured a foothold. They opened fire as they passed us, their combined
firepower completely drowning ours out.

I was about to follow them when some tiny shred of
sense gripped me, and I reached out and patted Griffiths on the shoulder.
‘Check fire, mate.’

The Welsh trooper stopped firing and regarded me
angrily. ‘Helstrom’s out there!’

‘I know, but he’s not going anywhere just yet. We’ve
got casualties.’

Griffiths lowered his mammoth as his rage subsided
just enough for him to return to reality. The horde of Boskers that swarmed
around us had taken over the battle, meaning that we were no longer locked in a
fight to the death. That meant we had more pressing concerns, like our fallen
comrades that almost certainly needed our help.

‘Come on!’ I ordered. ‘Let’s get back!’

As we ran back to the window through which we had
entered the building, I realised that there were now two troopers flashing
yellow on my display, not one. Myers was a casualty as well.

16

The Shuttle Port

To contents
page

Wildgoose had his hands full when we returned to the
entry point. He was tending to Puppy in the middle of the room, whilst Myers
was left with his back against the wall, whimpering loudly. The young trooper’s
arm was almost completely severed just below the elbow, held in place by only a
few strips of skin and meat. Wildgoose had applied a tourniquet to his upper
arm to stop him bleeding out, and had then turned his attention back to Puppy.
Though I couldn’t see exactly what was wrong with Puppy when I entered the
room, I knew that he was a higher priority to Wildgoose, because unlike Myers
he was lying on his back, unconscious and with his abdomen exposed. The section
sniper had opened Puppy’s armour to get to his chest.

As I came close to Wildgoose, I saw that he was
applying a chest seal to my stricken 2ic. He had a sucking chest wound.

I pointed toward Myers. ‘Lads, get to work on him!
Make sure his arm is immobilised!’

Weatherall and Griffiths hurried over to their
injured comrade, whilst I stood back, gazing in dismay at the remains of my
section. A wave of guilt washed over me as I wondered how I had survived
unscathed when so many of my men had been severely wounded.

‘One-One, this is One-Zero,’ the sergeant major’s
disembodied voice called in my ear, but I didn’t respond. It was as though I
was in a daze, suddenly numbed by the slaughter that I had taken part in, and
the hammer-blow realisation that my section hadn’t survived it unscathed.

‘One-One, this is One-Zero.’

At that moment I thought of Stan, and how losing
most of his men had virtually torn him apart, and then I thought of Ev and
Westy, my old section commanders on New Earth. We all now shared one common
experience - we had seen our sections destroyed at the hands of the enemy.
Seeing all of my men either injured or treating the injured was probably one of
the most awful things I had ever seen in my entire life. Whether their injury
was my fault or not, it was still my responsibility to look after them, and in
that sense I had failed. Suddenly I remembered my nightmare vision of the
pipeline, sucking me and all the bodies of my friends into the darkness . . .

‘One-One, this is One-Zero.’ the sergeant major
repeated with growing urgency, snapping me out of my funk. ‘I see you have
casualties . . . send me an update?’

I pulled myself together, then replied on the net.
‘One-One, roger. I have two casualties, both priority one. One is unconscious with
a sucking chest wound, the other has a catastrophic bleed to the arm.’

‘Poltergeist-One, this is Blackjack-One-Zero,’ the
sergeant major relayed straight to Aleksi. ‘Confirm you received the last
message from my One-One call sign?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Aleksi’s reply was swift. ‘One-One,
stand by for casualty exchange point . . .’

A blue crosshair appeared on my display, marking a
location just outside the eastern end of the barrack building, out of line of
sight to the Militia defenders.

‘Reference my mark, this will be the exchange point.
I will have a vehicle with you in figures five!’

‘Roger.’ I raised my voice for my men to hear.
‘Lads, get these casualties ready to move! We have a vehicle inbound in five
minutes!’

Wildgoose quickly laid out a stretcher beside Puppy,
and I helped him to lift the injured trooper onto it, before strapping him in.
Griffiths and Weatherall did the same for Myers, whose arm was now heavily
bandaged and secured to his side to stop him from attempting to move it. He moaned
painfully as he was moved, despite the painkillers he had been given.

Satisfied that both our injured comrades were ready
to move, I took up the handles of Puppy’s stretcher. ‘Let’s go!’

We carried our casualties through the building,
turning our backs on the battle in search of a way out through its eastern
side. Whilst we searched, Aleksi sent another update on the situation. ‘The
southern building is now fully under our control,’ he said proudly. ‘And the
northern building is fifty percent cleared. I expect the defenders will fight
to the death rather than surrender, so the fight should intensify during the
final clearance. There shouldn’t be any further requirement for Blackjack call
signs to assist, however. Blackjack-One-Zero, I suggest you use this time to
prepare your platoon for extraction back into the forest. Keep all of your
casualties within the south-eastern sangar and remain there until I can have
them collected.’

‘Blackjack-One-Zero, roger,’ the sergeant major
responded. ‘I will have my sections remain within the barrack buildings and only
move back on your call. One-One, confirm you are extracting your casualties?’

‘One-One,’ I acknowledged.

‘Good. Clearly your section is no longer combat
effective, so you are to stay out of contact. I am happy for you to remain
where you are for now, since any attempt to cross back to us will be dangerous
prior to the successful clearance of the northern building. Once you have
handed over your casualties remain where you are and continue in a recce function,
as previously discussed.’

‘Understood.’

‘What was that?’ Wildgoose asked as we humped Puppy
toward what appeared to be a small airlock at the end of a corridor.

‘The first building is clear,’ I summarised. ‘This
one is almost clear as well. We’re gonna carry on searching the place but stay
out of contact.’

‘That’s probably for the best,’ the section sniper
said. ‘If we keep going then we won’t have anyone left!’

Wildgoose wasn’t speaking with feeling, he was
simply stating a fact. The section was destroyed by definition, having been
reduced to the point where it could no longer have any significant effect on
the battlefield on its own. I looked down at Puppy, whose chest valve fluttered
every time he breathed outward. We couldn’t keep going anymore, I realised, not
without some serious re-organisation. Einsatzgruppe-19 had used us as much as
they possibly could, giving their army of Boskers the edge over their
opponents, but now we were an expended force. I had no doubt that EJOC would
take a different opinion, though, sending us further north once we had
re-organised, pushing us ever onward until even our platoon was unable to
function. Then we would probably be disbanded and used to bolster the French
drop trooper units as they landed. There would be no peace for us now, not
until the invasion of Europa was complete . . . or we were wiped out entirely.

The outer door to the airlock was closed. Unlike the
heavy duty door that gave access to the sangar, though, this one was
fortunately little more than a regular door with a rubber seal. Without even
putting the stretcher down, Wildgoose shifted his weight and kicked the door
open, revealing the blackened barracks outside.

Trondheim still echoed with the sound of gunfire, but
it was evident that the battle was now contained within the barrack buildings.
The orbital bombardment had stopped entirely as our ships switched their sights
onto targets elsewhere. Flames were left dancing along the remains of the main
gate, casting long shadows across the slave camp beyond. I could still make out
the screaming of the Bosker slaves, and wondered how many of them had died in
the crossfire between the Boskers and the automated guns. Lone figures wandered
aimlessly through the darkness, staggering as if drunk. I suspected they were
in shock.

We placed the stretchers down on a grassy patch
beside the airlock, and checked our casualties to make sure their vital signs
hadn’t changed. Puppy seemed OK for now at least. He remained unconscious, but
his breathing was fairly regular and his pulse remained heightened, yet steady.
I knew that could change quickly, though.

‘You’ll be alright, mate,’ I told my 2ic, giving his
shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I doubted he could hear me, but the reassurance
was as much for me as it was for him.

Ordinarily I would have expected both our casualties
to survive, knowing that a casualty loaded onto a dropship was only a short
flight away from the best hospital outside the solar system, but with Aleksi’s
secretive casualty evacuation chain, I was growing increasingly nervous.

I left Puppy and then stooped over Myers. The young
trooper was no longer sobbing as the effects of his painkillers had kicked in,
dulling the pain as well as his own mind. His head kept turning from side to
side, though, as if denying anything happening around him was real.

‘How is he?’ I asked.

‘He’s fine,’ Griffiths replied, crouched next to the
stretcher. He looked down at Myers and patted his helmet. ‘Nothing Paraiso hospital
can’t fix!’

Griffiths was lying, of course. Myers wasn’t fine. I
had seen his injury with my own eyes, and even if he made it back to Paraiso in
good time, I knew that the odds of him keeping his arm were slim. Still, I
wasn’t going to inquire any further, since the young trooper didn’t need to
hear any more.

‘Did he say how it happened?’ I asked.

‘He ran back out,’ Wildgoose said. ‘I was dragging
Puppy after you, and he came to help me. Crazy bastard. I never saw who shot
him, but it looked like it was someone on the upper floor. The dart must have hit
the bone and near enough took the arm with it.’

Idiot,
I thought to
myself.
Why had Myers run back out onto the square, when he was needed on
the assault? His act of misplaced bravery could have cost all our lives, let
alone his.

‘I just couldn’t bear it,’ Myers suddenly uttered.

I frowned. ‘What?’

‘I just couldn’t bear it anymore,’ the young trooper
repeated, still shaking his head.

Before I had a chance to ask what he was talking
about, I saw a large dark shape emerge through the main gate to Trondheim,
coming toward us at speed. It was a robotic truck, similar to the two that had
carried explosives onto the barracks at the beginning of our attack. Rumbling
right up to us on its eight massive wheels, the vehicle turned sharply to
present its rear ramp, which was already lowering. A lone figure waited inside,
hanging onto a handle with one arm whilst beckoning for us to load the
casualties with the other.

‘Bring them on, guys!’ the figure said, and I
recognised the voice as that of Van-Zyl. His role within his team was clearly
that of an administrator, controlling the rear supply elements of the Bosker
army.

We took up our stretchers and hurried them up the
ramp, placing them on the floor inside the spacious rear compartment.

I glanced around me dubiously. The vehicle didn’t
appear to come with any medical equipment, nor did it carry any medical staff,
just Van-Zyl. I had no doubt that he was medically trained, but I was still
nervous about releasing my casualties into the care of Einsatzgruppe-19 when I
still didn’t know what they intended to do with them.

I suddenly noticed Weatherall flashing yellow beside
Myers’ stretcher. I hadn’t really thought about him until that moment. He
needed to go as well, which worked in our favour. Though heavily injured, he was
still physically able to look after the others.

‘You’ll go as well, Weatherall,’ I ordered.

‘I’m not,’ the trooper replied defiantly.

There was no way I was putting up with more
argumentative young troopers, not after having seen Myers with his arm hanging
off. ‘I’m sorry . . . when did my section become a democracy? You’re injured,
and you’re going, end of discussion! You can help look after these two during
their extraction.’

Weatherall fell silent, knowing not to argue any
further. The heat of battle had disintegrated our section cohesion, but he
still knew to obey his superiors.

‘I’m sorry, Andy,’ Myers said, stealing my
attention. He wasn’t looking at me, but rather staring straight through the
roof of the truck. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Well, you can apologise properly when we get back
to Paraiso,’ I said. I didn’t want to tell him the odds of us meeting again
were slim.

‘I’m sorry . . .’ the young trooper repeated. ‘I
couldn’t bear it anymore . . .’

‘Where are you taking them?’ I asked Van-Zyl anxiously,
turning my attention away from Myers’ babbling.