How many of the Marines from my company were out there, their armor still laying broken open under the afternoon glare, monuments to my stupidity? Was Vicky there? Delp? Kreis? Suddenly, I almost didn’t want to find the battalion.
Past the construction were more plastic tents, and guarding their approaches were a squad of Force Recon and a single fire team of Vigilantes. I didn’t recognize their unit designator, but that didn’t mean anything. Just about everyone had been involved in this invasion. I stepped up to one of the Recon grunts, figuring it would be easier to talk to him than a Drop-Trooper in their suit.
Her, I judged, checking the name plate on the chest armor of the Marine.
“Sgt. Suharto?” I read the name and rank, hoping I hadn’t mispronounced it.
“Yes, sir?” she asked, her voice tinny and unnatural through the external speaker of her helmet.
“Know where Fourth Battalion is set up?”
“I’m kind of iffy on where the battalions are, sir,” she admitted. “But Brigade HQ is the third tent down thataway.” She pointed down the road with a knife hand. “Good luck, they’re all running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
I laughed softly, thinking I was probably one of the few Drop-Troopers who knew exactly what that saying meant.
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
I could see what she meant before I even reached the tent. Supplies were being hauled in on cargo jacks, puttering slowly up the cracked pavement, maneuvering around battle damage with robotic instincts, a line of ants heading into the largest of the plastic tents, dropping their loads and then filing out the other side. Beneath the shelter from the punishing mid-afternoon glare, Fleet engineers and Marine grunts were offloading the pallets, taking necessary supplies this way and that, some to lines of Vigilante battlesuits awaiting service, others to the mess hall or the aid stations.
There was the normal yelling and cursing, shouted orders, and incredulous questions in return, all struggling to make themselves heard over the rumble and clank and scrape of the cargo offload. The normal sounds of a Forward Operating Base, though on a scale I hadn’t seen before, twice as big as any I’d seen in previous operations. It stretched out for kilometers, curving along the perimeter of the landing field, and overhead, assault shuttles on Combat Air Patrol circled at different altitudes. While I walked and stared, one of them broke its pattern and screamed off to the west, hell-bent for leather. Probably called in for air support by a patrol.
There was still resistance somewhere out there. There probably would be for months and I hoped I wouldn’t have to stay around to deal with it. That had become a nightmare scenario talked about in hushed tones by the platoon leaders when no one else was listening, the possibility of our company being left behind on one of the conquered worlds to crush any enemy forces still fighting long past reason. No one wanted to miss out on the battle, the invasion of Tahn-Skyyiah, the Tahni homeworld, the one enemy planet we all knew their name for.
Captain Covington had always chuckled when he’d overheard those bull sessions, told us that he would make sure that didn’t happen. But he was gone now. Maybe that meant whatever was left of Delta would be stuck here. I resigned myself to the idea with dolorous acceptance. Given how badly everything else had gone, how truly massive of a clusterfuck this battle had become, nothing else bad that happened would surprise me.
I was so busy moping, I nearly ran straight into Vicky as she came out one of the flaps of the command tent.
“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, eyes going wide. “I was just coming to check on you!” She held up arms filled with utility fatigues and a pair of boots. “I had to have these fabricated because, well…all our shit was on the Iwo.”
I looked around, then realized I was wearing someone else’s name plate and figured, the hell with it and pulled her into a kiss.
“I am so fucking glad you’re alive,” I told her, leaning my forehead against hers.
“Of course, I’m alive, dumbass,” she said, smiling through the words, thumping the heel of her hand against my chest. “Who the hell do you think called Search and Rescue to pull you out of your suit? What the hell were you thinking, going up against a Goddamned mecha by yourself?”
“There wasn’t much thinking involved,” I admitted. “Shit just sort of happened.” I sobered. “What was the damage? How bad is Delta?”
“Not nearly as bad as it could have been,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was relieved or just trying to make me feel better. “After the mecha came through the building, we ran into the main force of the High Guard, and Third took a couple of casualties. Kreis and Pena were wounded, their suits deadlined, but they’re already out of the aid station. But your boys, Kovacs and Cano came through for us and flanked them. I think Cano lost two KIA in the fight, but I don’t remember their names.” She winced apologetically. “I’m sorry I don’t know more, but Captain Cronje showed up again about ten hours ago and started acting like nothing fucking happened. I’ve been busy policing up the mess and putting my platoon back together.”
I clamped down on the anger roiling in my gut at the mention of Cronje’s name and forced myself to concentrate on what was important.
“Where’s Delta?”
“Come on,” she urged, tugging at my arm. “I’ll take you to them.” She cocked an eyebrow at my stolen uniform. “But maybe you should change first, Captain Johansen.”
I smiled lopsidedly, any anger I felt fading at her touch.
“My friends,” I told her, “call me Emil.”
Delta was somber as a tomb.
They were gathered in the makeshift maintenance tent, their Vigilantes broken open
