Read Online Dark Victory - eARC by Brendan DuBois - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brendan DuBois
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to day to a new type of enemy, and one of the lessons learned was not making defensive bunkers. When your opponents had mortars, AK-47s, RPGs—even T-72 tanks—heavily fortified bunkers made sense. When your opponents were nearly impregnable exoskeletons with laser and flame weapons, heavily fortified bunkers were quickly called barbecue pits, and for good reason.
So the defensive perimeter of Fort St. Paul consists of moats, trenches OPs, and battlements like the one were in, scattered along the rim of the moats. Made of concrete blocks and bricks, it’s a good place to hide behind while keeping view of the moat, and the cleared areas of fire on the other side. Like the battlefields back in the Great War, early in the last century, before we started numbering them.
The plan, such as it is, is to hope that if a Creeper comes at us, it has to clamber down into the moat, come up, and expose the main arthropod to three troopers with M-10s. If any incoming fire erupts from the Creeper, it’s hoped that by ducking behind the brick and concrete, we’d have a chance to survive.
Hope. Chance. Hell of a way to run an interstellar war, especially when we’ve been on the losing side for most of my life.
I grab a pair of binoculars, scan the field of fire set up in front of us. There’s a range card, a simple sketch of our sector that lists exact distances to various terrain features, and highlights both “kill zones” and “blind spots,” fastened to the wall in front of me, but I have it memorized. The “mound” is 80 meters away. The “double stump” is 140. A slight depression running north-northwest from the moat is deep enough for a man to crawl through unnoticed, but not for a Creeper. Trees, brush and buildings long ago have been cleared out. Every couple of weeks, convicts from the local state prison come by to cut down the growth. There’s a road out there, Jefferson Street, and I note a few homes scattered along the length that I can see.
“Knox.”
There’s a tone to his voice. I say, “What’s up, Sergeant.”
“Mind telling me why you have a dog with you tonight? It should be in the K-9 kennels.”
“Guess he didn’t like the film they were showing in the kennels, Sergeant. I hear it was an old Rin-Tin-Tin movie. Thor thinks Rin-Tin-Tin is way overrated.”
Another laugh from Dunlap, which seems to piss off Muller. “Knox, you know the regs. Dogs are only issued for operational reasons. Not as playthings or toys or to be your best buddy.”
“Tell the truth, Sergeant, don’t like the term ‘issued.’ Thor isn’t a piece of gear, like an M-10 or a canteen.”
Muller says, “Don’t like your attitude, Knox. Never have. Just because of who you are, doesn’t mean that—”
Dunlap says, “Guys, shut up.”
Muller turns. “What did you say?”
Her voice tight. “Movement. Movement on the road, heading north.”
As one we move to the front of the battlement, and Thor gets up right next to me. I focus the binoculars, say aloud, “Tracking. Good eyes, Dunlap.”
Dunlap nods in appreciation, as she raises up her Colt M-10, rests the barrel on top of the battlement, brings her cheek to the butt stock, takes a sight, and scans her sector. I immediately hear her breathing change, become more measured, ready to pull the trigger—slowly—right in between the rise and the fall of her breathing. We all do it. It’s second nature now.
About 300 meters out the Creeper scurries from the left side and moves in a straight line, right along the road, its legs moving almost as one, the claws out, the main arthropod sticking straight out. My mouth dries right out. I hear the whir-whir of the field telephone behind me, as Muller reports in a harsh whisper: “Battle Twelve, Battle Twelve. Confirmed Creeper sighting. Battle version. Three hundred meters, walking speed, northbound on Jefferson Street.”
He listens for confirmation from the Command Post and then says, “Battle Twelve,
So the defensive perimeter of Fort St. Paul consists of moats, trenches OPs, and battlements like the one were in, scattered along the rim of the moats. Made of concrete blocks and bricks, it’s a good place to hide behind while keeping view of the moat, and the cleared areas of fire on the other side. Like the battlefields back in the Great War, early in the last century, before we started numbering them.
The plan, such as it is, is to hope that if a Creeper comes at us, it has to clamber down into the moat, come up, and expose the main arthropod to three troopers with M-10s. If any incoming fire erupts from the Creeper, it’s hoped that by ducking behind the brick and concrete, we’d have a chance to survive.
Hope. Chance. Hell of a way to run an interstellar war, especially when we’ve been on the losing side for most of my life.
I grab a pair of binoculars, scan the field of fire set up in front of us. There’s a range card, a simple sketch of our sector that lists exact distances to various terrain features, and highlights both “kill zones” and “blind spots,” fastened to the wall in front of me, but I have it memorized. The “mound” is 80 meters away. The “double stump” is 140. A slight depression running north-northwest from the moat is deep enough for a man to crawl through unnoticed, but not for a Creeper. Trees, brush and buildings long ago have been cleared out. Every couple of weeks, convicts from the local state prison come by to cut down the growth. There’s a road out there, Jefferson Street, and I note a few homes scattered along the length that I can see.
“Knox.”
There’s a tone to his voice. I say, “What’s up, Sergeant.”
“Mind telling me why you have a dog with you tonight? It should be in the K-9 kennels.”
“Guess he didn’t like the film they were showing in the kennels, Sergeant. I hear it was an old Rin-Tin-Tin movie. Thor thinks Rin-Tin-Tin is way overrated.”
Another laugh from Dunlap, which seems to piss off Muller. “Knox, you know the regs. Dogs are only issued for operational reasons. Not as playthings or toys or to be your best buddy.”
“Tell the truth, Sergeant, don’t like the term ‘issued.’ Thor isn’t a piece of gear, like an M-10 or a canteen.”
Muller says, “Don’t like your attitude, Knox. Never have. Just because of who you are, doesn’t mean that—”
Dunlap says, “Guys, shut up.”
Muller turns. “What did you say?”
Her voice tight. “Movement. Movement on the road, heading north.”
As one we move to the front of the battlement, and Thor gets up right next to me. I focus the binoculars, say aloud, “Tracking. Good eyes, Dunlap.”
Dunlap nods in appreciation, as she raises up her Colt M-10, rests the barrel on top of the battlement, brings her cheek to the butt stock, takes a sight, and scans her sector. I immediately hear her breathing change, become more measured, ready to pull the trigger—slowly—right in between the rise and the fall of her breathing. We all do it. It’s second nature now.
About 300 meters out the Creeper scurries from the left side and moves in a straight line, right along the road, its legs moving almost as one, the claws out, the main arthropod sticking straight out. My mouth dries right out. I hear the whir-whir of the field telephone behind me, as Muller reports in a harsh whisper: “Battle Twelve, Battle Twelve. Confirmed Creeper sighting. Battle version. Three hundred meters, walking speed, northbound on Jefferson Street.”
He listens for confirmation from the Command Post and then says, “Battle Twelve,
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