M'tak Ka'fek (The T'aafhal Inheritance) (3 page)
“Listen, you snot-nosed excuse for a sailor.
There ain't many things more aggressive than a Marine Gunnery Sergeant except maybe a Marine Captain,
” the
grizzled Chief replied. “The first is too mean to quit and the second will just as soon shoot you and get it over with. So yous better watch yer mouth in front of Captain Rodriguez.”
The boarding party itself was organized into four fourteen member squads, each leavened with a few veterans from the ship's previous engagements. Not that the new Marines were untested in battle—they had come from the SAS, U.S. Army Rangers, Russian Spetsnaz, Australian Commandos, Navy SEALS and U.S. Marines—combat veterans all. Most had been rescued from untenable positions on Earth following the alien bombardment. All were given the choice of being repatriated ground-side or of joining the fight against the marauding aliens that had tried to snuff out humanity. Some chose to try and salvage their lives and their countries back on Earth, but most chose the chance to strike back.
Jennifer would personally lead 1
st
and 2
nd
squads in Shuttle One while Shuttle Two would carry 3
rd
and 4
th
squads, led by Lieutenant Westfield. Westfield was also a former U.S. Marine, a Lieutenant Colonel, and therein lies a tale...
* * * * *
The mountain passes of the Hindu Kush, an 800 km (500 mi) long mountain range that stretches between central Afghanistan and northern Pakistan, are some of the most desolate and isolated on Earth. The range separates the basins of the Kabul and Helmand rivers from that of the Amu River, known in ancient times as the Oxus. There has been a military presence in the mountains since the time of Darius the Great. Over millennia foreign armies marched into the Kush only to return shattered and defeated. The armies of Alexander the Great, the British Empire, the USSR and, most recently, the United States of America left their blood on the arid slopes of those jagged peaks. Even when the belligerent natives did not attack, the mercurial weather could strike an army down. In 1750, the army of Ahmad Shah, retreating from Persia, is said to have lost 18,000 men from the cold in a single night.
In a remote pass northeast of Kabul the remains of a battalion of U.S. Marines was fighting for its life, fleeing from an impromptu coalition of Taliban, foreign al-Qaeda and opportunistic locals. Being far inland and a good distance from the nearest asteroid impact, the Kush suffered only secondary effects from the space-borne attack—the aliens primarily targeted heavily populated littoral regions. Meteor showers from ejected material reentering Earth's atmosphere were followed by ash and heavy overcast that triggered early snowfalls.
More critical from the Marines' point of view was the total destruction of the chain of command. Contact with the outside world simply ceased, along with air and logistics support. In effect, the battalion was cutoff from the world in a matter of a few hours, left abandoned among a superstitious, hostile population who blamed the presence of foreigners for the frightening, unnatural events unfolding around them.
LtCol Reginald “Dirk” Westfield first attempted to move his Marines southwest, toward Kabul and the larger UN forces stationed around the Afghan capital, but ran into heavy resistance and blinding snow storms. Given little choice, he reversed his march and led his battalion back to the northeast, higher into the mountains. Understrength at only 300 Marines, they fought a running battle as they retreated.
Two days later the battalion was down to fewer than 200 effectives, those bone tired and freezing. In keeping with Marine tradition, they carried their dead and wounded with them, hoping against hope for evacuation or at least safe haven. Running into armed men in front of their line of march, the harassed group of Marines pulled back into a side valley where they faced their pursuers on a narrower front.
Soon they were being pushed back, farther up the narrowing valley. The Colonel ordered his men to dig in, though the frozen ground offered little purchase. It had started snowing again and visibility dropped to a dozen meters. The Colonel called his remaining officers together to plan what was probably their last stand.
Known as Dirk to his colleagues—he never really liked the name Reginald and despised “Reggie”—the Colonel had only recently taken command of the battalion. The rumor was that he had been a fast riser who put a foot wrong back in the States and had been banished to the wilds of Afghanistan as punishment. That story was half true: LtCol Westfield had been in command of the Marines who captured and incarcerated the squad from the Peggy Sue when they returned after the starship's first voyage.
His treatment of the returning Marines had been less than collegial, leading to bad blood between Peggy Sue's Marines and their former comrades in arms. When the squad, led by then GySgt Jennifer Rodriguez, was rescued from under the noses of the Colonel and around 40,000 other Marines stationed at Camp Lejeune, it was decided to put those directly involved with the internment on ice. Westfield and his men were sent to the most remote location possible, hence the Colonel's arrival in the mountains of the Hindu Kush in time for the end of the world.
The reason for his being located in the asshole of the world not withstanding, he was actually a pretty good Marine—his only concern at present was trying to save the lives of his men. Unfortunately, there seemed little hope for escape from their predicament, being surrounded by Afghanistan on three sides and angry Afghans on the other.
“We need to find some cover, ASAP,” the Colonel said to his subordinates. “The locals are probably going to try and overrun us as soon as they gather sufficient strength.”
“There's not much cover to be had, Sir,” replied one of the Lieutenants. Westfield's second in command, a Major, was among the wounded, by now possibly among dead.
“The men can't hardly dig in this frozen shit, Sir,” the First Sergeant said. “We can use what little cover nature put here and stack gear to fill in some of the gaps.”
It's not going to do any good,
was the Sergeant's unvoiced conclusion.
As the Marine officers conferred sporadic gunfire could be heard—the crack of AK47s and the higher pitched snap of M4s returning fire. The snowfall eased and, as visibility improved a bit, native fighters could be seen working their way up the surrounding ridgeline. Soon the Marines would be totally encircled and enfiladed by their foes. Westfield thought he heard a low thrumming sound over the incessant moaning of the wind. Straining his hearing, he longed to identify the sound of rescuing aircraft, but then dismissed it out of hand as wishful thinking.
“What the hell is that?” demanded the Lieutenant, his extended arm pointing up slope to the detachment's rear.
“I don't know,” replied the First Sergeant, turning to follow the Lieutenant's gesture, “but it sure wasn't there a few minutes ago.”
“Is it some kind of helo?”
“I didn't hear any rotors or engine noise,” said Dirk, focusing on the large dark shape 200 meters behind their position. “Sergeant! Get some of the men to cover that thing, but do not fire until we find out if it is a friendly.”
“Yes, Sir!”
The Sergeant moved down slope, shouting orders to the nearest Marines, who quickly positioned themselves to cover the strange craft. As they watched a large door opened, dropping down and outward to form a ramp wide enough for a Humvee to drive up. Before the ramp even touched the ground large dark figures descended, looking like something from a video game or Hollywood SciFi movie.
“Holly shit!” said one of the Marines, “are we in Halo 9?”
“Maybe we got bigger problems than the towel-heads,” replied another.
“Belay the chatter and keep them things covered,” snapped the Sergeant. “Sir, are you seeing this?”
Before the Colonel could reply several muffled thumps were heard, like a door being repeatedly slammed in the distance—the sound of heavy mortars being fired. Someone yelled “Incoming!” and the Marines hugged the ground for all they were worth. From the dark craft behind them came a crackling sound and overhead a number of detonations—the mortar rounds exploding ineffectively in the air.
As mortar fragments rained down on the Marines' positions, their fatal energy already spent, a pair of odd six-wheeled vehicles emerged from the sides of the unidentified intruder. One went to either flank and opened up with what sounded like mini-guns on the locals along the ridge tops. Again the crackling sound could be heard, followed by more aerial mortar shell detonations.
“They seem to be attacking the locals, Sir,” said the Lieutenant, stating the obvious. “Does that make 'em friendlies?”
“That thing looks like some kind of transport. We need to see if they can get us off this damned mountain. Tell the men to pull back toward the aircraft!”
“What if they are hostile, Sir?”
“If they are they can shoot us,” Dirk shouted,
because that is surely what the Taliban will do if we stay here
. He turned and started moving up slope toward the beckoning craft. As the Marines advanced another of the robot like figures descended the ramp and stood as if waiting for their arrival.
As Dirk neared the figure he noticed that it was constructed of a gray-black, graphite colored material. It's limbs and joint areas were banded by strips of varying widths—from half a centimeter to several. Its head was a smooth bubble, seemingly made of the same gray material; covering its chest and around its waist were straps, pouches and pieces of gear. Cradled across its chest was a very large, very nasty looking multi-barreled weapon of some kind.
As the Colonel neared the imposing, seven foot figure he lowered his M4, letting it hang from its carry strap.
I don't think these fellows are from around here
, he thought. Holding up both arms, hands open in what he hoped was a universal sign of non-aggression, he called out, “I am LtCol Dirk Westfield of the United States Marine Corps. I don't know if you can understand me, but we are under attack by indigenous hostiles and need shelter.”
The figure stood like a statue, the only sound the wind whistling through the jagged peaks and the crackle of small arms fire in the distance. After several interminable seconds a voice issued from the statue.
“Your name is Dirk?” the dark figure asked.
“Yes.” the Marine replied.
“Your mother actually named you Dirk?” the figure reiterated.
“Ah, actually my first name is Reginald,” Dirk replied, confused by the cross examination. He was not sure what kind of response to expect but that was not it.
Why would some space alien care what my name is?
“Well, Reggie, it would seem that balance has been restored to the force,” the alien continued. “And I always thought that karma crap was, well, crap.”
Now Dirk was totally confused.
This conversation cannot be happening, maybe I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep and altitude sickness.
As the befuddled Colonel stood in front of his towering interlocutor the rest of the battalion's Marines were assembling just down slope from the alien craft. The sound of small arms fire drew nearer.
“I never did catch your name during our previous encounter, Colonel. Of course, you weren't too keen on conversation at the time.” As the figure spoke its “head” turned transparent to reveal the head of a woman inside.
“My God,” Dirk exclaimed, “you're the gunnery sergeant from that squad of Marines, the ones who came back from the renegade spaceship.”
“Right the first time, Reggie,” Jennifer Rodriguez replied. “I guess I shouldn't be surprised you never learned my name either. You know, I have had dreams about what I would do to you if our paths ever crossed again.”
His mind raced.
This must be some kind of cosmic payback, retribution for my past sins. But I was under orders not to talk with the returnees any more than necessary—and not to let them talk to anyone else. Hell, for all we knew they were aliens made up to look like Marines. Not that it will make any difference to the pissed off woman in front of me.
The sound of gunfire continued to draw closer, his men continued to fight and die. The Colonel sank to his knees and pleaded, “Do what you want with me, Sergeant, but for God's sake save my Marines.”
Jennifer's eyes narrowed and her head tilted to one side, as if she was seeing him in a different light. “That, Colonel, was the correct response,” the former gunnery sergeant, now Captain, said. Keying her suit radio, Jennifer gave orders to the rest of her Marines and the shuttle crew: “All right people, let's get these poor refugees on board—and disarm them as they board. I do not want any accidents on the trip back to base.”
“Aye aye, Ma'am,” replied newly promoted GySgt Washington for the rest of the squad, motioning the embattled Marines forward with a wave of his armored arm. The two battle bots and several of the armored space Marines moved down slope along the refugees' flanks, laying down a murderous wave of fire to cover the extraction.
“Thank you,” Dirk said, hanging his head and sighing in relief. “Thank you.”
* * * * *
The rescued Marine battalion was delivered to Farside Base 12 hours later, where the survivors were fed and bedded down after the welcome luxury of a long hot shower. The penitent LtCol Westfield was debriefed by Commander Curtis and Captain Rodriguez. In the end, Dirk volunteered for duty with the space Marines, even though that meant starting out as a new second lieutenant.
Privately, Capt Rodriguez was happy to gain a battle seasoned field grade officer like the former Lieutenant Colonel. It slowly became clear that he was not the total asshole or mindless martinet that their previous interaction suggested. Jennifer had still not fully forgiven him for how his men had treated her squad, but having him as a subordinate was definitely helping the healing process.
If having to call Jennifer “Ma'am” grated on the ex-colonel he did not show it. Instead, he threw himself into learning the new equipment and tactics required to wage infantry warfare in space. His success in that endeavor was indicated by his promotion to first lieutenant and position leading the second shuttle of boarders in the upcoming action.
