Starfist: Firestorm (17 page)

The soldier gave out a low moan and rolled away from Wilson’s kicks. The Marine moved in closer and swung his instep hard at the soldier’s buttocks. “I said get up and move, dammit!”

“Leemee ’lone,” the soldier mumbled. “’M sleepin’.” He curled into a loose fetal position, but sprang straight when Wilson planted a boot in his posterior again.

“You
don’t
want me to bend over and yank you to your feet, you sorry excuse for a soldier,” Wilson said and kicked him in the ribs.

“Aw ri, aw ri,” the soldier mumbled, and struggled to move around and raise his upper body. “Ah’m geddin’ up.” He looked up and saw Wilson’s disembodied face hovering above him. He shook his head violently, then abruptly heaved, and bent lower to puke between his splayed legs. When he finished throwing up, he wiped a bare arm across his mouth, then looked up again. “Ah ain’t wakin’ up. Ah’s still asleep. Ain’t no ghost face hangin’ inna air ’bove me.” He dropped his head on his chest and started to topple over toward Wilson, who kicked him in the ribs hard enough to straighten him back up, but not hard enough to knock him over the other way.

“I’m not a ghost, you dipshit,” Wilson snarled. “I’m a Confederation Marine, and you’re my prisoner!”

“Ah ain’t no pris’ner,” the soldier said, his voice less of a mumble. “Ah’s a MP. Ah
guards
pris’ners!”

“Not anymore, you don’t,” Wilson said. He reached down to grab the soldier’s shirt collar, then yanked him to his feet. “You’re not fit to guard a shithouse, you slimy turd! And now
you’re
a prisoner of war.” He shoved the soldier in the direction other Marines were herding other prisoners. The soldier stumbled and fell hard on his face. The fall did more to wake him up than anything else had; he scrambled to his feet and spun around, fists clenched and raised, looking for whomever had knocked him down. He ignored the blood that flowed from his nose and mingled with the vomit still on his face. He saw Wilson’s face, and without noticing that he only saw the face, charged the Marine, milling his arms.

Wilson gave the charging MP a curious look, then stepped aside and put out a foot to trip him. The soldier squawked as he sprawled to the ground. In a flash, he was back on his feet looking for his tormentor. Fresh blood flowed from a cut on the corner of his forehead. He spotted Wilson’s face and charged again, once more wildly swinging his arms. Wilson easily dodged the flailing fists and slammed the butt of his blaster into the middle of the soldier’s back, knocking him down again.

Wilson moved quickly and planted a foot between the soldier’s legs, high up so the front part of his boot pressed onto his testicles.

“You know,” the Marine said, “we could keep this up until you seriously hurt yourself. Or you could just be a good boy and go with the rest of the prisoners.”

The soldier flinched from the pressure on his scrotum, but didn’t struggle. Instead he looked forward and saw other members of the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion walking along with their hands on their heads, toward a gathering place in the middle of the camp. At first, nobody seemed to be guarding them, but then he saw a hovering face. He looked around and saw other hovering faces. Carefully, so as not to agitate the man whose boot was putting pressure on his balls, he looked over his shoulder and saw a face hovering above his back.

“Confed’ral Marines?” he asked.

“Confederation Marines,” Wilson confirmed. “And you’re my prisoner.”

“Yassah,” the cowed soldier said. “You wan’ me to git up and go wit t’others?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ahh, uh, kin ah move?”

Wilson stepped back. “You can move.”

“Thank you, sah.” The soldier eased himself to his feet, brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, put his hands on top of his head, and joined the column of MPs shuffling toward the collection point.

Corporal Wilson shook his head sadly. “Those are soldiers?” he asked himself. “How the hell have they managed to keep us pinned up in Bataan for all these weeks?”

Wilson turned at a throat clearing behind him. His platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant DaCosta, had come up without Wilson hearing him.

“I don’t think the 7th Independent MPs is a representative unit for the Coalition army,” DaCosta said. “You want my opinion, I think they got stuck way out here to keep them out of the way. That and we’ve got—” DaCosta suddenly stopped talking.

“You were saying, Staff Sergeant? We’ve got what?”

“Never mind, Corporal. We’ve been facing the effective part of the Coalition army.” He looked Wilson in the eyes. “When we hit the 4th Division at Phelps, it won’t be like this.” He walked away, leaving Wilson wondering if what DaCosta didn’t want to say out loud was “…and we’ve got that doggie general, Jason Billie.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At the same time first platoon entered the camp of the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion from the coast side, and second platoon entered the camp from the inland side, third platoon silently slipped, one man at a time, through the slightly ajar gate of the POW compound. Inside, Corporal Dornhofer led his fire team directly to the guard tower to the left, and Corporal Dean took his men to the tower on the right; Sergeant Ratliff kept Corporal Pasquin’s second fire team on the ground, watching the towers closely for movement. Sergeant Kerr led second squad past the two barracks buildings—sparing time for a quick look through the windows to make sure prisoners were still kept in them and to check for guards—and the sanitation building to the administration building. He kept his first and second fire teams by the main door of the admin building, and sent Corporal Doyle and his fire team to the interrogation building. The gun squad went to the barracks buildings to free the prisoners. As each fire or gun team reached its objective, the team leader sent a signal to Ensign Bass.

When every element of third platoon was in place, Bass signaled Dornhofer and Dean; the two corporals began climbing the ladders attached to the guard towers, followed by their men. Everybody else tensed, ready for instant action if the guards in the tower realized they were under attack.

When he got the signal from Bass, Corporal Joe Dean swallowed and took a deep breath, then began climbing. He kept his hands and feet at the sides of the wooden rungs, to reduce the chances they’d creak under his weight, but climbed as quickly as he could. He felt vulnerable on the ladder, more vulnerable than when he fought the implacable Skinks, almost as vulnerable as he did the first time he was in combat. On Bass’s order, he’d left his blaster on the ground so it wouldn’t impede his climb or make a noise that might alert the guards of his approach. The only weapon he carried on his climb was his combat knife, held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand while he used the other fingers to climb with; he worried that the hilt of the knife would thud against the ladder, but he was very careful and made no noise while climbing, and no curious guard looked over the edge of the guard tower to see a knife making its lonely way up the ladder.

Dean stopped with his head just below the wall of the guard post, bringing his feet up another two rungs and moving into a crouching position. When he felt Lance Corporal Godenov’s helmet against his right knee, he signaled Bass that they were in place.

As soon as Bass heard from Dean and Dornhofer that they were in place, he sent the
go!
signal. Dean lunged up and over; the time for silence was over. Godenov scrambled up the last few rungs and was over the wall almost before Dean landed on one of the tower’s two guards. Both were sound asleep—or passed out, as the empty bottles littering the floor of the guard post suggested. Dean and Godenov secured them with wrist and ankle ties and gags before either gained enough consciousness to realize what was happening. Dean breathed a sigh of relief when the two soldiers were bound; he hadn’t had to use his knife.

The other tower was taken just as quickly and quietly.

Looking through the windows, Sergeant Kerr had seen one soldier with sergeant’s stripes on his shirt sleeves sitting at a desk in an office, half on the desk, obviously out cold. Two other soldiers were in the room with him; one was supine on a couch, the other sprawled on the floor. In another, unlit, room, his infra had shown four more soldiers sleeping on cots. The other rooms all seemed to be empty. When he got the signal, he sent his first and third fire teams rushing into the admin building. Corporal Chan’s first fire team ran into the room with soldiers sleeping on cots; Corporal Claypoole and his second fire team went with Kerr, darting into the office.

Claypoole pounced on the sergeant at the desk, and had the man’s hands twisted around behind his back and tied together in seconds. Then the sergeant emitted a massive snore. Claypoole looked at his men to see what they were doing. Lance Corporal Schultz had bound and gagged the soldier on the floor, and was helping Lance Corporal Ymenez bind the one on the couch.

Claypoole raised his screens and looked toward where his infra had shown Sergeant Kerr. “He’s snoring,” he told his squad leader. “Do you still want me to gag him?”

Kerr raised his screens, but he was listening to his helmet comm, then reporting to Bass. Finished with his report, he said, “Don’t bother, the whole camp is secure. They can make as much noise as they want. I’m going to check on Doyle. Chan’s in charge here until I get back.”

“Aye aye,” Claypoole said as his squad leader left the office.

While the Marines of Company L were closing in on the camp of the 7th Independent Military Police Battalion, Lieutenant Keesey, commander of the 1st MP Company, was the only member of the battalion neither drunk, getting drunk, nor already passed out. Keesey was a sober, serious man; he rarely drank alcohol and never with the drunkards of 7th MPs, and he was deadly serious with what he was about. Quietly, so as not to disturb anybody—anybody other than the one he wanted to disturb, that is—he eased the key he’d obtained into the lock on the rear door of Prisoner Barracks Two, the door that gave way to the women’s squad bay. He unlocked the door and eased it open on hinges he’d earlier made sure were properly oiled, then closed it behind himself. He stood silent for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the somewhat deeper darkness inside the barracks, then located his objective. He didn’t really need to take the time for his eyes to adjust; the room was small, only a dozen bunks, and enough light came through the unshaded windows for him to see where he was going. His objective was, of course, a woman, but a woman he’d taken a particular interest in. Not only was Charlette Odinloc an attractive woman, something about her suggested to Keesey that she was more than the farm wife and refugee she claimed to be.

Keesey believed Charlette Odinloc was a spy. And he had his ways of dealing with spies. Particularly a spy who was also an attractive woman.

Creeping on soft-soled feet, Keesey approached Charlette’s bunk. He withdrew a prepared knockout cloth from a sealed wrap he carried in his hip pocket, and in a flash, clamped it over her nose and mouth. Charlette reacted automatically, and in exactly the wrong way to defend herself—she bolted upright and took a deep breath to gather air to scream. Instead of air, she inhaled a heavy dose of the knockout, and fell back on the bunk.

Keesey stifled a snicker, and lifted Charlette to sling her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Walking silently despite the additional weight, he left the women’s quarters, carefully locking the door behind him. Moments later he opened the door of the interrogation building and carried Charlette to a room he had already prepared. There wasn’t much in the room; a washbasin, spotlights that were off, a straight-back chair, a long bed with bare mattress and manacles to hold wrists and ankles, and a drain in the middle of the floor.

He dumped his burden unceremoniously on the bed, and breathing a sigh of thanks for the condition of her clothing, stripped Charlette naked. He put the manacles on her wrists and ankles, making sure her arms were stretched tightly above her head and her legs spread wide, then turned on three of the spotlights; one on her face, one on her breasts, and one on her pubes. Then he sat on the straight-backed chair and waited for the knockout to wear off.

He waited for only a few minutes before he rose and went to the basin where he ran some water into a pan. Standing next to the bed, he waited for Charlette to breathe in and threw the water on her face. She breathed in some of the water and suddenly awoke, sputtering and shaking her head; she tried to sit up, but the manacles kept her supine. She gathered herself to scream, but Keesey slapped her across the face, hard.

“Now, now, missy, ya be quiet, ya hear? Ah’ll gag ya if’n ya wanna yell. Ya wanna be gagged?”

Charlette looked up at him in shock, trying to blink the tears from her eyes—that slap hurt.

“Ah din’t think so. Ah don’ wanna gag ya anyhow. Ah needs to question you, and if’n yer gagged, ya cain’t answer. Ain’t that so now?” He looked down at her body and tried to imagine what it had looked like before the ship she’d been on was sunk offshore near the MP camp, before she’d been half-starved as a prisoner. He liked what his imagination showed.

“Well,” he drawled, running a clammy hand along her rib cage, “I don’t really keer if you tell me the truth, ’cause what I’m about to do to you is find out the truth my own way, and this will hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me.” He smirked and stroked her silently for a moment.

The feel of Keesey’s hand on her ribs told Charlette everything she had to know about what this monster meant by “my own way,” and “this will hurt you a lot more than it’ll hurt me.”

“On second thought,” Keesey continued after a moment of caressing, squeezing, and leering, “maybe you’ll enjoy what’s comin’, honey. Most women do.”

Corporal Doyle positioned his men by the entrance to the interrogation building and began a solo circuit of it, looking into the windows. Only one room was occupied, and it was well lit. What he saw when he looked inside appalled him; a naked woman manacled to a bed, a Coalition officer standing over her, molesting her. As fast as he could he finished his circuit. Fortunately, the well-lit room seemed to be the only one occupied.

Back with his men, Doyle quickly briefed them on what he’d seen and what they were going to do about it. He knew he was supposed to wait for the command to go from Ensign Bass, but he couldn’t let that officer do what he obviously had planned for the woman. He tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He pulled it open and crept in, heading for where he was sure the lit room was. A line of light at a door’s bottom drew him to what he was certain was the right room. He positioned his men, then leaned his helmet against the door and turned up his helmet’s ears to hear what was happening inside. He did his best not to fidget; he knew any noise he made before Bass’s signal could cause problems for the platoon’s mission. But,
damn
he didn’t want to wait to rescue that woman.

There it is!
Doyle stepped back and tapped PFC Summers on the shoulder. Summers lifted his right leg and put all his weight into kicking the door next to the latch. The door slammed open, and Summers almost fell through it.

Doyle managed to barge in without tripping on Summers and yelled out, “Freeze, asshole! You are now my prisoner!”

The officer, his pants down around his knees, spun around. “Wha’ the—” he said, but got no farther; Doyle hit him in the head with a butt stroke, and the officer crumpled to the floor.

“Miss, are y-you all r-right?” Doyle stammered. He whipped off his helmet so she could see him, and looked around for something to cover her with. He plucked the discarded shift up from the floor. It wasn’t much, but it would do the job.

Charlette was shouting with joy; as soon as she heard the voice out of nowhere, she knew the Marines had landed. “Marines! You’re here. Oh, Goddess, you’ve saved me!”

By then, Doyle was examining the manacles, trying to open them, but they were locked. He turned to Lance Corporal Quick. “Quick, search that bastard; he must have the keys on him. Oh, and tie him up while you’re at it.”

“Huh? Oh, right,” Quick said. Even though Doyle had told him and Summers that they were going to rescue a naked woman, the sight of Charlette Odinloc’s naked body had momentarily stunned him. “Summers,” he ordered, “give me a hand here.”

“Miss, I’m Corporal Doyle, third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST. We’ve taken this camp and we’re freeing all the prisoners. Do you know if anybody else is in this building?”

Charlette stopped laughing and crying with relief and said, “Corporal—Doyle did you say?—I don’t think so. I think I’m the only one.” She craned her head to look at Lieutenant Keesey where he lay trussed on the floor with his pants still down around his knees. “Me and that piece of garbage.” She tried to spit at Keesey, but her position kept her from projecting the spittle beyond the edge of the bed.

“We’ll have you freed as soon as we find the key, miss,” Doyle said, looking toward Quick and Summers. “T-Take your helmets and gloves off,” he told them; he found the sight of Keesey flopping about disconcerting. It became less so once he could see his men’s heads, and their hands going through Keesey’s clothing.

“Corporal Doyle,” Charlette said, “I think the key’s on the basin.”

“Thank you, miss,” Doyle said and stepped to the basin.

“My name’s Charlette Odinloc.
Sergeant
Odinloc, Confederation Army.”

But Doyle wasn’t listening, he was looking for the key and not finding it.

It was Quick who found the key, on a corner of the bed, almost tucked under a corner of the mattress. He gave the key to Doyle, who unlocked the manacles that were keeping Charlette supine.

“Can—can you get dressed, miss?” Doyle asked as soon as he had the last manacle opened.