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Counterpoint: Chapter 1, Part 5COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 5
By Mya Thevendra
The night passed slowly for Ian. As Fort Sunderland worked and repaired and constructed around him, past the fall of dry darkness, and then through into the bright, blistering morning, Ian’s sleep was troubled, broken by dreams and hazy visions.
Even as he lay silent and still, as he had trained himself to do over so many years, his slumbering mind was led this way and that by ghostly reflections. As his thoughts twisted, it seemed to him within his sleep, as though he was a tiny point of light, potent, and yet invisible. And as he flew inside his mind, he saw before him a tremendous expanse of deepest black, and past the expanse lay a dull grey sheen, as if some prolific wall had been cast down in hoary granite. As he passed through the void, it appeared that the wall began to fracture, and split; hairline fissures burst through into gaping tears, while fire and flaming magma seeped and spurted through, collecting in great flying rivers of molten destruction. As they drew towards him, he could feel the dry rasping heat moving ever closer, ever closer, until the rivers were all about him, and he was engulfed.
The next morning, Ian awoke simply and sharply to the darkness of his room, with little recollection of his night’s dreaming. It was 0528 hours, and without an alarm, Ian had woken himself at his desired time with minutes to spare. An useful trick, and Ian had many of them. Switching on the lights, and walking through into the bathroom, he went briskly through his morning routine, and showered quickly before getting dressed into a clean set of camouflage fatigues. For a few minutes, he scanned quickly through the terrain maps and survey reports once more, before moving to the side of his room, and activating the view screen. Ian sent a call directly through to Sgt. Sheppard’s quarters, which was promptly answered, and it was plain that she had been up at least as long as Ian, having dressed, and prepared herself for the day ahead.
“Good morning, sir.”
Ian caught a familiar light in her eyes, of which he had never tired. Her staunch enthusiasm had always been invaluable, and he felt that it would be needed today, especially.
“Sergeant.” Replied Ian. “I want you to get back to engineering and check on Sajan’s progress…I’m going to meet with the other platoon commanders in the officer’s mess…what time are you taking the men in to breakfast?”
“0640, sir.”
“All right…. Report back to me when you’ve eaten. I’ll be in the TacCon.”
“Yes, sir.” She acknowledged.
Ian nodded, and then ended the call, before accessing the internal communications menu. He didn’t know if the two commanders would be in their quarters or not, and didn’t have time to personally find and talk to each of them, and so Ian instead opted to send an identical voice message to each of their quarters, requesting that they meet him in the officer’s mess hall at 0610. Attaching a high priority label to each message meant that if they weren’t accessed within a minute of being sent, the Adjutant would automatically locate and alert each of the recipients, before forwarding the message to the communications terminal nearest to them. After deactivating the view screen, and then turning off the room’s lights, Ian left his quarters. It was six o’clock.
Ian traveled along the corridor, and then into the TacCon, to find it as he had left it the night before, bristling with activity. The night shift had taken over, and after having tirelessly worked through the dark hours, what few there were, and on into the long morning, were now awaiting being relieved by the day watch. Corporal O’Hanlan was absent, and would be for a while longer, not being due to resume his duties as tactical liaison until 0700.
Ian accessed his command terminal, and opened the tactical schedule. They weren’t due to start searching the caverns for another three days, until the route between them and the base had been properly scouted and secured. Accessing the schedule, Ian moved the date forward to nine o’clock of the present day. The Adjutant would notify the tactical staff of the change, and Ian resolved to go through it with them after he returned. Pausing only briefly to scan over the main view screens, Ian made his way out, and into the elevator, and arrived at the upper ring. The officer’s mess was located a short distance away from the TacCon elevator; Ian traveled back towards the lobby, and then doubled back along one of the other passageways, towards the center of the upper ring. The corridor was narrow and short, terminating in a thickset plasteel door. A keypad adjacent to the door was the only security, and was present more to ensure privacy rather than any genuine security purposes. Ian entered his code and walked inside.
In a short while, some half a kilometer away in the main barracks, the three companies of marines would be sitting down for their first meal of the day. Whereas the mess hall in the barracks was a large communal gathering place, where marines from different platoons and brigades could circulate and form some semblance of a social life, the officer’s mess was a much smaller, more sober affair. The room itself was medium sized and longish, perhaps fifteen feet by ten, well lit, and with a long, slender steel table placed down the middle. At the moment, it was empty, and would most likely be so most of the time, with there being only six military officers currently present, a commander and an XO from each of the three marine companies. As Fort Sunderland was reinforced in the weeks to come, more companies of larger size would be transferred in; at least that was the plan. As it was, despite repair and maintenance crews and SCVs working around the clock, marines making continuous patrol runs, and despite the sheer level of activity within the base, somehow, in some way, to Ian, Fort Sunderland had the feel of some wayward, deserted shanty town.
He made his way over to the far end of the mess to a smaller table fixed to the wall. On which were set plates and glasses, together with a coffee dispenser, and the usual selection of food that was given to the officers, dried fruits, cereals, bread and some odd smelling, reddish cooked meat, which Ian left alone. There was also an opened box of nutrition sticks, one of the standard field rations of the confederate soldier. Ian poured himself a cup of coffee, and took what looked like a desiccated apple, as well as a couple of ration sticks, and then sat down at the table.
His first breakfast at Fort Sunderland was unremarkable, to say the least. Previous to arriving on Widow XII, it had been only a week since the Spider Monkeys’ station on Choman V had prematurely ended, and a week was not time enough to forget the taste of confederate military food. Ian had learnt to almost appreciate the stale, cardboard-like flavor of the ration sticks, and they went down easily enough, but the dried apple was like chewing on a ball of leather. A good meal might have been had if he’d had an hour or two to work at it, but after a couple of failed attempts at stripping it with his teeth, Ian threw it into the waste compactor. And then finally came the coffee. To Ian, who had always taken note of objects and sensations, rather than people and emotions, few things brought to mind the Confederacy more than the tepid contents of the plastic cup in his right hand. He had never drunk an excessive amount of it, perhaps a cup each day, perhaps less, although he knew of officers who practically lived on it. The sharp scent and bitter taste were distinct, and in some way reassuringly familiar, as Ian had never tasted any coffee other than that issued by confederate drinks dispensers and ration packs. The Confederate Division for Health and Nutrition had made some half-hearted attempt to pass its coffee off as some scientifically developed concoction, designed to clear the head and relieve pain. Most likely it did little more than ordinary coffee, and juvenile stories passed around mess halls of stomach cramps and projectile vomiting betrayed some lack of faith on the part of the confederate military forces. As Ian took a slow draught from his cup, the door opened, and a man walked inside.
Commander Gary Murello was a man of fair height and thick build, and of fair to middling years. His face carried a wary expression, and was crowned with thin, sand colored hair, with a ragged band of grey reaching around to his temples. The 267th “Jackknifes” had been his command for just over four years, and was about as anonymous as a confederate platoon could get. Before the war they had been acting mainly as a backup unit, used to reinforce and protect rather than to tackle any objectives themselves. Since the start of the conflict, however, after which every available company had become vital, they had seen through their fair share of engagements. Their somewhat modest success rate had meant that in the first few dreadful months of the conflict, when there was a relatively large number of available units, they had still been kept away from high priority assignments. As the war raged on and marine companies were slowly being whittled down in number and size, Confederate Command could no longer afford the luxury of being choosy. The 267th had survived, and were in good condition, and more importantly, were closest at hand when Fort Sunderland was approved, and so for the fist time in their history, the Jackknifes were made first choice for an assignment. For two months now, they had patrolled and mapped and scouted the basin, and the surrounding areas in preparation of the coming offensive. So it came to pass more by fate, than perhaps by choice or merit that Commander Murello walked into the officer’s mess that morning.
Murello walked along the opposite side of the table to Ian, to the side of the room and poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he then sat down opposite Ian.
“Commander Latimer…”
Ian nodded even as Murello continued speaking.
“Well….of course it’s a pleasure to finally meet you and all…..But first things first. I’ve been hearing rumors. That you didn’t bring any extra weapons or armor when you arrived…is-” Murielle continued
“We didn’t bring any weapons or armor at all.” interrupted Ian with a dour expression.
Murello raised an eyebrow, and then leant forward over his coffee.
“Beg your pardon…?”
“We were informed that we were to be equipped on arrival.” Said Ian. “We brought standard survival gear; no armament, no armor. We weren’t aware of any supply shortage… I only found about it yesterday.”
Murello slowly leant back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“We’ve been holding out these past two months with the same armory that was shipped in when the base was built.” he said. “We’ve had four supply runs since then, and not one of them has carried any military equipment of any kind.” Murello folded his arms and stared at Ian with somewhat accusing eyes. “The last DropShip that came in relayed a message to us that you would be coming, along with your unit, and guaranteed with one hundred percent certainty that you’d be bringing the necessary supplies with you.”
Ian looked at Murello through furrowed brows.
“When was that?” he asked.
“…That….?….that was four days ago….why…?”
“…No reason…” replied Ian, briefly shaking his head, “…I was just wondering.”
Ian was now aware that whoever had relayed the message aboard the last supply DropShip had known about his transfer to Fort Sunderland before he did.
“In any case…” said Ian, “…you’re not the only one who’s disappointed…but regardless of supplies, or lack thereof, we have an objective to accomplish. The C-19’s are being custom adapted as we speak, and that should get a few extra days use out of them….hopefully enough to last until the proper supplies do finally make it through….”
Murello gave a quiet sigh, understandably skeptical after two months of waiting for that very thing.
“…….but all things considered, I don’t see that we have any other option than to get started straight away.”
“…As in right now…?”
Ian nodded.
“….Yeah, I figured as much….” Said Murello.
At that moment, the door opened once again, as Commander Ingo Deist walked into the officers’ mess. A short, slight figure of a man, of either Latin or perhaps Central American descent, none could say for sure, Deist was nevertheless an imposing character. Piercing russet colored eyes set deep into his skull, and coarse, pebbly skin gave him the look of some timeless statue, whilst his jet-black hair shone like polished marble under the bright lights of the ceiling panels. Murello looked across and upwards at the man with whom, for the last two months, he had shared responsibility for safeguarding the base.
“Bad news….” began Murello.
“Save it. Think I can guess.” Said Deist, with a voice like dead wood being sawn. He looked across the table at Ian, and held him in a cool, calculating gaze, as if he were measuring him up. “Latimer.”
Ian gave a nod.
“Deist.”
Although Ian had never met Ingo Deist, he had heard of him, as well as his unit, the 172nd “Tommy’s Curse”, which Deist had led since its formation six years ago. The origin of the unit’s peculiar name was the subject of some debate between those within the Marine Corps who had heard of them, and rumor had it that only Deist himself, as well as the few surviving original members of the 172nd knew for sure. The “Tommy’s Curse” was noteworthy for reasons besides its name, however, and the unit’s endeavors both before the war and during, had earned them a reputation as an enigmatic, secretive bunch, expert at surprise attacks and infiltration.
Ian had never cared much for rumor or fanciful stories, but he recognized that the 172nd was a sound unit, and took reassurance from their presence. As for Deist, Ian trusted him about as much as he would trust any other Confederate Marine commander, although there was a certain quality to the man that Ian found somehow, unsettling. Ian put the thought aside.
“Have the rippers been done yet….?” Asked Deist.
“Hey, how did you….” Began Murello.
“I had Stocker look into doing the same thing about a week ago…. ” said Deist.
Ian recognized the name of Deist’s XO, Aaron Stocker.
“….he’s been keeping tabs on engineering since then…..He told me what was going on last night.”
Deist looked back towards Ian with shadowed eyes. “If commander Latimer hadn’t arrived…I was going to have ordered it done.”
Ian knew that Deist was well aware that Confederate regulations stipulated that no one but the base’s official Tactical Commander could order the refitting of any weapons that were in full use on the base premises. Perhaps Deist was aggrieved that an administrator had been selected as acting Tactical Commander in the early phases of Fort Sunderland’s construction, who hadn’t possessed the necessary authority to approve any weapons modifications. Perhaps he was simply fractious after two months of waiting in isolation, and wanted to take control of the situation. Ian got the feeling, however, that once again, Deist was somehow testing him. He had no doubt that Deist’s words were genuine, and that if he hadn’t arrived, Deist would have gone ahead and ordered the weapons refitting, infringing Confederate military procedure in the process. While Ian was opposed to any breach of protocol, he could, however, understand the necessity of such an action.
“Well…I suppose it’s lucky I did arrive.” Said Ian.
Deist gave a faint grin, and circled around to sit at the head of the table.
“As for the C-19’s…I’m still waiting for the report from my XO….but regardless, the primary scouting team will head out at 0900 this morning….I’ll have the rosters sent out to you. That’s it.”
Deist nodded, and Murello acknowledged with another swig of coffee. Ian tossed his own empty cup into the waste compactor, and walked out.
As Ian made his way back to the T.C.U., he began to mentally reorganize some of the existing marine squads into scouting units. By the time he walked into the TacCon, he had come up with the numbers for the scouting parties into the caverns in the northeast.
Marine companies tended to vary greatly in size, and were often divided up into pre-organized squads. In companies the size of those present at the base, with roughly thirty men in each, squads of around eight men were generally used.
Checking the personnel rosters at his console, he assigned three of the four squads from each company into three scouting parties, the fourth squad being kept back for perimeter patrol and security. Ian decided that two teams would be best for the first scout party; so that once the caverns had been reached, more ground could hopefully be covered on the first day. Both the Spider Monkeys and the Jackknifes would take the first run, The Tommy’s Curse the second run, and then back to the Spider Monkeys, and then the Jackknifes and so on, until the resources were found. In addition, Ian assigned one vulture hover bike to each scouting party, which would act as escort and quick response, if needed, and he put the other two in reserve.
There would be some overlap in the schedule, but with each party spending twelve hours scouting, the marines should have enough rest between shifts. Ian sent copies of the unit lists and the new rotor to both Murello’s and Deist’s quarters, again labeling them as high priority, and then submitted them into the tactical database
Back tp Chapter 1, Part 4<
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