“Don't go getting us killed.” Leo Dingovan

Hundreds of armed and armored soldiers shuffled in place. The Consortium Armed Forces was set for Dust Out. Three short blasts sounded through the warehouse speakers, then repeated. A commanding voice filled Com-G, Div-nine, bringing attention to the call.

“Bravo Company,” said the loud disembodied voice. “Form behind your line. I repeat, form behind your line.” Soldiers immediately sought their place as the voice continued to dominate. “G Plat to the red line, under C.S.M. Windsor. F Plat to the blue line under C.S.M. Tully. E Plat to the yellow line under C.S.M. Gregor. D Plat to the green line under C.S.M. McCluskie. To your lines.”

The warehouse became quiet with the only sound being an automatic dress right by the ranks. Rude and Marq were side by side in the front row facing a scowling Sergeant Dingovan as the Command Sergeants huddled in an open door. The huddle broke up. Rude saw C.S.M. Tully touch the stud on his chin, and the warehouse once more rang with a loud disembodied voice.

“At ease!” commanded the voice. The order was obeyed with a loud thump as hundreds of armored bodies moved in unison. “Troops will be addressed in this order. D Plat, E Plat, F Plat, and G Plat. When you are dismissed, board your transport for immediate Dust Out to the Naval docks of Terras Galles.”

Rude stood patiently under the hateful glare of Sergeant Dingovan, as one by one, platoons D through F were addressed and dismissed. Dingovan pulled Windsor aside for a private word, but Rude could tell by Leo's sidelong glance that it concerned himself and Marq. C.S.M. Windsor was dismissive, and Dingovan snapped to attention, saluted, and followed him to face G Plat. Windsor folded back the cover from his clipboard and read from a list.

“Second Lieutenant Smith will lead. A Squad will be Johnson, Williams, Brown, Jones, Garcia, Miller, Davis, Wilson, Anderson, Thomas, and Sergeant Rodriguez under Second Lieutenant Smith. B Squad will be Martinez, Hernandez, Taylor, Moore, Jackson, Martin, Dean, Lee, White, Clark, and Musaid under Sergeant Lopez. C Squad will be Chang, Gonzales, Perez, Sanchez, Harris, Walker, Robinson, Lewis, Ramirez, Young, and Allen under Sergeant Scott. D Squad will be Wright, King, Locklear, Carter, Torrez, Nguyen, Green, Adams, Nelson, Glover, and Yavle under Sergeant Dingovan.” Windsor flipped the cover atop his clipboard and dropped his hands. He stared intently at the men before him, and said, “Line up for blowout. Watch your threes, and come back heroes.”

As formation broke, Marq turned to Rude with wide eyes. Rude placed his armed right hand on his friend's shoulder and gave him a pat, with a nod of encouragement. He touched his mic stud to move it from his mouth and said, “I've still got your back.”

Another slap to the back sent Marq running to B Squad. Rude watched him leave with a sigh. Marq was youthful and slim; fearful rather than brave. Rude had trained with him, and looked out for him since the Bloodlands. Marq was like a younger brother, and Rude felt responsible. He turned to find himself among his squad and in a slow shuffle to the blowout station between the doors. Glover approached top back, and smiling with an eagerness for battle.

Glover slapped Rude's shoulder, and voiced the obligatory, “Rock and Roll!”

Others voiced similar battle slogans like hackneyed personal epithets. 'Hammer time' was popular, as was 'Hero,' and 'Hooah!' Rude did not feel it, but he punched Glover's arm and returned with, “Heroes!”

Sand in a helmet was a major distraction. The irritant of a single grain could cost a man his life. Blow-out stations were placed between the open doors. The open helmet was placed into the cradle flush, and the smart tech detected and removed sand with small vacuum wands and wind nozzles. It took but seconds, whereupon the helmets sealed automatically. Rude joined his squad on the tarmac, while his eyes adjusted to the ocular enhancements. The energies of soldiers and transports gave off wholly different auras. Tags scrolled down at the sides of field view in military shorthand.

Rude stood behind his squad looking left and right. To either side, squads spread out in the eternal hurry-and-wait mode of the military machine. Squads were bathed in deep shadow as transports settled, their sides sliding up to admit troops. The process, while urgent, seemed painfully slow. Transports carried a maximum of eight squads. The hold-up? Thousands in waiting. Transports landed left and right, loading from the outer squads inward. The wait would be taxing.

Rude inspected his left forearm. An Arm Blade was a solid bar of cryolite that could be used as a shield against blunt and edged weapons. A slit ran the length of it, and housed a blade that could be activated by a twist of the wrist. Rude tested his arm blade out of boredom. He turned his wrist sharply in, and the blade popped out in lethal fashion. Rude looked around, sighed, and listened to the sound of his breathing.

An idle thought came to mind. How many heroes would return? Would Rude be among them, or would he go to be with Heaven? The latter seemed an acceptable prospect, but then, how could he help Marq? Transports to the left and right gobbled up squads and lifted into the bright skies, to be replaced with empty transports, sides opening like hungry mouths. Freedom seemed so close. Just a day. Now this! Perhaps, thought Rude, he had set the bar of his expectations too high.

Far afield, the massive bulk of a Trank lifted slowly from the grounds like a distant dark gray cloud. Rude watched it rise, turn, and bank to the east at a lazy speed. Black and gold Command skids screamed by overhead. As the last Trank lifted, large mechanized wind cannons rolled in behind it to clean the tarmac. Rude turned to see the warehouse doors being lowered and locked, then looked down at his left glove and made a fist, causing the knuckle spikes to protrude.

The ranks of heroes had thinned considerably. Service personnel scampered around the outer fringes of Dust Out. The early afternoon had morphed into late afternoon. Rude noted the internal clock and calculated an estimated time of arrival in his head. Transports were fast, but the coast was far away. Where his squad would drop was yet to be determined, but it would be dark, for sure. Port Terras Galles Naval Command was an impressive base with kilometers of docks, shipyards, and warehouses. Terras Galles City was a huge metropolitan area flush with the base, leaving little room between incursion and civilian zones. Briefing would be in flight, but Rude's imagination could easily fill in the blanks beforehand. Close quarters meant intense personal combat, and wild cards like Dingovan would naturally lead to missile strikes from support when the going got tough.

Second Lieutenant Smith joined C.S.M. Windsor in the parting shadow of a gray transport. With the others gone ahead, C.S.M. Windsor remained behind to ship with Bravo company. Impressive despite his short stature, Windsor in his gold-trimmed black cryolite armor was a striking figure. Smith, a tall man at six-two, wore bronze-colored armor with two prominent black bars over each collarbone. As transports loaded right and left of Bravo Company, The Second Lieutenant walked forward to command the formation of the squads for inspection. The no-nonsense command came across internal speakers loud and clear.

“Bravo Company,” he called. “By squads. Dress right. Remain at attention. Channel solo.”

The Sergeant of each squad would conduct a final suit inspection. Channel solo allowed the Sergeant to speak personally with each soldier. Being right rear, Rude stood at attention and awaited his inspection; he would be last. Inspection was a slow process, as the Sergeant inspected all suit connections. Nelson, right-front position, was pulled for adjustments by Lieutenant Smith and C.S.M. Windsor while Sergeant Dingovan continued. Being a soldier in the Consortium Armed Forces demanded patience. Rude's internal display showed him two soldiers in C Squad had been pulled. Taking a measured breath, Rude occupied his time with eye-activated fields, absorbing data.

At last, Dingovan came to Rude. The Sergeant tested armor connections roughly and stood after finishing with the overshoes. “Pass,” said Dingovan. But, then, he leaned close, his helmet almost touching Rude's, and said, “Don't go getting us killed.”

The thing about the Bloodlands was that each man blamed the other. Rude blamed Leo for the death of Annes, while Leo blamed Rude for the death of Private Del Mar. Dingovan called in the strike, and the first salvo hit. Rude clearly recalled the final image of his wife engulfed in flame and falling rock. Without a thought, Rude leapt across the ridge and ran after his wife as the second salvo approached. It was Private Del Mar who ran to pull Rude back from the firestorm. A friend from training, Del Mar's final thought was to save a comrade.

The sudden appearance of Enmen in the hamada desert terrain north of the base caused nothing short of a panic. The rush to defend was haphazard, and many soldiers were ill-equipped. Many had no time for armor, and like Leo, Marq, and himself, Del Mar wore no helmet. Rude survived the second salvo, but Private Del Mar did not. In the aftermath, Rude accused Leo of murdering Annes, and Leo accused Rude of negligence that caused the unnecessary death of a hero. The ensuing fight left Leo badly beaten, and Rude in the brig.

Dingovan stepped away from Rude, and commanded, “Command channel.”

It could not be forgotten. As Dingovan marched away to join Smith and Windsor, Rude clenched his left fist; an act of lingering enmity. Rude never had an opportunity alone with Leo to resolve the matter; he had not finished the pummeling that Dingovan deserved. Soldiers had pulled the two of them apart, and because Marq stood between them, he served time in the brig as well. Now, because of a new incursion, Rude would be forced to put it all off.

But who knew? Men die in war. In all likelihood, Rude might have to save the man's life to get the last punch in. Life was strange that way. Crazy strange. A day away from zero digit, his life was in the crosshairs of uncertainty, and under the command of an asshole. Who would die and who would live was in the hands of contemptuous chance. The shadow of a transport broke Rude's dark reflection.

Rude immediately saw that the transport trailed smoke. It came through the belly vents, at first small, but growing as the craft turned away from standing troops. Command channel buzzed with alarm. Pilot communications registered distress. Internal tags gave evidence of a fire in the aft engine compartment. Nothing as visibly tangible as smoke, but scrolling tags gave information on temperature and structural integrity. The craft struggled to gain distance, at last falling to the tarmac. The noise of the crash was engulfing, and vibrations racing through the synthetic material of the tarmac was felt as a powerful jolt.

Pilot and crew jumped from emergency exits and ran, while alarms sounded, and fire-rescue vehicles raced across the tarmac, sirens blaring. The column of black smoke billowed, and the underbelly of the smoke turned red. Smoke scattered from the source as a fire burst from the ship and blazed. Fire and rescue nozzles spewed fire-retardant spray while a tow lumbered across the tarmac. A vehicle as large as a transport, the tow would attach to and haul the disabled craft from the tarmac. But, it would take time. Life had a monkey wrench to throw in every machine and purpose. Nothing new.

Windsor's voice came across command channel with a change of plans. The order was, “Bravo Company! Right face! Double-time march!”

Squads ran double-time along the tarmac. The sound of cryolite overshoes was a harsh tattoo. Bravo Company was the last to leave. They took a position behind the AvStoK warehouse and waited for a replacement transport. As their transport was downsized, four squads instead of eight, it came as no surprise to Rude when vehicles arrived carrying four RFMFs. A Remote Field Mobile Fortification came equipped with wing extensions, ground bracing, and smart vectoring. As they quickly took a position on the battlefield, they extended and anchored to shield advancing troops. Made to resist projectile and energy fire with a high success rating of eight percent, they were inadequate in support strikes. They might be handy, thought Rude, but they could not trump speed and agility. The pirini gave him that, and he would sooner trust that than a rolling wall.

It was early evening. Loading the RFMFs took precedence, but the order finally came, and the four squads of Bravo Company, G Plat filed inside. Squads A and B took seats on the port side beyond the tethered RFMFs. Squads C and D sat starboard. Lateral boarding rails up to the raised cockpit enclosed a broad view screen used for in-flight briefs. Squads D and B sat in forward seating across from one another. Rude used his internals to locate Marq, who sat in the back row against the wall. Rude sat center in a row of empty seats, behind the company leaders. In the front row sat C.S.M. Windsor, in the aisle seat, Second Lieutenant Smith, and Sergeant Dingovan.

Lift-off is a unique sensation; a soldier knows it even when sitting still. Something internal moves. Rude could sense the distance from the tarmac, the turning of the ship, and that slight downward tilt of the nose. He felt it in his body as the transport increased speed, but he could also read the same information from his internal tags. The helmet provided a complete package; all a soldier needed to fight and live. The transport gained altitude and velocity, and a stationary red light above the view screen turned green. Windsor stood from his seat and faced his brave heroes.

Windsor commanded, “Tops back.”