The Winter War

Chapter 5

West Florida Ave
Denver, Colorado
    “Dude, I’m fucking freezing,” Nick announced, his breath puffing like cotton in the frozen night air.
    James, who was looking through his binoculars down Santa Fe Drive, shifted and tried to pull his coat tighter around himself. But it wasn’t really a coat, just an old overcoat the Army gave him when he first enlisted; and it wasn’t really doing the job anymore.
    “They better have a plan to keep us warm this winter,” Nick continued. “Or there will be a lot of troopers with frostbite…”
    “Hard to fight the Drids when you don’t have any fingers or toes,” James agreed. Turning to Nick he asked, “You wearing an extra pair of socks?”
    “Yeah, but that only goes so far.”
    Checking his watch, his father’s watch, James saw the tanks were late. Very late. So far they got across the bridge and the golf course with ease, taking up position in the Citywide Bank that sat on the corner so they could watch both ways. But when they radioed Captain Hardedge all he said was ‘Stand By’. And for the past two hours after they arrived they had standing by.
    Adam and one of the new kids, James thought his name was Luther or something, found the vault where the bank kept most of the cash but there was only a pile of ashes and burnt scraps of paper. To secure their rule the Druidth were burning all symbols of the old regime which included money, flags, and literature. He worried about the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution in Washington D.C.
    Lights lit up the horizon to the north. “I wonder how it’s going,” Nick said.
    “Probably the same stalemate. Unless they found another way to get across,” James looked away from the hastily photocopied users manual for the SMAW’s they had scattered around and checked out the horizon. “Yup. They haven’t moved.” A growling sound could be heard coming down Santa Fe Drive along with a rapid clanking sound. James swore and tossed down the manual, reaching for the large radio O’Quinn made them take with them. “End Zone, End Zone, Warrior-1. Situation has changed, we’ve got company coming down Santa Fe, strength unknown.”
    “Understood Warrior-1,” The radio operator responded using their call sign, assigned because of the mascot from Frederick High School. “Continue standing by.”
    “Should we engage, End Zone? You know, protect the bridge?”
    Silence followed while the Druidth armor got closer and James’ heartrate rose. After a full five minutes the operator came back, “Understood Warrior-1, thanks for the update. I’ll be sure to tell the Captain. End Zone out.”
    James stared at the handset with utter disbelief, mirrored on Nick’s face who heard the whole conversation. Meanwhile the bridge over the Platte River remained empty of the promised tanks and the Druidth got closer.
    “Yeah, fuck it,” James finally said with a deep sigh. He sighted up the Browning .30 caliber on the street below while Nick sighted up the SMAW. “Gary, go tell the other guys that we’ve got Druidth coming and they should get ready. And make sure to tell Adam that none of the rookies touch the SMAW’s!”
    The kid, anyone who hadn’t spent as much time in combat as himself James automatically thought of as a kid, ran off to the downstairs where the rest of the soldiers of Task Force Warrior waited. Something about the whole situation made him remember the first time any of them saw combat it that house in Loveland.
    The rumbling sound of the tank engines overlapped by the clacking of the tracks grew closer until it was directly under the window where James and Nick waited. The expensive solid oak desk they had tilted up and pushed up against the window partially blocked the opening and he risked a looked over the lip. Below, a convoy of tanks rolled up the street with infantry walking to either side of it, on guard against attacks.
    James leveled the machine gun at the closest line and paused, waiting for more of them to come into view so he could get as many as he could with his first sweep. Waiting was apparently the wrong thing to do as a rocket streaked out from the floor below. Before it hit, though, something blasted out from side and detonated the rocket.
    “Fuck!” James swore as he fired a long burst of machine gun fire, dropping six Druidth soldiers before the rest scurried to safety on the opposite sides of the line of tanks.
    A loud fwoosh followed by a wave of hot air came from beside him as Nick fired his own SMAW, this one defeated just as easily as the first.
    “Bastards got a Trophy System!” James shouted from the sudden cacophony of gunfire and plasma blasts. “Hit it again!”
    Nick quickly reloaded the missile launcher before re-shouldering it as James exchanged shots with the aliens below. He shot seconds after another rocket streaked out from downstairs, this one knocked out of the sky just like the others. Nick’s, however, continued on until it hit dead on the back of the tank where the engine compartment was.
    The armored vehicle detonated with a blinding flash and a deafening roar, killing the Druidth taking cover on the opposite side, and bringing a “WOO!” from someone below. Blue flames brewed out from the husk followed by the occasional purple flash as the plasma shells popped off inside.
    “Now we know what to do,” Nick said over the battle. He turned his head to the stairs and cupped his hands over his mouth to make a makeshift megaphone. “Gary! Up here!”
    Using his left hand, James fed the belt of ammunition into the Browning, holding them straight so they wouldn’t jam. He was getting more and more worried which each shot as the belt kept getting shorter and shorter. Plasma lanced in through the open window, slapping against the oak desk and burning it but, either by the lacquer or some other miracle, didn’t catch fire. Someone screamed from below.
    From the stairs, James heard, “Medic!”
    “We don’t have a medic,” Someone, sounding like Adam, replied. “Just pour water over it and wrap it in a field dressing.”
    “How?” Asked the first voice.
    “Oh the hell with it,” Adam finalized the conversation. “I’ll do it.”
    Footsteps pounded up the stairs announcing the arrival of Gary, the designated runner who carried messages from Nick and James to the rest of the unit below. In hindsight, one of them should have been downstairs with the rest.
    “Tell Adam and Joe to fire the rockets at the same time and at the same target,” Nick instructed. James swearing again made him loose his train of thought and look at his friend.
    “I’m out of thirty caliber,” He announced, dreadfully. Reaching for the radio he snatched the handset too forcefully and smacked himself in the forehead. Still swearing, “End Zone, End Zone, Warrior-1. We have a major problem down here, and if you tell me to ‘stand by’ I will personally reach through this radio and tear you a new asshole!”
    The same radio operator came back, stunned much to James’ delight. “Uh…go ahead Warrior-1.”
    “We’re taking casualties, we have a large Druidth force just below us and they’re gonna’ figure out what we’re doing before long. We’ve taken out one—“ His next words were drowned out by a second large explosion as another tank went up. “Scratch that, two tanks. Where the hell are the Sheridans?”
    “Standby by, Warrior-1.”
    James snapped. He began slapping the handset against the ground as plasma flew in from the window and melted the plastic light fixtures in the ceiling. “God damn, son of a motherfucker!”
    “You okay?” Nick asked in between shots from his rifle.
    “I’m so tired of these parent killing, girlfriend murdering, planet invading, life interrupting sons of bitches!” His tantrum having run its course, James kicked the radio and grabbed his rifle. Popping over the side he shot the first Druidth he saw and fired until his clip popped out at random targets. “Where the hell is your rocket launcher, anyway?”
    In a strange turn, Nick began laughing. “I’m out too. They didn’t give us much, did they?”
    “Warrior-1, this is Simmons, over.”
    James grabbed the handset and set it too his ear again. “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
    “Cook,” Lt. Simmons said over the radio. “The Sheridan’s are on the way, we delayed them so we could pull some extra infantry off the line for ground support. UAV has one more tank in your area. Can you take care of it?”
    “Negative, it’s out of line of sight and we’ve got maybe twenty infantry down there.”
    “It’s important, Cook.”
    Sighing, James hung his head and pushed away the world for a minute. Breathing calmly, he regained his focus. “Consider it done. Task Force Warrior, Out,” He turned to Nick. “I’ve got to go out and take care of that last tank.”
    “My ass. You ain’t going out there alone.” Nick reloaded his M-1 then slid the strap to the SMAW over his shoulder. “Make sure you grab one of your own.”
    Before James could protest, Nick took off down the stairs. Following, and kicking an empty can of corn that he had for dinner in the process, he stepped into Hell. Part of the building was burning, the acrid smoke stung his eyes and made him cough. Two bodies sat behind the teller counter, not moving. The rest of the combined squad was at the windows, firing at the Druidth that were trying to advance.
    “Joe, Adam, you two are in charge. Try to keep them alive,” Nick ordered.
    “You going out for pizza?”
    Nick was busy stuffing rockets into James’ backpack and grabbing another SMAW launcher, so James answered for him. “Nah, burgers. Want one?”
    A Druidth grenade bursting just outside the window pulled Adam’s attention away from James’ smart remark and back to the window with his BAR. He fired a pair of bursts and looked over his shoulder. “Scott, you and Julie take your guns and go around the back. See if you can get into the burrito place next door and distract ‘em.”
    “Right!”
    “Okay!” The last two experienced soldiers from Nick’s squad moved out the door ahead of James and Nick leaving just Adam and two others alone with the dead.
    Edging against the corner, James risked a peek at the street where the battle was being raged. Lights floated through the sky across the river to the human side but was struck down over the water by an anti-air missile. The first tank they destroyed sat skewed in the street, having crushed a bus stop when it came to a stop. It blocked most of the street from view and provided the two a modicum of safety as they crossed the street.
    Sprinting across the empty parking lot of the Overland Golf Course, James and Nick cut through an open gate in the large wooden fence that encircled the course, the grass crunching from the deep frost. James jogged a few steps forward and gawked at the distance across the course. A full kilometer sat between them and the other side of the course with the only other exit being on the other side. He knew the clubhouse was locked down tight from when they checked it earlier, the long multistory building would have been perfect to set up the ambush in but a steel roll down shutter was over all the doors and the windows were covered with shutters.
    “Hey Bro, you remember that time we went out to my uncles farm and played paintball all weekend?” Nick asked.
    “Yeah and we rolled around in that golf cart we screwed plywood too, kicking ass. Then you tried to jump that hill and I fell out and you ran over my leg?”
    Silence followed for a few seconds. “So…you wanna’ drive this time?”
    “Sure.” He turned and climbed into one of the golf carts pulled into the wall behind them, switched the power on and put the cart in drive. With a minor electric whine they took off across the course cruising across the hills, James secretly enjoying himself with the rise and falls of the hilly course. Icy wind hit him in the face numbing his lips, he knew if he had to talk it would be in slow motion.
    “Stop! Stop!” Nick shouted and James slammed on the brakes, which was actually more of an engine brake, and the white cart came to a short stop.
    Thinking Nick saw some kind of danger that he missed, James whipped his head around, frantically searching for movement in the darkness, the black on black that would give away the Druidth trying to ambush them. He didn’t see anything but Nick jumped out of the cart and leveled his rifle at the roof of the clubhouse. Three shots rang out and a single body fell from the roof, hitting the fancy stone with a heavy thud.
    “Nice.” James said with admiration.
    Climbing back into the golf cart, Nick stowed his rifle between them and pulled the SMAW launcher into his lap. “I feel pretty good about that myself.”
    Coming to a stop on just this side of the corner, the two left the cart and crept up to the side of the building, a rocket launcher around each of their shoulders and their rifles in their hands, careful to keep themselves concealed.
    Risking a peak, James saw at least a dozen remaining troopers shooting at the bank with sparse flashes of returning gunfire from the two buildings; the young soldiers Adam sent to the restaurant next door must have made it over. The remaining tank wedged in between a dead tank in front and a ruined APC behind, narrow streets keeping it pinned in and unable to maneuver it’s cannon while the gunfire was enough to keep the Druidth down; apparently they must have thought there was more humans in the bank then there actually was.
    “Okay,” Nick whispered. “Last tank, three rockets. Two should take it down. Ready?”
    “No?”
    “Too bad,” Nick took a single side step away from the wall allowing James enough room to aim and fire his own rocket before two Druidth turned around and began glassing the stone wall next to James’ head. White hot head splattered across his face, feeling like someone flicking boiling water at him. He cursed and wiped at his face only to spread the burning sensation making it all the worse.
    Panic started to grow until Nick pulled him down and poured the contents of his canteen across James’ face. Instantly the sharpness of the burning faded away, replaced by a dull throb in streaks across his face.
    Reassuring words from his friend worked their way through the fog of pain. “It’s okay, Bud. It’s alright.”
    “It doesn’t feel alright,” James said, his right eye was fiercely tearing up.
    A trio of gunshots came from above him as Nick fired around the corner followed by a ping! Sitting up, James dug into his bandolier and tossed Nick a clip and grabbed his own rifle, blind firing around the corner until his own rifle popped out empty.
    Nick peeked around, “Shit, they’re advancing.” He fired twice. “We can’t fire both those rockets. Fall back?”
    “We can’t. By now those tanks are rolling across that bridge and if the Drids see armor coming you know they’re radio back. Then this place is going to get hot, like melted glass hot.”
    Movement off to his left made James turn and level his gun but when he saw the gaudy, tattered butternut yellow jackets with crimson trim of club members he lowered the barrel. Two older men, balding heads and greying hair, in their very late eighties came walking as fast as they could from an open door in the back.
    “Don’t shoot, Kiddo,” One said while they started to grab for the SMAW’s.
    James moved to stop them, “Whoa there, Old Timer. It’s dangerous out here. And I damn sure can’t let you touch those.”
    To answer him, the second elder man lifted an expensive looking shotgun and fired a shell around the corner. “Shut the hell up, Kid. You think you’re the only ones who can fight a war?”
    “Ah go easy, Hobbs,” The first responded. “He’s trying to help.” Meanwhile, he was busy reading the instructions printed on the side of the launcher.
    “Help my ass, Bobby,” Hobbs said, feeding a green shell into his mahogany shotgun. He pointed a wrinkly finger at Nick. “Me and you shoot at them. And you grab that bazooka and do what Bobby says.”
    Dumbfounded the two younger soldiers nodded and James shouldered his rifle, bending over to grab the SMAW off the ground. “You know how to use these?
    “Point the end that says ‘This End Towards Enemy’ and pull the trigger. Right?”
    James checked his own rocket launcher and nodded. “Funny thing, it says the same thing on the front of Claymores.”
    Hobbs turned his head away from the wall, “What’s a Claymore?”
    “A directional landmine,” James answered.
    A scoff came from Bobby as he hefted the steel tube. “You kids and your damn fancy toys. In my day blowing shit up was an art.”
    “Well Pops I hope you’re ready. We fire them at the same time, okay?”
    A nod from the older man in the golden jacket let James know he was ready and together the two stepped around the corner under the covering fire from Nick and Hobbs. Pressing the firing stub the now familiar whoosh of heated air washed over James as the two rockets streaked towards the remaining Druidth tank.
    As predicted the Trophy System defeated the first rocket but couldn't reset fast enough to take out the second and the shaped charge slammed into the side of the tank with a mighty burst, killing the handful of Druidth who were sheltering behind it. And just like the first two, blue flames brewed from the top. Scattering from the potentially ensuing explosion from the ammunition cooking off in the tank the last of the Druidth were cut down by those that remained across the street.
    Quiet rose to take the place of the sounds of combat, with the only light coming from the burning bank across the street.
    James turned to the two older men and extended his hand, shaking each of theirs. “Thanks, really. Who are you guys, anyway?”
    “Privates Tim Hobbs and Bobby Donahue, First Infantry Division 1951 to 1953,” Bobby answered, propping the now empty rocket launcher against the side of the clubhouse. “We’ve been stuck in this damn building since you boys decided to roll back into town. Hobbs here didn’t want someone loot the antique shotguns we had so when the shooting started we hurried our old asses over.”
    “Well you just proved that just because you’re old it doesn’t mean you aren’t useful,” Nick added. “You wouldn’t want to reenlist, would you?”
    Both men looked at him and started laughing hard enough to make Bobby lean on James for support. “Son, that’s the stupidest question I ever heard. And my kid once asked me if you can breathe water.”
    The sounds of engines and voices shouting English words came from the direction of the bridge.
    “Crap,” James said with a nod to each of the men, “Back to work.”
    Jogging across the street, careful of any surviving Druidth and anything that could explode, and reaching Adam and the rest of the survivors just as a Humvee pulled to a stop in front of the burning bank while the rest of the armored column rolled past and turned on the street behind.
    “Glad to see no one else died,” Nick said to Adam.
    “Glad to see you didn’t either,” Adam replied.
    A Second Lieutenant exited the Humvee and approached the smoke stained men. “Task Force Warrior? You’ve been re-tasked. From now until you’re relieved you’re rolling with the Third Armored.”
    “Sir,” James started. “We’re in no condition to go with you. We lost half our number and there’s wounded.”
    “An ambulance will be along shortly to evac your wounded, my medics will take care of them for now. This came down from Captain…” The Lieutenant consulted his notepad. “Captain Hardedge.”
    With a heavy sigh, James accepted the task. “Yes, Sir. Let’s move out Warrior. We’ve still got a job to do.”
 
Druidth Home Offices
Local Area Known as North America
    Leaning back in the chair, which was far more comfortable than anything military issue should have been, Ezca took a few slow, deep breaths of pure atmosphere. A mixture of Earth’s atmosphere and artificial scents and chemicals from Vasghyrr did wonders to relax any Druidth. Shifting in the soft plush chair, he found a tag on the side and checked who the manufacturer was; in case he lived through this war he was going to buy more furniture from them since it was comfortable and yet cheap enough for the military budget. His face twisted into a grimace when he saw the ugly, blocky scrawl of Human languages.
    He craned his neck and checked the desk before him, the name display read Pad-Tel Hiragana, and wondered if the intelligence officer had any snacks in the confiscated desk. Before he could check the door opened and the specialist officer stepped in.
    “Tana Fre-Chu Ezca?” He asked, reading from the datapad. Dropping into his even plusher chair, Hiragana set the datapad into the recess in the desk which transferred the files to the computer set on the tabletop. As thin as an ink blotter, the think glass lit up with Ezca’s service record and his list of accomplishments. “I am Intelligence Officer Hiragana. Normally I wouldn’t be doing this but the regular personnel clerk was killed by a bomb two days ago.”
    “I thought this district was secured,” He asked.
    “It’s supposed to be, but it’s also this nation’s capital city, so there’s going to be a bit of resistance for some time to come,” Hiragana held up a hand in an attempt to reassure Ezca. “Don’t worry, our security officers got the bombs and they were executed this morning. Actually that’s what took me so long to get here: I was finishing up a profile on one of the bombers to find out any known associates.”
    “Executed?”
    Hiragana smiled sadistically, “Spiked.”
    He referred to the execution method where the condemned would be forced to kneel on a platform, their arms tied and stretched away while an executioner came behind and thrust a long shaft through their chest and into the platform below. The idea was to keep the dead bodies suspended upright while they decomposed but if it was done incorrectly and missed the heart the victim would be like that for days, suffering through agonizing pain. Ezca was glad it was outlawed on Vasghyrr as he saw it barbaric and cruel. He wondered if they should be using it here and not be showing the natives that the Druidth were better.
    “Time to show these savages who’s really in control,” Hiragana continued. “Though it’s really too bad the leadership made off with a few key documents when they fled the city. The King would have been very happy to have received them.”
    “Which documents?”
    “Their ‘Declaration of Independence’, ‘Constitution’ etcetera. Documents from the forming of their nation. If they were in Druidth hands we could show to the rest of them that their country has fallen and that it’s best to give up.” He picked up a pitcher of water and offered a cup to Ezca who declined. Continuing, Hiragana said, “Anyway, Tana, I have some good news for you: you’re being promoted to Kantotally and given a transfer to a quieter district.”
    “Promoted?” Ezca asked, confused. As far as he knew he hadn’t done anything to earn a promotion; especially since all but two members of his unit were killed. Two local weeks had passed since that day Norte was killed by a sniper. In that time the war had taken a sour turn in the mid-West with the Druidth in the place called Colorado being defeated, their leaders captured, and the whole area reclaimed by the American armies. Multiple attempts had been made to reclaim the area but they were met with great loses as the numbers couldn’t be raised for a full scale counter assault.
    Ezca heard tales of a place called St. Petersburg with was scores worse that what he faced in New York. Guerrilla warfare continued in much of the rest of the world, with only a handful of countries pledging fealty to the Druidth king.   
    “Because Command, with the recommendation from your Kanto, feels it’s long overdue. After all, your unit was one of the first to make landfall and despite heavy casualties you were able to secure a landing zone for reinforcements,” Hiragana explained. “You and Tana Tu-Vra Norte both received medals for valor and wounds received. Wounds which you fought through to go above and beyond the call to achieve another unit’s objective after that unit was lost. Tana Fre-Chu Ezca, you deserve this.”
    “Shrapnel,” Ezca muttered with a shrug.
    “I’m sorry?”
    He clarified, “Those great wounds that we fought through was just a few small pieces of shrapnel that made it through our body armor.”
    Hiragana tapped on his computer for a few moments, sliding files around and finding what he needed. “Regardless, you’re given your own unit and a transfer to the city of London. It’s a bit wetter but the damn sun doesn’t shine all the time and you won’t sweat your armor rusty.”
    “Yes, Sir,” Ezca acknowledged. In the end he had no choice: if Command says it, it gets done. And it wasn’t like he wanted to stay in the city where all of his friends were killed. And where he might get killed. When it came down to it Ezca was still trying to carve a place in the new world for him and his sister.
    Speaking of which, he hoped this London had a better communication facility than New York did as he hadn’t had a chance to receive a message from Te-Chu in months. The rebels in the city island loved to blow it up as soon as it was completed. And thanks to the large civilian population it was measurably harder to find rebels in New York than it was in other cities.
    “Good. Shuttle leaves in an hour from port nine.” The Intelligence Officer made a few more taps. “They’ll have your transfer orders awaiting you.”
    “Thank you, Sir. A Druidth hour or Earth hour?”
    A look of disdain came from Hiragana. “A Druidth hour, Kantotally. This is a Druidth world after all and we must hold them to all of our standards. Measurement, time, and laws.”
    “Yes, Sir,” Ezca repeated. He stood and walked out the door to collect his belongings from the barracks.
 
Druidth Battleship Hirotano
    “Third shift must work extra hours,” Castle mocked the shift supervisor in his helmet, no longer caring if they were listening in. They were already punishing him for using the bathroom during his thirteen hour shift. Now they were working sixteen hours of the twenty-two hour Druidth day. Judging from what he learned while on the ship from sailors who were as curious about the Humans as they were about the Druidth, Vasghyrr spun faster than Earth but was larger so it still worked out to be around the same.
    “I bet if someone from Third screwed the shift boss like that slut in First we’d get less hours too,” He griped meanwhile using a portable plasma torch to cut away a damaged piece of hull plating, following the chalk line that the engineers drew earlier. A fist sized chuck separated from the outer hull and began to drift away in the vacuum. Castle reached up and grabbed it before it floated too far out of reach; his magnetic boots kept him from doing the same but only if he stayed within the wireless electrical field provided by the ship.
    He breathed in recycled air that stank of spit, armpits, and bad breath, many times worse than what he inhaled while on the Florida.
    Dropping the metal into a bag that tied on the ends, he would really get in trouble if he let even one small piece of the strange metal get away. Trouble such as missed meals and double shifts, or transfer to the outside of the ship where the troublemakers got sent. Out there, outside the electrical field, their atmospheric suits ran on batteries. They had to do dangerous work on a very short time table and more than a few were killed out there. In short, a death sentence.
    “John,” Henley’s voice came through his helmet speakers. “Are you available to help?”
    Castle reached down and keyed the radio clipped to his utility belt. “Depends. What do you need?”
    “A supply shuttle is coming in and we’re down a body. Sue got transferred outside and we need at least three.”
    He turned off the power to his plasma torch and attached it the magnetic plate on the back of his suit. It connected with a clunk that he felt through his chest. “Sure thing. I just finished up cutting my section anyway. Until Torn gives me a new spot I’ll be done for the day.”
    “In that case you better get over here and help us fast. He’s probably already got one picked out for you.” Voices came across Henley’s microphone that sounded like laughter.
    Castle sent off a ping to let the engineering crew know that he was through and moon bounced down the corridor, and away from the gaping hole that led to the nothingness of space, before he replied. “Be right there.”
    Weeks before he was brought here, back when he was still plotting the escape from the camp in Pennsylvania, a Canadian submarine fired a cruise missile that was specially programed to break apart from the warhead and drift aimlessly like just another hunk of trash orbiting Earth until it came within range of the Hirotano then detonated. The explosion and following decompression killed most of the crew leaving the ship short staffed and thus forcing the leadership to consider alternative labor.
    Castle kept both feet together and crouched down then jumped forward, turning himself into a projectile to fly down the corridor much faster than walking. When they first got there they had about a full day to get orientated. When new assignments came in they were usually on the other side of the ship and Torn, the shift boss, hated it when they took too long getting from one place to another. Too long being more than three minutes. So just like the Druidth Command, the shanghaied Humans were forced to find faster ways to get around which led to what was commonly called Rocket Jumping. Castle was afraid when he first tried it that he would shatter his faceplate and suffocate, his eyes sucked out of his head, but a few pants wettingly terrifying crashes later proved that whatever material the Druidth made the suits out of was far superior to anything the Humans could come up with.
    He reached the makeshift airlock and slid through the tubing attached to the doorframe. Inside the airlock, a valve like device slipped open and allowed him through. Coming out the other end Castle felt like he had been birthed all over again. He toggled his visor and lifted it up, breathing in the thin, harsh oxygen the Druidth breathed; whenever he took his helmet off his eyes watered from the change in atmosphere. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse breathing in the bad breath and armpits smell. At least the docking bay that served as their barracks was properly oxygenated.
    Running along the backbone of the ship was one of the two passageways that led to every section of the ship. One above and one below. The Navy officer in his saw this as a major design flaw because if a boarding party could land in a docking bay and get into what he thought of as the Artery then there would be no stopping them. The security force was laughably lax and undermanned, stretched way too thin. Take the bridge at the front, the engine room in the center, and fire control at the rear and the ship was yours.
    All of this hinged on if you were properly armed and had trained soldiers. None of which he had, nor any hope of obtaining.
    Handholds aided in navigating the Artery and Castle soon reached the docking bay near the front of the ship where Henley was working; absolutely avoiding the bridge because if he was caught there he would be shot, no questions asked. Swinging in, he saw Henley and Babcock bouncing in the near zero gravity, maneuvering large objects around to make room for the new pod that was coming.
    Outside the transparent bay door, made from the same material as their visors only much thicker, a new supply pod drifted closer on attitude jets. Back on Earth a shuttle designed much like a Sikorsky helicopter took off from the ground with the container hung underneath and flew in close to the ship. The container would then dislodge and a computer would send signals to it and bring it in. Once inside it was unloaded by the workers then reloaded with trash and jettisoned to either burn up in the atmosphere or crash into unoccupied territory.
    Henley was standing in the middle of the bay in here white suit waving Castle over. One final Rocket Jump and he landed next to her with a gentle thud. “That the one you need help with?”
    Her face rose and fell behind her visor. “Yep. They’re sending interchangeable battery packs and oxygen tanks for our suits. Torn is tired of the Outsiders working half shifts for fear of ‘floating off to a horrifying death’.”
    “Well let me know where you need me,” He offered.
    In a surprising move, Henley unplugged her radio from the main power supply and the wire that ran to the microphone in her helmet. Doing the same, this was a tried and true method to stop the guards from eavesdropping on them but couldn’t be done for long as they would eventually come looking to find out why the transponder quit, Castle was surprised when Henley pressed her visor against his.
    By using the vibrations from her voice she was able to speak to him in total privacy. “Look, we’re gonna’ try something. Just play along, okay?”
    “What are you planning?” He asked, confused but excited to cause some trouble for once.
    “You’ll see.” And just like that she pulled away, her radio reattached. “Sorry, Torn. Cord got caught on a pallet.”
    “That was the third time this week,” The taskmaster radioed back. “If it happens again you’ll find yourself topside.”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    Babcock activated the door controls on the bulkhead and the large, transparent door lowered silently into the floor. With a few more puffs of compressed gasses the garbage truck cargo container drifted in and, once caught by the microgravity, drifted gently to the floor.
    Henley keyed her radio. “Container two-three-three-A arrived and secured. Breaking the seals now.”
    The trio bounced over to the door, armed with specialty tools that resembled a prybar but with a round end with a slot in it. Castle inserted it in a recessed slot on the center and twisted, releasing the lock. Henley and Babcock swung the door open and pulled a crate of small oxygen tanks and a bundle of tennis ball sized batteries. However, instead of taking them to the collection area they clipped a battery into Babcock’s suit and screwed an oxygen bottle in.
    “Crap,” Henley radioed. “Sir, they only sent two pallets of O2, not three. And one pack of batteries.”
    Druidth curses responded. “Alright. Continue your work.”
    Silent nods between Babcock and Henley led Castle to believe something truly was going on. The three of them finished unloading the container, stripping the packing material and finishing loading the first container.
    He was ready to close the lock when Babcock climbed in, pulling the door closed behind him.
    “Jettison container five-six-C in three-two-one.” Instead of actually sending the container out, Henley just stood there pretending to check out her nails under her gloves. “Shit, Torn the container jammed.”
    The reply was almost immediate, “Send Babcock out. Make sure it doesn’t damage the ship.”
    Now, Henley inserted the locking tool and gave a half turn, two full turns less than it required to fully lock the doors. Meanwhile, Castle just stood aside, a look of confusing filling his face.
    What are you doing? He mouthed when she was back in view, but Henley only shrugged.
Finally, she set her hand on the door controls. “Okay, jettison five-six-C in three…two…one.” The container slid out the back and began to drift away with its load of trash and stowaway.
“No, no, no! Holy shit!” Babcock screamed.
“Oh god. Torn, he’s still on the container. I thought he was back on the surface of the ship!”
Silence followed while the container drifted farther away and Castle grew more perplexed. From what he just saw the three of them just committed assisted suicide. Babcock’s realistic screams of ‘Help’ were suddenly silenced buy the shift boss as he easily wrote off another Human life to ‘workplace accident’.
Ice flowed through his veins while confusion filled his face as he watched the container drift farther and farther away. He stood there until the clunk against his helmet announced Henley’s presence.
“I’ve already unplugged you but we need to talk fast,” She breathed. “We were talking to one of the shuttle pilots on board who was laughing at how almost none of the containers burnt up in the atmosphere. Most splash down off the coast of California, unharmed. Something about the way they’re shaped; they’re natural wings.”
“And the battery and air?”
“So he can breathe and not freeze to death on the way down.”
“How will we know he gets down okay?”
Henley pulled away and re-plugged her radio just in time for the pair of guards to come marching in, weapons drawn.
“You two,” One of them gestured with his pistol drawn. “Come with us. Torn wants to speak with you.”