Gregorian Interstellar Date: 3023, April 13 Location: Horse Head Nebula: Augeron System, Planet Virois Zulu Time: 1922 hours Sergeant Jack Bishop, and what was left of his platoon, had been pinned by colonial rebels in some backwater town for the last five days. The Marine Corps had sent them to regain control of the planet, following the Colonial Uprising. Damn colonist. Because of them Bishop and his platoon had been sent to the ass-end of the galaxy with the only orders of, “recon, patrol, and watch out for colonial rebels.” Fucking connies. Bishop thought, adopting the term for the rebels that had become popular by grunts; much more PC than asshole, shithead, or fucktard. The barren planet of Virois was prime real estate for mining ore, and because the main method of extracting the ore in the ground involved the use of explosives Bishop’s platoon was tasked with patrolling local towns, and commandeer anything that went boom. That was the plan of course, but with over a decade of experience Bishop knew a plan was just a list of shit that would never happen. Anticipating the arrival of a platoon of Marines the colonist had taken measures. Bishop’s convoy had been decimated by a daisy chain of explosives, killing nearly everyone in his platoon. Which also left him in command. The firefight following the explosion was intense. His squad had managed to take cover within a local structure not far from where they were hit. It had been the longest five days of his life, or one big shitty day—he couldn’t tell —and the buzzing of the electrical storm was beginning to drive him nuts. He wasn’t sure what caused the storms, something about the arid nature of the planet, solar winds, or some other bullshit. All he knew was that it made communication impossible. All the technology in the world and they couldn’t even get a text message back to command. It had been five days, so they had to know something was up. No communications, and no satellite images. Most importantly, no sign of the equipment, and vehicles that cost the kind of stupid money that could keep his guys alive longer, better fed, and safer. With the added bonus of assisting with the one running language that--apparently--all interstellar assholes spoke: the ability to spread hate and discontent via guns, and ammo. Send a damn patrol and find out what the hold up was. Something. Anything. Maybe they had, and the damn connies hit them too. Didn’t matter. If Bishop didn’t come up with a plan soon it was only a matter of time before they were dead. They had plenty of ammo. No problem there, but food, water, and medical supplies… A noise from just outside the room where Bishop held over-watch caught his attention; he slowly tightened his trigger hand around his pistol grip and aimed his rifle toward the incoming noise. Lance Corporal Marcus Fuller had a look of complete surprise as he stared down the barrel of Bishop’s Mark 13 carbine. There was a brief exchange of colorful language. “Then don’t fucking sneak up on me, Marcus!” Bishop said. “Is the Mark 7 up?” Marcus sat beside Bishop, propping the medium machine on its bipods. “I’m no armorer, but I think I got her fixed.” Like all United Space Marine Corps weapons the Mk7 RFRG, Rapid Fire Rail Gun, utilized an electromagnetic firing system. All USMC ammunition was case-less, and instead of using the old powder accelerants the weapon magnetically charged the
metallic rounds before powerful magnets propelled the bullet from the rail system. The days yelling over gunfire were over, replacing the historic bang with a wub. Bishop grinned, “only one way to find out.” “Just give me a target.” Marcus grinned back. An ice cream shop across the street had been staring Bishop in the face; a dirty, smiling, ice cream cone mascot with swirly, vanilla ice cream had been mocking him. It was insulting that he was sweating his ass of in his armor, and a refreshing ice cream cone was not more than one hundred feet away. Marcus drew a bead on the ice cream cone man, depressed the trigger, and sent a barrage of electro-charged rounds into it, riddling it to pieces. “I’d say it’s working.” Bishop said. Marcus nodded. “If we can’t have ice cream, no one can.” They both laughed and stopped; the noise from was coming from the east. It was echoing faintly, being pinned down had turned prudence to paranoia. “Reynolds, that you?” Bishop said, barely above a whisper. “No, it’s the connies,” Reynolds yelled back, “of course it’s me!” Private First Class Kelsey Reynolds crouched into the room. His hands were covered in blood, and he had a tired look on his face. “Sarn’t, it’s doc…” He said in response to their worried looks. Bishop shot a look to Marcus. Marcus adjusted the butt stock of the Mk7 in his shoulder. “I got things here, Bishop.” His tone was sober. The laughter was over, and Bishop followed Reynolds with a sense of urgency. The sun was setting, and their makeshift base was almost completely dark. They didn’t dare turn on the lights. The second floor of the three-story building had become their marshaling for the dead and wounded, and in the corner of the room sitting against the wall was Hospital Corpsman Dominic Johnson. Even in the lowlight Bishop could see that Johnson's dark complexion had turned an ashen purple, and as knelt beside his friend he noticed his eyes were jaundiced. “Hey, Sarge,” Johnson said weakly. Bishop’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. He hated being called Sarge. Every Marine Sergeant in the history of the Marine Corps hated being called Sarge. However, he knew Johnson’s sense of humor, and it was hard to be angry with a dying man. “Don’t call me that, doc,” he said, “how you holding up?” Johnson’s laughter was choked with the blood seeping into his lungs. “Sorry, Sarn’t. Just messin’.” Carefully Bishop peeled back the bandages to inspect the wound to Johnson’s right side. They were sopping with blood, and though the wound was healing it hadn’t completely stopped bleeding. Reynolds paced just behind Bishop. “We need to give him another blood bag.” “We can’t.” Bishop said inspecting Johnson’s other injuries. Reynolds threw his hands in the air. “What do you mean, we can’t?” Bishop shot him a look, a look that promised terrible consequences if he didn’t shut the fuck up. He was just as worried about Johnson, but freaking out wasn’t going to help him…if they could help him.
Johnson held up a hand. A jester that said it was okay, and don’t bullshit me. He was a corpsman; he knew what was going on. The only thing worse than thinking you were going to die was knowing you were going to die. Johnson knew it. Bishop knew it. Reynolds probably knew it too, the idiot. The truth was a hard thing to swallow, and being the only four Marines left of their platoon none of them wanted to lose another friend. Bishop began to regret waiting as long as he had. Maybe if they had made a break for it earlier, hide in the mountains perhaps, got to higher ground they might have been able to make contact with command. Request a medevac for Johnson. Save his life. However, what about everyone else? You don’t leave a man behind... “Give him another blood bag!” Reynolds shouted. “Shut it, Marine,” Bishop was sullen, “His liver’s shot, another blood bag will kill him!” Blood bags were a blessing and a curse. They were completely synthetic, able to match any blood type and prolong the wounded’s survivability, however it was temporary. Continuous doses were deadly, and Johnson was already beginning to show the side effects. The Quick Clot wasn’t holding up either, and the blood spewing from Johnson’s mouth meant his was bleeding internally; he needed surgery, and none of them was qualified. Johnson’s face began to twist. “I don’t want to die here, Sarn’t.” He choked. “I know.” Reynolds came in beside Bishop. “You’re gonna be alright man, just hold on. You’re gonna be okay.” Johnson shook his head, groaning. “No. No use in pretending anymore. I was never going to make it.” “Don’t talk like that,” Bishop said, then he turned to Reynolds, “get the med supplies.” “No!” Johnson reached and pulled Bishop closer by his kit, “Don’t you even fucking think about it. It’ll be a waste, and you’re going to need it.” His face twisted against the pain, and he fought to keep himself quite. Weakly he tried to reach for his helmet, and with Bishop’s help the corpsman pulled a monocular eyepiece from it thrusting it into Bishop’s bloody hand. “What’s this for?” “Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.” Johnson said after a fit of bloody coughing. Bishop exchanged a look with Reynolds, who shrugged. “Do you know how to use that,” Johnson asked. “Kinda.” “Good enough,” he laughed hoarsely, “after I’m gone cut out my heart.” “What?” Johnson pulled him closer by his kit. Bishop could smell the infection in his breath; Johnson was far worse than he looked. “This isn’t a debate. I am not to be buried here. Cut out my heart, and bury me back home. Promise me.” “I promise.” It felt hollow, almost impossible, but he wasn’t going to deny a dying man. “Swear it!” “I swear.”
Johnson released Bishop and collapsed from exhaustion. Tiredly, weakly, he turned to Reynolds, “You got a smoke?” Reynolds fumbled through his pockets and produced a cigarette, placed it between Johnson’s lips, and lit it. The cigarette smoke sent Johnson into a fit of coughing; blood spewed from the mouth. “How do you stand these things?” Then he was gone. It wasn’t smart for them all to be in the same location, but after Dominic’s death they didn’t give a shit about procedure. There was a looming sense that the colonials were about to make a move. A tingle, or itch, or ache you got when shit was about to hit the fan; something that only the guys who had seen most of the combat got. Good. Bishop thought. He had an incredible urge to kill someone. He had attached Dominic’s monocle to his helmet, but he couldn’t bring himself to fulfill his friend’s request, yet. The streets were empty. Except for their unoccupied transports that stood destroyed or damaged in the street, and the scattered corpses of dead connies. Maybe, if they were lucky, one of the transports still worked. However, it begged the question: how would they load all of their friends into one truck? Even if there a few that were serviceable, loading each of their friends would leave them open. There were only three of them left, and that would take time; time that they couldn’t afford. “It’s not your fault, Bishop.” Marcus said then. Bishop didn’t say anything. Nothing he could say. He only grit his teeth and clenched his jaw. It was his fault. They all knew it. “What’s the plan fearless leader?” Reynolds said from a corner. Bishop didn’t like his tone. He couldn’t blame him, but it wasn’t helping. Reynolds had been against the plan to stay put from the beginning, but Bishop wasn’t about to leave everyone behind. “Watch it, Reynolds.” Marcus said. “Fuck you, Marcus! All we’re doing is sitting on our asses. We need to get the fuck outta here! So, what the fuck, Bishop? Your plan to just let us die here?” “We’re not leaving anyone behind.” Bishop said in finality. Reynolds threw his hands in the air. “They’re dead. We can’t help them anymore. We need to save ourselves!” He gave Reynolds a flat, unfriendly stare. “We are not leaving anyone.” Bishop said again. “He’s right, Bishop.” Bishop shot Marcus an incredulous look. “Not about saving ourselves, I mean,” he corrected, “but about not being able to stay here. Every minute that passes we’re vulnerable.” “That’s what I’ve been saying!” Shot Reynolds. “Yeah, but you’re a dick about it.” Marcus said. Tension was high, Bishop knew. Reynolds really wanted to bitch about something, and Bishop knew he was holding back. He needed to vent, so Bishop would let him. “I’m going to take care of doc. When I get back we’ll think of a way to get out of here.” “Sounds good.” “About fucking time.”
“Reynolds,” Bishop said, “keep running your mouth and I’ll fucking bury you here. You get me?” “You’re not…” Bishop wasn’t sure what it was. A change in his posture, the looks in his eyes, or the fact that his finger was intentionally placed on the trigger of his rifle that made Reynolds suddenly rethink his tone and what his next words would be. He made a quick glance to Marcus for reassurance, but it wasn’t there. Marcus was sick of his shit too. “If he doesn’t, I will.” Marcus said. “You guys are dicks.” Reynolds said taking up Bishop’s position. “Glad we understand each other.” Bishop said. It wasn’t long before the colonials started shooting at them. The report from their small arms fire sounded loudly from outside of the building. Bishop wasn’t worried; it was had almost become a routine for them. The connies would take potshots for an hour, take a break, and then do it all over again. The first couple days they had used rockets and other explosive munitions, but had recently stopped. Either they had run out, or they were hoping to take them alive, or, most likely, they were saving the remaining heavy stuff for an assault. Either way Bishop and his team had overstayed their welcome. He knelt beside Dominic. The corpsman’s face no longer wore the strain of fighting off pain, and he finally looked at peace. Bishop wasn’t anywhere close to be a surgeon and the thought of mutilating his friend’s body greatly troubled him. But he had made a promise. He depressed the quick-release on Dominic’s kit, and there was an audible click. Had Dominic been standing his armor would have simply slid off the exoskeleton, which held it in place. Bishop placed the armored pieces aside and activated the monocle. In his view, he could see an x-ray of Dominic’s skeletal structure. Twisting a nod several clicks the intensity changed from the skeletal to the muscle, and finally to the organs. They were a complete mess, but they were not his focus. Unsheathing the combat knife from its integrated housing in his chest plate, Bishop made an incision just under the ribcage and just big enough to reach his hand in. It didn’t bother him. He had seen friends shot and blown apart before, what bothered him was that this time he was the one doing the damage. No. The damage was done. He was merely making good on a promise to a dying friend. The arteries were surprisingly strong and elastic as he pulled Dominic’s heart through the incision. With his knife he freed the heart from the body, made another incision in the meat of the heart, and slipped one of Dominic’s dog tags into it. This wasn’t what he signed up for, but in a way it was. Dominic knew he wasn’t going to leave this shithole planet, and if he couldn’t have his body buried back home, he wanted some piece of him there. Made sense after all. Dominic used to talk for hours about how the ancient Egyptians believed the heart was where the soul resided, bragging about how he was part Egyptian himself. Dominic wasn’t even part Egyptian really, less than five percent if you wanted to get into specifics, and everyone always busted his balls over it; he could take a joke though. Bishop held the collection of his friend’s dog tags in his hands. They felt heavier somehow. A person’s whole being reduced to a cheap piece of metal. And that’s when Bishop realized how he could get his friends out.
The firefight hadn’t eased up as Bishop had originally anticipated, and it was only getting worse with each passing minute. “You took your time.” Reynolds said as Bishop came up beside them. Bishop was covered in blood, a ridiculous amount. He cut off Reynolds before he could make a stupid joke about him being on the rag, “We’re leaving.” That got their attention and as instantly as they were relieved reality struck them again. “How?” “We’re taking a transport.” Bishop said. Reynolds ducked as a bullet snapped over their heads. “What if they don’t work?” “Then we’re fucked.” “What do you need us to do?” Marcus asked. “How’s the situation?” “The connies are keeping out of the streets now. Between Reynolds and me we’ve managed to keep them away from the trucks, looks like they have the same idea as you. They’re sticking to the buildings now.” “Good. That’ll give us some time. Reynolds, how many charges do we have?” “Enough to blow the building.” He cackled. “Good. Do it. Rig the building,” “Wait, what?” “I don’t want those bastards getting our friends.” Bishop said. “We’re gonna leave them like that?” Reynolds asked. Seemed he had a change of heart. Maybe the reality of the situation, that they were leaving, made him realize he was being an ass. “Taken care of,” Bishop unslung the pack on his back and opened it. Inside was a collection of hearts. Normally, this would have been a very bizarre sight. But, they weren’t in a normal situation. “We still have Marines in those trucks. I’m going to back up Marcus until you’re finished. When you’re done get your ass back here, and give me some covering fire, I’m going to out there to get our boys and find a working truck.” Marcus sent a burst of fire at a group of colonials on a rooftop. “Works for me.” Reynolds was smiling. “That’s fucking crazy.” “Nice to know you care,” Bishop said taking position, “get to work.” Ironically, combat wasn’t nearly as stressful as the waiting. It was a bad night to be a connie, and Bishop's team made nice work at defending their position. But, there were still only three of them and the connies were pressing them hard. As Marcus laid down fire on the Mk7, Bishop ran from position to position to fend off colonials trying to break their perimeter. Several times Reynolds had to pull himself away from rigging charges to put another rifle in the fight, which was more of an annoyance than anything. Bishop had to hand to it Reynolds, the Marine bitched and moaned, but give him a task, and he’ll see it done. Marcus had been calm throughout the entire ordeal, so much, in fact, that it was almost scary. He always had a cool head in tense situations, one reason Bishop liked him, and he always had his back. “What I wouldn’t give for a gunship right about now.” Bishop said rejoining Marcus.
Marcus gave Bishop a glance out of the corner of his eye, “What I wouldn’t give for a fucking blow job right about now. You alright?” “Yeah, I’m good. Talk to Reynolds about the blow job.” Bishop felt like shit. Watching your friends die was one thing, cutting them open was an entirely different kind of fucked up; when you’re in charge you have to keep it together. Bishop was covered in the blood of his Marines. Their blood was literally on his hands. “Two o’clock!” Bishop marked. He drew a bead on a group of connies making a dash for the door at their perimeter and fired. He managed to hit a few. Killing two, and wounding another, but the rest made it to the door. He swore, but a loud explosion sounded and shook the building. Over their personal communication units, Reynolds laughed crackled over harsh static. [I set up a little surprise at the door. Didn’t want some connie fucking me in the ass while I set the charges.] Reynolds reported. “Good call. How’s it coming?” Bishop shouted over the static. The electrical storm still hadn’t passed, but if they could talk with each other that meant it was letting up. Might explain why the connies were pressing them so hard. [The charges or my anal virginity?] Asked Reynolds. Bishop grit his teeth. “The charges.” [All done. I’m en-route.] A sigh of relief, but Bishop couldn’t allow himself to be comfortable just yet. There was still a very big chance they wouldn’t make it out. “Marcus, if something happens I want you and Reynolds break contact and head for the mountains.” “Fuck you,” he said, “We’re gonna make it. So shut your mouth…Sergeant.” He added with a grin. Bishop laughed. “Aye, Lance Corporal!” Marcus smiled over the butt stock of the machinegun. “Finally, a reply befitting my rank and station.” Reynolds ran into the room, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily. “There are some charges left, you can use them to blow the trucks, Sarn’t. Don’t want some fucking connie getting their hands on our shit.” Bishop stuffed the extra charges into a separate compartment of his pack. “Comm seems to be working so keep an ear open. Once I have our boys tucked away I’ll find a working truck get your asses out of here.” “Kill.” They both said in acknowledgment. “Reynolds,” Marcus said then, “Get on the gun. I’ll prove precision fire.” “Why?” “Because you’re a shitty shot, that’s why.” “I swear to God I’ll blow this fucking building with you in it.” Reynolds said jumping on the Mk7. Bishop laughed. “There’s your blow job.” He said to Marcus. Marcus clapped Bishop on the shoulder. “Watch your six out there, man.” “With you on the gun I won’t have to.” He said. “For fuck sake,” Reynolds said over the wub of fire, “Are you gonna make out, or get us outta here?”
Had Bishop known things were going to turn out the way they had; he would have taken the time to remove the Marines from their trucks. The covering fire provided by Marcus and Reynolds was keeping the heat off him, but the process of collecting the fallen Marine’s hearts under fire was proving to be somewhat difficult. He hated to admit it, but the Marines that had been blown apart were much easier to work on compared to those that weren’t. He was crawling through the innards of a transport trying to get to a Marine in the back seat. “Sorry, boys,” he apologized, crawling over several Marines. Rounds pinged constantly off the armored hull of the transport, a constant reminder that he was completely vulnerable in his current state. “How’s it looking out there?” He said into the comm. [You really want to know?] Marcus said. “That bad?” [Just hurry.] Bishop pulled the heart through the gaping hole in his side and cut into the heart, placing the dog tag inside. He looked the Marine in the face. If not for the Bolognese of organs the Marine would have appeared to be sleeping. “We’re taking you home, Jimmy.” He said to the Marine. “Alright, finished. I’m going to check the trucks.” [Rog—look out!] A thundering boom rattled the transport, completely disorientating Bishop. His vision spun, and there was a blaring ringing in his ears. His heart thumped loudly over the ringing and as he fought to collect himself he realized the truck was on its side. He didn’t know how much explosives the connies has used, but it must have been a sufficient amount if it could flip an armored transport. He quickly assessed himself and was relieved to know he was not only alive, but was still in one piece. The bodies of his fallen Marines had shielded him against the worst of the explosion, and he fought to push them off as he reached for the door. He could just barely make out Marcus and Reynolds over the comm, and he kept repeating that he was alive, Jimmy’s heart still held tightly in his fist. With tremendous effort he managed to open the door, and pull himself out. He rolled over the side of the truck and hit the ground hard. It was then he realized he wasn’t as lucky as he thought. Two large chunks of shrapnel were lodged in his shoulder and leg; fortunately they hadn’t ruptured an artery, but they hurt like hell. [Hold on Sarn’t, Marcus is on the way!] Reynolds shouted over the comm. The pain had brought back his focus and allowed Bishop to forget about any fatigue. That fine line between alive and dead had a real ability to do that. He sat in the dirt covered in the blood of his friends and now his own. The last week had required so much of his energy, and it all came crashing down on him at that moment. The fatigue from lack of sleep, aching hungry from shit rations, constantly being shot at, caring for his wounded friends, cutting out their hearts, trying to keep his remaining friends alive, trying to get them home, and now getting blown up. Jimmy’s heart was still in his hand. It felt as if it was beating, that Jimmy was still alive. And all he could think was, what the fuck… He was staring at a pair of boots. But not regulation boots. No, they definitely were not standard issue. Looking up, he was staring down the barrel of a rifle. No. Two rifles. The woman was staring at him, and it wasn’t a look he expected. She looked…
worried. No, couldn’t be it. The man looked like he was disgusted. Was it because Bishop was covered in blood, and holding a human heart? “They’re fucking monsters.” The man said. Bishop wanted to tell him he was wrong, but it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t need to explain himself, not to some connie bastard. No. Fuck him. Fuck all of them. Fuck himself for that matter. He was tired. Maybe this could buy Marcus and Reynolds time to run, regroup, and make contact with command. Get the hell home, anywhere but here. “Do it.” He said. She hesitated, exchanging a look to the man. Fucking connies. Bishop thought. “Shoot him!” The man said. He was frantic, nervous, looking around. Wasn’t sure if there were other Marines nearby. Yeah, they’re close by you fucker. Better to kill me now, and run. “Lets just…” That’s all she got before Marcus shot her, and then the man. It wasn’t like the movies. Not even close. There was no dramatic flailing, no slow motion as the body fell to the ground; it was fast and anticlimactic. One moment she was standing, the next the side of her face was gone, and her body fell limply under its own weight all in the same instant. One moment she was alive, the next she wasn’t. At first a person and then a pile of meat and bone. Shame really. She was pretty. Marcus was beside him before he knew it. “Bishop! Fuck…” He said, seeing the shrapnel. “C’mon, man. We gotta move.” [How is he?] Reynolds sounded off in the comm. “He’s hurt, but he’ll live. We’re going for the truck, give us some cover.” [Hurry! It’s a fucking hornet’s nest.] Marcus tossed the heart in Bishop’s pack, retrieved syringe from his pocket and jabbed it into Bishop’s leg. “C’mon Bishop, we gotta move.” There was urgency in his voice, uncharacteristic of his calm and cool nature. That got Bishop’s attention. Not today. He wasn’t going to die today. He wasn’t going to be buried on this fuck-stain of a planet; Dominic was right. Fuck this. The shot was just enough for Bishop to move effectively; the pain was still there, but it wasn’t searing. Enemy fire cracked and zinged around them as they bound from cover to cover, the truck was close, but it seemed miles away. It appeared in working order; there was heavy damage to the cab, and two of the six tires were visibly flat. More importantly, the turret seemed serviceable. “Marcus, check the truck! I’ll get the gun. Reynolds, once I start laying down fire get your ass down here, how copy?” [Solid copy!] Once they reached the truck Marcus began to add his fire from the barrage of Reynolds’s Mk7. Bishop yanked on the door. Swore, then crawled inside, and swore some more from the pain. There was ammo in the gun, a good sign. Bishop racked the charging handle, chambered the first round. Click. “Fucking son of a bitch!” “What is it?” “The gun’s down!” Bishop shouted over the enemy fire. Marcus thought. “Did you try the safety?”
Bishop blinked. Flicked the safety to fire and the gun wubbed gloriously. “Idiot.” Marcus shook his head grinning. “Reynolds, get your ass down here, now!” He was already on the way. Marcus leaped into the truck, shimmied his way into the driver’s seat, and attempted to start the truck. The engine gave several whines but never turned over. Reynolds slapped the bipods of the Mk7 against the hood and began firing into the charging crowd of colonials. “Starting the truck would be nice.” He said. Several more attempts, some pressure on the gas, and the truck roared into life. Marcus revved the engine a couple of times to make sure everything was good to go, and Reynolds was already tossing the machine gun in the back before leaping into the passenger seat. “Go, go, go!” There was no need to say it, but they all had anyway. Even with the flat tires the transport moved smoothly. A quick U-turn and they were already heading out of the town, enemy fire pinging off the armored skin of truck as they drove off. “Blow it, Reynolds.” Bishop said, still on the gun; you can never be too careful. Reynolds took the remote detonator from his pocket, thumbed the safety, and let his thumb hover over the button. “What are you waiting for?” Marcus said. “Wait…” Reynolds watched in the mirror. It was dark, but he could just barely make out distant figures entering the building they had occupied. Another few moments and he depressed the button. In the distance several flashed illuminated from the trucks and building, a kick of dirt and debris, then the building came crashing down upon itself. Whoever was unfortunate enough to be inside wouldn’t be coming back out. Reynolds smiled. “Eat that fuckers.” It was over. But it wasn’t a victory. The cost of their survival had been higher than any of them wanted to pay. Yet, they were alive. That had to count for something, but it didn’t quite feel like it. Bishop slid from the turret and into one of the rear seats. It had been a hell of a week, a hell of a week. Only one more month before he was out of the Marine Corps, but these weren’t the terms he wanted to leave on. “Hand me the mic,” he said, “To any available units, this is Fox niner-six, do you copy?” Static. Bishop swore. He attempted the transmission several more times. Then, [Fox niner-six, this is Wombat three-two, read you loud and clear, over.] “Wombat three-two, we are in need of assistance, one vic, three packs, possible connies en route on our location, what is your pos, how copy.] [Solid copy Fox, stand by.] A collective sigh of relief. “You didn’t tell them you were wounded, Sarn’t.” Reynolds said. “Oops.” Reynolds shrugged and then started laughing. “I fucking love you guys!” “We’re not out of the woods, yet.” Bishop reminded him. “Yeah, but at least we’re not in that shit hole.”
He had a point. Bishop let it go, he wasn’t going to steal that from Reynolds. Besides, he was too tired to argue. He took the pack full of the hearts of his platoon and placed it securely in his lap. “They transmitted their position.” Marcus said, pointing to the screen. As the electrical storm passed, communications and GPS were working properly again. The map gave their current location and a heading toward Wombat three-two. In another thirty miles they would be safe, and they could get in contact with command. Granted, he could do that now, but he was tired and he wanted to get some sleep before the meds wore off, and the pain returned. “Marcus,” Bishop said then, “Thanks the help back there.” “You would’ve done the same for me,” a pause, “Lance Corporals do most of the work anyway.” He grinned. Bishop chuckled wryly. Reynolds pulled out his cigarettes. “You guys want one, to celebrate?” “No.” Reynolds said. “Get that trash away from me.” Bishop said. He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”