Desert DroppingChapter 26B
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GreeniesChapter 26B free porn video
Eden MPG base
2206 hours
Matt Mendez was barely cognizant of the fact that the Mosquito he was in had just touched down on the main runway outside the base. He felt the gentle thump, felt the push against his restraint harness as Brian put on the brakes and slowed them to taxiing speed. He was weak all over, feeling like it was an effort just to move his arms or turn his head. He had never been so tired in all his life. The pain in his butt cheek was still there but had mostly faded to a dull, aching numbness.
"You okay, kid?" Brian's voice asked in his earpiece.
"Yeah," he mumbled automatically. "I just need some rest is all."
They had been circling fifty kilometers north of the battlefield for the past two hours, on standby in case there was a break in the cease-fire. So far, there hadn't been one. Matt had actually dozed off at his control panel several times. Once he had gone so far asleep he had started dreaming.
"Coming up on the airlock," Brian told him.
"Static," Matt said, hardly comprehending him.
"Get ready for heavying."
"Yeah," he said.
He came fully awake when the artificial gravity field was turned on, suddenly making him weigh three times as much as he had the moment before. A wave of nausea and sickness suddenly washed over him, bringing with it a searing pain in his chest. He found it hard to breathe, as if every inhalation was against an elephant sitting on his chest.
"Boss," he said, his voice barely audible.
"Yeah?" Brian asked.
"I think... I think you'd better get some medics over here for me."
Brian turned around to look at him, gazing on his face for the first time in hours. Even in the dim lighting, even through the helmet, he could see that Matt's face had gone beyond pale and into the land of ashen. "Jesus fucking Christ, kid," he said. "What happened?"
"I don't know," he said. "I'm just really... weak and it's hard to breathe."
Brian immediately got on the communications link and told them he had an injured sis. They vectored him toward the far section of he aircraft hanger where a transportation point had been set up to transfer the wounded marines from the hovers and the Hummingbirds to the dip-hoe carts. He brought the plane to a halt and opened the hatch, waving frantically at two dip-hoes who were manning this area.
They came over just as he pulled his helmet off. "My sis is not looking good," he told them. "Get a ladder set and help me get him down from here."
They immediately ran and got one of the wheeled ladders and brought it over. By the time they got Matt pulled from his harness and down to the ground he was only semi-conscious. He woke up a little bit when they laid him flat.
"Did he get hit?" one of the dip-hoes asked.
"He got hit yesterday," Brian replied. "During the air-strike. We got shot down and he took some shrapnel in his ass. Nothing today though."
The two medics looked at each other. "Was the wound fused shut?" one of them asked.
"They couldn't fuse it because of the way it was," Brian said. "He left the hospital and came back to fly with me. He's been hurting the whole time we've been up there but he's hung in there."
"His biosuit doesn't fit right," the other medic said. "It's really loose right on his ass."
"It's not the one they fitted for him," Brian said. "That one got shredded when he was hit."
"You let him go up with an uncleared injury and wearing a biosuit that doesn't fit?" the first medic asked angrily. "Why didn't you just take him out behind the building and shoot him?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Brian asked.
"What do you guys pull up there? Two Gs? Three Gs?"
"Yeah, about that," Brian said.
"All of that weight pushes down on your ass, doesn't it?"
"Well... yeah."
"I hope I'm not right," the medic said. "Lets get the suit off of him."
They did, pulling off the helmet and then unzipping the suit itself. When they pulled it off of his body a large glut of congealed blood spilled out of the aft portion onto the ground.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Brian exclaimed, shocked at the sheer amount of it. Matt's entire leg was drenched in it and there was even more still inside the suit.
"He must've lost two liters," the medic said incredulously. "If he wouldn't have been in reduced gravity all this time he'd be dead."
"All from a little skin off his ass?" Brian asked.
"Every time you pulled Gs up there it was forcing the wound back open and making blood pour out of it. How long were you up there?"
"Almost eighteen hours," Brian said.
"I'm surprised he was able to stay conscious that long. Let's get an IV line in him and put in some synthetic blood."
"Is he gonna make it?" Brian asked.
"He'll make it," the medic said, running a scanner over him. "I wish I could say the same for his kidneys though. They're completely shut down from the blood loss."
"My kidneys?" Matt mumbled. "I can't afford no new kidneys." Organ cloning was something that had been available since World War III, but only to those with the money to pay for it.
"Don't worry, kid," Brian said. "We'll get you some new kidneys if I have to fuckin' pay for them myself."
Main anti-tank trench, Eden
September 15, 2146, 0224 hours
Captain Callahan was not as exhausted as Matt Mendez, but he was close. For the past six hours he and the remains of his company (they had re-grouped after the cease-fire but only forty-eight of his men were still alive and unwounded) had been down in the anti-tank trench, sorting through the dead, through the body parts, through the absolute horror of the aftermath of the battle, trying to find men who were still alive and salvageable. Upon finding such men they would pull them out and lift them to the west side of the trench where other marines would carry them to one of the waiting APCs that had survived. When the APCs filled with wounded as many men as could climb onto the outside would do so and they would head back towards the LZ.
Callahan had been offered rides back on several occasions but he had refused, wanting to stay and coordinate the rescue effort for his section. And now that six hours had passed and all of the spare air tanks had been given out, it was no longer possible for him to go back. He, like many of his compatriots, only had about an hour's worth of air left.
"What are you gonna do?" asked Captain Jacobs, who had been in charge of Delta Company from his battalion. He, like Callahan, had tried to evacuate the lower ranks first.
"I don't know," Callahan replied. "I've got about fifty-five minutes left at the rate I'm sucking it up. I guess it's about time to shit or get off the pot."
Jacobs looked at him. "I'm not gonna be a Martian prisoner," he said. "I made up my mind about an hour ago but I've been trying not to think about it."
Callahan did not question his decision. He was thinking of making the same one himself. Ever since the Martians had first taken control of Mars all those long months ago they had been told, sometimes in graphic detail, what the greenies did to captured prisoners. It was said that they had lined most of the Fast Reaction Division from EMB up against walls and gut-shot them, letting them die slowly. Others, it was said, had been tortured for hours before being burned alive, or killed with electricity, or allowed to succumb to radiation sickness. Though there was no independent verification of these atrocity reports other than mysterious statements attributed to "WestHem loyalists caught on the planet", neither man had any trouble believing them. After all, not a single marine or a single sailor that had been captured with the planet had been heard from since.
"How you gonna do it?" Callahan asked him. "Just let your air run out or are you gonna take the easy way?"
"The easy way," Jacobs said. "I don't see any sense in suffocating. Not when there's a way to make it quick."
Callahan nodded. "It's a little more courageous that way, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Jacobs agreed. "Any chance I can get you to do it for me? It's not a mortal sin that way."
"I can't," Callahan said. "Sorry. It might be a mortal sin if I do it."
Jacobs nodded. He understood. "So what are you gonna do? If you're gonna surrender to them, you'd better head off soon or you won't have enough air to make it to the torture center."
"Yeah," he said. "Like I said. Time to shit or get off the pot."
"So?"
"I'm too much of a survivor to give up so easily," he finally said. "I'll take my chances with the Martians. Maybe later, if things get too bad, I might be able to take the easy way. Hell, I can always chew a hole in my wrist, can't I?"
"I suppose," Jacobs said.
They sat for another minute or two, not talking. Finally Callahan stood up. "Well, I'm gonna get going now. Are you sure you won't join me?"
"I'm sure," Jacobs said. "I hate pain. It's the easy way for me."
They shook hands and then parted. Callahan climbed out of the ditch to the east, standing up and putting his hands high in the air. Jacobs climbed out to the west. He walked two hundred meters back to where the APCs were loading and found an M-24. He put it against his head and pulled the trigger, ending his life in an instant. Nobody around him paid him any attention. He wasn't the first or the last to choose that road.
Callahan was joined by about two dozen others as he walked forward. Most, he knew, would be lieutenants and above, with maybe a few sergeants thrown in. Automatically they formed up into a military line stretching across thirty meters of ground. Before they even made it fifty meters into the open ground a squad of Martian troops appeared, their weapons pointed menacingly at the group. They made motions that everyone should stop.
Callahan stood there, keeping his hands high. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. His fear level was even greater than when he'd been rushing across that ground earlier while under fire. At least then he had only been in danger of dying. Now he was possibly opening himself up to a horrifyingly slow death at the hands of men who hated everything Earthling. As a soldier approached close to him he took a moment to wonder if he'd made the wrong choice after all.
The soldier, he saw with astonishment, was a woman. He had heard reports that the Martians were employing females out on the battlefield but had assumed them to be mere propaganda. Apparently not. She ran a scanner over him, looking carefully at the display. When she found he was not carrying any weapons she reached slowly forward and put her gloved hand on his communications panel. She fiddled with it for a moment and then he heard a female voice in his ear — a voice with a thick, heavy, Martian accent.
"How much air you got?" she asked him.
"About fifty minutes," he told her.
"You'll make it," she replied. "Walk forward from here until you get to the point between pillbox 72 and 71. Keep your hands up until you're told to put them down. There will be other troops there to process you. Don't deviate from your course in any way or someone will be forced to shoot you. Do you understand?"
"I understand," he said. He started walking.
When he reached the point between the pillboxes he found several platoons of MPG soldiers there. He was scanned again for weapons and then another soldier stepped forward and utilized a chip scanner on him.
"Lieutenant Eric Callahan?" the voice asked in his ear.
"It's Captain Callahan now," he said bitterly.
"Okay," the voice said. "I'll make a note of that. We've got you on record as a POW now. We'll ship a notification off to WestHem by tomorrow morning."
"Sure you will," Callahan said.
The soldier seemed unperturbed by his comment. "Walk to that agricultural truck over there," he said. "Someone will help you inside of it."
Five minutes later he was sitting in the back of the truck, crowded in with almost thirty other marines. Over the next ten minutes another thirty were loaded up with them. The back of the truck was closed up and they started to move, bumping and bouncing over the uneven terrain. Soon they pulled into an airlock and the doors shut behind them.
"Everybody bear down," a voice said over the communications link. "It's time to get heavier."
Callahan felt weight come slamming back into him, making him feel like he had been shot into the air at high speed, making him gag. If he'd had anything besides food gel in his stomach it undoubtedly would have come up. Gradually, the sensation passed. Another set of doors opened up and the truck moved forward into a large hanger that was empty of aircraft. More Martian troops with guns were standing around, this time without biosuits on. Most wore T-shirts that identified them as military police.
The truck door opened and two of the MPs stood there. One spoke into a radio microphone.
"Everyone hop out of there," his voice said in their ears. "Line up over on the white line you see and get those biosuits and all clothing off. No talking to each other, please. You'll have time for that later."
It took Callahan a minute to get used to walking in normal gravity again. He almost fell twice before he made it to the white line. Slowly, methodically, he stripped off his biosuit, almost gagging again when he smelled the sour sweat odor of himself and his companions. Soon he stood naked with the others, looking around nervously to see if any women were present. In his culture the two sexes were prudishly squeamish about being nude in front of each other if not in an intimate relationship. There were no women that he could see, however.
A man with sergeant's markings on his MPG T-shirt walked up and down the line, looking each of them over. "Is anyone injured in any way?" he asked.
A few raised their hands and they were directed to another corner of the building, where medics were standing by to examine them.
"All right," the sergeant said. "Walk behind me in single file. If you follow instructions there will be no problems."
They were led into another room, down a hallway, and then through a large entranceway that opened up on an open grassy field where, it appeared, that calisthenics were normally performed. Tents had been set up here all across the middle of the field and other marines, all of them wearing bright green shorts and T-shirts, were milling about at picnic tables and near the tents. Many seemed to be eating. An industrial barbeque set was in operation near the edge of this area and the smell of cooking beef was strong in the air, making Callahan's mouth start to instantly water. Armed MPG troops, all of them wearing red shorts, T-shirts, and body armor, patrolled just outside of a white line that had been drawn on the ground all around the tent area.
"Showers are this way," the sergeant told them. "And they are mandatory. There are twelve hoses available. Please line up in twelve lines for utilization of them. Everyone down with it?"
Callahan was down with it. He made his way to the nearest line, which had six people in front of him. There was a curtain just beyond the line with a length of black hose leading to a holder above it.
He waited in silence as the men in front of him went one by one into the shower, each spending about five minutes in there. He didn't talk. Neither did anyone else. They had been told not to by the greenies with the guns and no one cared to find out what the penalty was for not obeying. When it was Callahan's turn to shower he walked forward and entered the curtained area. The hose was clipped to the top of the curtain and had a valve on it. A stack of clean washcloths and a bottle of liquid soap hung just below. A sign stated: WASH THOROUGHLY, INCLUDING YOUR HAIR. USE THE WASHCLOTHES. TAKE THEM WITH YOU WHEN YOU LEAVE AND DROP THEM INTO THE HAMPER. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
"This is fuckin' weird," Callahan mumbled to himself. He reached up and turned on the valve, expecting a spray of frigid water to pour down on him. Instead, he found that the water was heated — somewhere around thirty-five degrees he figured. He washed thoroughly, including his hair, enjoying every second of it. When he left, dripping and naked, he dropped his washcloth into a hamper that stood just outside.
Another MPG MP was standing on the other side of the shower. He looked Callahan up and down for a moment and then directed him forward. "Go see the doc over there," he said, "and then we'll get you some clothes."
Callahan simply nodded and stepped forward. A medic ran a scanner over him and asked him a few questions about the wounds on his back.
"I got 'em in phase one," he said. "Shrapnel. It's healing."
"Sounds like an ass-fuck," the medic said. He reached into a bin beside him and pulled out a pair of green shorts, a green T-shirt with the letters POW on the front and back, and a pair of leather moccasins. "Put these on and then you can hit the chow line."
Callahan took them. "No underwear?" he asked.
"We don't wear underwear on Mars," the medic said with a chuckle. "Now hurry along or your food will get cold."
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