As Mclntyre made his way through the maze of land cruisers, dreadnaughts, troop carriers, supply vans and scout cars, it became obvious to him that his own report had been matched by equally bad reports from the other patrols of that morning. None of the guard details took the time to ask his identity. None of the shavetail officers stopped him for a lecture about his no-longer-regulation uniform. They knew where most of his equipment had been left, why he had buckled to his hip an extra sidearm (taken from a dying corporal), whose blood was on his ragged shirt.
The petty routine of military life was finished. They were all too busy with the urgency of self-preservation to bother. They were digging in, all across the valley. The Mobile Force of the 305th Imperial Marines, the military extension of the Terran Empire that ruled most of the galaxy, was threatened with annihilation.
It was cooler now that the sun had dipped behind the western hills. That was one thing to be grateful for, Mclntyre thought as he searched out his company commander in the confusion of men and vehicles. The valley was in shadow, but the hills, where the enemy was, were still bright with daylight.
Surrounded, Mclntyre thought to himself. Totally cut off. I wonder how the Brigadier is taking the news?
“Totally impossible!” snapped Brigadier Aikens.
“I’m afraid not, sir.” his executive officer answered quietly. “Alt the patrols report the same thing—we are surrounded.”
Aikens’ pinched face, topped by a balding dome, glowered red as he stared at the stereomap on his desktop viewscreen. “Are any of the patrols still out?”