Free Gettysburg: A Tale of the Second War for Pennsylvanian Independence by Chris Pourteau Page B

Company’s
captain but said nothing more.
    Noffsinger turned to her. “It is good that God has provided
your deliverance, Mary Brenneman. For if it were left up to me . . .” His hands
showed that he had no idea what his decision would’ve been.
    “I understand, Elder,” she said.
    Heralded by the babble of livestock, the airbuses were
landing in the barnyard.
    “No time for long goodbyes, ma’am,” said Hatch, with a wry
grin. “Your deliverance awaits.”
    “Go,” she ordered, and the others began to move out. Turning
to Noffsinger, she said, “Don’t punish him harshly, Elder. And if Transport
gives you a hard time, say we merely held you hostage until you fed us and we
could get away. It’s what they’ll say anyway, when they spin this battle for
the public.”
    “Go now,” he said to her. “And may God bless.”

    The ride to the TRACE safe zone provided a final release of
tension for the eight survivors of Gettysburg. Crammed into one airbus, the
exhausted and overfed members of Bestimmung Company held loosely to the straps
keeping them in their seats, their heads lolling. When they landed, the airbus
opened to a busy camp. In one corner, one of the cargo ships full of okcillium
sat, scorched but intact.
    “At least one of ’em got away,” breathed Stug. They had all
stopped to stare at the ship sitting on the ground, looking like nothing so
much as a beaten-down prizefighter. The same question was in all their minds,
and they hardly needed their BICEs to share it.
    “Was it worth it?” asked Smoker.
    “I guess we’ll find out,” replied their captain.
    She went straight to Colonel Neville’s tent to make her
report. He and half his command had managed to rendezvous in the woods and
evade Transport, but he’d lost the other half, along with four cargo ships, six
drones, and the personal arms and equipment of every soldier who’d died. In
return, he’d gained one shipload of precious okcillium, a score of laser
rifles, and further disdain for the costly tactics of Mary Brenneman. The
debriefing wasn’t pleasant.
    While their captain was being upbraided, the remaining
members of B Company reunited. Charlie and Delta squads were like inverse
images of one another. Charlie had helped cover TRACE’s retreat from Gettysburg
but had hardly seen any real action. As a result, the squad had lost no one. Delta
Squad was a different story. Charger and her troops had held the tree line
against Transport’s flanking drones, then continued the fight when the
Authority had taken the field in force. In the end, they’d lost all but one: their
sergeant. Everyone called her Pusher. She held her head up but talked to no one
in the camp, silent tears tracking randomly down her cheeks. Still in shock, she
seemed like a mother who’d just been told that her children had died in a
senseless accident.
    Hatch sat across the table from the QB in what passed for a lounge
in the rebel camp. The waitress had left them each a bourbon, neat, and walked
away.
    “Bad?”
    She shrugged. “Some would say not bad enough. Pusher might
say that.”
    He shook his head. “I doubt it. She’s grieving. Let her do
it. Try not to take it personally.”
    Her eyes met his with a look that assured him there was no
other way to take it. She was in command. These were her troops. Her orders had
led them to their deaths.
    “What’d Neville say?” he asked.
    Again a shrug. “The usual. I bit off more than I could chew.
I should’ve waited for his backup to get there. By moving early, I tipped off
Transport. The usual.”
    “Or . . . had we not moved when we did, the Authority
might’ve had the entire town reinforced by the time he got there and we’d have
come up with bupkis. It wasn’t your fault the intel was wrong and we bumped
into Transport on the first day. Command should’ve known a warehouse full of
unguarded okcy was too good to be true. The only question after we made contact
was how quickly to move. I think you