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SCL Chapter 43: Fort Howe to Whitford
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 23:25:25 +0000 UTCThe snowplow barreled forward like a storm, finally coming to a clean stop in front of the only command center at Fort Howe. Warfield and Augustus stepped out together. Two re-socialized soldiers stood at the entrance. Upon seeing them, the soldiers immediately snapped to attention and saluted.
"All of Vanderspool’s men are re-socialized soldiers. I don’t think he likes people who think for themselves—he only wants machines that follow orders without question," Warfield said to Augustus as they walked inside. "Don’t just stand there. Come see for yourself."
The command center, built during the Kel-Morian Wars, was a large multi-level structure. Augustus and Warfield took an elevator to a high-level observation deck enclosed in massive glass windows, then walked through a corridor lined with oil paintings toward Lieutenant Colonel Vanderspool’s office.
The office door was tightly shut, meaning that no matter how reluctant Warfield felt, he would still have to knock and wait for the owner’s permission to enter.
It was Augustus’s first time seeing Vanderspool. From Warfield’s description, he had expected some weary-looking middle-aged man worn down by years in an office. But Vanderspool’s first impression was that of a strikingly handsome man. His uniform was spotless, his peaked cap brand new, and the passage of time had only deepened his refined, masculine charm.
"Apologies," said Vanderspool. "As the commanding officer here, I travel daily between Hobor Pass and Fort Howe, directing frontline units as they chase the Kel-Morians around like rabbits." As he spoke, his expression suddenly darkened. "What are you two laughing about?"
"Nothing, Colonel. We just remembered something funny," Augustus replied, face completely blank.
Vanderspool gave Augustus a long look. "Captain Warfield, I need you to send a unit to Whitford to scout enemy activity. Scouts from Snakeback Mountains and our fortress recon aircraft have both reported sightings of a Kel-Morian Sea Dragon detachment in that area."
"Now? How many of them are there? I can only spare a single platoon at most," Warfield replied immediately, his tone serious. "If the enemy attacks the fortress now, you can’t expect a bunch of engineers and mechanics to pick up rifles and go to war."
"Yes, now. A platoon will be enough. The Sea Dragon Legion is nothing but a ragtag band of beggars and bandits. But do send your best unit—the area isn’t under our control at the moment. Whitford is a chaotic mess. Your men will have to stay sharp."
Vanderspool wore a confident smile.
"No one knows those Kel-Morian bastards better than I do. They’re nothing but cowardly rats. Even if Fort Howe were full of nothing but women and children, as long as the Kel-Morians saw the fortress’s autocannons on the walls, they’d run for their lives."
...
Whitford was a city in the Terran Confederation located approximately 80 kilometers from Fort Howe. A long-neglected highway led straight to what was now a flattened city center.
The armored personnel carrier carrying Augustus’s squad, seated in the third row, had been traveling through the cold night of Turaxis II for nearly an hour since departing Fort Howe. Progress had been slow, as several sections of the road had been blown apart.
This region of the planet was already near the subarctic zone. At this time of year in the northern hemisphere, the temperature had dropped below –10 degrees Celsius. Cold winds blew in from the south—from the only ocean on Turaxis, now gradually freezing over—and rattled the heavy waterproof tarp covering the back of the vehicle.
“I just don’t get why we have to come all the way out here at this hour to scout for Kel-Morian forces that probably aren’t even here,” Harnack complained inside the APC assigned to Augustus’s squad. “Besides, there are plenty of transport aircraft back at the base. Why the hell are we stuck in a truck?”
“Maybe they’re afraid we’d get shot down by some local with a pistol that barely has a range of thirty meters,” Raynor replied. “Vanderspool is always thoughtful. He’s a gentleman—and a good guy.”
“I’m just saying, calling it a night and heading back to sleep sounds like the right move to me,” said Tychus, whose powered armor was bulkier than most models. “Or hey, why don’t we swing by the local bar and have a little fun?”
“Hell yeah!” Harnack shouted excitedly.
“Cut it out,” Augustus snapped, shooting Harnack a glare. “Do you even know what kind of place this is? And if there really are Kel-Morians out here, I’m not risking people’s lives just to drag your drunk ass back.”
Harnack, Josephine, and Tychus all had that eager glint in their eyes—but it vanished instantly.
Just then, the convoy rumbled its way onto Whitford’s cratered road, full of potholes and blast marks, slowly approaching the city center. They eventually came to a stop at an intersection with a traffic light.
Augustus closed the visor on his helmet, lifted the tarp at the rear of the APC, and was the first to jump down—gripping a Gauss rifle with a gray wolf-head emblem on its stock. One by one, the other Marines followed.
Snowflakes landed on Augustus’s visor, immediately melting and refreezing into ice. He looked toward the few spots that still had lights, only to be met with a series of dark, jagged shapes, like a cluster of hills pressed close together.
But he quickly realized the truth—it wasn’t a natural landscape. It was the ruins of a city. High-rise buildings had collapsed, debris and mangled cars covered the ground. Snow had buried everything, swallowing up what was once a vibrant, brightly lit city, now reduced to a silent white wasteland.
Whitford had once been home to 200,000 residents. For years during the Kel-Morian War, it had somehow escaped destruction. But a few months ago, it met the same fate as Polk’s Pride—invaded, pillaged, and obliterated by the Kel-Morian Sea Dragon Legion.
“So, where exactly are we supposed to catch some Kel-Morian rats?” Tychus asked gruffly. “There’s no plan, and the intel is pathetic.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird?” Harnack chimed in. “What kind of enemy requires us to come out here in the middle of the night for recon? The Kel-Morians aren’t blind—if they hear us coming, they’ll be long gone. That lieutenant colonel is way too naïve. I honestly don’t know how he got promoted to that rank.”
“Captain Warfield said we had to come,” Augustus replied. “After all, a few thousand people are still living in these ruins—refugees who refused to leave their homes. The least we can do is make sure they’re safe.”
“Oh really? That doesn’t sound like Marine Corps protocol to me,” Tychus chuckled. “You know how the Marines on Raydin III ‘protected’ their people?”
"Kill them all, then pin it on the Kel-Morians. That way, the UNN Interstellar News Network’s war correspondents can put together a colorful, graphic article condemning the cruelty of the Kel-Morian forces—stirring up hatred for the enemy among the residents of the Core Worlds. Then, the Confederation can issue war bonds under the pretense of national defense," he said.
"And as for who’s going to pay those war bonds in the end—that would be the defeated Kel-Morians, of course."
"Tychus, I hope you understand this. We may not be angels—but that doesn’t mean we have to become demons either," Augustus said, then led his squad toward one of the few spots in Whitford still showing signs of life. The third platoon’s leader, Reagan, gave orders for his own squad to check out a different area.
Augustus followed a path that had clearly been cleared out, passing a church with only three standing walls. The shattered stained-glass windows refracted the APC's spotlight into a wash of color. A giant cross had fallen from the rooftop, now half-buried in the snow—like it marked the top of a massive grave.
According to the orders from the governor's office of Turaxis II and the Northern Hemisphere’s First Continental Command, all cities and towns in this zone were supposed to enforce a strict blackout and curfew. But clearly, the residents of Whitford had stopped caring about such rules.
Though reduced to rubble, most residential buildings in Whitford still functioned using solar panels. Electricity wasn’t exactly the scarcest resource of this era. The real problem was that this ruin had become a chaotic dead zone—abandoned by both the Terran Confederation and the Kel-Morian Combine. As such, all kinds of people had taken refuge here.
Locals who had lost their homes, fugitives on the run, space pirates and mercenaries who came here to resupply and trade for fuel. And then there were the starving wild beasts that prowled the area during the dead of winter. In the dark, they might attack humans—and so might your neighbor, if food got scarce enough. You had to watch out for both.
Only a few buildings kept their lights on through the night, typically hideouts for the local crime lords or bars that catered to mercs and space pirates.
Augustus’s destination was one such bar—not large but still standing. A few sentries were stationed outside, but none dared open fire on soldiers clad in powered armor. No one even shouted a proper warning. To the battered locals, there was no real difference between the forces of the Confederation and the Kel-Morian army.
