Shadows Read online

  Shadows

  Book Three of Murphy’s Lawless: Watch The Skies

  By

  William Alan Webb

  PUBLISHED BY: Beyond Terra Press

  Copyright © 2021 William Alan Webb

  All Rights Reserved

  * * * * *

  Get the free Four Horsemen prelude story “Shattered Crucible”

  and discover other Beyond Terra Press titles at:

  https://chriskennedypublishing.com/

  * * * * *

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  * * * * *

  To Kathy

  * * * * *

  Cover Design by Shezaad Sudar

  * * * * *

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About William Alan Webb

  Find out what’s coming from CKP!

  The Caine Riordan Universe

  Excerpt from Book One of the Chimera Company

  Excerpt from Book One of the Revelations Cycle

  Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy

  Excerpt from Book One of the Singularity War

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  Lieutenant Tyree Cutter figured it wasn’t a coincidence when Colonel Murphy entered the mess hall scant seconds after he finished breakfast. Unlike their previous meetings, where Murphy appeared more friendly than serious, Murphy was all business. The colonel’s reflective scowl meant the moment Cutter dreaded had arrived.

  After waking up in a world he barely comprehended, he’d assumed the moment would come when he found out why somebody had gone to so much trouble to save his life. Cutter didn’t kid himself that they wanted him for anything other than his combat experience, so he suspected he knew why Murphy was there, and that the colonel wouldn’t like Cutter’s answer.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” Murphy said, sitting across from him.

  “Is it, sir?”

  Not only didn’t Murphy fall for the bait, downturned corners of his mouth made it clear he didn’t appreciate subordinates laying verbal traps for him. In 1944, Cutter would have cared about a superior officer’s response. Now he didn’t.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Cutter, it is both good and morning. And you have just wasted ten seconds of my time. Don’t do it again, is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “I doubt very much that you’re sorry, Lieutenant. You certainly don’t sound like it. Nor should you think I’m unaware of what your answer will be when I give you your first mission orders. You plan to say no and that response is unacceptable, so be advised.”

  Cutter used his thumb to scrape at his front tooth, a nervous habit he’d picked up early in the fighting after coming over Omaha Beach on D-Day plus five. The hedgerows of the Normandy bocage country made for claustrophobic warfare that only grew worse at night, when a man could only grab sleep in brief snatches.

  “May I speak freely, Colonel?”

  “Yes, but be quick.”

  “If you’ve come to give me a combat assignment, I’ll take it and do my best. But if it’s a combat command assignment, I’m not the man for the job.”

  Murphy’s scowl softened into something more akin to an empathetic frown. He clenched and unclenched his left hand several times before he glanced down and realized what he was doing. “That answer is no more acceptable than it was ten seconds ago. You’re willing to fight and perhaps die, but not to order others to do the same thing?”

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “Do the circumstances matter?”

  “No, sir, not really.”

  “In France, you fought an enemy that was among the toughest on Earth: well trained, well led, well armed, and, for the most part, highly motivated. The losses your platoon suffered were not your fault, Lieutenant Cutter. Other American units suffered worse than yours.”

  “No offense, sir, but it’s hard to suffer worse than ‘wiped out.’”

  “And now you have survivor’s guilt, is that it?”

  “Something like that, Colonel. I was entrusted with the lives of thirty-seven men who followed me into France on June 11, and, two months later, they were all gone. I assume you want me to repeat that failure with a new bunch of guys, because, otherwise, why are you here?”

  “What were you doing when you were rescued?”

  “We’ve already discussed this, sir.”

  “Discuss it again.”

  Cutter shrugged. Why not? “Pre-dawn on August 7, we were dug into a little hill east of the French town of Mortain, right in the path of a German counterattack. My platoon was down to twelve men at that point, one squad, and we were supposed to pull back later that day to absorb replacements.

  “The morning was warm, and there was the usual mist hanging low over the countryside. We heard German tanks coming, lots of ’em, down this lane that ran straight below our position. I radioed company HQ, and they told us to hold as long as we could and then pull back.

  “We didn’t have a bazooka or any heavy weapons, but we’d captured a German panzerschreck with some ammo, so I ordered two men to get it and cover the road. The first tank that came into view was a Panther. The man with the panzerschreck asked permission to open fire at forty yards, but I told him to wait until the range was down to twenty yards. The lane was narrow, and if we knocked out the lead tank, we’d gum up the works for the whole Kraut attack. That’s what got my men killed, that extra twenty yards of waiting.”

  “Could the weapon have penetrated at forty yards?”

  “Maybe. Panthers had pretty thick front armor, so it’s hard to say. But once you fired a panzerschreck, everybody knew where you were because of all the smoke. We’d killed plenty of Germans because of it, so I knew we’d only get one shot and wanted to be sure of a kill.”

  “That’s a good tactical decision, Tyree.”

  Cutter shifted in his seat at hearing his first name. “Thanks for saying it, sir, even if neither one of us believes it.”

  “When we’re alone, please call me Rodger, or even Rog.”

  “Uh, sure, sir…I mean, Rodger. And most people called me TD, but not because I played football; my middle name’s Denning.”

  “TD it is.”

  “So, anyway, on that morning, while the boys were waiting on the Panther to get close enough, panzergrenadiers slipped across the field on our left and got behind us. By the time we took out the Panther, we were cut off. I ordered the men to make a break for our lines and stayed behind to cover them, but I waited too long. I heard MG 42s and watched my men get chopped to pieces, and then the world went black.”

  “And you woke up here.” Murphy’s left hand twitched. He lifted it and rubbed his wrist. “Would it change your mood to know that seven of your men survived?�
�

  Cutter’s eyes narrowed. “How could you know that?”

  Without turning his head, Murphy’s eyes roamed over the interior of the rotating space habitat that was home to their hosts, a branch of humanity (mostly) that referred to itself as the SpinDogs. “In light of your present environment, does it really seem so far-fetched? Eleven of the thirty-seven men you led into France wound up killed in action, three were taken prisoner, and sixteen more were wounded. That’s thirty casualties out of thirty-seven men: by no means an unusual casualty percentage in the ETO. It wasn’t even the worst in your regiment. By the time the war ended, the 30th Infantry Division, your division, suffered 18,446 casualties, more than three thousand of whom died. That’s close to one hundred percent casualties, TD—worse than your platoon—but the division CO, Major General Leland Hobbs, is considered one of America’s finest division commanders who served during World War Two.”

  Cutter digested the information for a few seconds before responding. “Thank you, Rodger, I guess that’s something.”

  Something changed in Murphy’s expression and tone, something that tipped Cutter off that the hard sell was coming. “Tell me, if it was 1942, but you had your memories, if you knew what was going to happen to your men, would you do it all over again? Fight against America’s enemies, I mean.”

  “Sure I would.”

  “Why?”

  Blood flushed Cutter’s face, and he tensed. “I’m sorry, Colonel,” he said, dropping the first name familiarity, “but that’s kind of an offensive question.”

  “Answer it anyway.”

  “Because the Japanese and the Nazis were evil.”

  “And all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing, eh?”

  “Something like that,” Cutter said. Sensing he was being set up, Cutter tried to outmaneuver Murphy. “But fighting and leading aren’t the same thing…sir.”

  Murphy matched Cutter’s indignation, although Cutter couldn’t tell if it was an act or not. “You must really have been a terrible platoon leader, Lieutenant Cutter, so maybe it is better that you just carry a rifle and do what you’re told. That way, even if your replacement is incompetent and gets everybody killed, you can die with a clear conscience. The platoon will be just as dead, but it won’t be your fault.”

  Damn! “That’s…not what I’m saying, Colonel.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re saying, Lieutenant. It’s not death you fear; it’s obvious that you’re no physical coward. What scares you is making decisions that lead to the deaths of others. Correct?”

  Cutter stared at him without responding. Murphy took that as a tacit “yes” and kept going.

  “What you don’t understand is that by declining to accept a command, you are still making a decision that will lead to men dying. Somebody has to take them into battle, and what you’re saying is that you’d rather let someone less qualified do it, even if more men die, because that way their deaths won’t be on your conscience. That makes you a moral coward.”

  “If you think insulting me will change my mind, Colonel—”

  “I don’t have the time or energy for insults; that’s just the plain truth. And here’s another truth for you: if men die because you didn’t have the balls to lead them, then their blood is on your hands far more than if you did.”

  Cutter opened his mouth to speak, but Murphy held up a hand.

  “Lastly,” the colonel said, “I can’t just hand you a weapon and point you at the enemy. My officers aren’t expendable, and having them taking orders from non-coms doesn’t work, so if you’re only willing to carry a rifle, I’ll need those bars.”

  Reaching up, Cutter’s long fingers, which his grammar school music teacher said were perfect for playing the piano, traced the surface of the cool, silver metal on his left shoulder. Now that it came to it, he couldn’t imagine giving them up.

  “What about me being their training officer?” he said, trying one final gambit.

  “Lieutenant Cutter…TD…” Murphy glanced around, maybe a little too theatrically for Cutter’s taste, but he understood. Even if the SpinDogs were their allies, that didn’t make all or even most of them friends. And it certainly wouldn’t stop any of them from bugging the room. “I don’t have the luxury of putting you in a training slot. The people down on the local planet—R’Bak—are fighting the same war the French fought during World War Two. Evil men are sucking the life out of locals for their own benefit, and we’re trying to help those indigs survive. That you were trying to liberate Paris and we’re trying to liberate a planet called R’Bak is merely a distinction of time, place, and name: the fight is the same.

  “If I combined every Lost Soldier into one command, we couldn’t field more than two platoons, plus maybe a few replacements. We’ve already suffered casualties, we’re gonna suffer more, and time’s running out. So, I need your answer: can the indigs count on you to help them like you helped the French?”

  “I’m Catholic, sir,” Cutter said, stating the non-sequitur with a straight face.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The way you lay on the guilt, sir…you remind me of my mother.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Murphy cracked a smile that didn’t seem false. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’ll accept the command?”

  “One question first.”

  “What?”

  “So if the aliens who brought us here—the Dornaani?—came all this way, why didn’t they just do the dirty work themselves?”

  “That’s a long, complicated answer, TD. And I’m not sure I’ve been given all of it, myself.”

  “Old aliens never die, they just kidnap old soldiers to do it for them?”

  Murphy managed a grunt. “Something like that.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 2

  For the next two weeks, Cutter underwent intense training with the newer weapons systems, like field stripping, cleaning, and assembling the M14 until he could do it blindfolded and could therefore teach his troops how to do it as well. He didn’t have to; Murphy didn’t require it. But Cutter’s command style was to know his men’s jobs better than they did. He also received intensive and more in-depth language training, sessions on the history of R’Bak, the political situation, and the climate. It all came to him in what he remembered as a long blur of endless lessons.

  When Murphy finally sent word he was ready to lay out the mission, Cutter knew it was his last chance to back out. If he did so, the men selected for his dirtside command wouldn’t be looking to him to lead them; they’d be relying on someone else, someone less worried about screwing up and more worried about completing their assigned mission.

  When Murphy arrived, Cutter had an M1A1 Thompson sub-machine gun on the table in front of him. The gun had been replicated by the SpinDogs in every detail except the maker and manufacture marks. Those had been eliminated in the attempt to conceal the actual origins of the weapons, if any of them got into what the colonel cryptically referred to as “knowledgeable hands.”

  Cutter had tied the sleeve of a spare shirt around his eyes as a blindfold, and, with the ambient noise in the SpinDogs’ habitat, hadn’t heard Murphy’s approach. As he’d done during the black nights in Normandy, he practiced field stripping his weapon without being able to see it; he’d learned first-hand you couldn’t rely on having enough light any more than you could rely upon a dirty weapon.

  By feel alone, he pushed up on the catch located above the trigger and released the magazine. Pulling back the bolt, he checked the chamber using his left pinkie finger, then pushed the bolt back into place. A small button on the rear of the frame, near the stock, released the top of the gun, but it wouldn’t come fully loose until he pulled the trigger. Once the Thompson was in two halves, he felt for the button on the back of the top half, pushed it, and applied pressure to the recoil spring guide rod to remove the buffer. Next, he removed the spring and guide rod, careful not to let them shoot across the room. A
fter pulling back the bolt, he took out the cocking knob that held it in place. With that done, he removed the bolt itself and made ready to clean the weapon.

  “Impressive.” It was the voice of Colonel Murphy.

  “I’m outta practice,” Cutter said, slipping off the blindfold. “Took me twice as long as it used to.”

  “It has been a few years.”

  “Just a few. What can I do for you, Colonel?”

  Murphy sat opposite Cutter, careful not to disturb any of the gun parts on the tabletop. He didn’t revert to the first names they’d briefly used, which told Cutter the status of their relationship better than words.

  “You’re needed dirtside, Lieutenant.”

  “So I gathered from your message.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate that I mean to keep this briefing short. You’ll be leaving in six hours.”

  “I never said I’d accept the command, Colonel.”

  “Doesn’t matter; you’re going down there either way. The only question is whether you turn indigs into soldiers or waste your talents lugging a rifle and cleaning latrines. Which is it?”

  Cutter propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and placed the middle knuckle of his forefinger against his lips. Using his thumbnail, he traced the gap between his front teeth. “May I ask the mission first, sir?”

  “Normally I would deny that request, Lieutenant. I’m only making an exception out of respect for your bravery in action. Your psych evals say you don’t have PTSD, but I’m not so sure about that.”

  “PTSD?”

  “Combat psychosis, in 1944 terminology.”

  “You think I’m nuts.”