The civilians were all gone now, as were more than two-thirds of the Marines, victims of combat, of the elements—and in two cases, of slipping on the ice and falling off the rocky coastal cliffs. Hargraves had been trying not to think about the fact that they would have run out of the rations he held in his hand days before if so many of their number hadn’t died.

“Miller, get a fix on those ships. I want to know exactly where they land.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the Marine said crisply.

Hargraves ran back into the cave, past the cluster of Marines in various stages of realization that something was going on. He turned a corner, moving into a small alcove beyond the main cavern. He stopped and dropped slowly to his knees, kneeling over a figure covered in a massive pile of blankets.

“Lieutenant?’ Hargraves spoke slowly, softly, uncertain if the officer was awake.

“Sergeant?” Lieutenant Plunkett turned over slowly, looking up at Hargraves with unfocused eyes.

“Yes, sir.” Hargraves reached out and pulled up a blanket that had slipped down off Plunkett’s shoulder. “We have incoming landing craft, sir. I think they’re ours.”

Plunkett looked back, saying nothing for a moment. Then he rasped, “Ours?”

“Yes, sir. Corporal Miller’s tracking them now, sir. I think we should go meet them.”

“Are you…sure they’re…ours?” Plunkett struggled to force the words out, then he twisted around and went into a coughing spasm. Hargraves could hear a rattling sound, worse than it had been a few hours before. Luke Plunkett was tough, especially for an officer, at least to Hargraves’ way of thinking. But he knew the lieutenant was slipping away. Hargraves had treated the wound himself, after their medic had been killed, but the infection had already taken hold. Now, Plunkett’s body was wracked by some native Santis bug, one that looked a lot like pneumonia. Hargraves was frustrated to the point of rage watching his commanding officer waste away, when a single injection might save his life. An injection the Marines on Santis didn’t have.

“Can’t be sure, sir.” Hargraves paused. “But I’d bet on it.”

“You need to go…” Plunkett spasmed again, his cough spraying speckles of blood onto the blankets. “…and you need to leave me, Sergeant.”

“No, sir. We can’t leave you. Marines don’t…”

“Marines follow orders, Sergeant. And I’m ordering you to leave me.” Plunkett coughed again, and then he lay back down, clearly too exhausted to hold himself up.

“Lieutenant…” Hargraves’ tone was tentative. “We can’t leave you…”

“You have to.” Plunkett gasped for breath. “I’m done, Sergeant. You know that. I know that.”

“You ain’t done, sir. And I ain’t leaving you behind.” He turned and leaned backward, looking into the main cave. “Cole, Weir…get over here. We’ve got to rig up something to carry the lieutenant.”

“Sergeant…no…”