His troops sit scattered across the mountainside, small disturbances on the snow bluffs, and he watches as they sit, stand, or lie down to catch their breaths, tend their wounds, or clean their rifles.
His chief medic has told him they are all out of painkiller and anti-rad. His quartermaster says that the ammunition reserve is dry. He doesn't need his sergeants to tell him his troops are exhausted, scared, and cold. He can see that himself when he looks at them wrapped in their cloaks and looking fearfully at the bayonets they will soon have to resort to.
They had a good run, but they were never going to win. All he could ever do was cause as much damage to the enemy as he could before they were beaten. They've been retreating through these mountains for a week now, doubling back, launching raids and ambushes, fighting on the move, and laying the path behind them with far more of the enemies dead than their own.
They're fresh out of anti-air missiles and that's what'll end things. Once the drones spot them, it's only a matter of time before they are overwhelmed.
Someone calls him out of his shelter.
A lone figure approaches across the snow. Even at this distance, he recognises the silhouette and the gait of her walk.
A packed-down jump pack is slung over one shoulder. She carries a long lance in one hand. He knows that there's a sanctified pulse pistol in a holster across her chest.
As she approaches in great strides, he allows himself a small smile. Perhaps we aren't doomed after all.
Paddy Dobson
25th June 2022