“Wait for us; I’ll clear a path!”
“Well hurry the fuck up already!” Stiglitz responded.
They continued the long dash to the tree line, hunched over as low as they could go with Bach in the lead and Rizer behind him. Rounds snapped and cracked. Flashes of cyan streaked all around them in a deadly vortex. Rizer felt something hit his leg armor but kept running, clenching the minigun as he focused on the tree line.
Make it! Fucking make it!
A mortar blast sent Bach spinning through the air and knocked Rizer off his feet. Rizer crawled over assuming the worst, but Bach was ok. He lay on his side, with a large piece of shrapnel stuck in his chest plate. Rizer yanked it out and showed it to Bach.
“Fuckin’ A.”
“No shit. C’mon let’s go.”
Rizer helped him up, pleased to see he still carried the ammo crate. They ran the last few meters to the tree line, rounds snapping by them.
“Stay in line; move out!” Rizer ordered.
He entered the jungle and squeezed the trigger of the heavy plasma gun. The air filled with the roaring whine of the M-411’s six barrels spitting plasma hate toward the enemy. Even in power armor, he tapped every last ounce of arm and shoulder strength to control the bestial weapon as he sprayed rounds left and right. The near constant stream of directed energy cut down shrubs and low limbs as he literally cleared a path. Ozone filled his nostrils, despite his helmet’s filter. He heard nothing but the gun’s roar, enemy screams, and the war cries of advancing Marines.
After a brief pause to reload—the platoon’s advance also pausing while keeping up fire—Rizer and Bach continued forward. They got a good look at their handiwork. Bodies in Union-issue power armor lay mangled at their feet, with more falling all the time. The enemy had broken and ran for the most part, though a few stubborn dots remained on his HUD. These either disappeared under his onslaught—dead—or rapidly retreated before the minigun’s overwhelming firepower.
The barrel continued revolving with a high-pitched whine as Rizer exhausted the second box.
“You got two belts left,” Bach said.
“Keep moving!” Rizer sped up to a jog.
All enemy had abandoned the path ahead; however the platoon advancing from the east was about four hundred meters behind them and closing fast.
Rizer saved the final two belts for them. Ten seconds worth of fire at best.
Scrap appeared next to him. “If we get to the top of that hill, we might be able to get a laser burst transmission through to HQ.” A blinking blue light appeared on Rizer’s map atop a low hill 350 meters distant.
“Good idea.”
“Let’s do it!” Stiglitz said.
They reached the hilltop after half an hour and a climb of fifty meters. The jungle grew thick here, every tree at least three meters in diameter, a triple canopy of vegetation overhead. Scrap handled the calls for fire and evacuation. The bot got through the enemy’s signal jamming, the suppression hampered by altitude.
“Check your maps, north-northeast,” said Hogue.
Rizer, setting up to use the minigun to hold off the following platoon, brought up his map overlay.
“This can’t be happening,” said Leone.
Catalano gasped. “Fuck, they’re everywhere!”
Rizer zoomed in to get an accurate enemy count. That’s at least a company. More than enough to wipe out the handful of Marines, especially when paired with the following platoon. He shook his head, said to Bach, “Let’s set up over there.” They had enough rounds left to take out a squad in the advancing company, if they were lucky. “What’s our evac point, Scrap?”
The bot posted a blinking light on their HUDs.
“Are you fucking kidding? That’s two klicks from here!”
“I can call and change it. You think a Condor can bust through this canopy?”
“Okay, I get it!”
“Air support is on the way however.”
“ETA?”
“They didn’t say. I get the feeling we’re not the only ones in the shit today. No details from the command.”
“Call Lieutenant Dupaul. See if he can get us some support.” It’s the least he can fucking do.
“On it.”
Stiglitz found Rizer. “If we move fast, we might beat the enemy to the evac zone,” Stiglitz said as Cpl Barham joined them.
Rizer thought it over. “If they can’t guarantee air support, who says they can get us out of here?”
“Good point,” Barham said. “And if we’re stuck waiting down in that clearing…”
“We die.” Stiglitz nodded. “Which is exactly what’ll happen if we stay up here. We have fifteen minutes tops before that company gets here. You can’t mow all of ’em down this time, Rizer.”
“No, but I like our chances better here. At least we have high ground working for us. We’ll take down as many as we can. Who knows, maybe we’ll get our air support in time. But you’re the sergeant, not me. Your call.”
Stiglitz didn’t ponder long. “I guess this hill is as good as any to die on.”
“Oorah! That’s the spirit!” Bach said.
“Lieutenant Dupaul has stepped away from the command post,” Scrap said. “Long story short, we’re on our own.”
“Wonderful.” Rizer set his face in a grim mask. No surprise; he’s been absent his whole career.
“We better get some mines rigged,” said Barham.
They prepped as best they could—remote anti-personnel mines out front, every Marine in the best cover he could find, every magazine full, grenades ready. In the brief lull, they sucked down water from drinking tubes, trying to stay hydrated, some shoving down a quick ration bar to stave off hunger.
They didn’t have long to wait.
The enemy platoon and company approached simultaneously from the southeast and north-northeast, crashing through the heavy foliage. The two remaining squad leaders—Sgt Flynn from Evil, KIA—decided they would open fire when the enemy closed to forty meters. Hopefully the ensuing chaos in the enemy ranks would cause them to trigger the anti-personnel mines as they tried to assault through the ambush.
“Catch you in Valhalla, pal.” Bach slapped Rizer’s shoulder when the enemy closed to fifty meters.
“We’ll be in good company.”
As he lay there, Rizer thought of all he’d left behind and all he’d endured since joining the Corps. His mind flashed to Kasra, naked atop a wall, in silhouette against the stars, followed by SSgt Mack kicking the shit out of Stubs on day one. Rizer saw SSgt Len, or rather his exploding head, as he sacrificed his life for his platoon.
He died for nothing and so will we.
The enemy fired first, from both directions, probing shots through the thick jungle. Some Marine, likely a boot, responded in kind. Motivating cries and insults to the enemy jammed the net as second platoon opened fire as a unit for the last time.
As Rizer pulled the trigger on the enemy company, now visible charging through the brush, enemy began falling. A mine exploded. Rizer’s ammo belt—well, two belts Bach had joined—was nearly expended. The belts had done them little good anyway. Even the minigun’s firepower couldn’t ward off an entire company in thick brush. Not even close. Enemy rounds found targets: PFC HAZZARD KIA. LCPL ALLISON KIA.
None of it mattered. Rizer knew they were done.
Rockets streaked overhead. The forest before Rizer erupted with several massive explosions that nearly blinded him. His visor blacked out temporarily to save his eyesight. He and Bach buried their faces in dirt that danced to the rhythm of exploding rockets. The shock waves penetrated Rizer’s helmet and armor, reverberated through his body, and rattled his teeth.
Incendiaries. The jungle was burning.
A few insurgents stood up from cover, obviously in shock, only to fall to Marine rounds. Others ran about in flames, collapsed, and died screaming as red-white bolts tore into them. The rockets had detona
ted every mine they’d laid, only adding to the carnage. Radio chatter confirmed that the chasing platoon had met the same fate. Second platoon rejoiced as two Dragon gunships flew over the ridge, followed an instant later by two more flying in another direction.
“Ha ha!” Bach shrieked. “Fuck you!” He shot one of the last crawling enemy.
Rizer finished the belt, the weapon’s barrels glowing red as he greased two more fleeing insurgents. Those barrels finally spun empty, and he dropped the minigun in favor of his M-17 to waste a few more, a visceral hatred for the enemy consuming him. Yet only fire remained, along with a few fleeing dots on his HUD.
He took in the carnage, arms shaking from the adrenaline rush, his breaths ragged. When someone tapped his shoulder, he turned.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here!” Stiglitz said.
***
“Let’s go; get him on here!” Rizer said.
He gave Florence, Doom’s med bot, a hand loading LCpl Doone from second team onto the Condor. His HUD detected ragtag remnants of the enemy force about half a klick behind them. Close enough to get rockets off.
“Go!” Rizer yelled when Doone was loaded.
Aware of the danger, the pilot dusted off immediately, the cargo ramp still down. Stiglitz held the lever to raise it, yet staid his finger before it was halfway up.
“The fuck is the problem?” Leone asked. “Close that fucking thing already.”
Stiglitz pointed a finger. “Look.”
Three large transport ships, in tan-and-green camouflage, hovered over a distant hill, descending slowly to the surface.
“Are those ours?” Michaud asked.
“I don’t think so.” Rizer recalled Alliance Navy ships being dark gray.
Confirmation came from Cpl Calder, who had cross-decked from the Navy after his first enlistment. “No, those are Galactic Union vessels.”
CHAPTER 28
The battle station klaxon blared as Commander Mako awoke. “You’re needed on the bridge, sir,” said the hologram of Lieutenant Commander Downing. “Urgent. Better that I explain when you get here.”
“Stand by; I’m on my way,” responded Mako, the message rousing the drowsiness from him. Downing cut the transmission, but not before Mako noticed the time: 0455. He rose from bed and quickly donned a khaki jumpsuit, still zipping it up as he departed for the lift.
He finished squaring himself away in the elevator and soon arrived on the bridge. Normally humming with the sound of chiefs and junior officers speaking in low tones as they performed their duties, the bridge had fallen silent, everyone’s attention riveted to the main display.
Shit. I can see why.
“Status report, XO,” said Mako.
Downing turned in the command chair as Mako approached, then vacated the seat. He looked frazzled but not from the last five hours spent in command on the bridge. “Sir, a large Galactic Union fleet dropped out of jump into orbit less than ten minutes ago. It numbers at least forty ships: two battleships, several frigates, two carriers, and over thirty cargo and troop transports. They didn’t respond to any of our hails.”
“So much for treaties.” Mako succeeded in sounding unflappable upon hearing the dire news. “Have you alerted the fleet?”
“We’ve tried, sir, but have not received acknowledgement. I doubt it went through. They began jamming sensors and transmissions when they dropped from hyperspace, but the comm chief is still trying.”
“Chief, stay on it until we receive confirmation. Have you tried alerting Phoenix as well?”
“Yes, sir,” the chief said. “No luck yet but I’ll continue to transmit.”
“Very good.” Mako checked the distance to the Union fleet: 2800 klicks. Too close, we need to get clear of their jamming frequencies. “Hard about, Lieutenant Stiles, then ahead full to the far side of Verdant. That will get us closer to the fleet and perhaps out of their jamming range.”
“Aye, sir.” The Astoria slowed as Stiles eased into a gentle turn to bring her about.
“Six fighters approaching, sir!” said the sensor chief. “Distance one thousand kilometers and closing. They must have scattered our sensors.”
“ETA?”
“At our present speed approximately thirty-five seconds, sir.” The Astoria had completed only half of its hard-about turn.
“Increase speed, Lieutenant Stiles. Give me full sub-light power, turn wider if you have to. Prepare to take evasive action.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The ship’s increased momentum created mild g-forces that leaned the crew to port, but all were either strapped in or using their magnetic boot contacts to hold steady. Stiles got her straightened out and accelerated to maximum sub-light speed.
It won’t be fast enough, but it will buy us some time.
“Five hundred klicks and closing, sir!”
Mako contacted his weapons officer via his earpiece. “Status report, Lieutenant Grable.”
“Weapon systems manned and ready, sir. Targets acquired.”
“Hold your fire until my command.” I don’t want to start an intergalactic incident.
“Aye, sir!”
“Three hundred kilometers and closing, sir!”
“Shields up.” The lights in the Astoria dimmed slightly from the power drain. “You are clear to engage if they break twenty kilometers.” They could engage the fighters at a greater distance, but he wanted to play this part by the book in case the Union claimed they were doing a routine intercept of a ship in their vicinity. He had experienced them being aggressive and unprofessional in their maneuvers before. “Request fighter support from Phoenix and the fleet, chief.”
“Aye, sir. Still trying to break through.”
Wonderful.
The bridge fell silent but for the sensor chief’s occasional reports on the fighters’ closing distance. “Incoming fire detected!” he announced moments later.
“Activate countermeasures,” Mako ordered. “Weapons free. Tracking views onscreen.”
A pair of anti-ship missiles streaked from the fighter formation as they accelerated toward the Astoria. The ship’s countermeasure system, a pair of 20mm Gatling-style plasma cannons, tracked the missiles and sprayed their projected paths with bolts of ionized energy. A pair of decoy beacons deployed from the stern as well, broadcasting sensor signatures meant to mimic the ship’s profile. The cannons destroyed the first missile; the second slipped through their fire, only to be destroyed by the exploding decoy beacon. The shockwave jolted the ship.
The six Union UF-39 Mantas flew in a pair of three-craft wedge formations. A sleek flying wing design, the Manta was highly maneuverable with a tight turning radius and more powerful shields than the Alliance Raven. Its designers had sacrificed speed and armament for those benefits, however, which left them vulnerable to the Astoria’s weapons.
Too bad we’re no match for six of the bastards.
The two formations split as the stern laser cannons opened fire, their sapphire bolts streaking toward the fighters. One formation spread out and continued on course, opening fire on the rear shield with particle-beam cannons; the other broke downward in a split-S. The screen split to monitor both formations as the lower group raked the bottom shield. Both were past the Astoria in seconds, traveling over a thousand meters per second, already looping around for another pass. Damage reports scrolled on a small holo-screen at Mako’s right hand: rear shield at 70%, bottom shield down to 55%.
Again the formations split to attack the port and starboard shields. As they closed in, one of the Mantas took direct laser blasts from two cannons, the first powerful energy bolt disabling the front shield and the second striking the bird, causing it to erupt into a superheated cloud of metal and composites. As the crew pumped fists and shouted at the kill, the tumbling field of the fighter’s remains slammed into the topside shield, exploding in brief flashes as they shunted the debris aside.
The trailing two fighters re
leased another salvo of anti-ship missiles at close range before breaking away from the ship in a tight arc. The first two missiles were destroyed by the 20mm plasma cannons. The second missiles struck the deflector shield, detonating in a red-orange flash and overloading one of the generators.
“Topside shield down,” announced Downing. Shaking his head, he added, “Talk about good news and bad news.”
The formations crossed above the ship and wheeled around again, slipping through bolts of energy from the anti-aircraft guns. Mako could raise the shield again but only by sacrificing power in the others. He did it anyway, diverting all power into the stern-most topside shields before the next pass. The five remaining Mantas pounded the shield with particle cannon fire, nearly taking it down.
Mako continued to direct power between shields in a losing gambit. The ship’s targeting system struggled to lock onto the fast-moving aggressors, managing to only destroy one more fighter that charged into a stream of energy bolts in its flight path. The fighters stalked their weakened prey. Two more passes and the Astoria’s shields fell, leaving Mako to defend with only guns and missile-attracting countermeasures.
“Lieutenant, evasive maneuvers!”
The ship bucked as fighters raked her topside with particle-beam cannons, the sun-bright streams of charged particles punching into the hull. Mako launched countermeasures to draw the six missiles fired at the exhaust ports, but two made it through. Explosions shook the ship and almost tossed him from his command chair. Several men wound up on the floor. The damage reports scrolled in: two topside guns destroyed, a fire in the engineering section, jump drive and several other key propulsion components disabled, engines at 12% power and steadily falling. The battered ship started to list as Verdant’s gravity pulled it toward the moon’s surface.
“Topside crew quarters destroyed, sir!”
“Seal off the area!” He knew that would also seal the fate of any sailors left alive inside.
“Coolant system damaged,” reported Lieutenant Commander Arnet, the engineering officer. “Shutting down main reactor.”
“Engage emergency reactor and reroute power to critical systems.”
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