But she had her orders. Sure as hell no way to fight a war!
Instead of dropping, she rocketed forward, still inverted, rolling out as she climbed toward space. Post and Heidiger fell in behind her, the rest of the squadron trailing them.
She asked, “How’d you do down there, Delta?”
“A kill apiece, ma’am!” said Post.
Welcome to the club. “Good work, let’s go rack up some more.”
Where the fuck are we going? Hopefully not to attack the Union fleet. She had expended half of her missiles, and her fusion reactor presently operated at only sixty percent power as the aircraft’s heat sinks attempted to bleed off the excess buildup, since she hadn’t noticed the rising temperature gauge during the battle.
The rendezvous point—the location of Sixth Fleet—lay halfway between Tantus and Verdant. The enemy had come and gone, leaving several burning ships. Even the Resolute had taken hits to her stern, though her engines appeared undamaged. A handful of Mantas lingered on the edge of her scope, with a few Ravens from the fleet in pursuit.
“Looks like we’re late for the party,” said Commander Kray.
No shit, huh? I could have destroyed a transport and killed a few thousand enemy soldiers. Great call, sir!
“We’ve still got work to do, Raptor,” Kray continued. “Proceed to the Resolute for fuel and hot reload.” At least that makes sense.
Borland was first through the hangar’s magnetic field. The stick went dead as a tractor beam took control of the Raven. The risk of hovering and maneuvering in hangars was for backwater air stations like Phoenix or the singular aircraft bays of smaller capital ships. Accidents due to pilot error, which could tie up flight operations for hours, could not be afforded on a carrier. The beam guided her through the air to a refuel and reloading bay. The same beam would launch her from the hangar afterward.
She removed her helmet, exposing a tangle of sweaty dark hair. The final dregs of adrenaline leaked from her bloodstream. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and felt the clicks and bumps of groundcrew bots loading missiles into the craft’s internal weapons bays. They then secured additional weapon pods beneath the wings, her tactical display showing an additional eight Mk96 anti-ship missiles.
Full load.
I wonder what’s up with Walker? She hoped he’d made it to Phoenix and picked up a new bird. Post and Heidiger were no longer virgins, but she would need more than their help to live through the fight.
On second thought, survival seemed a ridiculous notion. Will any of us survive? The Union hadn’t just invaded—they’d come to kick ass. Fuck all the treaties and protocols. We should have done the same. She chuckled ruefully. But that’s the Alliance way.
A groundcrew member thumped on the side of her fuselage while giving her a thumbs up. She snapped from her reverie. A glance right, she saw a gorgeous blond sitting in the next cockpit donning her helmet. Commander Jocelyn Roten met her gaze, waved at Borland as her canopy slowly dropped. Borland smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. Jocelyn sealed herself in; the tractor beam started moving her Raven a moment later.
Good luck out there, Joss. We are going to need it.
CHAPTER 29
Manahan studied the apprehensive faces of his Marines, every man and woman armed and dressed for battle in tanker skins. The motor pool maintenance bay was empty, the tanks idling outside, every Mauler put online to counter the Union invasion.
“Golf Company, all present and accounted for, sir,” announced Gunny Cormac.
“At ease,” Captain Manahan ordered. “As you all have heard, the Union has landed invasion forces to the west and northeast. The battalion has been tasked to hold a key pass in the hills about fifteen klicks west of here. It’s a broad avenue of approach, and command predicts that enemy armor and mechs will use this saddle as their primary route to reach Camp Shaw.”
An area map appeared on a holo-screen at Manahan’s side.
“Golf Company will deploy as the battalion spearhead, first in the line of defense, at phase line alpha near the summit of the pass. Elements of Charlie Company, 41st Infantry Battalion, will be supporting us. Echo, Fox, and Hotel Companies will position behind us respectively at phase lines bravo, charlie, and delta to defend in depth.”
Four yellow lines crossed the valley on the map.
“The pass is about five klicks wide. The southern flank, left flank for our purposes, is thick jungle, unsuitable for an armored advance. Engineers are mining this area heavily to prevent infantry advances. Two Charlie infantry squads will be stationed with heavy weapons atop this escarpment overlooking the left flank. Between the mines and their fire, hopefully they can hold.
“Golf Company will split to cover the rest of the pass. A major highway runs through the center, past the town of Rutland Corner. First platoon and myself will position around Rutland, utilizing this hill to the west for cover, along with sensor-scattering measures. Our plan is to engage with high-angle, indirect fire when enemy armor comes to within half a kilometer of phase line alpha.
“The highway is the obvious avenue of approach, so the enemy may choose to advance on either of our flanks, which is mostly farms separated by dirt roads and hedgerows. Lieutenant Haverly and second platoon will cover the right flank, positioning behind this hill under sensor-scattering measures. Lieutenant Turk and third platoon will cover the hedge rows and fields on our left. If the enemy advance on either flank, first platoon will assist with indirect fire and whatever assets it can spare. Likewise, second and third will aid first if the main thrust comes up the highway. My guess is that they’ll hit us in both areas—intel says they have the numbers to do it. Expect everything: infantry, mechs, tanks, gunships. Artillery support is 112th Battalion, and we can call on air elements as well, but support may be delayed due to the scale of this invasion.
“The situation is still very fluid, and command is still trying to get an idea of enemy strength. There are a lot of them; that’s all I can tell you. Chances are we’ll be outgunned up there. Stay mobile once the shooting starts and use the terrain to your advantage.
“As usual, failure is not an option. But if we’re forced to fall back, we are ordered to retreat no further than phase line delta at the foot of the pass. Don’t let it come to that. We surrender our only advantage the instant we start retreating down the hill. After that, it can only end one way—I don’t think I need to elaborate.
“We move out in five minutes. Review your call signs and stay alert for intel and mission updates during the trip and while positioning. Put every trick and tactic you know into play. All you’ve learned comes down to this. Let’s make it happen, Marines. Fall out and load up.”
The more motivated Marines uttered a few barks as Golf Company scrambled from the maintenance bay, but most of the tankers wore grave looks, some bordering on outright dread.
That’s not such a bad thing. Facing an overwhelming onslaught would sharpen their senses and improve their tactics, giving them the means to survive, though this was never a given. Especially not on a day like this.
“Sir,” said Haverly, second platoon commander, who had recently been promoted to first lieutenant. “May I have a word with you?”
“Make it fast; we roll in three minutes.”
“Sir, regarding splitting the platoons… That will put us about two klicks apart. Perhaps it would be safer for the company to stay together and position here.” A blue light blinked on Manahan’s HUD map.
“Combining platoons and stationing there would leave us too far from the highway to block if the enemy strikes rapidly, and the cover is insufficient. Two klicks apart is nothing; we’ll be close enough to call on fire support from each other. You won’t be out there alone.”
“But what if they advance between—”
I don’t have time for this shit. “We’ll take care of it. You are to hold the right flank at all costs, lieutenant, and you are done questioning orders. Are we clear?”
Haverly gave a sheepish nod as he responded, “Yes, sir.”
That is not gonna cut it.
Haverly, a virgin to large-scale combat operations, needed reassurance to emphasize the importance of his crucial task. Chewing his ass won’t do it. In Manahan’s experience, ass-chewings generally decreased a Marine’s motivation.
“Fight for your brothers. Fight to see your wife and baby daughter again. Like I’m going to fight to see my family. I am just as scared as you are. Just do your job and everything will be ok. Listen to Staff Sergeant Fontaine; he’s experienced and capable. Let him help you position your tanks. When your men are ready, you inspect them personally, make sure everything is up to standard. And you hold that flank. The fight may depend on your leadership, and I have faith you’ll make the right calls. Now mount up; it’s go time.”
“Aye, sir.” Haverly took off at a jog, looking somewhat relieved.
Manahan still questioned if the young lieutenant was up to this fight. I hate like hell to put a green kid on flank against numerous enemies like that. There was no choice; Haverly was what he had. A lot of green men will die today and some experienced ones as well. He didn’t kid himself about that, no more than he would kid his men. I could well be one of them.
***
Manahan had positioned first platoon’s armor in strategic areas around Rutland and the hill just west of town. The three infantry squads attached to Golf assumed their place on the hill facing the road, their power armor suits in predator mode as they waited with disposable rocket launchers. All tanks idled under sensor-scattering nets, visible only to aerial reconnaissance, but he had seen little of that. The few Union fighters flying over were high in the sky, most busy dogfighting with Navy fighters.
If they knew we were here, we’d be dead already. They couldn’t find out, not until it was too late. Manahan’s battle plan relied on surprise and the chaos it would generate.
“Here they come, sir,” said Sgt Pound, Manahan’s gunner, nervous anticipation in his voice.
“Like ducks in a line.” Mitchell sounded amused.
Indeed, a company of Union mechs, which was acting as a screening force for a mechanized infantry battalion in APCs, had closed to within a kilometer. They were just begging to be ambushed, seemingly oblivious to danger. They’re either overconfident or something’s up. Manahan bet on the latter. He’d tangled with Union forces before, though not on this grand scale. They were a professional and well-disciplined army. It’s too easy.
“Identify multiple mechs. Nine hundred meters, sir.” Pound manned both the sensor scope and a recon drone feed.
G CO STAND BY TO FIRE ON MY ORDER, Manahan texted.
“We’ve lost sensors!” Pound announced.
“Comm check, radio and data.” Manahan remained calm despite his growing dread.
A transmission came through, barely audible over static: “Gambler 6-6, Gambler 7-7 reporting in,” said Gunny Cormac, his tank fifty meters away parked in defilade, hidden from the advancing enemy.
Comm with all other tanks and elements was down.
“Union drone identified, sir,” Gina reported. “Altitude seventy-five meters, bearing 1-8-5, approximate range eleven hundred meters and closing.”
On the camera feed Manahan spotted a disc, the drone that provided surveillance and electronic warfare support. It was likely slaved to the advancing convoy. One missile would blow it out of the sky—and give away their position. Without comm or sensors their surprise would unravel in failure. They couldn’t fire indirectly on the column without grid coordinates, nor could the infantry on the hill relay them the location.
“Gunner, MG, drone, nine hundred meters,” Manahan ordered. Enemy sensors might miss the machinegun, and they needed to save their missiles.
“Identified,” Pound responded.
“Fire.”
Pound engaged the weapon system. The machinegun mounted on the turret traversed and elevated, its barrel tracking the target. “Good lock! On the way!”
Rooster barely flinched from the recoil of the five-shot burst from the 15-mm weapon. The first two bursts took down the drone’s shield; the next three reduced it to sparks, smoke, and bits of flaming debris.
“Target destroyed.” Pound announced.
Scopes returned.
Manahan’s heart stopped for an instant. The mechs and infantry had veered from the highway onto the network of farm roads, moving fast toward second platoon’s position on the right flank. They saw the drone go down, but did they see where the rounds came from?
“Mechs approaching!” cried a frantic Lt Haverly. “Opening fire!”
“Hold your fire, Gambler 2-1!” Manahan ordered. “Remain under sensor-scattering cover!”
Second platoon opened fire at one kilometer. Shit, fear had struck Haverly deaf. His four tanks scored three direct hits, destroying two mechs and an APC, a mere drop in the bucket. Sensors showed fourteen mechs still leading the infantry.
An even match for his platoon… if he plays it right. And Haverly wouldn’t play it alone.
Manahan ordered, “Gambler 1 elements, identify targets and fire at will on those mechs.” By giving first platoon the command to select individual targets before opening fire, he ensured no duplication of effort.
“Sir,” Gina broke in, “ground radar detects two Union armor companies rapidly approaching on the highway. ETA two minutes, provided they remain on course.”
They will. The mechs and infantry were the feint, meant to draw the Marines from defending the highway. The Union hadn’t counted on Haverly being there, but that mattered little. Getting the armor thrust past on the highway was their mission.
“Gambler 1 elements, disregard my last! Open fire with plasma cannons on the leading armor company on the highway. Same order for Gambler 3-1. Over.” To Sergeant Pound he said, “Engage lead elements first, then targets of opportunity.”
“Aye, sir!”
Boom! The tank rocked as the 150-mm plasma cannon fired, the heat from the ionized bolt lingering inside the crew compartment despite the efforts of the climate control unit.
“Gambler 6-6, they’re almost on us!” Haverly gasped, followed by a frantic, audible gulp. “We need support!”
“Engage those mechs, Haverly!” Manahan said.
“Gambler 2-1 engaging mechs!” reported their commander, stationed with Haverly.
“We’re working on it, Gambler 6-6!” SSgt Fontaine responded.
Thank God for that. First platoon’s opening volley destroyed four tanks on the road, their smoldering bulbous hulks filling the sky with thick, black smoke. The three squads of Corpse 4-1 took down two more with their rocket launchers. The hypervelocity rockets fired in volleys for maximum effect.
The remaining Union tanks, now within a half kilometer, glided onward like steel phantoms, kicking up dust as they picked up speed on the highway.
“Corpse 4-1, repeat. Over!” Manahan said.
A warning alarm sounded. “Inbound enemy aircraft, sir,” Gina said. “Fighter-bombers, bearing 2-4-0, ETA twelve seconds.”
“All Gambler stations,” Manahan broadcast. “Standby to launch anti-aircraft missiles.”
“Shit shit!” Haverly screamed. Seemed the other tanks had also picked up the squadron.
“Get hold of yourself, Haverly!” He’s gonna get his men killed!
Haverly continued blubbering and cursing on the radio, tying up an already crowded net. Fontaine passed along Manahan’s orders via text, making sure his platoon got them.
“Fighters identified!” Pound said.
“Fire!”
“On the way,” Pound responded, as a salvo of missiles leapt away from Rooster’s rear launchers, leaving ropes of smoking contrails.
Six Union fighter-bombers in three flights of two aircraft streaked over the hill to the north to disgorge their load of bombs on second platoon’s location, destroying or disabling three tanks. Severa
l of the anti-aircraft missiles found their mark, two enemy fighters blooming with incandescent fire.
Manahan was ready when they came for first platoon. “Active air-defense weapon!”
Gina set the 15mm plasma machinegun to air-defense mode, and it automatically tracked the incoming planes, sending up pulses of red bolts skyward.
“Locking on…” Then Pound announced, “On the way!”
The remaining enemy aircraft pummeled first platoon with rockets and particle-beam cannons. All the tanks’ air-defense-weapons fired on the incoming missiles, filling the sky with crimson, intercepting most of the incoming projectiles before they could reach their intended targets. The orange wink of intercepted missiles filled the air with falling debris, the explosions barely audible within Rooster’ cabin. The map display showed one first platoon tank disabled and another destroyed, along with six deaths in Corpse 4-1. Then, “GAMBLER 1-1 DESTROYED. GAMBLER1-4 DISABLED,” scrolled across his screen. Lieutenant Kramer, Staff Sergeant Nichols. Just like that, Gambler’s fourteen tanks had been reduced to nine.
The aircraft departed but not before dropping sensor-scattering smoke bombs over the Rutland Highway junction to obscure the ground advance. Red enemy armor blips faded in and out on sensor scopes, preventing target lock.
Within two minutes, the enemy’s lead tanks on the highway exited the smoke cloud at the Rutland junction. First platoon fired on them the instant they became visible, taking out two leads in a series of fiery explosions but allowing others to slip past. Enemy armor further up the highway unleashed a hail of heavy machinegun fire on Corpse 4-1, pinning the squads down on the hill.
The tanks did not turn off into Rutland, continuing on toward Shaw. Two more armor companies rolled in their wake not a klick behind. One of those companies will come sort us out, maybe both. He ordered first platoon’s three remaining tanks, led by Cormac, to circle the western hill, positioning them to strike from behind.
War's Edge- Dead Heroes Page 40