A rocket slammed into their left side, the damaged section of the automatic defense system no longer protecting the tank from rocket fire, buffeting the Mauler to the right. A grenade barrage from an automatic launcher rocked them a second later, as the enemy infantry regrouped and counter attacked.
“Launcher bearing 1-3-7!” Gina said.
“Traverse!” Pound was already on it. “Stay on course, Mitch!” Manahan kept firing on the soldiers ahead.
An enemy grenade launcher led Rooster. The first rounds in the next volley tore up the manicured ground ahead and showered the Mauler with dirt and shrapnel. Another anti-tank rocket hit their left side, then another shook the rear. The enemy infantry fired their anti-tank rockets in waves, overwhelming the tank’s countermeasures. Damage alarms sounded. The climate control system shut down to maintain engine power.
Two more rockets struck the front of the Mauler, their grouping tight enough to punch through its stout armor. The driver’s control panel exploded into the cabin at supersonic speed, embedding in walls and shredding Marines. Mitch died without a scream or groan, no time for either. Some of his ragged remains festooned Manahan’s boots. Pound bellowed in utter agony, though Manahan barely heard him over his own cry; he’d taken a sizeable piece of shrapnel through his right calf, in and out. He glanced at Pound, then quickly turned away at the sight of vermillion blood spurting from just above his crotch. Major artery severed; his gunner would bleed out.
Manahan had only an instant to mourn the passages of two Marines—one stellar, the other something of a shitbag. The rockets passed no such judgments; they had eviscerated the men equally.
“You gun, I drive,” Manahan ordered Gina.
“Aye, sir!”
“Sir…” Pound gasped from the floor.
Busy evading rockets, Manahan missed Pound’s final words, though he caught text of the man’s passing on his HUD.
Manahan turned hard left, the tank swerving drunkenly, and accelerated to max speed, charging toward the grenade launcher’s position in a small outbuilding within a copse of ornamental shrubs. Grenades hit the ground in front of Rooster as Manahan fought to bring the damaged turret back to center.
“Gina, engage targets.”
The bot fired particle-beam cannons on the shed, wiping the building, shrubs, and launcher from the face of the earth in a white-hot flash. Manahan barely noted the text EDGE 1-3 DESTROYED as he drove.
Gina fired a salvo of missiles to the rear as Manahan whipped the Mauler through the burning remains of the shed, headed back to the lake. He didn’t like his prospects of crossing the water unscathed, but the enemy were thinner on the other side.
“We’re hit!” Gunny Cormac shouted over the net, obviously in agony.
First Sergeant Becker, also in Cormac’s tank, yelled, “Semper Fiiiiii!” the last word morphing to a scream that evaporated into nothingness. The text announcing their doom followed.
Enemy tank rounds kicked up steaming geysers of water around Rooster as Manahan drove over the lake. His literal loneliness finally registered when he checked his scope; he was the only moving green square. The fuck does it matter? Had he not destroyed a half-dozen Union tanks singlehandedly? Mowed down at least a score of their infantry? I’ll wipe out every last son of a bitch in this town!
As he slowed to negotiate the embankment at the lake’s edge, a 130mm plasma bolt exploded directly in front of his tank. Most of the plasma energy discharged harmlessly off the hull, but a single stream of ions shot through the gaping hole on the Mauler’s nose to tear off Gina’s robotic head, which bounced around the cabin trailing sparks.
“Fuck,” was all he could mutter as he climbed the embankment, the cabin awash in the intense residual heat.
Two downed Union tanks, one afire, sat in a field to his right. An enemy APC approached the two hulks, perhaps to unload men there under cover. Laser blasts from its turret guns listed Rooster leftward. Manahan responded with dual particle shots followed by one of his few remaining main gun rounds. The double-dose of destruction sent the APC’s crew and human cargo to hell.
As he drove toward his newest deathly handiwork, Manahan consulted his scopes to decide whom he would kill next.
A tank round came down, missed the Mauler’s front left corner by centimeters, and exploded beneath it. Rooster rose for an instant from the jarring impact, then listed far to the left and stayed there, its hull scraping the ground. An alarm sounded; a damage report flashed on his HUD: REPULSOR ENGINES 1, 3, 5, 7 DISABLED. A schematic of the tank showed the left side highlighted in red. The only cover in the area, the downed enemy tanks and burning APC, lay sixty meters away.
“Shit!” Could he make it? To not try would be suicide. As if that’s an issue!
He engaged emergency power, which would allow him to gun the engines well into the red zone, far past their recommended output. The Mauler’s left side cut a furrow through the grass as he goaded the tank toward the wrecked armor. He grew more confident when no rounds landed during the first leg of the journey.
Maybe they moved on. He was disabled after all.
As he approached his destination, more main gun bolts discharged around him. A new alarm sounded; the engines were overheating. Seconds after Manahan pulled into cover among the trio of vehicles, Rooster went to ground with a crash that jarred his bones and rattled the controls.
Emergency battery power engaged. He could still move the turret and machinegun; his electronics remained operational.
Red dots and squares surrounded him on his scope and HUD. He put the automatic defense machinegun on auto-fire, the tank’s AI system automatically selecting targets. An alert warned that the machinegun ammo was nearly exhausted.
He laughed. “Don’t fucking need it!”
When an infantry squad marched into range, he swung the turret slightly, opened up with the plasma thrower. One squirt of superheated fury scattered the squad and left the less-fortunates writhing in flames.
Huge chunks of metal battered his hull. A tank round struck the APC he’d already destroyed. He traversed the turret to confront this new threat, catching a glimpse of his sons on the console as he did.
“I’m coming home, guys,” he whispered as he locked onto the next target.
It all seemed so clear as he watched the dots close in. They won’t keep this up! I can’t do shit now, can’t go anywhere. They’re not gonna waste all these men just to take me out. They had to keep moving toward Shaw. Just a few more tanks… another squad of infantry… then I’m in the clear.
He fired the remaining plasma cannon round, the report a thunderous crack through the compromised hull. He received the text, TARGET DISABLED.
“See what I mean, boys?”
The turret machinegun swung on its own and fired, going silent when the ammo ran out.
“They’re gonna give this up any second. The old man is just too fuckin’ good for these bastards.”
It was inevitable. He would escape the war zone, then get off Verdant. Get home, get my pension, patch things up with the wife. The boys need their father in the house.
He fired particle cannons at a mech as its lasers pounded Rooster from twenty meters away. The mech exploded in a show of fireworks he didn’t even see; he’d already moved on to the next mech, which also unleashed laser bolts on him.
A blinding, white-hot flash lit the cabin. And he saw them—he was with his boys again.
CHAPTER 34
Bach swung the Hog around a corner and barreled down the final street to the LZ. A block away, Marine rifles and a minigun pointed at them from a barricade of wrecked vehicles blocking the street. A small opening remained on one side, just wide enough to allow trucks through. Their Hog would register as friendly on the defenders’ HUDs, still Rizer waved at them on approach for extra assurance.
A sergeant beckoned them forward, waved them through the barricade into the LZ.
Though the Marines had lost groun
d everywhere else, they had expanded the LZ since Rizer’s departure. Enemy infantry amassed nearby for a final assault from several directions, but the defenders held the Union advance elements at bay for the moment.
Combat engineers had demolished a building to clear enough landing space for two additional dropships. Bloodied Marines in battle-scarred armor, many supporting brothers too injured to walk unassisted, queued up to board the ships, while Navy loadmasters waved them aboard with frantic impatience. Those still defending the LZ ran between positions, lighting up wherever needed to hold off the first waves of attackers.
Fully loaded, a Condor rose straight up from the tarmac, then blasted off for the fleet through a tempest of anti-aircraft fire, both lasers and missiles, its pilot launching countermeasures to cover his escape. Another ship—gray with many windows—dropped in as soon as the Condor cleared. Such lighters normally transported personnel to a planet’s surface for liberty. That the Navy pressed the unarmored and unarmed craft into service confirmed the dire situation.
Bach drove at a crawl through the chaotic press of Marines and scattered civilians. They passed a row of grievously wounded men: limbs missing, blood leaking from holes in power armor. Lying on the tarmac meant none of them would ever leave Verdant alive.
One of us might just as easily have been lying there waiting to die. He considered the artillery barrages that grew stronger and more numerous by the second. We might still wind up there. Their vigilance could only cease when and if they made it to the fleet. Maybe not even then. The two fleets likely battled even now.
The flatbed from Merill’s unit, carrying civilians and PFC Duran, loaded at a Condor ahead.
Bach pounded on the horn. “Get outta the way!”
Rizer bellowed at people pushing and milling to get on the Condor. “Injured civilians! Make way!”
Between Rizer’s shouts and Bach’s driving—he continued his horn solo while inching ever forward, using the Hog’s prow to shove people aside—they reached the Condor. Waiting Marines cursed every meter of their passage.
Rizer and Leone got out to load the two wounded: Kasra and a cook in a white uniform dyed red, her coat riddled with tiny shrapnel holes. Once the civilians from the flatbed had been loaded, Marines filed in. The loadmaster halted the line, waved Rizer and Leone forward to the ire of several Marines.
“Suck it up and shut up!” roared the loadmaster, a chief petty officer. “Civilians have priority!” Were it not for the chief’s rank and imposing physical stature, he might have been hauled off the Condor and stomped to death beneath armored feet.
Rizer handed Kasra up to a med bot, He hoped he hadn’t gazed upon her face for the last time. She remained unconscious, her face pale, barely breathing. But alive. Just stay alive… He caught one last glimpse of her blond hair before she disappeared into the throng packing the cargo hold.
“Now you get the fuck outta the way!” A corporal shoved Rizer roughly aside.
Rizer glared at him, angry blood pulsing in his temples, but he turned away from the no-win fight. Kasra was aboard; nothing else mattered.
Another dropship loaded atop 123rd Battalion HQ. Rizer caught only a glimpse of it before noticing their Hog was departing. He found Bach and Leone standing in the crowd.
“What the fuck happened to our truck?” he asked.
“A gunny commandeered it for the defenders,” Bach shouted over explosions and panicked voices.
Leone huffed. “We better get in line if we wanna get outta this meat grinder.”
“Sooner the better,” Bach added. “You know they’re gonna kick up the arty and blast this place into memories before they send in the grunts.”
He was right, of course. And the grunts will be here any time. “We can’t just leave,” Rizer said. “We need to report back first.”
“Report back to what?” Leone motioned with a sweeping arm around the LZ. “This is it; it’s fucking over!”
“Not until the CO relieves us.”
“Then get on the fucking radio already!”
Rizer nodded, tried to raise Capt Carr and then Lt Dupaul. The CO was MIA. Probably left since he doesn’t have a company anymore. The nets were a mess of frantic calls, but though the Dupaul never responded to his text, he found the lieutenant nearby on his HUD, “Dupaul’s down by that dropship. Let’s go.”
Bach nodded wearily.
Leone threw her hands skyward and asked, “How have I sinned to deserve this?”
“You attacked me in the shower. Now let’s go!”
They pressed through the crowd, caught a glimpse of Dupaul, his eternally pristine armor newly scratched and dented. He had his face shield up and stood at attention before General Hella and several other high-ranking brass.
So that’s why he didn’t respond.
They shouldered forward to collar their platoon commander the instant Hella finished with him. But before they got within ten meters, the general clapped Dupaul on the shoulder, turned, and ordered his brass aboard the Condor. While Dupaul headed back to the TOC, Hella waved more Marines aboard. He packed the Condor to bursting before he finally headed up the ramp, leaving only a few Marines behind for the next ship.
Most any other general would have commandeered a ship strictly for his staff and gotten out first, rank-and-file be damned. That is a leader.
Leone uttered, “Now that’s a man I’d follow to Hell.”
“Troop welfare, baby!” Bach nodded his approval.
Hella’s ship blasted off as the trio headed for the TOC. Another ship quickly took its place.
Artillery came down in a fiery thunderstorm atop 123rd HQ, partially destroying the building. The rounds somehow spared the dropship loading on the roof, which took off with a Marine still clinging to the cargo ramp. The unfortunate man fell off a moment later. Those waiting to board on the roof and in the building were either shit outta luck or dead. A second barrage moments later completely leveled battalion HQ. Rizer doubted anyone had survived.
Outside the TOC Dupaul raised his face shield and displayed a bloody nose, probably from concussion. “What are you still doing here?”
“We came back to help, sir,” Rizer responded. “Is anyone in Murder still around?”
He shook his head. “Only the dead and dying. And us. Captain Carr left a few minutes ago. Did you get the civilians?”
“Yes, sir, they’re loaded and gone.”
“Great work, Marines. Now get yourselves on a dropship; our defenses could crumble any second.”
“What about you, sir?”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. Now get out of here, corporal; that’s an order. Don’t make me put Leone in charge.” For perhaps the first time ever, Rizer noticed something like approval on Dupaul’s face, the look of a man trying to make peace with himself as well as his Marines before he died.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Semper Fi.” Dupaul nodded curtly, turned his back, and entered the TOC.
“Did not expect that,” Leone muttered. None of them had. Bach and Rizer remained silent on the subject. Nothing else needed to be said.
The nearest ship was a lighter that had just landed. Dammit! Looking at the laser bolts flying overhead, Rizer didn’t believe they would make it off Verdant in the shuttle with its civilian specs despite its a Navy ID number. But they had no choice. They wouldn’t make it through the crowd to the next ship, a Condor, in time.
“Let’s do this.” Bach increased his pace.
“Hold on,” Rizer said. “Where’s Leone?”
She stood a few meters away by a line of mortally wounded Marines, arguing with a sergeant.
“Shit!” Rizer hissed.
“Bullshit, he’s fuckin’ going!” Leone shouted.
“The fuck he is!” the sergeant responded. “Transports for the mobile only! If everybody took their buddy there’d be no fuckin’ room!”
They fought over a sergeant lying on the ta
rmac, who had lost his left foot and bled heavily from a gruesome chest wound.
Stiglitz!
“Fuck you, you fucking rear echelon motherfucker, he’s coming!”
The sergeant raised his rifle to his shoulder as Leone taunted him.
“Hey!” Rizer said, quickly intervening.
“You ain’t takin’ him!” said the sergeant, the look of his suit identified him as rear echelon Marine, now addressing the three of them. “I have my orders!”
“Bullshit!” Bach said. “He’ll make it even if I hafta carry him!”
“Uh-uh,” Stiglitz said, his voice so weak they knelt to hear him. He laughed—a ghastly, rattling gasp that brought blood bubbling to his lips. “ ’S all good, guys. Fuckin’ fate, you know? Get home. It’s where… Where I shoulda been.” Crimson teeth grinned. “But I lived big.” He choked and winced on more laughter.
“Godspeed, you salty bastard,” Bach said.
“You satisfied now?” asked the sergeant, who lowered his rifle.
They would leave Stiglitz, but the sergeant’s attitude didn’t satisfy Rizer at all. Rizer’s punch to his chest knocked him on his ass. The sergeant cursed unintelligibly as they took off for the dropship.
“Now I’m satisfied!” Rizer called over his shoulder as they departed.
They’d run only a few meters when the next artillery strike came down, right where they’d been standing seconds before. The explosions knocked them forward to the deck; body parts of the formerly wounded fell on top of them.
SGT STIGLITZ KIA.
Bach growled. “Shit!” He lay writhing on his stomach.
Rizer rolled to his knees, jumped to his feet. A piece of shrapnel had punched through Bach’s armored rear end, embedding in his left buttock.
“Come on, hurry!” Leone urged as they scooped him up between them.
A squad ran for the lighter. If they beat us there, we’ll be the next KIAs.
“I always said you were a butt pirate,” Leone razzed as they dragged Bach along.
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