Sons of the Lion

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Sons of the Lion Page 12

by Jason Cordova


  “More contacts!” Private Morgan Asselmo stated loudly, targeting the new arrivals on the Tri-V for all to see. “I see four more tanks and mobile artillery moving into position!”

  Samson was confused. What the hell kind of hornet’s nest did we stick our dicks into here? They had expected some resistance, but it appeared the entire Nigerian Army had shown up to welcome them to their country in the most violent manner possible.

  Normally one for a good fight, he preferred it to be against aliens, not his fellow Humans. Just shows the colonel’s plan for pacifying Africa sucks, he groused as he tried to target the other tank. Not seeing a good angle, he moved to his left. The guild’s going to bleed us dry, then hit us when we’re weak. Just watch and see.

  The second AMX, upon seeing the death of its partner, backed up and used the blazing wreck as cover. The turret shifted and suddenly three shots belched out in rapid succession. Two more red suits appeared in his Tri-V, as well as a yellow. Two kills, one wounded. We’re getting murdered out here.

  “Lion Six Actual, Leopard Six,” Samson called. As he began to run again, he targeted his MAC on the partially-covered tank and let out a quick volley. Most of the rounds bounced off the angled turret armor, though one did appear to punch though the command hatch. Uncertain if he caused enough damage, he stopped firing and dove as a round from the railgun went blazing past him at five times the speed of sound. Sliding on his stomach in the muck and bodily waste, he flipped onto his side and tried to find some cover, but the suit’s size and lack of sturdy buildings hampered him. Out in the open, he was a sitting duck for the rail gun. “Colonel, we’re getting hammered out here. Requesting assistance, over.”

  “Copy, Leopard Six,” Mulbah’s voice came over the radio. “Help will be there in five. Copy?”

  “Roger, bass. Leopard Six, out,” Samson replied and switched frequencies. “All Leopards, this is Six. Keep moving, keep fighting. Help is on the way, jockos.”

  * * *

  One Kilometer Above New Ikoyi Prison, Lagos, Nigeria District, Earth

  “Be there in five. Copy?” Mulbah said as he looked at Captain Jacobs and the rest of the newly-minted 2nd Company. He couldn’t see the men’s faces inside their CASPers, but he could almost feel their grim determination upon hearing their brothers in the 1st Company were dying out in the field.

  “Roger, bass. Leopard Six, out.”

  “Zion, get everyone in your company ready to drop,” Mulbah ordered as he looked at the four men from his command squad. He switched frequencies. “Change of plans. The five of us are going into the prison, alone. Watch your backs and make sure your combat armor is secure.”

  “Yes bass,” they replied in unison. Mulbah switched frequencies once again. “Thorpi, Mulbah. Executing option ‘Kraken.’ Acknowledge?”

  “Copy, Colonel,” Thorpi replied over the radio. “Executing option ‘Kraken.’ Adjusting flight path now.”

  Mulbah felt the change in G-forces as the dropship changed course and rocketed back out to the edge of the city, where 1st Company awaited their arrival. The CASPers of 3rd Company moved to the rear entrance as the ship arrived on location fifteen seconds later, circling the battlefield from an altitude of 100 meters. Anti-aircraft fire erupted from the ground as flak and tracer rounds flew past and exploded around the ship.

  In the rear, the instant the light turned green 3rd Company was out the back, heading toward the Earth like avenging angels from on high.

  “All suits clear. Back to the prison, Thorpi,” Mulbah instructed as the last CASPer departed the rear of the dropship and the door was secured.

  “Yes, sir,” the Veetanho replied from the cockpit. The ship was back over the prison in almost no time at all, free from the added weight of the CASPers. It paused for a moment as the VTOL engines began to howl, allowing for the dropship to land in an open area near the main entrance of the prison. The two MACs on the wings pivoted and blasted something Mulbah couldn’t see. Subsequent secondary explosions suggested it was a large target, however.

  “Two guard towers down,” Thorpi called. Mulbah grunted. That explains a lot, he thought as the Veetanho continued. “Dropping rear ramp now. Be careful, sir.”

  “Always, Thorpi,” Mulbah replied as the command squad hustled down the ramp and made their way to the prison entrance. The dropship remained on the ground, covering their approach with occasional fire from the MACs on the wings whenever a threat emerged.

  Mulbah reached the concrete entrance to the underground portion of the prison and saw, as the plans had suggested, that it was too narrow for a CASPer. Relieved he had left his suit behind at HQ, Mulbah pressed his back against the rough concrete and waited a moment to catch his breath.

  “I hate running,” he muttered as his detail caught up. He glanced over at Staff Sergeant Casimir Ange, who was breathing just as heavily as he was. “CASPers make this running shit easy.”

  “Yeah, bass, this craw craw running shit is bad for your health,” Casimir laughed between gasps. Everyone else in the command squad was either a runner by nature or simply too nervous to joke around with him, Mulbah decided. Casimir grinned humorously. “You run and all you do is die tired, bass.”

  “Breach, then clear,” Mulbah decided as he looked at the entryway. He didn’t see any obvious boobytraps, but experience told him this meant little.

  “I’ll check,” Corporal Herman Adrazgo volunteered and immediately leaned around the corner to look into the darkened entrance.

  “Wait—” Mulbah tried to stop him but a loud shot echoed out from the darkness. Herman’s head exploded into a fine red mist and the body of the late corporal tumbled to the ground. Mulbah leaned away from the entrance and began cursing as blood began to pool beneath the body, staining the concrete steps below. “Fuck.”

  It only made sense something big was down there waiting for them. This was a guy who owned tanks, after all. Mulbah growled and scratched his unshaven chin, thinking. There were other options available. He just wasn’t sure if playing the card this early in the engagement was worth it or not.

  “Grenades?” Casimir suggested. Mulbah mulled it over for a second before he nodded.

  “Fuck ’em up, menh,” Mulbah agreed and pulled two grenades from his belt. Casimir and the two remaining enlisted men followed suit. “Eight grenades should be enough. On the count of three, pull the pin and tossed them inside. Don’t linger out in the open again, ken?”

  “Yes sir,” came the quiet reply.

  Mulbah readied his first grenade. “Okay. One, two, three, now!”

  The first four grenades were tossed inside and bounced across the concrete floor below. A second later the next wave followed. Explosions ripped through the defenders. Mulbah, his ears ringing from the concussive explosions, leaned forward slightly and brought up his laser carbine.

  “Lights?” he directed and Private Mele Ibara stepped forward and flicked on his flashlight. The two million lumens lit the entrance of the prison. Two pairs of mangled legs could be seen, as well as a ruined .50 caliber sniper rifle which appeared to be older than the prison, judging by the wear and mud caked on it. Beyond the massive rifle, it was pitch black.

  No more shots echoed out from the darkness. Mulbah looked over at Casimir. “Sergeant?”

  “Private Ibara, down that hole and secure the entrance,” Casimir ordered. The young Liberian swallowed and nodded, an identical carbine matching Mulbah’s resting against his shoulder. Ibara descended into the darkness, then Casimir quickly followed. Mulbah counted to four before he entered the underground prison as well, with the last surviving member of the command squad, Corporal Adrian Obassi, bringing up the rear.

  * * *

  Three Kilometers from New Ikoyi Prison, Lagos, Nigeria

  “Move your asses!” Samson screamed. More artillery rounds hammered the ground around the CASPers as they struggled to move through the hailstorm which was falling upon them. The rockets from the mobile artillery units were absolutely shreddin
g the rundown shacks of the civilian populace. Fortunately, the moment the fighting had started, people living in the area decided it would be a terrific idea to be somewhere else.

  The arrival of Zion and 3rd Company had made short work of the surviving tank, and momentarily turned the tide of battle to the Kakata Korps’ favor. However, immediately after that, mobile artillery rockets found their range.

  Over half of 1st Company was showing yellow, but Samson felt fortunate they had suffered no more fatalities. 3rd Company was showing two yellow but no red, which meant every one of them was still in the fight. Samson brought up the tactical overlay and tried to find the rocket artillery site. It wasn’t easy, all things considered. However, it only took the Reaper drone, launched hours before, minutes to locate it.

  “Zion, it’s Samson,” he said as he ran to the east, toward the prison. He tried to keep his breathing steady as he vaulted over an old rust-bucket faintly resembling a car mounted on cinderblocks. “I’ve got the rockets’ location marked. You’re closer; handle them. Leopards are moving to secure the outer prison grounds.”

  “Copy,” Zion responded immediately, wheezing over the comms. Samson would have normally laughed and teased the lawyer about being out of shape, but it didn’t feel like the right time considering how much it was taking him to keep his own breathing under control. Perhaps if they all lived, he would give the CFO of the Korps a hard time about it. “Goshawk Six, out.”

  “Leopards, head east two kilometers,” Samson ordered his company. “Watch for mortars.”

  Artillery rockets screamed overhead as the men of 1st Company sprinted toward the prison. Samson really wanted to kill those artillery rockets but with Kraken in effect, it would be Zion’s job to neutralize them. Samson was now responsible for securing the prison grounds, since he had suffered the most casualties on the battlefield. Zion would handle the artillery and, with luck, would arrive at the prison in time to create a larger ring around the perimeter to maintain control. Only then would the Zuul come down and establish a presence as the prison administrators.

  “Stupid pups,” Samson growled and wondered if the Korps was being bled on purpose. The Zuul mercenaries currently on the planet far outnumbered the Korps, yet it seemed the Liberian company was doing all the scut work. “That’s all chokla, menh.”

  Samson had no love for aliens, even though he had enjoyed meeting the Korteschii on his first actual contract in a CASPer. He had a particular dislike for the Besquith and Goka, though he would never admit to anyone the giant werewolf-like aliens terrified him as much as they did. The Goka, to him, were simply disgusting, oversized cockroaches. While he wouldn’t call himself xenophobic, the idea of Earth being run by something which resembled dinner to his grandfather irked him.

  The bombardment of the artillery rockets began to slow, then ceased all together as Zion did his job quickly and effectively. Now it was time for the Leopards to do theirs.

  Young men began pouring out of buildings at the edge of the prison, armed with laser rifles and shoddy pistols. Most couldn’t hit the broad side of a building, Samson noticed as they fired wildly, but a few were taking practiced, well-aimed shots. Their problem was that their rifles could not penetrate the CASPer frontal armor.

  Wanting to conserve his MAC rounds in case any more armored surprises showed up, Samson switched to his laser rifle. Unlike most CASPers in 1st Company, which had K-bomb mounts, Samson had gone with the laser rifle in case he ever ran into a horde of lightly armored enemies, especially after dealing with the miniature lizard creatures who had been hunting the Korteschii. He hated wasting MAC ammunition for something like this.

  Rifle in hand, Samson began to target the hundreds of soldiers firing at him. Around him, the remainder of 1st Company did the same, their MAC rounds, K-bombs, and laser fire cutting through the warlord’s soldiers with relative ease. It was almost too easy once the tanks and artillery had been destroyed.

  A suit on his Tri-V suddenly went red. Another dead merc. Samson blinked, confused. He’d seen nothing which would indicate the soldiers facing them had anything that could take them down. “Bravo Four, this is Six, over.”

  Nothing.

  Samson tried his battle buddy. “Bravo Three, this is Six Actual, come in, over.”

  “This is Bravo Three,” came the quick reply. He sounded frightened. “Bass, Doré just got killed by a sniper or something. We’re being hunted.”

  “What do you mean, hunted?” Samson asked. “Explain, Bravo Three.”

  “There’s something out here, bass. Something not Human, shooting at us.”

  Samson’s heart skipped a beat at this revelation, though he couldn’t be sure just what the young man was talking about. The possibilities were endless. Was there an unseen alien on the field of battle, taking out individual CASPers? Or was there something more insidious going on? Samson couldn’t say. Whatever it was, though, he needed to put a stop to it.

  Locating Bravo Three on his Tri-V, Samson quickly headed in his direction. Bravo Four and Three had both ended up near the edge of the slum, where the overgrown underbrush of the Nigerian jungle threatened to overrun the area. There were a few shanties there, each looking as though they would fall over from the gentlest of breezes.

  Samson settled down next Bravo Three, which he quickly identified as Corporal Har Baranga. Looking around, he spotted the fallen CASPer. Oddly enough, there was a single, neat hole in the center of the cockpit. Samson saw it was a perfect kill-shot, the high-powered laser easily penetrating the suit’s armor and killing the CASPer driver with a round straight through the heart.

  He turned and looked around but there was no sign of an obvious enemy. Samson swallowed slightly and looked at Corporal Baranga, who was still looking outward toward the jungle. “Corporal, fall back to the prison. We don’t need to be here.”

  “Yes, bass,” Baranga replied, perhaps a little too eagerly. Samson did not blame him one bit. Whoever—whatever—had killed PFC Doré, it was long gone now.

  Still mildly shaken from the mysterious death, Samson and Baranga headed quickly back to the prison, where the rest of 1st Company were mopping up. Samson could see the average age of the men with the rifles was older than he had experienced back in the day, but they still were too young to be stupidly charging CASPers and dying by the droves at the whims of some hopped-up drug dealer with delusions of grandeur.

  “Some things never change,” he whispered to himself as he joined in on the butchery.

  * * *

  Inside New Ikoyi Prison, Lagos, Nigeria District, Earth

  The stench in the prison wasn’t horrible, but it was far worse than anything Mulbah had smelled in recent memory. Spending too much time indoors while at HQ and in a sealed vehicle during his travels to the executive presidential mansion in Liberia had insulated him from the worst environments, not to mention his time in a CASPer meant it was rare for him to be exposed to the elements at all. Being in Nigeria was a rude reminder for Mulbah as to just how bad most of Africa, even the civilized parts, still were.

  His command squad, sans the deceased Corporal Adrazgo, were covering as much of the hallway as they could, clearing every room before moving on. Most of them were prison cells converted to drug labs, which seemed a bit of an overkill to Mulbah. The interior of the prison was dark with only the occasional dim lightbulb showing them the way. The rank smell Mulbah had thought to be Human feces grew stronger as they moved deeper into the prison.

  “Body,” Corporal Obassi called out as he pointed to a small room. Mulbah peeked in. Inside the tiny supply closet was a malnourished man, obviously dead and horribly decomposed. The mercenary colonel tried to quiet his stomach as it rolled around dangerously in protest. The rancid stench assaulted his senses and sent waves of nausea crashing over him. He looked away and barely managed not to vomit.

  “Keep going,” Mulbah said, his throat hoarse. The humidity was awful, and the smell of rot and decay permeated through everything. He heard Corporal O
bassi suddenly throw up on the floor and curse under his breath once he was finished. The sound almost set Mulbah off. Only an iron will and determination not to vomit in front of his men kept him from following suit.

  A small, red light was blinking in the corner at the end of the hallway. Ibara took careful aim with his carbine and snapped off a shot. The camera exploded in a shower of sparks. Mulbah nodded and motioned for Obassi to move forward and scan the last set of rooms in the corridor.

  Mulbah heard the familiar sounds of heavy objects being hastily moved about in the room to their left. Moses and his men were attempting to create a barricade to fire from. They wanted to use their impromptu cover to keep themselves safe. He would have laughed had the situation been any different.

  “Remember what Moses looks like,” he told his squad. “Orange mohawk. Don’t kill him if you get the chance. Kill everyone else holding a weapon.”

  “Got it, bass,” Casimir murmured back. He looked at the others. “You heard him. Obassi, Ibara, first through. Stay low. If they’re firing on full-auto the barrels will track high.”

  The young mercenaries both nodded jerkily and waited. Mulbah looked over at Casimir, who pulled out a few more grenades. Mulbah raised an eyebrow at him but the staff sergeant merely shrugged.

  “I always keep a few extra,” Casimir helpfully supplied. “Just in case.”

  “You’re a dangerous man,” Mulbah muttered. “Might as well use them.”

  “Just what I was thinking, bass,” Casimir agreed. He pulled the pins, counted to two, then tossed them far into the room. Twin explosions ripped apart the men inside and dust filled the corridor.

 

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