Free Company- Red Zone

by D K Williamson

  The upside of the added bulk and lack of nimbleness the exoskeleton brought on the human form was strength and added endurance. Able to shovel more dirt than most conventional troopers with relative ease and do so for long periods, their aid was welcome as was the firepower the heavy machine gun brought to a fight.

  Most exoskeleton-equipped troopers were long-serving mercs nearing the end of their active careers. Age and injuries could slow and hinder the best of soldiers, but with augmentation they could continue to provide valuable service and their knowledge and experience were often a bonus.

  Several minutes later a trooper from 3rd squad ran past in a crouch hissing, “Movement upriver. Opfor infantry coming from the south and east,” as he passed Bastrop and those near him.

  “You heard the man,” Hank whispered. “In the holes and on the weapons.”

  The heavy weapons team trooper tossed his shovel to the ground behind his position before hefting the hand cart and carrying it the short distance to Curt and Perk’s hole. Settling it over the middle portion of their position, he headed for his own saying, “See you on the other side,” as he passed Hank and Lee.

  Moments later, a single shot rang out—a spark that lit a firefight. Dozens of weapons spat fire as a result and in seconds the air was filled with potential death.

  Flashes of muzzle blast and the disturbance of leaves on the opposite bank revealed from where Keen Steel troopers fired. Motion through gaps in the foliage showed there were numerous troopers on the move. Seeking targets, Brennan’s concentration was broken when the nearby heavy machine gun pounded its steady and deep-throated song.

  Resuming his work, Brennan soon found the silhouette of a man gesturing broadly, a leader of some sort directing his troops. Placing the reticle of his rifle’s scope over the man’s shape, he fired, vaguely aware of others running past the man as the dark form fell from sight.

  The short chatters of Bastrop’s machine gun were echoed by Perkin’s disciplined bursts coming from not far away with the bark-spit of Curt’s rifle grenades not lost in the noise.

  The air above Brennan hissed and sang with the passage of bullets, the thud of others boring into the ground and berms nearby.

  Spotting a trio of Keen Steel troopers low crawling toward a large log, Lee snarled when they achieved their objective before he could fire.

  A traversing burst from the heavy machine gun tore across the length of the downed tree gouging free large portions of bark and wood. Watching the gunner work, Brennan almost felt sorry for the enemy troopers. While proof against the potent 7mm rounds of the Red Light’s infantry rifles and light machine guns, the trunk was no match for heavy machine gun projectiles.

  It became clear the big automatic weapon was the dominant force on the eastern end of the battle as few Keen Steel troopers moved. Pinned by the knowledge that few things other than ample dirt or very large trees might protect them, fear and common sense kept them from revealing themselves and that in turn meant less fire headed northward.

  Scared and pinned down, the mercs on the southern bank still fought back. While some managed to return fire as best they could, at least a few others took countermeasures as well, apparent when mortar rounds began thumping the area around the heavy machine gun position—shell fragments clouding the air as they slashed overhead and impacted the berms protecting the Red Light troopers.

  A curse from his team leader and shadow drew Brennan’s attention as Hank crouched at the bottom of the hole.

  “Fuck!” Hank spat as he set his machine gun aside and raised his left arm.

  Lee could see the data receiver display on Hank’s left forearm was scarred with radial cracks from a penetrating impact, a growing bloodstain turning the sleeve below it red. Watching with sickening fascination, he saw the cloth crawl and wrinkle on its own as the medical systems within the combat suit became active.

  Loosening the fasteners on the data receiver and letting it fall free, Hank said, “That’s done for. Take a look at my med panel.”

  Closing the covers on his scope, Lee moved the short distance to Hank before leaning his rifle against the side of the fighting position. Pulling free the cover on the left breast of Hank’s frag vest, he looked at the small display.

  “I’m pulling the tabs it’s calling for,” Brennan said.

  Not waiting for a response, he did as he was trained.

  Wincing but not complaining, Hank looked at all sides of his wounded lower arm.

  “What’s it say now?” he asked.

  Looking at the med panel, Lee saw, STABLE - INDICATED TABS ACTIVATED, TREATMENT ONGOING - REQUIRES MEDICAL ATTENTION - NON-URGENT EVAC. Reading it aloud, he saw Bastrop nod and pull a dressing from pocket on his frag vest.

  “You need help, Hank?” Lee asked in a worried tone.

  “No, I got it,” Bastrop replied calmly. “Keep shooting. Shell fragment, that’s all. A damned mortar.”

  Nodding, Brennan grasped his rifle and took his position. Seeing dust clouds drifting in the trees across the river, he quickly realized why as mortar rounds tore through tree cover and exploded among the Keen Steel positions—Carmag mortars answering Keen Steel’s.

  Fire began to dwindle, almost imperceptibly at first, but in time in ceased altogether. Looking at the time, Brennan was surprised to learn that only twenty minutes had passed since the start of the fight, far less than it seemed. Having been taught in service school that a sense of time dilation or contraction were common during high tension actions such as combat, this was his first experience with it.

  Several times over the next half hour, sporadic fire broke out only to peter off again. Nerves and the motion of wounded troopers across the river crawling for safer areas accounted for all of it as no return fire came northward. Despite a few calls offering a local cease fire from Carmag and Red Light troopers to allow Keen Steel to recover their wounded, they received no response.

  Eventually the order came to evacuate the fighting positions. With another Carmag platoon moving into the area, Forrester was taking his unit back to the east.

  With Brennan and Curtis aiding him, the exoskeleton equipped trooper who’d help prepare their holes earlier recovered the hand cart.

  Three wounded made up the casualty list and Forrester felt his platoon had fared well given the amount of fire they had taken. Since much of the heavy machine gun ammunition had been expended and a 2nd squad trooper required urgent care, Forrester tasked the heavy weapons team with transporting the trooper over the ridge to the med track.

  While they repurposed the cart to serve as a patient hauler, Brennan looked over the small battlefield. New shell craters overlapped with those from the previous day shared ground with long furrows cut by bullets grazing the ground for quite a distance before gravity pulled them under. Behind the position that held the heavy machine gun was littered with strewn poly-links, the only refuse from the belted rounds the gun consumed.

  Sergeant Hooton gathered his squad and pointed at the dressing on Hank’s arm.

  “I see your listing on the casualty list. How hard did you get tagged?” he asked.

  “Not bad. Some flak from a mortar hit nicked me.”

  Hooton nodded as he reached out and peeled up the cover on Hank’s med panel. “Hmm. looks like you’re going to see the doc.”

  “I can stick, Sarge,” Hank said.

  “You can, but you won’t,” Hooton replied. Tapping at his data receiver, the sergeant turned so Hank could see the display. It read the same as Lee had recited earlier.

  “Same as before. It can wait until we return to the unit.”

  “You’re going back with the other wounded,” Forrester said. “Lorne from third squad has a wounded leg and you’ll help him get back.” Pointing at Hank’s arm he continued. “Get that looked at and get back in the game if possible. We’re better when you’re in the platoon.”

  “You’re not a private anymore,” Hooton added. “You have to look at the big picture every so often.”


  Hank grumbled but accepted his fate.

  “Brennan, Curtis, Perkins,” Hooton said, “you’re with me.”

  “Boss, what was their game here?” Bridges asked of Senior Sergeant Forrester.

  “They tried to cross to the island under fire,” Forrester said. “I’d say they were feeling out Carmag. They’ll try again but with more numbers. Carmag faced a larger number on their end than we had. I think our presence surprised our opponents.”

  “Do you think they knew we were Red Light and not another Carmag platoon?”

  “No way to tell, but I doubt they could.” Looking over his platoon, he said, “We move in three. Police your area. Anything you leave behind will belong to some Carmag trooper, so check’em and be ready to march.”

  . . .

  Things had been relatively calm since Vincent and Sam resumed their work. After what seemed to be an eternity, the armored personnel carrier had rolled off to the west and the fire from the Keen Steel trench line had ceased. No targets had exposed themselves long enough for Sam to fire upon and not wanting to announce they were still present, Vincent had kept his machine gun silent.

  Watching through binoculars, Davout saw something of great interest. Bobbing as a Keen Steel trooper walked down the trench, all he could see was the barrel and muzzle device on a weapon, but this was enough to identify the new player entering the arena.

  “They don’t think we’ve left just yet,” Vincent said from his position near Sam. It looks like they’ve brought in a sniper of their own. I saw the barrel and muzzle. Looked a lot like the type Billy and Matt carry.”

  “I don’t know if I’m up for a sniper duel, especially if that guy down there knows his stuff. If it’s a heavy sniper rifle he’s got, I’m also outgunned. I’ll shoot at what’s available and move after each shot. Maybe you can spot the sniper and put him under fire.”

  “If he does his job right I doubt I can do much more than pester him, but I’ll watch. Maybe he’s not a hotshot like you.”

  Sam chuckled nervously. “I’m dead if I assume I’m better than him. If he proves not to be, we’ll score him.”

  The pair quickly found the sniper wasn’t the only thing they need worry about. A machine gun began spraying down their area with automatic fire, soon joined by another.

  “Two can play at that game,” Vincent said. “They’re trying to draw you out with the MGs. Maybe I can draw their sniper?”

  “If you’re willing to play, I’m game.”

  “Let’s stay close to each other. I’ll shoot a burst or two and then move. You move after every shot.”

  Sam nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  . . .

  For the next hour, three machine guns and two sniper rifles played a version of cat and mouse separated by hundreds of meters with no casualties but frayed nerves.

  Despite the substantial muzzle blast the Keen Steel sniper’s weapon generated, locating the position proved difficult. Using what he’d learned from Hicks and Bellvue, Sam proved equally hard to pin down.

  Moving after every shot, Sam was dirty and tired from crawling countless meters between holes and heavier positions. Vincent carried the same fatigue and filth. Using similar tactics, he dueled ineffectually with the gunners below and had yet to draw out the sniper’s location despite several shots coming his way.

  As Sam settled into another position, he heard his friend’s machine gun rattle off a burst followed immediately by the thud and hiss of an incoming round. On the heels of the hit came the booming bark of the heavy sniper rifle.

  Grimacing in worry, Sam opened his mouth to yell, but breathed a sigh of relief when Vincent shouted, “I know where the sniper is… well at least where he fired that last shot. Missed me by damned near nothing. Third indentation past the last angle in the trench.”

  “You think he’s still there?”

  “There’s one way to find out. If he has moved and is scoping one position, it becomes a waiting game unless we can draw him out.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Leaving is my first choice, but I’ll throw a couple of short bursts that way and duck. Maybe you can score him.”

  “That’s risky, pal. You sure about this?”

  “No, but that shouldn’t stop us. All this crawling in the dirt for nothing has put me in a pissy mood, so let’s give it a try. I could wave something in the opening, but I’m pretty sure he waited until the gun was in place and my head was behind it.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure about this. Let me move to get a better angle on the indentation.”

  Several minutes later Sam called, “I’m set. Give me thirty seconds and have at it. I’ll be really pissed if you get yourself dead.”

  “Think how I’ll feel. Thirty seconds.”

  Vincent decided to move to the other opening in the fighting position. As he raised his weapon to place it, he considered firing blind without exposing much more than a hand despite what he said to his friend, but dismissed the idea. He’s gotta think I’m trying to kill him. Two bursts on the sniper’s hole, he thought. Piss him off and duck.

  Drawing in and releasing two deep breaths, he moved. Standing as the muzzle entered the opening, he dropped the feet of the bipod into the loose soil and placed his cheek to the stock, his eyes picking up the sights and the target. His first burst was high, puffs of dust billowing from the cover over the notch in the berm and the ground behind it. Realigning, he fired as soon as the target and sights came together. Sending seven rounds at the slot before ducking and pulling his machine gun down with him, Vincent felt he could have done no better as he saw at least a couple of his rounds pepper the ground near the sniper’s position.

  Rounds from Keen Steel machine guns replied, zipping overhead and plowing the ground outside his position, one finding the opening and burrowing a hole above Vincent’s head. He stayed low knowing the gunners knew where he was. Snarling at a lack of response from the opposing force sniper, Davout perked up as he heard Sam’s rifle bark.

  “The shooter’s down,” Sam shouted.

  “You got him?”

  “You did. She came up after the first burst you put on the indentation. I had her in the scope when you fired. She ducked at the first burst. I’m thinking she didn’t expect another one so soon. That was some nifty suppression.”

  Vincent quoted one of Training Sergeant Verro’s favorite adages, “Dead is—”

  “—permanently suppressed,” Sam joined in to finish the saying.

  “What were you firing at?” Vincent yelled.

  “One of the machine gunners. This time I hit the gunner.”

  A mortar round cracked through the canopy of trees a distance down the ridge before exploding. Several more soon followed, walking their way up the slope.

  “I think that’s a signal we need to relocate,” Vincent called.

  “I agree. It’s not a tank, but what say we don’t push it that far. We’ll move as soon as it lets up.”

  A steady drizzle of mortar shells tore the ground along the line of positions for a few minutes, machine gun fire spattering as well. As the mortars tapered off, the machine guns continued for a time before they too quieted.

  “You ready to move?” Sam called.

  “Ready,” was Vincent’s reply.

  “Moving.”

  The troopers crawled from their holes and surveyed the area around them as they joined up. With shell holes and bullet-pocked trees all around them, they felt confident they had caused Keen Steel trouble based on the response.

  The barely perceptible sound of firing mortars alerted them to a lethal threat if it was aimed at them. Not taking any chances, they scrambled inside the most substantial of the fighting positions and took places, one at each end of the elongated hole.

  Half a dozen shells landed in short succession, jolting the ground, shaking free particles from the overhead cover, and making the pair duck their heads. Despite the sound dampening their helm’s earcups provided, the bl
asts seemed deafening. On the heels of these came more, another six that landed close enough to throw dirt through the openings at the front. Wrapping arms around their helmets and curling into shapes as small as they could manage, Sam and Vincent rode out the attack.

  Another six blasted the ground, farther away but this brought little comfort to the pair as more were on the way.

  A forth sextet induced pure terror as the shells shook the world with deathly thunder, one boring into the ground just behind the hole before exploding and heaving dirt from the rear side of the fighting position that dusted the two troopers.

  As the last particles of grit settled around them in a patter, it dawned on the two the shelling had stopped. Raising their heads and blinking rapidly, they looked at one another in surprise at remaining alive.

  “That was close. Too damned close,” Vincent said uncomfortably.

  “Agreed,” Sam replied as he pulled his leg from the dirt that had slumped from the side of the hole. “Sounds like they’ve let up. If they don’t throw anything else at us in the next few minutes, what say we call it a day?”

  “I’ll forgo the tank. The mortars are plenty for me. Plenty.”

  After a tense ninety seconds, the pair felt they had waited long enough and after scrambling from the hole, they ran north.

  . . .

  Sam and Vincent found they were the last of the sniper team to return and not the only ones that rode out mortar shells. Taro had returned with a small fragment lodged in his upper arm, a parting gift as they departed their area of operation.

  “I was about to come looking for you two,” Billy said as the pair began to shed their gear. “No extra holes in you. Did you expend some ammo?”

  “Quite a bit,” Sam answered. “Both of us. Vincent tagged an opfor sniper.”

  Bellvue nodded but did not look pleased. “One of intel section’s field operators told me you were drawing a lot of fire including quite a mortar attack. She had to move west to stay clear of it. Apparently that wasn’t enough to make you leave. Said an APC was pounding on your area after that.”