by J. F. Holmes
***
Smythe flinched as the high-velocity round took out the center mech and drove through the outside of the cockpits of two behind. The platoon opened up with everything they had. Many of the mechs leapt into the air, gaining the side of the gulley, where they could fire down on the tank. Like most such vehicles, the armor was thinner on the top, though not so thin that the thirty-fives could blast through.
The tank started forward, getting up to a hundred kilometers an hour in less than a second, rolling toward the shocked captain. He tried to get out of the way, to jump up and over like his troopers had. The lower hull of the tank hit him in mid jump and threw him ahead. It rolled over his mech, the treads running over the legs and the lower cockpit, crushing them and his lower torso. The other mecha with him joined him before the tank had passed.
“We got the bastard, sir,” called out the platoon leader. “Sir?”
Smythe felt his consciousness fleeing. His body was crushed from his diaphragm down. He attempted to pull in a breath, failed, and resigned himself to dying.
Half a league. Half a league. Half a league onward. He fell into the darkness of death with those the last words in his mind. Captain Charles Smythe had led his men into the valley of death, and like those men of another age, they had won their battle, but at a terrible cost.
*****
Doug Dandridge was born in Venice Florida in 1957, the son of a Florida native and a Mother of French Canadian descent. He concentrates on intelligent science fiction and fantasy in which there is always hope, no matter how hard the situation. No area of the fantastic is outside his scope, as he has completed works in near and far future Science Fiction, Urban and High Fantasy, Horror, and Alternate History. His work can be found on Amazon.
Cog in the Machine
Mark Harritt
“War does not determine who is right—only who is left.”
The sharp tang of ozone competed with the sweet smell of leaking hydraulics as electricity arced, the light current sizzling across Meacham’s skin in short, sharp bursts. He could feel the cold air leaking through the holes in the skin of the hunter/killer. If the mech’s self-repairing inner skin didn’t fully seal, Meacham would have to worry about frostbite as well as the scouts on his trail. He was just lucky the depleted uranium round had missed him when it punched through. He slammed a fist against the bulkhead, the punch a physical manifestation of his frustration.
“Dammit!” An overwhelming numbness settled in as he dealt with the reality of his situation, tired and hunted across the undulating foothills of the cold, barren steppes, constantly hounded by the Volksmen on his trail, unable to rest, his future bleak and desperate.
“Lucky shot, lucky shot,” he muttered as he went into the canyon. He had to go low, dropping into the canyon to hide, hoping to evade the scouts— or at least their line of sight sensors—tracking him into UHF and down into infrared, looking for heat, radio transmissions, or unshielded electronics to track him. With the hole in his mech, there was a good chance he was giving off an unmasked electronic signature their MASINT (measurement and signature intelligence) could track.
Meacham listened to his radio, but he knew he wouldn’t hear anything; all his comrades were dead. He couldn’t transmit, either, knowing that would get him killed very quickly, most likely by a missile tracking the signal. He was lucky the artic winds were howling out of the north, keeping drones out of the sky. If his luck continued, clouds would follow, masking his image from satellites overhead. The thermocline between the arctic winds and warmer ground would mask his infrared from satellites, hazing it as the bitter north winds met the warmer air coming out of the canyons. He couldn’t rely on luck, though, not after the past twenty-four hours.
Sergeant Meacham was the last of his task force, the last man out of hundreds who had come north to challenge Baron Erling Mäkinen and his Volksmen. Meacham’s squad was gone, killed in the counterattack. They’d known it was a fool’s mission, but the money was too good, the best bonus offered in the General’s Oameni Liberi Brigade in two years. So many had volunteered that the general could pick the best for the mission, a diversion so the main force could strike further to the east. Meacham’s entire squad had been picked, speaking volumes about their talent, but also—something Meacham would never admit—to his leadership as well. In the end, their talent and his leadership hadn’t been enough to save them, only Meacham having survived the counterattack. Meacham felt the loss of his men as a physical sensation, a bitterness that, along with everything else, threatened to overwhelm him. He felt like he’d betrayed his soldiers by being here now, a coward for not dying with them. He knew it was survivor’s guilt, feelings he would deal with later with a bottle of vodka, as he toasted his friends in the afterlife.
TF Fenrir had completed the mission, not only winning the bonus, but also another for hitting each mission phase line on time. They’d done their job well, brave men all, giving as good as they got, breaking a battalion of heavy mech infantry, threatening the baron’s supply lines and several important logistic centers before his armor could be shifted to engage the developing attack that, had it succeeded, would have destroyed the baron’s capabilities to deal with the greater force allayed before him. And with that redeployment of armor, Meacham’s task force had done its job. The shift of the baron’s armor created a gap in the line, a gap that was exploited by General Øystein Lange, driving through to create a salient armor piercing behind the baron’s front lines, flanking his army.
To the east, it was a rout, with the general, Meacham’s commander, chasing his cousin, the baron, back from the deposits of rare earth minerals the baron was guarding for the caliph’s Eastern Empire. When the battle was done, the cousins would get together and swap stories about the battle under a flag of truce, eating sweetmeats and drinking wine, boasting how each had the bravest, smartest, strongest mercenaries, most of whom were rotting in the hulking ruins of their shattered mechs. Meacham knew the higher bonuses had cut into the general’s profit margin, but the general was willing to forgo a greater dividend to bloody his cousin’s nose.
The flag of truce wouldn’t matter to Meacham if he didn’t survive the next few days. If he couldn’t shake the scouts on his tail, Beulah, his wife, might possibly mourn his loss for a few days before she moved on to another soldier—or she might not, before moving back into the brothel where he’d found her. He held no animosity either way, knowing that the life of a camp follower was a rough one, and that she needed to look out for herself. He was just happy he’d been able to share the past few months with her almost exclusively.
However, if he wanted to see Beulah again, he needed to park somewhere so his turbines could harness the wind and drive his almost-depleted energy levels back up. His thorium reactor was almost exhausted, and with the sun hanging low and lethargic in the southern sky, the only thing he could rely on was the ever-present wind to recharge his batteries. After he did that, he needed to head south, back to the safety of allied lines. He was also down to his main guns, his antiarmor missiles spent to break out of the counterattack.
He knew the scouts were still on his trail, hoping to kill him. It wasn’t often a soldier could brag that they’d wiped out an entire task force. It wasn’t just about bragging rights; there was also money at stake. He knew the general’s officers, back in their warm tents, would be following his progress, and the baron’s officers would be following the progress of the scouts, wondering if Meacham could slip or outfight them. He knew there were side bets being wagered at this very minute, possibly even between the general and the baron, concerning his progress toward friendly lines, and whether or not he would make it back. It wouldn’t be the first time the general or the baron had squandered the money they’d been paid for mercenary operations. Having worked for both, and many other self-styled military commanders, he knew it was more likely than not. And if that was happening, you could bet the baron was offering bounties to ensure that his mercenaries killed Meac
ham.
But Meacham knew his odds were fifty-fifty, depending on the skill of the scouts behind him. He’d seen the light mechs coming after him through the burning, shattered hulks lying on the battlefield, five to ten of them—hard to make out the exact numbers through the burning wrecks and haze of the carnage. They had the advantage in speed, but he had heavier armor and heavier weapons. He had the advantage against five of them, but they had the advantage if there were more, his odds dropping the closer their numbers were to double digits. Above double digits, he had no chance at all. They would harry him like hounds, their lighter weapons aimed at a mobility kill, trying to cripple him. If they still had missiles, they could even break the cockpit armor, killing him. If the scouts could slow him, the baron might even send in heavy infantry to ensure he didn’t get away.
Meacham hit the edge of the canyon and eased back into a controlled slide, scattering the scree in sheets of bounding rubble and stone down the side of the hill, trying to get to the bottom as quickly as possible. These canyons and foothills could mask his progress back to allied lines, thirty kilometers or more. At least the uneven terrain meant the heavy grav tanks wouldn’t be coming after him, the hidden valleys and undulating hills working in his favor, their tank commanders more worried about the tank pitching over than catching him, making them decrease their speed. Only the mechanized infantry would be able to come after him and catch him here.
He felt a catch in the mech’s stride as he increased speed on the floor of the canyon. He hit switches and checked his heads-up display, but he didn’t see anything to indicate major systems were in trouble. The hydraulic sealant was working, keeping the hydraulic pressure well within the green, but he’d be in trouble if he took another hit like the previous one. The interior of the suit was warm again, which meant the inner liner had sealed itself. He didn’t feel the pinch of the short anymore, and checking his systems, it looked like the short had been bypassed, rerouted through secondary systems. Content that everything was in working order again, Meacham grunted his satisfaction. Now he could concentrate on killing the enemy, no small task with so many of them behind him.
He used the terrain to mask his progress, but any scout would know that the best way to spot him was to run the ridges above the canyons. With little vegetation on the steppes, it wouldn’t be hard to find him. The sullen skies had turned the world around him into shades of murky greys and dismal browns. He could use that to his advantage, the camouflage on his mech blending into the background. He ran through the canyon, the dull thud of the mechanical legs pounding their monotonous rhythm through the cab of the mech. It was a rhythm he was well used to, a rhythm that at any other time could lull him to sleep, an impulse he’d have to resist with hunters on his trail.
The scouts were lighter, faster than his mech, and would eventually run him down. His only way forward was through the scouts tracking him. He had to find a place to hide, a place that would allow him to get close to the hunters. And with their numbers, he would need to whittle them down before he engaged the larger patrol. It took him fifteen to twenty minutes to find a suitable location, a small draw in the cliffside big enough to park his mech inside, against the ridge itself, with a greater chance that the scouts would move past him. He pushed the mech back into the draw, barely a cleft in the dirt, then created a feedback loop that made the mech shudder, almost buzzing in intensity, causing a dirt avalanche that covered the mech, the dust quickly whisked away by the wind. The dirt would obscure the outline of the mech, and the ridge and dirt would hide his thermal image.
Meacham wasn’t positive he wasn’t setting himself up for the kill, but he’d been a mercenary for fifteen years, eight of those in mechs, and at the age of thirty-one, he’d seen and endured more than most, relying on his cunning to survive situations that more experienced soldiers hadn’t. He just had to rely on his instincts and hope the scouts fell for his ruse, passing him by.
Covered in dirt, his targeting optics were useless, so he sent out a drone on a wire to be his eyes and ears. It dug through the dirt and settled on the surface, the dull gray drone camouflaged against the background, using passive sensors to locate the hunters. Meacham settled back, crossing his arms, waiting patiently, knowing his attempt at camouflage would end with his death, or that of his enemies. He dropped the electronics to a trickle charge, everything but his sensor net, to decrease his MASINT and thermal signatures. He hoped he’d survive the encounter, but he knew at this point it could go either way. He’d long ago accepted that he’d one day meet his end out here, another ghost among the many soldiers who had given their lives for noble or ignoble causes. With luck, he’d walk away with jingle in his pocket. Without, it wouldn’t matter anymore.
Several times his seismic sensors detected movement close by, but nothing close enough to engage. This had to be perfect. By himself, he had no margin for error. If his mech was damaged, even if he survived, he wouldn’t be able to cope with the artic storm that was about to hit. Anything less than perfection could get him killed in a hot minute, and it would be extremely hot if he misjudged the circumstances and emerged from his dirt hideaway too soon. His eyes flicked to the sensors on his HUD. Once again, the seismic sensors alerted him to movement, but it was behind him, up on the ridge. He could only hope he was completely covered, more worried about his thermal signature than visual. If the avalanche hadn’t covered his mech completely, thermal radiation would leak, giving his position away. The seismic activity indicated movement until it was directly behind, almost on top of him.
He took deep breaths, trying to relax and let the situation play out. If they started shooting at him, hopefully the dirt would soak up some of the damage so he could at least get a shot off. If not, well, he hoped Beulah would remember him fondly, if at all. The seismic activity receded in rhythmic thuds, at least three of them, heading east along the ridgeline above. His heartrate slowed as he realized he didn’t have to face the reaper just yet. He settled back, still tense, keyed up because he knew they were close. There were more sensor alerts as the scouts came close, but not close enough to engage or see him. He watched with trepidation, watching his battery levels continue to fall, wondering if he’d be forced out of position to engage, a tenuous strategy at best. If he had to break cover without knowing where the scouts were, they would spot him quickly, run him down, and finish him.
He was getting anxious, second guessing himself. He started biting his thumb, trying to keep his frustration under control, telling himself that he was well hidden, that they didn’t know where he was. The one good thing about all the activity around him was the mech’s AI was able of interpreting the data, identifying the individual scouts, and giving him a count of seven, maybe eight at the most. Then another seismic hit indicated that a group was coming toward him on the canyon floor, moving east to west, possibly the group that had been up on the ridge. He hit a single switch and the neural link powered up, bringing his systems back online. His world narrowed as he focused on the enemy in front of him and what he needed to do to survive.
Now, with the enemy finally coming into the kill zone, patience was key as he waited for them to wander into the sweet spot. The first walked past him slowly, scanning for anything that might indicate his presence. Two more walked past, but he didn’t move, counting slowly, waiting to see if there were any more. His patience was rewarded as the fourth moved through. It was a three-man scout team with the squad leader walking behind. He checked all his sensors, and the seismic indicated there were just the four mechs present, nothing on the ridge behind him. A grim smile played over his face. He might die today, but he was going to take four to hell with him.
Meacham screamed, “Fenrir!” as dirt exploded from the side of the hill. He broke free and turned in the direction of the four scout mechs, unleashing a hellstorm of 12.7-millimeter copper-jacketed armor-piercing rounds, slashing through the squad leader’s mech first, then engaging the three beyond. The two directly in front of the squad leader tried
to turn and engage, but a second was a lifetime, and neither were able to turn quickly enough. They went down hard, their mechs shredded, dead before they hit the ground. The one leading the pack tried to run out of Meacham’s field of fire. The mech didn’t even make it thirty meters, surrounded by the walls of the canyon, trapped in the kill zone.
Meacham’s grim smile grew wider. Now he stood a much better chance of surviving this encounter. His smile turned into a frown as he felt the thrum of bullets hitting his mech. To his right, on the southern ridge, a lone scout was returning fire. He quickly acquired his target, his heavier armor able to shrug off the lighter 7.62 slugs. He engaged the target, the 12.7-millimeter gun ripping through the legs of the lighter scout. He didn’t know if he had a kill or not, but the scout toppled over and slid down the side of the canyon wall, coming to rest with the gun muzzles pointed down into the dirt, unable to fire at Meacham. That threat neutralized, he raced toward the south side of the canyon, trying to keep the swell of the ridge between him and the others he knew would be coming behind the one he’d just shot up.
He ran up the incline, trying to get further up the side of the canyon before they got the angle to engage him. Luck and his efforts paid off. He saw one coming over the rise of the ridge and engaged the target as it presented. This time he got a solid kill, the rounds knocking the scout straight back. There was no recovering from that. He kept running up the incline, getting to the top in time to see the last of the trio trying to reverse, a rookie mistake. The best course of action would have been to do a rapid slide over the other side of the ridge, putting rock and dirt between Meacham’s HK and the scout. Steep learning curve in combat. Either you did the right thing and survived another day, or you didn’t, and you took the long dirt nap. Meacham shredded the scout, the heavy rounds opening it like a tin can.