by G. R. Carter
Two hand signals and ten men from each Red Hawk column started forward at a low crouched trot. The lowlight and tan mottled camouflage worked perfectly, making the men nearly invisible from the side, their movements matching the swaying of the tall plants in the morning breeze. He felt a smug reassurance. We’re gonna make it before they even know what hit them…
Three men dropped to the ground before the staccato sound of automatic weapons reached Alex’s ears. The rest of the two columns went to ground, pushed into the grass by survival instinct.
Dirt kicked up all around them, and at least two more Red Hawks began to writhe in pain from the still unseen threat. His men opened a blind fire response, hoping to at least keep their assailants from taking careful aim. The clock was ticking in his head. He had to get them out of there, they were sitting ducks now; their camo worked well from the side, but their silhouettes were clear against the open road.
“Forward!” Alex shouted. He rose up, one leg at a time, pulling his sidearm and waving like a madman. “Get up! Get up! The only safe place is forward!” he commanded for the second time in less than an hour. His men knew it was true; the only way to stop the murderous fire was to kill the ones causing it. The finest athletes in the Republic sprung to their feet, spreading out and shouldering their own rifles. They began to fire and forward in long strides, ignoring the ones struck by the unseen assailants and folding to the ground.
Alex was in the middle of them, firing his own sidearm until the men around him got too far ahead and in between him and the sandbag wall now in view. Alex could see heads peek up above the top layer of the barricade, raising their rifles and firing. In a flash, his men had covered the distance and were over the other side, out of view. He willed his legs forward, nearly stumbling and only saved from a face full of gravel by the strong arm of an unseen escort right beside him. He turned to yell at whoever it was but stopped when he saw the earnest green eyes of one of his own Silver Shield troops. Alex didn’t bother asking how the man had gotten mixed into the infantry squads going forward. Bek probably had several more interspersed…he hadn’t told her specifically not to, and it wouldn’t have mattered even if he did.
Together, they reached the sandbags in time to see the last Vincennes man fall with a Republic knife through his chest. Alex looked from side to side, taking in the sight of a dozen gray-clad figures sprawled around. Each lay still, as if asleep except for the unnatural way they were arranged: half-piled on top of one another, V symbols apparent on uniforms that looked baggy and ill-fitting.
“Just boys,” one of the Red Hawk troopers said. “Some don’t even look like teenagers yet. Except for that one old man over there.” He shook his head and walked towards a couple of his buddies, sharing one of the infamous mini cigars that made their way up from Creek territory via trade routes.
Smoke from the tobacco mixed with nitroglycerin and graphite still lingering, an odd mix of barroom and Fourth of July from some of the veteran’s youth. The noise and violence of the gun battle now gave way to eerie calm. The whipsaw emotion of battle and aftermath still took Alex’s breath away, made more personal by the smell of death surrounding them. His wounded and dead had just been joking and laughing with their friends, never knowing it might be the last thought or emotion or words they’d ever have. He’d experienced it before, but it still didn’t make it less disturbing.
“What do we do, Founder Hamilton?” one of the other troopers asked.
Alex wheeled, agitated at the interruption. “What do you mean, trooper? We’ve got ten men down,” he said as he pointed to the medics already working on the wounded. “Just because those Vincy are younger than you doesn’t mean they can’t kill you. Their deaths aren’t on you. Hopkins will have to answer for putting them here in front of your weapon. You clear your mind and do your job.”
He tried to convince himself, but he didn’t buy it any more than his trooper did. He looked away from the group, trying not to let them see his thoughts. This sucks, and it sucks hard, seeing this little fella like this. I got boys this age. But what he said held true. We didn’t go looking for this to happen. Hopkins put these boys here, so he could take his front-line troops south to kill other little kids. I’m going to make him pay for this, personally.
His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion. “Founder Hamilton! Come look!” a Red Hawk yelled from several yards away.
Alex walked towards the man, standing half-in half-out of the shed that had been the objective of their initial rush. As he approached, he could see the gleam of a long gun barrel sticking out of the unhinged overhead door. It was pointed down the road, a clear view of just where their Snappers would have come. The gun was mounted on a carriage, two steel wheels apparently taking the place of flat and rotted rubber tires lying in the corner. A manual sight was elevated just over a large square shield mounted behind the six-foot-long barrel.
“Antitank gun,” Alex muttered. He wondered if it really operated, but a pile of small shells stacked neatly beside it suggested full functionality.
Loud explosions started again, more shelling from his Challengers. “Get me the radio,” he commanded. The old-style phone receiver appeared a moment later, giving him the chance for an update.
“Commander Fredericks, I need a SITREP,” he commanded. He waited for a reply, nodding in satisfaction as his first Snapper finally arrived on scene. He waved the vehicle commander over while a familiar voice answered his.
“We’ve got six Razorbacks across, another six are ready to cross as soon as we stop shelling,” the Republic’s most experienced soldier reported.
“Okay. Speed is our key here. Be advised, we’ve discovered an antitank rifle on our side. I imagine there’s more over by you.”
There was no answer for a moment. Finally, “Roger that. We’ll be launching in five.”
The familiar roar of a Raptor’s engine vibrated through the building. Alex stepped outside just in time to see Red Hawk emblems stare down from beneath the dark gray wings. White smoke began to trail behind, while orange blazes shot from the wing’s leading edge.
“What is he firing at?” Alex shouted.
His answer came in spouts of dirt rising around him, dust kicked up by bullets. He looked down in the direction of the prison where several hundred men were running towards him. There seemed to be no organization to the mob. All ages and sizes of men charged their way in an odd allotment of uniforms and civilian clothes, some screaming and carrying what appeared to be simple hand tools.
The ripsaw sound of a Snapper’s fifty-caliber opened up, streaks of orange reaching out into the massed assault rolling like a tsunami towards their position.
Without a word, every Red Hawk scurried to get behind the sandbag barricade. Alex thought about the antitank gun; it was the style that could be used against men as well as tanks with the right sighting. But none of his men had used a weapon like that before. It would take a while to learn to use it, and they didn’t have more than a minute or so.
Republic battle rifles opened up one at a time until the entire line was engaged. Alex didn’t have a rifle, but he paced back and forth behind the line, occasionally pointing out a part of the Vincennes assault not receiving any attention. He had his .45 in his hand, and he began to fire when the mass was just thirty yards out.
He could see their faces from here, young boys and old men who looked just like the ones back home. But for the luck of where they were fifteen years ago, the ones facing him now could have been productive Red Hawks, living on a Fortress Farm instead of dying for a mad man’s prison fortress.
No time for sentimentality now. The first of the Vincennes men hit the barricade, some throwing themselves over with nothing but a shovel in their hands. A Red Hawk trooper went down, and Alex shot the man who put him there before he could finish the job. Then another was over the wall, and another. The Raptor flashed overhead again, this time parallel to the front line and tearing through the rear of the Vincennes force.
/> A red mop of hair was in front of Alex, grabbing at his arm and raising an axe overhead. Alex planted his good leg with all his might, pushing back against his assailant’s strong hand. A crowded battle became an individual struggle of life and death. Their eyes locked for a moment, unexplained rage and terror and confusion…a brief hesitation flared in the green eyes across from him and Alex’s arm came free. He pistol whipped the red head, hard enough to cause him to stagger. Another swing and the taller man went to his knees. Alex put his boot into his chest with full force knocking him down into the dust. He thought about finishing the job with a bullet but there was no time.
A strong hand grabbed Alex and pulled him backwards, nearly knocking the .45 out of his hand. His adrenaline still pumped wildly. He twisted to bring his other fist to bear on the unseen threat, only stopping when he realized it was Grayden manhandling him.
“Sorry boss, I gotta get you out of here. You’re no good to us dead,” his driver said.
A Silver Shield was backing towards them, rifle leveled and dropping any Vincennes soldier who got too close. By the time they reached Valkyrie Alex had calmed just a bit, giving him a clear enough head to think of a plan. He clambered inside and immediately went to man the 50-caliber mounted on top.
“To the flank, to the flank! South side, all Snappers, now!” Grayden had Valkyrie moving, and Alex could see the other three Snappers on site follow along as his orders were relayed. He swung his heavy weapon around, raking the Vincennes line even as they bottlenecked at the sandbags. The effect of the gun’s shells was terrible, separating whole men into pieces in a blink. Alex could feel as much as see the morale of the attack waver. As Valkyrie reached the south edge of the mass, Grayden swung the nose around and headed right for the middle of the Vincennes infantry.
Alex kept the machine gun firing until his ammunition was nearly exhausted. Each Snapper followed suit. The vehicles themselves became weapons as the hardened steel struck soft flesh and the solid rubber tires flattened those unlucky enough to get beneath the multi-ton beasts. Valkyrie was nearly back to the shed anchoring their line when Grayden wheeled it back around, nearly throwing Alex down and out of the commander’s seat. By the time he regained his balance, the fight was turning into a rout. Too much carnage for ill-equipped and poorly-trained youngsters. Most were running back towards the prison, while some simply stopped and threw up their hands in surrender.
Red Hawk guns continued to fire at those fleeing, and nearly as many fell in retreat as in attack. Alex shouted down to his radio man. “Tell Fredericks we’ve got Vincy in the open. Press the attack now!”
He stood back up in the command hatch and waved at the other Snappers to form up on Valkyrie. “Mobile infantry, I want ten in each vehicle!” he shouted to those who weren’t busy shoving captured Vincy back to a holding area. “Kaminski. Bring me two good ones,” he said to the officer standing closest to the Vincennes captives.
More explosions and then the sounds of 88mm and 20mm cannon blasting away at something filled the air while Kaminski brought two stumbling gray uniforms over to him. Alex didn’t waste any time. “How many of those do you have?” he asked while he pulled his .45 back out his holster. He pulled the slide back and gave his most menacing one-eyed glare. “HOW MANY?!”
One man, more like a teenager, stammered and said, “Fou…Four. The others are hidden in buildings in the p…p…prison.”
Alex grabbed the radio receiver again. “Fredericks. You’ve got antitank guns hidden in those buildings. Level every one of them just to be safe. Most of their defenders appear to be dead or on the run. I’m heading south, you’ve got this under control. Come along as soon as you can.”
“Roger that,” came the reply.
“Keen, switch me to the Air Wing channel.” He waited for a moment. “Attention Air Wing. We’ve got antitank equipment in the buildings around here. I want you to riddle every single standing structure at the prison and around the prison. Be on the lookout for anyone trying to run towards the town just south of here. Don’t let anything escape. Then proceed with Operation Wildfire.”
He didn’t need a reply. Sam’s men were hardcore, the smartest of any of the Republic’s armed forces. The sky was a little busier now as three more Raptors arrived on site, forming up to make strafing runs. He watched as they lined up, then one at a time swooped down and blazed away at whatever was on the other side of the prison walls.
Satisfied that everything here was starting to coalesce, he decided it was time to move on. “Okay, Grayden, let’s tighten this noose. Start making for Carlisle, we’re going to get back on schedule.”
He switched to the radio again. “Snapper force, you are to proceed to our next waypoint. The Razorbacks can deal with what’s left here. Pick up your infantry squads and follow along. We’ll keep a slow and steady pace while you catch up.
“But make it quick. We’ve got an appointment to keep.”
Chapter Nine
Wabash Valley Correctional Facility
Just outside Carlisle – Territory of Vincennes
Martin Fredericks gave a brief sigh of relief; open fields finally gave him a view of the prison up ahead. His Razorbacks had been trapped in the narrow confines of the divided highway—wide enough to fit to columns of vehicles, but bracketed by thick timber. At least they were moving. The quick thinking of a junior officer to use the Razorback’s transport trailers as a temporary bridge across Bear Run got all of his heavy armor across quicker than expected. He didn’t wait to get the Challengers across, they were three times faster than the Razorbacks, and could catch up.
Now the tension of the unknown began to creep in again. Alex’s warning of antitank guns on sight meant any second his attack could grind to a halt. He wished for a moment that the Founder’s column could continue their attack, overwhelming the prison with numbers. But he understood the need for speed before Hopkins could react to their breakthrough. Alex was in a race to take Vincennes, effectively giving the dictator the decision of giving up on his Evansville attack or giving up his capital city.
Those were strategic decisions he could discuss later. For now, he had his own duty.
“Inverted V,” he said in the Razorback’s mic. The calm tone of his voice in battle still surprised him. He hated to admit, he was born to do this. “Let’s spread out, full throttle, engage with high explosive rounds at will. Keep canister shot handy to load quick. There’s infantry in the prison yard.”
He had the blast shield of the commander’s station down. The extra visibility was worth the added danger. He rethought the decision as fountains of grass and clay-colored mud started to rise up in front of his accelerating armor. Accelerating was a bit of an overstatement; he willed the machine forward, trying to get it to speed up and cover the hundred-yard distance quicker than its ten-mile-an-hour pace allowed.
Up ahead of him stretched neatly tended gardens. Row after row of vegetables were separated by small pastures surrounded by barbed wire. Whoever garrisoned this prison took great pride in their fields. He longed for home, his own farm in the American province, where he should have been by now if not for duty.
Metal pinged off the thick skin of the Razorback, forcing Fredericks to raise the blast shield. A brief claustrophobic feeling always set in right after he did that, until he became acclimated to the view of the world through his periscope. This Razorback—it had Excalibur painted on the side, with a sword underneath—wasn’t set up as a command unit, meaning he had the sights and scope set to the main weapon. His controls couldn’t be overrode by the gunner like they could in the units built to carry field commanders. Today he’d be fighting the vehicle just like all the others.
Green and white tracers reached out to him through the looking glass, looking as big as softballs, then registering a thudding sound against his thick metal plating. Fredericks caught sight of the weapon trying to kill him just as the last round came out. He pivoted the body of Excalibur, keeping the stick pushed forward to make s
ure he stayed on course and kept from running into the sister vehicle just to his right. He lined the manual sight up, waiting as the treads found a shallow ditch and then steadied the vehicle on the other side.
Tung! Tung! Tung!
His own shells reached out, causing tiny explosions of debris to kick up into a cloud, obscuring his view of the enemy position for a moment. He paused for his fire to find its affect, trying to decide if he should use any more of his precious ammunition on a target already dead. His answer came in the form of more tracers landing on Excalibur’s tracks and working like a stream up towards his station. Fredericks winced, trying to trust the metal in front of him to hold up.
He began to fire again, but a Raptor beat him to it, swooping down to shower the Vincennes bunker with cannon shells and pulverizing anything and anyone inside permanently.
Fredericks turned Excalibur’s body forward again, searching for any other threats. Bearkiller just to his right was engaged with another bunker, both blasting away at each other. Vincy had this gun emplacement dug deep into the ground, making the firing slits nearly invisible. He could sense the frustration of his comrade; getting a shot into the opening would be mix between marksmanship and luck. Fredericks turned Excalibur to help, but stopped as the driver of Bearkiller hit the throttle and ran right over the top of its nemesis. Tons of steel overcame the wooden logs piled over top, crushing everything underneath and silencing the gun for good.
He pushed on, smashing through the rusting twelve-foot fence that once held dangerous criminals away from the rest of society. Nearly every building was smoldering or outright on fire. He wished again for infantry help. His vision was limited and waiting for an armor-piercing shell to come knocking made him want to just drop the blast shield and take his chances.
“Canister,” he said into his mic. His loader would put that shell type into the big gun, as would every loader in the attack force.