by E A Wicklund
McCray felt his body melt into the dirt. The adrenalin rush slowly began to fade and he found old memories coming back to him. “While I waited on the beach, I met Colonel Nguyen who trained Marine Rangers. He helped kept me sane by letting me join their firearms training.”
“I’d like to meet him someday and shake his hand.”
McCray shrugged and looked over the battlefield. In the distance, a third wave of Madkhalis was forming out there. This one dwarfed anything previous. “That’s assuming we get out of this. You’re the ground war expert. Think we can win this?”
Castellano leaned against the embankment, looking across the lake. “Honestly? If these mercs were even half as good as us, we would already be dead. A specops team wouldn’t rush at us in small waves like this. They would overwhelm us in one coordinated attack. We’re fortunate these mercs fight like an unimaginatively, like commanders who take it straight out of the tactics manual So far, we’ve been able to defeat their smaller assaults in detail. Let’s hope they don’t suddenly get clever.”
McCray glanced down to where Aziz attended Mallouk with an emergency oxygen tank from the shuttle. The Madkhali captain’s emergency nanites had struggled to work properly without enough oxygen in his system.
“How many do you think we killed?”
“About two-sixty, give or take,” said Castellano. He turned away to pass orders to some men nearby.
Iris announced a call to McCray, and he accepted it automatically.
“McCray!”
He felt his heart leap. It had been days since since he and Aja argued, but to McCray it might as well have been years. After all the blood and death he’d seen, the voice of his lover was like a breath of fresh air. “Aja! Where are you?”
“Finally got within signalling range. I’m approaching from the east, along the lakeshore.”
She was close. She had to be within one hundred meters for their nanotransceivers to reach each other. He passed her info on to Castellano, who grinned and signaled the eastern team to hold fire as Aja approached.
McCray felt a wave of relief wash over him as she approached. He held out his arms to embrace her.
Aja lunged into his arms and squeezed him tight. “I almost thought I lost you,” she whispered into his ear.
“Mind knows I’ve missed you,” he answered.
She pulled back and punched his shoulder. “Don’t think you can get out of trouble with me just by getting your dumb ass in danger!”
McCray cringed. “My ploy was that transparent?”
She raised her hand. “Hello! Secret agent, here. I specialize in ploys.” She pulled his head down for a firm kiss. Between further kisses she said, “Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?”
“On my honor...as...a gentleman,” he swore, between exultant smooching.
“Okay, and when we get out of this mess,” warned Aja, her tone leaving no doubt that their reconciliation had conditions, “we’re still going to have a talk about love and trust, you understand me?”
At that moment, McCray would’ve fought sharks with a butter knife if that’s what it took to win her trust back. “Anything.”
She hugged him tightly again, and looking over his shoulder, said, “Thanks Jesus.”
“Anything for a lady.”
Aja released him. “You sure know how to find trouble, McCray,” and began digging in the embankment, forming a position in the firing line.
McCray rejoined Castellano as the last of the scroungers returned with more oxygen and ammo. Aja joined the two men a couple minutes later. “You boys seem to be holding out pretty well.”
“Thanks,” said McCray. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you, but what are you doing here?”
“I was running an errand when Ando told me about your situation. You really know how to have a good time on a planet, don’t you.”
McCray paused to look downfield. The lull in the battle continued while the Xerxes formed up their next assault. When he turned back to Aja, she was scanning the battlefield too. This lone woman had fought her way across a war zone and survived to get to him. How could he have ever doubted her? “Was that you that saw to Mallouk’s injuries?”
Aja checked the action on her Merkel & Barstow rifle with expert movements as she answered. “Yeah. What were you idiots thinking, hanging him up like that? Anyway, I went looking to get us a ride out of here. I had one, too, a commuter bus, until about a klick from here.”
“An unarmored target?” said Castellano. “With all those Madkhalis out there? Not a good idea.”
Aja glowered at him. “Gosh, maybe I should’ve grabbed the main battle tank instead? They keep tons of them just laying around.”
“What we need is an Exfil Team,” McCray said. “We’d be out of here in no time. But we can’t reach Springbok. The radio in the shuttle is smashed.”
Aja winced. “Captain. You probably don’t know, but…” She paused, eyes brimming.
“What?”
“Springbok was lost. She had a major fault. I’m so sorry.”
McCray stepped back and chuckled. “She’s not lost.”
“I heard it myself.” Her voice was soft, brimming with empathy. “It was an SNS broadcast. I recognized Ando’s voice.”
“I heard the broadcast, too,” McCray said, grinning.
“Hang on,” Castellano said, standing. “That beautiful ship is gone? Vann! You never said anything.”
“I didn’t need to.” But McCray could see from the look of sadness in Aja’s eye that she believed the trauma was breaking him. “Listen, people. I heard the broadcast, and Ando sent a little coded message to us.”
“What message?” Castellano frowned at him.
“Ando said Fusion Four had a fault, right?”
Aja crossed her arms. “Yeah. So?”
“Springbok doesn’t have a Fusion Four. There’s no way anyone else but ship’s crew would know this, but she’s only got three fusion plants.” He grinned at their confused expressions. “Believe me, folks. Springbok faked her own death.”
Chapter 18
The Marine Assault Shuttle “Fightin’ Franny” pounded through the atmosphere at nineteen-thousand meters above Huralon III. Still carrying energy from atmospheric entry, she flashed through the sky at Mach 21, nearly 26,000 kilometers per hour. The broad, wedge-shaped craft was a lifting body without discernible wings, gaining lift from the entire craft’s shape. Her dark paddles were operating, but only served to keep her stable while she bled off speed. Later, the paddles could hurl the forty meter craft through dense atmospheres at speeds up to Mach 18.
Franny was very nearly invisible to most detection methods. Nightjar panels ensured she appeared exactly like her surroundings, even as she moved. A casual scan through the sky would never reveal her presence. Likewise, she shed few heat waves, denying all but the most sophisticated efforts for infrared weapons’ lockons. Her shape, and the radar signal trapping structures beneath her skin, made her no more substantive to radar than a moth.
In top cover position three-thousand meters above her cruised two Huxley-Winters GS-44 BladeSwifts. The wide, leaf-shaped craft were more aerodynamic than Franny, having a slender cross section like an airfoil. Their slippery profile and powerful paddles maxed their atmospheric speed out at Mach 23. Just as difficult to spot as Franny, they also carried a deadly strike package in their weapons bays.
Major Annette Candless smiled to herself. It was nice knowing the BladeSwifts were there, even though her passive sensor suite swore her craft flew alone. She tweaked the settings, adjusting the controls in the highly classified trick to detect them. Eventually, the sensors admitted a pair of small butterflies escorted her, though the apparent insects flew at hypersonic velocities.
Candless didn’t expect any enemy aerial resistance, but the surprising presence of the Xerxes Regiment armed with SAMs had already thrown reasonable expectations out the window. Her shuttle, a Cromwell GA-57 Crusher, carried enough weaponry to decimate
the Xerxes by itself. But during this mission, her primary goal was recovering the Captain. The real fun and mud moving—ground attack missions—would be the honor of BladeSwift pilots Broughton and Stillwell.
Like Candless and her copilot, Lieutenant Marjorie Trang, the BladeSwift pilots rested in coffins aboard Fightin’ Franny, connected directly to their crafts and apparently asleep. All four experienced their vehicles so intimately, they felt as if they were the machines. Candless wasn’t so much piloting the shuttle; she was the shuttle, flying like an eagle deadly enough to lay waste to main battle tanks. In the cramped space behind her and connected to their machines remotely, Broughton and Stillwell piloted their craft, waiting for combat.
“Approaching IP,” said Candless. “Time to tell the locals not to panic.”
“I’m picking up no alerts from Vickers Base,” said Trang. “They haven’t detected us yet.”
Perhaps they hadn’t been seen, but when the inevitable shooting began, Vickers certainly would realize an unauthorized strike team operated in their area. Candless had a plan to explain that away, at least temporarily and avoid an armed Planetary Force response. “Let’s hope they’re only that sloppy because they have no reason to expect a marine strike force.”
“We couldn’t slip in like this at New LeJeune,” said Trang.
Candless smirked. “They’re always locked and loaded. We’d be dodging missiles by now.”
She opened up a secure line, a very thin whisker communications laser directed at Vickers Planetary Force Base. The directional beam ensured no one, especially the Xerxes on the ground, could intercept the transmission. “Vickers, this is Marine Training Flight Whiskey November 1-1-3, checking in.”
“Whiskey November 1-1-3, this is Vickers Base. I see no such flight on the checklist. Please authenticate.”
“I authenticate: Osprey, Rabbit, two-niner-niner.”
“Checks out, 1-1-3. Please standby and orbit while I get this approved.”
“No can do, Vickers. This training flight is classified Alpha-Three. We are already green-lighted. Full orders are on the way to you via message drone.”
“Is that true?” said Trang.
“That part is. Ando was still collecting the data Springbok uncovered and assembling it into faked IS-3 orders when we launched. We didn’t have time to wait. The message drone should be on the way now.”
“What will it say? I mean, we can’t reveal that Springbok is a Q-ship, right?”
“Of course not. Basically it says we launched from a Black Ship—explaining why there’s no visible military vessel in orbit—under orders from IS-3, and they should offer assistance if we request it.”
Vickers finally replied. “This is highly irregular, 1-1-3. Please orbit and standby. Follow your instructions or we will launch interceptors. Let’s just be friends and not go there, okay?”
Candless rolled her eyes. She hated dealing with PF weenies. Most were local reservists rotating through to make some extra pay. “No can do, Vickers. You go ahead and interrupt the General’s golf game if you have to. We’re rolling in. 1-1-3 out!”
Trang said, “Located the Air Defense Armored Personnel Carrier that Springbok reported. They’re seeking but haven’t spotted us yet. I can light it up and get a lock.”
“Hold off on that. Let’s not announce ourselves just yet.” Candless opened up the channel for their squadron, IMF-94 Hot Potatoes, thereby including the DaggerSwifts. “Roll in, Potatoes. It’s time to get hot. Turning to two-two-three, descending to Angels six, and slowing to Mach 8. Execute!”
***
“You’ve got my orders?” McCray asked, wiping red clay away from his face. Everyone had returned to firing positions as the largest Xerxes attack wave appeared ready to assault their position. “What do they say?”
“Haven’t had time to look at them,” said Aja. “I’ve been busy coming to get you.”
“Maybe I should see them. Maybe I’m no longer in command, and I should do something.”
“Like what?” said Aja. “Seems to me ‘surviving’ is the only order you have just now. Whatever is in there won’t change your current situation.” She paused to turn and fire the big Merkel. A flash of light erupted from the slider screaming towards them. The front separated from the rear, and the two flaming pieces tumbled across the scarred grasses of the field. “Can we talk about this later?”
“I suppose you’re right,” said McCray, looking for targets.
So far they’d seen only sliders and ground cars rushing towards them, a substantial change in the Madkhalis’ tactics up until that point. Before the beleaguered group, a long line of burning and smoking vehicles lay about 200 yards away. McCray looked between the wrecks, searching for signs the inevitable human wave would attack.
Castellano spat into the mud. “These Xerxes killed more Madkhalis than you Elysians did during the Third Madkhal-Elysium War. It’s a joy to slaughter them.”
“The Xerxes are fanatics” said McCray. “That explains these attacks with ground cars and sliders. We can kill everyone in the vehicles with far fewer shots. It’s pure suicide. They’ve got to know we have enough firepower to stop them. I was expecting a human wave attack.”
“They’re mostly mercenaries, not religious fanatics,” said Aja. “Did you notice the vehicles have no passengers, just drivers? Intel says only about seventeen percent of them believe they’re doing the good work of Madkhal. The rest are just psychopathic murderers who’ve found an outlet for their tendencies.”
“I think that’s reflected in their commander’s tactics,” said Castellano. “He knows most of his people will balk at a human wave attack. That’s why this latest assault is taking so long to move. They want to do the killing, not be killed, the cowards. So he’s sending his True Believers on suicide attacks driving cars he knows will be destroyed.”
“What good does that do?” McCray said.
“Imagine sending people in a mass wave from their position five hundred yards away. We’ll cut most, if not all of them, down before they reach us. His people would break and run from a slaughter like that, especially after they saw what we did to the previous waves. They aren’t real soldiers, just sociopaths in uniform.”
Castellano pointed out to the line of cars. “But now that line of destroyed vehicles offers them cover to approach without being fired upon. Through a few gaps in the cars and smoke, I can see them sneaking up. They’ll be able to rush us from much closer in and take far fewer casualties.”
Aja sighed. “We’ll be overwhelmed in no time.”
“Why don’t we just shift position?” said McCray.
“Then we’d lose the best defensive position we can find. Also, moving now would effectively allow them to flank us and catch us in an untenable position. Better to stay here and face the music.”
“Looks like they’re preparing their attack,” called Aziz.
“Damn,” said Aja, hefting the Merkel. “Let’s get ready to party.”
***
The IMF-94 Hot Potatoes screamed over the countryside at Angels six, six-thousand meters above the rolling countryside. They had slowed down to Mach 8 to allow weapons release. So close to the surface, they enabled their Varatassi fields, which suppressed their sonic boom. Flying at such high speed so low in Huralon’s atmosphere, the sonic boom would’ve blasted the countryside, bursting eardrums, shattering windows, and killing small pets. The Varatassi fields prevented announcing their presence so vigorously.
Candless took a moment to observe the scenery on the screens. At such a low altitude, the terrain details blurred. Only the symbology, projected directly into the crew’s visual cortex via Iris, made any sense out of the mad rush of visuals hurtling towards them.
“You still on that APC, Trang?” said Candless.
“Like white on rice.”
“Do they see us yet?”
“They know we’re here, but they can’t lock...crap, they got us.”
Alarms blared.
&
nbsp; “Missile inbound,” called Trang. “Break. Break!”
Candless yanked the shuttle through a looping barrel roll before pitching the craft hard. Franny brought her broad belly into the wind, slamming into the air and slowing dramatically before she nosed down into a screaming dive.
The harsh maneuver alone could have shook the lock of many missiles, but in modern warfare, one never counted on should work. Small microwave weapons mounts, relatively weak at 780 kilowatts, popped out from Frannie’s armored hull. The defensive weapons, catching the inbound missile in terminal phase, ensured the weapon had no option to dodge when they fired. The weapon’s seeker head began to cook. In milliseconds, the missile went totally blind.
“Stay frosty. More missiles inbound,” called Trang. “Break. Break!”
***
Broughton and Stillwell’s fighters had also scattered on Trang’s call to break. Broughton’s evasive maneuver had killed his forward velocity. As he climbed skyward, he jammed the throttle forward, urging the DaggerSwift to accelerate back up through Mach 4. The sleek craft responded well, but not nearly fast enough to evade the missile approaching at Mach 10.
He yanked his craft through the top of the loop at the last second, unmasking his own Spartan IX defensive microwave weapon. It fired just before he turned hard right, hitting its target perfectly. The SAM streaked past him, deaf, dumb, and blind, missing the DaggerSwift by scant meters.
More missiles hurtled into the fray. Broughton kept his craft high in the air deliberately, performing high-gee maneuvers that would’ve killed a human passenger.
“Y’all hang in there, ma’am,” signalled Broughton. “I got their full attention. Stillwell an’ I got a little bait ‘n switch goin’. You got ‘em, Moonshiner?”’
“Moving up the blindside,” answered Stillwell.
Broughton enjoyed a vivid tactical display in his mind via Iris, and that meant he knew Stillwell successfully sneaked off to the east. Reversing his course, the wingman streaked towards the APC at a mindblowing thirty meters off the deck. At Mach 7 and so close to the ground, both craft and unyielding earth could become united within a pair of milliseconds. The marine never flinched as he opened up his guns on a strafing pass.