Enemy Front

by T. E. Butcher

  Zoro lifted her hands. “See, they do look like they’re wearing a hat!”

  “Will you take this banal conversation somewhere else?” Bartonova asked, furiously scribbling her signature over the maintenance reports. The two other pilots shrugged and left. Finally, I can get this done. With a last click of the pen, she finished signing all the paperwork she needed to. Damn, I shouldn’t have sent Fletcher away. Oh well, I’ll have LT Farago take care of this.

  It didn’t take her long to find the stocky man assisting Magyar with cleaning her own weapons. While Magyar straddled a bolt from her panzerter’s rifle to wipe it down, Farago had all the pieces of the ball mounted machine gun on a tarp.

  “Farago, I need you to take care of this,” she said. “Turn in these forums to the motor sergeant so I don’t have to worry about it.” Her words startled him as he was in mid-sentence, saying something to Magyar.

  “Oh, ma’am,” he said, his nasty voice hitting every nerve. “Have you heard about the Marshall?” That caused Bartonova to raise an eyebrow.

  “What about the Marshall?” she said. “Last I heard, he came down with something after a visit to division headquarters.” Farago nodded eagerly.

  “Oh yeah, he defiantly did,” he replied. “But I’ve heard his condition is getting worse, some are saying he might even die.”

  Bartonova laughed in his face. “We have the most advanced medical technology in the Mars Sphere,” she said. “It’s going to take more than a cold to kill Marshall Adam Hausnerr.” She thrust the forms into his chest. “Anyway, take care of this. I have more important things to do.”

  Before either pilot could respond, she turned and strode confidently back to her panzerter. What do they know? The Marshall is one of the most well protected and secure people in the country. Surely they’d make his health a priority since he’s our strategist.

  She returned to her barrel brush and began pumping back and forth. Now then, me and my Tiger have a show to put on.

  18

  Paul Reiter had seen plenty of chaos and death, probably enough for a few lifetimes, but nothing compared to the scene before him. Tents lay scattered and burning. Smoke still rose from burning fuel somewhere nearby, and several broken vehicles dotted the cratered and scorched pass.

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” Master Sergeant Friermann said as he lit a cigarette. “I’m only here because of these.” Reiter nodded slowly. He detested the things thanks to his mother’s own bouts with cancer, but he fully understood that thanks to his need for a smoke break, Friermann had been outside the command tent when a shell fell directly into it.

  Now a crater marked the final resting place of Lieutenant Colonel Hawke as well as several other members of regimental staff. The sheer volume of wounded nearly overwhelmed the birds, but medics from the remaining companies helped share the load. As another round of dropships evacuated wounded soldiers. Reiter turned to Friermann.

  “So who’s got the regiment now?” he asked. The older sergeant took a long drag from his cigarette before looking back. “Captain Savela technically has more seniority, but Captain Borisov knows the situation on the ground better and would fit much better.” Reiter shrugged.

  “Which one’s closer?” he asked. “We need to regroup. I’ve got people isolated in that lab and we need to recover them.” Friermann nodded.

  “Trust me, I get it,” he said. “I can’t make any guarantees, but we need to rebuild for sure. Hawke was already saying we were due a massive reorganization once we came off the front here.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “That’s just the nature of the situation we’re in sir, we’ve been damn near gutted, and help isn’t coming, it’s just us for now.”

  Reiter shook his head and surveyed more of the damage. Field hangers lay smashed and crumpled. A field kitchen still smoked closer to the edge of the pass. Apparently, a white phosphorus shell had hit it. Disgusted, he began walking back towards the Iglasio he’d arrived in.

  “Ready to go, Zauher?” he asked as he climbed into the back.

  “Yes, sir,” the squad leader said. “I’m kinda tired of staring at bodies all day.” The IFV’s engine cranked, and they began rolling along the cratered and broken ground. “Hey, we got word back from home. They managed to fix that Panther with the parts we had.”

  “Great,” Reiter replied. He’d meant it, but he was starting to miss the Lowe. We need that speed and firepower if we want any chance of getting to the others. He felt the armored vehicle beneath him grind to a halt, jerking him forward. “Hey what’s going on?”

  “We’re being stopped by a convoy,” Zauher replied. “Maybe like six Iggys and a couple Cstallios, there’s another captain trying to get your attention.” Reiter sighed and got up.

  “Drop the hatch. I’ll have a word with them,” he replied. Stepping out of the hatch, he walked with a grim determination towards a man who couldn’t have been much older than him. Every mentor I’ve had has died in this war. Hell, half the people I’ve mentored have died during this war. It just feels wrong, like a man having to bury his father, brother, and son all within days of each other.

  Before Reiter’s mind could swan dive into the muck, rising to the surface in his head, the Captain approached him. Head of the regiment’s Operations shop, Captain Borisov was a fairly straight laced man, all business, all the time. Rarely personable.

  “Captain Reiter,” he called. “How do things look back there?” Reiter cast his gaze back to the cratered and smoldering science behind him.

  “Pretty bad,” he said. “Friermann, yourself, and Savela lived, but everyone else on staff died when that shell took out the command tent, field kitchen and hangers are trashed, fuel dump is still smoldering, it’s not pretty picture.” Borisov nodded solemnly.

  “I heard while I was talking to Harbinger,” he said. “At least I heard the command tent got hit. I didn’t know the extent of the damage.”

  “We’ve got people stranded on the objective,” Reiter said. “That lab, test site, whatever it is, has most of a drop platoon and multiple downed pilots. We need reinforcements to go rescue them.” Borisov nodded in agreement before smiling coyly.

  “Funny you say that,” he said. “In a bit of good news, I’ve got a message from GCT, your panzerter has been refurbished and is on its way back, when it gets here, you should have all you need to stage a raid and rescue your people.” Reiter blinked and nodded.

  “Understood, yes sir!”

  “Forward!” Bartonova cried in the cockpit of her panzerter. The Tiger rumbled on ahead before the lighter Panzerters overtook it. She knew this would happen, however, and made sure that they left a clear sector for her Tiger to shoot. Each of the Panzerter IVs carried the newer 100-mm heavy magnetic sub-machine guns, save Fletchers. The former Union pilot carried a quad barreled missile launcher. While she doubted they’d need a weapon, it was good to have, just in case.

  As the Iggys nipped at their heels like the good little dogs they were, the terrain ahead of them became clearer. Most of it was flat land until they entered what was clearly a residential area of some kind, mainly townhomes and multi-family units, by the look of them. They had that for around five to seven kilometers until they hit the city proper.

  Artillery rumbled in the distance. Shells race overhead, some bound for Union defensive positions, some counter battery fire aimed at their own guns. The occasional cruise missile or rocket streaked by as well. According to their plan, the rockets would saturate the flanks of Eden’s gate with mines in an attempt to keep the Union honest.

  Farago’s unit collapsed after a sudden explosion at its center of mass. Lasers. She could see Tinhats peering at them from behind buildings. The red sensor disk gleamed with a soulless rage.

  She swung her Marksman's rifle to bear. “I’ll clear a path!” Bartonova cried. A super heavy magnetic sabot left from her rifle.

  Its targets cover proved ineffective as it shattered and the panzerter behind it collapsed. A cold smile formed
on her lips. That makes three. As other panzerter companies advanced on their flanks, heavier fire took apart more buildings. More tinhats collapsed into flaming wreckage.

  Suddenly, a flanking panzerter disintegrated, lost among a flurry of sudden ammo explosions and super heated metal. She caught a glimpse of a flashing green light and another panzerter fell. Shit! It’s concealed!

  “Fatman at one thirty!” She cried. No sooner had she said it than Fletcher took a knee. She’d clearly seen the flashing green light concealed in a dugout position. A pair of giant-killer missiles and smoke and flame billowed out of the fighting position.

  As the buildings grew thicker around them, they began moving in groups. Fletcher would move with two of the other panzerters and about half the infantry, with Bartonova taking everyone else. One group would move up a block while the other covered them. The Iglasios disgorged their infantry, and they swept the side streets and alleys while they took the main roads.

  Without an immediate threat, Bartonova checked the mission timer. Four hours remained. Hopefully we can take this city quick. As much as she tried to focus on becoming an ace, she couldn’t help but think of how they were destroying someone’s home. She saw toys hastily abandoned and grimaced every time a building collapsed. Pull yourself together Helena, things can be replaced, homes can be replaced, the people can’t.

  She cried out out in surprise when a column of APCs emerged from a parking deck and took off towards the downtown area. Letting loose with her rifle, she sighed as they disintegrated when struck. It’s like using a bazooka to shoot a squirrel. Taller spires rose beyond the residences. Office buildings, factories, shopping centers and the like most likely.

  “We’re crossing the second phase line now,” Fletcher said. Bartonova acknowledged and moved her team again. Good, we’re just about out of this area. Damn, I hate destroying people’s homes.

  As her machine took a knee next to another multi-family unit, motion to her three o’clock high caught her attention. She looked just in time to see a portable rocket slam into the side of her unit’s head.

  Gritting her teeth, she unleashed her CWIS (Close-in weapon system) on the hapless infantry in the building. Shells the size of her fist perforated the building and the men inside it. Come on, infantry don’t count towards ace status.

  The moment she thought of it, she wondered why. Killing thirty riflemen over five pilots took more enemies off the table. The enemy would have to train and recruit new individuals to do those things. Then again, the pilots would take longer to train and if their machine was destroyed, they’d need to build another one. Theoretically, she could kill ten thousand riflemen and not be an ace, or kill two more pilots and be one.

  “Brave 6, We’re set, you can move!” Fletcher cried, her voice rife with irritation.

  “Roger, moving now,” Bartonova replied, leaving the cruel calculus of war behind her.

  “We’re still six hours out,” One of the aircrew shouted. Guard-Major Ballard nodded as he sat in the drop bay. The Phobian sat suspended in its cradle like a beast in a trap. Across the bay, the Martian Sniper sat in its own cradle. While it didn’t radiate the same menace as the Phobian, the new unit represented a stark change in the doctrine of the MAG and the Union at large.

  Instead of one reliable, versatile panzerter, the Union was slowly shifting towards supplementing those panzerters with variants more specialized to support them in areas the original was weak. Like in this case, hand to hand and long range combat. Like the Tharcians.

  As the airship roared along at its maximum safe speed, he sighed. I’m not sure we’ll make it to Eden’s Gate in time. The push into Germania was really the only time we faced a strategic defeat on the ground. If Eden’s Gate falls, it will prove the tide is turning against us.

  What would that world look like? A scenario where the Union lost? What would they do with tubers? Would they separate him from his daughter? Ballard’s mind drifted to a ceasefire where the Tharcians and Union agreed to withdraw casualties. He’d been sent to observe the truce and had observed it alongside two young Tharcian pilots.

  What if I had a son? Would I be reminded of him? Would I be able to kill like I do? The floor rattled beneath his feet as he took a seat in his jump seat.

  This is probably why we aren’t allowed to have children unless we join the MAGs. It’s a lot harder to be a remorseless killer when you have children. He looked at his hands, tough and calloused from years of piloting a panzerter and climbing in and out of them.

  With a sigh, he looked up at the Phobian. “You’re the prefect hand to hand panzerter,” he said. “Every aspect of you has been fine tuned to that singular purpose. Kill Tharcians with a sword-axe, but what if you didn’t want to?” When silence aside from the rattle of the airship, his only response came back. He sighed.

  “Of course you aren’t like that, your metal and circuitry, that’s it,” he said. “But us, me, there’s something more to us beyond our DNA and our flesh. Maybe the Tharcians are onto something when they talk about souls.”

  Claxons interrupted his thoughts. “Strap in for emergency maneuvers!” a voice cried over the PA and Ballard quickly did up his seat belt. The airship began pitching and rolling as much as it could. The point defenses on the outer hull lit up.

  Something roared, and more klaxons sounded as the airship shook. If Ballard was a betting man, he’d assume they’d just lost an engine. Not a good sign for our little field test.

  Another roar and the airship shuddered. Ballard hadn’t paid too much attention, but he was pretty sure they only had twelve total. Another roar sent shrapnel through the hull, injuring several crew members.

  What are those escorts even doing? The airship rocked violently. Cannon fire penetrated the section of the hull, causing the cabin to start depressurizing. As Ballard scrambled for his oxygen, he looked at the Phobian.

  I might have to perform an emergency launch. Better it falls and gets somewhat damaged, then crashes with the airship and risk complete destruction. Even as he debated, the airship groaned, but this time it seemed to be hit from below.

  “All Passengers and crew, we’re going to make an emergency landing just North of Cold Harbor,” a voice Ballard assumed to be the airship’s captain said. “This will leave you ten kilometers from your destination. The enemy air presence is just too thick to continue, not to mention our own anti-aircraft artillery can become disoriented.”

  Great, did we get shot down by our own people? The airship definitely felt less powerful. The loss of between three to five engines would do that. Ballard honestly wondered if it would make it halfway back to Congregation. The remaining engines cried out in protest as each one took on a greater burden than it was designed to.

  Ballard looked up at the Phobian. The menacing machine seemed a lot less frightening in the face of the destruction they’d nearly faced. Hopefully, it scares the shit out of the Tharcians. Suddenly, the airship’s forward motion ceased and alarms sounded. Sections of the cradle withdrew and Ballard sighed. Guess this is our stop.

  19

  He walked among flames and ruin. Kennedy knew where he was. He hadn’t been there in some time, but it was always there. Just behind his eyelids. Just past the edge of his concise thought. When he no longer judiciously guarded the corners of his mind, he came here.

  As he walked through the ruins of his mind, he shook his head. “This is the thing that separates me from the rest of humanity,” he said as he watched a tent with a red cross on it go up in flames. Bodies lay scattered about. Some groaned, some twitched about.

  He broke into a run. It didn’t matter. As fast as he pumped his legs, he felt like his feet were enclosed in concrete. As soon as he stopped to catch his breath, he realized he was right back where he had started.

  “So this is how it is?” he asked himself. A hand grabbed his shoulder. Kennedy turned to face a man covered in bandages, including most of his face save his lips.

  “I know it was you who kille
d me,” he said. Despite how many times he’d heard the words, he still recoiled. More men and women emerged from the ruins. They stepped out of burning tents and from under debris. “I know it was you who killed me.”

  Bandages fell away. Some missed eyes, ears or whole sloughs of skin. Horrible burns charred and cracked skin to the point where it flaked away and exposed the damaged muscle underneath.

  “I know it was you who killed me,” they said. Some whispered, some murmured. They surrounded him, but they didn’t attack him. They just stood there. Accusing him. As the crowd grew thicker, he began seeing past the Olympians gathered around him. The faces of Union pilots and soldiers joined the harsh chorus. “I know it was you who killed me.”

  He turned as the crowd parted. Still accusing, still unsettling. “This isn’t anything new,” Kennedy said. “Keep chanting like that and I’ll be able to go asleep again.”

  Guard-Colonel Fuller stepped out of the crowd, a neat hole in the center of his head. As he walked forward, Kennedy noticed the back of his head was still blown out. Just as he left him.

  “I know it was you who killed me,” he said. Kennedy actually laughed.

  “You’re damn right I did!” He said as accusing stares bore into him. “You quit, you sacrificed your own men to save your own skin. Hell, you sacrificed my people to save your ass.” He waved his arms to the whole scene around him. “Did you have dreams like this? But in Ironton? With mostly our people?”

  A cold stare is all Fuller returned to him. Kennedy laughed.

  “What I did to you all was an accident. We showed up at the wrong place,” he said. He pointed directly at Fuller. “But this man led his people directly to the slaughter!”

  Fuller lit a cigarette. “Do you have any regrets about your service?” He asked.

  Kennedy shook his head. “I have none,” he said before a chill ran down his spine. Fuller nodded, an act that seemed to exaggerate the damage to his head.