“Quiet on the com,” came the voice of the Sergeant Major. Baggett mentally nodded his head. Any signals could be traced, though the probability was remote that any single transmission would. Multiply that probability by several hundred and the enemy would be sure to pinpoint one signal. The best protection was to only send necessary info, and to move after each transmission set.
“What’s this look like to you, Terry?” asked the Colonel over the private circuit between them as he changed positions.
“It looks like a rolling barrage, sir,” said the Top Sergeant. “I think they’re going to come in right after this and roll over our positions.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” said the Colonel. He engaged the general circuit. “All units are to leave their positions immediately. Repeat, leave your current positions immediately, unless you are already in the wilderness. All others move into the wilderness immediately.”
The acknowledgements came back immediately over the com, and Baggett’s HUD showed his men streaming into the heavy forest as fast as they could move. There were still keeping good order and separation, something needed when the enemy could always switch their targeting and hit the forest at will.
Less than a minute after they evacuated their trenches and holes the barrage came down on where they had been. Bright flashes lit the area. The rounds were not all that powerful, less than a kiloton each, but they were striking in mass, and any troops who had been underneath the strikes would have been killed, or at least seriously injured and their suits incapacitated. Rounds continued to come down in the wilderness as well, and Baggett lost about a dozen troopers to the barrage, though the unarmored civilians fared worse. But when the enemy rolled over the Imperial positions with tanks and armored infantry moments later they found nothing living. And enough booby traps that survived the barrage to make their lives miserable.
* * *
“Come and get it lads,” said Captain Glen McKinnon, holding up a box of recharge units for his men to see. The Marines were good at this stuff, he had to admit, looking at the air van which had carried their resupply to this small clearing in the endless forest. The van was parked under the covering canopy of trees and covered in camouflage netting, as undetectable as possible from air or space.
The van had enough consumables to resupply a company like McKinnon’s had three days before his casualties. One hundred and ninety men. Now he had thirty-six men, and enough supply for five resupplies. And that was only if he didn’t lose any more men, which was not probable.
“Everybody charge up and load up,” said the Captain, watching as the men descended on the equipment. Not that I have to tell them, but a commander has to say something at times. But the men know what to do. The remainder were his best and brightest for the most part, out of a company that was already made up of outstanding individuals. Still, some of the best could still get killed. There was some amount of randomness in battle.
“When are we going to get some rest, sir?” asked one of the men. All had their faceplates retracted, and all faces were maps of fatigue and the shock of seeing those close to them killed.
“You’ll be the first to know, Chekov,” said the Captain, looking to one of his remaining NCOs and motioning the man over. There were no other officers, they being picked off almost from the start of the battle.
“Yes sir,” said Senior Sergeant Kalvin Hogan, not bothering to salute, as they were in a combat zone.
“Let the men get what rest they can as soon as they load up on consumables,” said the Captain, feeling like he was going to fall over himself. There was only so much that nanites and stimulants could do in place of organic sleep. “Make sure everyone has as much strapped to their suit as they can carry.”
“And when will we be moving out, sir,” asked the Sergeant, his own tone dripping with fatigue.
“Let me check in with the Colonel,” said the officer, wishing he could sleep some as well. Or just get out of this damned suit. It’s been almost eighty hours since my skin has been exposed to anything but canned atmosphere. But getting out of the armor in an unsecured location was not a good idea. Things happened, and the enemy didn’t always act according to your plan.
McKinnon spent the next ten minutes trying to get through to the colonel in charge of the Frederick Region Defense, even though the Frederick Region was no longer in Imperial hands. The static was too much for his suit’s com systems, and while he thought he had someone two or three times, they always faded away.
“OK, everybody,” called out the Captain after his last futile attempt. “We will be taking a four hour break and moving at twilight. Four guard shifts, I leave that up to Sergeant Hogan to set, so everyone can get three hours sack time.”
There was a combination of smiles and groans at that announcement. All the men wanted some sack time, and would take what they could get. As professionals they knew the score, and moments later three quarters of the suits were on the ground, their occupants snoring away, while the chosen first shift stood silent posts. The Captain made a check on the dispositions, then laid down himself after leaving instructions to wake him a half hour before twilight. With a mental command he shut himself down into a deep dreamless sleep.
“Wake up, sir,” said a voice in his head after what seemed like no time at all. The words triggered his brain to come fully alert. Still, he groaned as he saw the time in his head. Less than two hours. So something must have been happening.
“We have Cacas flying overhead,” said Sergeant Hogan, kneeling beside the recumbent officer. “And the listening post has heard them moving in the woods.”
Glen pushed himself off the ground, the strength of the suit moving the weight with ease. “Is everyone up?”
“Or in the process,” agreed the NCO. “You were a priority. Here’s what we have.”
The Sergeant’s suit sent a short range burst of data to the Captain’s processors, and his HUD showed him the situation as they understood it. There were two aircraft flying over in a pattern that indicated a normal sweep, eyes in the sky for the troops below. And to the west were what looked like a platoon of enemy, moving in squad Vs slow enough to indicate they thought something was in the area. Probably picked us up on chemos, thought the Captain, frowning. So they won’t have a solid fix on us unless they can triangulate with some troops at another angle. And they don’t know what they’re facing. A dozen scared civilians, or a Marine division.
And from what he had seen so far, the Marine suits were far superior to anything the Cacas had. Of course, he didn’t know what backup the enemy had, which would have made it an interesting tactical problem if he and his men’s lives weren’t on the line.
“Get the men into position,” he said, marking the placements on his HUD and sending it across to the Sergeant. “We’ll set up an ambush and catch them in a crossfire here. And detail a pair of Marines to take out those aircraft.”
“Yes sir,” said the Sergeant, moving away on his grabbers.
The Marines were taught to fight in and out of the suits, in a variety of habitats and gravities. The Captain knew the suits were not ideal for an ambush, as they gave off too many electronic signals, especially when engaging grabbers. On a battlefield that was probably not a big deal with all the electronic overload. In an ambush situation they weren’t ideal, and the Captain thought for a moment of just ordering the men to filter out of here. But then he would have to give up the air van and the techs that were manning it, and all the military supplies it was carrying. And he was not willing to do that.
Two short bursts of static came over the com, the signal that all was ready. This was followed by several more of the same signal, and the Captain made ready to send out the order to open fire. That was when all hell broke loose in the form of the enemy taking his men under fire.
“I’m hit,” yelled someone over the com. There were more yells, and the Marines started to return fire. It soon became evident to Captain Glen McKinnon that they were the ones that we
re trapped, as enemy appeared from unexpected places and closed the cauldron about his unit. Several of his men’s icons blinked red, then faded, and he cursed as he lost six Marines in less than thirty seconds. And then the aircraft opened up and a bad situation went to worse.
Sergeant Hogan was still alive and in the circuit, and his section was holding out, but the enemy was forcing back the Marines on every other part of the perimeter. More icons dropped off, and the Captain knew he was facing annihilation here.
“What the Hell?” said the voice of Sergeant Hogan over the circuit.
“Talk to me, Sergeant. What’s going on?”
“Someone else is shooting at the bad guys.” There was an explosion in the air, followed by a flaming enemy aircraft falling from the sky into the jungle. A second explosion sounded moments later and the second aircraft followed the first. “I don’t believe it,” said the Sergeant over the com. “I just don’t fucking believe it.”
McKinnon didn’t believe it either as his HUD showed the enemy disappearing from the area, killed or running. And whatever was taking them out didn’t show on the display at all. The Captain was on his feet in a moment, heading toward Sergeant Hogan’s position. He stopped as soon as he saw the man standing with the Sergeant, and the other men behind him still looking out into the jungle.
“This is Mr. Donahue, sir,” said the Sergeant, looking at the Captain and gesturing to the man dressed in what looked like a Gilley suit to the officer, who had seen them used by special ops people before. “He and his fellow freeholders came to our rescue.”
“Pleased to meet you, Captain,” said the middle aged man, holding out a hand. “I was in the Marines myself at one time. Recon.”
“And your men?” asked McKinnon, gripping the hard calloused hand in his metal gauntlet. And he could take me apart if I weren’t wearing this suit, thought the Captain, looking at the military spec particle beam rifle that was slung over the man’s shoulder.
Recon Marines didn’t depend on armor or hardware for their missions. They carried their enhancements inside, genetic modifications that made them stronger and faster than most. That way they didn’t give off electronic bleed that would give them away. And they could move more silently than snakes.
“Some of the other boys were also special ops,” said the man, nodding back at one man who looked like a body builder and moved like a cat.
“How many men you got with you?” asked McKinnon, thinking about how he might be able to use these natives, who obviously knew how to move and fight in this jungle.
“I have a hundred and fifteen men,” said the Freeholder, pointing a thumb into his chest. “Including myself. And before you ask, none of us are willing to follow the commands of the military. We fight our own war, and if it benefits you, so much the better.”
A couple more men stepped into sight, one carrying a heavy laser, one other a hyper-v launcher, like the ones used to take down the aircraft.
“We need to move out,” said the Freeholder, looking beyond the Captain at the small clearing where sat the air van. “The Cacas will be back, and we fight them on our terms and ground, not theirs.”
McKinnon looked back at the air van, still filled with weapons and equipment they couldn’t carry. He looked back at the Freehold leader and noted the interest in the man’s eyes. “Take what you want. We’ll carry all we can, and you can help yourselves to what we can’t. Better than leaving for the enemy or blowing it in place.”
“Thank you,” said the older man, making a head gesture toward some of his men, who ran over to the van. He looked back at the Captain. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want you tagging along. Not in those metal suits. We don’t want the Cacas homing in on your emissions.”
“What about your own equipment?” asked the Marine, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he had been going to ask the man to lead him and his to safety.
“We travel weapons cold,” said the man, holding up his particle beam rifle to show that all power was off. “Everything cold.”
“And what if the Cacas sneak up on you?” asked Sergeant Hogan.
“I shouldn’t have said everything cold,” said the Freeholder with a smile. “We have these signal detectors.” The man touched a small box that hung from his belt. “Picks up everything within a couple of kilometers, same as the ones we used in special ops. Actually picked up your rigs a kilometer further out than that of the Cacas. I guess their equipment is a little better shielded than yours, or doesn’t use as much energy. Of course, if you transmit we’ll pick it up either further out.”
“And infrared?” asked Hogan, reaching a hand out and touching the fabric of the Gilley suit.
“This suit keeps most of that in,” said the man, touching the chest area. “We vent them when we’re moving to get rid of some heat without broadcasting it upwards.”
“Must be hot as hell when you close it up,” said the Captain, wondering how he could get some of those things for his men when they didn’t have power for their suits.
“Better than being heated up by a laser or PB,” said the Freehold Leader, looking over at his men coming back from the van with bulging packs and more slung weapons. “Thank you kindly. Me and mine will be on our way.”
“Could you take the two techs with you?” asked the Captain, looking back at the two jump suited Marines standing by the van. “They don’t have suits to give themselves away. And I’m sure they could come in handy when you need to build or repair equipment.”
“Since they are Marines, it would be my pleasure,” said the Freeholder, gesturing to a couple of his men and pointing to the techs. “We even have some gear that will help them blend in. Not as well as we do, but enough.”
“Thank you,” said Glen, that weight off his shoulders. He wanted to move fast, and the techs would have slowed him down. But he was also not willing to just leave them here in the jungle by themselves. That would just be sentencing them to death.
The leader waved in reply and turned away. With that the men all moved quietly into the jungle and faded from sight.
“Get the men ready to move,” said the Captain, looking over at Hogan. “Wish we had time to bury the men, but…”
“The men understand, Captain,” said the Sergeant. “It’s time for the living is what it is.”
“Those commandos sure were impressive,” said McKinnon, thinking back to the origin of the word that he had learned at the Academy. Farmers who had gathered weapons, got on horseback, and rode to fight what to them were invaders of their homeland. He thought those ancient men of Earth would approve of the commandos of Sestius.
Moments later the Marines were moving on their own, heading toward what McKinnon knew as a place of safety.
* * *
SESTIUS, MARCH 24TH, 1000.
Cornelius had never seen anything like the creatures that had attacked the dogs. They looked kind of like apes, big creatures almost a ton in weight, with wicked looking carnivore’s teeth and clawed hands. One of the dogs was dead when Cornelius and Katlyn got within sight of the battle. Another was torn apart before their eyes, while the rest of the small pack retreated to stand close to their humans, providing some protection while expecting it in return.
“You watch our backs, honey,” he told his wife, then brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The ten millimeter round traveled from the barrel at over three thousand meters per second, the rifle bucking soundlessly into the farmer’s armored shoulder. The round struck the creature center mass, right in the chest area, and dropped it quivering to the jungle floor. He took aim and fired again, and again, dropping two more animals. One flung something his way, a rock that bounced from his helmet, and would have surely dropped him lifeless if not for the armored protection.
Walborski switched the selector to auto and started to spray the rest of the creatures. The magazine of his weapon contained a two hundred round load, and the power pack of the rifle would let him fire a dozen mags
before he needed to change it. He slaughtered the beasts in front of him, then turn in time to see a pair coming for his wife, who stood there in shock.
“Look out,” he yelled, bringing his rifle around. An incoming stick hit Katlyn in the head and she started to go down. The farmer fired a burst into the nearest creature, realizing that he would not be able to shoot the second in time to keep it off his helpless wife.
The dogs saved the day, two of them going for the hind leg of the creature, another sinking its teeth into the carnivore’s buttocks. The creature screamed and turned, throwing off the two dogs that had grabbed its leg. The one holding onto the posterior dug in and refused to let go. The carnivore tried to reach back for the dog. That thought left its mind forever as Cornelius put a shot through its head.
The dogs started barking now, raising a furious cacophony of sound, looking up into the trees. Cornelius raised his weapon and sprayed a continuous burst that raked the leaves, until his ammo counter hit zero. He switched to his under barrel grenade launcher, firing the five onboard projectiles upwards to explode in the canopy. A heavy body fell, to strike hard on the ground and lay unmoving.
Cornelius looked up for a moment more, using his faceplate’s sensors to scan for body heat. Seeing none, he dropped to his knees and helped his wife to a sitting position. She had a cut on her forehead that was dripping blood, and some more blood seeping down her long blond hair. “Can you hear me, honey?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, shaking her head. The four surviving dogs surrounded them and a couple licked her face. She looked over at where the two dead dogs lay, among the big bodies of the alien carnivores. “Oh no,” said Katlyn, her hands to her face. “Not Rodney and Pepper.”
Cornelius shook his head as he looked at the two animals. Rodney had been his favorite, the Alpha male of the small pack, while Pepper had been a sweet and subservient female. “We still have the others,” said the man, reaching for his first aid kit, then starting to work on Katlyn’s wounds.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm Page 19