by Mark Bordner
Mark shrugged, firing into the crowd below, “They won’t stay that way for long. We need coverage on their rear to hold them in. Take a squad and cut south, I want you on their butts! GO!”
Brian did not wait to be told twice, running to gather his team and get moving. This reduced their firepower on the left flank, but it was not easily noticeable. The Storians were hunkering down, under the impression that they were facing an equally matched force. If they figured out that it was only a single company all spread out around them, Alpha would be in more trouble than they already were.
In desperation, his voice betraying more fear than he wished, Mark tried the command frequency again, “Ford! Where the hell are you?”
Springfield
Ford’s helmet mic crackled with static as the command frequency for his battalion struggled back to life--- with Mark’s voice coming through on the edge of panic. The unmistakable sound of a pitched battle raged in the background.
“Ford, where the hell are you?”
The sergeant major immediately keyed his net, “Mark, talk to me!”
There was a pause, then, “We’re spread thin out here, Dwayne! We could use a hand!”
“Give me a sit-rep,” Ford told him.
“Storian armor at Mud Run Bridge, regimental strength! We hold the bridge, but won’t for much longer!” Mark replied. “We’ve surrounded about 600 infantry, but we’re taking casualties!”
The chatter on the rooftop fell silent as the officers turned to look at Ford, having heard the transmission. Their expressions were of disbelief. Strasburg keyed his mic and cut in.
“Sergeant, did you say that you have six hundred Storian infantry and their tank escort surrounded?”
The mic opened again, split by heavy weapons fire and mortar explosions, “That’s affirmative, Sir. If you can’t get reinforcements here soon, then I’m requesting an air strike on this bridge---Code Overlord!”
A GNN reporter on the roof spoke out, “What’s that mean?”
Ford glanced at her, his face grim, “That means that he’s calling close-in air support on his own position. He’s about to lose the line.”
“Jesus!” Major Rogett muttered.
Colonel Strasburg keyed Orbital Command, and called it in with a heavy heart.
Ford stepped away, facing the burning river front to the west of Springfield,
wishing that he could somehow see all the way to Enon.
“Mark, it’s coming! Good luck, my friend.”
Another pause, then, with a voice that was clearly thick with tears, “Dwayne, you look after Minerva for me.”
The tone of Mark’s voice was one of resignation. Fear. Sorrow. The chances were that he would not survive, and he knew it. The sergeant was sacrificing himself and his people in order to save the regiment, and the city of Springfield.
The sergeant major felt a lump swell in his throat and he grit his teeth. He ripped his helmet off and slammed it on the rooftop, yelling profanities at the sky. The other officers backed away and the GNN cameraman chose not to film it, respecting the man’s anguish.
Mud Run Bridge, Enon Pass
Dawn was breaking, the surroundings becoming more and more visible through the dust and smoke. The battle was at a fever pitch now. The Storians were very effective in forming defensive perimeters against the three-prong attack, and were now even beginning to push back. The heaviest casualties that A-Company had suffered were from 2nd Platoon, which was tasked with holding the bridge itself on the Enon side. The tanks were pouring rounds from their side-gatlings while infantry concentrated 60-
watt fire across the line, backed by expertly placed mortars. Another tank was attempting to shove its way through the wreckage on the bridge while a squad of soldiers followed, shooting as they went.
APC’s were focusing their Bushmaster machine guns on Mark’s position, backing the several companies of Storians that were up-range, gradually advancing forward despite his squad’s best efforts to hold them back. They were running low on ATR’s and had scant opportunities to take real aim at the APC’s--- so intense was the layer of incoming plasma. The trees around them were practically defoliated by the storm of rounds.
Private Brian Martinez had managed to skirt around to the southern flank, but found his team facing the rear tanks, which had no intention of being taken easily. Main gun rounds could be seen blowing the road to smithereens in that direction.
“Sarge!” One of the corporals nearest to Mark shouted over the din. “What do we do?”
Mark pumped a rifle grenade at a group of Storians just below the ridgeline and swept rifle fire back and forth, “We hold this fuckin’ line!”
A mortar went off just above and behind them, splitting tree trunks and sending branches falling down. Hot plasma peppered through Mark’s armor at the close range, and he cried out in pain. His back and buttocks were burning patches of agony.
The nearest group of Storians suddenly leapt up and actually began charging, bellowing as they came. The Marines over-lapped their fire, mowing most of them back down, but a few reached the ridge. Mark lunged forward, grabbing the soldier nearest to
him and pulling backward with all of his weight, dropping his rifle to pull his combat knife from its sheath on his calf plate. They rolled on the ground and he plunged the blade into the man’s groin. The corporal shot another who was about to shoot the master sergeant in the back, and another private engaged a third Storian in hand-to-hand. The private was not as fortunate. The Storian grappled his rifle away and shot him in the chest with it before other Marines could fire on him.
“Hold the line!” Mark shouted, retrieving his rifle, and returning his attention to the ridge. His tears for Minerva were now just as much for himself, and his brothers and sisters in arms. The Storians were gaining on them.
Time was running out.
From the orbital carrier, a larger, heavier shuttlecraft dropped through the atmosphere, this one similar in design to a large SuperFortress B-17 bomber. This was the modern version of a Hell-Fire high-altitude support platform. The craft quickly achieved its assigned flight path, and high-resolution imaging equipment scanned the ground below. It passed Springfield and veered south-west, the battle near Enon coming into view. The image enhanced several times, giving the automated gunning system a bird’s-eye view up close of the bridge, and the Storian regiment bogged down on one end of it. The pilots, who were watching the monitors, could not believe what they were seeing.
“Good God!” The pilot breathed. “Look at that!”
The co-pilot touched the firing controls, shaking his head.
Mammoth 2000-watt quad gatlings adjusted their aim, locked, and fired--- unleashing twin rivers of the highest-powered plasma rounds available to modern firepower. The roar filled the aircraft, shaking the pilots in their seats. On the ground below, everything suddenly erupted in a churning soup of destruction. The bridge was hit first, simply vanishing from view in the blue display of deadly fireworks. This strange, loud, and deadly boil of energy raked south, sweeping across the Storian position. The noise and sight of it was stunning, shocking the Marines into silence. They could do nothing but lie low and cover their heads, knowing what was to come next.
An instant later, a Thermite bomb struck the bridge dead-center. The world heaved under the concussion. A blast wave slammed out in all directions, flattening trees and throwing Storian and Marine alike into the air. From Enon, the south appeared to bloom its own sun, followed by that over-pressure wave that shattered the quiet morning and momentarily cleared the air of smoke as it was swept away.
An eerie silence replaced it, back-dropped by the mushroom cloud boiling toward the heavens.
The flight crew looked down on this with sadness as they passed beyond the target area. Their sensors displayed only a wrecked landscape in which nothing moved.
“No way they could’ve survived that,” The co-pilot stated.
The pilot shook his head, “We just wiped out a
n entire company of our own Marines, Partner. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
They circled around and made another high-altitude pass, studying their imaging equipment with little hope. As before, all was still. Neither pilot was able to look at
the other, not wanting to reveal the tears swelling in their eyes.
Charlie Company had accompanied the four tanks from the 108th Armored as they sped franticly toward Enon, following in APC’s. The sun had just broken the horizon when they finally reached the I-70 off-ramp that would take them into the community, which was a smoking, burning wreck. A Storian gunship that had been shot down was resting part-way inside a house, both of which were on fire. The street was littered with rubble, a nearby school had been flattened, and the sports field was littered with the ruins of the artillery unit.
Bodies were everywhere.
The tanks continued speeding south on Enon Road while the APC’s screeched to a halt and dropped the deployment doors. Minerva’s company stormed out and assumed combat positions before running south, following the tanks. Her heart was pounding as adrenaline raced through her body. The mushroom cloud dominated the southern horizon, its base a solid wall of black smoke. She was scarcely in control of her emotions, knowing that her husband had been out there, his company alone and defending the town from the under-estimated assault force. The company frequency for Alpha was silent and no amount of effort to raise them brought any results. The radio chatter from Command and the Hell-Fire platform was disjointed and over-lapped. None of it was reassuring.
“Mark!” She shouted over and over again into her helmet mic. Each time there was no reply, her panic grew.
The tanks up ahead suddenly came to a halt as an explosion slammed into the lead unit, blowing its treads off and spinning it sideways. Rifle fire began coming in from the east of the road and C-Company dropped for cover. Out across the field was a trio of Storian tanks and an undetermined number of infantry; they had somehow made it across the river further up and were now coming in toward the road.
The remaining two tanks from the 108th spun their turrets and began returning rounds while their side guns raked the field. The two sides of infantry began exchanging fire, forcing each other to keep low. A Storian tank took a hit to its hull and exploded, followed by a second hit to one of the 108th units, blowing its turret off. The one remaining unit adjusted and scored a hit to another Storian tank, the blast taking several of their infantry with it. The remaining tank motored backwards, its infantry retreating with it, and turned to flee back toward the river.
“Do we give chase?” Amell asked over the helmet mic.
Minerva shook her head. “Negative! We proceed toward the bridge!”
The Hell-Fire platform had witnessed the exchange and was already swinging around. Its river of plasma came roaring down from the sky, ripping the field apart and grinding the Storians to bits. The bone-rattling noise of it made the Marines thankful that they weren’t on the receiving end of that barrage.
Leaving a Corpsman behind to tend C-Company’s wounded, she led the rest at double-time with the remaining tank on their heels, running toward her husband. Praying that he was still alive.
Mud Run Bridge, Enon Pass
9:00 AM
A cold front had swept in, bringing low, thick clouds that had begun dropping a chilled, miserable drizzle; casting the day in a depressing, grey light. The Enon side of the bridge was a cratered, muddy, featureless landscape littered with bodies. Marine and Storian lay among one another, some in pieces. Trees had been cleaved at the mid-line, leaving only trunks. Everything else lie outward in a circular pattern left by the bomb. The Marines that had survived were either sitting or standing in shock, unaware of what went on around them. One poor fellow had lost an arm, and was searching the ruins for it. His armor had stanched the bleeding for him, but did nothing for the mental trauma. He found a limb that was likely not even his own and picked it up like a treasured prize, clutching it to his chest plate.
Sergeant Jamal stood morosely with three of the surviving members of his squad, staring across the river, his battered face unreadable.
The bridge was gone, only the support struts remained jutting from the river like broken bones. Pieces of the armored vehicles were scattered among the carnage and stuck up at odd angles from the shallow river. A thin mist of fog was beginning to drift from the water’s surface, and it crept across the lowest lying areas of ground, adding to the gloom.
The opposite side of the river was a scene of even worse destruction. Nothing was moving over there. Minerva lifted her visor and took it all in, smelling the wet
foliage and spent Thermite hanging in the air. The only sounds were the patter of the misty rain and the gurgle of the slow, dirty river.
“Mark!” She yelled as loudly as she could. Her voice echoed across the ridge, coming back to her strangely muffled. A tear welled and fell down her cheek. No answer. Only the quiet.
“Mark,” she whispered. Her bottom lip quivered, and a hard lump rose in her throat.
Amell came to her, and they embraced as she broke down and wept. Her limbs trembled, knees threatening to buckle.
The sound of approaching Hueys disturbed the morning--- help that was arriving far too late.
Six Hueys and a pair of Blackhawks delivered Bravo Company and the senior battalion staff to the field just north of the site. The marines fanned out to set perimeters and organize search parties to comb the area for survivors. Captain Hannock and Sergeant Major Ford walked over to where Minerva and Amell stood, facing the river. The Captain folded his arms and shook his head sadly, gazing out at the carnage on the other side. The brunt of the bomb blast had followed the ridge path like a tunnel, clearing the foliage up and over both extremes. The Storian armor was tossed and torn asunder. Bodies littered the crater path like so many ants.
Ford went to Minerva and put an arm around her shoulder, pulling her from Amell and embracing her himself. She crumbled in his grasp, and he held her up with one powerful arm, supporting her weight.
“Let’s go,” He told her softly, guiding her away from the bank. “Amell, take over for now.”
The Attayan nodded, wiping away tears of her own, turning to join the platoons wading across the water toward the opposite side. Hueys hovered overhead, searching the tattered woods, watching for enemy activity.
Attayan Colonel Lafferty joined Strasburg near the remains of the bridge, helmet in hand, his fur sopped from the drizzle falling from the grey sky. “Alpha-Company staved off a major offensive,” He observed. “This armor would have plowed through Enon, and cut off I-70 from us. Springfield would have been in a lot of trouble.”
Strasburg sighed, “Yes, it would have been bad.”
“The Mighty First continues to live up to its name,” Lafferty mentioned. “Most admirably.”
Strasburg pulled off his own helmet, and rubbed at his thinning hair, “These poor kids keep paying the price over and again, because of that damn title.”
Lafferty looked out at the battered terrain, “Those kids aren’t doing it for that title. They fight for one another. It’s what good Marines do.”
The colonel turned and watched Ford leading Minerva away, his heart heavy in his chest, and couldn’t help but feel guilty. This rescue operation would have only a few hours given to it, as they still had to get the regiment into place for the assault on Dayton. The Attayan 2nd Brigade was in position, and growing more vulnerable to being discovered with every passing hour.
Strasburg keyed the comm-net. “Mobilize Second and Third Battalions to the eastern front,” He ordered. “Initiate the attack on Huber Heights. Captain Sunwa, you may go active as soon as you hear the noise. Lieutenant Colonel Harper, activate your Air Cav immediately. By the time they fly in, everyone should be ready.”
Each commander voiced their acknowledgements. The colonel then keyed his own battalion freq. “First Battalion, we will remain on-station until we’ve accounted for every one of ou
r brothers and sisters.”
There was a general voicing of approval with that. No Marine was left behind.
Manny had taken B-Company across the river and explored further south, following the remains of the gravel road. The effects of the Thermite bomb had been horrific. Storian soldiers had been cooked, their remains not much more than charred skeletons. The tanks further back had escaped the concussive force of the blast, but not the heat. Their hulls were steaming in the drizzle, still scorched. The master sergeant climbed up atop one of them, protected by his armor from its hot surface, and pulled the crew hatch open. Wisps of smoke drifted out. The crew inside had been baked alive, it was hideous to look upon and worse to smell.
He hopped down and motioned for the others to follow. Nearly half a mile back, they encountered their first sight of Marines, their battle suits charred, but intact. The first few were dead, but as they searched more to the south, there were more of them not
only alive, but rousing themselves from unconsciousness.
“We have survivors!” Manny reported over the net, checking their unit markings, “looks like First Platoon.”
Minerva’s voice was the first to answer, desperate, “Is Mark there?”
Manny surveyed the expanse of Marines scattered on the ground, “I just don’t know, yet. We’re making a headcount right now, I’ll let you know.”
A medevac Huey was already cruising overhead and circling an open spot on the field, lowering to the ground. Bravo fanned out and began recording the names of both the living and the dead.
Amell had led C-Company up the eastern ridge, following the wide path of bodies in that direction. The Storians had borne the worst of the blast, lacking the nano-armor to protect them. The trees had been lain flat, the topsoil actually stripped away down to the bedrock. Further into the woods, where the wave had diminished, the trees that remained had bodies wrapped around them like paper. Many of the trunks were red from blood and gore.