Swapship Troopers

by Walker Long

  Then he turned and saw two more Formids had followed the first out of the hole. Shit! How many were down there? He put another burst into the Bug that had attacked Vanlanding and the creature finally dropped. The Corporal’s arm hung limply at his side and blood poured onto the dusty ground. Vanlanding looked like he might pass out.

  Potter and Jabara brought down the second Bug, but the third had reared onto its back legs and clamped its mandibles onto Jordan’s helmet. It lifted the young Marine off his feet with one toss of its huge head. Quantrill ran at the creature, firing into its abdomen as fast as he could pull the trigger. The Bug dropped and Jordan fell away.

  “Jordan! Jordan! Are you okay?” he yelled and ran to his side. He rolled the man over and was about to check his vitals when he noticed Jordan’s head was no longer attached to his body. Jordan’s helmet – with his head still inside – was lodged in the jaws of the dead Bug.

  Quantrill saw a large, gray shape in the corner of his eye and rolled to his left. Another Bug had come out of the hole! He landed on his feet and immediately shouldered his rifle. He fired two bursts at the Bug before he was grabbed around his midsection and lifted off the ground.

  “Ahhh!” he yelled. White hot pain shot through his chest and abdomen. It felt like he was being torn in half. The world spun all around him. A Bug had him! A fucking Bug! He tried to hold his rifle steady and somehow managed to find the trigger.

  He fired a few shots that glanced off the armored shell of the Formid but did no serious damage. Then the Bug tossed him around like a dog with a chew toy and his head smashed into a rock. Everything went black.

  Chapter 21

  Hardaway

  “Q!” Hardaway screamed. Not again! No, not again. He ran to the front of the column. The Bug had Quantrill. He had to save Quantrill! He could not let this happen again.

  More and more Bugs burst out of the hole in the ground and pushed his men back. Hardaway elbowed his way through the panicky Marines. Where was Quantrill? He couldn’t see him in the mass of Formid warriors. There were so many of them now! How was he ever going to save Q?

  Hardaway ground his teeth and tightened his grip on his rifle. He would blast his way through those fucking monsters and find Q. Or he would die trying. Quantrill deserved no less.

  He took one step toward the mass of Formids but then stopped. He turned and looked at the men around him – his men. They were scared. They were trapped between a rock and a hard place and they were flat out scared. He should help them. He had to help them.

  “Follow me!” he yelled to the platoon and waved his rifle in the air. Their tactical options were limited. They couldn’t fight off the deluge coming at them from behind. They couldn’t fight off the smaller force in front before the deluge wiped them out. Their only hope was to smash through to the other side and make a run for the safety of the LZ. “Wedge formation! I am the point!”

  Without another word, Hardaway sprinted toward the line of Bugs in front of his platoon. He switched his rifle to full auto and unleashed a continuous stream of AP rounds into the nearest Formids. He emptied his magazine before he even reached the first attacker, but quickly slapped in another clip and kept firing.

  To his relief two men took position right behind him. They added their own firepower to the charge and together they brought down enough Bugs to create a gap in the Formid line. Hardaway bolted into the opening, sending hot metal out ahead of him to open it wider. The Formids drew inward from both sides. Hardaway would have been pinned between them, but even more Marines joined the wedge and concentrated fire to keep the gap open. Hardaway leapt over the body of a dead Bug and ran forward.

  He never slowed. Bugs closed in on all sides, snapping at him with their razor sharp mandibles, but he kept going. Every step was a battle, but the platoon poured on enough firepower to keep the Formids at bay. Finally, Hardaway saw daylight ahead of him.

  He brought down one last Bug and then charged into the open. He swapped out his empty magazine and spun back to the platoon. “Run! Go! Go!” he yelled to his men. Men ran past him and sprinted for safety. The Lieutenant waved them on. He shot his rifle into the crowd of Bugs, trying to keep them away from the retreating Marines.

  Finally the last man came through. It was Sergeant Prince, predictably. There was no one more reliable in the whole Corps. “Nice move,” Hardaway’s second in command told him mildly.

  “We’re not out of this yet,” Hardaway replied. He pulled the pin of a grenade and threw it into the crowd of Formids. The two Marines sprinted after the rest of the platoon, lobbing grenades over their shoulders as they ran.

  The Bugs were nipping at their heels the whole way, but after 80 meters they got some cover fire from the lead Marines who had found higher ground. That gave the platoon more breathing room, but only temporarily. At the crest of the hill, Hardaway looked back and saw the massive hoard of Bugs from Hill 54 had merged with the group they had just pushed through. Their only hope was to outrun them long enough to get reinforcements.

  Hardaway got onto the radio with central command. He relayed their position and requested air support. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” the controller replied. “All my assets are unavailable. You are on your own for a while.”

  “What the fuck do you mean unavailable? We’re being overrun here!”

  “We have units being overrun throughout the theater,” the controller shot back with a frantic edge in his voice. “We’re barely holding the LZ. There are no assets available!”

  “Damn,” Hardaway growled. Then he turned toward the men. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Run like hell for the LZ. Drop grenades the whole way to keep those Bugs off our tail. Go!”

  The men didn’t have to be told twice. They ran like their life depended on it – which indicated they had an accurate view of the situation. Many men were wounded – some severely. Fortunately they were all able to walk but were losing a lot of blood, especially Vanlanding. They would just have to hold on a while longer. They couldn’t spare the time to lick their wounds just yet.

  Hardaway brought up the rear and supervised mining the road with grenades behind them. They must have killed a thousand Bugs with all the explosives they dropped, but the crowd chasing them never seemed to get any smaller. In a way, the sheer volume of Formids worked in the Marines’ favor. There were so many they tended to get in each other’s way. Ordinarily the 8-legged beasts could make 45 kilometers per hour pretty consistently.

  Finally they heard a high-pitched whine and an artillery shell exploded among the chasing Formids. The Bugs fell back and Hardaway and his platoon moved into the safety of the staging area under the cover of Army artillery.

  The LZ was chaos. Troops were rushing back and forth. Wounded men were piled up outside the hospital – waiting for someone to help them or waiting to die, whichever came first. Every five or ten seconds a thunderous roar shook the ground as the huge artillery cannons kept up a constant barrage to keep the attacking Formids away.

  Hardaway went to the command center to find Major de Coverly. General Hough was barking orders into a boom microphone and glaring at a flat, electro-map of the area. Captain Wakefield – who Hardaway was in no mood to talk to at that moment – was coming his way, but he didn’t see de Coverly anywhere.

  “Sitrep?” Wakefield demanded.

  “Where’s the Major?”

  “Major de Coverly bought it when first platoon was wiped out on Hill 15,” Wakefield said. “I’m assuming command of the Company. Give me your report!”

  “Damn,” Hardaway said with a sigh. Major de Coverly had been a good man. He pushed his Marines to be their best, but never expected them to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. And first platoon wiped out? What the fuck was going on?

  “Report, Lieutenant,” Wakefield demanded. “Now.”

  “Right. Hill 54 is lost. Bugs ambushed us from some underground tunnel. Barely made it back,” Hardaway said deadpan.

  “We’ve seen that, also,” W
akefield agreed. “This whole planet is run through with tunnels. It’s a damn maze down there. That’s probably how they managed to have a hundred times more Bugs on this rock than we saw on the satellite images – they were hiding underground.”

  “Did you say – a hundred times?”

  “Intelligence has updated their estimate,” Wakefield told him. “The new number is closer to nine hundred million.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Hardaway breathed. They were on a planet with a billion fucking Formids? No wonder they were getting their asses handed to them. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

  “We’re working on it,” Wakefield barked. “Just have your men stay out of the way.”

  “Roger that,” Hardaway agreed. He strode purposefully out of the command center, but then stopped. Where was he going? What could he even do that would make shit worth of difference? His men were as safe as he could make them for the time being – at least, the men who were left.

  Hardaway sat down on a supply crate and put his head in his hands. How much death could a person endure before they just cracked up? And Quantrill! He was gone. The loss tugged at Hardaway like a physical thing. Even worse because it was his fault – he failed Q just like he failed Rhona. Just like he failed so many of his men.

  Hardaway pulled up his command vitals display. It showed his platoon – what was left of it – and their critical vital signs reported by transducers in their armor. Grayed out squares represented the men who were no longer transmitting vital signs – because they were dead. Jordan – dead. Potter – dead. Singh – dead. Lopez – dead. Quantrill – wait! Not dead!

  “Holy shit!” Hardaway exclaimed. He leapt to his feet. Quantrill’s vital signs were still online. Weak but steady! “He’s alive! Jesus Christ, he’s alive!”

  “Sir?” Sergeant Prince asked. Hardaway hadn’t even seen him approach.

  “Quantrill,” Hardaway exclaimed. “Quantrill is out there somewhere still alive!”

  “That tough little shit,” Prince said with a shake of his head. “I’ll be damned.”

  In that instant, Hardaway knew what he had to do. “Sergeant,” he ordered. “Take command of the platoon.”

  “Yes, sir,” Prince agreed immediately, like a good Marine. “What’s our mission, sir?”

  “Stay here and keep out of the way. Evacuate when you get the chance,” the Lieutenant replied. “Shoot anything with more than two legs. Jabby! Come over here please.”

  “And you, sir?” Prince asked with deep concern on his face.

  “I’m going for a walk,” Hardaway replied. He saw a corpsman’s kit left lying on the supply crates, so he grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder. If he did find Q, he was going to need some serious first aid. Then he slung his AR316 on his back and looked at the tall, coppery skinned Marine in front of him.

  “Sir!” Jabara said.

  “Jabby,” Hardaway told him. “I need your SAW.”

  “Sir?” Jabara said with an uncertain expression. Hardaway understood his reluctance. A Marine’s weapon was his life.

  “May I speak freely, sir?” Prince interjected.

  “Yes, of course,” Hardaway answered with a sigh. Prince was the epitome of military discipline, but you could never call the man stupid. And what Hardaway was contemplating was probably very, very stupid. That didn’t change his decision, but Hardaway had to at least let the Sergeant have his say. He owed the man that much after all they had been through.

  “It’s wall-to-wall Bugs out there,” Prince began. “We were lucky to get back the first time. Killing yourself isn’t going to do Q any good.”

  “You’re going after Quantrill?” Jabara exclaimed. “Sir?”

  “That’s right,” Hardaway nodded.

  “The hell you are!” Captain Wakefield shouted. He was charging out of the command bunker like he was heading into battle. “You have not been given permission to undertake a rescue operation!”

  “Captain,” Hardaway said with barely disguised irritation. “I have not asked for permission.”

  “Sir!” Jabara stood at full attention. “I volunteer for this mission.”

  “No, you most certainly do not, Private!” Wakefield shrieked.

  “He’s right, Jabby. I have to go alone. One man can sneak through Bug territory easier than a group. And besides, Sergeant Prince is right. I most likely won’t be coming back.” Hardaway turned to his second in command and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “See, I’m not going out there to save him. I’m going out there to try. Because not trying is not an option.”

  Prince nodded in understanding. “Yes, sir.”

  “Damnit, Hardaway!” Wakefield blustered. “This is insubordination!”

  “Maybe so,” Hardaway agreed mildly and then turned to Jabara. “Private!” The big Marine held his ramrod straight stance and thrust his machine gun out in front like a cadet in drill. Hardaway grabbed the heavy weapon, gave the men a nod, and headed for the front lines. Wakefield at least had the sense not to try and stop him.

  Chapter 22

  Dark

  Quantrill was freaking out. This was bad! This was really, really bad! He had no idea where he was, or even how long he had been knocked out. All he knew was that he was being dragged – probably to his death – by a giant fucking Bug and wherever they fuck they were was dark, cold, and silent. He couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face and the only sounds were the Formid’s legs scraping along the ground and the eerie click of the plates of its armored carapace. For all Quantrill knew he was sealed inside a tomb –with a Formid.

  He couldn’t move. He was trapped. The Formid gripped him so tightly around his midsection he could barely even breathe. The enormous jaws had crushed his battle armor and sharp, jagged edges sliced through his flesh.

  He had to get out! Somehow he had to get loose! Quantrill kicked with his legs and pounded his fists on the smooth, hard pincers that held him captive. The huge Bug didn’t budge. The only thing his frantic struggle accomplished was to drive the serrated edges deeper into his sides and send searing pain through his body.

  Enough! He had to calm down. He was trained for dangerous situations. He had learned to push past pain and exhaustion and keep going no matter what. That was what he was going to do.

  He took stock of his condition. His midsection was a symphony of pain. He’d probably lost a lot of blood. His breathing was ragged and painful – probably a broken rib or two. His head was pounding, his ears were ringing, and he felt like the world was spinning – definitely a concussion.

  The Bug must have taken him down into their underground tunnels. He didn’t know why, and he wasn’t eager to find out. If he wanted to live to see another day, he had to get away from the damn thing. Physically overpowering the monster wasn’t going to work. His rifle was gone – he probably dropped it around the time he had his lights put out. He had his knife. That was better than his bare hands, but not by a lot. He might be able to scratch his initials into the Formid’s armor if he really worked at it.

  Damn! The only weapons he had were the grenades strapped to his ammo vest. Those could certainly finish off the Bug, but that wouldn’t do him much good if it killed him too. Of course, he didn’t exactly have much to lose.

  Quantrill grabbed one of the grenades and pulled the pin. He couldn’t see the setting dial or the timer in the dark, but he knew – because Lieutenant Hardaway always made sure – it was set to blast level three with a delay of three seconds. He could survive a level three explosion if the Bug’s giant, armored body was between him and the grenade when it went off. At least, he thought so. The Formid should absorb most of the blast. Probably.

  “Here goes nothing,” he whispered. He released his grip on the spoon and let it fall away from the grenade and start the timer. He counted out two seconds, and then dropped the grenade on the ground. The Bug continued marching forward over the top of the small explosive.

  Quantrill squeezed his eyes shut tight and wrapped his a
rms around his head. A fraction of a second later the silence was shattered by a thunderous crash. Quantrill was lifted upward as if by a giant hand and smashed against the ceiling of the tunnel. He was held there a moment and then unceremoniously dropped to the ground when the pressure wave dissipated.

  He gasped for breath. His ears were screaming and his body felt like one big injury. He wasn’t trapped in the jaws of a giant killer Bug anymore, though. That qualified as a success.

  He tried to reach for a light, but his right arm wouldn’t respond. It felt like he had dislocated his shoulder when he smashed into the ceiling. Or when he smashed into the floor. He reached across with his left hand and pulled the flashlight out of his kit. The small light illuminated a round tunnel about two meters in diameter. It stretched out straight in front and straight behind as far as the beam of his light would reach. The Bug – what was left of it – was right behind him. Its segmented body was split open lengthwise and its gooey innards were splattered up and down the tunnel. He hated to imagine how much of that was all over him.

  He was going to have to have a look at his injuries eventually, though. He rolled onto his back, biting back a moan at the pain in his midsection. In the glow of the flashlight he saw his abdomen was torn apart by two gaping, bloody gashes. The Bug’s mandibles nearly spilled his guts. “Oh, shit,” he moaned.

  If that wasn’t bad enough there was also a shard of smooth, grey Formid exoskeleton about the size of his hand sticking out of his chest. The grenade blast turned the beast into shrapnel with enough velocity to slice through his body armor. The damn Bug almost killed him after all.

  He grasped the shard and pulled, but the pressure sent a jolt of pain through his body that made his vision blurry. He screamed and let go. The sudden pain left him feeling as though he might pass out. “Let’s just leave that there,” he panted.