by Lucas Marcum
Lieutenant Wilkowsky moved up next to her and listened for a moment, and then asked, “How close?”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth responded, “Too close. If they stopped the rockets and we can hear rifle fire, it means they don’t want to hit their own guys.”
Wilkowsky considered this, then turned to the other three in the bunker. “Check weapons, then get ready for casualties. There’s going to be people hurt from that last barrage.”
Outside they could hear shouting and people screaming. Wilkowsky half grinned at Elizabeth and said, “Duty calls. You treat here with the corpsman, since you’re better at it than me. Jen and I will bring ‘em in, since we have the armor in case we get hit again. Ready, Jenny?”
The sergeant just raised an eyebrow, picked up her rifle, and closed her helmet.
Wilkowsky looked at Elizabeth again. “We’ll be back.” The young man disappeared out the door.
****
Hill 302, Observation Post X-Ray, 1304 hours.
Gunnery Sergeant Nelson picked up the handset again with one hand and kept his binoculars firmly on his eyes. Keying the mic, he said, “Iron Six, OP X-Ray. The little bastards are almost at the walls. They keep popping flares to lure away the recon drones. Those rocket teams are advancing, too. We just had one hit the wall under Tower Two.”
The radio crackled, then came to life. “OP X-Ray, this is Iron Six Romeo. Keep eyes out to the west. We have fast movers incoming.”
Nelson squirmed around and adjusted his glasses. His assistant pointed at something and said, “Gunny, look.”
Swinging the glasses around, he saw what the sharp-eyed young Marine scout was indicating. The Elai were using their own version of a Mark 30 bolt weapon to suppress the fire from the towers as a team of infantry advanced. Several of the Elai soldiers dashing from cover to cover had large, bulky packs on their backs.
The old Marine muttered under his breath, “Shit.” He keyed the mic. “Roger that, Iron Six Romeo. Tell em to hurry. It looks like they’re moving up a breaching team.”
There was a moment of silence from the radio, then the terse response, “Roger, OP X-Ray. We’ll let the wall know. Keep your eyes peeled. Fast movers are two minutes out.”
Grimacing, Nelson replied, “Wilco, OP X-Ray, out.”
The private spoke, saying what they were both thinking, “They’d better hurry the fuck up.” Nelson couldn’t agree more.
****
Quick Response Force Staging Area, near Hill 185 ‘The Knob’, 1307 hours.
Tony cautiously poked his head up from the hastily dug trench he and his improvised response force were crouching in. He looked at his senior noncommissioned officer, a big boned, muscular female staff sergeant named Denny, in the next trench over and frowned. She was a mechanic by training. His entire team consisted of clerks, cooks, mechanics, and logistics specialists, and for some reason, one tactical generator repair specialist. Everyone else was manning the walls. These thirty Marines were all that were left over.
He waved at her, getting her attention. When she looked his way, he called out, “Sergeant Denny, check on the troops. Make sure no one’s hurt.” The muscular NCO nodded and clambered out of her hole, followed by three other Marines, who fanned out rapidly to check on the troops hunkered in the slit trenches.
In the distance over the gunfire, he thought he heard something. Climbing out of his trench, he cocked his head for a moment, trying to hear above the rifle fire. In a brief lull in the firing, he heard it.
In the distance came an eerie wail, undulating up and down, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Tony froze for a moment, then screamed, “BANSHEES INCOMING!!! GET IN YOUR HOLES!!! DOWN, DOWN, DOWN!!!” Seeing his improvised force dashing for the trenches, he dove for the bottom of the closest trench, clenched his helmet tight, and waited.
****
Voodoo Flight, Twenty Kilometers West of Paradise Station, 1308 hours.
Major Opoien keyed his mic and spoke in a calm voice, “Voodoo Flight, Voodoo Lead. Thirty Seconds. Weapons hot.”
Rapidly checking his airspeed and altitude, he smiled. A hundred meters above the jungle and moving at Mach 0.75, Voodoo Flight was in its element. Flicking the cluster munition ‘arm’ switch, he watched the target indicator crawl across his heads-up display. When it lined up, he gently tapped the button on his stick. Smiling under his mask, he murmured to himself, “Surprise, fuckers.” He felt the large aircraft lurch slightly as the two munitions canisters left the pylons and detached.
He keyed his mic and said, “Voodoo One, weapons away.” From behind him, the voice adjusted by the onboard computers to reflect of the speaker’s direction, he could hear Magic and Warlock in Voodoo Two and Three reporting weapons away.
Glancing forward and down, he caught a fast flash of grey green with what looked like streams of fire spitting out the front, and grinned. That would be Hex and Tinkerbell following up with gun runs to hit the infantry trying to cross open ground.
His radio came to life, “Voodoo Lead, Voodoo Two. I’m getting something on the…” There was a bright flash, and the Banshee spun wildly, his alarms screaming, then everything went black. Major Michael ‘Odin’ Opoien never felt a thing.
****
Hill 302, Observation Post X-Ray, 1308 hours.
Hearing the eerie, undulating shriek of the Banshee engines, Gunnery Sergeant Nelson spun his field glasses south just in time to see the gunmetal grey canisters fall off the big aircraft and gently tumble towards the ground. As they did, the canisters gently sprayed clouds of silvery rain that he knew were bomblets, packed with hundreds of guided, explosive flechettes. The flechettes flashed, then arrowed towards the ground, tearing into the tree line, where the Elai infantry desperately tried to seek cover from the death raining from the skies. The Banshees roared by, nearly level with the hilltop. Two more flashed by in the opposite direction, their noses spitting flames and leaving trails of burnt grass and undergrowth behind them, as well as scores of fallen enemy soldiers. Behind his field glasses, Gunny Nelson grinned.
Suddenly the private shouted, “Gunny! Look!” Whipping his head around, he saw a huge fireball rising from the jungle, and only two of the Banshees where there had been three. From off to the left, there was a streak of light that reached out and connected with another Banshee, which wobbled in its path, then exploded in midair. The third Banshee started jinking up and down wildly, firing flares and spitting decoy drones. The Marine scout pointed at something else and shouted again, “Gunny!”
Right above the tree line was another aircraft. Sleek, with broad wings and a stubby nose, clearly pursuing the fleeing fighter. As the two Marines watched, they could see another missile leaping out of the enemy fighter, speeding towards the Banshee, which whipped into a tight turn, spitting flares. The missile, thrown off by the maneuver, chased a decoy and exploded harmlessly over the jungle. The Banshee tore directly at the Elai fighter, firing the huge main cannon in its nose, but the Elai fighter rolled nimbly away and climbed out of reach. To the south, they could see another fireball rising from the jungle, marking the demise of another fighter.
Gunny Nelson swore bitterly and reached for the handset to call the Command Post.
****
Paradise Station, Tactical Operations Center, 1310 hours.
Major Mecham set down the handset and spoke to Colonel Piasecki, “At least three of the Banshees went in, Sir. The other two bugged out. OP X-Ray is reporting at least two, possibly more, Elai fighters out there. Tentative identification is Manta type III.”
Colonel Piasecki nodded, thinking. The Manta-class fighters were an extremely capable Elai suborbital fighter-bomber, named for its shape that resembled a manta ray.
He turned to the comm sergeant and said, “Son, get on the horn. Tell the Shiva we need fighters down here, and we need ‘em fast. They’re coming after us next.” The Marine nodded and set to work.
Major Mecham looked at his commander and said in an even v
oice. “You think it was a trap.”
Colonel Piasecki scowled, his face a twisted nightmare of metal and flesh. “You’re goddamn right it was a trap. Those fighters were waiting for the Banshees. That means they have something in store for us, too.” He turned to the tactical display and spoke in a thoughtful tone, “Now, if I wanted to take this place, what would I do…”
Listening to his headset, Major Mecham reported, “Sir, OP X-Ray reports enemy infantry with heavy weapons on the eastern perimeter. They’re firing on the towers.” Pausing, he spoke again, “There’s also a second wave heading for the western wall.”
The Marine at the communications station spoke up, “Sir, Shiva’s scrambling a wave of fighters and a second-strike package. Thirty minutes out.”
Through the walls of the bunker they could hear the cracking of the Elai guns firing.
Major Mecham calmly put his helmet on, settling it onto his shaved head, and looked at the Marine colonel. “Gonna be tight, Sir.”
Nodding, Piasecki keyed his handset. “Straitjacket Response, this is Ironjaw Six Actual.”
Major Harris’ voice came through the handset, “Ironjaw Actual, Straitjacket Response. Go ahead, Colonel.”
****
Combat Information Center, UEAN Assault Carrier Shiva’s Wrath, 1315 hours.
The deck of the Shiva’s Wrath was shuddering under the blasts of the launching fighter wing, and the Air Combat Station crewmen were working furiously. Captain Beck, commanding officer of the Shiva’s Wrath, sat in her chair with her customary impassive expression, watching and listening quietly.
The enlisted sailor manning the long-range orbital scope spoke in a low tone to the petty officer next to him, “PO, can you help me? I’m getting some interference. I can’t get this mess to clear.”
The petty officer leaned over and tapped a control, then froze. He straightened and spun, and snapped, “Chief! Possible contact! Run active sensors at three three two!” The chief petty officer nodded at a nearby rating to do it, then moved over to the screen.
He muttered under his breath, “Fuck.” Raising his voice, he said, “Commander Pietian? I think we got something, Sir.”
The executive officer moved over to the station and frowned at the display, then straightened up and spoke calmly to the sailor, “Ping this to the captain. Chief, sound General Quarters. Seal the ship for vacuum operations and prepare for maneuvers.” Alarms began to hoot all over the massive ship. He moved over to Captain Beck, who was studying her display.
In a low tone, he spoke to the captain, “Ma’am, looks like two medium cruisers. Probably Komodo-Class. No escorts, no fighters, burning hard for us.”
She tapped her lip, thinking for a moment, then raised her voice and spoke in a commanding tone that carried across the nerve center of the massive warship, “Helm to one two one, ahead full. Prepare to break orbit. Launch defensive fighter screen.” She turned to the Air Wing commander. “Launch a tanker and combat air control. Coordinate with the Thor’s Hammer air boss. We’re leaving orbit, and those Marines down there need air support.” She then turned to the ensign at the communication station. “Ensign, contact the Thor’s Hammer and Odin’s Spear. Advise them that we’ll be heading for rally point Omicron in accordance with the plan.”
Turning to her executive officer, she spoke in a lower tone, “We can keep out of his range. As soon as we’re clear of orbit, engage with long-range anti-ship missiles. Nukes if you have to, but take them down, and do it fast. Understood? “
The slender French officer nodded. “Oui, Capitan.”
Nodding sharply, she said sharply, “Prepare to fight the ship, Mr. Pietian.”
****
Voodoo Flight, Seventy-Five Kilometers south-southwest of Paradise Station, 1317 hours.
Lieutenant Lloyd ‘Tinkerbell’ Behm risked a fast glance behind him. Not seeing any pursuit, he blew out a breath he’d been unaware he’d been holding and keyed his radio. “Voodoo Flight, Voodoo Five. Any available aircraft, please respond.”
The radio hissed, then Pat ‘Warlock’ Junge responded, “Five, this is Three. You ok, Tink? Where are you?”
Tink took a quick glance at his display. “I’m about seventy-five clicks south, heading zero nine zero at seventy-five meters AGL.” He paused. “I’m ok. Warlock, have you seen Jamie?”
The radio was silent for a moment, then Warlock came back on, “He went in. He didn’t have a chance to eject. Neither did Odin. Don’t know where Magic is.”
The pilot squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to blot the images of his friend Lieutenant Ibson and his wife Lorraine out of his mind. He said, “Ok. Guess that makes you the Flight Leader. Rendezvous at six three six.”
Warlock responded in a clipped tone, “Roger. I’ll call air control.” Keying his mic, he said, “Darkstar, Voodoo Flight.”
The detached voice of the Air Combat Center came from above him, “Voodoo Flight, Darkstar”
Warlock keyed his mic again. “Darkstar, mission complete. Be advised, we have lost Voodoo One, Two, and Four, and there is a substantial Elai fighter presence in the area. Request vector for return to ship.”
The detached tone of the controller came from above, “Negative, Voodoo Flight. Paradise Station reports multiple infantry assaults in progress, and is requesting additional close air support.” There was a pause, then the voice came again, “Voodoo Flight, be advised, Darkstar is breaking orbit. We will be handing off Tactical Control to Spookshow on three three seven point one. Rendezvous at two one five with Smokehouse for fuel.” The controller’s voice took on a more human tone, “Good luck, Voodoo. We’ll see you soon. Darkstar, out.”
The radio fell silent for a moment, then Tink said, “Warlock, why would the Shiva be breaking orbit?” The telemetry in the Banshees’ cockpits that linked them to the assault carrier was winking out as the large carrier moved out of range. Tink spoke again, “What in the fuck is going on?”
****
Paradise Station, inside the Aid Station, 1324 hours.
Elizabeth looked up from the dressing she was cinching onto the pale Marine’s leg and smiled reassuringly. There had been the crackling, rippling explosions of the airstrikes, several loud explosions, one last explosion, then it was eerily quiet outside. Tapping Lieutenant Wilkowsky’s shoulder, she pointed to the door. He nodded and went back to the Marine he was treating.
Stepping towards the door, she exited the earthen bunker. As she did, Brian came into sight with a wounded Marine draped over his shoulder. Helping him get the Marine into the bunker and into Lieutenant Wilkowsky’s care, Elizabeth asked Brian in a low tone, “How are things out there?”
Grimly he shook his head. “Not good. We just watched three Banshees get greased. Jumped by fighters.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hung open for a moment before responding, “How? I didn’t think they had any fighters left!”
Brian’s mouth tightened. “Yeah. No one did, but they do. I don’t think we have anything left in the air at the moment. They fucked up the close air support, then they pulled reinforcements out of the jungle. We’re being hit from both sides at once, and if we’re really unlucky…” He broke off in midsentence, then tackled Elizabeth, hurling them both back into the bunker.
There was a bone-rattling howl of something above them, then a split second later an enormous explosion that outlined the bunker door in brilliant, chalky white light. Elizabeth and Brian were blown into the room, tumbling amongst the gurneys and desks serving as stretchers. The ground shook tremendously, then there was dead silence.
After a second, Elizabeth sat up and looked around. The wounded Marines and the four armored Valkyrie crewmen were all picking themselves up, looking dazed.
She looked at Brian and asked, “What the fuck was that?”
Struggling to his feet, he replied, cautiously peering at the door, “I think our main ammunition dump just went.”
****
Hill 302, Observation Post X-Ray, 1325 hour
s.
Gunnery Sergeant Nelson blinked his eyes, trying to clear the spots out of his vision. Again, the much younger scout with him recovered faster.
“Gunny, the main ammo point is gone. Look.” Raising the glasses, he scanned the base below them. Where the ammunition depot had been was a ten-meter-wide crater, and a huge plume of smoke. Panning his field glasses over the base, he scanned the eastern wall. Clearly visible were several very large cracks in the plas-crete. Dazed Marines stumbled around the wall towers, trying to regain their bearings. As he watched, the orange-red flash of the Elai rockets began to concentrate on the area. Chunks flew out of the wall, falling inward. Suddenly a ten-meter section collapsed, and he could see the Elai swarming over the rubble. He picked up the handset.
“Ironjaw Six Romeo, Straitjacket Response, we have a breach in the eastern wall. Multiple tangos inside the perimeter. Repeat, enemy infantry inside the perimeter.”
Setting the handset down, he watched helplessly as the dark armored figures swept into the interior of the base.
****
Paradise Station Tactical Operations Center, 1327 hours.
Major Mecham rolled his shoulders, then adjusted his body armor. Picking up a pump action shotgun that was sitting nearby, he racked it and motioned two nearby enlisted to take up positions covering the door. He then sat at an office chair behind an overturned desk, aimed the shotgun at the entrance to the command bunker, blinked, sniffed once, then sat totally still, waiting.
Colonel Piasecki nodded once with satisfaction and smiled grimly. He patted his hip to ensure his grandfather’s Model 1911 .45 caliber pistol was there. It was, as his grandfather had said, ‘The heart and soul of a Marine’s backup plan’. It had worked for his family for centuries and, with modified ammunition, punched through Elai armor like it wasn’t there. Turning back to the tactical station, he asked, “Sergeant, is the quick response force moving?”