Starfist:Flashfire

by David Sherman; Dan Cragg

  Before the last of the rebel soldiers reached the trench, their officers and sergeants realized that instead of the disorganized and demoralized soldiers they expected to close with, they were up against Confederation Marines in chameleon uniforms. They began to shout orders, changing the assault tactics and easing their troops back from the edge of panic. The soldiers stopped their wild fire and paired off, standing back to back, using their rifles in the same manner the Marines were using theirs—they too had trained with pugil sticks.

  But the Marines could see their targets, the Coalition troops could only see an occasional splotch of blood or gob of mud bobbing or twisting in the air—and their numbers had been severely reduced during the long minutes before their officers and soldiers began to restore order.

  Dean held his blaster with his left hand behind the handgrip and the right on the forestock. Two soldiers jumped back to back before him, neither facing him directly. Dean leveled his blaster and threw his entire weight into a thrust, striking one soldier in the middle of his face, between nose and cheek, with the muzzle of his blaster. He followed through by swinging the butt of the blaster around to slam into the side of the second man’s head, just behind and below the ear, under the edge of his helmet. Both men dropped hard, and Dean ignored them to viciously slam another soldier off his feet.

  Two meters away, Godenov ducked under an undirected cross-butt stroke and dug the point of his knife up under the man’s sternum, through his diaphram, and into his heart. Godenov jerked the blade out as the soldier fell away, slashing up and to the side at the neck of the man’s partner, who was turning to see why they’d lost contact. That soldier dropped his weapon and gurgled as his hands tried to stanch the blood spurting from his opened throat.

  In the opposite direction from Godenov, Quick was staggered and knocked over by a wild swing from a rebel behind him. Quick turned his fall into a somersault and rolled to the side when he came out of it, just in time to miss three rifle butts that slammed into the floor of the trench where he’d just been. He jumped to his feet, but he’d lost his blaster. He hopped back from the three rifle butts that were swinging wildly in hope of hitting him, drew his knife, and dove under the three soldiers, thrusting up. One of the soldiers shrieked and fell away as the knife tore into his groin, but the force of his fall tore the knife from Quick’s hand. Quick rolled hard, away from the wounded man and into the legs of one of the others, spilling him onto his face. But his uniform picked up enough dust from the trench floor to make him hazily visible. The third soldier saw the spectral image and hammered the butt of his rifle into it. Quick screamed when his right humerus shattered under the blow. The soldier flipped his rifle around and pointed the muzzle down, to shoot the fallen Marine—

  But Dean heard Quick’s scream, saw what was happening, and shot first. The rebel soldier folded over with a hole burned through his chest.

  “Izzy, to me!” Dean called on his comm. “Use your infra.” He reached Quick in two strides and stood over him, his blaster held ready to strike with either end, or to fire if he had a good target.

  “Here I am,” Godenov said an instant before his back made contact with Dean’s.

  The two fended off other rebel soldiers, who spotted Quick’s ghostly, writhing body and thought he would be an easy kill.

  But it had taken the attackers too long to realize who they were fighting and adjust their tactics, and the fight was already winding down. It was only a couple of minutes more before the surviving rebel soldiers threw down their weapons and surrendered to the men they couldn’t see.

  First squad’s fight in the trench was over, but the battle still raged. After trussing their prisoners with wrist ties, they returned their attention to the soldiers advancing by fire and maneuver, now not much more than a hundred meters distant. The first of the direct fire guns reached position and opened fire.

  Seventy-five meters to the left, second squad’s fire changed from individual shots at targets of opportunity to volley fire directed by Sergeant Linsman.

  “Grazing fire, ninety meters,” Linsman calmly ordered. “Fire!”

  Ten blasters crack-sizzled and ten bolts of plasma skimmed low over the ground to strike ninety meters downrange. The angle at which they hit glanced them upward to chest-height at a hundred meters, and the impact itself dispersed them, widening their hitting areas, so that instead of ten tiny bits of killing star-stuff, they were ten scythes of murderous plasma—their casualty-producing range was increased from points along a thirty-meter-wide swath to cover half of the swath, a better than fifty-fifty chance of hitting anyone standing along the line.

  “Shift left ten meters, the same,” Linsman ordered. “Fire!” The Marines fired again, their aiming points ten meters left of where they’d fired the first volley.

  “Right, twenty meters, the same,” Linsman called. “Fire!” The third volley hit beginning ten meters to the right of the first.

  Then the direct fire guns opened up and the ground shook with the impact of their high-explosive rounds. Debris showered down on the Marines, and dust clouds enveloped them.

  “Casualties, report!” Linsman ordered.

  “Hammer, Wolfman, sound off!” Corporal Claypoole shouted.

  Lance Corporal Schultz grunted, and fired off a bolt to show he was all right.

  “I’m okay,” MacIlargie answered. “I think.”

  “What do you mean, you think?” Claypoole demanded.

  “A lot of shit just landed on me, that’s what I mean,” MacIlargie snapped back.

  “Are you hurt?” Claypoole barked.

  “No.”

  “Dumbass, that’s what I asked.” Claypoole reported, “Third fire team, no one’s hurt.” First and second fire teams had already reported; second squad had no casualties.

  “Count off from the left,” Linsman said. “Even numbers, use light gatherers, odds use infras. Count now.”

  “One,” PFC Summers counted.

  “Two,” Corporal Kerr said.

  “Th-three,” Corporal Doyle stammered.

  “Four,” from Lance Corporal Fisher. And so on, through Lance Corporal Schultz at ten.

  “Individual fire,” Linsman ordered, “pick your targets.” Until the dust cleared, they wouldn’t be able to see an aiming line for effective volley fire. Second squad’s fire picked up, and became much heavier when the gun squad’s second team joined them, spewing out hundred-bolt bursts from side to side. But the fire wasn’t equal from all blasters.

  Schultz swore under his breath; he was number ten, using his light-gathering screen. The light gatherer did a poor job of penetrating the dust clouds and he couldn’t pick out targets to fire at as effectively as he’d like. He slipped his infra into place and began picking off the red blotches that appeared in his view. After four bolts, he switched back to the light gatherer. The dust clouds were thinning, and he was able to see maneuvering soldiers—and shoot them.

  Then the direct fire guns fired again. More debris rained into the trench and more dust clouds billowed up. With a roar of tortured, snapping metal, the bunker a few meters to Schultz’s right exploded. An inch-thick sheet of fractured plasteel armor plate was wrenched off its foundation and crashed onto Schultz.

  The impact of the armor plate and debris it threw out battered Claypoole and almost knocked him over. “Hammer, sound off,” he shouted.

  Silence from that side.

  “Come on, Hammer. Grunt or something. Let me know you’re all right!”

  Still no reply.

  “Hammer!” Claypoole sidled to Schultz’s position. Through his infra, he saw a hand splayed out from under the plasteel. He grabbed it and gave it a tug. “Hammer, speak to me!”

  No response.

  Claypoole gripped the edge of the sheet of armor and heaved. It cracked and bent ominously in the middle.

  “Oh, shit,” Claypoole murmured and eased the plasteel back into place—the place the sheet bent was right where he thought Schultz’s back was;
if it broke there the jagged edge might tear into Schultz’s spine, and he might die before he could be extracted.

  If he wasn’t dead already.

  “Corpsman up!” Claypoole called on the fire team leaders’ circuit. Then to Linsman, “Hammer’s pinned under a sheet of plasteel. I can’t move it without it breaking on him.”

  “Get back to your position, I’ll check it out,” Linsman said. “Doc, you on your way?”

  “I’m almost there,” Hospital Mate Third Class Hough replied. “I see you.”

  “Help’s coming, Hammer. Hang in there.” Reluctantly, Claypoole backed away from Schultz and resumed his position on the firing step. He swore when he looked over the lip of the trench, the maneuvering enemy soldiers were only seventy-five meters away. He resumed fire.

  Doc Hough reached Schultz right after Linsman did. The squad leader was examining the plasteel armor that held Schultz pinned to the wall of the trench. It was definitely too heavy for him to move by himself, because of the crack in its middle, probably too heavy for even two men to move without risk of the jagged edge of the fracture doing severe damage to the man under it.

  He told that to Hough while the corpsman snaked his telltales under the sheet’s edge. Hough merely grunted, and focused on his display. After a few seconds, graph lines juttered up and down on the display. Hough grunted.

  “He’s alive but unconscious. There’s nothing immediately life threatening, but we have to get that armor off him—it’s compressing his chest and he isn’t able to breathe freely.” Hough lifted his chameleon screen so Linsman could see his face. Linsman did the same.

  Screaming overhead made them look up—a division of Raptors was diving for the ground.

  “Shit!” Hough swore. “Grab the other side and hold it in place.”

  Linsman swore and scuttled to the far side of Schultz. The two gripped the sheet firmly, one hand above and the other below the fracture. The air shook with the sonic boom from the four aircraft, almost wrenching the armor from their grip. The sheet fractured farther, but held.

  Then the Raptors fired their cannons, and the ground bucked from plasma strikes.

  The ground slammed upward on the plasteel and the air pushed back on the sheet’s top. The armor plate snapped.

  “Away!” Hough shouted, and pushed both halves of the now broken plasteel plate away from Schultz. Linsman did the same. The bottom half fell away, but the top half was too heavy, and slid down the inner face of the bottom; its ragged top tore along Schultz’s back.

  Schultz’s body arched and a huff of agony burst from his mouth. The back of his chameleons began turning red.

  Hough didn’t hesitate, he shoved an arm under Schultz’s chest and grabbed him under the arms to lower him face down to the floor of the trench. The big man’s weight staggered him and his grip began to slip. Then it eased when Linsman reached in and helped. Together, they lay Schultz on his stomach. The corpsman tore the back of Schultz’s shirt, but couldn’t examine the wounds because the blood was flowing too copiously. He quickly stuffed packing where the blood seemed to be heaviest, then applied synthskin over Schultz’s entire back.

  “I’m not sure this’ll stop the bleeding,” Hough told Linsman. “I need to do something more radical.” He reached into his medkit as he talked and pulled out a black block. He opened it and shook it out; it was a stasis bag. With the squad leader’s help, he rolled Schultz into the bag and closed it. The bag’s whirring was almost inaudible when he turned it on. In seconds, the stasis bag would put Schultz into a state of suspended animation that would maintain him in his current condition until he reached a hospital.

  “Gotta go,” Hough said, closing his medkit and rising to his feet. “Got another call.” He ran toward first platoon’s position, saying, “Tell me what to expect,” into his comm.

  Corporal Dean injected a nerve blocker into PFC Quick’s right shoulder as soon as the surviving Coalition soldiers surrendered. The blocker did its job quickly, and Quick stopped whimpering.

  “Corpsman up,” Dean called. “Quick’s down with a broken arm,” he said when Doc Hough ran up. “I’ve got him settled, but his arm needs attention before the broken bones start cutting tissue and blood vessels.”

  “Any sign of bleeding?” Hough asked.

  “Not external. At least his chameleons aren’t turning red.”

  “What did you use on him?”

  “Nerve blocker in his shoulder.”

  “Where’s the break?”

  “Upper arm.”

  “Cut through the material from shoulder to elbow. Let me see your arm.”

  Dean reached for his knife with one hand and held the other high over his head to let the sleeve slide down, exposing his arm.

  “I see you.”

  Dean had almost finished cutting Quick’s sleeve open when Hough dropped down next to him.

  “Out of my way,” the corpsman said and gave the injury a quick visual examination before gently probing it with his fingertips. Quick’s arm was deeply bruised and swollen from elbow to shoulder, and bone fragments moved freely under Hough’s gentle probing. He turned to open his medkit. “Don’t you have a firefight to deal with?” he asked, and pulled out a fracture stabilizing kit.

  “Ah, yeah,” Dean said. For a moment he’d forgotten about the battle raging around them. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “Barring complications, he’ll be back to duty in a week. Won’t you, Quick?” He finished applying the stabilizer and peeled Quick’s eyelids back, checking for signs of shock.

  Quick gave a weak chuckle. “I’m a badass Marine, Doc. Maybe sooner.”

  “Sure you will.”

  More Raptors screamed overhead. Hough looked up to see two pairs of Raptors plummeting straight down. He watched as they fired their cannons then bounced almost 180 degrees to climb back to altitude. He put his hands on Quick’s arm above and below the fracture to keep it stable when the shockwaves from the plasma bolts reached them.

  “What’s happening out there?” Hough asked.

  “They’re running!” Dean shouted. “We did it, we stopped them!”

  “Us and a Raptor squadron,” Hough said softly.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  The Coalition’s badly battered soldiers fell back all across the line they’d nearly broken through; 34th FIST had suffered relatively few casualties in throwing them back. The recently inserted Force Recon units had succeeded in disabling enough of the Coalition’s ground-based mobile antisatellite guns for the navy to lay a string-of-pearls.

  Commander van Winkle, the FIST’s infantry battalion commander, bent over, studying his situation maps and plots and nearly salivated. The real-time images downloaded from the navy’s string-of-pearls clearly showed the beaten soldiers running in a disorganized rout.

  “It’s easier to beg forgiveness than to get permission,” he muttered.

  “Sir? You said something?” Captain Uhara, his executive officer, said.

  “Hum? Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” He abruptly stood erect. “I have a new order for the company commanders,” he told Uhara. “Prepare to move out. We are going to pursue. Stand by to conference.”

  “Prepare to move out, we will pursue, stand by to conference. Aye aye, sir.” Uhara gave van Winkle an odd look before he turned to his comm to pass the order to the company commanders. He’d heard the orders Brigadier Sturgeon gave during planetfall, and knew the orders from Ravenette defense HQ was to drive the enemy away and then hold the line. Still, he knew, Marines didn’t hold, they advanced.

  Van Winkle ordered Captain Rhu-Anh, his intelligence officer, to launch the UAV platoon’s spy-eyes, and Captain Likau, the logistics officer, to get as many logistics carriers as possible in fifteen minutes loaded with blaster and assault gun batteries, water, medical supplies, and rations—in that order. He turned to Uhara and asked, “Are they ready?”

  “Standing by, sir.”

  Van Winkle held hi
s hand out, Uhara slapped the comm into it. “Company commanders,” van Winkle said into the comm, “the enemy has been driven back and is in full flight. We are going to keep them in flight. Move out!” He handed the comm back to Uhara, who nervously cleared his throat.

  “Sir, when are we going to inform the brigadier?”

  Van Winkle graced him with a feral grin. “When we make contact again.”

  “Now hear this,” Captain Conorado said into his all-hands circuit. “The enemy we have just thrown back is in full retreat. We are going to pursue. Our casualties are already at the battalion aid station, or en route to it, so they’re in good hands, and we don’t need to worry about them. We go over the top and move out in one minute.

  “That is all.”

  Conorado toggled the all-hands circuit off and looked at Lieutenant Humphrey, Company L’s executive officer. His shrug went unseen in his chameleons. “This is what we call a ‘fluid situation,’ ” he said. “All orders are subject to change without notice.” Both of them also knew the orders Brigadier Sturgeon had received from General Billie’s headquarters.

  “What is this happy horseshit?” Corporal Claypoole gasped when he heard Captain Conorado’s order. He was more shaken than he could have imagined by the loss of Lance Corporal Schultz.

  Lance Corporal Godenov looked open-mouthed in Claypoole’s direction and mutely shook his head. His head shake went unseen by his equally invisible fire team leader.

  “Cut the crap, Claypoole,” Sergeant Linsman snapped. “We’re taking the battle to the enemy. Get ready to go over the top.”

  “Kick them while they’re down,” Corporal Kerr added. “If we kick them hard enough, they won’t get back up.”

  Nobody had time to add anything more; the order came and Company L surged over the lip of the trench and moved forward at a trot in pursuit of the enemy.

  It didn’t take them long to catch up.

  Brigadier Sturgeon’s mouth pursed as he looked at the movement on his real-time situation map, downloaded from the string-of-pearls in orbit around Ravenette. What’s going on there? he wondered, but before he could speak, Captain Shadeh, his F1, handed him the comm.