by Chris Hechtl
To his annoyance only a handful of people were on the other end to deal with the unloading. They were just stacking it willy nilly in their haste to get the trucks turned around. He climbed off the truck and checked the perimeter instinctively. There was a trooper every two meters on the perimeter. “Pull two squads back from the perimeter. We don't need so many up there, and I don't want them exposed to sniper fire or a mortar attack. Get them on this.”
“Yes, sir,” Sabu said, nodding. “The ammo dump is empty, sir. We were supposed to send back the empty containers and shells but …,” he shrugged.
“Apparently someone used them for something else. Fine, we'll deal with it,” Lieutenant Chaing said, looking over to a row of sticks in the ground. He frowned at the sight until he saw someone pick up a battered helmet and put it on a stick. Then it registered, a cemetery. “We'll need to recover the bodies when things calm down,” he murmured.
<(>~^~<(>
“What the hell happened here?” Sabu asked softly, looking about him. “It's like a nightmare.”
“It looks like they've been through hell and back,” another private said, moving a box off the back of the truck to a dolly. “You going to help or just stand there?” he demanded.
“Yeah, looks that way,” Sabu said then flicked his ears. “I mean the hell part,” he said, shifting his rifle and adjusting the strap so he could sling it over his shoulder. He checked the safety once more then smacked his hands together. “You feed me from up there.”
“Sounds good to me,” the husky growled, climbing back onto the truck.
<(>~^~<(>
Lieutenant Chiang smiled then nodded to the work crews. It was good to see some weren't waiting for orders but were diving in. Good. He went over to the perimeter, walked it and talked softly to the grunts as he did a casual inspection. The Marines who had been on the planet looked worn, tired, and sloppy, but they'd been through hell. Most of them had uniforms that needed to be tossed out; they'd been so heavily patched and stained. He made another note to get them new uniforms … and a hell of a lot of leave time.
“Sir, I've heard various stories,” a Marine private said, looking at him. He had sleepy eyes and a battered cover on instead of a helmet.
“What about?”
“Are we all getting rotated topside?” the Marine asked hopefully.
“Eventually,” the lieutenant replied, patting him on the shoulder. He made a note of the Marine, Bailey. “For the moment we need your experience here on the ground. Once you show us the area and the ropes, we'll see if you can get some rest and fresh gear.”
“A keg would be nice,” the Marine muttered. “And a year off,” he said, shaking a little.
“I'll see what I can do about the first. The other …,” the lieutenant shrugged. “I think the pirates have had it their way for far too long. It's time we get some payback,” he growled, voice rising and darkening a bit.
Those around him heard that promise and clenched their fists and made Ooh Rah sounds in agreement. He nodded to the grim faces. “Once we've got drone coverage, I want one squad on the perimeter and the others can pull back for chow and downtime.”
“Yes, sir,” the private replied with a nod.
“You're it?” the lieutenant asked, eying him. The young man was a PFC but still ….
“Yes, sir,” the kid replied, tipping his hat brim back. “Sergeant Snorkle is in Baker. I'm not sure who's covering Charlie.”
“Gunny McClintock is,” the lieutenant replied absently.
The private blinked at him then whistled softly. “Yes, sir!” he said, suddenly all smiles. He turned that tired grin on the others. “I guess the enemy will wish that black cat never crossed their path!”
“Definitely,” the lieutenant replied as he got a ping on his implants. He patted the private on the shoulder again. “Once the vehicles are ready to move out, put a squad on a cordon and as a reserve in case of trouble. I don't know how much time we've got before the enemy regroups. We better make it count.”
Bailey nodded. “Yes, sir!”
<(>~^~<(>
By noon all but Major White Wolf and a handful of her HQ troops were down on the ground. She called a halt to the landings when the flight engineers started to complain about the clock time on their craft. She ordered the officers on the ground to get busy liasoning with the local militia as they secured the capital city's entrances. Once they had the city perimeter and spaceport secure, squads of mechs, militia, and Marines would move in and go door to door to sweep the city.
Jethro wasn't looking forward to that, though he was glad step one had been accomplished without any losses on their side. According to the hot debrief Arkangel and Lieutenant Locke had performed with his telemetry feed, they conservatively estimated he'd taken out at least two squads of enemy troops. How many of them were Horathians and how many were natives was in dispute. He didn't care about the numbers; he just wanted to keep the enemy on the run.
Second lieutenant Jason Locke seemed like a nice enough human, but the first lieutenant was a character. He had cybernetics, a replacement for his left eye, arm, and leg. Apparently something had gotten into his cybernetic eye that had forced him to shut it down and wear a black glass eye patch. He disdained a uniform and wore a white business suit. He carried a fancy white cane and briefcase and seemed to blend in very well into the native population. “Spooks,” Jethro muttered.
“What was that?” Private Misani asked turning.
“Nothing. What have we got. And we have to be on schedule; no screwups or the lieutenant will have my ass.”
“Better him than the enemy, sir,” the private replied, pointing to the cemetery nearby. “And better your ass than your head,” he said, pointing to a pair of rotting skulls near a battered stone wall that had yet to be buried.
“Where are the bodies?” Jethro asked softly.
“Why, hungry?” the human asked.
“You're sick,” Jethro growled. He turned to look at the young man.
“Sorry. No idea. Out there somewhere. Scuttlebutt said the enemy liked to sling the heads in from time to time to scare the piss out of everyone here. Make them break.”
“Psychological warfare,” Jethro murmured, remembering his lessons.
“Yes, that. Anyway, they were burying the heads as soon as they got here but then the enemy got cute and stuck grenades and IEDs inside.”
“Oh, lovely,” Jethro sighed, looking around. He spotted two more skulls: one was a bear, another was a deer's. No wonder they weren't being policed. “We'll have a bot do clean up. Plow them into a pit or something.”
“Scan them,” Bast told him. He warily walked over to one and felt her access his sensors to do a scan. “This one is clean.”
“I can't be at this all day, Bast,” he warned.
“Gunny, don't pick it up!” Misani warned. “It could be rigged!”
“I scanned it,” Jethro said. He turned in place. “Bast, put an order out to have someone with IED training to check each of the heads carefully then have someone else come in and dispose of those that are safe to handle. Use mechs if you have to. SITREP?”
“Outer perimeter secure. Captain Lyon has seeded the area with remote sensors and is returning for more.”
“Send …,” Jethro frowned then pointed to Misani. Misani pointed to his own chest. “Yes you. Take your fire team. Load up with water, sensors, and gear and get out there to meet Captain Lyon. Ping him when you are out of the gates. Don't dawdle.”
“Gunny, it's daylight out there.”
“Then daylight's wasting. Don't frack with me. There aren't any enemy troops for kilometers; get on it.”
The private saw enough of a glimpse of his snarling teeth to gulp and immediately move out at a trot to obey.
“Bast, rotate the troops who have been here the longest off the perimeter. I want them to shit, shower, and shave. Get someone to issue them new uniforms and kits. I want them to give a quick debrief to the squad leaders on wh
o to talk to and what to watch for then get half on downtime while the other half acts as a reserve. Anyone wounded is to be checked out by our medics.”
“Understood, Gunny,” Bast said. “Are you taking the armor off anytime soon?”
“I'm going to have to eventually, but if we can scare the enemy into a full retreat out of the area, then we can get some breathing room. Why?”
“Did you notice your energy reserves?” Bast asked dryly. He checked the HUD and swore. He was down to a quarter amount of fuel remaining in his deuterium tank. That was about two hours of sustained combat or eight hours of moving about, four if he pushed the pace.
“I'm guessing there isn't a supply nearby?”
“No,” Bast replied. “And I hate to go orbital to get more. I've notified the Major of the situation.”
“No response?”
“No. And I don't like to be this low. Your flight took a lot of fuel.”
“Tell me about it. Okay, one more hour then I'll have to park this suit and get into the HQ. Seriously though, get this base swept now. Any holes that need to be covered, work on that. I want the secondary day's objectives on everyone's list as soon as Misani returns.”
“Yes, Gunny. It's going to be a long day.”
“Even longer for the enemy.”
“I'd prefer short. Very, very short and final,” Bast rejoined. Jethro chuffed in amused agreement.
<(>~^~<(>
Brigadier General Busche was not happy when she received the report of the landing. Captain Allegra knew better than to make excuses when he made his report to her. She listened quietly, drumming her fingers against the improvised desk she'd appropriated but didn't say anything until he had finished with his report.
“Ma'am, I'm not sure if it is optimal to go back in. Not by daylight definitely. My sources have reported that they've landed a lot more troops and equipment and have pushed their perimeter out to what it was during the initial landing. And teams are going door to door sweeping for more people.”
The general nodded. She'd already ordered her spies to keep a low profile but apparently the enemy had located them by their radio transmissions in advance. Teams had hit five of her spies near the firebases before sunset. She'd ordered the others to shut down for a week and move. There was no telling if they succeeded in evading capture or not.
“Apparently it was only a matter of time before they got someone who knew what they were doing in,” she mused, looking at the map.
“Time to train them, ma'am?” Colonel Pauling asked. He'd stopped playing with his belt knife when it became apparent that the general was all business.
“Possibly, though I doubt it,” the general replied with a pensive frown. She didn't like a smart enemy. “Or to pull them from other assignments. We'll see. This isn't exactly how the book lays it out.”
“Ma'am?” the colonel asked, confused. He scratched at his bald scalp. The colonel was a good leader, better than the idiots that came in from the security forces on the pirate ships. But he had a long ways to go before he took her seat the general thought.
“I've taken the time to read the book, the Marine and Army manual. You should have done so as well,” she said severely.
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, chagrined. He hated to read. Give him a target any day.
“No time now I suppose. We need to get a hard number on their personnel and equipment. We're back to surveillance and sniping. Harassment techniques.”
“Yes, ma'am. We've got people in the city though. Cells that are locked down.”
“Tell them to get out through the sewers if they can, if they can't go to ground. Those that can't, well, make their lives mean something.”
He grimaced but then nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”
She turned to the captain. “Get your forces sorted out and then into scouting mode. I want to probe, see where they are going and try to pick them off. If we can pick up a couple of them, so much the better.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the captain replied. So far the attempt to capture the Marines had failed miserably. They killed a lot of people in the process and could only be taken if knocked unconscious or severely wounded. And when they did get captured, they triggered some sort of suicide. What they had confirmed, much to their consternation, was that they had implants. Full implants according to the rather messy dissection one of the general's medics had performed. The implications were dangerous and bode ill for the future.
“I know they have suicide protocols. And they are a bitch to catch. Try anyway if possible. For now the ROE is changed; we probe. I'll shift Captain Lan's forces your way to support. Don't get entangled in a firefight right now. Observe and report.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good. Get the hell out of here then,” she said, waving a hand. “And don't screw this one up, Alegra. I mean it,” she said when he hesitated by the door. He turned in time for her to lock eyes with him. He saw the intent in her eyes, the warning he was on thin ice. He gulped and nodded. “Go.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said again and rushed out.
“Think he'll survive?” Colonel Pauling asked.
“I don't know. We need to stop the cleansing process and pull in our horns. Limit raids and scavenging. We're going to have to be a lot more careful about the process, we either get in and there are no survivors or we don't do it. No more thefts.”
“Ma'am …,” the colonel started to protest, but she held a restraining hand up.
“Save it. I know it's more difficult, but every time we leave a survivor means we tell them where we've been. And yes, I know the trail of bodies will do the same thing. But a witness can tell them which way we've gone and other sorts of intel. Which reminds me,” she frowned. “We're not taking in anymore people. No more recruits and no more slaves,” she said, giving him a dirty look.
“Yes, ma'am. I'll let the troops know it's rosy palm time,” he said.
“Funny,” she said with a snort. “According to my intel, they've dropped at least a hundred fresh troops. Plus the same number of drones and equipment. Possibly more.”
“So we still outnumber them. We could go in like Alegra wants, a frontal attack …” the colonel asked suggestively.
She shook her head. “No. We're going to bleed them instead. Our people in the city are going to have to hit them as they are. Don't bother to pull them back; we'll use them as a distraction to get set up out here.”
“Ma'am?”
“With the training and equipment they've got, plus their ability to see with the damn drones and orbitals, we can't handle a frontal attack. That's suicide. They'd cut us apart with heavy weapons. No, we're going to fight smart and attrition them, a guerrilla movement.”
“I'll bet the native guerrillas will be thrilled by us telling them to move over, ma'am.”
“Them,” she sniffed. “We'll deal with them. For the moment, we're going to work on sniping, IEDs and terror tactics. We'll only give them a big push when we have to. Use the natives as much as possible. Keep our troops behind them to push them along.”
“As an incentive. Yes, ma'am.”
“Good, work on that. I'm going to go over the intel we've gathered. Have anything broadcast by the enemy forwarded to me immediately.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Dismissed.”
<(>~^~<(>
Dez looked over her shoulder to her spotter then back to her sector. They had divided the area around their sniper nest up into sectors and zones. The outermost zone, the inner, and the danger zone were the three layers of their defense. But it wasn't their own necks that they had to keep an eye out for.
When the radio chatter had dried up seemingly like magic, they'd had a harder time pinpointing who was who and where. That meant they had to go door to door, which upped the risks involved.
The enemy was outfitted with a mixture of hardware and training. Some of it was local manufacture, some restored, some recently refurbished. The shit they had that was copied was just that, shit. B
ut some of the simpler stuff came within shouting distance of their own kits. It was something to think about. Oh, they didn't have many heavy weapons, thank the gods, but they did have some pretty nasty explosives and hand weapons.
Fortunately, the pirates had hoarded the good stuff, so the local quislings didn't have it or know how to use it. They knew which end the bullets came out of, but it was a steep learning curve when they were up against people who shot back, not helpless civilian sheep.
She'd heard that the pirates were going to ground. Word was they were hiding their heat signatures and energy signatures in the steam works and industrial centers. Rooting them out was going to be a pain in the ass. She winced at the thought of explosives thrown into the mix. Maybe she wouldn't volunteer for that detail. Hopefully the Major would detail mechs and drones for that chore or at least have them out on point. Not that it would do anyone else in the area any good if a big enough bomb was set off.
“Sector four all quiet,” her spotter said. “No movement.”
“Sector five clear. Sector six has a cluster …” Dez paused as she aimed her directional mike. She snorted when she picked up the snippet of conversation. It was some sort of family gathering, and growing heated. Something about a guy getting caught with his pants down by his wife. If she wasn't on duty, she'd listen in.
“Sector six clear. Domestic dispute in progress. Sector seven …”
<(>~^~<(>
One of the best things about being a hunter was that he could pick and choose his targets, Master Sergeant Pani Evri thought as he looked through his sniper scope. He really was god, and the people below were little more than ants. Bustling ants, busy in the market and going about their mundane lives. As tempted as he was to pick a few off and terrorize them into a stampede showing them as the sheep they were, he had other prey. More dangerous, more … fulfilling prey to kill.
His grandfather used to tell him stories on his knee about how he'd been a beater and hunting guide on the homeworld. How they had released naked Moreaus into the preserve then run them to ground. He'd told him over and over about how it had been their right; after all, they were just animals. Animals that had been tinkered with, but in the end, animals.