by Jay Allan
“How’d you do?” She swung around as she spoke.
“Not too bad.” He turned back and looked up at the peak. “We’ve got the place turned into a fortress. If they try to come across at us, they’re going to have one hell of a time of it.”
And they’ll still get across, she thought darkly. This whole exercise was about making it too difficult, too costly…enough to discourage them, buy time. If the enemy really wanted to take her position, they could bring another 2 or 3 thousand troops from Arcadia City and do the job right. They’d pay a cost, but they’d win the fight.
“What happened?” He’d been trying to hide a limp as he walked toward her, but she noticed it.
“Oh…nothing.” She knew he was lying…she could see he was in considerable pain. “Just twisted my ankle. I’ll walk it off in a few minutes.”
Bullshit, she thought to herself, but she just looked at him and smiled.
“How about the com? Any luck?”
He frowned. “No. The jamming’s too heavy…even up top.” The enemy had been blocking all communications, preventing her from contacting anyone…or even determining if there was any other active resistance. The satellites had all been destroyed or taken by the enemy, leaving her people completely cut off.
“So we can only guess at what’s going on?” She phrased it like a question, but she didn’t really want an answer.
“For now, at least.” He looked down at his feet, kicking a small stone as he spoke. “But what could be going on?” He didn’t expect an answer either. “We’ve got everybody up here who can manage a weapon.”
She turned back, looking across the gorge again. “I don’t know, Ed.” She paused, squinting as she stared at the enemy position. “But that…” – she pointed across the canyon – “…is nowhere near all of the force they landed.” She turned back and looked at Calvin. “We fought three times that number at Yardley Pass, and even that was only part of their army.” She shook her head. “So where are the rest of them? They don’t need anywhere near that much strength as garrisons to watch the population. And we may be a poor excuse for an army, but we’re still an active force in the field.” She paused. “Why aren’t they sending more troops after us? Why don’t they have enough strength up here to end this now?” Another pause. “Come on, Ed…you know they could have taken us out by now if they had more troops over there.”
Calvin was silent for a few seconds. Finally, he shook his head. “I just don’t know, Kara.” He looked over her shoulder toward the enemy. “Everything you say is true.” He sighed heavily. “But for the life of me, I can’t think of anything that could have thousands of their troops tied down.”
“Look out, Billy.” Tommy Handler was crouched behind a pile of debris, the remnants of a storage shed or other small building. He’d been in an intense firefight with two enemy troopers, but he’d just taken out the last of them. He took the chance to scan the tactical display, and he saw the threat to his friend’s flank. “You’ve got bogies working around you.” He shook his head, trying to clear away the growing fuzziness. The fatigue was setting in again. He’d been running on pure adrenalin for the last ten minutes, and now his arms and legs felt dead. “There are three of them, buddy. Far side of the main house.”
The two privates were all that was left of their fire team. They’d lost the SAW first…the weapon and its two-man crew were obliterated by a heavy mortar round two days before. Handler had been the first to get there and look for survivors, but he couldn’t find a piece of anything bigger than a baseball.
They’d just lost the corporal an hour before. He’d been pinned down by half a dozen enemy troops in a narrow ravine. Handler and Greene finally broke through to him, but they were too late.
They were falling back…again. They’d been retreating almost non-stop for a week, and it didn’t look like they were going to hold here either. There were just too many of the enemy…and they were too damned good. The Marines hated to acknowledge they had any equals, but whoever these guys were, Handler had to admit they were damned close. Their equipment was identical…and they had a lot more of it.
“Thanks, pal.” He sounded tense, out of breath…scared. Bill Greene had graduated at the top of the last Marine class, which meant he was almost certain to make corporal if he made it back from this mission. But training and the field were two different things, and Greene was struggling. He turned quickly, moving to counter the attackers trying to flank him.
Handler, on the other hand, had barely made it through training. He’d have probably washed out if the base Commandant hadn’t seen something in him and massaged his test results to squeak him through. But since hitting dirt on Arcadia, Handler had taken down at least a dozen enemies, and he’d saved his friend’s life twice. It didn’t matter how you selected recruits or what training methods you used; there was a mysterious factor, a spark of something inexplicable that separated a natural warrior from the well trained and equipped facsimiles. Tommy Handler had it. The Commandant had sensed it, and the cherry Marine’s performance on Arcadia validated that confidence.
Handler took a quick look at the tactical display. There was nothing approaching his position, at least nothing close enough to be an immediate threat. He was worried about Billy, and he didn’t like his friend’s chances against three enemy soldiers coming at him. He snapped his body around, rolling out into the open, hugging the ground and scanning for new cover. There was a rusted out wreck of an old vehicle, some type of farming equipment, he supposed. It was about 20 meters ahead, and it was in a good spot to support Greene.
He told the suit AI to give him a stim. He was just too tired and too sore, and he needed to be sharp now. What a first mission, he thought…I’m not sure how much longer I can make it in this suit. He actually knew the answer to that question. Missions were usually planned to limit deployments to a week before Marines got a chance to pop their suits and the armorers had a chance to do some diagnostics and resupply the units. But forces had been in action for more than a month without a break, and the official word was the suit could sustain a Marine indefinitely. The miniature fusion plant could power the thing for a century or more, at least on minimal life support, and the nutrition system was good for two months, at least.
How long a man could stand to drink recycled urine and sweat and subsist on injected protein and energy formulas was another question. Going past two weeks in a suit, the major concerns were psychological, not physical. Marines thought of themselves as invulnerable, but there was a limit to what they could take…just like any other human being. Awareness and mental acuity declined abruptly after about ten days. That could be balanced out for a while with drugs, but there were limits there too. Mental breakdowns became a concern after two weeks and a major threat at three.
It was ripe in the suit, Handler knew that much. The recycling systems were highly efficient, but after a week, the armor started to smell less like a fresh and clean environment and too much like Tommy Handler. He’d figured a hundred different ways to twist his body and rub against the suit, but he’d have given his left arm for one good chance to scratch himself.
He crawled behind the shattered vehicle. Looks like some kind of tractor, he thought. He laughed softly at himself. He didn’t know a damned thing about farming. For all he knew, the vehicle was a melon picker.
He peered out around the end of the wreck, glancing at the tactical display. Here they come, he thought…they’re gonna make their move now. The enemy soldiers were crouched low behind a shattered masonry wall. They were just sitting there, but Handler knew they were about to go after Billy.
“Load grenade.” Handler snapped an order to the AI. “Flashbang.” Most of the guys named their AIs. It seemed like a pretty good idea to him, but he didn’t have time to worry about it now. Maybe later. One day, if he ever got to climb out of the stinking foulness of his suit…and maybe even take a shower. Perhaps then it would seem more important to name his digital assistant.
He heard a loud click as the round snapped into place. The grenade launcher was built into the right arm of his suit. It could throw a 6 kilo weapon as far as 3 klicks, but this time he only needed 800 meters. He angled his arm, using the tactical display to aim.
“Cut your fire, Billy.” Greene was shooting at his attackers, but he didn’t have a good line of site, and his rounds were just smashing the masonry into smaller chunks. “I’m gonna hit ’em with a flashbang, and then I want you to swing out to your right. Find someplace where you’ve got cover and a better shot.” He paused, finessing his targeting as he did. “You got me, Billy? I want you to haul ass as soon as I give the word.”
“Yeah, Tommy.” Greene sounded overwhelmed…grateful to his friend for the guidance. “Whatever you say, man.”
Technically, Greene outranked Handler, and he should have been giving the orders. The two were both privates, graduated into the Corps on the same day, but as valedictorian, Greene had been given the number 4 slot in the team and Handler number 5. But Handler’s natural ability had surfaced, and he had taken charge. Greene was struggling to get through his first battle, and he was content to follow his friend’s commands.
Handler held his arm steady, checking his aim again. He pressed the firing lever and felt his arm recoil as the electromagnetic catapult sent the grenade on its way.
The flashbang wasn’t going to take any of the enemy troops down; he was pretty sure of that. It was hard to seriously hurt a fully armored trooper with any grenade…at least unless you went nuclear. But the flashbang rounds had a different purpose. Named after ancient stun grenades, the weapons were designed to create severe interference at the point of impact, effectively blinding anyone within 30 meters. One of the newest systems to come out of General Sparks’ weapons lab, the flashbangs were a variation on the Caliphate’s smoke shells, and they covered the target area with a superheated, radioactive steam that virtually shut down all scanning and detection systems for 2-3 minutes.
Handler watched the grenade land. It exploded with a muffled sound, and the area all around the enemy troopers was obscured with a sickly green cloud. The steam was infused with tiny metallic particles, and the sunlight gave it a vaguely sparkling appearance.
“Let’s go, Billy.” Handler lunged out from his cover, into the open field between him and the enemy. He swung far to the left, zigzagging, approaching his targets in an irregular pattern. The enemy troopers were firing wildly, but he could see immediately they had no targeting. He held his own fire…he didn’t want to give his position away. He ran up a small hill and threw himself over the crest.
He glanced at the tactical display. He had nothing on the enemy…the flashbang was blocking his scanners just as effectively. But Greene was outside the affected area, and Handler could see his friend moving quickly around the enemy’s other flank. It looked like he’d found some debris that offered him decent cover and a good line of site.
Handler pulled his assault rifle from his back, extending it in front of him, aiming at the enemy’s last known location. He had no idea if his foes had moved, but he hadn’t detected anything emerging from the affected area, so if they had, they didn’t go far.
“OK, Billy.” He flipped the rifle to full-auto. He knew he was going to have to start worrying about his ammo supply soon, but not now. “Fire.”
He moved his weapon across the entire obscured area, focusing on the spot where the enemy had been deployed. He could see on the display that Greene was firing too. He had no idea if they were hitting anything, but the return fire had stopped. He heard the auto-loader slam another clip into place. That meant he’d already sent 500 hyper-velocity rounds into the steam cloud.
He fired through half the second clip and stopped. “Hey Billy, hold your fire. The flashbang’s dissipating. There’s no one firing back. Let’s hold up and see what’s in there.”
He stared at the tactical display, watching it flicker as his scanner began to penetrate the dissolving steam cloud. There was still no hostile fire. “I’m going in, Billy. Stay sharp and cover me.”
Handler dashed out over the crest of the hill, sprinting the distance to the enemy position. There were wispy remnants of the steam from the flashbang, but it was mostly gone. He ran up to the wall, pressing himself against the side opposite the enemy troops. He spun around, rifle at the ready. There were two figures lying on the ground. One was obviously dead, the top half of his armored body torn apart. The other was motionless, and when he looked closely, Handler could see that three rounds had torn right through his chest.
He turned his head quickly, looking in every direction. He caught some movement along the ground, something disappearing behind a chunk of shattered plasti-crete. He lunged forward, toward the mound of rubble.
The next few seconds seemed to play out in slow motion. He saw the movement again, behind the pile of smashed bricks now, rifle moving out. His body seemed to react on its own, instinct taking over. He jumped hard, propelling himself almost two meters up as he lunged forward.
He heard the rounds smashing into the wall behind where he’d been standing half a second earlier. The ground was coming at him fast and he angled his shoulder, landing with a textbook combat roll. His own rifle snapped up, firing. He’d set it on semi-auto to save ammo, and his first three round burst hit the edge of the collapsed wall, sending a spray of dust and shattered rocks into the air.
His momentum carried him forward, and he caught a glimpse of his enemy. He was wounded, that was clear, but he was pulling up his own weapon, firing a burst in Handler’s direction. The rounds slammed into the ground next to his leg, scaring the hell out of him, but not causing any damage.
His finger depressed the trigger again…and again. Two bursts of hyper-velocity projectiles ripped through the atmosphere, covering the ten meters to his target in an infinitesimal fraction of a second. The first three went high, leaving a faint glow in the air over his adversary’s head. The second burst was lower, more on target. One round clipped the opposing trooper’s arm, and the second one smashed into his shoulder, ripping a huge gash in his armor and sending a cloud of blood and shattered bone into the air. The trooper fell to the ground, twisting almost 360 degrees and landing on his back. His rifle slipped from his gloved hand and fell next to him.
Handler’s instincts were still in control. He leapt to his feet, pushing too hard and almost tumbling forward face down. He got control of his balance and stepped quickly, standing over the man he’d just shot. He looked down at the stricken soldier. The wounds were bad, that was clear…but they weren’t necessarily mortal. The suit had a tremendous capability to stabilize even grievous injuries, and if he got medical attention quickly enough, he had a good chance to make it. But war was rarely that simple.
Handler knew what he had to do. He didn’t like it, and his mind rebelled against what his training and combat instincts told him was essential. He couldn’t handle a prisoner now, especially not one who couldn’t walk. And he couldn’t leave him either. He was badly hurt, yes…but the Marine fighting suit was a multi-faceted weapon. If Handler turned his back, even for a second, there was a chance his adversary could take him down. All it would require was a slight move of the hand…perhaps not even that. A whispered command to the suit’s AI might do the job. No, he didn’t have any choice.
He could hear Greene on the com, shouting to him, and he could see the small icon on the tactical display moving toward him. He raised the rifle quickly. He knew he was only doing what he had to do…but for some reason he didn’t want his friend to see it. He turned off his mind, letting his raw guts control his actions. He looked away, only hearing the three rounds blasting out of the assault rifle. He froze for a second, slowly looking back, seeing what he had done. The soldier was still in place, but his chest was just…gone. Handler had fired 3 dead on heart shots.
“You OK, Tommy?” Greene was almost there, hopping over a pile of shattered debris.
Handler was still frozen. This wa
sn’t the first man he’d killed, or even the fifth. But it was the first he’d shot from so close…and the only one he’d seen moving, looking back at him, before he did. He wanted to drop his rifle and run away…or fall to his knees and empty his stomach. But he knew his duty was here on this battlefield…and intravenous feeding and the anti-emetic drug cocktail made vomiting a non-option too.
Slowly, deliberately, he forced himself to move. He turned sluggishly toward his friend, just as he was rounding the edge of the demolished wall.
“Hey Tommy…you OK, pal?”
Handler looked up at his friend. “Yeah, Billy.” His voice was throaty, raw. “I’m OK.” He knew he was lying.
“It’s our only chance, Jim.” Mike Barnes was crouched down below the twisted metal framework. The complex had been a refinery or some other kind of processing plant, but six hours of infantry combat had reduced it to scrap. Teller’s people had put up a hell of a fight, but the enemy had extended their line and threatened both flanks. It was time to bug out…before they were completely cut off. Barnes wanted to pull their people back, into a large complex of abandoned mines south of the capital.
Teller sighed hard. “It’s the most defensible position, no question about that.” His voice was heavy with doubt. “But if we move in there, we’ll never get out. We’ll lose all mobility, and the battle will become a siege. They’ll just cover the entrances and wait us out. You know our supply situation.” His tone was grim and getting worse as he continued. “Unless they get sick of waiting and decide to come in after us.” He paused. “The position is a strong one, but they’ve got the numbers to dig us out if they’re willing to take the casualties.”