Conflict: The Pythan War, Invasion

by DK Williamson

The dust quickly settled, and as it did the results of Harper’s impromptu time-on-target attack became apparent. The Pythan advance ceased to be. Littering the ground in front of Bravo’s position were bodies of the dead and writhing wounded. Pythan soldiers staggered away as the few remaining NCOs and officers tried to reform the attack.

  “Finish them!” PSG Jefferson bellowed. Like flipping a switch, the soldiers to Harper’s right and those near him opened fire and raked the stunned Pythans. It was a slaughter. Within minutes, it was over.

  An infantry company came from behind. They slowed and looked at the carnage, saw the remains of Bravo Company staring back at them with tired and haunted eyes, and surveyed the field of death ahead.

  “Follow me!” the company commander yelled as he ran forward. His soldiers followed. Another infantry company passed by on Bravo’s right.

  Harper tried to stand and found his exertions had caught up with him. He fell in a heap beside the remains of his sandbag wall, now more a mound with sandbag remnants protruding from the grit. His two escorts ran to him.

  -NEURAL INTERFACE SYSTEM OVERALL FUNCTIONING AT 1% OF LAST TESTED LEVEL OF EFFICIENCY-

  He tried to rise once more, but he realized it was pointless. He rested the back of his helmet in the sand and passed out.

  Harper came to and saw Roger Lopez hovering over him.

  “You hear me, Harper?”

  “Yes. You were wrong, sir. Linkage failure. It wasn’t sudden, but it didn’t take long. My helmet processor took up the slack,” he said weakly.

  Roger laughed softly. “Harps, you got it backwards. Your helmet got tagged. A five millimeter round dug in the back. Lucky it didn’t kill the whole processor and you along with it. The thing was burning itself down. As it was, your brain took up the slack.”

  “So I’m not done for then. No retirement for me yet.”

  Lopez laughed. “Not a chance. Still a lot of work to do, but right now you’re going to the aid station. I could smell the burned flesh and nerves from ten meters. Next time don’t assume, got me?”

  “I hear you, Roger.”

  An ambulance took Harper and some other wounded from the battlefield to a field hospital. Some medical personnel carried his litter inside and set him in a row with others who awaited care. Harper was exhausted.

  “Hey, Captain Harper,” an enthusiastic voice said.

  Harper looked to his left and saw Private Yates on the litter next to him. He smiled.

  “Looks like neither one of us watched our tails very well, sir.”

  Harper laughed softly. “I was never very good at following advice. What’s your excuse?”

  “Always been slow on my feet, sir. Lost a lot of girls at school dances that way. I let a Pythan get too close and got bayoneted.”

  Harper smiled, glad to see that Yates could jest about his injury. “Why’d you let him do that?”

  “Because he was playing hero, sir,” said a soldier on the other side of Yates. “There were four of us wounded and out of action when a bunch of those Pythan bastards came at us. He stopped them all, the last couple of’em face-to-face.”

  “Yates sounds like a pretty good squad-mate,” Harper said with a glance at Yates.

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier said. “We heard you got shot in the head. That true?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Did you alter some of your physiological processes to survive, Captain Harper?” Yates asked.

  Harper laughed. “No. I took a round in my helmet, but it didn’t get through. Tore up my helmet processor, though. I fried a few synapses in the doing.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir. Still, I’m glad you were with us. Is your brain going to be all right?”

  “I was never that bright to start with.” He pointed at his head. “I was dumb enough to volunteer for this gig after all.”

  -(o)-

  Interlude

  From Land Forces TM9-9781-219-11, Operator’s Manual, Rifle, 7mm, LF18A2.

  The LF18A2 7mm rifle is an air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed, shoulder-fired weapon designed for semiautomatic fire. The weapon is equipped with fully adjustable iron sights and a compensating flash suppressor. Normally equipped with a 1-3x optical sight, the LF18A2 utilizes a forty round helical magazine. The LF18A2 can be equipped with various devices including a grenade launcher or beam designator.

  A common variant of the LF18A2 is the precision rifle, an accurized version with a 1-6x optical sight.

  Primary function: Infantry weapon

  Length: 76.2 centimeters

  Weight, with 40 round magazine: 4.09 kilograms

  Bore diameter: 7mm

  Maximum effective range:

  Area target: 1200 meters

  Point target: 750 meters

  Muzzle velocity: 900 meters per second

  Magazine capacity: 40 rounds

  . . .

  From Land Forces TM9-6471-233-12, Operator’s Manual, Machine Gun, 7mm, LF23

  The LF23 is a belt-fed, air-cooled, gas-operated, machine gun. The weapon fires from the open bolt position and is capable of full automatic fire only. The weapon is fed from a 150-round box contained disintegrating metallic two-piece link belt.

  Primary function: Infantry support weapon

  Length: 110.8 centimeters

  Weight, with 150 round box: 9.09 kilograms; empty: 8.5 kilograms

  Bore diameter: 7mm

  Maximum effective range:

  Area target: 2000 meters

  Point target: 750 meters

  Muzzle velocity: 1000 meters per second

  . . .

  Action, Daring, Victory was their motto.

  Operating far behind enemy lines, the Special Services knew that more often than not, they were on their own.

  Sometimes ‘behind the lines’ meant operating where there were no lines… yet. Prior to an assault from space, before the landing craft dove from the heavens and unleashed hell from their troop bays, Special Services operatives were sometimes called upon to pinpoint targets for assault craft or orbital attacks. Even more hazardous were direct action missions, where Special Services were tasked with the mission of attacking targets themselves.

  The attack on Creech brought Coalition troops directly into the city of Fitzroy amidst a large Coalition civilian population, and collateral damage from preparatory attacks were a concern. Coalition commanders felt direct action by Special Services was warranted, despite the danger.

  . . .

  Beyond Help

  Special Services, long-used by the entertainment industry as a source for countless tales of super-soldier derring-do, and usually featuring teams of square-jawed and sculpted-bodied Adonis-like men and amazingly strong, large-breasted, stick-thin female pinup goddesses preventing galaxy-wide disaster in the nick of time, despite being scantily clad or naked through much of the feature.

  The reality was quite different of course. Despite the fact that many within the ranks of Special Services liked people to think they were superhuman, and a few actually believed it, the truth was they knew their job was important, dangerous, and completely unnecessary.

  Special Services could not win the war against the Pythans. Land Forces infantry, armor, and artillery would win it on the ground, and Space Forces combat vehicles and their crews would win the war in the Big Black. Special Services were a sideshow, very often high profile and a boon for public relations, but still not a vital part of the war.

  Despite that, if the Special Services did their jobs well, they might make winning the war slightly less hazardous for the rest of the Coalition forces. And that, in their minds, made the job worth doing.

  -(o)-

  First Lieutenant Henry Sparks stood in the briefing room on board the troop transport vehicle packed shoulder-to-shoulder and chest-to-back with dozens of other service members. He was seething. His team sergeant stood next to him, every bit as angry as well.

  Because of the amount of people in the small room, the atmosphere was becoming
stuffier by the minute, but that wasn’t what angered the two men.

  The colonel conducting the briefing had just given Sparks’ Special Services Team 4-Alpha their assignment and the pair of soldiers was positive someone somewhere up the chain of command was a complete idiot, or wanted them dead.

  Sparks and Squad Sergeant Cook glowered until the briefing concluded, and once free of the crowd exiting the room, stormed their way to see Captain Gale, their commander. They arrived at the captain’s berth before he did and had to wait several minutes for his arrival.

  When the captain finally did turn up, he saw Sparks and Cook and immediately knew what they had to say.

  “I know, I know,” he said holding up his hands. “Go in and have a seat,” he said herding the men into the room, past a desk to a pair of chairs.

  Once the three men were seated, 1LT Sparks spoke first.

  “Space Forces are putting six Special Services teams on the ground in the midst of an attack craft raid while they’re feeling out and taking down Pythan air defenses,” he said.

  Gale opened his mouth to reply, but Sparks was just getting started.

  “The folks that planned this thing realize the risk to the teams, right?” Sparks said, growing more agitated as he went on. “No, I don’t think they do. They expect my team to evade detection if we actually make it planetside in one piece, sneak into a Pythan vehicle park that may not even exist, plant timed demo charges on air defense vehicles that may or may not be there, vacate the area by morning, then wait until the Pythans kill us or Land Forces infantry comes along, whichever comes first.”

  Sparks sprang from his seat with an incredulous look on his face, placing his hands on his hips.

  “We all know how stupid that is, sir, at least those of us with brains, sense, and sanity. How the hell many things can go wrong with this plan? I can’t even count that high. Timed charges? If the Pythans find just one of those charges,” he said holding up a finger for emphasis, “the jig’s up, and they’ll search all the vehicles. That’s assuming we can even get in there, if the place exists. Even if we do get out, we’re likely to get blown up by Space Forces attack craft or get our shit scattered by our own infantry. Sir, I have to ask, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”

  Gale had sat calmly through Sparks’ rant. He sighed loudly. “Are you finished, lieutenant?”

  Sparks grumbled. “I suppose so, sir,” he said as he sat once again.

  Gale looked to SSG Cook. “Anything to add, sergeant?”

  Cook shook his head. “Not really, sir. You gotta admit this is fucked up. It’s like it was concocted by someone who watched a few too many cinematics or something.”

  “So you did have something to add. For the record, I agree with you, both of you. There’s just one little problem. The plan is set. No changes. I already spoke with command.”

  “We’re screwed, sir,” Sparks said. “What if we get a little creative in our interpretations of our orders?”

  “You know what leeway there is, but if you wander too far outside of the set parameters…”

  “All right, sir,” Sparks said as he and Cook stood. “We’ll go brief the rest of the team.”

  Gale watched the two men leave the room, and from just down the passageway he heard Sparks say, “Fuck,” in angry voice.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Gale said quietly to the pair of empty chairs in front of his desk.

  -(o)-

  “We’ll go over this one last time,” Sparks said to his team as they gathered around a small map table the evening before their mission.

  Every member of the team concurred with Sparks and Cook that their mission was a difficult one, and made all the more treacherous by the requirements set upon them by people far above their pay grade.

  “We’ll be inserted by a Space Forces attack craft behind this high ground west of Fitzroy,” Sparks said, pointing at a blinking spot on the map display.

  “Do we know what AC we’re riding on, sir?” asked Corporal Estes.

  “Yes. ACN-214, piloted by First Lieutenant John Schumacher.”

  “A neural interface pilot, huh?” Estes said, referring to the N designation on the attack craft’s identifier, meaning the craft was a special single seat version piloted by a NIVO, a Neural Interface Vehicle Operator. “What’s the bird called?”

  “You’ll like it, the Ultimately Doomed Two,” Sparks said with a smile.

  Sergeant Baylor snorted. “That seems appropriate considering our mission.”

  “Did the idiots that planned this thing assign that bird to us, or was it just coincidence?” asked Sergeant Robinson.

  Corporal Smith laughed. “C’mon, Robby, they wouldn’t be so obvious if we were being set up.”

  “Never attribute to maliciousness that which can be blamed on stupidity,” Baylor said.

  “Enough conspiracy theories,” SSG Cook said looking from face to face among the team. “We have a briefing to get through, right?”

  Sparks laughed. “Thanks, sergeant.”

  The lieutenant pointed to the map once again.

  “From our insertion point we move toward this warehouse area. If we get there, we start looking for a vehicle park intel thinks is hidden somewhere, probably in one of the larger buildings. If we locate it, we pinpoint all air defense vehicles: cannon, missiles, beams, detectors, trackers, whatever we can find,” Sparks said. He paused for a moment with a look of distaste. “We plant charges on the vehicles, setting the charges to detonate one hour prior to the lead landing craft that will bring in the infantry.”

  The men on the team grumbled or rolled their eyes, still incredulous at the mission parameters, and despite having covered this numerous times.

  “Captain Gale gave me some good news just a little while ago,” Sparks said, immediately gaining the team’s interest. “He authorized our request to equip a pair of fifty millimeter recoilless weapons as a backup option, if we’re willing to hump the weapons and ammo.”

  SSG Cook smiled broadly. “If we have to carry out the idiocy ordered from on high, then I say we tote the extra weight so we have a chance to accomplish the mission if things go to hell.”

  “If, sarge?” Baylor said to the amusement of his teammates.

  “If the Pythans find and remove the demo charges, we’ll use the launchers,” Sparks said. “That will necessitate us staying near the vehicle park, and that in turn will make our withdrawal difficult. We’ll move west, then south, and hope the Third Division is there to meet us.”

  “And if there’s no anti-aircraft targets for us we wing it, right, LT?” Sergeant Robinson said.

  “Wing it? I suppose that sums it up. We pursue targets of opportunity that will best support the infantry assault.”

  -(o)-

  “I’m giving up a lot of onboard ordnance to get you guys down,” Lieutenant Schumacher said to Sparks, watching 4-Alpha as they loaded their gear onto the attack craft. “I hope the damage you’ll do is worth it.”

  “That’s debatable,” Sparks said, “but we have orders, same as you. If it’s any consolation, we’re going after air defenses.”

  “Doesn’t do me any good if I get dropped before that happens,” Schumacher said with a grin.

  “You must have us confused with some guys that give a damn about your problems,” Sparks said with a grin of his own.

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I won’t give you a return ride home.”

  Sparks laughed. “Never mind the mess we leave in your bird then.”

  “Hey, LT,” SSG Cook said with the look of a disapproving parent. “The gear’s loaded, so if you’re finished exchanging lieutenant banter with your new friend, we have a suicide mission to get to.”

  Sparks rolled his eyes, then looked at Schumacher. “You Space Forces guys don’t have to deal with sergeants like that, do you?” he said gesturing at his team sergeant.

  “Just crew chiefs. They think these birds belong to them,” Schumacher said gesturing at th
e Ultimately Doomed II. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  -(o)-

  Less than two hours later, the Doomed was descending from high altitude over Creech along with more than two hundred other attack craft as part of the operation to assess and destroy the Pythan’s air defense system.

  “Hold on Four-Alpha,” Schumacher said over the attack craft’s internal communications system. The six Special Services troops were strapped into seats in the cramped hull, sandwiched between a bulkhead and side-firing missile banks. “Things might get rough. We have missiles inbound. We had hoped they didn’t have high-altitude missiles, but they do. Good news is they don’t seem to have beams, and we have counters to whatever else they can throw at us.”

  Ultimately Doomed II shuddered as it descended, buffeted by the thickening atmosphere. The roar of thrusters came up as they altered their orientation and the Doomed’s nose lowered.

  “Taking down some missiles, guys,” Schumacher said.

  The members of 4-Alpha could hear the servos rotating the beam guns on the top and bottom of the attack craft, followed by the brief and muffled hissing, sizzling noise of the beams firing outside the hull.

  A loud whump followed a jarring shock that struck the attack craft made the men of 4-Alpha grimace and wince. As passengers, they were helpless to do anything but ride out whatever the Pythans threw at them.

  “That wasn’t as bad as it seemed,” Schumacher said. “I was coming in under a missile headed for somebody else. We’re fine.”

  “Great. Our bus driver is playing hero,” Corporal Smith said offhandedly.

  A few minutes and a dozen or more gut wrenching gyrations later, Schumacher came over the net once again. “We’re near Fitzroy. I’m going to do a couple of passes and see if I can ascertain the air defense in the area where we’ll put down and see if there is any Pythan presence near there also.”

  The Special Services men felt the pull fore and aft, left and right, up and down, as Schumacher maneuvered.

  A thunk-ping was audible, then the sound of the beam guns once again.