Your luck going to hold one more time, Pete? he asked himself. We’re going to find out.
The world came alive in a blur. Pete was closing fast on Delta Company. He was going to pass directly over them from north to south. The SAMs hurtled toward him from the north-northeast as the shoulder-fired missiles came from the southeast.
Target the SAMs first, he thought. They’re more capable, more dangerous. The shoulder-fired come next.
Pete tracked the SAMs with the beam weapons and launched high-explosive mag gun rounds at the Pythan force to the west of Delta Company.
“Get your heads down, Eden-Four-Two. I’m coming over hot and putting all I got on the Pythans,” Pete said. His voice sounded gleeful.
“Roger that, Two-One-Niner,” came the reply.
The beam guns spat at the closing SAMs.
A pair of missiles flashed from the port side of Ticket Puncher, blasting toward the Pythan reinforcements while the mag gun continued to rain hell.
One of the SAMs disintegrated, then the other. The beam guns rotated to face the shoulder-fired missiles.
Pete banked left and unleashed the remaining missiles in Puncher’s bays at the Pythan unit to Delta Company’s east as he passed over, the mag gun rotating as HE rounds continued to leap from the magnetic coils and explode among the enemy unit to Delta’s west.
The ground on the east and west sides of Delta churned with explosions, raining dirt and debris on everyone, friend and foe alike, not caught in the blasts.
Pete gained altitude, gaining distance and time on the missiles coming at him. The beam guns turned and spat, missiles exploding and disintegrating when the beams connected.
Three missiles left. Maybe, just maybe—
A loud clang and the sound of system alarms filled Pete’s head as Puncher shuddered from a hit. Sweat poured from him, a result of the exertion of the attack.
Pete’s eyes scanned the HUD and instruments on the panel in front of him as his mind flashed through the neural interface scanned other systems. Ticket Puncher slewed to port. Pete’s flying instincts corrected automatically.
Port rear thruster damaged. No, it’s gone. Port airfoil damaged, unknown efficiency. A quick glance out of the cockpit and Pete could see that some of airfoil remained, but he knew he would be using thrusters to stay aloft. If he could stay aloft.
He watched his instruments and monitored the systems as he righted his craft with the three remaining thrusters.
Handles like a brick now, he thought as he looked west for Land Forces units. I can’t climb, but I’m still up. Just slide it west, Pete.
A flip of the commo switch put him on the Master Forward Controller frequency.
“MFC, Drake-Two-One-Niner. Infantry support complete. Am hit, but still aloft. Attempting to make Coalition lines.”
“Drake-Two-One-Niner, MFC. Roger. Have you on screen. Routing support to your vicinity.”
Ticket Puncher slid across the sky at what felt like a snail’s pace.
I’ll be okay as long as—
New alarms sounded in Pete’s ears, missiles were coming for him.
“Shit,” he muttered as he directed the beam guns at the threat.
Pete was pushed to the limits of his abilities. The struggle to keep his craft in the air and fend off the missiles was all he could do.
I’ve got this. I can handle whatever they throw at me, he thought as new data came through. Except that.
More shoulder-fired missiles slithered through the air at him. Pete used the beam guns with superb efficiency, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough.
You got one chance, Pete, but Sergeant Chen isn’t going to be happy with you.
Most of the missiles had fallen to his fire, but the few left were enough to kill him. He reduced thrust and Ticket Puncher fell from the sky, the leading missiles overshot and lost their lock on Pete’s craft. The trailing missiles computed they would not stay in proximity to their target for long and detonated.
Fragments peppered Ticket Puncher’s hull, but caused little damage. Pete went to full thrust knowing it wouldn’t keep him in the air, but it would keep him from creating an attack craft sized hole in the landscape when he hit. A glance downward revealed a slope below.
This might get ugly.
“MFC, this is Two-One-Niner. I’m going down,” he rattled off as fast as he could.
A moment later he touched down with thud, the craft falling off to the starboard side with the sound of the hull crumpling and tearing apart loud in his ears.
The starboard airfoil caught in the ground and Ticket Puncher spun violently counterclockwise then rolled down the slope settling upside down and sliding to the bottom and coming to rest on the port side.
Pete came to in a smoke-filled cockpit. He tried the com channels, but nothing within the craft seemed to function. He punched the emergency canopy release on the left side of the cockpit and the rear portion slammed backwards, jamming halfway open.
A lift of a small panel and a punch of the release button popped the seat restraints loose. Pete grabbed the emergency kit and the Escape and Evasion pack from the compartment under the pilot’s seat and climbed out.
When he tried to stand, he realized his knees must have slammed into the sides of the cockpit during the crash. They hurt badly enough that he knew moving would be difficult.
Pete crawled to some nearby brush that he felt was thick enough to conceal him and dug the emergency radio from the kit.
He flipped the radio on and saw the emergency frequency show up in the display.
“MFC, this is Drake-Two-One-Niner on emergency freq one,” he broadcast.
“Drake-Two-One-Niner, this is MFC. What is your status?”
“I am down and out of the vehicle. I have non-life threatening injuries that limit my mobility. Pythan forces are within five hundred meters of my location.”
“Roger, Two-One-Niner. Drake-Four-Zero-Two is en route to your locale. Land Forces combat support floaters are on the way as well.”
Pete smiled broadly. Robbo pulled it out!
“Two-One-Niner, this is Four-Zero-Two, approaching from the south. You had a busy few minutes, old buddy,” said the voice of Rob Bolan over Pete’s headset.
“Four-Zero-Two, Two-One-Niner, thanks for the help. I thought you got dropped.”
“Damned near did. We lost most of the commo aerial. Frigo rerouted the com system to the systems diagnostic antenna our crew chiefs use,” Bolan said. “Shortened our broadcast range, but it works.”
“How’d you think of that, Frigo?” Pete asked.
“Thinking on the fly and rerouting systems isn’t just for NIVOs, Pete,” Frigo replied.
“Pete, stay behind the slope. There are Pythan’s coming your way from the east. Putting mag gun fire on them,” Bolan said.
Pete looked up when he heard the roar of thrusters and the crump of high explosive rounds from Bolan’s mag gun. AC-402 took up a nearly stationary position above Pete’s hiding place and pounded fire down at the advancing Pythans. Frigo engaged and destroyed the few shoulder-fired missiles the enemy launched at them.
“Drake-Two-One-Niner, this is Opal-One, and element of Eden-Four-Two. Do you read me?” said a voice over the emergency frequency.
“Opal-One, Two-One-Niner, I read you.”
“Two-One-Niner, we are approaching from the north. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t light us up when you see us.”
“Opal-One, I don’t even have my weapon drawn. Just don’t shoot me if I shout for joy when I see you.”
The man on Opal-One’s end of the radio laughed. “We won’t, Two-One-Niner. Have your AC in sight and are moving to your location.”
A pair of Land Forces combat support floaters hissed as they passed over Pete’s location, taking up station at the edge of the slope. They added their firepower to that of AC-402. Another pair did the same to the south.
“MFC, Boar Flight on station at Two-One-Niner’s location. Can see Opal-One approachin
g.”
MFC acknowledged, and within a minute, Pete could see an infantry platoon from his hiding place.
“Over here,” he yelled.
The NCO in charge of the unit directed a medic to look at Welsh, and after a quick examination, the medic called for a litter.
“They’re bringing in a landing craft to pull us out, lieutenant,” the medic told him as they strapped him to the litter for transport.
“Pete, they’re sending me down south,” Bolan said. “The Pythans have launched an attack down there and they need some air support to help stop it. The Pythans here are falling back and floaters got you covered. Watch what you say to the grunts. See you at squadron.”
Pete looked up and saw Bolan rotate his bird south and open the thrusters. In just a few seconds, he was out of sight.
A few minutes later, a landing craft set down near the remains of Ticket Puncher. The ramp dropped and the platoon sergeant directed the boarding.
“First and third squads provide cover. Second squad, get our charge on the LC,” he barked.
Four soldiers lifted Pete’s litter and ran for the landing craft, the rest of the squad running nearby. As they charged up the ramp, the medic broadcast, “We are on board. Securing casualty.”
Less than a minute later the other two squads ran on board, the sound of the floaters’ mag guns were audible from inside.
The last soldier to board was the infantry platoon sergeant. He stopped just inside the ramp and grabbed a handhold at the edge of the opening.
“Everyone secure?” he asked.
The three squad leaders signaled by hand in the affirmative.
The sergeant looked outside once more. “Boar Flight, are we clear?” the sergeant asked.
“Roger, Opal-One. We’re keeping their heads down,” the flight leader said calmly.
“Flight crew, ground element is secure. Floaters are suppressing. We are ready to get the hell out of here,” the sergeant said.
“Roger that,” the landing craft pilot said. “Stand by.”
The infantry sergeant leaned out the rear opening looking outside. He gave a hand gesture. “Thanks, Captain Tusk. Great service as always.”
“Sergeant Frost,” the floater pilot replied. “Always glad to help.”
The ramp on the landing craft closed, and seconds later, they were airborne and headed for the rear.
Pete watched the sergeant walk across the unsteady deck like a seasoned crew chief and take a seat opposite him.
“We’ll get you home, sir. Don’t you worry,” he said sliding his visor away from his face. Pete recognized him immediately. It was the NCO from the mess hall.
Pete shoved his visor clear as well. “Sergeant Frost. Small world.”
Frost looked surprised. “Ain’t it, sir.”
“I guess you decided to not use the ‘or not’ option?” he said referencing their last conversation in the mess hall.
“Well, if I’d known it was you…,” he said with a smile. “I’ll take back what I said about you not making war, LT. Best air attack I ever saw. You got us out of a tight spot back there.”
“And you, me.”
Frost swiped his palms together as he rapidly pulled the hands apart, a soldier’s gesture of starting with a clean slate.
“You still think LC’s just haul freight, LT?” the sergeant asked.
Pete smiled. “Certainly. If you ain’t the one flying, you’re freight, sergeant.”
Frost laughed. “Fair enough, sir. It feels better being freight than being dead, and sometimes the freight fights,” he said gesturing at the grunts around them.
“Never said it didn’t, sarge.”
“You got me there, sir. I’ll buy you dinner at the chow hall. Least I could do.”
“I thought the field mess hall meals were free.”
“Never said they weren’t, sir.”
-(o)-
Interlude
Excerpt from: Straight Talk with Armando Rancon, an interview with General David Fancher.
“This war, how long will it last?” Armando asked dramatically from behind steepled hands.
“It will last until it is over,” the general said straight faced. “If you are looking for a date and time you’ll need to bring on a psychic, and he or she would be wrong.”
Armando took on a sour face, not caring for the general’s answer. “People have a right to know, general. What’s your best guess?”
“People do have a right to know… the truth, that is. This war will not be concluded anytime soon. A few years at best, and things rarely happen that way. The last time it took a quarter of a century. Could it take as long this time? The answer is yes, if we fight poorly, if we make bad decisions, if the Pythans outsmart and outfight us. If those things occur we might also lose this fight. If we do, it might mean we have Pythans living on our side of the asteroid fields. It might mean we are forced to capitulate. If the worst occurs, it means no more Coalition, no more Straight Talk with Armando Rancon.”
“But are we not more technologically advanced than we were three centuries ago, General? Our forces are larger.”
“Of course we are more advanced. So are the Pythans. That matters little. The way we fight is not much different than it was three hundred years ago. Soldiers in space and on planets will fight and kill one another the same way our predecessors did.
“Our means of space travel is the same: Jump holes and nav lanes. Our weapons are the same: Missiles, slugs, and beams in space; rifles, artillery, and armor on the ground. The weapons and vehicles may be more efficient, more deadly, but when you get right down to it, very little has changed.
“The planning and setup for interstellar war requires immense effort. The execution even more so. We cannot fast forward months and launch attacks like you might see in the vids. It simply doesn’t work that way. There will be long lulls when it seems little is happening, then flurries of engagements. Wars fought across space are not things that can be resolved quickly. Despite our ability to leap across light years, despite the fact that we can travel ten or twelve light years a day via navigation lanes, wars of this sort are slow. They are more like wars in the age of sail on ancient earth. Long transit times, limited forces, and slow communications are but a few of the commonalities.”
. . .
The LF17A3 Armed Reconnaissance Tank was unique among Land Forces vehicles. To someone not well versed in military affairs, it looked similar to many other armored vehicles, of which Land Forces had many types: tanks, armored personnel carriers, armored cars, recovery vehicles, and more.
One thing made the LF17A3 different: its primary operator. The person who controlled the LF17A3 was a person without a body, a human brain with a mind and personality intact.
Thirty-five years before the Pythan War, the cerebral interface module was developed. Dubbed ‘the brain box’, it allowed the preservation and function of a human brain outside the human body, while leaving intact the mind that resided within.
For those who had suffered a catastrophic injury or illness that ravaged the body and left the mind whole, the cerebral interface module offered a chance to extend their lives, but only if they were a qualified candidate for transfer, which was fairly rare.
Initially the people confined to a cerebral interface module were in static support systems that allowed the inhabitant to see, hear, smell, and taste. Mobile systems were soon developed which allowed some sense of touch. These systems quickly evolved into more and more compact and complex units that allowed the brains placed inside to control a bewildering array of vehicles. These vehicles were viewed by some in the Coalition forces to have potential for military usage.
Most people confined to brain boxes were deemed as poor candidates for military service, but as numbers of military members who found themselves inhabiting cerebral interface modules began to increase, it was discovered that many of them wished to continue their service.
Because of the limited number of brain box sold
iers available, and the complexity of equipping vehicles to accommodate a cerebral interface module, it was decided to use them in one class of vehicle specifically designed to be controlled via brain boxes. That vehicle was the LF17A3 Armed Reconnaissance Tank.
This proved to be highly successful, and led to the adoption of neural interface modified soldiers with Coalition forces, seeing how much of neural interface technology was developed from the cerebral interface module.
. . .
The planet of Beaumont was one of the first to see large scale combat drawn out over months. Coalition Space Forces had managed to wrest control of the Bradshaw system from the Pythans, but there was still a considerable enemy force on the ground. With actions taking place throughout the disputed systems, Land Forces hoped the units already on Beaumont could deal with the remaining Pythans without the expenditure of large-scale reinforcement.
The fight on Beaumont was going the Coalition’s way, and one more push might end it, but before that could happen numerous units needed to rearm and refit. Among these were the recon tank squadrons. Having been in the thick of it from the start, with their numbers depleted, they found replacements were hard to come by.
. . .
A Rocky Start
A gathering of troops stood at a bulletin board and looked at a notice recently posted there.
The notice read, Attention, armor crew: Volunteers needed for reconnaissance squadrons. Gunner/Loader experience required. Submit application at squadron HQ.
Several of the soldiers walked away shaking their heads before they finished reading the entire page, most of them left immediately after they read the words “reconnaissance squadrons”.
“Brad, you’re not considering that, are you?” asked one of the soldiers still at the board.
“As a matter of fact I am,” replied a tall, dark-haired man. “Troop commander Zane has me on his shit list.”
“Switch to a different troop.”
Conflict: The Pythan War, Invasion Page 33