Just when she felt her stomach could take no more of the rollercoaster ride, she leveled the fighter off at her pre-assigned altitude to survey the drop zone below. A quick check of her sensors indicated open ground.
“Dark Knight One, holding at ten thousand meters. No enemy action,” she called out. Her escort of drones held a position beneath the delta-winged fighter to shield it from any ground fire.
“Affirmative, Dark Knight One,” replied Earth’s Fist combat air command, CAC. “Descend to five thousand and report.”
A thought and steep dive later, Susan flew over the target area again. She ran her sensor sweep twice, still finding nothing alarming. She found that disturbing by itself.
“Hey, West,” she called out to her wingman. “Do you have anything?”
“That’s a negative. Couldn’t look any easier.”
“Yeah, it does, and that scares me. I can’t believe they’re just going to let us land on their home planet.”
“A hundred other fighters have come up with the same, so...I don’t know what to tell you.”
“All units,” the CAC announced, “break off to your assigned zones to cover the landings.”
She looked up to see the first wave of shuttles crack through the whipping winds of the upper atmosphere.
“It means, West, that we keep descending with the shuttles until the enemy shows their hand.”
“Roger that. Dark Knight Two descending to target altitude.”
The advance force of fighters and drones dipped even further, bringing themselves perilously close to the valley below.
Human and Bearcat pilots cruised over the surrounding mountain ranges and passes. Several unsupported squadrons of drones broke off to make potentially suicidal runs over the three Kitright cities nestled in the valley.
The mindless spheres fell to an altitude that would take them a mere hundred meters above the tallest buildings. They flew by the aid of anti-gravity generators, since first-generation drones were incapable of atmospheric flight.
From a distance, the metropolises could have passed for any number of cities on Earth, with square skyscrapers dominating the horizon.
In the hopes of provoking a response, the drones were ordered to fire their laser cannons at the tops of buildings. The fighters followed suit, strafing deserted snowcapped mountain peaks just to be sure. The barrages triggered a series of avalanches, deadly for anyone caught below.
The drones’ fire licked the surface of their first targets, and their probing attacks teased the Kitright defenses out of hiding. Those defenses declared their presence with a storm of red streaks that illuminated the sky as they burned the atmosphere in their path.
In seconds, exploding drones added themselves to the fireworks of war. White-hot sparks rained down from their points of destruction.
“ All units! Alert!” The CAC called. “Enemy cities’ AA batteries are armed and effective. Keep your distance.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” West muttered.
Susan strafed another white peak. Thick steam rolled up from the flash-boiled snow. “Dark Knight One to CAC. No enemy activity detected. Please advise.”
“Keep hitting those mountains just in case. The shuttles are approaching their targets now, and we aren’t taking any chances.”
***
The shuttle hovered a meter off the ground and lowered its ramp. Trent watched the metal slab fall from the back. Forty-nine legionnaires leapt onto enemy soil with breathless anticipation. Their suits changed to blend in with the gray rocks, brown dirt and blue grass of the foothill north of the river. He’d claimed this spot as his command post.
Charging forward, he joined the others as they zoomed off in all directions to secure the area. Without hesitation, the shuttle fired its engines and took off for space to make another run.
MRG at the ready, he slowly circled, scanning the horizon. He witnessed soldiers of all kinds pouring out of the shuttles. Swirling black smoke floated all around, periodically obstructing his view. The haze was a product of the landing craft, which deployed the thick gas to disrupt enemy targeting systems and absorb the energy in a laser beam to reduce its effectiveness. This innovation allowed the invasion to land closer to the target.
“Sweetie, give me a sitrep.”
An overview of the valley appeared in his mind. Sweetie spoke directly into his conscious mind.
On twenty mountaintops, light infantry units of both races hurried to set up air defense batteries. Lower down on the foothills ringing the center of the valley, the majority of the invasion force deployed to stitch the three enemy cities into a single confined territory. Any movement of support units between the Kitright cities could be quickly assaulted from these points. Auto defense turrets ensured the safety of the advance elements while further isolating the communities.
The last of the first wave unloaded its troops at the two passes leading in and out of the valley along the river.
With the first wave down, he opened a com-link to unit commanders. “Get dug in and hold your positions until the last of our forces are in place. Keep a sharp eye out for anything. We’ve landed on their home world, and they’re sure to try and push us off. Let ‘em try, I say. Be ready for ‘em. They’ll be easier to kill in the open.”
He returned his eyes to the sky to watch the shuttles leave. The rising red sun grabbed his attention. Beautiful lines in every shade of red crisscrossed the horizon behind the white capped mountains. For a moment, the majestic scene made him regret that he had to turn the valley into a pit of death and destruction.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Hido said, stepping alongside.
Trent looked at his friend, clad in black armor and leather. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
***
The counterattack came at dawn.
Trent hated waiting, hated surrendering the initiative to the enemy. He’d always held to the maxim that when in doubt, attack. This, though, was truly a battle without historic precedent to consult, or at least no useful one. As a consequence, he waited for the enemy to make the next move so he could learn a bit more about their tactics and capabilities.
The first rays of the crimson sun began to bleed across the calm valley once again when Colonel Jones, in command of the western pass, broke into Trent’s helmet.
“General Maxwell!” Her voice would have sounded calm, but Trent knew her well enough to hear the well-concealed trickle of panic behind her words. “I think the bloody bastards are making their move.”
“What do you have, Colonel?”
Before a reply could come, the allied line along the western pass erupted in a frenzy of explosions and screams.
“What’s happening, Colonel!?” he asked, rushing toward the sounds of battle.
***
Major Simms saw what was happening.
He was sitting in a brand-new foxhole, along the second line of defense, sipping a cup of bitter, lukewarm field coffee when a fury of contacts lit up the sensor panel in front of him. Jerking his head to the open field in front of their lines, he encountered a most curious sight: nothing.
Throwing his eyes back down, he learned in to examine the screen more closely. In a moment of terrible revelation his eyes shot wide. They’re underground!
That’s when everything went to hell.
He couldn’t tell who fired first. He just threw himself to the bottom of his hole as the world around him fell into chaos, blood, and death.
Recovering from the initial barrage, he reached out to retrieve his helmet to again cover his naked head as he struggled to get on top of the situation.
All along the line, the enemy pushed out of the ground with guns blazing. The line extended the length of the pass, one and a quarter kilometers. A river two hundred meters in width separated the defenders, leaving the 1st and 2nd Cohorts of the 1st Legion on the larger, south bank of the river, while the 2nd Pride of the 12th Order, six hundred fifty Bearcat warriors, were positioned on the north bank.
The second was unknown, but of similar design. Roughly five times larger than their smaller cousins, these ovals floated instead of walked. In addition to the energy weapon, they fired grenades from two port holes located in their nose. The new projectiles were balls of the pink ooze inside shells. The ordnance detonated in powerful explosions, splattering the gel as though it were shrapnel. The term ‘explosive-formed penetrators’ came to mind.
“Captain Zander and Captain Jarwaski,” he said, opening a line to the century commanders to either side, “Report your status.”
Jarwaski spoke first, “We’re going to be overrun. Request permission to fall back!”
“Denied! Hold the line, Captain!” he shot back. “Both of you hold the line. Make sure that your men keep up their fire and have the Slayer units concentrate on the big ones.”
“Yes, sir!” the captains replied in unison.
Checking the tac-map again, he confirmed the line was holding for now. “Trenton,” he said to his CAL (named after a childhood pet), “inform Colonel Jones we are holding but urgently request support.”
“Message sent.”
Next, he did what any good US Marine would do. He brought his head over the edge of the foxhole, raised his MRG, and killed the enemy without mercy.
As the intel reports had stated, the smaller units broke apart when hit with a burst of MRG fire. He shattered many of them in the first minute. The larger, floating ones, required at least a double hit from his grenade launcher to bring down.
They kept coming, though. No matter how many he killed, they just kept coming, by the thousands.
Trenton sounded an alarm, “Cover!”
Dropping to the floor, he avoided a Kitright grenade intended for his head. While he survived, he didn’t escape all harm.
“Ow! Shit!” he cried out in pain.
Feeling around, he discovered the agony stemmed from a gash in his suit on the left torso. He only felt it for a second before the suit sealed itself.
“Med report, Trenton,” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Unknown substance penetrated suit and impacted your left midsection. I’ve stopped the bleeding and recommend you seek immediate medical attention. I’ve alerted the medics to your location and condition.”
“‘Immediate medical attention isn’t on my agenda, Trenton. We’re in the middle of a battle, and I’m not going anywhere. We have to hold this position.”
He struggled back onto his knees and again aimed the MRG downfield. The enemy was closer. At that moment a part of him wished he’d listened to his mother.
Simms was a smart man, the kind of smart that allowed him to do most anything he wanted with his life. He didn’t feel like he truly had options, though. He came from a long line of US Marines and his father expected no less from him. His mother begged him to choose a different path, but for a boy desperate to earn the approval of his cold father, he saw no choice.
After earning the Navy Cross for his role in the famous South African amphibious raid to rescue hostages, he left the military to join a research firm. When the call rang out for volunteers to form the first Legion unit, he jumped at the chance.
This time he didn’t join for his father. He joined because his scientific mind couldn’t resist the opportunity to explore alien worlds. He let his father believe otherwise.
The day he left for Big Red was the first and only time his father ever told him he loved him and was proud. It happened to also be the last time the two would ever see each other.
Even now, his brain gave him options others didn’t have. All he had to do was request a transfer to a military research unit and he’d be off the front line. He could hear the concerned voice of a loving mother urging him to request the transfer. And he would have – if not for the bond he’d formed with his Red Baron comrades that conspired to limit his perceived choices. No, he was going to stand with Jones, Maxwell, Roth, Gabriel, and most particularly, Thomas till the end. No matter what that held.
He was his father’s son more than he liked to admit.
Explosions originating from all three participating races blended morbidly with the cries of the wounded and dying. The Kitright fell without a sound, as did the victims of their sonic energy weapon that melted their victims into piles of molten flesh.
Out of grenades, he hosed down the advancing enemy line with his MRG on full auto. He’d lost track long ago of the number he’d killed. The figure seemed irrelevant to the enemy as well.
Dropping behind cover, he took a closer look at the line. The enemy was almost upon on the first line of foxholes. He had to pull them back or risk losing them all.
“Zander, Jarwaski, fall back to the secondary line!” A pair of pink balls exploded at his hole’s edge and dirt poured down onto him. “Air support!” he barked to Cohort HQ. “Two centuries are falling back. We need cover!”
“On its way,” Colonel Jones answered.
They fell back in good order, giving more than they took.
A pair of descending human shuttles appeared overhead. They spat a lethal mix of large supersonic BBs and rockets. Their fire cleared the battlefield of enemy units like a rake across fall leaves.
His smile turned to a frown when he noticed the shuttles hulls’ warping. As quickly as they had appeared, they barreled uncontrollably into the ground. Fighters to the end, they crashed amid the charging enemy, taking a large number with them.
A Slayer-equipped soldier from the retreating line ran for Simms’ foxhole for all he was worth. He jumped to close the final distance. A burst of light behind him erupted, and his body twisted and fell awkwardly, lifelessly, into the hole.
The concussion tossed Simms against the wall. Unhurt, he rushed to remove the Slayer from the soldier’s death grip. Hefting the handheld piece of mobile artillery still tethered to the generator on its previous owner’s back, he selected large caliber grenades. With a cold rage he rose into harm’s way and yelled like a berserker as he let loose grenade after grenade in a methodical left to right motion.
He fired until the Slayer ran dry of grenades. Undeterred, he switched to the KKC and repeated the movement. Each supersonic projectile ripped through the enemy line, exploding multiple targets with each round. Pink rain fell all around.
“Ahhh!” he let loose a battle cry. He felt like a god of war, smiting all those who opposed him.
All along the front, the bolstered second line fought back with desperate courage.
It wouldn’t be enough. Not by itself.
“Colonel Jones.”
“Go ahead, Simms.”
“Requesting permission to deploy the Supers?”
“Do what you need to hold, Major. Jones out.”
He dropped to the ground. “Lt. Tanner, attack! Push into the enemy line. Drive the bastards back into the holes where they belong!”
“Yes, sir,” was Tanner’s only reply.
Tossing the now malfunctioning Slayer aside, Simms picked up an MRG next to a pile of steaming flesh and kept his fire up.
His legs registered slight tremors in the ground. He looked at his feet. Shit! Are more of them coming up right under us?
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the first Super Heavy. The metallic beast shook the earth with each step like a charging elephant.
The giants gracefully flowed past Simms, gliding forward with broad strides. Super Heavies carried an embedded Slayer in each of their arms. With ruthless efficiency, they spread out and poured relentless fire into the enemy formation.
Concentrated enemy fire claimed a few kills against the charging wall but couldn’t stem the turning tide.
Simms coordinate
d his forces to drag as many light and heavy infantry units together as he could find. Colonel Jones had called for him to retake the first line and he needed every man.
Shouting, “Oo-rah!” the ancient battle cry of the U.S. Marines, he waved his arm forward to lead two under-strength centuries of tired but bloodthirsty legionnaires into the breach.
Every pull of his trigger shattered another enemy soldier. New targets emerged to take their place, only to suffer the same fate.
The speed of the daring thrust drove a dagger into the spent attacker’s will. Even an AI knows when to cut its loses. All along the southern flank, the Kitright army attempted to retreat to the safety of their tunnels. The allied army pursued with righteous vigor.
The biracial horde of crazed soldiers steamrollered them, catching the fleeing enemy and grinding them to dust under their awesome weight. Some managed to escape beneath the surface. Simms fought to restrain a number of overeager soldiers who hadn’t had their fill of alien blood and were trying to pursue them further.
Chest heaving, he struggled to get his thirsty lungs air. The excitement of the moment was as much a cause as physical exertion.
Slowly he turned to take in the totality of the victory. Countless Kitright soldiers, or whatever they were, littered the pass with their shattered golden shells and pink ooze polluting the blue grass.
Wrecked and smoking shells of heavy and Super Heavy units, scattered among the remains of their less-armored brothers-in-arms, lay across the ground. They spoke to the valiant charge that had bought victory with blood, much blood.
An increase in activity across the river drew Simms’ attention to the north. There he witnessed a similar counterattack take place, though on a smaller scale. The results were the same.
The pass had been held.
***
Simms and Colonel Jones rushed to reform the defensive line in case the enemy made a renewed effort. They sat in their stained foxholes waiting for an attack that never came.
When the ‘Blood Sun,’ as many had taken to calling it, finished its rise above the peaks, the soldiers on the line breathed a little easier. Taking his gaze off the enemy’s emergence points, Simms noticed the sorry condition of his foxhole-mate’s suit. Dried blue and red blood and that odd pink gel coated the nano fabric, hindering its camouflage function. Imagining he bore a similar sorry appearance, he climbed out of the hole and walked to the river. He waded into the gently flowing water, submerging himself to let it carry away the visible gore of war. Resting on the soft bottom, he smiled because he knew somewhere his father was looking down with proud eyes saying, “That’s my boy!”
The Last Revenge (The Last Hero Trilogy Book 2) Page 21