Strasberg’s century CO gave the go-ahead to sprint out in advance of the slower-moving light infantry and Super Heavies. Each stride carried him several meters across the blue grass plain. With such force coiled in the armored legs, a traditional running step would’ve sent him high into the air, making him a tempting target. In order to maximize forward momentum while staying low, Strasberg executed a delicate maneuver that looked rather like speed skating.
No enemy fire met their charge.
He slowed dramatically upon reaching the field of rubble on the city’s edge. The plan called for his unit to drive into the city. Supporting units behind were counting on him to cut a path forward, and he didn’t intend to disappoint. Thousands of armor-clad troopers snaked through the jagged rubble.
“Jesus,” Strasberg addressed his CAL. The name was picked out of sarcasm by the system’s Jewish owner, though it now conspired to convert him into a devout Christian, or at least make him sound like one. He often found himself asking Jesus for help a lot in life-and-death situations. He caught himself more than once talking to ‘Jesus’ outside of his armor from time to time, as well. Oh, how his mother would like that, he often thought. “Give me the latest tac-map.”
Jesus cross-referenced data from the entire strike force, including orbiting surveillance, to give its loyal follower the guidance he requested. Facing no opposition, he plotted for deeper penetration.
“Should we secure this position, sir?” a corporal asked.
“Negative. Leave that for the featherweights,” he replied, using the armored troops’ somewhat derogatory term referring to unarmored soldiers. “We’re pushing forward ‘til we hit stiff resistance. Move out!”
The heavy infantry advanced another two blocks, where they encountered the first sign of defense.
From cover, Strasberg witnessed the approaching swarm of smaller Kitright units running on their thin legs toward him. The sight of easy kills painted a smile on his face. “Fire!” he shouted.
The redundant order hadn’t left his lips before the line opened up with a storm of bullets and grenades. Golden soldiers broke apart all over in such numbers that soon a shallow river of pink ooze flowed down the street. Flush with murderous confidence, he gave the order to advance. He held both arms out to his front, spraying rounds into the enemy formation as he led his men forward.
Other units followed suit. The pressure was too great, turning the counterattack into a rout. Egged on by the fleeing enemy, the heavy infantry drove harder. Strasberg’s own heavy footfalls splashed through the muck of the decimated enemy. With each step, he increased the ferocity of his pursuit.
“Lean into them,” he said, urging his unit on.
Off in the distance, down a wide avenue clogged with dead and retreating Kitright, Strasberg’s eyes caught a glimpse of one of the target structures. Excitement flooded his veins with intoxicating effect. He could taste the totality of the victory on his tongue.
In lockstep, the smaller Kitright units halted. The sudden change caused him to pause his own attack.
A voice in his head screamed, “Cover!”
He dove into an alley.
A concentrated volley of enemy energy weapons fire cut into the slower attackers. Multiple hits turned several armored comrades into fried husks entombed in metal sarcophagi. Laying on his side, he brought both arms around the corner to rain more fire on the emboldened defenders.
That was when they arrived.
Behind the mass of small tripod units, a horde of golden beasts stumped up the avenue, shoulder to shoulder. Their unified steps shook the city.
Thump, thump, thump. The sound reverberated between the buildings as they marched closer.
Undeterred, Strasberg poured fire into the front ranks, scoring a bounty of kills against the smaller foe. The new units advanced, however, as if unaffected. They drew closer, bringing more details to light.
“Jesus, what are the specs on the new enemy force?” He kept his cool.
Jesus replied in a tone void of the seriousness of the moment. “The bipedal units are six meters tall and possess three upper appendages that most likely contain their weaponry. Estimated mass is three point five metric tons.”
Crap!
“Charlie squad, maintain fire on the forward elements. Delta, lay it on the new guys!” He shouted, still believing he was in control of the situation.
Adjusting his own aim higher, he trained both crosshairs squarely on a single headless monster. Twin streaks of MRG rounds hammered the thick barreled chest of the target. Instead of shattering the unit’s armor, it only chipped away. Gold flakes fluttered off, dancing in the air. After several seconds of continuous fire, he managed to break off the monster’s right arm. The petty victory didn’t even register on the behemoth.
Thought-clicking, he switched to grenades and launched a double burst. The rounds, set for impact detonation, slammed into the wounded enemy. Gradually the cloak of smoke dissipated. To his horror, the gravely wounded machine still advanced. Pink gel seeped out from deep cracks and the center arm was blown away, but it still advanced.
Another twin burst of grenades finally dealt the monster more than it could handle, and its torso ripped apart.
The identical giant next to it spoke to their offensive firepower. The side appendages unleashed large-caliber grenades at the line of heavy infantry. It was joined by the others. The combined force of their explosives rattled buildings and burst open armored suits as easily one might crack a peanut shell apart.
“Captain Little, come in,” he called out, hoping for direction.
“Captain Little is dead,” Jesus answered.
“Shit! Who’s in charge of the century?”
“You are, Lieutenant.”
The smaller Kitright units surged forward under the cover of their larger brethren.
He flooded HQ with reports and begged for support. For reasons beyond him, the command center offered little direction and not even empty promises of aid.
Maybe High Commander Gondo was slow to react because he was incompetent or stunned into indecision? The exact reason for the inaction didn’t matter to Strasberg. He was under heavy attack and his men were dying. Inaction is the most egregious felony a military commander can commit and he wasn’t about to fall prey to that himself.
“All units!” he said. The crisis somehow sharpened his thinking. “Fighting withdrawal! Bravo and Charlie, covering fire. Focus on the little ones. Everyone else, fall back fifty meters and cover Bravo and Charlie’s retreat.”
The shaken but well-trained combat veterans showed their true colors. Disengaging from an enemy in an orderly fashion under fire is one of the hardest things a unit can do. His men performed flawlessly, but the surging enemy wouldn’t allow it.
Retreating units found themselves colliding into advancing elements that moved ahead like the attack was progressing as planned. The resulting chaos and confusion could’ve quickly turned into a blood-soaked disaster.
Then, as if by magic, HQ exploded with commands, restoring order to the battlefield.
Strasberg didn’t know who finally acted to inject action. All he knew was Jesus calmly informed him the century was to hold their current position at all costs. Pulling himself from the mob of fleeing conquerors, he hastily arranged his men inside and around damaged buildings.
Only a few of the smaller enemy units remained scattered within the ranks of the hulking giants.
The lifeless army marched down the street without a sound save for the thump, thump, thump that announced their assault. The rubble surrounding Strasberg rattled with each pounding step.
He wanted desperately to run or find a nook to hide in. He heard his mother’s voice commanding as much. Digging deep, he found the strength to held firm. Remember, people are counting on you. We have to hold. We have to buy time.
“Give ‘em hell!” he cried, firing his last six grenades. A string of direct hits shattered one and wounded another. Hosing the wounded one do
wn with MRG rounds cracked it open at the weak points.
All along the line, soldiers reported exhausted grenade supplies. Frantic pleas to retreat filled his mind. Telling them to stand their ground, a suicide order, was the hardest thing he’d never done.
“Fire Teams!” he roared. “Coordinate your fire on one target at a time. Use your blades when they get close. Whatever you do, hold the line!” He bellowed those last words with as much courage and conviction he could muster.
The order met no reply. Everyone knew what was expected of them. To serve in the Legion was to be charged with the duty of ensuring humanity’s survival. At any cost.
Unstoppable, the enemy was on top of what remained of Strasberg’s century. The few that had somehow survived found themselves out of ammo and unable to escape.
Crouching inside a doorway, he felt the pounding of the monster’s steps a few meters away. He would die. He’d accepted that. The revelation of his mortality had shocked him at first. He’d always figured himself to be one of those guys who’d make it home. Maybe that’s what everyone thinks? He could hear his mother crying upon receipt of the news. Guilt settled in his gut, but he pushed that helpless feeling down. There was still air in his lungs and he had one last pitiful means to inflict harm.
“Jesus,” he said out loud, “deploy blades.”
“Blades deployed.”
Above each wrist, a three-quarter meter long blade slid out. The edges were sharpened to a single molecule. An enemy appendage poked into the door, he slashed out with all the strength the suit could provide. The ribbed tube fell to the floor and the damaged stump withdrew without a sound.
The sword is an intimate weapon. If he wanted to do any good, he’d need to get close. Darting out from the pitted structure, he intermixed within the enemy ranks. In a spasm of blinding fast movement, he finished the demolition of his target’s two remaining arms. Using the large beast’s size to his advantage, he danced around it to shield himself from fire. With well-timed lunges and quick retreats, he managed to remove arms from a number of units. He lost himself in the carnage, moving and striking like a machine of war on auto pilot. The crazed, fanatical charge was reminiscent of the famed Jewish warriors who threw themselves at the Roman Legions without regard for their own well-being. His emotion drove him to inflict far more damage upon his foe than he should’ve been able to achieve.
Frustrated, if the enemy could even feel such an emotion, a pair of monsters turned their own weapons upon Strasberg’s friendly cover. They melted it into slag and with it went his life. A single grenade fired over his head and set to detonate for max effect ended Lt. Jack Strasberg’s frenzied assault.
In the last microsecond of his life, Jesus told him via the neural com-link that the retreating units were out of immediate danger. He’d done his duty.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Operation Cobra
The sound of massive grenade exchanges drifted in the air. Trent watched the tactical situation rapidly degrade on the tac-map, weighing his stomach down. Sweetie accessed the feeds of individual soldiers in the lead units to examine the cause of the setback. Beasts encased in golden armor waded through defensive fire. They absorbed damage like a sponge does water. The herd advanced, no matter what was thrown at them.
You’ve been busy kitties, haven’t you?
“Attention all cohort commanders,” he said. “The situation in the city has changed. We’ve met a new enemy design. I’m forwarding the information to you now. Our lead elements are pulling back. Get ready to move. I anticipate the 1st being ordered in to stabilize the situation.”
He turned to look out across the plain where the 1st Legion waited in reserve. The once-idle unit came to life. Resting troopers rose from the grass and checked their weapons. Heavy infantry centuries formed ranks and Super Heavy pilots claimed into the backs of their own monsters. The efficient movement of such a mass of troops always impressed him.
Expecting the order to advance to come at any second, he arranged the Legion for rapid movement. Minutes burned and no order came.
Consulting the tac-map again, he discovered to his horror that High Commander Gondo was taking no action. No one had even told the units supporting the initial attack to halt their march and deploy for defense. They now blocked the retreat of the battered lead units, creating a jumbled mess for the enemy to slaughter in bulk.
“High Commander Gondo,” Trent said, keeping the fear from showing in his voice. “Should I deploy my men into the city?”
“General,” Gondo said, “hold your position...yes, hold your position. We are facing unknown enemy strength and cannot risk further losses. Once the line has hardened, I will reassess the tactical plan.”
Trent noticed something in Gondo’s tone. Not fear. Bearcats felt fear just as any other organic creature, but they hid it well, though the primal emotion did bleed out in other ways to betray their mortal status. What he heard was confusion and indecision. Gondo was failing to act. The reason for his inaction was not important. Allowing the enemy to dictate the next move was unacceptable. Failing to correct the chaos in the line was criminal, in Trent’s opinion. It was also likely to be disastrous.
Trent took a deep breath. “Very well, High Commander, we will hold. But, with all due respect, sir, the line is a disordered mess, quickly turning into a disaster. Can I assist you by taking command of the forward elements and rearrange them for defense? You can then focus on pulling back and regrouping the second wave.”
Battlefield casualties are a fact of war. Trent had made his peace with this a long time ago. The burden of all those who fell following his orders weighed on him. He contented himself with the belief he did the best that could be done. Deaths caused more by poor command decisions than simply by enemy fire were tragic losses, requiring a new level of grief. All commanders will make poor decisions from time to time. Letting yourself be driven into inaction was unforgivable, however. He waited long, heavy seconds for Gondo’s answer.
“Yes, General, take command of the front,” Gondo said with relief-soaked words.
“Confirmed,” was the only word Trent wasted on his reply. “Sweetie, bring up the tac-map.” Enemies were marked in red and allied forces appeared in green. “Color the units involved in the lead attack as blue.”
The display shifted. The tangled mess placed a lead weight in his gut. Hard choices would have to be made. He didn’t hesitate to make them.
A blizzard of orders, some sent verbally, others through the neural com-links, zipped out as he struggled to deliver the lifesaving commands and sort out the mess. The same orders would also condemn others to a dire fate.
He filled with pride as those units tasked with the impossible, with full understanding, accepted their orders without the hesitation that had led to this moment.
The line held – for now, and at great cost.
“High Commander Gondo, the line has stabilized. What are your orders?”
He studied the withdrawing second and third waves. They pulled back, but not in the manner expected of a well-trained army. It barely resembled an organized mob.
The continuing delay in Gondo’s response told him all he needed to know. There was no plan. Not content to see more needless death, or worse an outright defeat, he moved to take action.
First, he opened a private link with the High Commander. “Gondo,” he said in a smoothing tone. He didn’t wait for a confirmation, he knew the channel was open. “I have a plan. Give me overall command of the attack and I will lead us to glorious victory.”
A pregnant silence hung on the line.
He continued, “You’re no fool. Your eyes tell you the situation teeters on defeat and dishonor. Let me take command and bring honor to both our clans.”
Gondo never replied directly to Trent. A moment later, a broadcast message filled every officer’s helmet. “This is High Commander Gondo. I’m transferring temporary battlefield command to General Maxwell. His orders should be recognized by all co
mmanders.”
Amanda, as part of Trent’s staff, had heard the message but not the exchange. “How the hell did you manage that?” she asked on a private channel. “What are you going to do? This whole thing has turned into a clusterfuck.”
Eyes closed, picturing the state of play, he barely heard her. Then, as if my divine inspiration, the answer struck him. He saw an armada of piston-driven bombers blanketing an area ahead of thousands of troops who rushed from defensive positions. Tanks followed them. Lots and lots of tanks.
“Operation Cobra,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s that?”
“Victory.”
***
The enemy’s advance nearly caught up to the scrambling allies as they hurried to implement Trent’s vision. Desperation is a great motivator, however, spurring human and Bearcat officers to do what, minutes before, had seemed impossible. The time needed to prepare the final defensive line had been bought in blood, every ounce of it vital. With mere seconds to spare, the last pieces fell into place.
Situated on the ground floors, inside the last line of standing buildings, Legion heavy infantry, supported by almost every available Bearcat warrior, dug in. Several squads of Super Heavies and hover tanks were forward-deployed to solidify the line. Above them, thousands of light infantry legionnaires watched and waited, their weapons trained downward. A majority of Legion troops deployed in the air were in the center. The enemy marched south along a broad front, separated only by the rows of buildings.
“Sweetie, ETA ‘til the first wave of the 10th Legion lands?” Trent asked.
“One minute till the first shuttles touch down in the landing zone … mark.”
“Outstanding!” He took one last look at the tac-map and said, “All defensive units. Fire!”
The ground units, including the Bearcat mortar teams, unloaded on the advancing golden, headless, three-armed monsters. By themselves, they merely gave the enemy pause. The true source of the line’s destructive power would come from above as thousands of MRGs poured tens of thousands of grenades onto the streets. Hundreds of Slayer units added their own weight.
The Last Revenge (The Last Hero Trilogy Book 2) Page 28