by J. F. Holmes
A drone buzzed around the corner of the wrecked aircraft, its antigrav pulsers whining, and Jones dropped the handmic, grabbed up the auto shotgun, and hammered away at it, three quick shots that sent high velocity birdshot at the small craft. It wobbled, recovered, and sped away. The big NCO turned back to the radio, calling angrily into it.
“Lost Boys, this is Foehammer, one minute out, mark targets, over,” came crackling over the radio. Jones flipped through the signals book taped to his arm, looking for who the call sign belonged to.
“Air Force, Nick, coming in hot, needs to mark target.”
The Scout team leader scrambled to remember how to get air support on target; it had been more than a decade. “Reynolds, put smoke on those bastards, now!” said Agostine, but she was moving before he said it, lining up her M-320 to get the range, even as she fumbled for a 40mm smoke round. This was her first taste of a full on engagement, and her hands were shaking like a leaf as she slid the round in.
With a hollow TONK the grenade arched upward, landed, and started to spew orange smoke in front of the armor, even as their ramps dropped down and Wolverines started to claw from the back. Their squat forms were quickly obscured as the orange mist enveloped them, but plasma carbine bolts started to hammer into the F-15 wreckage.
“Foehammer, we are approximately one zero zero meters forty degrees magnetic of the target, along the runway, target marked with orange smoke, over.”
“I COPY ONE ZERO ZERO FORTY, ORANGE SMOKE!” came back the strained voice of the pilot as she fought against G forces and the shaking of her fifty year old plane. “Twenty seconds, I can only give you one pass, guns and cluster!”
“FRIENDLY CAS IN FIFTEEN!’ yelled Jones, and everyone huddled on the ground, trying to weld themselves to the tarmac. A hundred meters was way within the danger close for this type of work. Only Agostine stood, not caring. He watched the black dot in the sky resolve itself in the Devils Cross. Even as he looked, the nose of the plane disappeared in a blaze of light.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT came the report, as the plane seemed to stagger in air, 30mm depleted uranium rounds the size of his hand reaching out and plowing into the APC’s. One exploded in a thunderous BANG that lifted the entire armored shell into the sky, and the other was blown sideways, fire jetting out of blown hatches.
The A-10 rocketed overhead, and two shapes fell from its wings, then burst open, showering what was left of the Wolverines with hundreds of grenade sized bomblets. Their explosions seemed almost anticlimactic after the APC detonation.
“OK,” said Agostine, a grim smile on his face as the beautiful plane arched upward, turned over, and dove at the Invy positions on the other side of the base, where the Main Force units were still attacking. “OK,” he said again, almost to himself, “let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Nick, are you crying?” asked Zivcovic and he bandaged a burn on his arm. “You are pussy.”
“Suck it, you Serbian gangster,” he answered back. “It’s beautiful. Goddamned beautiful.”
Chapter 79
“Lost Boys Six, this is Shiva Six, over,” crackled the radio.
Jones handed the radio over to Agostine with a look of glee on his face, and he took it with a murderous glare. “This is Lost Boys, go,” he answered abruptly.
“Stand by for extraction, priority mission. Shiva out.”
The team leader looked at the radio, then put the hand mike down in disgust. He just wanted the day to be over, and the sun had barely come up. Whatever, he thought, he was tired way down deep. Agostine glanced at the headless body of Staff Sergeant Boyd, and made another black mark on his soul.
They trudged wearily towards the coordinates the pilots gave them as the base burned behind them, sliding down into a ravine just big enough to clear the rotors of a Blackhawk, but only just. Between them, Zivcovic and Jones carried the heavy bag containing Boyd’s body. No one said anything; they were exhausted from the fight and the death of one of their team. The soldiers waited almost an hour, each lost in their thoughts; though each wanted to sleep, none could.
Eventually, with a whirr of stealthed rotors, the MH-60C settled to the ground just long enough for the team to climb aboard. They buckled in, knowing what would come next; hanging out of helicopters with your feet dangling in the breeze was a thing of the past. The Sikorski rose, pivoted, and launched itself northwards, a bare ten feet off the ground. The next fifteen minutes was dizzying, gut wrenching trip, until they cleared the nearest Invy base that might have line of sight on them.
As they passed through the ruins of Washington’s suburbs, gaining some altitude to clear some of the bigger buildings, Agostine plugged his headset into the intercom and asked the crew chief what the big picture was.
“Your bird got away, good job on that. We took the station, but the Invy scrambled the core, and we have no control over it,” he answered, eyes moving between the ground and the sky, looking for threats.
“What about the rest?” There had been four.
The crew chief spit some tobacco juice out, and Redshirt leaned over, slapped him on the leg. The chief handed him a precious can of Skoal and the Navajo nodded gratefully, passing it around to the team. “Well,” said the crewman, “rumor control has it that the Brits lost their guys when their target reactor went critical. The Japs lost their shuttle to defensive fire from Orbital Three, so it’s still up there, blew the crap out of a lot of the West Coast.”
“It was a mistake to send only one shuttle,” answered Agostine. They were passing over the Potomac, choked with debris, and, looking out, the Scout Team Leader could the myriad of round ponds, filled in craters from orbital strikes.
“Probably. But no one gives a shit what we think, Sarge,” answered the chief. “Hang on!” he said, and gripped the side of the helo as they dipped low, flared, and came in for a landing. The rotor wash threw up clouds of trash and dust, making everyone cough. Agostine unplugged, and the crew chief made a circling motion, asking them to pull security. The team spilled out, fanning out in a 360 degree arc.
“Anyone here can climb a pole?” asked the pilot, looking around at the decrepit site. There were piles of windblown trash and debris at the base of the statue.
“Tiffany, you’re the lightest, go,” said Agostine, and the sniper got up, walked over to the statue, and started climbing, five fifty cord gripped in her teeth. She reached the rusty pulley on top of the pole, hanging from her knees and one arm, and slipped the light green paracord into the wheel. Reynolds fed the cord through until it reached the ground, then shimmied back down.
The pilot reached back into the helo and took out two packages, one red white and blue, the other dark blue and gold. The Chief tied a heavier rope to the line, snapped a flag to it, ran it up a little, and then snapped the other underneath it. Then he pulled, making the rusty pulley squeal as he raised it.
The idling helo made the flags snap in the wind, and above the blue and gold of the Confederated Earth Forces, the Star and Stripes caught the morning sun. Beneath it, the four Marines, forever frozen in time, reached to lift it higher.
Nick Agostine turned from scanning for targets just as the American flag unraveled to full length. When he saw it, he felt a tightness grow in his chest, a pain that was unbearable. So many lost, and Brit would never see this day. He started to cry, silent tears that rolled down through the dirt and dust on his face, spilling onto his rifle. Why? he asked himself. She had died only a few weeks ago, so close to this day. Cut down by an Invy plasma bolt, rescuing that bastard General Warren. They had been so close to being able to live a life together, and there was so much left unsaid. Her red hair and ice blue eyes haunted him, and he could almost hear her laugh at him and his seriousness.
“This is some cheesy shit, no?” said Zivcovic, interrupting his thoughts. “Why no camera, to film propaganda bullshit?”
“Hey Ahmed, how do you say asshole in Arabic?” said Doc.
/> “I think the word is ‘Al-ziv-covic-a’, but I am not sure,” he grinned, and the Serb gave him the finger.
Behind them, the rotors started to increase in volume, and one by one, they climbed back into the helo, Agostine the last aboard. He looked back one more time as they rose up in the air, and the nose tilted forward. He held up his hand to block out the sun, and watched as the flag disappeared into the distance.
When they touched down at Raven Rock, Colonel Singh was impatiently waiting for them. She motioned for Agostine and Hamilton to follow her, and entered a small conference room. General Dalpe, looking haggard after a night of no sleep, sat in a chair at the head of a small table. He dismissed his Chief of Staff, and the man glanced at the two scouts as he left.
“Gentlemen, how familiar are you with Long Island?”
“New York?” asked Agostine. “I grew up there, Farmingdale.”
“I’ve been, quite a few times before the war,” said Hamilton. “Used to run our bikes along the Jones Beach causeway.”
“Well, there’s an Invy base near Calverton that they are using as a sort of POW camp. The old Brookhaven research facility; they have a bunch of scientists that have either gone over to them, or are being compelled to work for them. For the long term battle, we are going to need those men and women.”
“So,” said Agostine, glancing at Singh, who looked back at him stonily, “you want us to scout it? Get the layout for a Main Force attack?”
Dalpe shook his head. “No,” he said tiredly, “we need you to take it.”
Chapter 80
“Very funny,” said the team chief, but neither Dalpe nor Singh laughed.
When he saw the looks on their faces, Agostine put his hands down flat on the table, and said emphatically, “No.”
The General bristled at that, starting to say something, but Singh raised her hand to calm him. “Nick,” she said, “I wouldn’t sign off on this if I didn’t think we could do it.”
“We? I’ve got seven people on my team, and, yeah, we’re the best, but that’s half a dozen against, what, a company of Wolverines?”
Dalpe interrupted, and said, “Master Sergeant, these people are going to be critical to the war effort. Scout Team Four reconned the area last year; the fighting in the City will have drawn off all their armor. You’ll be facing the slackers they left behind.”
Agostine sneered at that. “Slackers, my ass. When was the last time YOU faced a Wolverine? I’ll listen to Rachel, you can fuck off for all I care …. Sir.”
Infuriated, the General rose up out of his chair. Agostine stood also, but Hamilton grabbed him in a bear hug, holding him back. “Nick, let it go!” he said to him, then nodded to Singh. “We’ll do it, just give us enough time to get our shit together.” Agostine shook him off, looked at Dalpe, and walked out of the room, not waiting to be dismissed.
Rachel Singh caught up with him in the hallway, grabbed his arm, and stopped him. “What the HELL was that?” she said angrily. “Do you think I’m just going to send you on a suicide mission?”
“Honestly?” he shot back, “I don’t know anymore. You sent us chasing after Warren, and that got Brit killed!”
“So that’s what this is about?”
“That, and other things. Like Boyd coming back headless this morning. And how many of my soldiers are going to die today on this mission?”
She slapped him, directly across the face, and he reeled backward, more in shock than at the force of the blow. “Damn you!” she shouted, not caring who heard. “Those were MY soldiers too! Do you know WHY I am sending in your team and not Team Four? Because THEY are all dead! And Team Seven, and Team Two! All dead on MY ORDERS!”
She stormed away, and Agostine stood there, stunned. Hamilton came up, and said, “Way to go, Nick,” then brushed past him.
He followed them down the corridor to the team room, where the guys were cleaning weapons and gear. Hamilton and Singh waited for him to come up, but neither said anything. Agostine took a deep breath, let it out, and said simply, “Sorry.” Then he opened the door and went in.
Inside, he looked at each one there. Jones, Zivcovic, Reynolds, Redshirt, Yassir, each in turn. How many of them were going to be back here tomorrow? Never mind, he told himself. They were soldiers, and knew what they in for. So he told himself.
“Listen up, we have another mission. It’s going to be tough, and dangerous. I’m not asking for volunteers; you’re all going because we can’t afford to not have you with us, each of you is an integral part of the team. Having said that, I’m going to let Colonel Singh do the mission brief.”
She looked at him, then stepped up, placing a holojector on the table. A map lit up, showing a compound in three dimensions. There was a series of buildings on what looked like a college campus, and, as she tilted it, they saw an unusual ring shaped land formation.
“This was Brookhaven National Laboratory. The Invy are using it as a research facility, into both human genetics and particle physics. Why both in one place, we don’t know, but it is what it is. Our mission,” eyes went up at the use of the word ‘our’, “will be to secure the barracks area here,” she said, pointing to a three story structure.
“Once we secure it,” she continued, “we will take as many of the scientists with us that we can, and exfil by air.”
Agostine stepped up and said, “Since you keep saying we, I assume you’re going with us.”
“Yes.” she answered, “you’re short on personnel.”
“That’s fine, but tactical control of the team is on me. If you go, you’re going as a shooter. Understood?”
She nodded, and continued, “We will have some help on the ground. A CEF pathfinder team went in early this morning by boat from New Haven, they will have eyes on the target, and will assist in the raid. They spent the last few weeks scouting the target, and know it well. Insertion will be on foot from an LZ due south. Once the captives are secured, your ride, a CV-22 Osprey, will do the pickup. From there, you will exfil by foot north to submarine pickup on Long Island Sound, then to our Main Force base in New Haven.”
There was silence in the room for a long moment, then Zivcovic said, “Is bullshit.”
“Excuse me?” said Singh, who hadn’t often worked with the Serb and wasn’t used to his brusque manner.
“I say, is bullshit. You are going to get plane shot down and all captives killed. A plasma bolt will take the entire aircraft down. ”
It was a flaw in their plan, and she knew it. One she had already argued with Dalpe about, but he had insisted. The man’s nerves were ragged, and she knew not to push it. What happened on the ground would stay on the ground. “If anyone has any other suggestions, by all means, I’m open to them.”
“First off, bring the pilots in here to help us plan,” said Agostine. “Colonel, I knew you’re being handed a shit sandwich by higher, and you have just as much experience planning as any of us do, so we can use your help, but you can’t do it alone.” It was his way of trying to make up with her, and she felt the knot in her stomach loosen a little.
“Having said that, we’re going to come up with a plan, and General Dalpe is going to have to accept it. Your job will be to run interference for us, and keep him off our back.”
“Nick,” she said, “he has a war to run. If we tell him we can handle the mission, he’ll run with that and let us do our thing.”
“OK then,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It’s zero eight hundred now.” He stopped at that. Had it really only been two hours since they had been engaged in the fight with the Invy?
Agostine continued, planning backwards, “It’s about two hour flight, assuming we need to swing south or north of the City. We are going to want to hit the place at dusk, to make sure the majority of POW’s are back at their barracks, which is around six thirty, so assuming we have an hour’s march to the attack site, five thirty, four thirty, three thirty, wheels up is at fifteen hundred. You all have four hours to get some sleep and finish
taking care of your weapons and supplies. We’re going to wargame the shit out of this and do a sandbox at thirteen hundred.”
Redshirt raised his hand and asked, “Why not wait for later? Like, zero three or something?”
“Good question,” said Singh. “Big picture, we feel that, if things aren’t going well for the Invy, they will consolidate and pull south below thirty degrees. That means they’re going to slaughter every captive they have.”
“Why are we walking out?” asked Reynolds.
“Because we’re expendable. No offense, but eight of us on the bird means eight less scientists that we don’t take with us.”
Chapter 81
Ziv slept, or pretended to. Ahmed prayed silently. Red sat working quietly on a carving. Reynolds watched Ziv. Hamilton read a medical book on his Kindle. Jones ate MRE after MRE. Singh watched out the window as the landscape of Connecticut slipped by. It was interesting to see how they each reacted to the stress of the upcoming mission; yet they were calmer than most. What was that old quote from World War Two? The only way to deal with combat was to accept that you were already dead.
Eight men and women, thought Agostine, to take on from maybe a dozen to, crap, several dozen Wolverines and Dragons. A UAV flight had confirmed, before it was shot out of the sky, that the majority of the garrison had driven westward on the Long Island Expressway, heading for the fighting in New York City. That had turned into a meat grinder, with both forces pushing in troops, but the CEF had the advantage, having spent the last decade turning the buildings of Manhattan into a death trap for armored vehicles. None of the Scout’s business, though.
Word had come late in the day that the last orbital had been destroyed by a Japanese assault team, led by a Major Ikeda. Agostine had met the man several years before, on an intel operation to check out the Invy cities, and liked and respected him. Good for them, he thought, and good for us. No more orbital threat.