'Might I suggest steel rain sir? We still have some base points left, and the steel rain turrets are cheap enough to use.' Said a script, leaning over and calling up a description of the weapon for him. Her perfume was the best thing he'd smelt in a while, a few stray hairs tickling his cheek.
'But they're anti-personnel aren't they?'
'Not if you select the Umbrella option sir.'
Hotston could have kicked himself. He'd held some development points back so that he could deploy defences on the fly. Not taking the time to go through all of the sub-menus and configurations of turrets, he'd plumped for the default option on most, meaning that he'd therefore missed a vitally important trick.
'Shit, shit, shit!' Selecting the Umbrella option, he started to place steelrain turrets next to the remaining anti-aircraft turrets. As soon as they popped into life, they were firing. Thousands of projectiles at a time were sent into the air, shredding the incoming enemy shells and missiles before they could do any more damage to the valuable anti-aircraft turrets.
Hull points suddenly reversed their declines and the turrets began to engage more enemy aircraft.
'Sir! Enemy airborne regiment inbound. Looks like they're splitting their forces. Force 1, now tagged as Alpha is gaining altitude, suggest they'll be the ones actually dropping in. Force 2, now tagged as Brave is coming in low and fast. Turrets have tagged a couple, but the rest are now far too low to hit them. They're going to be landing in the canyon in less than a minute.'
Hotston leaned forward towards a mic jutting out of the console before him. Flicking a switch, he pursed his lips at the technological incongruities of getting things done in-game. 'This is base commander to all base staff. Enemy airborne troops inbound. Man all stations. Good luck and make them pay.'
#
Windsor grinned at Hotston's orders. Already she was tired of the dull thunder of enemy shells and missiles hitting the base. She thought it was ridiculous that they even thought they could do any harm with the calibre of the weapons they were using. The main part of the base had over two hundred feet of rock above it. Realistically the only way to get in was through the front, or to utterly smash it with a kinetic strike.
'Okay people, just as we discussed. Hit the craft as soon as they drop into the canyon and go into a hover. Don't waste rounds on infantry. Just hit the drop ships. Clear?'
Nodding her head in satisfaction at the chorus of agreement she got from her people, she pressed her eyes to the periscope mounted in the ceiling, wincing slightly at the feeling of them focussing. She'd been told that the feeling would wear off gradually, but she wasn't convinced, and the way they looked so lifeless when she looked into the mirror made her sob.
Still, they served a purpose, and right now that purpose was to allow her to kill as many NAC troops as possible. Slaved to a wall-mounted gun turret outside, as were all the others in the small room they occupied, the periscope allowed her and her people to participate in the defence of the base without having to expose themselves. Because automatic defences could be rendered inert by EMP, counter-measures and even hackers, Hotston and Devon had agreed that there should be more than a small element of manually operated defences. Something which had been wholeheartedly welcomed by the troops.
Smoke and other vision-obscuring vapours suddenly spumed into life dropped, she assumed, by the incoming craft. As it swirled into vortexes she realised her guess was correct and aimed her periscope as far up as it would go. Dialling back the magnification she gasped as a Roc dropship, the biggest personnel carrying craft there was dropped into her sights.
Firing before she even realised it, she raked her turret's minigun along its full length, speaks and shrapnel leaping from where the near-solid stream of armour-piercing, high explosive and tracer drilled into it.
'Target the Roc!' Troops were already dropping, plunging into action through the belly of the craft. Cursing she resisted the temptation to turn her fire on them. As long as the craft was in the air and dropping troops it was the priority.
A cloud of ink-black smoke belched out of one of the engines as her section's desperate attempts to bring it down finally started to pay off. Too late, dammit, she though as the Roc started to rise out of the canyon whilst the troops it had landed tried to secure a foothold.
'Those bastards carry a lot of troops!' Gasped Crichton, a very by-the-book soldier that rarely spoke out of turn.
'A company of fully equipped troops, or a platoon with vehicles. Look sharp, second wave coming.' Fire blossomed into life, briefly seen behind the roiling clouds of smoke.
'Hey, Windsor, we just brought down a Roc on our side. How you doing?' Said a gleeful-sounding Hoffmeister, when was leading the defence from the other side of the canyon.
'Congratulations, bit busy right now.' She said, opening fire on the next Roc that appeared. It would be great if they ran out of these sods really soon, she thought, willing to settle for losing to Hoffmeister in the kills contest if it meant they got to live longer.
'Dammit they just soak up the punishment!' Cried one of her people as once again the Roc they were targeting succeeded in dropping off its payload. From what she could see, a platoon of Imam class combat-bots had just joined the fight.
'Hottie, they're using Rocs, we don't have the fire power. Have you got enough points to reconfigure us to lasers?'
#
'Dammit! Wait one,' snapped Hotston, selecting the gunners on his tacmap, calling up their sub-menu and then swapping their miniguns for 10mm lasers, 'you're going to be down for two minutes whilst the weapons swap out.' He hadn't for the life of him believed the enemy would use such heavy lifters. Not only were the Rocs heavily armoured, they lacked a punch as well and successive flights of Rocs had truly hammered the base's turrets.
A screen showed the events of outside. Bodies littered the ground, whilst another squad of engineers raced forward to attempt breaking down the doors. Thank God I strengthened them.
'Angels, we can't shoot the damned craft down fast enough, and they're killing my turrets faster than I can build them right now. Would appreciate some help from the sisterhood!'
'Roger that, sir, joining the party now.'
#
Manaheri snarled as she forced Angel 1 through the shroud that had been concealing Angels platoon from the enemy troops. They were thick in the ground. Many were dead, accidentally killed as they dropped into the maelstrom of defensive fire. Where Hoffmeister had managed to kill a Roc, the carnage was more to her approval.
'Sisters, let us join battle once more. These fuckers are going to regret coming here.' There was a chorus of bloodthirsty replies as the rest of her platoon stepped forward, weapons raised.
Manaheri was a dedicated, and methodical, warrior. As her targeting computer started to identify troop types, she started to prioritise who she would kill first. An almost lazy kick sent a squad of enemy troops when hadn't realised she was there flying through the air, limbs and torso bursting apart under the pressure.
Her gunner opened fire with their light machine guns, engaging two squads at once, whilst she trained her quad-mounted .50 heavy machine guns on a squad of enemy combat-bots that were turning to engage them. Heavy bullets ripped through the air, pounding away at the robots until their armour could take it no more and they disintegrated, the heavy thud, thud, thud of the guns reverberating through her mech's head armour.
'Good kills sis.' Said her gunner, ripping apart another cluster of enemy troops just as their feet touched the ground, 'They look like they're pissing themselves! Not warriors no matter how hard they think it is to be airborne.' Laughed the woman.
Manaheri agreed, her people had a proud heritage of strong warriors fighting against all odds, even when the whites came to their land they fought, spears and clubs against firearms. These Africans were nothing compared to them. It as a simple matter of genetics, and 22nd century breeding programmes.
Enemy troops were busy planting explosives on the gigantic doors leading in
to the base. Striding through the landing zone she closed the distance, raised her arm and incinerated them with a stream of acid. No chance of the explosives going off now, she smiled as her victims writhed in agony, flesh sloughing off them, even their bones melting as they died.
#
'Back us up pilot!' Snapped Kirton as he sent a laser shot down the defile. There was a flash as he hit something, but no kill indicator. Enemy fire licked out towards them, smoke, dust and counter-measures making each side as blind as the other.
'I'm fucking trying!' Devon snapped back, cursing as the hulk of a destroyed mega tank caught against the back of The Bitch's leg. 'Advancing down this defile was a stupid idea!'
The stress was getting to them both. Mechs were designed for combat in wide-open spaces, not in defiles enclosed by walls of rock that seemed to reach up to the sun. And yet here they were, at the forefront of a defence against an enemy force that outnumbered them hundreds of times over. Maybe even a thousand. Although they have lost a shitload so far.
That thought gave her little comfort. Bad Boy and Widowmaker had both been destroyed, their wrecks preventing the enemy from exploiting the shock. Defending the pass even in death. The crews had respawned at the reinforcement point but moving into the enemy-held canyon outside of the base would have been too risky. More and more craft were appearing, gunships hovering despite the destruction that Windsor and Hoffmeister were wreaking upon them.
'Devon, this Hotston. The mechs are dropping.'
Her stomach leapt into her mouth, 'where?' She asked, even though she knew the answer.
'The canyon. Withdraw and help Katana. Out.' The stress in his voice was evident, reflecting the desperate situation they were in.'
#
'Repeat, surrender now and you will be treated as honoured prisoners. Out.' Hotston looked up at Windsor and Hoffmeister - having summoned them to the control centre - as General Al'Wadi, commander of the enemy forces battering them, finished talking.
'Well?' he asked.
'Well, what sir?' Replied Hoffmeister, face screwed up in confusion.
'Do we surrender and live out the rest of this war in peace. Or do we keep fighting?' Hotston needed their help, their wisdom. Tired of fighting to survive every day, the idea of living the rest of the war out as a prisoner of war, rather than a slave of the Spanish was more appealing to him that he thought it would be.
'Bollocks to that! We've got the reputation of the regiment to uphold! We didn't come all this way, nuke most of France and kill any fucker that got our way to just fucking surrender. I'd rather die!' Said Hoffmeister, brow drawing down into a frown, voice getting louder with each word until Hotston felt like he was being verbally clubbed.
'What he said.' Windsor said.
'Why? We're wasting lives whilst our people die defending our homeland. Europe has all but fallen, and the Spanish have left us high and dry.' Hotston knew he was whining, hated himself for it, it he just wanted to keep his people, people he cared for, alive.
'You think that if the NACs get hold of this base that they won't sell it to the ChinKor Republic? Are you fucking mental? You're lucky you're an officer. Otherwise you'd be shitting teeth for the next month.' Roared Hoffmeister, looming over Hotston as if he Kent to follow through with his threat.
'What he says.' Said Windsor, heat in her voice, dead eyes boring into his.
'Fine! I'll tell him to piss off then!' He raised his hands, partly to show agreement, but mostly to ward Hoffmeister away.
The door to the command centre burst open as Devon stormed through, 'what the fuck are you all doing?' She paused as she registered the scene. Two senior NCOs, gorillas, looming over a somewhat chastened looking officer, 'everything okay?' She asked softly.
'Fine, fine. Just going over some of the finer points of our Last Stand.' Said Hotston in a strangled-sounding voice.
'Good, because they just took the defile. Destroyed The Bitch before we could get back to help Suzuki.'
'How's he doing?' Asked Windsor as the door opened again, 'ah. Bugger.'
'Lost the canyon,' said Suzuki as and Manaheri entered, 'only a matter of time before they break through the doors.'
#
'This is like Star Wars.' Whispered iPrivate Billy Bunter as he and his squad took position in the massive tunnel behind the entrance.
'What, 25? Emperor's Clone?' Whispered his best mate, iPrivate Dillon.
'Twat. No, A New Hope.'
'Where the rebels are on the ship, waiting for the Empire to board?'
'Exactly!' Said Bunting smugly.
'You're the twat. You do know they die yeah? Jesus, you're such a muppet!'
Bunter's smart remark died on his lips as the doors were ripped apart by an explosion. Firing his automatic grenade launcher even before the enemy showed themselves, he happily hummed the Imperial March as the tunnel filled with flashes of death-bringing light.
#
Mtube laughed as he sent shell after shell screaming down the tunnel. Halfway up a squad of 49ers had been positioned to slow the enemy advance down, to make them fight as he and his people targeted them killed them.
A huge mech, the biggest he had ever seen was outlined in red, seeming to strobe as it advanced into the storm of fire being sent its way.
'It's shielded!' Cried one his gunners
'Calm down, clarify.' Boomed Mtube.
'It's advancing under the cover of a shield. A literal shield!'
Frowning, Mtube tried to zoom in on the target, to see what his gunners were seeing. Well, that's a first for a heavy mech, he thought as he stared at the massive slab of metal the enemy mech was advancing behind. It was common practice for assault mechs to use shields in order to advance under enemy fire, and he had been expecting such mechs in this attack. He had never even heard of this being done for a mech so large as the Imam.
'Try to angle your fire off the sides and roof of the tunnel. I will try to break the shield.' Calling up PRECISION SHOT, he opened fire, every shot aimed at the same point on the shield. As the return fire increased, more and more shots hitting home, he prepared to sell his life dearly.
#
'All units fall back, repeat fall back. The entrance is lost. Set demolitions charges on all equipment and abandon the main halls.' Devon's lip curled as she spoke, the words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. Even after hours of heavy fighting which had seen wave after wave of enemy troops annihilated, the thought of pulling her people into what was essentially the base's keep, hurt. People had died, time and time again – a lot permanently – to hold the base and still the Spanish refused to send direct aid.
Taking a moment to gather her thoughts she sat back, fingers steepled, shaping words without saying them. Decision made, she leaned forward and opened a general broadcast channel.
'This is iMajor Devon, commander of the mech unit Devon's Demons, and a detachment of infantry from the 49ers regiment. We fought the length of France in order to escape the ChinKor invasion and return home.' A lump formed in her throat as the memories of all thud suffered and lost filled her mind.
'Instead, we were faced with a choice. Prison, or fight for the Spanish in the hope that our actions would prevent the NAC forces from joining the ChinKor. We chose to fight. We chose because we believed that the Spanish would fight as hard, or harder. Instead, as we prepare our LAST STAND, General Garcia refuses to do little more than nibble at the edges of the force tasked to wipe us out. Our people are dying, truly dying, as he and his people standby. Please, I'm begging you, help us. Devon out.' Closing the channel, she covered her face with her hands and started to weep.
#
Smoke drifted down the corridor as barely-seen shapes rushed back and forth. Flashes of light, the sound of metal on metal, flesh on flesh, the screams of wounded and the begging of the defeated filled the right confines as men and women fought and died. There were no militia present to cause doubts. Neither side was giving quarter. Hotston had run up the black flag at Devon's o
rder. There would be no surrender.
'Charges set sir.' The speaker was a young soldier, one that Hotston didn't recognise. A replacement that had come through the reinforcement point. Unable to train the reinforcements on how to use the battle suits, the replacements being fresh recruitments, with only Basic training under their belt.
'Lambs to the fucking slaughter.'
'Sir? Are you talking to me?' The boys tone implied that he knew the answer.
Hotston cringed inwardly. He hadn't meant to speak out loud. 'No lad. Just thinking out loud. Blow it.'
'Fuck yeah.' Grinned the young boy as he sent the signal to the demolitions charges, utterly destroying the reinforcement point. Every time they were forced to pull deeper back into the base, they destroyed the reinforcement points. It meant that the enemy were forced to use just the two that they had captured earlier. It also means that if we blow them all, we can save some of our people.
Guiltily, he looked over at the boy to make sure he hadn't spoken out loud. Devon and he had taken the decision that as they were being reinforced by fresh recruits, men and women with their full quota, to pull those of their people with fewer lives back.
When they'd asked a recruit why they were being sent here instead of fighting in the UK, she'd simply shrugged and said, 'They need veterans over there. Not in this hell hole. Sir.' That last had been added with a deep red flush.
#
'My mum always said that the infantry was a mug's game. That's why I joined the mechs. She was bloody right you know!' Shouted Kirton as he blazed away with his mech crew's submachine gun. It took little to no skill to use, and filled the air with hundreds of flechettes in a very short space of time. The effect on the enemy troops advancing down the corridor was horrific.
Devon's Demons: A Permadeath LitRPG LitFPS Novel Page 16