Zhu repeated his call for rockets. The machine-gun fire kept him low, but he wasn’t petrified of it; the remote-controlled weapons on the Strykers were effective but were slower to respond in his experience than those under direct human control. The operators were looking at TV screens that had a much smaller field of view than the human eye. This afforded the gunners greater personal protection, but slowed their ability to identify mounting threats. While impressive, the remote weapons systems displays added a sense of distance and a reduced urgency to encounters. Zhu moved to his left, continuing to call for another AT-4 attack. He found a clump of low-lying rocks that a wounded soldier had been pulled from, so he slid in behind it. Shouldering his rifle, he took aim at the Stryker with the 105-millimeter Mobile Gun System in its Protector cupola. As the weapon traversed from right to left, he waited until he had a clear shot at the compact modular sight array, a collection of sensors that included infrared, daytime television, and a laser rangefinder. Taking it out wouldn’t leave anyone in the vehicle blind; they still had three periscopes which they could use to continue their mission, but removing the CMS from an active role would make using the big gun more of a point and shoot affair as opposed to a precision strike weapon. He had a tense moment when the big 105 was pointing right at his position, but the turreted weapon continued its rotation. It suddenly fired on a target several dozen meters to his left, and for an instant, all Zhu could do was swear behind his mask as debris rained down all around him. Then he pulled in his weapon and went to work.
He hammered the CMS with several rounds and was satisfied to see the main imaging array crack and shatter beneath his attack. The turret reversed its course and slewed around, searching for him. Zhu kept it up, plastering the forward-looking infrared sensor and laser rangefinder with more shots, hammering the CMS as hard and fast as he could. As far as he knew, no one had ever been able to accomplish what he was attempting to do, at least not intentionally.
The big gun stopped when it was oriented on his position.
Crap, was all Zhu had time to think before the gun roared again. He literally felt the heat of the antitank round as it screamed past him, missing his position by mere inches. The round hurtled downrange until it hit something substantial enough to make it detonate. Zhu wasted no time in falling back. It wouldn’t take but a few moments for the loader to recharge the big gun, and he wanted to be as far away from that as he could get.
The Stryker rocked on its suspension as two AT-4 rockets slammed into it, flaying it open as if it were no more than a tuna can. Zhu did another face-plant as shrapnel whirled through the air, caroming off the trees and slicing through tree branches and brush. A hefty piece of plating skipped off a rocky ledge in front of him, shattering stone. But the collision was enough to deflect the debris, and it tumbled past him benignly.
Through the ringing in his ears, Zhu heard laughter.
Shapes appeared in the swirling dust, jeering and firing indiscriminately into the pine barrens and they surged forward. Most wore some degree of military uniform; all had the usual accoutrements of the infected—necklaces of ears and fingers, self-mutilations, crude tattoos, bloody piercings. They would be on Zhu’s position in less than five seconds.
Zhu pulled his last grenade from its pouch and removed the safety pin. He raised his thumb, and the safety spoon popped off with a metallic click. The weapon’s primer ignited, and it started burning the fuse charge. In four to five seconds, it would burn down to the six and a half ounces of composite B explosive. Once that happened, everyone within twelve meters would be dead, and those within twenty-five meters could be grievously injured. That, of course, included First Sergeant Weide Zhu.
One...two...three—fuck it, that’s enough! Zhu hurled the grenade toward the approaching klowns and hit the deck once again, right as one of the crazies at the front of the advancing element saw him.
“Sweet meat to eat!” the man guffawed. He noticed the grenade rolling past his feet and whooped. “Hot potato! Hot, hot pota—”
The grenade went off, and the man and two of his teammates were erased from the moment almost instantly, their disjointed bodies taking flight in different directions. Metal fragments whirled through the air in a violent storm, cutting down several more klowns, tearing through their bodies and clothing, shredding flesh and pulverizing bone. Zhu felt a sharp, hot burning sensation in his left arm, followed almost instantly by searing pain that made him cry out. He’d never felt such abrupt agony, and it took everything he had not to scream and writhe. He grabbed the pain and held it at bay as he got to his knees. Shouldered his rifle. Resumed firing.
There was a war on, and Zhu wasn’t quite ready to leave it just yet.
TWENTY-NINE.
Muldoon stood guard as Cassidy and Rawlings secured Moreau with zip ties after fitting her with ballistic armor complete with chicken plates and a helmet. Someone from the Third had even scared up some facial armor, probably from one of the aviation units that had been on post before it had been rotated out, and they slapped that on her as well. Goggles were added to the ensemble, and by the time they were done, the lunatic-loving scientist looked a lot like Rick Moranis’s character Dark Helmet from that old movie Spaceballs. She just wasn’t as funny.
Lord knows we need a little Mel Brooks humor right about now.
Outside the ASP, artillery continued to roar, blasting ninety-five pounds of high explosive hell onto enemy targets all around the fort. The tempo of combat had increased. That told Muldoon that shit was getting seriously real, seriously fast. Apparently the klowns were starting to come together for the big win, and those troops who still defended Stewart were giving them all the explosive munitions they could handle. The RTO was glued to his radio, listening more than speaking. Boats stalked around him like a shark circling prospective prey, waiting to get an update. The set of the old first sergeant’s jaw told Muldoon everything he needed to know. The wheels were coming off, which meant the battalion was in some seriously deep shit somewhere out there.
Gotta get back to the guys, he told himself. Even though his mission was to deliver Moreau to Lee so the lightfighters could roll out for Florida, all he could think about was the men and women of the One Fifty-Fifth facing down the klowns out there without him. Even though his original company was only a shell of itself, the rest of the battalion was extended family, and they needed him. Problem was, he was on babysitting duty, and that didn’t set well with him.
“Sir!” The RTO turned away from Boats and looked at Cassidy, even though the first sergeant was clearly expecting to be updated directly. Muldoon snorted at that. Yeah, Boats, everyone fucking hates you.
“Send it,” Cassidy said as he finished up trussing up Moreau.
“Battalion’s getting it bad, sir. TOC is under direct attack, and Inveigle is duking it out with klown armor. They’re starting to fall back now, but it looks like the CO is down. Wizard’s pulsing us for an update.”
“Objective secured, getting ready to roll out,” Cassidy said. Both men were practically shouting at each other over the roar of the guns. “Pass that back to Wizard, then make sure our rally point is still secure. I don’t want us to fall back into a shooting gallery!”
“Roger that,” the RTO said. He began speaking into his MBITR’s headset, trying to relay the requests over all the noise and distortion. Muldoon watched as the soldier ducked his head and pressed his earphones tighter against his head in a bid to hear whatever response came back.
“Did I hear that right?” Nutter shouted. “TOC’s under attack?”
“Not the first time that’s gonna happen,” Muldoon said.
“We gotta get back there,” Campbell said.
“What, you think you’re a lightfighter too, Campbell?” Muldoon asked.
She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “Fuck off, you prick.”
Muldoon held up a hand. “Sorry, girl. Sorry.”
“Sir, Wizard says the rally point is still good for now, but they need u
s to hold up for a bit! Coordinating fires with Raptor!” the RTO said to Cassidy.
“What do they need?” Cassidy asked.
“Not sure, sir—colonel and sarmajor are out in the field, and the XO doesn’t really have a lot of time to fill us in.”
Muldoon didn’t like the sound of that. If both Lee and Turner were out doing real man’s work, then shit must be flying fast and furious.
“LT, we might need to get back in the game,” he said to Cassidy.
“Cool your jets, Muldoon,” Cassidy replied. “We’ll get in when we’re told to!” He turned back to the RTO. “Word from Desperado?”
“All I know is they’re in pos, sir.”
“Contact Urena, let me know what’s going down over at the fighting position,” Cassidy said.
“Roger that.”
“Lieutenant, we can’t hang out here for much longer,” Boats said. “We can’t get trapped here. Lee might not have the full picture of what’s going on.”
“What are you suggesting, First Sergeant? That we un-ass and run into a situation we’re not ready for?” Cassidy pointed at Moreau. “She’s the mission here.”
“Got it, sir. But if we don’t work on getting her out of here, we’re all going to be staying put for a long time.” Boats motioned around the ASP. “Don’t know how long this place will hold up without supporting fires. Probably a while, but not long enough. That you can count on.”
Cassidy shook his head in frustration. “First Sergeant—”
“Boats is right, sir,” Muldoon said. “We should at least fall back to the fighting position. It’s a straight shot back to the rally point.”
“Not yet, God damn it. Not yet!” Cassidy looked from Muldoon to Boats. “If you men are having problems following orders, then you need to remember where you are, who you are, and who you fucking work for—Harry Lee. And he says stay put. Is that clear to you?”
“Clear, sir,” Boats said.
Sergeant First Class Roger trotted over to them. “Hey, LT! I just heard your commander calling in a strike. Sounds like it’s kinda fucked up out there right now.”
“Strike where?”
“Right on top of your TOC. They got armor coming up the fire trails, and they’re about to go tits up, if you know what I mean,” Roger said.
“No shit?” Campbell asked.
Roger shrugged. “It’s what I heard.”
Cassidy looked back at Boats. “See what I mean about not running out and getting into the fight, First Sergeant? You think you’re bad ass enough to stand up to a few artillery rounds?”
Boats said nothing. Muldoon kind of liked that.
“Roger, what kind of fire are they calling for?” he asked the bigger man.
“Saturation fire,” Roger asked. “Your colonel wants us to move heaven and earth and whole lotta mud, man.”
THIRTY.
Turner relayed the best information he could get from Tackaberry’s troops deployed forward and Lee consulted the DAGR GPS system strapped to his left wrist. According to the report, the enemy armor was coming up a wide defile that had a bed of rocky ledges. It wasn’t smooth going, but the terrain was hard enough to support their weight and the vegetation wasn’t dense enough to prevent them from advancing. Lee figured that by the time Raptor’s artillery could be reoriented in their firing circle, the M1s would be able to put eyes on target and commence firing. It was a gigantic bag of dicks, being a member of a military without peer, and then having to fight that same military.
Lee figured he would lay down saturation fire extending a hundred meters from his position all the way back to the expected avenues of approach, over a mile away. That wasn’t a huge area, but it was big enough that some armor might get through. For certain, enemy infantry would, but he could handle those. The armor was the game changer, and that had to be neutralized. Not only could they kill his men, they could kill their vehicles, and without those the battalion was going to be effectively immobilized. He couldn’t let that happen.
“Five, this is Six! Relay to Raptor: Fire mission. Grid 734536 to 77895, Direction 2750. Two-company element with armor. Request saturation fire. We are danger close at this time. Over!”
“Six, ah, roger—relay following: danger close fire mission. Grid 734536 to 77895, Direction 2750. Two-company element with armor. Request saturation fire. Over.”
“Five, good copy! We need that immediate, so send it! Out!” With that, Lee got back on his rifle. He heard vehicles moving behind him, so the trucks and Humvees were falling out of the line, rolling back to the far edge of the clearing. It wasn’t a lot of distance, but if it was enough to keep them from being zeroed for a minute or so, it was worth it. He heard the M240s mounted on the Bigfoots chattering away as the five-ton trucks rolled. They might be retreating, but they were retreating under fire. Retreating as Army soldiers, not frightened rabble.
He gunned down several more klowns, all while watching the approaching tanks shoulder their way through the pine barrens, turrets traversing as they sought out targets. Soldiers stood up in their hatches, already on their machine guns, raking lightfighter positions, prepping them for the main guns.
“McAllister!”
“Sir?”
“Kill the exposed tank crews!”
McAllister adjusted and commenced spraying one of the tanks with his SAW. Lee added some aimed fire to the mix and was heartened to see one of the troops in one tank’s turret snap back, then slump forward. The barrel of his M240 raised upward, pointing into the sky. The tank commander followed suit a moment later as McAllister hosed him with several bursts of full-auto fire. The tank continued forward, as its driver apparently had no idea he was suddenly absent a commander and gunner. Without those, the tank was less of an immediate threat.
“Six, this is five—rounds out, rounds out—!”
In the distance came a series of repetitive booms. A moment later, the pine barrens directly in front of Lee’s fighting position disappeared beneath a series of blossoming explosions that cast earth and wood and the remains of tanks high into the sky. The thunder was deafening, and the abrupt violence was overwhelming. Lee was certain he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear the sound of his own voice as he and the rest of the troops in the fighting position buried their noses in the dirt. Debris rained down on them in a constant stream: rock, pieces of splintered trees, even an M1’s road wheel, its form bent and blackened. Fire sprang up in the pine barrens as the tanks began to burn. More artillery savaged the land, slamming into it like Thor’s hammer, breaking it open and ripping it apart. Lee forced himself to look up and peer into the conflagration, jerking to his left as a bent piece of tank track bounced past him. Dust and smoke filled the air, making visual observation difficult. Klowns stumbled out of the carnage, bleeding, battered, but still hitching with laughter as they tottered along. Eardrums shattered, half-blinded by flying debris, bodies torn by shell casings, flesh burned by raging fires fueled by ignited diesel. Tank rounds cooked off, their detonations tinny and puny in comparison with the vastly more powerful arty rounds that continued to descend from the sky like a virtual steel rain.
It was horrifying.
It was awesome.
“Five, this is Six! Relay raise fifty, fire for effect! Over!”
Walker’s response was muted and almost indecipherable due to the fury of the engagement occurring only a hundred meters away. The attack continued unabated, though the explosions slowly walked away from Lee’s position, moving deeper into the pine barrens. An M1 fired on another fighting position, rocking back on its suspension as its big, smooth-bore 105-millimeter gun spoke, parting the dust with its own shockwave. The shot was straight and true, and lightfighters were flung into the air. Then the tank was flayed open like a fish as two artillery shells landed right on it, cutting through the thinner armor of its turret and its back deck. The tank’s gas-burning turbine engine destroyed itself with a wail as metal debris entered the fans. Hitching to a sudden stop, the M1 began to b
urn then, emitting a thick column of black smoke. Another round hit it with such force that the tank’s hull burst open. Another tank coming up behind it threw a track suddenly as it was torn right off the road wheels. It rocked on its suspension as an artillery shell grounded right beside it, lifting the vehicle several feet up before it slammed back to the ground. The driver’s hatch opened and the soldier piloting the tank slowly climbed out, sliding down the front of the tank’s sloped bow. He disappeared as another shell landed nearby with enough force to essentially vaporize the infected soldier.
Top quality entertainment, Lee thought to himself.
Just the same, more klowns emerged from the engagement area. Most were injured, and almost none of them were combat effective. They deserved no respite. Lee and rest of the men gunned them down. The fires began to grow in size, consuming trees and brush at a fantastic rate. The flames undulated with the overpressure waves created by the exploding artillery shells. The remaining tanks popped smoke then, trying to mask their presence; it was too late for that. They couldn’t retreat fast enough, and every time it seemed they might slip away, Lee ordered adjusting fires. Soon, there were no more enemy vehicles left. Klowns still emerged from the chaos, but they weren’t a cohesive fighting force any longer, just individuals who happened to be walking in the same direction at the same time of day. The Mountaineers cut them down without mercy.
As was only right.
The intensity of combat began to diminish slightly. Lee called for another fire adjustment, and the red leggers manning the guns at Stewart responded. The fires shifted farther to the west, pounding away at the remaining targets that were—might have been—there. If there was a klown contingent downrange, they were well out of sight. For all Lee knew, he was simply moving mud where there was no enemy, but that was fine and well. As long as the gun-cockers at Stewart could keep the fire up, he was happy to utilize it. After five minutes of intense firing, he called Walker to inform Raptor he could check his fires.
The Retreat #5: Crucible Page 16