He checked the command feed on his HUD. Twelve hours ago the Salamanders were conducting diversionary attacks along the continent’s northeast coast, drawing Rhino forces and attention in that direction. At the same time, they had de-orbited a couple of mined-out asteroids, aiming them toward two Rhino military bases, forcing them to waste shots on rocks, keeping them busy.
Now… now, as night fell, the real invasion began. The Salamanders, eyes used to the dimness under the sea, swarmed ashore on the southwest coast, into a great patch of former wetlands, preceded by short-range saturation missile fire from submarines. The incoming, surprising swarm of attack weapons took down the defenses in short order, or at least kept them busy until the amphibious Salamander fighting vehicles raced ahead and blasted the emplacements, point-blank.
Then they blew holes in the levies and dams which kept the water out. Fresh water poured in from the reservoirs while salt water flooded in from the sea. Soon, the streets were awash with water a meter or two deep.
The Salamander vehicles needed water like Breaker armored vehicles needed air, so they stopped at the edge of the wetlands and fortified against a counterattack. At the same time, the Salamanders’ equivalents of military police began the laborious and dangerous task of clearing the blocks of high-rise residences full of Rhino families.
Better them than us, Straker thought as he keyed his comlink. “Go time, Colonel Winter.”
“Roger wilco, sir.”
The entire First Battalion, First Brigade—the mechsuits, which Straker still thought of as a regiment, though he had reorganized the unit in fitting it into the Breakers—surged forward out of the shallow water they waited in. The pilots enjoyed the violent movement after their hours of being encased in the suits as they were ferried to the surface of the ocean, out of range of Rhino missiles, and they took advantage of the opportunity, stretching out and running through the wetlands like men splashing through ankle-deep water. Now and then one fell, or sank in a wet hole, but mechsuits made for space could hardly be slowed by mud. Not with jump jets and stabilizers to keep them moving.
Each mechsuit was accompanied by a five-troop squad of battlesuits for support—Rippers, the latest, speediest version available.
The unopposed mechsuits and battlesuits covered the fifty kilometers from shore to the edge of the wetlands in less than half an hour, racing through the Salamander formations. Straker watched them from the beach, standing with the Guard: thirty-two more Foehammers—two companies of sixteen each, plus the special Cadre Battlesuit Company and Hok Company, and himself and Loco in Jackhammers.
He had more mechsuits aboard Independence, but few fully trained pilots.
He felt lucky to have the ones he had.
“Okay, move out.” Straker walked briskly forward, keeping to a Rhino-built road atop a levee, leading the Guard in First Battalion’s wake. The rest followed in a long column, conserving strength and fuel.
Behind and beside the Guard, Breaker armored vehicles—the rest of First Brigade—surged out of the surf and spread out across the spiderweb of wet roads. They headed for dry land in three axes of advance. Hovers popped to the surface and started their fans, skimming over the swampy ground to scout ahead.
“I wonder how Hetson’s doing,” Loco comlinked from behind Straker.
“He’s a platoon leader in First Bat, isn’t he? Why do you ask all of a sudden?”
“Just remembering the last time we fought a real enemy in mechsuits.”
“The Crystal megaship.”
“Only four of us survived—you, me, Hetson and Adler. Then those assassins killed Adler… Hetson’s the only mechsuiter besides us who fought for the Liberation. The rest of them were Republic pilots. They were standard First Regiment guys before transferring to the Breakers.”
“You don’t trust them?”
“I trust them. They’ve been with us for years. Their families are with us. They didn’t bail back there on Culloden. I never really felt like they were Breakers, though. Not like the old days. Not… blooded.”
Straker smiled, unseen. “These are new days, new blood. New fights, new blood-brothers. You’ll feel different after this op.”
“Yeah.” Loco paused. “So what do you think of Jilani?”
“As a person? Seems all right. She’s been helpful. Why? She not giving up the goods to your godlike sexual magnetism?”
“It’s just a matter of time.”
Straker grinned. “She dresses, uh… with intensity, and she swears like a sailor. You sure you’re what she’s looking for?”
“I’m trying to smoke out her game. Playing the fool.”
Straker laughed. “You do that pretty well.”
“Best if everybody believes good ol’ Loco is still thinking with his dick. Then she’ll believe it, too.”
“I was starting to wonder myself.”
“Oh, I’ll hit that ass hard if I get a chance, but I’m not a kid anymore either, Derek. My upper head is in control. Most of the time…”
“Good. Chat’s over, though. I need to keep my mind on the battlefield.”
An hour after sunset, First Battalion met its first enemy unit, racing toward the beachhead. The Rhino armored formation appeared powerful, but without orbital reconnaissance, and with Salamander ADA—atmospheric defense artillery—keeping the enemy spy drones far back, they were completely unprepared for mechsuits, something they had never seen before.
As Straker hoped.
Fighting against mechsuits took a tightly integrated combat formation—something like a Mutuality Hok brigade, in other words. The feed Straker tapped from First Battalion’s lead element showed the Rhinos had the illusion of one—a close-order phalanx, in fact, precisely regular, like a parade ground. One hundred eighty squat heavy tanks, all one type, with extra-large unturreted nose railguns, a turreted electric autocannon above and behind.
It reminded him of the breakthrough tactics of Old Earth’s Soviet Union of the twentieth century. Cram a whole lot of heavy tanks into one spot and smash anything in front of you, casualties be damned. It probably worked just fine against the Salamanders, at least on dry land.
Straker wasn’t worried. Colonel Winter would eat them alive…always assuming there were no surprises.
The Rhinos obviously knew some kind of enemy was in front of them, as they probed with fire, lobbing explosive shells over the low horizon, to fall scattered among the spread-out mechsuit squads. The mechsuits easily dodged the indirect fire, their SAIs providing instant predictions of their fall, enough to leap out of the way.
“Rippers, dismount and stand by. Alpha and Bravo, advance to contact, and then withdraw. Pull them forward,” Straker heard Winter order. “Charlie, Delta, advance to flank them on each side. Echo, Foxtrot, swing wide and slam the door.”
Cannae. From the top, in Straker’s HUD, it looked like the battle of Cannae, where the brilliant Carthaginian general Hannibal Barca, facing a larger force of Romans, entrapped them in a perfect double envelopment, surrounding and annihilating them.
Two mechsuit companies of sixteen Jackhammers each teased the Rhinos forward, firing and then withdrawing behind low hills and scattered copses of trees. Winter brought up Hotel Company, his Sledgehammers, to the reverse slope of a ridgeline behind the Foehammers and used them to snipe from long range, further goading the Rhinos to attack.
He kept his Ripper squads in reserve. No enemy infantry meant no reason to commit his own. Not against a pure tank force.
Two Foehammer companies jogged to the flanks and took the Rhinos under fire where their large main guns couldn’t face without turning the entire tank sideways. Two more companies of Foehammers raced flat out to the enemy rear and then, as one, rotated to strike the Rhino formation.
The Rhinos turned outward, trying to form a defense, but it was too late. They were seeing new monsters that strode over the battlefield, firing advanced weaponry that ripped open their tanks from above, the sides and the rear, Disorganized and no d
oubt terrified, they broke trying to scatter and save themselves.
No tank escaped.
Straker could have ordered Winter to let them flee, once they were no further threat—but give them a day and they would be back on the battlefield. A few crewmen survived by bailing out of their tanks. Those were ignored. The Breakers weren’t monsters, to murder the helpless. But every tank was disabled or destroyed, quickly and efficiently.
At this moment Straker wished he were with them, just another mechsuiter under someone else’s command, with no responsibilities, lost in the pure exhilaration of combat.
First Battalion smoothly resumed its travel formation and jogged forward over the rolling hills.
By this time the Guard reached the edge of the wetlands, in the wake of First Battalion’s advance. Straker could see the deep footprints in the soft ground leading northward. “Deploy and follow me,” Straker ordered.
His two mechsuit companies spread out in standard skirmish formation, diamonds of four-mechsuit squads in a long line abreast, one hundred meters between them, forming a front eight hundred meters wide. Behind them, the Cadre battlesuits jogged on the left, the Hok on the right. The terrain here was nearly flat, with slight folds in the ground, rising gently toward hills in the distance, hills First Battalion had already reached and passed.
The lights of towns showed here and there, but Straker ignored them, passing between them, following First Battalion. The Guard would be their backup, their reserve, and would hold their line of retreat open if the Rhinos tried to cut them off.
Suddenly, the high sky lit up with hundreds of streaks, inbound from the north, passing overhead, aimed at the wetlands.
Long-ranged artillery—missiles and other projectiles. The Rhinos must have decided they wouldn’t be retaking the beachhead soon, and so they were harassing their enemies to soften them up. They would be deploying mobile artillery units into firing positions, but for now, this ordnance was being fired from the strategic emplacements.
Salamander missiles and beams responded from behind the Guard, rising to intercept the incoming fire. The Guard’s travel became surreal—a stroll beneath a celebration of fireworks, debris and spent shrapnel. It rained on their armored heads as they advanced at an easy steady pace.
“Indy, any opposition developing in front of the Guard?”
“None. Your only current threat is from indirect fire.”
“Thanks. Straker out.” He switched to the Guard channel. “Battlesuits in ride mode. Execute.”
Each battlesuit squad of five bounded to its designated mechsuit and leaped aboard, grasping handholds installed for this purpose. The mechsuits could handle the extra five tons each without difficulty, and this preserved the charge on the battlesuits. First Battalion would be doing the same as it moved from fight to fight.
On his HUD Straker watched the remainder of First Brigade—his conventional mechanized battalions—spread outward from the beachhead, extending the perimeter behind him. It was critical to seize territory for the duration of the raid, to force the Rhinos back from the wetlands and expand the bubble of ADA that covered the Guard and Salamanders.
On the left, westernmost flank, Second Battalion encountered stiff resistance from fixed defenses backed up by combat forces, and fell back. They set up a defensive line in a stalemate. On the eastern flank, Fourth Battalion expanded its perimeter out to their planned limits and stopped, waiting for the inevitable counterattack. The only question was, would it come that night, the next day, or later than that?
Fortunately, the Breakers owned orbital space. They should see anything developing.
Just give me tonight, Straker thought, or prayed. One night is all I need.
But he knew the Rhinos were aggressive. It wasn’t likely they would spend their time waiting and mobilizing, organizing, and deploying. They might throw their units into the fight straight from their garrisons, piecemeal, as soon as they figured out the other Salamander attacks along the coast were diversions.
In this case, they would be right to do so. The Breakers were using a mere brigade—elite, yes, and with technology superior to their enemies, but without the numbers and reserves to fight a prolonged battle.
Given time, the continent full of Rhinos would crush them.
Straker refused to give them time.
In the sterile safety of Independence’s conference rooms, it had seemed clear what his role would be—to place the Guard as a mobile connector between the raiding First Battalion and the relative safety of the Breakers armored perimeter. But here, on the battlefield, it seemed like a waste to be commanding this small but powerful combat force and do nothing but wait.
He checked his HUD, but saw nothing militarily significant within fifty kilometers. “Indy, analysis: where’s the nearest enemy target to my position? Something we can handle, something we can hit and run.”
“You’re changing the plan?”
“I’m improvising. The more confusion we cause, the harder it is for the Rhinos to concentrate against First Bat. We won’t deviate too far.”
“There are militia units in every town, but they are of no military significance.”
“Not interested. Find me something that matters. Something to cause chaos, something to draw forces away from First Bat.”
“There’s a drone base seventy kilometers to the west,” Indy said. Straker’s HUD map flashed. “Ground defenses are light, but the drones themselves are CAS models. They’re on alert. I assess they’ll launch within two hours.”
“We’ll take it. We’ll hit them half an hour from now. Straker out. Guard, new orders, target: drone base here.” He pushed the data to the Guard HUDs. “Here’s our course and timing. We move fast, hit them hard, and egress along this route to rejoin our earlier support corridor. Battlesuits, remain in ride mode until we engage.”
Straker accelerated smoothly, conscious of his passengers. Riding a bounding mechsuit was unsteady enough without making it any worse. Besides, he needed to stay low. There were too many local ADA point defenses to risk getting above the nap of the ground and into their engagement envelopes.
Ten kilometers later, as the Guard passed a small town, about 200 Rhinos with nothing but small arms—local militia, in other words—charged out to meet them.
On foot.
The battlesuits immediately leaped off their mechsuit steeds and raced to assault, while the mechsuit pilots instinctively hosed down the enemy with gatling rounds. The thumb-sized bullets ripped through the enemy, but the survivors kept coming. Any rational beings would have turned tail and run, but not these Rhinos. They had to be killed to stop them from fighting as if possessed.
“Mechsuits, cease fire,” Straker barked when three-quarters of the enemy had been cut down. “Save your ammo. Cadre, fall back and let the Hok finish it.”
It didn’t take long. The Rhino small arms, simple high-capacity slugthrowers, were no match for advanced armor.
Yet they had to be wiped out. They refused to surrender, or run.
“Resistance eliminated!” Major 24, in charge of the Hok company, reported.
Straker had given him that “Major 24” designation in honor of the original Major 24, the Hok who had led the contingent that had died to a man taking down the Crystal megaship. He had long since made his peace with using existing Hok. They might as well do something useful, and as long as they were Breakers, they wouldn’t be abused. And maybe Mara would someday figure out a cure, some way to reverse their condition. Until then, they fought, just like any other Breakers.
He told himself these things to distract himself from the sickening carnage. “War is Hell,” General William T. Sherman had said of Old Earth’s First American Civil War.
He was right then, and he was right now.
Loco’s comlink clicked in as the Guard resumed its advance across the rising hills. “These guys are psycho. Unarmored infantry charging against mechsuits?”
“Remember the briefings? It’s their biote
ch.”
“Almost makes you feel sorry for them.”
“Yeah. Same old question. If someone’s drunk or high or brainwashed or just plain crazy, how much is their fault?”
“Right. When Mara ranted in the briefing, I thought it was just the usual bleeding-heart doctor crap I get from Campos, but maybe she was right.”
“Of course she was right—in the long run. In the short run… well, if a lunatic tries to kill you, whose fault it is doesn’t matter much. You have to take him down.” Straker grunted. “At least there’s no question of genocide.”
“Don’t sweat it, Derek. The Rhino herd needs some thinning.”
Straker lapsed into silence. He understood Loco’s cavalier attitude, but he didn’t have to enjoy the killing. He had seen people who came to like it, who had crossed that indefinable line from warrior to murderer—from human being to predatory animal.
He shook his head as if to throw off these thoughts and focused on the task ahead.
Overhead recon mapped the drone base and found no defenses stronger than a few bunkers with infantry. No reason to get fancy. “Battlesuits, dismount and support. Mechsuits, advance in line.”
They came over a hill to see the facility spread out below. Four drones were in the air and several more were spinning up. The HUD network SAIs deconflicted the fire of too many pilots trying to shoot too few targets, and four streams of gatlings knocked the air vehicles out of the sky.
After that, it was just mopping up. Aerospace forces on the surface were always meat for ground troops.
“This is too easy,” Loco said as they resumed their advance in First Battalion’s wake. “From the way the Salamanders talked, I thought the Rhinos would be harder targets.”
“We’re deep in their soft underbelly,” Straker replied. “They expected the same old enemy, not us—and we have all the advantages except numbers and time. We have orbit, we have freakishly scary combat machines, we have support from the rear, and we have tactical surprise. We’re like… armored space marines showing up on a medieval battlefield. We’re terrifying, and they have no idea how to handle us.”
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