by Jay Allan
The primary infantry weapon for normal fighting is the GD-211 electromagnetic rifle, which fires a tiny projectile at extremely high velocity. Because of the high speed of the dart, the energy transference to the target is extreme, making it an extremely hard-hitting weapon with a very long effective range.
For fighting in vacuum or near-vacuum we have a variety of lasers and other energy weapons. They are extremely powerful in such conditions but subject to diffusion and degradation of effectiveness in higher atmospheric densities. We also have grenade launchers, flame throwers, and a wide variety of highly specialized systems. Then, of course, we have the big boys—the nukes. Our armor can support several nuclear weapon delivery systems, with warhead yields up to 50 kt.
Of course you can kill almost anyone just by punching them. The fighting suit vastly increases the strength of the user, allowing us to literally run through walls and jump 20 meters straight up. A skilled Marine can deliver fire from mid-jump, reaching target locations that are blocked from the ground.
We were all anxious to start blasting the countryside with our new weapons, but the first month of training was spent learning how to walk. We’d had a few casualties during our war games and maneuvers, but these were mostly the results of scattered accidents. It was during suit training that things got serious … and the general’s prediction that many of us wouldn’t survive really came back to haunt us.
We lost 5 on the first day we actually wore the suits, mostly because they didn’t listen to the instructors and tried to do too much, too fast. I started suit training with a healthy respect for the danger, and this only increased when I saw the bloody results of recruits who tried to run or jump without the right skills.
Jumping wasn’t difficult, but landing was another matter, at least landing safely. The suits provided a lot of protection, but you could still mess yourself up falling hard from 15 meters. It took a lot of practice to learn to land safely and even more to do it without losing a beat. After all, when we were in the show we’d be doing this under enemy fire. If you managed not to hurt yourself jumping, but you stumbled and faltered on the battlefield you could end up very dead, very quickly.
Once we were proficient with our suits, we redid all the war games, fully armored this time. The final event was a full scale simulated assault against an entrenched defender. Half of us were attackers and half defenders. When we finished, we switched sides and did it all again. Projected simulated casualties for the attacking forces were over 50%. I hoped we’d do better than that when we hit dirt somewhere for real. I knew from my studies that the average assault force in the Second Frontier War lost 18.2% killed and wounded, which was bad enough, but it was a hell of a lot better than 50%+.
At the end of our fourth year, we left Camp Puller and boarded a transport for the orbital transfer facility. There we were loaded onto a ship called the Olympia, and we headed out toward Sol Warp Gate #2, bound for Van Maanen’s Star and the base located on the second planet of that system.
We were ready to start assault landing exercises and begin training for fighting in space. The Sol system was demilitarized by the Treaty of Paris, so all of our military bases conducting anything but maintenance and refueling had to be located in other systems.
The trip was hard on a lot of the class. None of us had ever been in space, and the zero gravity and acceleration periods were rough on the digestive system. Cleaning up partially digested rations, however they’d chosen to expel themselves from human bodies, in a zero gravity environment might have been my least favorite part of training. We did have a number of methods for scooping it all up though, and we got quite good at it.
I’d read an account of a sailor from the old wet navy who said that recruits got used to the waves, and their seasickness passed in a couple weeks. Well, I can tell you that it takes a whole hell of a lot longer than two weeks in space, but the principal still holds. By the time we began our final approach to Van Maanan’s II, most of us had adapted to normal space travel. We’d get another chance to acclimate to the wild maneuvers preceding an orbital insertion, but that pleasure was still a few months away.
The next two years were filled with training similar to what we’d had already, but in increasing difficult and dangerous circumstances. We practiced around the base on Van Maanan’s II, but we also did maneuvers on the sun-baked first planet and on a moon in the outer system where the temperature hovered near a balmy 40 degrees above absolute zero.
We let loose with all of our weapons, ripping apart one simulated target after another, and in year six we trained with the “specials.” Unleashing nuclear warheads was dangerous business, and you certainly didn’t want to undershoot with one.
We didn’t have any washouts after we left Earth—they’d weeded out all the losers long before. But we did have casualties. Those last two years cost us 42 dead, and my class ultimately graduated 382 out of 1,011 who started.
We got a trip back to Earth for graduation. When we got there they gave us two weeks of leave and transport anywhere in the Alliance. I didn’t have anyone to visit or any real desire to see New York again, so I just went to New Houston. That’s what most of the class did. The Marines seemed to seek recruits with no real ties or family.
Graduation was held on the parade ground at Camp Puller. General Strummer had been true to his word. We not only saw lots of blue full dress uniforms—we got our own. Strummer wasn’t there, though. There had been a lot of skirmishes along the frontier, and the general had been transferred to a sector command.
There was a lot of satisfaction in having finished six years of hard training. My life before joining up felt like some bizarre dream, and I could hardly form clear memories of that time. Those recollections would fade even more with the passage of time, until my old existence seemed like little more than a dream. This was my life now.
My class had been together for a long time, and I think we would have liked to serve with some familiar faces, but new recruits were generally assigned in small numbers to existing commands. We got parceled out to units all over Alliance space, and I was the only one sent to my new company. We did have a nice party, though, just before people started shipping out. I would run into some of them in the coming years, but others I would never see again. But I’d gotten my first taste of true loyalty and camaraderie.
A week after graduation I boarded a transport, and two months later I got bolted into a lander and blasted out into the upper atmosphere of Carson’s World. It was the beginning of a long journey.
CHAPTER 4
Tau Ceti III
During Operation Achilles
“Cain, pull your troops back to the refinery. Fast. The whole company’s falling back.” Sergeant Barrick’s voice. Great. That meant that all the officers were down.
I snapped out a series of orders to my acting fire team leaders, telling them to retreat in hundred yard intervals, one team covering the other while they fell back. Between the smoke and the confusion I couldn’t be certain, but my best guess was the company had already lost about half its strength.
We were in the middle of Operation Achilles, the invasion of Tau Ceti III. Achilles may have been its official name, but to us it was a fucked up mess, colloquially known as the Slaughter Pen.
It was my seventh mission since the Carson’s World assault and I’d made the last three as assistant squad leader. A few days earlier an enemy frag grenade had made me acting squad leader. Sergeant Thompson wasn’t dead, but with both legs blown off he wouldn’t be leading the squad anymore either.
By this time the undeclared war we’d been fighting for fifteen months had become official. The Third Frontier War had begun in earnest, and we’d been pretty roughly handled so far. We’d lost two major land battles and a half-dozen mining colonies, and the navy suffered a pretty serious defeat at the Algol warp gate. With the fleet on the run there were several dozen colonies cut off without support or resupply.
The war had been tough on my squad too. Wi
lson killed in the raid on Altair V. Kleiner dead on some miserable asteroid in the 61 Cygnus system. She was only hit in the leg, but decompression and cold killed her before we could do anything. Gessler, Andrews, Worton, and Stanson wounded and in the hospital. Will Thompson and I were the only ones left in the squad from the Carson’s World mission to hit the dirt of Tau Ceti III. Now there was only me.
The Tau Ceti III mission was supposed to be a big start toward regaining our momentum and turning the tide. Instead, it almost lost us the war. The planet was the Caliphate’s largest and most important colony, and its conquest would erase the effects of our earlier losses give us the advantage in the conflict.
Achilles was the most ambitious planetary attack ever attempted to that time. The initial landing by four full assault battalions was supported by a division of regular Marines, American and British Special Forces, planetary militias drafted from nearby systems, a couple units of allied Russian commandos—almost 25,000 troops in all. Achilles took every ship Fleetcom could muster plus five dozen civilian craft commandeered for the operation.
Everything went wrong from the start.
The huge concentration of Fleet units managed to take out the orbital and ground-based installations, at least apparently so. Then, it was our turn—over 2,000 assault troops in the first wave. About five minutes after we launched we realized that the bombardment had been a lot less effective than reports had indicated. The enemy had a prepared network of strongpoints connected by deep tunnels, and it turned out these were mostly untouched.
Salvo after salvo of surface to air missiles blasted toward our landing craft, launched from super-hardened underground silos that had survived the orbital attack. Our launch procedure was designed for an assault against heavy resistance, and the sky was filled with debris, decoys, and every manner of ECM device. They still managed to shoot down about 15% of our landing ships. That was 300 Marines dead before we even hit ground, burned to death in their ships or crushed when their landers crashed.
The initial plan called for us to secure a perimeter and set up a makeshift landing area so Fleetcom could bring down the heavy forces. As soon as we hit ground the word came down—we had to take out some of those missile sites first, assaulting the bunkers one by one. The logic was sound—if they’d managed to shoot down 15% of our agile 5-man landers, the heavy troopships and tank carriers would get blown away. But it still meant launching a series of search and destroy missions against very long odds. Infantry, even powered infantry, going up against an enemy armed with tanks and artillery can expect to take it hard. And we did. Very hard.
To make matters worse, while our troops were hitting the missile sites the enemy was hitting us, trying to snuff out our foothold before we could bring in reinforcements. The fighting went on for three days without a break. It was a damn close race, but we just managed to knock out enough of their missile capacity that the General decided to launch the phase two landing. By that time most of our units on the ground were down to 50% strength.
Air cover was critical during these early days. We had established total air superiority over the entire planet on the first day. Atmospheric fighters launched from our orbiting fleet carriers conducted continuous sorties throughout those first 72 hours, providing crucial support to our efforts on the ground and annihilating the outmatched enemy air forces.
The high command had been certain about our control of the sky, but the enemy had another surprise ready when the first wave of heavy landing ships came in. They had maintained a large reserve of aircraft in a hidden underground base, and these were launched in a single massive strike against the inadequately escorted landers. They were mostly antiquated cargo planes reconfigured to carry batteries of close range air-to-air sprint missiles. Against fighters they would have been annihilated, but as launch platforms targeting huge, bulky landers the result was disaster—less than half of the first wave made it to the surface. In addition to the loss of almost 3,000 troops and 80 tanks, the attack resulted in the destruction of a large percentage of our available landing craft, retarding the effort to get the rest of the force down.
Fleetcom responded quickly, and Admiral Scheer scrambled every atmospheric fighter we had. They didn’t arrive in time to save the landers, but they did manage to intercept the enemy aircraft as they were returning to base. Outgunned, outclassed, and low on fuel and ammo, the enemy planes were wiped out.
While the air battle was raging, the enemy launched another full scale attack all along our perimeter. We had to fight desperately to hold on while feeding in reinforcements from the surviving landing craft. We came very close to being overrun, but just as our lines were caving in at all points a wave of our refueled and rearmed aircraft halted the enemy attack. I have to commend those pilots. They flew mission after mission, utterly disregarding the devastating AA fire from the ground. They saved our asses.
By planetary nightfall, the enemy was pulling back to their starting positions. Our casualties were high, not least among the fighters, who lost a third of their number in six hours of sustained combat, and that was after the 50% casualties they had suffered previously in the campaign. Only one in three of them were still flying.
My company had been assigned to landing facility construction and defense, so we had suffered comparatively few losses to this point. We hadn’t seen any real combat until that afternoon, when the enemy almost penetrated to the landing areas. Even then we were defending prepared positions, and my squad suffered only two casualties—both wounded. But one of them was Will Thompson, and when he went down I inherited the squad.
With many of the heavily engaged units down to 25% of their initial strength, our company was rotated into the front lines the next morning. We marched through a hellish scene of destruction, and the ground was so cratered and full of debris it was difficult to make progress, even in armor. But we picked our way methodically through the wreckage and the ravaged landscape, and we reached our assigned position right on schedule.
My squad took over a section of the jagged trench line about 200 meters long, relieving the two exhausted survivors of the original defending unit. I positioned the squad auto weapon in the center of our line and the rocket launcher in reserve, ready to deploy as needed. Then we watched and waited.
There had been heavy action here, and looking around you could see where the area had been shelled pretty heavily. The trench itself was partly collapsed in several spots, where hasty repairs had been made, but no materials for bracing were available. You could dig like a backhoe in armor, but you still couldn’t stop dirt from caving in, especially when it’s getting pounded by artillery.
All of our dead and wounded seemed to have been evac’d, but looking out across the plain in front of the position, my visor at amp factor three, I could see at least 20 enemy bodies, or parts of bodies, scattered around.
It seems to me the smart call would have been to cancel the mission and begin the withdrawal. The original plan was a total shambles, and our casualties already exceeded the worst estimates for the entire op. I realize I’m looking back with perfect hindsight now, and it’s a dead certainty that no one in the high command asked for my opinion. But we’d already lost almost 30% of the ground forces and two-thirds of the atmospheric fighters, and all we had to show for it was a tenuous foothold, sixteen kilometers in radius.
But like I said, the high command didn’t consult me … or anyone else on the ground, I’d wager. So we spent two days manning a trenchline on the outskirts of the LZ while our sadly depleted flotilla of landing craft brought down the rest of the invasion force. Thy quiet along the line, at least temporarily. The enemy, just as badly battered as we were and having failed to stop the landings, used the time to regroup their own scattered and exhausted units. We’d exchanged only sporadic fire and had no new casualties. I knew it wouldn’t last, but I didn’t realize just how right I was.
I was probably one of the only unit commanders to have more troops than he started with, thou
gh, of course, I didn’t start as a unit commander at all. Our company still hadn’t suffered too badly at this point, but the losses we had taken fell disproportionately on the non-coms, and Captain Fletcher reorganized the company. I’m pretty sure she wanted a veteran non-com running every squad, and there were some that would have been under a senior private if she didn’t move things around. I ended up with 3 four-man fire teams instead of two with five men each, so there were thirteen of us including me.
I did my best to make sure each of my three teams had someone experienced in charge, but I only had one other corporal, so two of them ended up with senior privates in command. Team two was under Harris, who was up for a bump to corporal anyway. I stuck close to team three myself, since it was under the most junior leader.
Our section of trench overlooked the ruins of a small city, really an industrial complex with an attached residential area. It had been bombarded from space, and we’d hit it a number of times with land-based ordnance too, so the place was in pretty rough shape. Of course Fleet could have flattened it completely, but we actually wanted to take it, not destroy it, so the barrage had been limited.
I knew the complex was going to be our objective, and I didn’t like what I saw. We were about three kilometers out, and the approach was mostly flat and open. Our position was slightly uphill from the town, but there were no intervening ridges or cover. The ground, which was originally covered with a scrubby grass that looked like some type of Earth transplant, was churned up and pockmarked from the shelling. There were craters everywhere, partially filled with brown water.
“Display unit status reports.” My non-com armor had enhanced AI with voice-activated control—a nice improvement over the buttons and levers in a private’s suit.