Posleen FanFic

by Leigh Kimmel

  Behind them, the hornets nest followed.

  Tom popped his head back out and looked around again. He didn't see any more tanks burning, other than the ones that were facing forward, and it looked like they had thrown off the scent. "Victor, slow down. Don't outrun the pursuit. If we do this wrong, we're just going to have to do it again!" He flipped the toggle switch over to intercom. "Driver, slow down."

  The Mouth was approaching quickly, but now the hoard of invaders could keep up.

  "TC," yelled the gunner through the intercom. "We're out of 25mm co-ax."

  "Roger. Use up the beehive. TC, .50 cal, troops," Tom said, grabbing the controls for the commander's .50 caliber machinegun.

  Several exciting minutes later, Beatty spoke up "There's the Mouth, Sir!"

  "Thanks. Ammo check?"

  CSM Timpton did a quick check. "Two 120mm Sabot. Co-ax 7.62 full up. Loader's 7.62 full up."

  "Right, fire the two sabot, then go to co-ax, loader's 7.62. The Ma-Deuce is out, but I can't take the time to--"

  There was a massive concussion to their left, as the wing tank on that side caught an HVM and their remaining ammo cooked off, throwing the turret clear, as the tank went up in flames.

  Before anyone could react, however, the same centaur HVM gun put a round through the vehicle currently carrying the designation six-six. The round entered the turret just to the right of the main gun, passed through the gun sights without noticeably slowing, decapitated the gunner and ripped off the commander's left leg before exiting out the back of the turret where it eventually impacted with the distant wall at the back of the Mouth.

  "Holly SHIT! What was that" yelled Beatty.

  "Tom's hit! DRIVE DAMMIT!" Timpton grabbed Tom and pulled him down to the turret floor, yanked off his belt and tried to get a tourniquet around his upper thigh.

  The vehicle lurched forward, moving quickly up to its top governed speed of 60 miles an hour, and Beatty guided over and up onto the highway 4 road bed. He ignored what the tracks of the sixty ton vehicle would be doing to the road, however.

  The damage to Tom's leg was too high up, Timpton found, and he had to press on the pressure point on the hip to stop the blood flow instead. By the glow of the turret lights and molten metal, he could see the gunners head bouncing around down by her feet. He looked away.

  "Smaj?"

  "Yeah, Beatty?"

  "I think you should tell anyone else to bugout, too."

  Timpton grabbed the toggle at his ear. "Victor, this is Victor six-six lima. BUGOUT! I say again, BUGOUT!"

  "Is he going to make it, smaj?"

  "I don't know."

  * * *

  "This came last night, Sergeant Major. Have you seen it?"

  "No, Sir." Sergeant Major Timpton sat outside the hospital, on a park bench, smoking a cigarette. It was the first one he'd had in twenty years. He'd stopped, because a young Spec 4 had asked him to.

  He'd been impressed enough by the kid to do so.

  Colonel Binghamton handed the man a single page of computer print-out, which he read. Slowly his hand dropped back to his lap.

  "Do you think he knew?"

  "I don't know. Now neither will."

  Private Beatty sat on the wet grass watching the sunrise. He was momentarily tempted to look over his shoulder and say something.

  * * *

  To: General Arkady Dekalli, Commanding

  From: Canada/US RAP, Winnipeg Office

  Date: Sat, 16 Oct 2004 16:42:03 PDT

  Subject: Info Request 041016:091014:16

  Dear Sir:

  Your request for information regarding the status and where-abouts of Caithness Paulson-Weaver, Spouse of LTC Tomas Paulson-Weaver, Allison Paulson-Weaver, their daughter, and Edward Paulson-Weaver, their son is as follows:

  Caithness Paulson-Weaver: Killed in action involving Refugee Train #041015-AXT, Sat, 9 Oct 2004, enroute from Churchill to Winnipeg, engaged from orbit by Posleen kinetic energy weapon. Identification through DNA records supplied by British consulate in Toronto.

  Allison Paulson-Weaver: Missing, presumed killed.

  Edward Paulson-Weaver: Missing, presumed killed.

  Due to the nature of the attack, and assuming that the children would have been in the same compartment with the mother, the Refugee Assistance Program believes that the children died at the same time as their mother. Since the Posleen used a KEW on the train, and there are no DNA records available for the children, it is unlikely that their bodies will be positively identified.

  We are sorry to bring this news to you. Our condolences to LTC Paulson-Weaver, should you see him.

  /s/

  Allison Paquin,

  Refugee Assistance Program,

  Canada/US (Winnipeg)

  Task Force Smith

  Shane Gries

  Shane is a captain in the Army, currently stationed in Wisconsin. Prior to that he was a company commander in Korea. Who would have guessed? ϑ

  Diess IV

  0340 Hours May 18th, 2002 AD

  Phase Line "Axe"

  Steve felt someone gently nudging his shoulder and heard a voice through a sleepy haze.

  "Sir, it's Manchu Six on the radio for you; are you awake?"

  He opened his eyes, unzipped his fart-sack, and slowly sat up. He yawned, ran his hand over the stubble on his face, and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I'm up." He could barely see inside of the track, as dark as it was, but he could just make out his gunner squatting next to him. He cleared his throat, and took the handmike from his gunner. Staff Sergeant Whitmore then switched on a light, crawled through the turret access door, then up and outside of the vehicle through the gunner's hatch. Steve could hear him standing up on top of the turret, taking a piss over the side of the vehicle.

  Steve put the mike to his ear, "Manchu 6 this is Dragon 6, over." He felt a little apprehensive as he waited for the response. What the hell did the colonel want at this time of night anyway? He pushed the light button on his watch in order to read the time. It read 0340. Forty minutes until stand-to.

  "Dragon Six this is Manchu Six, I'm sitting up on V.I.P. Hill back here looking at your positions. I'm seeing a lot of lights down there. You need to police up your noise and light discipline. Acknowledge."

  Shit, here we go again. The colonel is prowling around again checking up on the companies. Doesn't that friggin' guy ever sleep? "Roger, I'll get on it. I'll have the positions checked to make sure everyone is doing the right thing, over"

  "Roger. Make sure that you check the positions with night vision goggles on so you can see light escaping from the vehicles more effectively, over."

  No duh. He was getting lectured like a cherry-assed private again. "Manchu 6 this is Dragon Six, wilco, over." He could hear Whitmore finish taking his piss, and him climbing down back into the turret. "Hey Whit, can you hand me the other handmike?"

  Staff Sergeant Whitmore grabbed the other handset with the company frequency and handed it to his commander.

  "Dragon Six, Manchu Six, make sure you remember that we pushed back the time of the commander's huddle to 1000 hours."

  1000 hours? They must have changed the time again and somebody forgot to get him the message. Well, that was typical. "Roger, 1000 hours."

  "Manchu Six, out."

  Steve was about to raise his platoons on the radio and have them check noise and light discipline, but before he could press the "push to talk button" his first sergeant called him first. "Dragon Six, this is Dragon Seven, over."

  He smiled to himself. His first sergeant was the most professional NCO he had ever met, and he considered himself lucky to have him. "Seven this is Six, go ahead, over."

  "Six this is Seven, I'm down here at the XO's track and we monitored your traffic with Manchu Six. If it's okay with you, I'll go check 3rd Platoon, the XO can hit the tankers, the Mike-Golf can take Headquarters, and you can hit 1st. We gotta get the platoons ready for stand-to here pretty soon anyway, over"

  Steve rubbed his eyes
again and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Seven this is Six, sounds good to me. Six, out."

  He grabbed a pack of MRE matches and lit his cigarette.

  "You know there's no smoking inside of military vehicles sir." Whitmore's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  "Well, you better turn me in to the PC shocktroops."

  "It's a safety issue you know; you are sitting on crates of ammo right next to the fuel tanks." Whitmore's sardonic tone was strong as ever.

  "Being an infantryman, in a combat zone, on some weird-ass planet, zillions of miles from home, ain't too safe either. I'll take my chances with the cigarettes. Besides, it's a quality of life issue, a man's gotta be allowed at least one vice. Lord knows, I ain't had a decent shower or a shot of ass since we left Earth."

  Whitmore just smiled back. "Hey sir, I'm just tryin' to help you quit smokin'."

  Steve sucked delicious smoke into his aching lungs. "Oh yeah? Well winners never quit and quitters never win. Giving up cigarettes would be a sign of weakness. Anyway, the boss was on the radio just now and he said our noise and light discipline sucks. I want you to go check Headquarters while me, XO, and Top check the platoons."

  Whitmore reached under the gunner's seat, grabbed his gortex jacket, and started putting it on. "Roger, no problem sir. You need me to do anything else?"

  "Yeah. Make sure you take your nods with you when you go."

  "Mine are busted, but I'll take Simmons' pair."

  "Okay, whatever, just make sure that you take a set of night vision goggles. You can't always see some of the light escaping from these vehicles easily with the naked eye."

  "Sir, do you think that the aliens can see as well as we can at night?"

  "Fuck if I know dude. I guess it's better safe than sorry."

  Whitmore looked at him and simply nodded in agreement, "Hooah."

  "Hey sir, go ahead and finish your cigarette. I'll go outside and wake up Jenkins and have him get your truck ready. It'll take him a couple of minutes to get out of his fart-sack and get dressed."

  "Thanks man." Steve then took a long drag on his cigarette while his company master gunner rummaged around in the back of the messy Bradley looking for his driver's night vision goggles. "Hey Whit, do you know where Kim is at?"

  "Roger sir, he's with Schmidtke and Janovich over at the CP. You want him too?"

  "Yeah. Does he know how to set head-space and timing yet on the .50?"

  "I don't know. Jones was supposed to have given him a class yesterday." Whitmore started getting frustrated as he continued to dig around gear and bags that were strewn all over in the back of the Bradley, looking for Simmons' night vision goggles. He mumbled something incoherent to himself.

  Simmons was sleeping soundly on several stacked boxes of unopened 25mm ammo less than two feet away from Steve. Whitmore slapped his feet that were warmly wrapped up in his sleeping bag. Simmons, deep asleep, simply moaned a little. Whitmore hit his legs this time, "Hey, wake up shitbird. Where'd you put your nods?"

  Simmons didn't bother getting out of his bag to answer, "What's up Sarn't?"

  "I need to borrow your fuckin' nods cause mine are broke. Where'd you put 'em?"

  Simmons answered weakly, "They're sitting on the driver's seat."

  "Hooah. Go back to sleep."

  Specialist Simmons rolled to his other side and immediately racked out.

  Steve took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke casually. The only light on in the back of the vehicle was the glowing cherry of his cigarette and one of the lights affixed to the inside of the hull. It had three settings; off, on, and filtered. It was turned on the "filtered" setting, casting a dim blue light on everything. As Steve smoked, the entire compartment began to appear hazy. He pulled his legs out of the fart-sack, slipped his boots on, leaned over Simmons, and turned the light off. He then reached up and popped open the overhead cargo hatch. The cigarette smoke started wafting out, and moist, cool night air came rushing in.

  Whitmore, bent over, with most of his gear in hand, managed to wade through all of the crap strewn on the floor of the vehicle and made his way to the back. With a quick tug he pulled on the troop door access handle. It made a rather noisy, low pitched squeak as the door opened. He exited the track and made his way around to the front of the vehicle and eventually to the driver's hatch in order to retrieve Simmons' nods.

  As soon as Whitmore left the vehicle Steve opened up the top of his rucksack and pulled out a plastic mouthwash bottle. When he unscrewed the cap he immediately smelled the sweet, delicious bourbon inside. He took a short pull and felt the familiar burn in the back of his throat when he swallowed. Just the right kick to start off the day.

  Now it was time to get to work.

  * * *

  When Steve exited the vehicle he plopped his Kevlar helmet on his head, snapped the chin strap and cinched it down tight. He then lowered the helmet-mounted night vision monocular into place in front of his right eye. After a few adjustments, he switched it on and took a second to orient himself to the bright green image produced by his nods.

  He walked up and out of the deep two-tiered vehicle fighting position that his Bradley sat in. He looked up at the sky and the stars. It always seemed so peaceful at night. The only sounds were the handful of diesel engines idling in the distance. It seemed as if the universe were still asleep.

  Steve looked back down at his own vehicle, numbered "D66," to make sure that it was not giving off any unnecessary light. It wasn't, it was sitting silently in its hole. The only thing from the vehicle that stood higher than ground level were the antennas for the radios and the Bradley's optics that were located on the top of the vehicle's turret. In a fight, the vehicle would sit on the bottom of this hole, while the crew scanned for targets. Once a target was found the Bradley commander would order the driver to pull the vehicle forward up onto a firing platform. This platform too was dug into the ground, exposing only the vehicle's turret and weapons systems; this was known as a "hull defilade" position. The crew would then start slinging lead downrange and blow the dog shit out of their enemies. Once complete, the driver would back down into a "turret defilade" position where the crew would again scan for their next hapless victim. If the vehicle needed to leave the position for whatever reason, it backed out of its fighting position up a gentle incline. This was the ideal position for a tank or infantry fighting vehicle, and it was used whenever engineer assets were available to dig the necessarily large holes in the ground.

  Steve placed his battle positions on the forward slope of a ridgeline that overlooked a rather large open valley, which he and his men referred to as "The Bowl." His combat vehicles and dismount positions were arranged so that they could overwatch the "Bowl" and cover this engagement area with direct fires. His positions were located high on the ridgeline but not on top of the high ground, so as not to silhouette his positions. These forward slope positions were placed on what was known as the "military crest" of the ridge.

  Down in the valley the engineers had painstakingly emplaced miles and miles of wire obstacles, reinforced by conventional and command detonated mines. Building those obstacles had been a stone cold bitch. The ground was hard clay, and the engineers spent more time punching holes in the dirt with pneumatic drills than anything else. Just putting in a metal picket to support a roll of concertina wire, or to bury a landmine took a great deal of effort, and ate up tons of time.

  Once in place though, the obstacles would be worth their weight in gold. They would create a temporary barrier that would slow the advance of the enemy while the good guys called in mortar, artillery, and direct fires on them.

  While his battle positions were on forward slope positions, Steve's company trains were located on the reverse slope where they would be shielded from hostile enemy fire. This is where his mechanics, cooks, medics, and the rest of his headquarters element were located. The first sergeant was usually back there, handling resupply, and maintenance issues. This was als
o the location of Captain Stephen Murphy's Humvee and driver.

  The company commander and the first sergeant weren't technically authorized drivers for their Humvees, the practice of having drivers for those vehicles was perfectly normal, and very widespread. Since the war started, some commanders began driving themselves around and sent the drivers down to beef up rifle squads; but Steve didn't do this. The drivers pulled maintenance on the vehicles, and served as radiotelephone operators. More importantly, these vehicles could be used in the middle of a fight as an additional crew-served weapons platform, and to evacuate wounded. Besides, since the Manchu's left Korea for distant Diess, manpower hadn't been a real problem; at least not yet.

  1st Battalion, 9th Infantry was part of 2nd Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division. Before the war it was stationed on Camp Hovey, Republic of Korea in order to maintain peace in that region of the world. That is, until they were hastily redeployed to fight the Posleen.

  In the Eighth U.S. Army, stationed in Korea, thousands of Korean conscripts were stationed with American units. These conscripts were known as KATUSAs, short for Korean Augmentees to The United States Army. These young men were selected to serve their enlistments with American units because of their ability to speak English. Originally the KATUSA program was established to provide translators for the American Army. Eventually they became a very important, and unique, part of the American Army. While they wore American uniforms, worked in American jobs, slept in American barracks, and ate American food, they were still actually members of the South Korean Army.

  The KATUSA was expected to fight and die in American units should a war break out in Korea; but no one quite expected the 2nd Infantry Division to redeploy almost overnight, to an alien planet, to fight some weird interstellar war.