by Leigh Kimmel
* * *
"Hey LT, I think you ought to take a look at this!" Lieutenant Andersen's gunner beckoned to him.
Andersen pushed his mapboard off to the side and crawled up through the gunner's hatch in the Humvee, until he was shoulder to shoulder with PFC Moulton. He was still pissed about the whole "M&M's" issue.
"Myers, take the radios for a minute." The lieutenant said.
Carl grabbed the mapboard, a small notepad and an alcohol pen.
"Roger sir, I got it." The reports were starting pour in, but Carl could handle it, and he relayed them up to battalion without any trouble.
The gunner, PFC Moulton, handed his binoculars off to the platoon leader and pointed out in the distance. "Check it out sir, vicinity Checkpoint Four Seven, South 300 meters. There's some Indowy still trickling in but look what's hot on their tails."
Andersen focused the binoculars out in the distance to see a mass of Posleen just coming into view, chasing down the few remaining Indowy that were fleeing toward the battalion's main line of resistance. The Posleen easily numbered in the thousands and created a dust storm in their wake. They were chasing the Indowy and running them down with ease, hacking them to pieces with their monomolecular blades. Lieutenant Andersen stood, staring through the binoculars dumfounded for just a moment. "Holy shit." He slowly handed the binoculars back to Moulton, and then immediately grabbed the battalion O&I handmike from Myers' while he was in mid-report.
"Manchu Two, this is Sabre Six, I've got Posleen normals, thousands of them, vicinity Checkpoint Four Seven pushing west." Andersen squat down inside of the Humvee, "Myers punch up the fires net!" He swallowed hard before transmitting, "Manchu Steel, this is Sabre Six, adjust fire, over."
* * *
Murphy stood in the turret of his Bradley, glassing Engagement Area Pistol, watching the streams of Indowy move around the man made obstacles that seemed to carpet the valley floor. There were dead Indowy strewn everywhere, some hung up in the wire. When Murphy first received word that the refugees were coming, he ensured that his platoons held their fire, and indeed they did, however the little bipedal aliens were totally unaware of the anti-personnel and anti-tank mines that were buried everywhere, reinforcing the wire obstacles. The little creatures detonated mines with regularity. Not only did they succeed in killing of a large number of their own, but they also unintentionally weakened the obstacles that the human defenders relied heavily upon.
Steve was wearing his Combat Vehicle Crewman's helmet, and was monitoring the company command and battalion command frequencies while scanning the Valley of Death. He pushed the little lever on the side of his CVC to the rearward position, so that he could talk to his crew on the intercom. "Hey Whit, did you hear that on battalion?"
SSG Whitmore was sitting in his gunner's chair, scanning through his gun's optics at the same scene as his commander, while also listening to the radios. "Roger that sir. Sounds like the scouts have just seen the Posties and have requested a fire mission."
Simmons sat in the driver's seat, chain smoking. He could hear everything that his gunner and Bradley Commander could hear, but since the vehicle was in its turret defilade position, in the bottom of a deep hole, he couldn't see a thing. Simmons keyed his intercom, "Hey sir, where's Checkpoint Four Seven?"
Murphy didn't even have to look down at his map to answer, he had memorized most of the battalion's operational graphics, and all of the local terrain features. "Four Seven is five klicks east of 1st of the 506th's lead elements. They're getting real close. It won't be long before we see 'em over here."
Simmons could barely light another cigarette, his hand was shaking so hard. "Great. I can't fuckin' wait."
* * *
"Sabre Six, this is White One, I need fires at grid Charlie Hotel 457983, over!"
"White One, what's the target description, over."
Staff Sergeant Jiminez was a little surprised by the question. "Sabre Six, this is White One, target description is Posties in the open... lot's of fucking Posties in the open. What did you think it was, over."
Andersen was getting a bit flustered, "Watch your tone White One! Okay I got it, grid Charlie Hotel 457983, over"
"Sabre Six, this is Manchu Steel, your push. I monitored your internal, FA is currently shooting your last mission, but I'll put the mortars on this one, over"
"Manchu Steel, roger that, Sabre Six, out."
Lieutenant Andersen watched as the field artillery hammered the landscape, shredding Posleen normals by the dozens, and driving God Kings to whatever cover they could find. It was like pissing on a house fire though. The deluge continued to flow unabated. Fortunately for the scouts, they had managed to camouflage themselves on ridges and hilltops reasonably well, and were as yet unnoticed. With any luck, they could manage to keep it that way.
* * *
"Guidons, guidons, this is Dragon Six, scouts report Posleen pushing into Engagement Area Pistol vicinity TRP Thirteen. We should see them any time now. Remember your fire control and distribution. When sending reports stick to SALT format and keep it short. Acknowledge."
Steve put down the handmike and lit another Marlboro. His throat was starting to get a little sore from smoking so much, but it was hardly deterring him from sucking down another lung rocket. Darkness had engulfed them, and the only thing he could see were stars shining in the sky, and the vague outline of a ridgeline on the other side of the valley. He could hear the artillery rounds sailing overhead, thumping dully in the distance. Just then the first 25millimeter high explosive incendiary tracer round gently arced out toward Target Reference Point Thirteen. It exploded into the Posleen who were emerging into view. The first round was a sensing round, fired to determine the proper range. It was quickly followed up by a three round burst. A moment later, the report of the weapon echoed off the hills, "Boom. Boom, boom, boom."
The Bradley Fighting Vehicles of Delta Company engaged from as far out as possible, and were having some success in thinning the ranks of their enemy. The Posleen, were emerging from a distant defile into the open "Bowl" and were quickly spreading out and racing forward. They started to return fire at the Bradleys, but it was not accurate, and it was fired at great distance. When the first God Kings emerged they directed fire, but it was still not having much effect. They fired at the human positions while racing forward to close the distance, their best bet was to overwhelm the battle positions and they knew it.
The attached tank platoon held fire with their main guns until they targeted the first God Kings. Once they did, their initial volleys were encouraging. God Kings riding in their small craft were destroyed quickly, and their normals scattered, losing focus, if only for a short time. Still, the Posleen pressed the attack, firing wildly and pushing forward at a full sprint.
The commander of the tank company team on the north side of Engagement Area Pistol took his cue from the infantry and ordered his platoons to open fire. The two tank platoons, and the single platoon of attached Bradleys rolled forward, up onto their firing platforms, and added the full weight of a tank company team to the fight. The Posleen did not even break stride as they divided their attention between both the infantry team to the south side of the valley, and the tank team in the north. The assaulting Posleen found themselves in a massive crossfire, in the open, with their ranks being torn to shreds, their leaders killed regularly, and now they were starting to hit strange looking obstacles erected everywhere, slowing their advance to a crawl.
"Manchu Steel, this is Dragon Steel, over." First Lieutenant Jimmy Ngyuen was calling the battalion fire support officer, Captain Frandsen, on the battalion fires net. He was desperately hoping to get through, but he wasn't holding his breath. The battalion fires net was getting a tad busy, and Captain Frandsen was a popular guy this evening, as every major maneuver element in the battalion attempted to request service from the painfully small number of available artillery and mortars.
"Dragon Steel, this is Manchu Steel, standby. I've got thirty fire mi
ssions stacked up and I'm trying to shoot them all. All the guns are real busy right now, out."
Jimmy Ngyuen wasn't thrilled with the news, even though he wasn't surprised. From what he could tell from monitoring several of the battalion's radio frequencies, they were getting attacked along the entire frontage and they were giving everything that they had. The enemy was not even slowing down, or noticing their casualties. He knew that at this rate, it wouldn't be long before the first calls were going to come in requesting final protective fires, indicating that positions were about to be overrun. And Jimmy knew that there simply weren't enough tubes available to make a difference.
He sat there in the back of his cramped FIST-V, staring at the radios and feeling helpless. He picked up his M16, pulled the charging handle, and chambered a round. This was going to get real ugly.
First Sergeant Jennings slapped another magazine into his M4 Carbine. The barrel was hot, almost white hot, and he was afraid that if he kept this up for much longer the weapon would be useless, and that he would have to find another. Not that that was going to be a problem, there were more and more weapons becoming available as casualties mounted within the company.
"Lowthorpe! Have you raised 1st Platoon yet?" Jennings didn't wait for an answer before he popped his head out of the trench again and started firing wildly into the solid wall of Posleen that was making another rush at this part of the company's line.
Specialist Lowthorpe huddled down at the bottom of the trench, with a handset in each hand, trying to communicate, while a deafening fight raged all around him. "Negative First Sarn't! I can't raise anyone down there, and battalion's screaming for a SITREP!"
Jennings jumped back down into the trench next to the RTO and dropped another empty magazine in the dirt. "You got any more mags left?"
Lowthorpe simply nodded in the affirmative as he answered another desperate call coming in from 2nd Platoon.
The first sergeant handed his M4 to Lowthorpe and snatched a handmike from him. "Here, reload this fuckin' thing!" He then pulled a laminated map from his left cargo pocket. "Manchu Six, this is Cherokee Seven, over!"
Colonel Smith heard the call coming in, but ignored it for just a moment. His track was sitting in between two dismounted infantry positions filled with guys pulling triggers like it was going out of style. The one covered position to his left took a direct hit with a hyper-velocity missile. The concussion rocked him and his entire vehicle. The explosion sent chunks of clay, rocks, railroad ties, and pieces of soldiers flying into the air.
"GUNNER, HE, TROOPS, 800 METERS!" The colonel screamed.
His gunner responded before his battalion commander finished the fire command. "IDENTIFIED!"
"DRIVER UP!"
The driver slammed the vehicle forward, up to its firing platform, and then stomped on the brake.
Before the vehicle's suspension quit rocking from the sudden braking movement the colonel screamed. "FIRE!"
"ON THE WAY!" The gunner squeezed the trigger hard, and let loose a deafening, twenty-three round burst into a sea of four-legged monsters. It was then that the M242 Bushmaster auto-canon made that sickening "Ka-Chunk!" sound as the weapon cycled on an empty chamber. They were out of ammo. Again.
Each high explosive round from the 25mm auto-canon exploded like a fragmentation hand grenade, and they were highly effective against individual Posleen. They were not very impressive when fired into massive groups of the horse-like creatures though. It just couldn't kill them fast enough.
"CEASE FIRE, DRIVER BACK!"
The driver jolted the transmission back in reverse and launched them back down into their hole, just as the first Posleen railgun rounds and flechettes blasted their position. Colonel Smith looked up just in time to see the tip of one of his antennas get sheered off by some odd Posleen weapon system.
The gunner, Staff Sergeant Colburn yanked open the turret shield door and jumped through it. "I'm clear sir!"
The battalion commander then elevated the gun, and spun the turret to its proper position, so that the gunner could reload in the back.
"Cherokee Seven, this is Manchu Six, I need a SITREP, over!" The colonel transmitted over the boom mike on his CVC.
Dirt showered down on First Sergeant Jennings, and the ground vibrated as he spoke. Smoke drifted into the trench and made it practically impossible to breath. He kneeled in a shallow puddle of blood that pooled on the broken ground from the half dozen mutilated bodies lying in the ditch.
"Sir, it's bad up here. I've got thirty confirmed dead, at least that many wounded, I can't raise 1st Platoon on the radio, I've got the company mortars shooting FPF for 3rd, and 2nd about to be overrun. I think we're going to fold any minute now. Request permission to fall back, over!" The first sergeant was so scared he felt like puking his guts out.
Colonel Smith could hear his gunner in the back ripping open ammo crates and loading heavy 25mm rounds into their trays as quickly as his exhausted muscles could move them.
"Cherokee Seven, this is Manchu Six, roger, understand. You've got to hang on for just a bit longer. I'm going to push the reserve up to you, once that happens, I'll give you further instructions. Acknowledge!"
Lowthorpe handed the loaded M4 back to his first sergeant. "Okay, I got it sir. But don't make me wait too long. I like action and adventure as much as the next guy, but this shit is out of control!"
Colonel Smith looked over at the two boxes of coax machinegun ammo right next to him and noticed that they too were getting a bit low. "Colburn! When you come back up, bring some coax ammo with you!"
"Roger sir!"
Smith turned his attention back to the radio. "Cherokee Seven, don't worry, I'll get some folks up to your position, just keep up the fire! Manchu Six, out."
* * *
Smigelski put the red dot center mass of another Posleen normal that was hung up in concertina wire. The animal thrashed around in the obstacle uncontrollably, trying to escape, and in doing so, mutilated itself badly on the razor-like barbs that protruded from the wire. Smigelski jerked the trigger of his M16. The bullet smashed into the creature's throat and killed it almost instantly. The bolt of the weapon slammed back, and locked to the rearward position, as it always did whenever the last round was fired.
"RELOADING!" Smigelski ducked down low in the fighting position so that his head was no longer exposed. He was totally focused on the task at hand; he had tuned out the rest of the world. He knew that Cartright would pick up his rate of fire, and cover down on his sector while he reloaded. His ears were ringing badly, and even the sound of Cartright's machinegun was barely audible. He pressed the magazine release button and the empty magazine dropped to the dirt floor of his fighting position; it was littered with spent shell casings and other flotsam.
Stacked in the rear of the enlarged fighting position was a cache of ammunition, food and water. Smigelski and Cartright had spent days in preparation, loading magazines, prepping drums of SAW ammo, and placing them in ammo cans in the back of their hole. He reached into an open can and retrieved another loaded magazine, slapped it into his weapon, pushed down on the bolt release button, and let it snap forward. He then tapped twice on the forward assist, ensuring that the bolt of the weapon was firmly seated.
"I'M UP!" Smigelski jumped back up so fast that he hit his head on the overhead cover that served as their roof. He hardly noticed as he peered through the M68 site and scanned for another target. It wasn't hard, there were hundreds of centaur-like creatures flowing around a turning obstacle not far down the hill from him.
Mortars and grenade launchers fired flares into the air illuminating the engagement area down below, casting uneven shadows as they floated back to the surface. In the low areas, Posleen rushed the wire like crazed fans at a Metallica concert. Thousands of tracers flew back and forth thrashing and ripping into them. Hundreds of them got cut to pieces under the murderous fire.
"I'M OUT! RELOADING!" Cartright screamed.
Smigelski put the dot on an
other animal that was firing in his general direction. He squeezed the trigger and watched as the Posleen dropped to its knees in agony. He consciously slowed his rate of fire to allow Cartright sufficient time to reload the SAW.
Cartright dropped to a knee and pulled his machinegun down with him. He quickly set the weapon down on its bipod, grabbed the carrying handle, pressed the release and removed the smoking hot barrel from the weapon. During the preparation of their position, he had carefully laid down several asbestos mittens in the corner. He tossed the barrel on the mittens, grabbed a five-gallon jerry can full of water, and poured it over the white-hot metal. It immediately sizzled like a load of French fries dumped in hot grease. A plume of steam rose up and out of the fighting position as Cartright jammed the spare barrel on the end of the SAW.
"YOU DONE YET?!" Smigelski bellowed down at him.
"JUST A SECOND! WORKING IT!" He detached the empty ammo drum from the bottom of the weapon and tossed it out of the foxhole. He wasted no time snapping another plastic drum in place, grabbed the belt of ammunition, and gingerly placed it in the feed tray. He slapped the feed tray cover down on the belt of ammo, and sprung back up onto his firing stoop.
"I'M UP!" He immediately pulled the trigger, and sent another seven round burst of 5.56 millimeter NATO downrange.
It was dark outside, but hardly anyone noticed at all with bullets flying in every direction, explosions all around, the noise, the charred bodies, burning vehicles, and the smell. Most noticed nothing at all except for the terror they felt, and how their muscles felt like lead. Some were so scared they didn't know that they had shit all over themselves.
Smigelski tried to put the gut-wrenching fear out of his mind and stay focused, until Bradley number Delta Two Two went up in a fireball just fifty meters to his right.
The vehicle rolled up to a hull defilade to fire just when a hyper-velocity missile penetrated the protective berm to its front, entered the vehicle's engine compartment and exploded. Shrapnel and liquid metal entered the turret of the vehicle and sprayed the Bradley Commander and his gunner, bursting organs and shattering bones in a nanosecond, killing them both instantly. The driver, Private Jorgensen, was positioned next to the engine compartment and had molten aluminum splashed all over his lap and upper torso. He screamed horribly until he went into shock and then unconsciousness. He was spared the pain of burning alive when the fuel tanks caught fire and the ammunition cooked off. The Bradley burned, and burned hot. Blue flame vented from the top hatches from the vehicle, as combustibles ignited, and armor melted.