by Leigh Kimmel
They had started taking casualties from artillery and mortars and had yet to make contact with any humans. It seemed to them that the hills had eyes, and those eyes were being used to bleed them as they advanced.
Though the artillery fell amongst them, there were no obstacles to slow their advance, so they ran. Better it was to get through the artillery quickly, rather than linger and be killed without getting the opportunity to exact revenge upon the Threshkreen. Besides, if there was artillery, the humans were sure to be near.
* * *
Steve could see normals working their way through the obstacle belt as mortars rained down on them, exploding and sending steel splinters in every conceivable direction. The Posleen suffered terribly from this pounding, but were hurt far worse when the artillery started dropping DPICM. It was a massacre. Still, they kept coming, using their bodies to detonate mines, and to jump onto the wire. The obstacles were reduced by the sheer weight of numbers charging into them.
"You see 'em?" Steve asked his gunner.
"Hard not to." Whitmore replied.
"Driver up!"
Simmons drove the vehicle up to its firing platform, and into the hull defilade.
"Fire!"
"On the way!" Sergeant Whitmore pulled the trigger and started sending long bursts of high explosive rounds downrange.
Captain Murphy watched through his binoculars as the rounds impacted among the Posleen, shattering and wrecking their unprotected bodies. Legs, arms, and heads were ripped from bodies. Disemboweled and disfigured creatures lay everywhere, screaming, their guts spread out all over the ground. Their blood flowed freely. But still the God Kings pushed them on.
"Cease fire! Driver back!"
Simmons put the vehicle back down in its hole, in the protected turret defilade position.
Steve looked to the south and saw the remnants of Team Demon engaging from their positions. The tanks were again doing great work of cherry picking God Kings on their small craft with 120mm smoothbore main guns. It was actually entertaining to watch a tank round take out a God King. Their small craft would explode, or cartwheel into a mass of normals, killing everything in its path. When God Kings died, they died with style.
* * *
Sergeant Holmes slapped the feed tray cover down on the M240B machinegun. The weapon was set up on a tripod in his bunker, with plenty of 7.62 NATO readily available. Miller had neatly lined up five spare barrels for the weapon, along with a couple pair of asbestos mittens.
Holmes set the sights on the machinegun for 1000 meters and peered down them as he manipulated the traverse and elevation mechanism. Out in the distance the aliens were pushing deeper into the engagement area even in spite of their best efforts to keep them back. The enemy was now close enough to start engaging with crew served weapons, and Sergeant Holmes was going start making his contribution to the fight.
"Miller, call up Ski and Cartright and tell 'em they got the green light to start engaging with that fuckin' contraption they got over there."
Miller picked up the receiver to the field telephone and started cranking on the ringer. "Roger Sarn't."
Before Miller could finish delivering the message, Sergeant Holmes placed the weapon from "safe" to "fire," and fired his first bursts down into the valley floor. 1000 meters was a long way, and Sergeant Holmes had a difficult time seeing where his rounds were striking, but he could follow the path of his tracers, and it was obvious that they were landing in the mass of Posleen attempting to penetrate Obstacle Seven.
"Miller, when you get off the phone, pick up those binos and spot for me!"
Miller finished delivering the message to Smigelski and hung up the phone. "Roger Sarn't!"
When Miller picked up the binoculars Smigelski cut loose with the mini-gun, and just for a moment the noise from that impressive weapon drowned out all the other sounds of battle.
The lead Posleen were reduced to carrion but they still came, and the distance between them and the defenders continued to shrink. They began to fire their weapons back at the defenders, and the occasional railgun round or bolt of plasma would dig a furrow into the dirt or the roof of a bunker. Their fire hadn't started to claim any victims, but it did have a sobering effect felt all along the line.
0957 Hours May 19th, 2002
2nd Brigade Tactical Operations Center
"Okay Larry, how's it coming?" Colonel Smith asked.
The brigade XO set the mike down and took the last drag from a cigarette that he had "bummed" from one of his NCO's before crushing it out.
"Sir, Major Johnson has rounded up another half dozen personnel and has handed them off to Lieutenant Ostercamp." The XO started coughing uncontrollably. He wasn't normally a smoker.
Colonel Smith had his back against the wall. He felt like a cornered animal that was about to be pounced on. He was going to go for the jugular, and make his enemies pay dearly before he was taken down. They wouldn't get him for free.
Phase Line Katana was the last bit of hilly terrain for the next couple hundred miles. If the line broke here, then the Posleen would spread out into open, practically undefendable terrain. It was too horrible to even think about. Not only would they not be able to stop Posleen attacks there, but they couldn't run from them either. If the Posleen pushed them out of the hills here, they were as good as dead.
Phase Line Katana was being defended to the best of their abilities, but the line was thin, and was currently getting even thinner. Casualties were starting to come off the line, and gaps were starting to open up. Smith had to get a reserve, and use them to plug any holes that the carnivores tore into his lines. They were to be the fire brigade, loaded on trucks, sent to where the situation was most desperate. The problem was to scrape together some warm bodies to make up the reserve.
He gave that task to the brigade S-1, and sent him with a small "press gang" to gather any stragglers that he could find. Actually, Colonel Smith had given him authority to grab anyone in a set of BDU's that he and his team happened across, with the exception of medical personnel actively caring for wounded. The S-1 was having a great deal of success and the reserve was growing at an impressive rate.
The fire brigade needed a leader, and the only available unemployed officer happened to be the FSB Shop Officer, First Lieutenant Ostercamp. Ostercamp was an ordnance officer by trade, but he had led a platoon attack once during ROTC Advanced Camp at Ft Lewis, and that made him the most qualified man for the job.
"How many people do we have now in Team Striker?" Smith asked.
Major Nixon rubbed his tired eyes. "We've got damn near three hundred people in the counter-attack force. At this rate, we'll have more people in the reserve than actually manning the line."
"Do they have enough trucks to move them?"
"Yes sir. One thing that the FSB doesn't have a shortage of right now, is abandoned vehicles."
"Sounds good."
"Don't we want to take some of these people and put them in bunkers?" Nixon dropped the cigarette butt to the floor and crushed it out with his jungle boot. "I mean, wouldn't some of them be more effective manning fixed positions, rather than in the reserve?"
"No Larry. First, there aren't positions prepared for them and the fight is well underway. Second, if we try to be strong everywhere, we'll be strong nowhere. Just keep integrating more people into Team Striker. If and when the time comes, they'll be more effective as the reserve, assuming of course that we've got some decent leaders on the ground with them."
Nixon pulled out a can of Skoal and put a pinch in his mouth. "If and when the time comes, I'll go out with Major Johnson and Ostercamp to help lead any counter-attacks. Three hundred people is a lot for one lieutenant to control, especially if he doesn't have enough quality NCO's running around."
Smith nodded in concurrence. Things were in the toilet, and the Posleen were getting ready to yank the chain. The only thing that could save them would be if that idiot SIGO could get commo with Division and get the brigade some help
.
* * *
Bill Pfeil ran as fast as his legs could carry him with his M4 Carbine tucked firmly into his shoulder, firing aimed bursts at the rushing mass of creatures ripping their way through the last layer of protective wire. He was sprinting toward the next bunker and eventual cover, checking every now and again to make sure that his RTO was still following him.
Rounds and plasma zipped and flashed past him, kicking up rocks and dirt, while he moved. He tried to concentrate on keeping a good sight picture while running, but failed entirely. All he could think about was the gut-churning fear that gripped him like a vice.
"WEYLAND! GET MANCHU STEEL ON THE HORN! WE NEED SOME FIRES UP HERE RIGHT NOW!" Pfeil leaped into the air and jumped headfirst into the entrance trench behind one of the bunkers. His head slammed into the hardened wall, shredding the cloth cover on his helmet. He fell ungracefully into the bottom of the trench, still alive.
When he stood and looked over the top at ground level he saw Weyland running as fast as he could, right on his heels. Before he could make it into the trench he took a railgun round to the face. His head blew apart and the rest of the lifeless carcass dropped right in its tracks.
Bill climbed out of the recess in the ground and sprinted toward Weyland's body. He still had the radio, and Pfeil needed to retrieve it.
The base of the hill swarmed with aliens, and they tried to hold back the flood with dwindling numbers of weapons and people.
Using every bit of strength in his being, he ran over and tore the radio and its pack from the motionless RTO. He threw it over one shoulder and leapt back into the entrance trench, to the rear of the bunker. He could still hear the two soldiers inside of the bunker firing, so at least he knew that all wasn't completely lost.
"Manchu Steel, this is Havoc Six, need you to fire FPF for me time now, over!"
"Havoc Six, Manchu Steel, just hang on up there, I got rounds on the way. Keep your heads down, over." The sound of Jimmy Ngyuen's voice was not very calm or reassuring.
Pfeil slipped his arms into the shoulder straps of the rucksack containing the only available SINCGARS radio in the company and then picked up his weapon. He could tell from his position that the defense of Hill 353 was starting to unravel.
"Havoc Six, Manchu Steel." It was Jimmy again, and he was all business. "Shot, over."
"Manchu Steel, Havoc Six, shot, out."
The Posleen could be seen running through several holes in the wire attacking bunkers head-on, sticking their weapons in the firing ports and blasting the soldiers inside into bloody meat. Some of the men were fighting to the bitter end, while the rest were starting to break and run. He had to stop them. They had to stand and fight.
Bill started getting back to his feet. His knees shook under his own body weight, but he managed it. When he stood, he looked up to find a Posleen normal standing up above, looking down at him in the trench. The Posleen seemed almost curious as it stared.
Bill raised the carbine to his shoulder to fire and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The bolt was locked to the rear, the magazine was empty. He dropped the weapon to the ground and went for his M9 pistol. As he fumbled with the clumsy holster the creature jumped down into the trench with him.
Bill was knocked to the ground by the weight of the huge beast, but he managed to get the pistol free. As he lay on his back he saw the creature pull a monomolecular blade from its belt and raised it high into the air. Bill pointed the nine millimeter handgun and yanked on the trigger again and again. The Posleen normal jerked and twisted after absorbing hit after hit from the small weapon. The blade flew from its hand, and the animal fell on top of the young lieutenant in a heap.
Bill breathed a sigh of relief for just a second before attempting to push the large creature off of him. He wriggled and squirmed to no avail. He tried to struggle free but the body was too heavy for him to move. He was pinned underneath the corpse in the bottom of a shallow trench just when his company needed him the most.
"Havoc Six, Manchu Steel, splash, over."
He couldn't get his arm free to answer the radio. He felt completely helpless when the mortars started exploding all around. He was pretty sure that Grandpa Wilhelm never had any days like this.
* * *
"FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST! ARE YOU IN POSITION YET?" Colonel Smith was literally screaming into the radio. He had lost one fight already within the last twenty-four hours because the counter-attack came too late, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.
"Strike Six, this is Team Striker, we are in position and are now commencing our attack, over."
"Give me SITREPs often, do you understand? Over."
"Affirmative Strike Six. I'll make it happen, over."
"Good. And good luck to you. Strike Six, out."
Colonel Smith stood there, with the radios going crazy with people all around him, but he felt alone.
"SIGO, have you come up with anything yet?"
Buchanan sat in the corner of the tent. He was hoping that Colonel Smith had forgotten about him. He still hadn't figured out a way to talk to Division, and he wasn't on the verge of coming up with any miracles at the moment.
"No sir. I still haven't been able to raise them."
Rage was boiling up inside of him. Colonel Smith felt himself about to lose control. He had his Kevlar helmet in his hand and he was about to throw it at the pathetic signal officer in hopes of killing the useless piece of shit. But just then he heard the very distinct sound of Blackhawk rotors.
"What the fuck is that?" The colonel exclaimed.
Buchanan was still in a daze. "What do you mean sir?"
"The helicopter damnit! Don't you hear it?"
"Yes sir. It's the medevac bird. They're getting wounded from Charlie Med."
Charlie Med was the medical company from 2nd FSB. While most members of the other two companies had fled in the face of the enemy, Charlie Med had not. The doctors and medics weren't much to look at when the bullets weren't flying, in fact they normally resembled something out of an episode of M*A*S*H, but in actual combat their dedication to duty was something remarkable. They had not run, and they had tirelessly treated and evacuated the wounded without guidance or orders. And all throughout, there had been helicopters running wounded back from the medical clearance station.
Aircraft were a definite "no-no" when operating against the Posleen, but choppers were used with regularity in rear areas that were far from the front, especially when the front was located in mountainous or hilly terrain. This bit of information was coming as a big surprise to Lieutenant Colonel Smith.
The colonel was speechless for just a moment. "Are there any other choppers that have been flying in here besides the medevac birds?"
"Well... yes sir. There have been log-birds flying into the FSB at least once a day." Buchanan was confused. He didn't understand why the colonel was so interested in aviation at the moment.
"Don't you get it SIGO?"
"No sir, I don't understand."
"Aerial retrans SIGO! Use a chopper for the retrans platform! It'll extend the range of our radios because we won't have radio signals bouncing off these damned hills. We'll be relaying transmissions over top of them! Damnit SIGO, didn't they teach you any of this shit in signal school?"
Buchanan felt like a fool. He should have thought of this long before now. "Uh, sorry sir. I just didn't think of it."
"Get on with it SIGO! Get me an aerial retrans, and get me talking to Division, NOW!"
* * *
Smigelski fired another long burst down into the onrushing tide of assaulting marauders. The mini-gun fired over one hundred rounds in a second, and had the effect of cutting the Posleen down like a scythe. As he fired Gunga Din scooped up the spent brass and links with a large snow shovel and dumped the detritus into five-gallon pales in the corner of the bunker. Smoke from the huge gun slowly filled the unventilated bunker, stinging eyes and lungs. The three of them coughed and had tears running down their faces
constantly.
Cartright kept pulling on the trigger of his SAW, heat shimmering off the barrel, the deafening sound all but drowned out by the roar of the gatling gun next to him. It didn't matter, his ears were ringing again so badly that he couldn't hear anything anyway. He kept it up until his weapon jammed.
"Goddamn motherfucking sonofabitch!" Cartright yanked on the charging handle of the weapon furiously but nothing happened. "FUCK ME! COCKSUCKER! GODDAMNIT!!"
As he worked to clear the misfeed he burned his fingers, but Cartright hardly even noticed. He looked out the viewports of the bunker at the carnage surrounding him. The valley down below was moving as if alive, with thousands upon thousands of carnivores, running and clawing their way toward the line, being slaughtered wholesale as they advanced.
Along the line, Bradleys could be seen burning on their firing platforms, thick black smoke rising into the air. Tracers flew and ricocheted everywhere, the dull thump of grenades and claymores echoed through the valley. But the most gruesome scene was to the north, on Hill 353.
The hill was over a kilometer away, and the humans and aliens visible to the naked eye were little more than specks in the distance, but Cartright could easily make out what was going on there.
The Posleen had broken through the last of the obstacles and were swarming over the defender's bunkers. Artillery and mortars were detonating at the base of the hill, showering the attackers with white phosphorous, ICM, and high explosive, effectively halting the alien charge. But the most shocking thing was the hundreds of soldiers that had crested over from the back side of the hill and were counter-attacking down the slope. There was no finesse in the human attack. There was no bounding overwatch, there were no support or assault elements, there was no fire and maneuver, there was only a large mob charging down the hill, firing their weapons from the hip. They ran and fired until they intermixed with the Posleen.