by Leigh Kimmel
Even from a distance it looked awful. Cartright could tell that most of the fighting was hand to hand, bayonets against monomolecular blades. Mortars started falling in the midst of all of them while artillery continued to fall at the base of the hill, preventing more Posleen from reinforcing and breaking the back of the counter-attack. The mortars killed attacker and defender, they killed human and Posleen, they killed without rhyme or reason. It was a melee.
Cartright forced himself to look away. He cleared the jam on the weapon and brought it back into action. He was numb now. Nothing mattered anymore.
* * *
"Well SIGO, you got it worked out yet, or are you going to waste more valuable time while good folks are getting killed?" Colonel Smith was furious.
"Sir, it's ready. You can give it a try now." Captain Buchanan said meekly.
Colonel Smith shoved him out of the way.
"Warrior Six, this is Strike Six, over!" Smith's guts were tying themselves into knots. He had to get commo with Division. If he didn't, they were dead. There wasn't any other alternative.
"Strike Six, Warrior Six, nice to hear from you! How's about a SITREP eh?" The voice of Major General Philipe LeMay came over the speaker loud and clear. Smith never thought that he would be so happy to hear from that rotten Cajun son-of-a-bitch for as long as he lived.
"Warrior Six, we are in trouble! We have lost one battalion and another one is cut off. The rest of the brigade has been pushed back nearly forty klicks and we are holding the line with whatever personnel we can throw into the battle. I need reinforcements in strength or else we are going to fold, over!" The colonel didn't sound very dignified as he pleaded for help.
"Colonel, I ain't got any reserves left, and all the units holding the line are in pretty rough shape. But I do have some MLRS, and that should be enough, get me some grid squares to smash and we'll make it happen."
"General, that isn't going to cut it. If we don't get some maneuver forces up here to help us out, the graves registration folks will be able to locate this brigade by looking for the circling buzzards!"
"You let me worry about that Strike Six. We've got this MLRS problem whipped. When we first employed the rockets most of them were getting shot down because they were still under power when they came into view by the Posties. We have moved the firing batteries several times until we found a couple of spots that work for us. We've got them squirreled away in gullies and wadis behind some large mountains and ridges. The rockets are masked by the terrain until they burn out their fuel. They then just sail on down to their target areas. It ain't perfect, but we've had an over 50% success rate. Just get your fire supporters to send us some grids, and we'll do the rest, over." The general sounded way too confident.
"Are you sure General? I'm not convinced." Smith wanted more than a couple batteries of MLRS, he wanted armor and infantry battalions.
"Goddamnit Colonel! Just give me the grids! I've lost far too many people to listen to this bullshit! You are not the only ones who have had a bad night! Do you understand me?" The division commander wasn't in a good mood either.
"Warrior Six, Strike Six, wilco, over." Colonel Smith wasn't going to hold his breath on this one.
"WE'RE OUT OF TWENTY-FIVE MIKE MIKE! I'M SWITCHING TO COAX!" Whitmore screamed.
The coax machinegun started firing at full cyclic, the ammo cans next to the Bradley commander emptying at an alarming rate. Captain Murphy hardly noticed, he was quite busy up in his hatch engaging carnivores with a fully automatic port-firing weapon.
A hyper-velocity missile went off next to Delta Six Six and a small piece of shattered rock flew through the air and smashed Steve in the forehead, just above his right eye, knocking him down into the turret of the vehicle. The fragment opened up an impressive cut but caused no serious injury, other than the blood that ran down his face like a kitchen faucet.
The radio chatter was heated, but the net wasn't overwhelmed with traffic like it had been the day before, when there were many more Manchus still on the roles. He looked over at his gunner who continued to fire the last of their ammunition without saying a word, the look of grim determination etched on his filthy face. He knew it too. He knew that they were about finished. They had done all that they could do this day, it just wasn't enough. He just hoped that his death would mean something, that it just wouldn't be a total waste. Murphy wiped the blood from his eye, secured his weapon, and started to stand back up in the turret.
"COAX IS OUT! SIMMONS BACK UP!"
The vehicle lurched back down into the hole and temporary safety.
"Dragon Six, Manchu Six, over!"
Steve dropped an empty magazine from his port-firing weapon and flung it out of the turret. He slid a fresh one into the magazine well and snapped the bolt forward. "Manchu Six, Dragon Six, over."
Whitmore looked up at his commander and they stared at one another for a short moment. "We're out of ammo sir. What do you want to do?"
"Dragon Six, Manchu Six, the colonel just gave me a call and said that he has just re-established contact with Division. He said that MLRS is inbound! Keep your heads down and hold your ground! Over!"
Steve acknowledged but was beyond caring. He was already dead. There was no point in dragging it out.
* * *
The Kessentai whipped their oolts onward. The prize was in sight now, the Threshkreen were beaten, their final defenses smashed, their dead lay just ahead, good meat going waste, bloating and rotting in the hot sun. It was soon time to harvest.
The fight had been a brutally hard one. They had fought and died by the thousands, and the last of them survived to benefit from sacrifices of all the others. They had shot their bolt, but what they had thrown at the humans this day had just been enough. So now their hearts raced with excitement, and their tired bodies found renewed strength. Finally, victory was at hand!
The MLRS is a mobile rocket launcher based off of a Bradley chassis. It can fire twelve rockets in a salvo, with an impressive range and devastating effects that conventional tube artillery cannot match. Each of its twelve rounds contains 644 submunitions which when properly deployed, have the capability of killing everything within a square mile.
At first they had very little success as the God Kings knocked the rounds out of the air routinely, but after trial and error, the batteries found firing points that allowed the rockets to fire their boost phase behind cover. They became "dumb" rounds powered only by inertia before they could be targeted. At least most of the time. But it was effective enough, and the system was saving everyone's bacon.
The MLRS batteries of the 2nd Infantry Division had spent the last twenty-four hours firing round the clock hurtling death and destruction along the entire division frontage, beating back the Posleen onslaught time and time again. The infantry and the tankers would meet the enemy and die by the hundreds, holding the carnivores in place just long enough for artillery and rockets to pulverize them. This game played out in the mountain passes and valleys for hundreds of miles in either direction, by soldiers of other divisions and armies ever since the enemy launched their attack the day before.
Some divisions were destroyed, their soldiers and equipment lost forever. Some units ran. But a few had managed to fight and survive. The 2nd Infantry Division was one of them.
Whether it had been by skill, divine intervention, or blind luck, they had somehow held on, by the skin of their teeth at times, but held on nonetheless. In the last hours things had begun to wind down, and all sectors were relatively quiet, except for 2nd Brigade. Their situation was falling apart but that was nothing new, it was just their turn. Luckily for them, they had the undivided attention of the division commander and his staff, and all of the assets he could bring to bear.
The launchers fired mission after mission, and reloads were shuttled down to them on a fleet of trucks. Warrior Six had determined that his division was going to win, and the "Ragin' Cajun" always got his way.
* * *
Lieutenant Ost
ercamp groaned as he wrapped a field dressing around the gaping hole in his leg. He sat in the bottom of a destroyed bunker surrounded by wrecked equipment and bodies. He was missing his Kevlar helmet, his weapon, three fingers, and over a pint of blood, but he was in fairly good shape compared to the others he had led into battle. His counter-attack force of three hundred stragglers and a battalion of field artillery had driven the enemy back down the hill, but they had totally spent themselves in doing so. There weren't many of them left now, the few remaining holding their ground in the handful of intact bunkers. He knew it was going to get interesting soon, he could see the God Kings down in the valley preparing the normals for another assault up Hill 353. That was, until he saw the first of the rockets fly overhead, spreading their seed of death.
The rounds soared over the valley below and sprayed the entire area for kilometers with sub-munitions called DPICM.
DPICM stood for "Dual Purpose Improved Conventional Munition," and it was basically a small shaped charge about the size of a human fist. One of these could punch through armor plating, and they were falling from the sky by the thousands.
Ostercamp watched in awe as the hills and valleys in front of him erupted in tens-of-thousands of small explosions. The ground churned. It looked as if the gods had decided to shake a giant Etch-a-Sketch right before his very eyes. It was the most impressive thing that he had ever seen. As impressive as it was, it just kept coming. It seemed to last forever.
Survivors along the line stopped shooting and dropped down inside of their holes and the hatches of their vehicles. The little shaped charges were wiping out entire grid squares, and some of them were falling short.
* * *
The God Kings spotted objects under acceleration just over the horizon. They fired at once and started scoring hits on the invisible threats. But many were getting through, unseen by automated targeting systems, and their ranks were mauled as a result. Entire Posleen formations were blotted out in an instant by the new human weapon.
The landscape was blasted and blasted again until nothing down below was recognizable. Those that survived tried to run, but were engulfed in hellish retribution. They couldn't escape, there was nowhere to hide.
The hills and valleys were awash in yellow Posleen blood.
* * *
1211 Hours May 19th, 2002
Phase Line "Katana"
The entire area as far as they eye could see resembled a freshly plowed field. The rock solid clay of Diess, was churned and broken up for miles around. Smoke drifted slowly skyward, and a few small fires continued to burn.
Only a few normals remained, leaderless and without direction, they were dispatched with ease by the remaining defenders. The mortars, artillery, and small arms fire gradually wound down, and then ceased completely as the last carnivore was slain. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling flames from the burning vehicles, the idling engines, the secondary explosions, and the whimpers of the wounded.
Steve stood up in his hatch, disconnected the spaghetti cable on his CVC, and then lifted himself out of the turret. He jumped down to the ground, and climbed out of the fighting position, his all-leather boots stirring up just a bit of dust. Whitmore took off his CVC and joined his commander on the ground and just stood there in his sweat-soaked Nomex and said nothing. Neither of them noticed when the driver's hatch popped open, and Simmons crawled out. He removed his spall vest, put his Kevlar on and approached the other two members of his crew.
Steve pulled out his mouthwash bottle, took a large swallow of bourbon and passed it off to Whitmore and Simmons. The other two members of his crew drained the small plastic container before handing it back. Steve screwed the cap back on and put it in his pocket.
Soldiers began to emerge from their bunkers and vehicles, and stood there staring into the valley. The only movement was from those who dragged and assisted the wounded, but even they made little sound.
Cartright, Smigelski and Gunga Din sat on the floor and leaned up against the wall of their bunker. The three of them shared their last canteen of water. Smigelski tossed a cigarette into Cartright's lap and offered him a light.
Sergeant Holmes emerged from his bunker and sat on the roof. He took off his Kevlar and wiped the sweat from his face and bald head. He hardly even noticed Miller when he sat down next to him. The two of them sat that there in total silence.
Bill Pfeil finally managed to squirm out from beneath the dead Posleen normal. He climbed out of the small trench and was sickened by what he saw. Bodies covered the entire hillside, humans and Posleen intermingled. He saw a few battered survivors moving about, but not many. Over the crest of the hill came a Bradley, and it drove down the slope and stopped about twenty meters from him. Up top was Captain Fontaine biting his fingernails down to the nubs. He looked over and saw Bill standing there staring at him. Fontaine pulled his fingers out of his mouth and smiled. Pfeil felt relief wash over him for the first time, and he smiled back. He was thrilled to still be alive.
The mood could be felt throughout the entire battalion. The Manchus had fought and died in scores of battles in a dozen conflicts. They earned their battle streamers in a number of places with unpronounceable names, and now they had just earned their first on Diess. They were somber, but their spirit was not broken.
Lieutenant Colonel Smith walked outside of the TOC and squinted as his eyes tried to adjust to bright sunlight. He felt about eighty years old. Mental and physical fatigue was starting to get the best of him. He walked over to a nearby Humvee and sat down in the passenger seat. It just felt good to get off of his feet for a few minutes.
He tried to reconstruct the events of the last twenty-four hours in his head, but he couldn't do it, everything was just a blur. All that he knew was that they had won. It had been a Pyrrhic victory, but a victory nonetheless.
He struggled to his feet, and back toward the TOC. As much as he wanted to, he just couldn't afford to take a break right now. They had to reorganize chains of command, rebuild obstacles, casualties needed evacuation, supplies had to be brought in, and lines of communication re-established. There was a tremendous amount of work to do.
Rest would have to come later.
THE END
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