by Jay Allan
Fargus sighed. It just kept getting worse. The Alliance and Caliphate air assets had fought each other to mutual annihilation early in the campaign. If the enemy had hidden aircraft during the initial fighting, they would have total air superiority now. Third Battalion was already doomed, but the end would come almost immediately if they had to face coordinated ground attacks and air strikes.
He glanced left and right, looking at the thin, ragged line of Marines waiting for the enemy assault. His instinct was to prepare to receive an air attack, but there was no point. Let them focus on giving the Janissaries one last good fight, he thought. They had almost no AA ordnance left anyway. His mind was dark, resigned to his fate.
“Aircraft positively identified as Reynolds-class landing craft.”
Fargus heard the AI’s statement, but the reality of it lagged, following a few seconds behind. His mind raced. Reynolds landers? Marines!
“Confirm aircraft identification.” He was looking up as he snapped the order to the AI, cranking his magnification and trying to get a glimpse of the incoming landers.
“Identification confirmed. Approximately 60 Reynolds-class ships currently inbound…projected landing zone 1.5 kilometers northeast of our position.”
He felt his stomach clench. If those were reinforcements, they were coming down close to the enemy position…too close. He felt his hands ball into fists. His people had to hold the line, at least until those ships came down. If the Janissaries broke through and were waiting in the LZ, the landing would be a bloody fiasco. He couldn’t imagine why the landers were coming in so close…landings were usually better planned. But if those were Marines…
“We’ve got reserves incoming, Marines.” He shouted his orders on the com, his renewed energy and determination clear in his voice. “We’ve gotta hold this line, people…long enough for our brothers and sisters to hit dirt. We don’t give a centimeter. Not a motherfucking centimeter!”
He heard a ripple of cheers and acknowledgements…and then a single clear voice shouting. “Here they come!” The entire line opened up, blasting away at the approaching Janissaries with renewed enthusiasm.
Chapter 15
Painted Hills
HQ – Force Hammer
Northern Continent
Planet Persis – Iota Persi II
Day Sixteen
“Sergeant Mulligan’s strike force has been overrun, sir…sirs.” Burke snapped out his report, his eyes shifting involuntarily between Holm and Worthington. It was a lot of brass for a rookie private to deal with. He was Holm’s aide, but Worthington was so lofty a figure he thought he’d get a nosebleed just being near him. “I can’t raise any of his people…I’m afraid there may be no survivors.” Burke put his hand up for a few seconds as he listened to another incoming report. “Lieutenant Barret is down as well. His company is retreating with the enemy in pursuit.”
Holm turned and looked at Worthington. “I think we’re down to the last stand, general.” Holm’s voice was raw and tired…but unbeaten. He would fight to the last, with the final bit of strength in his body. He was beyond exhausted, but he took a stim whenever he felt like he was losing effectiveness. He couldn’t imagine the wear and tear on his body, but none of that was important now. Staying sharp…as sharp as drug-induced consciousness could be…that was the most important thing.
He was a realist too. Worthington’s relief force had bought them some time…a little at least. Confused and surprised, the enemy pulled back all along the perimeter as Worthington’s landers hit ground. The new troops deployed immediately and went right into battle, gaining back a few meters of lost ground and giving Holm’s exhausted Marines a little rest…a day’s worth. Then the reformed and resupplied Caliphate forces redoubled their efforts, throwing themselves at the Marines’ reinforced lines. For the last two days the forces had been locked in a death struggle. The reinforced and resupplied Marines held firm at first, but then numbers began to tell again. The enemy could replace its losses; the Marines couldn’t. Slowly, grudgingly, the combined Alliance force was forced back into an ever-shrinking circle. The front lines were less than a kilometer from HQ in all directions now. There was no more room to retreat. They would fight and die where they stood.
“Captain Holm, sir, this is Lieutenant Fargus.” The lieutenant’s voice was weak. He’d been fighting with two holes in his side for three days. His suit’s med systems had stabilized the injuries, and they had stopped the bleeding again every time he tore open the packing and reopened the wounds in combat. But there was a limit to what the human body and spirit could endure, and James Fargus was close to it. “It’s Colonel Thomas, sir. He’s been hit.”
Holm winced. Sam Thomas was one of the most loved and respected officers in the Corps…and the closest thing Viper Worthington had to a protégé. “The general is listening in, lieutenant. How bad is it?”
“Yes, sir…and general, sir.” Fargus paused, his tension increasing at the mention of Worthington. “It’s pretty bad, sirs. I sent him back to the field hospital.” It wasn’t so much a field hospital as a small stretch of ground where Force Hammer’s two surgeons worked on the most critically wounded, low on equipment, drugs…even shelter. “I think…” He paused, a coughing spasm interrupting his report. “…I think he’ll make it.”
“I want you off the line too, Fargus.” Holm spoke slowly, his hand sliding slowly along the assault rifle clipped to his side. “Get back here and see one of the docs.”
“Sir, I can’t leave…there’s no one else up here to take command.” He was struggling to keep his voice firm, but it was obvious he was struggling.
Holm pulled the assault rifle from the harness. “You bet your ass there is. I’ll be there in two minutes. Now follow my orders and get to the aid station.” Holm turned to face Worthington. “You don’t need me here, do you sir?”
Worthington opened his mouth then closed it again. He wanted to order Holm to stay put. Things were bad at the front and getting worse by the minute. But those were Elias Holm’s people out there, at least half of them were. The general knew what was going through the heroic captain’s mind. It would be over in a few hours anyway. The lines were collapsing everywhere, and there were no reserves left to plug the holes. Why shouldn’t Holm die on the lines with his Marines?
Worthington felt a rush of guilt. He’d failed the captain and all his people. His 300 reinforcements were woefully inadequate, and the hope of more help from the fleet had faded steadily as the hours passed. He was sure Clement had tried to help, but Alliance Intelligence probably had everything locked down. He cursed himself for obeying the original evac order, for not seeing through the scheme sooner. He just couldn’t order the captain to stay at HQ, not when the end was so close. He owed this to Holm, to let him die fighting alongside his Marines. “Go, Elias,” he finally croaked, turning away as he did.
“Keep up that fire.” Holm was crouched in a small foxhole, targeting the approaching Janissaries and dropping them with perfectly aimed, three-round bursts. He’d been first in marksmanship in his basic training and officers’ Academy classes, and the enemy troops were getting a lesson in precision shooting. The Janissaries were going to win this round by virtue of sheer numbers, but it wasn’t going to be a battle that went down in their unit lore. They’d taken horrendous casualties fighting a force they outnumbered at least 5-1. The Marines had fought with a savage determination beyond anything the Caliphate’s elite troops had ever seen. Elias Holm had directed his outnumbered forces with enormous skill and determination, and his people had responded to his leadership, giving them all they had.
Holm watched as the advancing Caliphate forces staggered and fell back to regroup. His people had dodged another bullet…beat back one more charge. He felt a rush of elation, but it didn’t last. His people were near the end. The next attack – or maybe the one after that – would be the last. There was no more room to pull back, no fallback position this time. When the enemy broke through and burst in
to the rear of the Marines’ position, Third Battalion would be destroyed.
“Let’s use the break, Marines.” Holm pushed his dark thoughts aside. They served nothing…and if his people were going to die here, they were going to go down fighting. “Shore up your foxholes, and check your ammo supplies.” And stay busy, he thought. He didn’t want them to have too much time to think now. It couldn’t do anyone any good.
“Sir, Simm’s company is down to their last 2 or 3 cartridges per man.” Burke trotted up behind Holm. “He’s requesting resupply.”
Holm sighed, turning to face his erstwhile aide. “Danny, all I’ve got for Lieutenant Simms is my best wishes.” The supplies were gone, even the extra ordnance Worthington’s reinforcements had brought down. The Marines on the line had whatever ammunition they carried on their suits…then they’d be down to deploying their blades and hunkering down until the enemy got into close quarters. “Tell Simms’ people, burst fire only…no full auto.” He paused a few seconds then added, “And tell them to use up their popguns…they may not be that effective, but I want every weapon we’ve got put to use. Understand?” They were almost out of reloads for their assault rifles, but Holm would have bet his last credit they all had full mortar racks.
“Yes, sir.”
Holm could hear the fatigue in Burke’s voice. The lack of sleep, endless fighting, constant terror…it was a terrible burden on any man, but an almost unimaginable strain on a young rookie thrust into the responsibilities he had borne over the past ten days. Holm had nothing but admiration and respect for the Marine Burke had become, but he also knew the young private had to be near the end of his endurance. All the Marines on Persis were.
Holm sat on the edge of his foxhole, taking a few deep breaths. His AI had been adjusting the mix of his suit’s atmosphere, feeding him extra oxygen when he was in the heat of battle. A fighting suit not only increased a Marine’s strength and protection…it also allowed the human warrior inside to maximize his or her own natural capabilities. Holm knew that none of his people would still be standing, much less fighting, after what they’d been through…not without their suits. They were all strung out on stims, fed a bunch of chemicals and raw nutrients, and kept in the fight…far longer than their natural equipment could have sustained.
“Here they come again!”
Holm’s eyes snapped to his tactical display. Sure enough, another wave was advancing, coming across the blood-soaked plain directly at the Marines’ fragile line.
“All units…fire on my command.” Holm stared out across the yellow sand, his eyes darting up to his tactical display every few seconds. “Fire!” He screamed the command, the word ripping across his parched throat like a knife. He pulled his trigger as he did, firing an unaimed 3-shot burst…a waste of ammunition he did not intent to repeat. He looked out, choosing a target and coolly dropping the soldier with another burst.
All along the line the Marines were firing, using the last of their precious ammunition to meet the Janissaries with a wall of death. The elite enemy soldiers pushed forward into the deadly maelstrom, firing as they did. Then, at 200 meters their line staggered. They didn’t run, didn’t fall back. They began to go prone, singly at first then in groups. They hugged the ground, taking advantage of the cover offered by any small hills or gullies. The intensity of their fire increased as they opened up at full auto…then again as their autocannons and heavy rocket launchers deployed.
The small patch of ground between the two forces became a nightmare, a horrific demonstration of man’s powers of destruction. Holm knew his people would lose this duel in the end. The Marines could match any force of devastation the Janissaries could unleash, but they were almost down to the last of their supplies, and their adversaries could resupply themselves. In the end it would be materiel and not men that determined the outcome of the battle on Persis.
He focused on the enemy in front of him, picking them off one by one. The supply situation was beyond his control, but until they ran out completely he and his Marines had a job to do. There was no command responsibility left…his people knew what to do. For the moment, Elias Holm was just one more Marine in the line, his assault rifle one of many. If he had to die on this miserable enemy rock, he thought, this is how he would go…shoulder to shoulder with the Marines he led.
“Captain Holm, I am tracking a wave of attack ships approaching from orbit.” It was Nate, the AI’s voice calm, unaffected by the savage fight going on all around.
Holm was startled by the sudden announcement. “Is that confirmed? Whose ships?”
“Scanning report is confirmed. Incoming craft are broadcasting Alliance transponder protocols.”
Holm was silent, stunned. He opened his mouth, but before he could ask another question, the forcewide com channel crackled to life.
“Attention all Marines…this is Lieutenant Samson, commanding attack wing 6. Admiral Clement sends his complements.”
Holm heard a loud explosion, followed by another…then another. He could see plumes of smoke rising up behind the enemy lines. Samson’s attack ships were bombarding the enemy rear areas, targeting supply lines and headquarters and spreading disorder in the enemy’s ranks.
The fire from the Janissaries slowed, and they began to gradually pull back. The Marines let out a cheer, and they kept firing all along the line, gunning down their retreating enemies.
“Cease fire.” Holm understood the bloodlust taking hold of his Marines, but they weren’t off Persis yet, and their ammo was still running low. “I said cease fire!” He roared into the com, angry that he’d been forced to repeat his order.
He watched on his tactical display as a group of Reynolds landers came in after the attack ships. In a few minutes there would be fresh Marines on the ground. He felt a rush of hope, a wave of excitement. Maybe…just maybe his people would make it off of this stinking planet.
“Danny…get back to the LZ. I want a complete report as soon as those ships land.”
Silence. Then a response…soft, weak, forced. “I’m…sorry…cap…tain.”
Holm felt a chill inside. He spun his head, looking all around for Burke. He found him a few meters to the rear, lying on his back in the mud, at least half a dozen holes in his armor. “Medic!” Holm shouted into the com. “I need a medic here, now!”
He ran over, his eyes running up and down the stricken private’s armor. The holes in the suit were large, and blood was pouring from them. He’d been hit by one of the enemy autocannons, and the big hypersonic projectiles had cut through his armor like it was paper.
Holm opened his visor and reached for the controls on Burke’s armor, pulling the release and opening the private’s helmet. He looked down at the young Marine. “It’s ok, Danny. I’m here.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but he knew immediately there was nothing he could do. Burke’s suit would fight to stabilize him, to save his life, but Holm could see that the damage was just too extreme.
Burke looked up at Holm, his face splattered with blood, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please…help…me. I…don’t…want…to…die…sir.” His words were slow and tortured, his eyes wide with fear. He tried to move his arm, to reach out for Holm, but he didn’t have the strength.
“Just stay still, Danny.” Holm was struggling to hide his grief. “The medic’s coming.”
Burke took a deep, raspy breath. “I’m…scared…captain.” His voice was shaky, weak. “I…want…to…go…home.” Holm looked down at his mangled body.
“I know you do, son.” Holm closed his eyes for an instant. He watched the blood pouring out of Burke’s suit and into the pale yellow sand. He tried to imagine the wounds hidden by the armor, the massive, gaping holes the autocannon rounds had torn into this young boy’s flesh. He could see wet pink foam oozing out of the holes. Burke’s trauma control system was trying to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were just too large, too deep. Holm knew the system was pumping artificial blood substitute into Burke, but that wouldn’t last lo
ng. He could already see the change in color, more orange than deep red…the synthetic blood coming out as quickly as it was pumped in. “The medic will be here in a minute, Danny.”
“I’m cold, sir.” Burke was crying, trying again, unsuccessfully, to reach out for Holm. “I can’t feel my arms.” He coughed, spraying blood from his mouth as he did.
Holm’s steel-gloved hand was resting on Burke’s armor. He couldn’t imagine a less effective way to succor a dying man. Barely a man, he thought, more a boy. Holm was fighting back his own tears as he tried in vain to comfort his young aide. Burke had shown his true quality over the last ten fateful days. No one’s first mission should be in hell itself.
Burke coughed again. He struggled to breath, choking on blood as he did. Holm watched silently as he took one last throaty breath and then lay still. The struggle was over. Daniel Burke was dead.
“I’ll organize a rearguard and hit the enemy. It will buy us some time, hold them back from the LZ.” Holm was watching Marines board transports all around as he spoke. The initial wave of ships had included a contingent of Reynolds landers and 200 fresh Marines, but the follow up flights were retrieval craft only. There was no point in sending down too many Marines…anyone who came down only had to be evac’d.
The ships were coming in slowly, a few at a time. Clement only had limited control of the fleet, his deadly dance with Alliance Intelligence and the operatives deployed on his ships still going on. Some of the troopships had rallied to the admiral…others had been neutralized by the agents onboard. There had been fighting and arrests on some ships…even a few assassinations. But Clement kept the ships coming…and one group at a time the Marines were getting off Persis.
Holm had been loading the ships as they arrived and sending them back as quickly as he could…gradually pulling strength from defensive lines. Those defenses had been bolstered by the 200 fresh reserves from the first wave. He tried to get the wounded and most exhausted Marines onboard first, but he took who he could get, taking them from the strongest sections of the line first. He watched himself as Lieutenant Fargus and Sergeant Tremont were loaded onto the first boat. They both had stayed long in the front lines, fighting despite wounds and unimaginable fatigue. Both had almost died there, and they’d only made it back by the slimmest of margins. Now they were going home.