by Unknown
Mark nodded in agreement, “The comm-net being on the fritz since we landed was no help, either.”
They watched as things were becoming organized below. Prisoners were being cordoned off to one area and set under guard
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while the camp was pilfered for intel and weapons.
Ford’s pick-up crackled, and he bent over to retrieve his helmet.
“Ground One, you are to accompany Ground Three, and advance north to assist in the assault on Omaha Sector, over.”
Ford gave a sideways look at Mark, who was already wearing a smirk.
“No rest for the wicked,” the young man quipped.
The first sergeant donned his helmet, leaving the visor open to accommodate his cigar, and strapped his rifle over one shoulder. He entered the still-smoking gun tower, and emerged a few moments later with one of the 60-watt machine guns in his arms.
“I’ve always kind of liked these better, anyway,” Ford grinned.
Mark bowed slightly, and motioned for him to take the lead.
Omaha Sector
Four miles west of Hubbard, Ohio
The beachhead there was harrowing at best.
Two gun towers remained intact, and in constant operation. Two 60-watts within each structure shared over-lapping fields of fire, punctuated by the frequent blasts from 88-inch plasma cannons. The eastern approach literally was a kill zone, with the bulk of the 83rd Marine Combat Regiment doing its best to complete its advance across the heavily mined soil.
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Shoulder-launched rockets kept the tanks at bay as well, preventing the armored support from drawing any nearer than five hundred yards. Two of the behemoths sat smoldering close to the center of the field. Earlier, marines had made the grave mistake of trying to use the burned-out shells for cover. Storian fire zeroed in on them, making it all too clear that there would be no ground given easily. The torn bodies of those troopers remained exposed, unreachable for the time being, serving as stark reminders to the rest.
Up closer to the wall, lying prone half in and half out of a concrete drainage culvert jutting from the highway ditch, one lance corporal in particular continued to send out harassing fire from his 60-watt. He had managed to crawl to within only a few hundred feet of the iron gate during the night, using the moments of darkness between plasma flashes. Now, though, he was most definitely pinned down. Any time he attempted to crawl out, it drew fire from atop the wall, forcing him back down into the muck-filled hole. So, with his machine gun perched on the lip, he had no choice but to stay there, and keep shooting.
His load count was getting perilously low. It wouldn’t be much longer before he would be reduced to simply lying there, and watching the show. Safe of not, his position was becoming a real discomfort. He’d been forced to pop his pelvic plate several times to urinate in his own shelter. What was even more worrisome was the fact that he’d become aware of a steadily growing need to do something else. Lance Corporal Guverra prayed that the situation would soon change, as he had no desire to have to move his bowels in his only bastion of safety.
As if in divine response to his hastily muttered prayers, a Huey-shuttle thundered overhead, its side gun blazing. The strafing run raked the upper trench, clearing it of the soldiers. The tower guns homed in on the gunship, slapping rounds into its side as it banked around. The door gunner was thrown back against his harness as he was hit. Squarely facing the nearest tower, the pilot
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loosed a pair of rockets that exploded against its sturdy exterior, blowing shards of concrete outward. It had not been enough to disable the machine guns protected within, but the distraction did provide enough of a lull for Guverra to clamber from the ditch, and run another twenty feet to the next crater, putting him in a far better defilade for directing fire at the gate.
The next tower down the line zeroed on the hovering gunship, and sent rounds into its engine housing. The Huey waggled, and took on a high whining pitch as smoke boiled from its power plant. Guverra watched as it turned away, and descended steadily in the direction of the makeshift airfield in the rear area. There was no fireball that followed, so he assumed that it had made a safe landing. It was too risky to raise his head far enough to make sure.
Without warning, both of the towers went up in twin plumes of fire, blowing apart with a thunderclap that drove him against the side of the hole he was crouched in. Had he not had his visor closed, the overpressure wave would have burst his eardrums for sure. A few seconds later, a fast mover came screaming past, its afterburners shaking the ground.
The toppling of those gun towers finally clinched it. The 2nd Battalion rose en masse, and began charging, the roar of their battle cries echoing over the noise of the gunfire. The tanks began motoring up as well, and Guverra let out a whoop of relief. The initiative had shifted to their favor at last.
A tank climbed the embankment to the highway, maneuvered about to face the wall, and let-fly with its main gun. The gate disappeared behind an impressive eruption of plasma. The Storians still in the area behind it turned-tail, and began to run as a flood of marines came stomping toward them.
As Guverra made his way through, he noticed that there was another wave of marines jogging in from the south, either shooting
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or capturing the enemy as they came. That was 3rd Battalion, he knew. Relief that bordered euphoria filled his being. The assault was drawing to a close, and in their favor. A beachhead had been taken, and a message delivered to the Storians.
Don’t screw with Earth.
In the winding down of the battle, and it became evident that Operation Overlord II was a success, the area of authority shifted from the combat commanders to the medical corpsmen. Medics that were no higher in rank than a private first class were commandeering marines of any rank, shape, or size to assist with the compilation of the wounded. A triage area was already being established as the Army flew in MASH units to begin setting up the surgical tents. Those in the direst need were lined up for immediate surgery while those that could wait were being flown back up into orbit to be treated on the hospital ships. The dead were placed in neat rows for the Graves units to record before being taken for burial. The bodies of the enemy were being buried in mass graves dug out by tanks with bulldozer attachments fitted to their fronts.
With the comm-net back in operation, calls were going out for miles around, pleading for both medical and prisoner retrieval. The gunships were replaced by medevac Hueys that swarmed the skies in all directions.
First Sergeant Ford and Sergeant Corbin followed the stragglers from 2nd Battalion into the Omaha beachhead, and happened upon a squad of marines trying to force the steel door of the central bunker. Remarkably, there was a GNN crew filming it, the cameraman and reporter clad in Safari gear.
“Look at that noise!” Ford exclaimed. “We’re on TV!”
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Mark approached the nearest trooper, a broad-shouldered fellow with his visor open that he recognized from around the base back on Attaya. They had gone bar-hopping a few times right after basic, and he remembered the guy as being funny as hell.
“What’d you corner, Jarhead?”
Lance Corporal Guverra turned his head, ready to tell the smartass what to go do with himself, until he realized who had spoken. He gave a grin.
“Found us an officer, I think. He’s not very keen on coming out to chat, though.”
Mark waved Ford over, “Manny says they’ve caged an officer, but they won’t open the door to come out, and play.”
“Really?” Ford asked. He shouldered the 60-watt over his AR-44, and unstrapped the single-fire anti-tank tube nicknamed the ATR. The sight of it conveyed what his intentions were, and every marine nearby spread out, leaving the clueless news crew standing there next to him.
The first sergeant caught the expectant gaze of the reporter as he was balancing the tube on his shoulder plate, “Might want to duck.”
“Huh?” The reporter
asked.
Ford dropped-visor, and squeezed the trigger. The round whooshed out with a hard recoil and blast of backwash. The steel door was blown inward even as tiny shards of pulverized concrete sprayed outward, ticking against armor and a nearby tree trunk. The news crew cursed and danced as they rubbed at their stinging arms and legs.
The cameraman gave Ford a baleful look, to which the first sergeant feigned innocence, “I told you to duck.”
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A squad rushed in through the roiling dust while everyone else waited outside. Ford noticed that Manny appeared to be in some discomfort, the way he was holding a hand over his stomach plate, and wearing such a sour expression. He passed it off as nerves. Everyone had been through a hell of their own over the past day and night.
The first sergeant was working on the butt-end of his stogie, and thinking how good a cup of strong coffee would be right then, or a cold beer. He wouldn’t be choosy. Ford was still wishing for it when the squad that had ventured in returned with a pair of Storian officers, one a captain, the other a field marshall.
There were no marine officers within earshot, so Ford stepped in, and commenced with patting the prisoners down, and finding something to bind their hands with. He pointed at the squad leader.
“Go back in there, and round up anything that even looks like it could be used by the intelligence boys.”
Ford began walking the prisoners in the direction of the gate with the intention to deliver them to the airfield, where he would be able to call for a pick-up. Mark flanked him, and to his surprise, Manny began to hop from foot to foot, holding his mid-section, and whooshing air through his pursed lips. The first sergeant paused, captivated by the display. Even the Storian officers watched in surprised fascination.
“I’m sorry,” Manny wheezed. He popped his butt plate, squatted, and proceeded to defecate practically at the field marshal’s feet. The prisoners stepped backward, eyes wide, disgusted.
Ford looked at the field marshal with an expression of complete seriousness.
“See what you started?”
The Holloway farm
A command shuttle under gunship escort landed near the north-eastern edge of the Holloway farm. When its side door slid open, a squad of marines assigned to the security detail hopped out, and made a casual check of their surroundings before giving the all-clear signal.
Standing near the back of his house, Steven Holloway watched as a pair of officers stepped out, holding their helmets in their hands. One was an Attayan, the other a Terran. The Terran officer was slender in comparison to his counterpart, even with the bulk of the armor. That man scanned the field with eyes that were a bright blue, and extremely intense. He seemed to be energized to the point that he was not able to stand still, his hands persistently moving from the gear on his web belt to his face, rubbing at his chin.
The officer spotted Holloway and began to approach with a stride that was purposeful, his eyes flitting from him to the tattered exterior of his battle-damaged house. Curtains wafted through the broken windows. The siding was peppered with shrapnel. An errant mortar round had blown out his kitchen door.
“I’m Marine Colonel Strasburg, the commander for the Eighty-Third Regiment,” the man announced, holding out a hand in greeting.
Holloway shook with him, surprised at the strength in that thin hand.
Those sharp eyes played over the house, “I apologize for the beating that your home was subjected to.”
Steven waved it off, “Don’t worry about that, Colonel. I’m just glad to see you guys.”
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The colonel made a slow turn, taking in the ruined farm. The pasture was gone, torn asunder by both tank treads, and explosives. The fencing lay flat. Most of the cattle had been reduced to wasted beef, some of the more intact carcasses already beginning to bloat in the heat. He was making a tsk-tsk sound between his teeth, hands on his hips.
His gaze settled on one of the tanks that was still parked in the barnyard, half in and half out of what remained of the barn. One entire side of the structure had been blown apart, the roof flipped over and lying in a heap atop the chicken coop. The driver had not seen Strasburg, and was sitting on the turret with his legs dangling inside, smoking a cigarette.
“Idiot!” The colonel shouted.
The driver had been facing mostly away from them, and had to turn his entire torso to look back. The kid’s eyes bulged when they fell on Strasburg’s rank.
“Get that heap of crap off of this man’s property!” Strasburg yelled. “What was your mother thinking when she had you?”
The kid tossed the smoke, and slid down inside. The tank’s engine roared to life, and it lurched forward, motoring away toward an area that was being used to park other support vehicles arriving from orbit.
The colonel turned back to Holloway, an apologetic look on his face, hands up in supplication, “It’s so hard to find good help these days!”
Steven had to laugh, “Really, Colonel, it’s okay.”
“At some point, the government will reimburse you,” Strasburg promised.
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“You want to pay me back, Colonel? Kick the Storians the hell off our planet.”
Strasburg’s eyes flared with emotion, “That, sir, I can guarantee!”
They shook hands again, and Strasburg returned to where the Attayan officer waited with the security team. He led them on the hike across a portion of the field, and up to the blacktop of the highway. The number of dead and wounded that they passed along the way astounded them both, and seemed to steadily eat away at Strasburg’s patience. His hands continually balled into fists as he walked, and his brow furrowed so deeply that it seemed to split his forehead.
“Look at this shit, Lafferty!” He complained, indicating the rows and rows of torn bodies. “Those Navy boys were too damned careless with their EMP devices! Some under-aged, gum-chewing techie set them off too soon, and knocked out our own comm-net as our squadrons were breaking atmosphere!”
Strasburg paused, and shook his head in disgust as he surveyed the section of wounded waiting for treatment. He gestured wildly while he ranted.
“Look at these casualties! This is what comes of floundering on a beachhead for more than twenty-four freaking hours!”
Colonel Lafferty only nodded politely. He was sympathetic to his colleague’s frustration, and knew him well enough to simply listen.
Strasburg turned to Lafferty, eyes on fire, and held up his index finger, “If the First Battalion hadn’t been so effective in adapting to their poor disbursement, this entire operation would have been flushed down the toilet! The First Battalion! God bless those determined sonsofbitches!”
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The security detail pretended to be fascinated by other things while the colonel blew off steam. They, too, had been assigned to following him around long enough to know better than to say anything.
The walk resumed toward the marshalling area where camp was being set up. They could make out the command tent going up by its sheer size. Not far from it was the field galley, where a hot chow line was already forming. The MASH unit dominated a large section with their medical tents. What had been a Storian garrison was quickly being transformed into a forward operating base for the marines.
A trio of troopers was passing them on the highway, walking with a pair of high-ranking prisoners, and Strasburg held out a hand for them to stop.
“Afternoon, Colonel,” Ford greeted.
Strasburg noticed the unit markings on Ford’s sleeve plate, just under the chevrons, and his face lit with approval, “Ah! The First at work. I was just ruminating about your battalion, First Sergeant. What have you got here?”
Ford regarded his prisoners casually, “We caught us a real-life field marshal and his flunky captain, sir.”
The colonel beamed happily, “Splendid!” He reached out, and poked a finger at the field marshal’s chest a few times, as if to make sure he really existed.
“We were
showing them the way over to the airfield,” Ford explained. “Thought maybe the intelligence boys would want to play with them for a while.”
“Indeed.” Strasburg agreed. “Once you’ve done that, I want to see the three of you in my headquarters tent. We have things to discuss.”
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A larger helo-shuttle model thundered over, heading in the direction of the airfield. Ford recognized it as a Sea Stallion, and knew that it was intended for prisoner pick-up. The Blackhawks and medevac Hueys were being tasked with transporting the dead and wounded.
“Sir, I believe that’s our retrieval,” the first sergeant stated.
“Yes, yes. By all means, carry on,” Strasburg encouraged him.
The colonel watched them go, a wide smile plastered on his face, eyes glowing. He waggled a finger at them, and spoke to Lafferty with renewed enthusiasm. His moods were like that, bouncing from one extreme to another.
“It’s men and women with that sort of fortitude that will win this war, Lafferty. Mark my words.”
He was drowned out by a low-flying gunship cruising overhead at treetop level, having lifted off from the airfield, and cruising away in the direction of Hubbard. There were still a number of skirmishes being fought along the countryside as the Storians scrambled to their fallback positions, and the air wing was doing its best to maintain support for the marines that were mopping them up.
Attayan Staff Sergeant Rose expertly guided her Huey-shuttle over the tips of the highest trees, the controls seemingly a part of her as she performed what other pilots referred to as ‘contour flying.’ She was familiar with every sound, vibration, and nuance of her gunship. She knew its limits, capabilities, even its unique personality. She loved her Huey, and knew that in its own inanimate way, loved her back.
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Rose had wanted to be a pilot for as long as she could remember having a heartbeat, and the Elite Corps had given her that opportunity to follow her dream. As soon as she had completed her youth education that the Terrans called ‘high school,’ she enlisted in the Attayan military, and put in for aviation training. Flight school had been every bit as grueling as basic was, with the added pressures of study, exams, and simulators. It was a full year before she’d even sat inside of a trainer, and started making take-offs and landings.