by Unknown
“Go to him,” Ford said softly.
Minerva finally found her legs, and began to run. Mark happened to glance up, his attention attracted by her running toward him, and he dropped his tray in astonishment. He met her halfway, scooping her up in his armored arms, planting a kiss on her mouth that drew many a second glance. Her friends joined in the group hug, as glad to see her as she was of them.
From a discreet distance, a GNN crew was filming the reunion. The reporter spoke softly into her microphone, practically giving a play-by-play before breaking off into a brief recap of the day before.
“There are still many such tearful reunions taking place along the newly secured beachhead that the First Global Marine Division took back from the Storians yesterday,” the reporter was saying. “While solid numbers of casualties are not yet available, it was clearly the heaviest for the First Battalion, Eighty-Third Combat Regiment. They were responsible for landing behind enemy lines, and assisting in the capture of the infamous wall.
“Despite losing all of their officers, and being scattered across miles in a poorly disbursed deployment, the young men and women of the First Battalion carried out their mission against odds that were stacked heavily against them. It was the heroics as witnessed in the footage captured of one Sergeant Minerva Carreno that carried the initiative. It’s no wonder that the First Battalion is being referred to as The Mighty First, and has been hailed across the allied systems as the spearhead of the counter-offensive to regain territory currently occupied by the Storian invasion.”
The eyes of billions were riveted to the daily newsfeeds. People laughed, cheered, and cried with the young service members
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in their efforts. Their triumphs, their hardships, all were transmitted constantly, especially so with Minerva, whose name was becoming a household item. Already, heads were turning in high places, attracted to her youthful face, and captivating smile.
In Hollywood, posters were going into print for patriotic purposes, with her face above the newly adopted catchphrase of the Mighty First. The rate for volunteer enlistments skyrocketed where those posters were hung.
Noon
Within the command tent, Colonels Strasburg and Lafferty stood next to one another before a particular monitor, scrutinizing the images being delivered from an AWACS fly-over of Hubbard. To one side of them, the communications techs were busy sorting through dozens of situation reports pouring in from the field.
His arms crossed to keep from fidgeting, Strasburg frowned and cocked his head as he studied the layout of the streets in the smallish town, paying particular attention to the approach his units would be following on the way in. Entering the eastern edge would require using the highway, which would place his troops in a precarious position, being exposed without adequate cover.
“I hate having to send them in without artillery cover,” he complained. “What more pisses me off, is that the air wing is only willing to give up a single gunship for air support. My kids are going to be advancing on a held position, with the collateral damage limit tying one hand behind their backs.”
Lafferty touched a spot on the screen, enhancing the image,
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“Judging by these signatures, it’s apparent that the Storians are regrouping primarily along the far western side of town, among this cluster of farms.”
Strasburg nodded, “You can bet your ass there will be snipers, and pockets of sappers waiting at all of the choke-points. Urban combat is going to whittle us down something terrible. It does not reassure me knowing that GNN will be filming our every move. With civilians being caught in the cross-fire, it could get ugly real fast.”
His counterpart seemed more concerned with the highway beyond Hubbard, where it stretched down toward Campbell, and beyond to Youngstown.
“Storian armor is rolling in with reinforcements,” Lafferty pointed out. “We’ll be facing them by morning if the air wing holds off for too long.”
The regimental commander sighed, and began slowly pacing the length of his desk, “We need to get moving. The longer we sit, the more the Storians can fortify their defenses.”
“Who’s going in on this push?” Lafferty asked, still gazing at the monitor.
“First Battalion, without a doubt. There’s none better to maintain the initiative.”
Lafferty pointed at the screen, “A-Company is comprised of your strongest troopers. I would have them spearhead straight in, while skirting Charlie around to the right flank. That would present a two-pronged attack downtown, and Bravo could be held in reserve if things get too dicey.”
Strasburg considered that, then ceased his pacing with an abrupt expression of resolve, “Call it out to Sergeant Major Ford, then. Precious minutes are wasting.”
Hubbard Town Limit
14:00 hours
The afternoon hovered between the comfortable heat of an early summer’s day, and the outer edges of sticky with humidity. The air was still and quiet, without so much as a breeze to break it. Smoke still rose into the cloudless sky from numerous points of the horizon where fires continued to burn from the previous day, casting the day in an eerie, orange-tinted hue that tickled the nose with its smoldering aroma.
The grassy fields cut by thick stands of woods that wove lazily toward the edge of town were divided in their center by the two-lane highway, which itself emitted a wavering aura of heat above its surface, distorting the broken white lines that had faded over time.
Four bulky armored personnel carriers rolled slowly down the centerline, their top-mounted Bushmaster machine guns at the ready as they advanced, the sound of their heavy plasma-diesel engines loud in the silence of the day. They were the only things moving on that blacktop, testament to how far things had fallen apart. Civilian traffic was a thing of the past.
At a respectable distance from the outskirts of Hubbard, the APC’s braked to a halt, spaced several yards apart from one another, and began to cycle down their rear deployment ramps. The moment the steel-plated hatches thumped onto the road, marines poured out, dispersing onto both sides of the highway.
Mark led 1st Platoon as they scrambled along the right shoulder, spacing themselves out and crouching down in the tall, unmown grass. Ford took 2nd to the left side, a little further out to
allow enough room for the APC’s to turn around after closing their
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hatches. A single tank would be their armored escort through town, and it waited patiently fifty yards back, its engine chugging. The crewmen manning the side-mounted gatlings kept a weary eye of their surroundings.
On one knee near the right highway shoulder, Mark first glanced back to ensure his platoon had spaced themselves properly, then looked toward the west, where a trio Huey-shuttles were descending off toward the outer fringe of the center row of buildings. Dust chuffed out from its engines as it thumped down, delivering its load of marines. He knew that Minerva was over there, leading C-Company in their disbursement. He thought a quick prayer for her safety, then focused on his own tasks at hand.
He waited to see what Ford was going to order. On the opposite shoulder, the sergeant major stood in an almost casual manner, his visor up as he scanned the approach into the eastern edge of town. The man chewed on the stub of a cigar, a pensive expression on his face. Mark followed his gaze. Ahead of them lie a string of dilapidated-looking houses with overgrown lawns, and an abandoned convenience store with blown-out windows. Beyond stood the antiquated historic downtown, lined with rusty automobiles with flat tires and shattered glass. Weeds poked up from cracks in the sidewalks. It was an abundance of hiding places for the enemy that surely awaited them. Smattered among it all were countless civilians cowering unseen.
Ford made a hand motion for his people to stay put, and crossed the blacktop to where Mark was kneeling. He squatted next to the young man, and gave him a look that a teacher might cast upon a student.
“So, whadda ya think?”
Mark’s eyebrows rose a
s he surveyed the terrain, “Looks deserted.”
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Ford nodded, “Yup. Does at that. You reckon it’s alright to go in?”
“Seems a bit too quiet. Smells like an ambush.”
The sergeant major cracked a pleased grin, “Damn right it does. I just wanted to see if you were picking up on it.”
Mark felt inwardly relieved that he had given the correct answer, but was just as quickly filled with concern, “What do we do, then?”
Ford rose to his feet, watching the Hueys circling up and away, having delivered their payloads of marines. As they whupped away in the distance, a single gunship passed, drawing in nearer. It remained up fairly high, making wide, lazy circles over Hubbard. Their air support had arrived.
“C-Company is already deploying,” he noted. “We have no choice but to keep moving in. Just keep your head on a swivel. How we react when the party starts will determine whether or not we live to talk about it later.”
Ford gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder plate, and crossed back to his own platoon. He signaled for visors-down, then to begin advancing. Everyone stood, and began slowly walking forward, weapons held at the ready.
Nerves were jangling in the heavy silence as the progressed. Every clump of bushes, every empty window was a potential threat where an enemy might be hidden. The houses looked as if they’d been empty for years at first-glance, but there were telltale signs that suggested otherwise. One home had a large pile of freshly chopped firewood. Another sported a line of laundry drying in a side yard, strung between a pair of trees.
Beyond the small residential area waited the beginning of town. Mark’s pulse was racing, and a cold sweat began to break out
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on his back. It required conscious effort to keep a slow, measured stride that matched Ford’s across the street. He reminded himself that the marines behind him would pick up on any insecurities from those leading them. The gunship thumping overhead offered some reassurance, though. If anything did break out, there would be some hefty firepower to cover them.
He took Ford’s cue to pause at the main intersection where downtown connected with the rural highway. Mark signaled for his platoon to halt, and he crouched behind a retainer wall that bordered the sidewalk. A stray dog wandered from a nearby alley between a brick theater with boarded-up windows, and the stone façade of an ice cream parlor. It took no notice of the marines as it sniffed for scraps from an overturned trash can. The mutt hoisted a leg, and pissed on it before meandering back the way it had come. It added a moment of levity that he appreciated. It helped to calm his nerves a little.
Again, he glanced at Ford, whose attention was focused down the main drag. Mark looked, spotting right away what he thought so captivated the man. The second block down, there stood an old, stone church with a tall bell tower near the corner, dominating the buildings around it with its height.
Ford’s voice keyed over the suit-to-suit in Mark’s ear, “That belfry would be a great place for a sniper.”
As if waiting for those words to be spoken, a 60-watt machine gun opened up from that very spot, its muzzle flash bright in the shadows of the Italian arches. Plasma rounds chopped straight down the center of the street, throwing chunks of asphalt. Split in half, the company’s platoons huddled back against the walls of storefronts on whichever side they happened to be on. The tense silence of the afternoon was split with rifle fire.
Both platoons began shooting back, filling the air with bright bolts all trained on the church. They were too far away to get a solid
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bead on the tower, though. All the while, the 60-watt swept back and forth, keeping them pinned in place. Reassigned to A-Company from the tattered remains of his old unit, Manny crawled up next to Mark, hugging his own 60MG. The sergeant popped the tripod, and skittered sideways to a weathered car body, propping the machine gun on its hood. He began loosing rounds toward the belfry, the higher caliber plasma sailing truer towards the intended target. While it hindered the sniper’s aim, it was still not enough to eliminate the threat.
From across the way, Ecu set up her 60-watt next to Ford, and began doing the same. While she was chattering harassing fire with impressive aim, the sergeant major pondered the possibility of taking the guy out with an AT-round, but judged correctly that it was too far away.
Above, the gunship was already swooping around, letting loose with its forward gatlings.
Even at that height, the electric roar was galvanizing. Spent plasma casings rained down, bouncing from the road. The church tower was bathed with blue fire. Ford was certain that nothing could have survived such a barrage. The Huey paused in its assault, and hovered closer, the pilot apparently wanting a better look.
To the astonishment of all, a figure popped back into view, and fired an RPG. At such close range, there was no missing. The rocket punched through the cockpit, and exploded. The gunship shuddered, and dropped straight down, trailing flame and smoke. It slammed down in the center of the second intersection, burning and popping as its ordinance began cooking off.
“So much for air cover,” Ford grumbled. He twisted around, peering back at the tank, whose driver was lollygagging behind. It was still several hundred yards away, and around the bend in the road too far to do any good. He motioned frantically for them to hurry.
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On the north side of downtown, on the same block as the church, Minerva was just then leading her company into position when the sniper first began shooting at A-Company to her left flank. While the gunner was occupied with them, she was able to fan her people out on both sides of the adjoining street, warning them to hold their fire so that they could utilize their element of surprise.
Tracers blazed back and forth down the main avenue while C-Company closed in, dashing from one storefront entrance to another. That was when the gunship swooped in, enveloping the tower with plasma. When it was shot down, Minerva signaled for her mortar teams to set up. The three-person squads quickly fished their gear out, and assembled their weapons.
She cued the suit-to-suit for Amell, remembering how she had been such a crack shot during maneuvers back at Fort Dixon.
“Do you think you can drop one right on top of that bell?”
Amell’s visor was up, allowing Minerva to see her good-natured smirk. The Attayan gave a thumbs-up, and casually dropped a round into the mortar tube, which had already been range-set. It fired with a whump, and they watched the brightly glowing round as it sailed up and out in a graceful arc. That arc came to its end in the precise arch of the church tower. A significant blast blew the top of the belfry off, and sent the bell sailing toward the ground, ringing all the way down with one final resounding clang in a rain of stone and mortar. The Storian gunner would be harassing them no more.
“Show off,” Minerva joked.
The banter was short-lived. A squad of Storians had been setting up a machine gun position south of them, beyond the next block. Their attention had been attracted by the activity of
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Minerva’s platoon, and began firing on them. The throaty chatter of the 60-watt MG’s echoed between the storefronts as plasma began snapping all around. Her marines began returning fire as the mortar teams rushed to correct their aim.
Minerva hugged the shallow doorway for its meager cover, free-firing without bothering to aim. Bolts zipped and slapped the brick wall near her face, sending chunks ticking from her visor and shoulder plate. The rush of fear and adrenaline made her head buzz. It wasn’t quite as bad as the AA gun had been back in the forest, but the noise was unnerving just the same.
To Ford’s delight, the church tower flew in all directions, spurting its bell like an old piece of candy. It rang all the way to the ground among a shower of debris. Dust rolled out from under it, and filled the street. Seeing MG fire flashing across the intersection, he surmised that C-Company had been zeroed in on. He decided to use the murky haze to his advantage.
“Platoons, m
ove up.”
Jogging forward at a crouch, the sergeant major’s platoon was slightly ahead of Mark’s on the opposite side of the street, training their weapons at every window and doorway against any potential threats. They had the storefronts between themselves and the Storian unit, and were able to advance all the way to the intersection undetected.
Or, so he thought.
As Ford reached the corner building, he motioned for his people to stop, and peered around the edge of the wall. As he suspected, there were about a dozen or so Storians fanned out across the adjoining street, with a 60-watt protected behind a sturdy
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delivery truck. As luck would have it, one of them just happened to be looking right in his direction as he poked his head out, and was spotted. The Storian patted the MG operator atop the helmet, and pointed. The gunner swung his weapon to the side, and redirected his fire.
Ford pulled back as rounds pounded brick from the corner. He waggled one hand at the marine behind him to come forward.
“You shoot low, and I’ll shoot high,” he told the kid.
The corporal nodded his understanding, and got down on one knee, ready to jut from the corner when told. Ford steeled himself, breathing evenly, waiting for a lull in the plasma. It came a few moments later, and he bent back around the edge, the corporal doing the same down by his knees.
Before they could even fire, Ford registered the fact that one of the Storians was leveling a rocket tube over one shoulder while the machine gunner was reloading.
“Shit!” Was all he had time to say as he whipped himself backward, hoping that the kid was doing likewise.
The AT-round slammed into the corner, the blast all-encompassing. The force of it blew Ford off of his heels. Within the wash of flame and shattered brick, he caught a glimpse of the corporal sailing up and away to the right, toward the middle of the intersection. Landing hard on his back, the sidewalk met the back of his helmet hard enough for him to see stars. As he rolled to one side, he could see the marine lying in a heap, unmoving beneath the renewed barrage of gunfire. It was amazing to him just how quickly things had turned sour.