by Isaac Hooke
“Bitches are digging in,” Bender complained.
Rade glanced at his overhead map. Three red dots resided on the rooftop of the building across the street from their location.
“Brightyard, I’ve got a makeshift echolocation design for you that will help ferret out the SKs,” Rade transmitted.
“Send it my way,” the lieutenant colonel replied.
Rade shared the echolocation design with him. He also tapped in Chief Rowlock and sent the program to Bravo Platoon.
When that was done, he switched back to the local Marine channel.
“Mortar men, can you take out those tangos?” Rade sent.
In reply, shells arced through the air from the southernmost intersection, where the Marines had taken cover with the Jupiters and Centurions. The shells struck the rooftop in question, exploding.
“I think they moved,” one of the Marines said.
Rade gazed at the map. The three red dots remained in the same location. But that was misleading, because the map displayed the last known position of the tangos—if they had moved without anyone noticing, it wouldn’t have updated.
“How do you know?” Rade said.
“The timbre of the explosions,” the Marine said. “When the eighty-one mils hit something hard, like the hull of a mech, the sound is different. Deeper in pitch. These sounded hollow. Empty.”
Rade peered past the side of the semi. The rooftop seemed quiet. As did the street below.
A moment later a chorus of clicks sounded throughout the area. Brightyard had distributed the echolocation design to the rest of the army, then.
“Sounds like some kind of citywide cicada orgy just started up,” Manic said.
“It’s more like how you sound during sex,” Bender said. “Clickity clackity click clack!”
“You would know what he sounds like during sex,” Fret said.
“Hey, when you room next door to someone on a starship, you hear every exchange of bodily fluids, bro,” Bender said.
Through the scope of his stingray, Rade scanned the upper edge of the building. There was a small wall that surrounded the roof, giving ample room for an enemy to hide.
“Brightyard,” Rade sent the company commander. “Can we get an air strike over here? This rooftop.” He highlighted it on his overhead map.
“I can put you in the queue,” Brightyard said. “It’ll be twenty minutes.”
“Go ahead,” Rade said.
The marines unleashed a steady barrage of mortars, with the blast zone starting at the northern side of the rooftop and slowly proceeding south.
When the attacks had almost reached the southern side of the roof, the outlines of five enemy mechs appeared on Rade’s HUD—the zoomed-out view from his main cameras that he had kept in the lower right of his vision. Those tangos leaped across the intersection, using their jumpjets to propel them, raining plasma cannon fire down on Alpha Platoon and the Marines.
Rade swung his stingray toward the exposed tangos, and led the targets, but they had begun zig-zagging, so when he fired his plasma cannon, he missed. He rotated his cobra laser into place instead, since its beam travelled at the speed of light it could not be dodged.
But he still couldn’t align his aim over those zig-zagging mechs, and fired randomly, but the mechs landed on the roof across the street and ducked from view once more. Two of them released shots, keeping Alpha platoon and the Marines with them dug in.
An enemy helo came in low, strafing the Jupiters.
Rade and the others opened fire, scoring solid hits, and the helo swerved away.
Two United Systems helos arrived and continued to chase it. But they were struck by plasma bolts from the enemy mechs on the rooftop and turned back.
“Marines, how many mortars do you have left?” Rade asked.
“We actually spent almost everything we had on that last attack,” Lieutenant Buckwheat said. “We’ve got three or four.”
“All right, hang on to them for now,” Rade said. “Cyclone, take T2 and proceed to the far side of the building behind them, taking this route.” He traced a path that looped around the target building from adjacent streets. “When you reach the far side of the building in question, climb to the rooftop. That building is taller than this one, so you should have a clean line of fire on the targets.”
“Assuming our squawkers don’t give us away first,” Cyclone said.
“They won’t,” Rade said.
“Making our way to the high ground,” Manic said. “Gotta love it.”
Rade waited as the team moved into position. He kept an eye on his overhead map, and watched them circle around to the far side of the tangos, and the building past them. Then they climbed that building, making their way to the rooftops.
“Shoot through the upper sides of the building,” Rade said. “Let’s distract them. Make them think we’re trying to collapse the rooftop.”
Rade switched to his stingray once more, and he and the others who had remained behind in T1 fired at the building, aiming at the edges all along the rooftop. Their plasma bolts ate through to the roof beyond.
Meanwhile, the members of T2 crested the building’s rooftop, and made their way forward until they reached the edge overlooking the tangos.
They opened fire.
The five mechs took severe plasma hits to their jumpjets. Two of them tried to jump across to a neighboring building, but instead ended up arcing straight toward the ground, allowing T1 to track and destroy them. The remaining three stayed on the rooftop, and succumbed to the plasma cannons of the Jupiters on the higher ground.
“Brightyard, cancel air strike request,” Rade sent.
Alpha Platoon pushed forward with the Marines. With the SKs losing their advantage of stealth courtesy of the makeshift echo locators, the different companies were able to make good progress. When Rade and his companions were pinned, another company or platoon would in turn come in to aid them, and vice versa.
By evening, the battalions had retaken fifty percent of the territory the Sino Koreans had claimed the previous day. The troops hadn’t pushed them all the way to the oceans, however, so that meant the fighting wasn’t done.
After helping a rifle platoon from a bind, Rade checked the map for the latest hot spot. But things were mostly quiet along the front at that moment, with the United Systems dug in opposite their foes, and neither side attempting any sorties.
“All right, let’s retreat for a fifteen-minute breather,” Rade sent.
He led Alpha Platoon away from the front to the cover of the closest building. The mechs and Centurions rested against the exterior. The building was mostly intact, though it had suffered blast damage like most of the surrounding structures.
Rade activated a liquid MRE and sipped it from the straw in his helmet. He grimaced: it was supposed to be strawberry milkshake flavor, but tasted like the underside of a rusty dustpan. He managed to choke it down—he needed the energy.
“Man, I got the shits,” Bender said.
“Do it in your jumpsuit,” Manic said.
“Already did,” Bender said. “I tell ya… I don’t know how dudes managed in the past without ADAC.”
“ADAC?” Praxter asked.
“Auto Disposal and Ass Cleaning,” Bender clarified.
“They just let it sit in their pants,” Manic said.
“Can’t imagine it was the most comfortable,” Kicker said.
“We’ve gone through worse in training,” Lui said. “Some of those sniping courses come to mind. I remember sitting in a field, watching a door, for five days straight, in nothing but standard kit. No jumpsuits, no ADAC. When I had to piss, I pissed. When I had to crap, I crapped. It was uncomfortable, but after a while, you don’t even notice the squishy sensation between your ass cheeks. It only gets bad when it hardens.”
“Eww,” Fret said. “Why didn’t you hold it? That’s what I did during my sniper course. Held my turds inside for five days, I did.”
“Not all
of us have as strong a sphincter as you do,” Bender said. “No doubt you’ve had plenty of training in that department with Manic, though.”
“It wasn’t about having a strong sphincter,” Lui said before Manic could interject. “I just figured I didn’t need gut pains interfering with my shot. Plus, I was used to discomfort by then. After all, I’m sure all of you have some good memories of Trial Week… doing pushups on the grinder, pushing them out even though you’d pissed and vomited all over yourselves.”
“Speak for yourself!” Bender said. “I never vomited during Trial Week. Okay maybe once. But it was on the asphalt.”
“And you didn’t roll around in anyone else’s bodily excretions?” Lui pressed.
“Nope!” Bender said. “Okay, maybe.”
“It’s times like this that I am very glad not to be human,” Praxter said. “Excretions. Such a disgusting concept. Now you can understand why I rarely eat with you during meals. All that food has to go somewhere, and I’d rather not see it again. Because you see, the ADAC attachments on the jumpsuits don’t work with Artificials.”
“We should set up Praxter on APAK, with a K,” Bender said.
“Am I supposed to ask what that acronym stands for?” Praxter said.
“Glad you asked!” Bender responded cheerfully. “Auto Punching and Ass Kicking!”
“Sign me up,” Praxter commented.
“Dude, you’ve been signed up since day one,” Bender said.
The platoon remained quiet for several moments. Resting, eating MREs, or excreting, as necessary.
“I’d hate to be a civilian during something like this,” Fret said suddenly. “Like her.” A waypoint appeared on Rade’s overhead map, marking off a mid-rise apartment.
Rade gazed at the building in question, and in an upper window spotted the silhouette of a child. “She’s too close to the window. Bender, send one of the Centurions in to—”
Before he could finish, another figure appeared and pulled the child from view.
“Scratch that,” Rade said.
“They don’t even have blast shields installed anywhere,” Fret said.
“Why would they?” Skullcracker said. “The city has never been attacked. Not on this scale.”
“All the cities along the coasts were unprepared,” Pyro agreed. “I suspect building codes are going to change, going forward.”
“Not just building codes,” Rade said. “But people, too.”
“What do you mean?” Pyro said.
“It will change the national mood,” Rade said. “We’re going to be wondering when the next attack comes. I can see a few senators calling for war, wanting to teach the Sino-Koreans a lesson they won’t soon forget. Not just here, but on the colonies.”
“Is that a good idea?” Kicker asked.
“No,” Rade said. “You know, I talked to someone who told me we should be uniting right now, not dividing. That aliens could be out there watching even now, looking for a chance to strike. She’s right, I think. Considering that we’ve made a few enemies since stepping out into the interstellar neighborhood.”
“What do you think’s going to happen?” Fret asked. “Will we unite?”
“Unfortunately,” Rade replied. “I have a feeling the answer is no.”
10
Throughout the night the battalions fought, slowly recovering territory, so that by the next morning they had retaken all but ten percent of New Coronado. In a final push before noon, the different battalions achieved their aim of shoving the Sino-Koreans back into the ocean. The enemy fled over the marinas and mooring areas, sinking or stealing most of the pleasure craft, and were retrieved by SK war boats; the oceangoing craft themselves were forced to retreat under the heavy fire from shore.
When the ships were too far away to feasibly target with stingrays, and cobra lasers across the platoon had overheated, Rade gave the order to stand down.
Tahoe was crouching next to Rade on the docks of one of the marinas the enemy had used during their retreat. The Navajo gazed at the scuttled boats and damaged piers.
“This reminds me of Trial Week for some reason,” Tahoe said.
“How so?” Rade asked.
“Do you remember when we were half delirious?” Tahoe said. “Paddling our inflatables across the island and around to San Diego Bay? In the middle of the night. Starving. Hadn’t slept in four days, nor eaten in two. Some of the guys were hallucinating. And then, when we passed one of the marinas on the south side of the base, angels came from between the canoes, and threw pizzas into our laps. Pizzas! I thought I was hallucinating, and didn’t even notice their approach. These angels, Team Guys like ourselves, former trainees, had camped out in kayaks hidden under the docks, just so they could defy the instructors and feed us!”
“I remember,” Rade said. “They were gone before any of us could even thank them. The instructors had warned us not to eat anything, not without letting them inspect the food first. But it was a trick, of course. We all ate. Man, I tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever tasted pizza that good in my life.”
Tahoe started laughing. “But we didn’t all eat. Do you remember what one of the dropouts did? I forget his name. But the moron refused to eat the pizza sitting in his lap!” Tahoe chortled loudly, as if that was the funniest thing in the world. “He actually insisted he was going to listen to the instructors and let them inspect the pizza first, like they asked. He thought he was going to get some brownie points or something. Instead, when we got back to base, after the instructors ‘inspected’ his pizza and declared it edible, they proceeded to eat it in front of his face!”
Rade was laughing too then, so hard that tears came to his eyes. He would have wiped them if he wasn’t wearing a pressurized jumpsuit inside his cockpit.
The following year, Rade and Tahoe had joined a bunch of Team Guys to help the next group of Trial Week participants. Acting as covert deliverymen, they’d paddled out on surfboards and dropped steaming hot pizzas into the laps of the starving and weary freshmen rounding the marina. Rade had continued to surreptitiously help the newbies like that for a few more Trial Weeks, happy for a chance to pay the kindness forward, but he’d stopped after a few seasons for some reason. He wasn’t sure why. Defying the Brass to help his fellow upcoming brothers had gotten old, for some reason.
“We’re going to have to go back to being angels sometime,” Rade said. “The world needs more of them.”
“Especially now,” Tahoe agreed.
“Now…” Rade said, remembering where he was. He turned around, away from the ocean, and gazed across the partially razed city behind him. The smile fled his face, and his features hardened. “The SKs are going to pay for what they did here. Did I say the world needs more angels? Seems like demons are in greater demand at the moment, and I’m happy to fulfill that role.”
“What happened to uniting humanity?” Fret asked.
“This can’t be forgiven,” Rade said. “I’m afraid the friend who told me we should be uniting was wrong. How can we unite, when there is an enemy living among us who will stop at nothing to destroy our cities?”
Rade and Alpha Platoon were reassigned to help the Army and Navy currently defending neighboring San Diego. Much of the same street to street fighting followed, with the platoon reinforcing Army units as needed.
By six o’clock that same day, San Diego was also liberated of all enemy forces. By then, roughly half the coastal cities on the West Coast had repelled the invaders. The Sino-Koreans were withdrawing their forces to the remaining cities where they still had footholds to consolidate their attacks. The situation was similar on the East Coast, according to the streaming sites.
“You’d think that, because of our position on the Teams, we’d have access to all the raw combat data,” Fret said. “Without having to rely upon streaming sites for updates on what was going on. Enemy troop deployments, consolidation sites, and so forth.”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Snakeoil said. “B
ut you know how the military works. Everything is on a need to know basis. And you don’t—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Fret said. “Still, come on, what if the Internet was down or something?”
“We’ve fought on planets that had no InterGalNet before,” TJ said.
“Yeah, I know,” Fret said. “You remember how fun that was, don’t you?”
“I actually didn’t mind it,” TJ said. “Not having access to the Internet or InterGalNet is like a breath of fresh air. You all spend too much time on those social sites. Which should be renamed to antisocial, because of the behaviors they encourage.”
“It’s easy to be a tough guy in virtual reality,” Tahoe agreed.
An alert appeared on Rade’s HUD. It was a call from Lieutenant Commander Scotts.
“I’d like you to bring Alpha Platoon back to base immediately,” Scotts said.
“You got it,” Rade said. “Would you like me spread the word to Bravo?”
“No, they can stay, and help with the cleanup efforts,” Scotts said. “When you get back, come straight to my office.” He disconnected.
Rade glanced at his platoon, and the surviving Centurions. “All right, we head back to NAB New Coronado.” NAB stood for Naval Amphibious Base.
The Jupiters turned back and retreated through the streets of San Diego at a jog. Once they left the contested zones, the city was in good condition, with the buildings undamaged.
Rade’s gaze drifted to the Centurions that were hitching a ride in the passenger seats of the mechs. While all the mechs had survived, only eight Centurions remained. He felt guilty over losing those machine lives, and yet he knew it wasn’t his fault. They had died not due to his decisions, but to the randomness of war he had spoken of to Nicolas: the twenty-five percent of survival that depended on luck.
In what seemed a short time, the platoon reached the base. The docks and exterior outbuildings looked like they had taken some damage, no doubt courtesy of potshots taken by the fleeing Sino Koreans.