Shane is a captain in the Army, currently stationed in Wisconsin. Prior to that he was a company commander in Korea. Who would have guessed? ϑ
Steve felt someone gently nudging his shoulder and heard a voice through a sleepy haze.
"Sir, it's Manchu Six on the radio for you; are you awake?"
He opened his eyes, unzipped his fart-sack, and slowly sat up. He yawned, ran his hand over the stubble on his face, and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, I'm up." He could barely see inside of the track, as dark as it was, but he could just make out his gunner squatting next to him. He cleared his throat, and took the handmike from his gunner. Staff Sergeant Whitmore then switched on a light, crawled through the turret access door, then up and outside of the vehicle through the gunner's hatch. Steve could hear him standing up on top of the turret, taking a piss over the side of the vehicle.
Steve put the mike to his ear, "Manchu 6 this is Dragon 6, over." He felt a little apprehensive as he waited for the response. What the hell did the colonel want at this time of night anyway? He pushed the light button on his watch in order to read the time. It read 0340. Forty minutes until stand-to.
"Dragon Six this is Manchu Six, I'm sitting up on V.I.P. Hill back here looking at your positions. I'm seeing a lot of lights down there. You need to police up your noise and light discipline. Acknowledge."
Shit, here we go again. The colonel is prowling around again checking up on the companies. Doesn't that friggin' guy ever sleep? "Roger, I'll get on it. I'll have the positions checked to make sure everyone is doing the right thing, over"
"Roger. Make sure that you check the positions with night vision goggles on so you can see light escaping from the vehicles more effectively, over."
No duh. He was getting lectured like a cherry-assed private again. "Manchu 6 this is Dragon Six, wilco, over." He could hear Whitmore finish taking his piss, and him climbing down back into the turret. "Hey Whit, can you hand me the other handmike?"
Staff Sergeant Whitmore grabbed the other handset with the company frequency and handed it to his commander.
"Dragon Six, Manchu Six, make sure you remember that we pushed back the time of the commander's huddle to 1000 hours."
1000 hours? They must have changed the time again and somebody forgot to get him the message. Well, that was typical. "Roger, 1000 hours."
"Manchu Six, out."
Steve was about to raise his platoons on the radio and have them check noise and light discipline, but before he could press the "push to talk button" his first sergeant called him first. "Dragon Six, this is Dragon Seven, over."
He smiled to himself. His first sergeant was the most professional NCO he had ever met, and he considered himself lucky to have him. "Seven this is Six, go ahead, over."
"Six this is Seven, I'm down here at the XO's track and we monitored your traffic with Manchu Six. If it's okay with you, I'll go check 3rd Platoon, the XO can hit the tankers, the Mike-Golf can take Headquarters, and you can hit 1st. We gotta get the platoons ready for stand-to here pretty soon anyway, over"
Steve rubbed his eyes again and fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "Seven this is Six, sounds good to me. Six, out."
He grabbed a pack of MRE matches and lit his cigarette.
"You know there's no smoking inside of military vehicles sir." Whitmore's voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"Well, you better turn me in to the PC shocktroops."
"It's a safety issue you know; you are sitting on crates of ammo right next to the fuel tanks." Whitmore's sardonic tone was strong as ever.
"Being an infantryman, in a combat zone, on some weird-ass planet, zillions of miles from home, ain't too safe either. I'll take my chances with the cigarettes. Besides, it's a quality of life issue, a man's gotta be allowed at least one vice. Lord knows, I ain't had a decent shower or a shot of ass since we left Earth."
Whitmore just smiled back. "Hey sir, I'm just tryin' to help you quit smokin'."
Steve sucked delicious smoke into his aching lungs. "Oh yeah? Well winners never quit and quitters never win. Giving up cigarettes would be a sign of weakness. Anyway, the boss was on the radio just now and he said our noise and light discipline sucks. I want you to go check Headquarters while me, XO, and Top check the platoons."
Whitmore reached under the gunner's seat, grabbed his gortex jacket, and started putting it on. "Roger, no problem sir. You need me to do anything else?"
"Yeah. Make sure you take your nods with you when you go."
"Mine are busted, but I'll take Simmons' pair."
"Okay, whatever, just make sure that you take a set of night vision goggles. You can't always see some of the light escaping from these vehicles easily with the naked eye."
"Sir, do you think that the aliens can see as well as we can at night?"
"Fuck if I know dude. I guess it's better safe than sorry."
Whitmore looked at him and simply nodded in agreement, "Hooah."
"Hey sir, go ahead and finish your cigarette. I'll go outside and wake up Jenkins and have him get your truck ready. It'll take him a couple of minutes to get out of his fart-sack and get dressed."
"Thanks man." Steve then took a long drag on his cigarette while his company master gunner rummaged around in the back of the messy Bradley looking for his driver's night vision goggles. "Hey Whit, do you know where Kim is at?"
"Roger sir, he's with Schmidtke and Janovich over at the CP. You want him too?"
"Yeah. Does he know how to set head-space and timing yet on the .50?"
"I don't know. Jones was supposed to have given him a class yesterday." Whitmore started getting frustrated as he continued to dig around gear and bags that were strewn all over in the back of the Bradley, looking for Simmons' night vision goggles. He mumbled something incoherent to himself.
Simmons was sleeping soundly on several stacked boxes of unopened 25mm ammo less than two feet away from Steve. Whitmore slapped his feet that were warmly wrapped up in his sleeping bag. Simmons, deep asleep, simply moaned a little. Whitmore hit his legs this time, "Hey, wake up shitbird. Where'd you put your nods?"
Simmons didn't bother getting out of his bag to answer, "What's up Sarn't?"
"I need to borrow your fuckin' nods cause mine are broke. Where'd you put 'em?"
Simmons answered weakly, "They're sitting on the driver's seat."
"Hooah. Go back to sleep."
Specialist Simmons rolled to his other side and immediately racked out.
Steve took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke casually. The only light on in the back of the vehicle was the glowing cherry of his cigarette and one of the lights affixed to the inside of the hull. It had three settings; off, on, and filtered. It was turned on the "filtered" setting, casting a dim blue light on everything. As Steve smoked, the entire compartment began to appear hazy. He pulled his legs out of the fart-sack, slipped his boots on, leaned over Simmons, and turned the light off. He then reached up and popped open the overhead cargo hatch. The cigarette smoke started wafting out, and moist, cool night air came rushing in.
Whitmore, bent over, with most of his gear in hand, managed to wade through all of the crap strewn on the floor of the vehicle and made his way to the back. With a quick tug he pulled on the troop door access handle. It made a rather noisy, low pitched squeak as the door opened. He exited the track and made his way around to the front of the vehicle and eventually to the driver's hatch in order to retrieve Simmons' nods.
As soon as Whitmore left the vehicle Steve opened up the top of his rucksack and pulled out a plastic mouthwash bottle. When he unscrewed the cap he immediately smelled the sweet, delicious bourbon inside. He took a short pull and felt the familiar burn in the back of his throat when he swallowed. Just the right kick to start off the day.
Now it was time to get to work.
When Steve exited the vehicle he plopped his Kevlar helmet on his head, snapped the chin strap and cinched it down tight. He then lowered the helmet-mounted night vision monocular into place in front of his right eye. After a few adjustments, he switched it on and took a second to orient himself to the bright green image produced by his nods.
He walked up and out of the deep two-tiered vehicle fighting position that his Bradley sat in. He looked up at the sky and the stars. It always seemed so peaceful at night. The only sounds were the handful of diesel engines idling in the distance. It seemed as if the universe were still asleep.
Steve looked back down at his own vehicle, numbered "D66," to make sure that it was not giving off any unnecessary light. It wasn't, it was sitting silently in its hole. The only thing from the vehicle that stood higher than ground level were the antennas for the radios and the Bradley's optics that were located on the top of the vehicle's turret. In a fight, the vehicle would sit on the bottom of this hole, while the crew scanned for targets. Once a target was found the Bradley commander would order the driver to pull the vehicle forward up onto a firing platform. This platform too was dug into the ground, exposing only the vehicle's turret and weapons systems; this was known as a "hull defilade" position. The crew would then start slinging lead downrange and blow the dog shit out of their enemies. Once complete, the driver would back down into a "turret defilade" position where the crew would again scan for their next hapless victim. If the vehicle needed to leave the position for whatever reason, it backed out of its fighting position up a gentle incline. This was the ideal position for a tank or infantry fighting vehicle, and it was used whenever engineer assets were available to dig the necessarily large holes in the ground.
Steve placed his battle positions on the forward slope of a ridgeline that overlooked a rather large open valley, which he and his men referred to as "The Bowl." His combat vehicles and dismount positions were arranged so that they could overwatch the "Bowl" and cover this engagement area with direct fires. His positions were located high on the ridgeline but not on top of the high ground, so as not to silhouette his positions. These forward slope positions were placed on what was known as the "military crest" of the ridge.
Down in the valley the engineers had painstakingly emplaced miles and miles of wire obstacles, reinforced by conventional and command detonated mines. Building those obstacles had been a stone cold bitch. The ground was hard clay, and the engineers spent more time punching holes in the dirt with pneumatic drills than anything else. Just putting in a metal picket to support a roll of concertina wire, or to bury a landmine took a great deal of effort, and ate up tons of time.
Once in place though, the obstacles would be worth their weight in gold. They would create a temporary barrier that would slow the advance of the enemy while the good guys called in mortar, artillery, and direct fires on them.
While his battle positions were on forward slope positions, Steve's company trains were located on the reverse slope where they would be shielded from hostile enemy fire. This is where his mechanics, cooks, medics, and the rest of his headquarters element were located. The first sergeant was usually back there, handling resupply, and maintenance issues. This was also the location of Captain Stephen Murphy's Humvee and driver.
The company commander and the first sergeant weren't technically authorized drivers for their Humvees, the practice of having drivers for those vehicles was perfectly normal, and very widespread. Since the war started, some commanders began driving themselves around and sent the drivers down to beef up rifle squads; but Steve didn't do this. The drivers pulled maintenance on the vehicles, and served as radiotelephone operators. More importantly, these vehicles could be used in the middle of a fight as an additional crew-served weapons platform, and to evacuate wounded. Besides, since the Manchu's left Korea for distant Diess, manpower hadn't been a real problem; at least not yet.
1st Battalion, 9th Infantry was part of 2nd Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division. Before the war it was stationed on Camp Hovey, Republic of Korea in order to maintain peace in that region of the world. That is, until they were hastily redeployed to fight the Posleen.
In the Eighth U.S. Army, stationed in Korea, thousands of Korean conscripts were stationed with American units. These conscripts were known as KATUSAs, short for Korean Augmentees to The United States Army. These young men were selected to serve their enlistments with American units because of their ability to speak English. Originally the KATUSA program was established to provide translators for the American Army. Eventually they became a very important, and unique, part of the American Army. While they wore American uniforms, worked in American jobs, slept in American barracks, and ate American food, they were still actually members of the South Korean Army.
The KATUSA was expected to fight and die in American units should a war break out in Korea; but no one quite expected the 2nd Infantry Division to redeploy almost overnight, to an alien planet, to fight some weird interstellar war.
The U.S. Army made it perfectly clear that if allowed to stay, the KATUSAs would be more than welcome to accompany 2 I.D. to Diess. They were fully trained and integrated members of their units, and served a plethora of vital functions. Ultimately the Korean government left the decision up to the individual KATUSAs as to whether or not they would like to fly off into outer space and get killed with a bunch of obnoxious American G.I.s.
At first the invitation to accompany their American brothers in arms was not warmly received. While most of them felt a close relationship with their American comrades, they were not all that anxious to volunteer for a perceived "One Way Ticket to Hell." That was, until they learned that the ROK Army too, was getting mobilized for deployment among the stars.
Figuring that one suicide mission was as good as another, practically all the KATUSAs remained with their American units.
Since the KATUSAs generally had elected to stay with their American units, the 2nd Infantry Division found itself pleasantly over strength, with plenty of trained, talented personnel to go around.
As Murphy approached his Humvee, he could hear a lot of movement from inside of the vehicle, and could see someone up in the gunner's hatch working on the .50 caliber machinegun. When he got a little closer he could see that it was Corporal Kim up top, loading the crew-served weapon.
"Good morning sir." Corporal Kim had his night vision goggles on and had spotted his commander approaching.
"What's up Kim? You guys ready to roll?"
Kim had a fairly thick Korean accent, but his English was good. He was especially talented in the use of American profanity. "Not yet sir, Jenkins is still putting his shit away."
Murphy opened the passenger door of the Humvee to find Jenkins still struggling to put his sleeping bag in the back of the vehicle. He wasn't wearing his BDU shirt, his boots were unlaced, and there was MRE garbage and assorted articles of clothing scattered all over the inside of the truck. "For fuck's sake Jenkins, what happened to the inside of this vehicle? Are you going to be ready to roll sometime this century?"
Jenkins tossed the rest of the sleeping bag into the back, grabbed his BDU blouse, and started putting it on. "Umm, uh, I'll be ready in a minute sir."
Murphy just shook his head. "Are the radios even turned on?"
"Uhh..."
"Fuck, what is that smell?" Steve wrinkled his nose. "Is that you Jenkins? Christ, did something crawl up your ass and die?"
Jenkins continued to struggle with his uniform.
"Never mind." Murphy looked up at Kim, who was closing the feed-tray cover of his weapon. "Kim, did Jones give you a class on how to set the headspace and timing on that weapon?"
"Yes sir." Kim didn't sound convincing.
"Did you set the headspace and timing this morning?"
Kim took a second to respond. "We did it a couple of days ago sir."
"Well, do it again." Murphy was getting a bit irritated.
"I can't. I lost my headspace and timing gauge. Sorry sir."
"Jesus fucking Christ Kim, you better find that goddamn thing! Those fuckin' things don't grow on trees around here!"
"Roger sir."
Steve was trying not to lose his temper. He was failing. He wasn't a morning person, and he wasn't a terribly patient one either. "Alright Kim, at least get the radios switched on and do a couple of radio checks. Let me know when you and Jenkins are done. I'll just be standing here, with my thumb up my ass, waiting on the both of you."
Kim sounded a bit sheepish. "Roger sir." He then ducked down inside of the Humvee and started turning on the radios.
Murphy unbuttoned his chinstrap and scratched his chin. "It's going to be a long goddamn day."
Specialist Carl Myers pulled his poncho liner around him a little tighter as he stared off into the darkness. The stars were bright and everything seemed peaceful. He looked down at his watch for the thousandth time, checking to see if it was time for his shift to be over. The little hands on his issued watch glowed in the dark and read 0340 hours; still twenty minutes until he could wake up the LT and go crawl back into his sleeping bag.
Myers sat on the roof of his Humvee. His legs hung down into the vehicle through the hole in the top that served as the gunner's hatch. In front of him was the .50 caliber machinegun with a monstrous night site mounted on it, and some of his gear. His helmet sat next to him, as did a cold canteen cup of instant coffee. Beside the weapon were two handmikes, which enabled him to speak to the rest of his platoon on their internal frequency, and also to communicate with battalion on the Operations and Intelligence net. He had a map-board in front of him with a number of overlays taped to it, and also a small maglite, with a red filter affixed to it.
Specialist Myers was the platoon leader's driver, one of three men that lived, ate, slept, and bitched in the vehicle. He was a cavalry scout in the battalion's scout platoon, and usually found himself on the "pointy end of the stick." Right now, the platoon's mission was to conduct a "screen line" in front of the battalion, which meant that he and the rest of the guys were to establish positions roughly three kilometers in front of the battalion's forward elements, and act as the "eyes and ears" for everyone else. They were out front, in camouflaged positions, and would give the first warning if and when the bad guys were about to attack. They would then give detailed reports about enemy movements and draw first blood by hitting them with mortar and artillery fires without revealing their locations. This was almost always easier said than done. If they did their jobs correctly, they would see the enemy first, and report it, giving the rest of the battalion time to alert subordinate its companies and ready themselves for the impending attack. Meanwhile, the scouts would contribute to the fight by reporting the enemy's size, actions, and locations, while pummeling them mercilessly with indirect fires.
Myers was a good scout. He had been totally dedicated to his job since the day he joined the Army. At the time of his enlistment he was eighteen years old, a recent high school graduate, had no plans for the future, and a pregnant sixteen-year-old girlfriend. His prospects didn't look very bright at the time, considering the limited opportunities available to him in his hometown of Bangor, Wisconsin.
His parents, after finding out that his girlfriend Sarah had a bun in the oven, told Carl that he needed to get a job at the local IGA, and get started taking care of his new family. Carl was hardly enthusiastic about the idea of working his way up the local corporate ladder, and he was even less enthusiastic about his parents telling him how he should live his life.
His father, a hard working man who had spent most of his life as a heavy equipment operator working for a local excavation company, had always been tough on his sons. He loved them dearly, but didn't express it well, which eventually led to the alienation of the very children he worked so hard to raise. Carl constantly fought with his father. Sometimes their fighting was especially bitter, and no matter how hard Carl's dad tried to help, the more he pushed his son away.
When Carl came home one night and told his parents that he was going to marry Sarah, and then join the Army, his father was furious and his mother simply broke down crying. Carl's father was a Vietnam veteran, a former infantryman who never talked of his time in Southeast Asia. One thing he did talk about, was that he had fought hard, and his country returned the favor by treating him like shit. Needless to say, Carl Sr. was not a big supporter of his government. He felt that young people that joined the military were pawns, their lives to be cheaply squandered by uncaring and inept politicians.
No matter how passionately Carl's father tried to convince him not to join the Army, the more he wanted to sign up.
A couple of weeks later, Carl's new wife, and his mother dropped him off at the bus station in nearby Sparta, and gave him a tearful goodbye as he embarked on his new military career. His father refused to see him off.
The Army had been good to him, even if things back home hadn't been so hot.
Carl and Sarah had decided that she should stay home with her parents and finish school, while Carl was away. When she graduated, she and their new little girl, Miriam, would join him at his new duty station at Fort Carson, Colorado. He had been anticipating the reunion of his young family and of eventually cashing in on his G.I. Bill benefits. He planned on getting out of the Army after his four-year enlistment, in order to go to college, and get himself a decent paying job in Colorado. Things were starting to work out for him.
Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out the way he had hoped. Sarah started seeing someone back home while Carl was away. She ended up getting pregnant again, with a local boy's child. It was Carl's mom that broke the news. She called the barracks and asked for him soon after he and the rest of his squadron had returned from the field.
Carl didn't take the news very well.
He jumped in his beat-up Ford Escort and went AWOL. He started driving back to Wisconsin. He didn't know what he was going to do when he got there, but he figured that he would work that out on the way there.
It took a couple of days before he arrived back home, to find his mother and father waiting for him. Carl was glad to see his mother, and he had very mixed feelings about seeing his dad again. To everyone's surprise, it was Carl Sr. that got through to Carl, and probably ended up saving him from himself.
Carl Sr. told his son that he shouldn't see his wife. He told him not to go looking for her new boyfriend. He told his son, that he was proud of him, and that he should go back to Colorado and report back to his unit before he threw everything away. Carl agreed and went back to Colorado Springs.
When he got back to Fort Carson, he was an emotional wreck. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, and pain was his constant companion. He just didn't care what happened to him anymore.
Fortunately for him, his chain of command was sympathetic. Carl had proven himself a good soldier and a hard worker, and that was all taken into account when he received his Article 15 for being AWOL. He was given seven days restriction, and seven days extra duty in summarized proceedings; none of which went on his permanent military record.
After completing his punishment, his buddies decided to lift his spirits in a truly soldierly fashion, by keeping him good and drunk. They managed to keep this up for weeks.
It wasn't long after that, that Carl received his orders for Korea. He felt that his luck just went from bad to worse. The general consensus was that duty in Korea was a fate worse than death. It was considered a miserable purgatory that was to be avoided at all costs by anyone with a brain in their heads. But, he really didn't have a choice in the matter, and reluctantly he went.
His arrival at Kimpo airport was uneventful. His in processing at Camp Mobile was even more unremarkable. He was in a daze as he filled out reams of paperwork and hoped half-heartedly that he would get up to Camp Gary Owen, and get a job up in 4-7 Cavalry as a gunner on a Bradley. He had been a driver before and he was ready take position in the gunner's seat. It seemed as if he deserved at least that much, after all, hadn't he been punished enough?
Apparently not, because when he did finally receive his orders, it wasn't for duty in his beloved Cav, it was for duty in 1st Battalion, 9th Infantry.
Infantry? It was official. God hated him.
He was too numb to care anymore.
It turned out that life in the Manchu's wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it would be. He was assigned to the battalion scout platoon, and discovered that he had found a new family there.
The scouts were highly motivated, well trained, and highly regarded in the battalion. This was all due to his platoon sergeant, a Sergeant First Class Washburn, a redneck of the highest order.
When Sergeant Washburn wasn't drinking and chasing Russian hookers with the mortar platoon sergeant, he was planning and executing training. The man lived to be a scout, and he made sure that his troopers were good ones. He would constantly train his platoon on their weapons, communications equipment, and tactics. He would get with the fire supporters and train on calling for fires. He would get with the Air Force guys and train on close air support. He would bug his platoon leader and commander until he could get his platoon out in the field and train on infiltrations, counter-reconnaissance, and general field craft. He was obsessed with weapons qualification and maintenance, and demanded excellence from his scouts. His attitude was "We're Cav damnit! We lead from the front!" His attitude was contagious, and his guys loved him. The men of the scout platoon didn't push themselves to exhaustion because they were afraid of their platoon sergeant, they did it because they looked up to him and they wanted to please him. The platoon was tightest knit group Carl had ever seen since he first joined the army, and he was happy to be there.
As time wore on, things started getting better for him.
Late one night, after finishing an obstacle course in the cold rain, and low crawling through a bunch of mud, Carl received his "Spurs." This highly coveted award was given to him after his successful completion of the ritual known as the "Spur Ride." His company commander was there waiting to congratulate him, and on Carl's request, reenlisted him right there. Carl stood there on top of that hill, covered in mud, soaking wet, shivering in the cold, with his right hand raised, and swearing his oath to defend the constitution while his buddies looked on. It was probably the proudest moment of his life.
It wasn't long though, before events took a turn for the surreal.
Carl remembered when they had all first learned of the war with the Posleen. The division alerted at 0200 hours and recalled everyone. But instead of going through the typical alert procedures of drawing weapons, ammo, and loading vehicles, the company was told to stand in formation, and receive a briefing from the company commander.
The CO pulled them in around him in sort of a horseshoe so that he didn't have to shout in order to be heard properly. When he told them of the aliens and the war, and how they would be likely be deploying very soon; the soldiers thought it was all some big joke. It seemed too ridiculous, too unbelievable. Word spread around quickly that it was all just a bunch of disinformation briefed to the "Joe's," and that the real reason they were redeploying was for a war with China, or Russia. That rumor persisted right up until they found themselves staring at their first space ships. They were cargo shuttles, hauling equipment up to star freighters that were anchored in orbit. Rumors of war with China, Russia, or Outer Mongolia, quickly came to an end, when Americans found themselves loading personnel and equipment on many of the same shuttles with some rather exotic foreign armies.
After the division was loaded on the freighter, the intelligence briefings began. It made everybody's head hurt. Posleen, Indowy, Darhel, Himmit, Big Foot, the Loch Ness Monster, whatever... it just didn't seem real.
Now Carl found himself staring off into the darkness, occasionally scanning with his night vision goggles, wondering how come this rotten fucking planet could be so miserably hot during the daytime and freezing cold at night.
Carl looked down at his watch again. 0343 Hours. This shift was never going to end.
Lieutenant Colonel Brian Smith hung up his handset on the piece of parachute cord that had been affixed over the radios expressly for that purpose. He then looked down at his map with his red-lens flashlight. He flipped through several overlays until he got to his engineer overlay and studied it for a moment. He then reached into the plastic tub that he kept next to him in his Humvee that contained any number of things to include copies of operations orders, spare maps, alcohol pens, and even the occasional field manual.
He pulled out the file folder that contained the battalion operations order, and he went through it until he found his engineer execution matrix, which listed engineer priorities of work, obstacles, their locations, and a time table for their emplacement. According to the matrix, the engineers should have been almost finished with their last obstacles. Colonel Smith wanted to see if his engineers were in fact on schedule.
"Mr Shin, why don't you turn the heater on, it's getting chilly in here." The colonel cupped his hands together and blew into them, trying to warm his fingers. The colonel's driver switched on the blower without saying a word, folded his arms together, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the window.
He picked up the transmitter with the battalion frequency and pulled out an alcohol pen in case he needed to write something down.
"Bulldog Six, this is Manchu Six, over."
There was silence.
"Bulldog Six, this is Manchu Six, over." Colonel Smith didn't like having to call twice. Someone should be monitoring the radios at all times.
"Manchu Six, this is Bulldog Six Delta. Bulldog Six Actual is on the ground right now. Can I relay your traffic, over."
Colonel Smith was trying to raise the engineer company commander on the radio and discuss the status of his obstacles. Instead, he was talking to the company commander's driver. That wasn't always a problem, but it could be a fairly painful experience if the driver on the other end of the radio wasn't very bright, or articulate.
"Bulldog Six Delta, what is your current location, over."
"Manchu Six, wait one, over." There was silence on the radio for almost an entire minute. Colonel Smith imagined that Bulldog 6's driver was looking for a map, or a flashlight, or somebody else to talk on the radio.
"Manchu Six, this is Bulldog Six Delta, we are currently vicinity south end of Obstacle Number Nine. Do you need a grid location, over"
"Six Delta, that's a negative. I think I can find you without the grid. Tell your boss that I'm heading to your location, and I would like to meet with him when I get there, over"
"Wilco Manchu Six."
Colonel Smith switched off his flashlight. "Manchu Six, out."
He hung up his handmike again, placed his map-board on top of his radios, and put the alcohol pen back in one of his ammo pouches that was stuffed full of other writing utensils.
"Okay Mr. Shin, let's go."
There was no response. The battalion commander flipped his night vision goggles down, turned them on, and focused them so that he could look over at his Humvee driver. His driver, a KATUSA named Corporal Shin, was snoozing away, with his head resting against the driver's side window.
Colonel Smith simply reached over and tugged on the sleeve of Shin's battle dress uniform. "Mr. Shin, wake up! It's time to go!"
Shin awoke with a start. "Uh, yes suh." He seemed a little panicky, and quickly started the engine of the truck, disengaged the parking brake, and put it into "drive." He wasn't quite prepared to go however. His night vision goggles were still hanging around his neck, and he was only half awake.
The colonel didn't mean to make Shin nervous, but the kid acted like a mouse in a room full of cats whenever the battalion commander got in the vehicle with him. He simply couldn't help it. And whenever Shin was nervous, he made silly little mistakes, like the time he drove off of a mountain trail back in Korea, and almost killed the both of them. This was maddening for Colonel Smith, but he always showed a great deal of patience with Shin. He didn't want to make his poor driver any more of a nervous wreck than he already was.
"Alright Mr. Shin, hold on a minute." The colonel was trying to speak in a soothing tone, even though he felt utterly flustered. "Put the vehicle in park, and take a minute to get your night vision goggles on."
"Yes suh."
"Are you okay to drive? You aren't too tired are you?"
"Yes suh."
The colonel was starting to get even more frustrated. "Does that mean you are okay, or that you're too tired?"
"Yes suh."
"Mr. Shin, you don't understand what I'm asking you, do you?"
"Yes suh."
"Switch places with me Shin, I'll drive for awhile. You need to get some rest." As the colonel got out of the Humvee he couldn't help feeling that it was going to be a long goddamn day.
The ride was bumpy as hell, rattling Steve's teeth as the Humvee approached Manchu TOC. There weren't any roads or trails in the area, except for the ruts being cut in the ground by the constant vehicle traffic within the battalion. As the vehicles drove around they created huge clouds of dust. Steve, Jenkins, and Kim all wore green cravats around their mouths and noses, to cut down on some of the "Moon Dust" that they were constantly inhaling. Inside of the truck, it covered everything.
The climate in this part of Diess was harsh. The sun would rise each morning and begin the slow process of turning the surface of the planet into a massive hotplate. The ground everywhere was covered in boulders and seared clay, that was not only a terrific conductor of heat, but was also hard as hell. The Manchus had a wonderful time trying to dig into the stuff. Each and every day the soldiers of the task force, and of the expeditionary forces in general, wondered what crimes they had committed to justify banishing them to such an awful place. And just when they would resign themselves to their fate, the sun would go down, and things got worse.
The same adobe-like clay that baked them during the day, sucked every bit of warmth from the air at night. They spent the hours of darkness wrapped in cold-weather clothing fighting off the effects of hypothermia. The one saving grace of the mechanized infantry was that with all of the vehicles, came heaters, and they ran constantly. Except if you were one of those pathetic dismounted infantry types. Then you just suffered. It was your lot in life.
The battalion was in a very hilly and mountainous region of the planet, which made it an ideal area to defend, no matter how much the arid peaks were cursed by grunts with heavy packs.
In all, Diess was universally hated by every poor soul who was unfortunate enough to be deployed there. More than a few asked themselves why they were risking their lives for such a terrible place. The least they could do is build a bar or two, and maybe ship in a few women. Preferably women of low morale character.
As they neared the perimeter, Steve could make out the TOC, and the growing parking lot of tactical vehicles right next to it. The TOC was the center of planning for the battalion. It was run by the battalion executive officer, and a significant portion of the staff lived and worked there. It physically consisted of three M577 command vehicles, which were grotesque looking armored personnel carriers, with very high profiles, and bristled with antennas. They would be backed up, rear ends facing each other, ramps down, and connected by a series of lightproof "boots." These would then connect to a medium sized modular tent, and outside would be several long-range antennas. The whole monstrosity would be surrounded by concertina wire, and guarded by some of the young soldiers who worked in the staff. Inside of the TOC were radios, maps, tracking charts, computers, a bunch of staff pukes who never saw the light of day, and one humungous coffee maker.
This was the realm of the battalion executive officer, or "XO" for short. The XO's name was Major Charles Jaeger and he was an intellectual, a rarity in the infantry to be sure. He held a couple of doctorates, and had been a history professor at West Point for several years. He was average height, a bit chunky for infantry standards, and had a generous number of "scare badges" adorning his BDU blouse. He was almost always in a good mood, except whenever the S-4 was around, and he was a commensurate professional.
When Captain Murphy entered the TOC he removed his heavy Kevlar helmet and hung it by the chin-strap on one of his canteens. He then removed his other canteen, retrieved the metal canteen cup from the bottom of the canteen pouch, replaced the canteen, and made a beeline for the spectacularly huge coffee maker.
As he poured steaming hot coffee into his canteen cup, he looked around the inside of the TOC, trying to see who else had arrived for the daily meeting with the colonel. This was the best opportunity during the day to meet with his fellow company commanders, some of whom he considered friends, and shoot the bull.
The inside of the tent was starting to get warm. Steve had ditched his cold weather garments, nicknamed "snivel gear" about fifteen minutes prior, and it felt like he was going to be uncomfortably hot within the hour. He wasn't enamored with the local climate, it was akin to some of the less hospitable deserts back on Earth-- the temperature extremes within a single day on Diess were brutal. Steve imaged that the TOC monkeys were going to be rolling up the sides of the tent pretty shortly. If not, they would be stewing in their own juices. And Lord knows, those guys smelled bad enough already.
Steve walked over to the refreshment table to get himself something to put in his coffee. Somehow, the TOC always had goodies like doughnuts, or cakes, to go along with their coffee. Steve always wondered how it was that the staff geeks could get doughnuts, yet there were none to be had for the guys in his company. He made a mental note to bust HHC commander's balls over that one. Sitting next to a recently emptied box of doughnuts were packets of cocoa powder mix. He opened one up and stirred it into his coffee with an ink pen. It made for a decent field expedient mocha. He took a sip, and felt contented for just one short moment. The cocoa covered the badly overcooked coffee taste.
He took a look around at the battalion's maps and overlays, hung up by the radios. The intelligence NCO was at a field table, penciling in some graphics. In the back of the fire supporter's M577 the fire support officer, Captain Frandsen, was playing cards with the S-2, Captain Gaston. Next to the maps were the tracking charts listing the battalion's maintenance status, its current personnel status, logistical stats, and an 8x10 digital photo of the Charlie Company Commander, Captain Assgaard. On the bottom of the photo was scrawled "The Ass-Master." Next to that were hung several other pieces of sophomoric humor, that were infinitely funnier at two o'clock in the morning when everyone in the TOC was suffering from sleep deprivation, and certifiably slap-happy.
As he took another sip of his noxious brew, Steve checked the dry-erase board that was prominently displayed with the title "Word of the Day" written on top. One of many inside-jokes among the staff was the "Word of the Day." The battalion XO, who had an IQ like a phone number, would think of a vocabulary word to teach the officers and men who frequented the TOC. It was the running joke that everyone in the infantry was a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, with a strong back and a weak mind. This point was almost always reiterated by other members of the battalion task force, such as the engineers, air defenders, tankers, and artillery folks—all of whom were convinced beyond a doubt of their intellectual superiority among their less refined brothers in arms. The battalion XO, who was not only the smartest guy in the task force, was also an entertaining fellow with a rapier wit. In order to dispel the myth that infantrymen were incapable of learning, and that they were not completely devoid of any sort redeeming academic qualities, he started posting the "Word of the Day." The "Word" was almost always some fancy fifty-cent word, with a couple dozen syllables. The word on the board was "BUCOLIC," and it was the same word that had been up since yesterday. Steve was mildly disappointed; it was one of the few things he looked forward to when he came to the TOC each day.
"This shit sucks."
Steve looked over to see the Captain Jake "The Snake" Rodriguez standing next to him. Jake was the Bravo Company Commander and he was one of the few people that Steve considered a "friend." Jake was a bit short, very stocky, and always, always, had a big fat dip in his mouth. He had the gait of a weightlifter, and physical strength to match. His subtle humor and his direct approach made him a great leader of men, and those in his command regarded him highly. He was also one of the crudest individuals that Steve had ever met.
"What shit sucks?" Steve asked.
"This fucking coffee man, have you tasted this crap?"
Steve smirked a little. "Yeah dude, I had to cut it with a little cocoa just to make it drinkable."
"Cocoa? You drinking that mocha shit again?"
"Of course, you got a problem with that?"
Jake had two paper cups, one in each hand. One held some very awful coffee, and the other was his "spit cup" half full of putrid tobacco juice. Jake chose that moment to spit some more brown saliva into his rapidly filling cup. "Real men drink their coffee black. That mocha shit is for limp-wristed, poetry reciting, clove cigarette smoking queers that hang out in tea houses."
Steve took another sip from his cup. "You make it sound like a bad thing. Sometimes you have to get in touch with your feminine side."
Jake set his coffee cup down on nearby field table scratched his butt and farted. "I get in touch with my feminine side every chance I get. Usually it's in private with a naughty magazine and a tub of petroleum jelly. I touch myself a lot."
Steve almost choked on his field expedient mocha. "Dude, you're a funny bitch!"
"I try."
It was at that moment that the "Currahee" company commander approached the two of them. "Good morning fellas." He was way too chipper.
Steve didn't answer, he simply hated Captain Marcel's guts, and he didn't hide it very well. Jake however, hid his contempt for his "peer" very well, and reciprocated the greeting. "What's up Matthew?"
"Just getting ready for Colonel Smith's meeting. I really enjoy coming to briefings here, the command and staff in my battalion is so boring. They don't have any sense of humor, you guys are totally different."
Captain Marcel commanded Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 506th Infantry (Air Assault). His battalion was also in the same brigade as the Manchus, and for the time being his company had been cross-attached to 1-9 Infantry. That meant that the battalions had swapped a company; 1-9 Manchu gave up a company of mechanized infantry to 1st of the 506th, and in return they received a company of air assault infantry from the Currahees. This was quite a normal procedure in the mechanized infantry and armor communities, but not nearly as common in the light infantry world.
Jake spit in his cup again. "Yeah, us Manchus are a bunch of funny little bitches."
Marcel just smiled and nodded. A pregnant pause followed. It was a bit uncomfortable. Marcel took another drink of nasty coffee. "Well, I'll talk to you guys later." He then left and went to the other end of the TOC where the briefing was to be conducted.
Steve watched him leave. "Dude, I hate that fucker."
Jake shifted his dip from the left side of his lip to the right. "I couldn't tell. You hide your emotions so well."
"Whatever dude."
The meeting was about to begin, and all the commanders within the battalion were seated in folding chairs, lined up in front of a couple of maps and a "butcher board." The XO was standing with a wooden pointer in his hand, telling an off-color joke with the Assistant S-3, while the company commanders, the command sergeant major, and the battalion S-3, were seated in the front row, leaving the middle seat for Manchu Six.
Everyone that didn't work in the TOC was covered in a fine layer of yellowish dust and grime, which made for a quite obvious contrast between the staff guys, and everybody else.
"Everybody listen up!" The battalion XO was trying to get the attention of the assembled group.
About half of the people in the room shifted their gaze over to Major Jaeger, while the rest continued with their sidebar conversations.
"Can I have it quiet for a second?" The XO continued.
Still the talkers in the back of the room continued to yack away, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the XO was speaking.
"I SAID, SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The XO yelled.
Silence.
"That's better then." Major Jaeger pushed his thick glasses back up his nose with his index finger and began to smile; he had the look of a mischievous child.
"While you gentlemen have been toiling away making the planet safer for the freedom loving peoples of the universe, the staff and I have been working round the clock to provide you with the utmost support that you in fact deserve. But still some of you persist in complaining about the inconsequential. I hear things like 'Sir, the coffee in the TOC tastes like camel piss,' or 'Sir, I haven't taken a shower in over three weeks,' or 'Sir, why can't we get Porta-Johns in our company areas so we can beat-off in private like the staff?' Gentlemen, I hear your cries, but alas, I cannot work miracles. I can only give you a brief respite from your labors, and point of light if you will, to brighten your miserable, stinky, little lives. Therefore, I give you this."
He then walked over to the "butcher board" and flipped the cover sheet over, revealing a very long word, written in big, black, bold letters.
"The 'Word of the Day' today is 'JUXTAPOSITION.' Can everyone say it with me? 'JUX-TA-PO-SI-SHON.'"
Everyone in the room was sporting a toothy grin as they said the word along with the XO. Everyone that is, except the Sergeant Major. He didn't think anything was funny.
It was at that time that Lieutenant Colonel Smith entered the "room." He had the S-2 in tow and was taking long determined strides. He had a very business-like look on his face, and the room sobered immediately upon seeing him.
Major Jaeger came to attention immediately and sounded off like a drill sergeant. "Gentleman, the battalion commander!"
"As you were!" The colonel barked. "Take your seats!"
Colonel Smith stood in front of the room with the S-2 right behind him. He looked his commanders over for a moment before he began.
"Listen up, we don't have time for the typical battle update briefing this morning. We're going to cut to the chase and start off with the meat and potatoes of this thing." The colonel turned to the S-2. "Deuce, take it away."
The XO handed the pointer to Captain Gaston as he took position in front of the assembled group. "Manchus Gentlemen. Well, the time has finally come. We have received word that enemy action within our sector is imminent. Indications are that we will be attacked within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours." The atmosphere within the tent cooled.
"As you already know, we are arrayed here generally along Phase Line "Axe" oriented to the Northeast, covering this major mobility corridor." As the S-2 spoke, he used his pointer to indicate positions on a large map.
"When enemy elements move forward they will be canalized mostly by terrain and with the help of some of Bulldog Six's obstacles. They will have to eventually move through this large defile which Manchu Three has nicknamed 'The Valley of Death.'"
Colonel Smith looked grim while Captain Gaston spoke. On the battalion operational graphics, "The Valley of Death" was actually listed as "Engagement Area Pistol," and it was covered by fires from both the attached D Company, 1-72nd Armor, and elements of D Company, 1-9th Infantry. The two companies straddled the valley, with the tank company team on the north side of the defile, and the infantry company team on the south. It had a series of obstacles in it, and it was well covered by fires. None of this information was news however, except for the revelation that the enemy attack would kick off very soon.
The S-2 then flipped over a sheet of paper on the "butcher board" revealing a detailed course of action sketch. "Sir, based upon new information we have come up with this as the enemy's most likely course of action." The sketch roughly outlined the terrain and units occupying their area of operation, with several enemy units and icons drawn in with large arrows, indicating their probable axes of advance. "This is very similar to the Course of Action briefs that you were given before, except adjusted for the new information we have received on the enemy."
Colonel Smith interrupted the S-2. "Where is this information coming from Deuce?"
"Sir, this intel is being given to us by our alien allies. How they are gathering it is not known to me at this time. Brigade and Division has assured me that it is in fact accurate."
Colonel Smith smiled like a caged predator. "And we all know how accurate information from Brigade and Division usually is."
The S-2 didn't quite know how to respond. "Uh, roger sir. Hopefully this time they are correct."
"Okay Deuce, that's enough. Go ahead and take a seat." The battalion commander finally removed his helmet, and scratched his head. He seemed tired, and it looked as if a few more gray hairs had sprouted on his small head. "Guys it's like this; the enemy courses of action that you have been briefed up until now have not changed appreciably. The thing that has changed is the number of Posleen we should expect to see in our Area of Operations. It's bad. And it ain't specific either. The numbers could be anywhere from the hundreds of thousands to millions attacking our itty bitty task force." Everyone in the room had been briefed on the Posleen, their doctrine, their tactics, and most importantly, their numbers; but it was like a splash of ice water in the face to hear the colonel say it out loud.
Colonel Smith focused his attention on the battalion fire support officer. "Niels, do we still have priority of fires?"
Captain Frandsen responded immediately. "Within the brigade we do sir. We will have priority of fires from 2-17 Field Artillery, and naturally we will have the battalion's mortars. Unfortunately, we will receive no MLRS support. 1st Brigade is the division main effort, and they will receive the big guns, since they have the dubious distinction of holding the most important mobility corridor within the division."
Colonel Smith took a minute to digest this. "What do you mean MLRS? I thought that we couldn't use them against the Posleen. Won't they shoot the rockets out of the air in mid-flight?"
"Normally that is correct sir, any munition under power would be targeted and easily destroyed by Posleen weapons. That is why we can use conventional tube artillery as opposed to guided cruise missiles. However, due to the terrain we are operating in, we have a unique opportunity to employ a wider range of weapon systems."
"Could you please break that down in English for me FSO?" The colonel looked slightly irritated.
"Sir, we are deployed in an area with lots of hills. Artillery, mortars, and MLRS will all be set up well behind us, normally in the low ground and valleys. If rockets are employed, it will be from positions up to thirty kilometers to our rear, well below the horizon from the Posleen. The rockets will then fire their boosters until shortly before reaching apogee. The fuel ought to burn out before our rounds come into Posleen line of sight. At this point, they will no longer be under power, and will not be tracked by alien weapons, and will act similar to conventional artillery rocket assisted projectiles." The fire support officer looked around the room to see if the intellectually challenged infantrymen fully grasped the implications of what he had just said.
"Jesus Niels, this is news to me. Were you planning on keeping this a secret or what?" The colonel chided.
"Well sir, we aren't sure that the MLRS is going to work. We have been basically hypothesizing whether or not we can pull it off. We won't really know until we try it on the enemy. But the bottom line is, if anyone gets it, it'll be 1st Brigade and not us, so it's really a moot point."
"Okay I got it." The colonel was not in a good mood. He was more edgy than usual. "Listen fellas, we've got just a few more preparations left to make and not much time left to make them in. Get out there to your companies and make it happen."
The tent was quiet, some looked around at each other, not sure what how to respond.
"That's it. Go! You're dismissed. Get the hell outa here!" The colonel snapped.
People jumped to their feet and headed on out. There was lots of stuff left to do and not much time to do it in.
Specialist Cartright approached his two-man fighting position from the rear, with his M249 Squad Automatic Weapon slung across his back, his entrenching tool in his left hand, and a roll of coarse toilet paper in his right. He was returning from his visit from behind a nearby rock outcropping, where he had recently "finished his business." It was quite a relief, since he hadn't had the urge to conduct a "Class I download" for the last three days. The MREs always plugged him up like a cork.
"You finally back?" PFC Smigelski was still in the fighting position, looking out over the defile down below him. "You took long enough."
Cartright unslung the SAW, extended the bipod, and set it down next his rucksack. "Why? Did you miss me?" He opened up his ruck, pulled out a ziplock bag and put the toilet paper in it. He zipped it shut, and replaced it in the backpack.
"I thought maybe you got lost back there or something."
Cartright slid down into the hole with his battle-buddy. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
Smigelski gave him a strange look. "Are you nuts? What have we been doing out here for the last five days?"
"Sitting on our asses doing nothing?"
"Exactly. Not much has changed since you left to go take a dump."
"Well I'm glad, I didn't want to miss anything."
Smigelski rolled his eyes. He picked up a pack of Marlboro reds sitting next to his weapon, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with his Zippo.
"Can I get one of those?"
"Man, I told you to pack more cigarettes before we came on this trip. You never listen to me, but noooo, what do I know? I'm just a dumb private."
Cartright set his weapon up on its firing platform. "Okay Mom, are you done lecturing me? Can I have a smoke now?"
Smigelski shook his head in feigned disgust. "You're hopeless. It's a good thing I like you man." He then tossed a single cigarette at his buddy.
"Thanks dick."
"You're welcome sweetie pie."
"You know you wouldn't be a private right now if you hadn't been running your cock-holster and ended up in that fight." Cartright scolded.
"Man, that motherfucker deserved his ass whoopin'."
"Was it worth it to get busted back down to PFC?"
Smigelski looked thoughtful for just a moment. "Sure, that dude was talkin' major smack, he needed me to thump his skull. I think I did him a big favor. Besides the courtesy patrol might've let me go without reporting it if I hadn't knocked out two of his teeth."
"Remind me never to piss you off after you've been drinking Soju buckets."
It was then that they noticed a lone figure that was trudging up the side of the hill toward their position. He moved with grim determination, and kicked up a bit of dust as he took each deliberate step. It was Sergeant Holmes, their team leader, and it looked like he was not terribly happy.
When Sergeant Holmes reached their fighting position, he dropped his rucksack, sat down next to it, and placed his weapon on top of the eighteen inches of overhead cover that served as their roof. Holmes was black as night, and when he removed his Kevlar helmet, it revealed his perfectly shaved head, covered in sweat. He wiped the perspiration from his face and head with the sleeve of his BDU jacket, grabbed a canteen of water, and took a couple of gulps before addressing two of his subordinates. "What're you two heroes doin'."
Smigelski, as usual, was the first to answer. "I was just holding down this entire sector while Cartright was wandering around fucking off."
Sergeant Holmes screwed the cap back on his canteen and put it back into the canteen pouch that was affixed to the pistol belt on his load bearing vest. He then started looking through his rucksack until he pulled out two MREs, and then tossed them to Cartright. "Is that so? Then I suggest that you police up your buddy, Private Smigelski."
Smigelski took a drag from his cigarette. "I would Sarn't, but Cartright is a total turd. It'll take me years to square his ass away."
Cartright flicked his cigarette butt out of the fighting position. "Sarn't, do I have to be teamed up with Smigelski? He smells like ass and he's a known homosexual."
Sergeant Holmes pulled out a pack of Newports and lit one up. "You two sound like you're married or something. Except you get along better than me and my ex-wife. Y'all ain't getting freaky with each other when nobody else is around are ya? Anyways, I brought y'all MREs for lunch. The LT says we gettin hot chow mermited up to us for supper."
"What's for dinner then?" asked Cartright.
Sergeant Holmes shrugged. "I don't know, but whatever it is, I hope that nasty bitch Allen ain't cookin' the shit. He ain't washed since we got here, and that boy stank!"
"No shit Sarn't, Allen and Sergeant Fuentes are both fuckin' sorry. Can't the CO and the First Sarn't get some better cooks for the company?" asked Smigelski.
"Top and the CO got other shit to worry about. But you're right though. Those two are the worst cooks I ever seen. They can't even boil water right." Sergeant Holmes seemed thoughtful as he puffed away on his menthol. "Anyways, the LT just called down and said the engineers are sending up some SEE trucks to dig trenchline, to connect our fighting positions."
Cartright sounded surprised. "SEE trucks? You mean those backhoe-lookin' things?"
"Yup."
"You mean those little bastards are gonna come up here and dig trenchline? Holy shit Sarn't, I hope they bring some dynamite, this ground is hard as shit. They might break one if they try digging in around here."
"Yeah, well I hope not, I'm tired of diggin'. I got blisters all over my hands from swingin' a pick and a shovel in this shit." Sergeant Holmes carefully placed his Kevlar on his immaculately shaved head. "This heat's gonna kill me. I gotta get back to my hole and make sure that Miller ain't sleepin'. You two hang tight."
"Take it easy Sarn't."
Sergeant Holmes put his rucksack back on and started back down the hill.
Carl put on a pair of black leather gloves before he pulled his MRE component out of its chemical heater. He wore the gloves so that he wouldn't burn his fingers while handling the heated meal's packaging. He slid the green packet out and held it with his left hand while he sliced it open length-wise with his Gerber multi-tool. It was spaghetti with meat sauce, and the smell of the freshly heated meal quickly filled the vehicle. He added crushed crackers, cheese spread, Tabasco sauce, and mixed them all together before putting the first spoonful in his mouth. It tasted okay. Three months ago, Carl would have traded just about any other meal for spaghetti because it was his favorite. Now, he could barely stand the stuff. The lack of variety was really starting to get to him. With MREs there were only twenty-four different menu selections, and it didn't take long for a soldier to become very tired of even the more palatable ones.
Lieutenant Andersen had been sitting over in the passenger seat of the vehicle, writing a letter home, when the smell of the spaghetti hit him. "Hey Myers, did you get M&Ms with your spaghetti?"
Carl swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing before answering. This particular meal was starting to taste a lot like cardboard. "Yes sir. Why, you want to trade something for them?"
"Yeah dude, how about tradin' for a pack of Charms hard candy?"
This was how it always began with the LT. Anyone else in the platoon would have offered up an equitable trade, but not Lieutenant Andersen. His offers were always total shit. The worst part was, whenever a person turned his offers down, he would get completely indignant, as if it were a personal attack. "No way sir. Charms suck. You're going to have to sweeten the deal a bit before I part with my M&Ms."
"What the fuck is wrong with Charms?"
Here we go again. "Sir, come on. Nobody likes Charms. I bet if I went through the MRE trash out behind the truck, I would find three or four packs of 'em that were just thrown away." Carl scooped another spoonful of food and reluctantly put it in his mouth.
"Sabre Six, this is Red Three, over." Thankfully Carl was spared the pain of arguing with his platoon leader over some trivial horseshit by the radio once again.
Lieutenant Andersen, picked up the handmike, irritated with the interruption. "Red Three, this is Sabre Six."
"Sabre Six, I've got beau coup movement vicinity Checkpoint Three Three, break. There is a large number of aliens moving through the valley heading from east to west, toward Check Point Three Four, over."
Andersen pulled down his mapboard, placed it in his lap and located the checkpoints. "Okay roger, got it. How many and what type of aliens do you got down there, over."
"It looks like Indowy, break. There's hundreds of 'em running at full speed, break. They are kind of moving like a herd of stampeding buffalo, over."
"Roger, okay I got it, keep me updated as things develop, and try to get me more solid numbers when you can, over"
"Sabre Six, this is Red Three, wilco, over."
As Lieutenant Andersen sent his report up to Battalion, Carl quickly scarfed down the rest of his meal. Dinnertime was over.
"Sir, Manchu Six is on the radio for you. He says that it is urgent." The RTO was trying to give the handmike to Captain Marcel.
Captain Marcel sat upon a case of MREs, with one green jungle boot off, while he changed his socks. It was a something he did at least three times a day, whether he needed to or not. He seemed arrogant as ever when he took the handmike from his RTO.
"Manchu Six, this is Cherokee Six, over." Marcel sounded bored and just a little annoyed by the interruption.
"Cherokee Six, this is Manchu Six, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for the last thirty minutes!"
"Manchu Six, this is Cherokee Six, we've been monitoring and haven't received any traffic from you, over"
"Cherokee Six, you better stick up your long whip antenna or establish wire comms with us because I can't afford not to be able to talk to you! Fix your commo! Now, you've got a large number of refugees heading your way. The scouts have been reporting large scale movement of Indowy, pushing into Engagement Area Rifle, vicinity TRP number seven. They are moving through the low ground and should be hitting the obstacle belt any minute now. You are to hold your fire. Remember that these are friendlies! Acknowledge, over!"
"Manchu Six, this is Cherokee Six, wilco. I will get the word out before we have any fratricide incidents..."
Before Captain Marcel could finish his transmission, a dozen Claymore mines detonated in the distance. He jerked to his right, just in time to witness the first tracer rounds racing down range, impacting into a large group of Indowy that were attempting to run over or around several rows of triple strand concertina wire. Once the machineguns initiated fire, everyone one else in 2nd and 3rd Platoons started to join in. The volume of fire was so intense, that it sounded somewhat like a giant chainsaw, and it was doing a very effective job of annihilating the fleeing alien refugees.
Captain Marcel felt like there was a chunk of ice sitting in his belly. He was momentarily in shock, and was slow to react. He snapped out of it when his other RTO shoved a handmike in his face.
"Sir, the company net is out of control. Everyone is stepping all over each other trying to send reports and call for artillery. It's a total mess sir." Specialist Jones had a pleading look in his eye. He wanted his commander to bring order out of chaos.
Just as Marcel attempted to regain control of the situation another call came in from the battalion commander.
"Sir, Manchu Six is on battalion and he sounds pissed. He said he wants to talk to you right now." Specialist Lowthorpe wanted to hand off the battalion handmike to his commander as soon as humanly possible, it was like a hot potato and he wanted to get it out of his hand.
Marcel steeled himself before transmitting. "Manchu Six, this is Cherokee Six, over."
"Cherokee Six, this is Manchu Six, what is going on down there? I told you there were friendlies in the area, and not to engage! Acknowledge!"
"Manchu Six, my men opened fire before I could get them to stop. Now my company frequency is a mess with people trying to send reports. I'm trying to get the message through, over"
"Goddamnit Captain! Get your people under control! I don't want excuses! You have thirty seconds to make it happen before I relieve you on the spot! Acknowledge, over!"
Captain Marcel just stood there staring at the handmike. He couldn't believe that this was happening to him. He looked like a complete fool. It just wasn't fair.
"Man, what the fuck is going on down there?" Cartright had the butterflies, and he was starting to get them bad. They could hear a massive firefight taking place out in the distance, but total silence in their company sector.
"I don't know, get on the phone and call Sergeant Holmes to find out what's going on." Smigelski popped the magazine out of his weapon, checked it, tapped it on his Kevlar to reseat the rounds, and slapped it back in the magazine well of his M16.
Cartright reached for the TA-312 field telephone that sat in their fighting position. It was connected by communication wire with the field phone in their team leader's fighting position, and was the preferred method of reaching him when they were supposed to be hunkered down in their hole. Just as he was about to pick up the receiver, the phone started chirping like a cricket, indicating that there was an inbound call. Cartright immediately answered it, "This is Cartright, over."
"Cartright, this is Holmes. Check it out, we got aliens comin' our way, but they're friendlies... do not fire 'em up whatever you do. It sounds like those 506th guys are fuckin' this up by the numbers and are blowin' the shit out of the wrong people down there. I guess Manchu Six is going ape-shit right now. I need you two to stay cool, and keep 100% security. You got any questions?"
"Yeah, are there Posties anywhere out there?"
There was a pause before Sergeant Holmes answered. "Probably. Nobody's said so for sure, but something bad is happening out there. You two keep your heads down and scan your sectors. I'll keep you updated as shit changes."
"Thanks Sarn't, out here."
Cartright passed on the information to Smigelski, but it did nothing to ease the tension the two of them felt. Something was brewing and they knew that it was going to be happening soon.
"Hey LT, I think you ought to take a look at this!" Lieutenant Andersen's gunner beckoned to him.
Andersen pushed his mapboard off to the side and crawled up through the gunner's hatch in the Humvee, until he was shoulder to shoulder with PFC Moulton. He was still pissed about the whole "M&M's" issue.
"Myers, take the radios for a minute." The lieutenant said.
Carl grabbed the mapboard, a small notepad and an alcohol pen.
"Roger sir, I got it." The reports were starting pour in, but Carl could handle it, and he relayed them up to battalion without any trouble.
The gunner, PFC Moulton, handed his binoculars off to the platoon leader and pointed out in the distance. "Check it out sir, vicinity Checkpoint Four Seven, South 300 meters. There's some Indowy still trickling in but look what's hot on their tails."
Andersen focused the binoculars out in the distance to see a mass of Posleen just coming into view, chasing down the few remaining Indowy that were fleeing toward the battalion's main line of resistance. The Posleen easily numbered in the thousands and created a dust storm in their wake. They were chasing the Indowy and running them down with ease, hacking them to pieces with their monomolecular blades. Lieutenant Andersen stood, staring through the binoculars dumfounded for just a moment. "Holy shit." He slowly handed the binoculars back to Moulton, and then immediately grabbed the battalion O&I handmike from Myers' while he was in mid-report.
"Manchu Two, this is Sabre Six, I've got Posleen normals, thousands of them, vicinity Checkpoint Four Seven pushing west." Andersen squat down inside of the Humvee, "Myers punch up the fires net!" He swallowed hard before transmitting, "Manchu Steel, this is Sabre Six, adjust fire, over."
Murphy stood in the turret of his Bradley, glassing Engagement Area Pistol, watching the streams of Indowy move around the man made obstacles that seemed to carpet the valley floor. There were dead Indowy strewn everywhere, some hung up in the wire. When Murphy first received word that the refugees were coming, he ensured that his platoons held their fire, and indeed they did, however the little bipedal aliens were totally unaware of the anti-personnel and anti-tank mines that were buried everywhere, reinforcing the wire obstacles. The little creatures detonated mines with regularity. Not only did they succeed in killing of a large number of their own, but they also unintentionally weakened the obstacles that the human defenders relied heavily upon.
Steve was wearing his Combat Vehicle Crewman's helmet, and was monitoring the company command and battalion command frequencies while scanning the Valley of Death. He pushed the little lever on the side of his CVC to the rearward position, so that he could talk to his crew on the intercom. "Hey Whit, did you hear that on battalion?"
SSG Whitmore was sitting in his gunner's chair, scanning through his gun's optics at the same scene as his commander, while also listening to the radios. "Roger that sir. Sounds like the scouts have just seen the Posties and have requested a fire mission."
Simmons sat in the driver's seat, chain smoking. He could hear everything that his gunner and Bradley Commander could hear, but since the vehicle was in its turret defilade position, in the bottom of a deep hole, he couldn't see a thing. Simmons keyed his intercom, "Hey sir, where's Checkpoint Four Seven?"
Murphy didn't even have to look down at his map to answer, he had memorized most of the battalion's operational graphics, and all of the local terrain features. "Four Seven is five klicks east of 1st of the 506th's lead elements. They're getting real close. It won't be long before we see 'em over here."
Simmons could barely light another cigarette, his hand was shaking so hard. "Great. I can't fuckin' wait."
"Sabre Six, this is White One, I need fires at grid Charlie Hotel 457983, over!"
"White One, what's the target description, over."
Staff Sergeant Jiminez was a little surprised by the question. "Sabre Six, this is White One, target description is Posties in the open... lot's of fucking Posties in the open. What did you think it was, over."
Andersen was getting a bit flustered, "Watch your tone White One! Okay I got it, grid Charlie Hotel 457983, over"
"Sabre Six, this is Manchu Steel, your push. I monitored your internal, FA is currently shooting your last mission, but I'll put the mortars on this one, over"
"Manchu Steel, roger that, Sabre Six, out."
Lieutenant Andersen watched as the field artillery hammered the landscape, shredding Posleen normals by the dozens, and driving God Kings to whatever cover they could find. It was like pissing on a house fire though. The deluge continued to flow unabated. Fortunately for the scouts, they had managed to camouflage themselves on ridges and hilltops reasonably well, and were as yet unnoticed. With any luck, they could manage to keep it that way.
"Guidons, guidons, this is Dragon Six, scouts report Posleen pushing into Engagement Area Pistol vicinity TRP Thirteen. We should see them any time now. Remember your fire control and distribution. When sending reports stick to SALT format and keep it short. Acknowledge."
Steve put down the handmike and lit another Marlboro. His throat was starting to get a little sore from smoking so much, but it was hardly deterring him from sucking down another lung rocket. Darkness had engulfed them, and the only thing he could see were stars shining in the sky, and the vague outline of a ridgeline on the other side of the valley. He could hear the artillery rounds sailing overhead, thumping dully in the distance. Just then the first 25millimeter high explosive incendiary tracer round gently arced out toward Target Reference Point Thirteen. It exploded into the Posleen who were emerging into view. The first round was a sensing round, fired to determine the proper range. It was quickly followed up by a three round burst. A moment later, the report of the weapon echoed off the hills, "Boom. Boom, boom, boom."
The Bradley Fighting Vehicles of Delta Company engaged from as far out as possible, and were having some success in thinning the ranks of their enemy. The Posleen, were emerging from a distant defile into the open "Bowl" and were quickly spreading out and racing forward. They started to return fire at the Bradleys, but it was not accurate, and it was fired at great distance. When the first God Kings emerged they directed fire, but it was still not having much effect. They fired at the human positions while racing forward to close the distance, their best bet was to overwhelm the battle positions and they knew it.
The attached tank platoon held fire with their main guns until they targeted the first God Kings. Once they did, their initial volleys were encouraging. God Kings riding in their small craft were destroyed quickly, and their normals scattered, losing focus, if only for a short time. Still, the Posleen pressed the attack, firing wildly and pushing forward at a full sprint.
The commander of the tank company team on the north side of Engagement Area Pistol took his cue from the infantry and ordered his platoons to open fire. The two tank platoons, and the single platoon of attached Bradleys rolled forward, up onto their firing platforms, and added the full weight of a tank company team to the fight. The Posleen did not even break stride as they divided their attention between both the infantry team to the south side of the valley, and the tank team in the north. The assaulting Posleen found themselves in a massive crossfire, in the open, with their ranks being torn to shreds, their leaders killed regularly, and now they were starting to hit strange looking obstacles erected everywhere, slowing their advance to a crawl.
"Manchu Steel, this is Dragon Steel, over." First Lieutenant Jimmy Ngyuen was calling the battalion fire support officer, Captain Frandsen, on the battalion fires net. He was desperately hoping to get through, but he wasn't holding his breath. The battalion fires net was getting a tad busy, and Captain Frandsen was a popular guy this evening, as every major maneuver element in the battalion attempted to request service from the painfully small number of available artillery and mortars.
"Dragon Steel, this is Manchu Steel, standby. I've got thirty fire missions stacked up and I'm trying to shoot them all. All the guns are real busy right now, out."
Jimmy Ngyuen wasn't thrilled with the news, even though he wasn't surprised. From what he could tell from monitoring several of the battalion's radio frequencies, they were getting attacked along the entire frontage and they were giving everything that they had. The enemy was not even slowing down, or noticing their casualties. He knew that at this rate, it wouldn't be long before the first calls were going to come in requesting final protective fires, indicating that positions were about to be overrun. And Jimmy knew that there simply weren't enough tubes available to make a difference.
He sat there in the back of his cramped FIST-V, staring at the radios and feeling helpless. He picked up his M16, pulled the charging handle, and chambered a round. This was going to get real ugly.
First Sergeant Jennings slapped another magazine into his M4 Carbine. The barrel was hot, almost white hot, and he was afraid that if he kept this up for much longer the weapon would be useless, and that he would have to find another. Not that that was going to be a problem, there were more and more weapons becoming available as casualties mounted within the company.
"Lowthorpe! Have you raised 1st Platoon yet?" Jennings didn't wait for an answer before he popped his head out of the trench again and started firing wildly into the solid wall of Posleen that was making another rush at this part of the company's line.
Specialist Lowthorpe huddled down at the bottom of the trench, with a handset in each hand, trying to communicate, while a deafening fight raged all around him. "Negative First Sarn't! I can't raise anyone down there, and battalion's screaming for a SITREP!"
Jennings jumped back down into the trench next to the RTO and dropped another empty magazine in the dirt. "You got any more mags left?"
Lowthorpe simply nodded in the affirmative as he answered another desperate call coming in from 2nd Platoon.
The first sergeant handed his M4 to Lowthorpe and snatched a handmike from him. "Here, reload this fuckin' thing!" He then pulled a laminated map from his left cargo pocket. "Manchu Six, this is Cherokee Seven, over!"
Colonel Smith heard the call coming in, but ignored it for just a moment. His track was sitting in between two dismounted infantry positions filled with guys pulling triggers like it was going out of style. The one covered position to his left took a direct hit with a hyper-velocity missile. The concussion rocked him and his entire vehicle. The explosion sent chunks of clay, rocks, railroad ties, and pieces of soldiers flying into the air.
"GUNNER, HE, TROOPS, 800 METERS!" The colonel screamed.
His gunner responded before his battalion commander finished the fire command. "IDENTIFIED!"
"DRIVER UP!"
The driver slammed the vehicle forward, up to its firing platform, and then stomped on the brake.
Before the vehicle's suspension quit rocking from the sudden braking movement the colonel screamed. "FIRE!"
"ON THE WAY!" The gunner squeezed the trigger hard, and let loose a deafening, twenty-three round burst into a sea of four-legged monsters. It was then that the M242 Bushmaster auto-canon made that sickening "Ka-Chunk!" sound as the weapon cycled on an empty chamber. They were out of ammo. Again.
Each high explosive round from the 25mm auto-canon exploded like a fragmentation hand grenade, and they were highly effective against individual Posleen. They were not very impressive when fired into massive groups of the horse-like creatures though. It just couldn't kill them fast enough.
"CEASE FIRE, DRIVER BACK!"
The driver jolted the transmission back in reverse and launched them back down into their hole, just as the first Posleen railgun rounds and flechettes blasted their position. Colonel Smith looked up just in time to see the tip of one of his antennas get sheered off by some odd Posleen weapon system.
The gunner, Staff Sergeant Colburn yanked open the turret shield door and jumped through it. "I'm clear sir!"
The battalion commander then elevated the gun, and spun the turret to its proper position, so that the gunner could reload in the back.
"Cherokee Seven, this is Manchu Six, I need a SITREP, over!" The colonel transmitted over the boom mike on his CVC.
Dirt showered down on First Sergeant Jennings, and the ground vibrated as he spoke. Smoke drifted into the trench and made it practically impossible to breath. He kneeled in a shallow puddle of blood that pooled on the broken ground from the half dozen mutilated bodies lying in the ditch.
"Sir, it's bad up here. I've got thirty confirmed dead, at least that many wounded, I can't raise 1st Platoon on the radio, I've got the company mortars shooting FPF for 3rd, and 2nd about to be overrun. I think we're going to fold any minute now. Request permission to fall back, over!" The first sergeant was so scared he felt like puking his guts out.
Colonel Smith could hear his gunner in the back ripping open ammo crates and loading heavy 25mm rounds into their trays as quickly as his exhausted muscles could move them.
"Cherokee Seven, this is Manchu Six, roger, understand. You've got to hang on for just a bit longer. I'm going to push the reserve up to you, once that happens, I'll give you further instructions. Acknowledge!"
Lowthorpe handed the loaded M4 back to his first sergeant. "Okay, I got it sir. But don't make me wait too long. I like action and adventure as much as the next guy, but this shit is out of control!"
Colonel Smith looked over at the two boxes of coax machinegun ammo right next to him and noticed that they too were getting a bit low. "Colburn! When you come back up, bring some coax ammo with you!"
"Roger sir!"
Smith turned his attention back to the radio. "Cherokee Seven, don't worry, I'll get some folks up to your position, just keep up the fire! Manchu Six, out."
Smigelski put the red dot center mass of another Posleen normal that was hung up in concertina wire. The animal thrashed around in the obstacle uncontrollably, trying to escape, and in doing so, mutilated itself badly on the razor-like barbs that protruded from the wire. Smigelski jerked the trigger of his M16. The bullet smashed into the creature's throat and killed it almost instantly. The bolt of the weapon slammed back, and locked to the rearward position, as it always did whenever the last round was fired.
"RELOADING!" Smigelski ducked down low in the fighting position so that his head was no longer exposed. He was totally focused on the task at hand; he had tuned out the rest of the world. He knew that Cartright would pick up his rate of fire, and cover down on his sector while he reloaded. His ears were ringing badly, and even the sound of Cartright's machinegun was barely audible. He pressed the magazine release button and the empty magazine dropped to the dirt floor of his fighting position; it was littered with spent shell casings and other flotsam.
Stacked in the rear of the enlarged fighting position was a cache of ammunition, food and water. Smigelski and Cartright had spent days in preparation, loading magazines, prepping drums of SAW ammo, and placing them in ammo cans in the back of their hole. He reached into an open can and retrieved another loaded magazine, slapped it into his weapon, pushed down on the bolt release button, and let it snap forward. He then tapped twice on the forward assist, ensuring that the bolt of the weapon was firmly seated.
"I'M UP!" Smigelski jumped back up so fast that he hit his head on the overhead cover that served as their roof. He hardly noticed as he peered through the M68 site and scanned for another target. It wasn't hard, there were hundreds of centaur-like creatures flowing around a turning obstacle not far down the hill from him.
Mortars and grenade launchers fired flares into the air illuminating the engagement area down below, casting uneven shadows as they floated back to the surface. In the low areas, Posleen rushed the wire like crazed fans at a Metallica concert. Thousands of tracers flew back and forth thrashing and ripping into them. Hundreds of them got cut to pieces under the murderous fire.
"I'M OUT! RELOADING!" Cartright screamed.
Smigelski put the dot on another animal that was firing in his general direction. He squeezed the trigger and watched as the Posleen dropped to its knees in agony. He consciously slowed his rate of fire to allow Cartright sufficient time to reload the SAW.
Cartright dropped to a knee and pulled his machinegun down with him. He quickly set the weapon down on its bipod, grabbed the carrying handle, pressed the release and removed the smoking hot barrel from the weapon. During the preparation of their position, he had carefully laid down several asbestos mittens in the corner. He tossed the barrel on the mittens, grabbed a five-gallon jerry can full of water, and poured it over the white-hot metal. It immediately sizzled like a load of French fries dumped in hot grease. A plume of steam rose up and out of the fighting position as Cartright jammed the spare barrel on the end of the SAW.
"YOU DONE YET?!" Smigelski bellowed down at him.
"JUST A SECOND! WORKING IT!" He detached the empty ammo drum from the bottom of the weapon and tossed it out of the foxhole. He wasted no time snapping another plastic drum in place, grabbed the belt of ammunition, and gingerly placed it in the feed tray. He slapped the feed tray cover down on the belt of ammo, and sprung back up onto his firing stoop.
"I'M UP!" He immediately pulled the trigger, and sent another seven round burst of 5.56 millimeter NATO downrange.
It was dark outside, but hardly anyone noticed at all with bullets flying in every direction, explosions all around, the noise, the charred bodies, burning vehicles, and the smell. Most noticed nothing at all except for the terror they felt, and how their muscles felt like lead. Some were so scared they didn't know that they had shit all over themselves.
Smigelski tried to put the gut-wrenching fear out of his mind and stay focused, until Bradley number Delta Two Two went up in a fireball just fifty meters to his right.
The vehicle rolled up to a hull defilade to fire just when a hyper-velocity missile penetrated the protective berm to its front, entered the vehicle's engine compartment and exploded. Shrapnel and liquid metal entered the turret of the vehicle and sprayed the Bradley Commander and his gunner, bursting organs and shattering bones in a nanosecond, killing them both instantly. The driver, Private Jorgensen, was positioned next to the engine compartment and had molten aluminum splashed all over his lap and upper torso. He screamed horribly until he went into shock and then unconsciousness. He was spared the pain of burning alive when the fuel tanks caught fire and the ammunition cooked off. The Bradley burned, and burned hot. Blue flame vented from the top hatches from the vehicle, as combustibles ignited, and armor melted.
"Bushwhacker One-Six, this is Manchu Three, over." The battalion operations officer didn't bother to remove his Nomex glove as he stuck his finger into his mouth, scooped out the old Copenhagen, and flicked it off the side of his Bradley.
There were four Bradleys parked roughly in line on the backside of the ridgeline where the battalion was fighting for its life. The battalion operations officer, or S-3, was in his Bradley, and he had rounded up three Bradley Stinger Fighting Vehicles from the attached air defense artillery platoon. Since there weren't going to be too many enemy planes to shoot down, the battalion commander kept most of his air defenders back in the vicinity of the TOC as the task force reserve. Now the S-3, Major Gianforti, was preparing to lead the reserve into the fight, to counter-attack and keep Charlie Company, 1st of the 506th from disintegrating.
"Manchu Three, this is Bushwhacker One-Six, over."
"You guys ready to roll yet?"
"Manchu Three, Bushwhacker One-Six. Bushwhacker One-Two can't get his gun to go into 'sear.' He's trying to fix it right now, over"
Gianforti bristled at the news. The air defenders had always been a problem, their maintenance was substandard, their gunnery skills were lacking, their ability to navigate on the ground was non-existent, and their platoon leader was an idiot. All in all, they were a big pain in the ass. Now a whole company relied on them to come to the rescue, and they were ill-prepared for the task.
"Listen Lieutenant, you had better get your guys unfucked right now! There are a bunch of light-fighters on the other side of this hill that need us, and they can't wait! Do you read me?"
"Manchu Three, this is Bushwhacker One Six, wilco, over."
MAJ Gianforti checked his equipment again while he waited for the air defenders to get their weapons ready. His mapboard was laid out in front of him, he had a loaded port-firing weapon, a pair of night vision goggles hanging around his neck, his spall vest secured around his torso, and a nine-millimeter pistol in his shoulder holster. He looked over to his left to find that his gunner was standing up in the hatch, looking over the left-hand side of the vehicle.
His gunner, Sergeant Lightfoot tapped the S-3 on his shoulder. "Hey sir, get a load of this."
Major Gianforti had to climb out of his commander's hatch in order to see what was on the left side of the vehicle. The "spaghetti cable" that connected his CVC helmet to his radios was stretched as far as the coiled little cable could reach. When he looked down he saw an Indowy standing next to the vehicle, motioning with his hands, trying to get their attention. About thirty meters away, was a small group of Indowy, hiding behind a large rock, obviously frightened, looking like kids caught in a tiger pen but not willing to leave their comrade behind.
Gianforti looked at his gunner. "What do you suppose he wants?"
Before Lightfoot could answer, and strange voice came over the intercom. "I would like to help you."
Both of them did a double-take at the hairy little creature. In its hand was a small metal box, and Gianforti immediately recognized it as an AID. He had heard about the AIDs, but he had never actually seen one. The Indowy was using the AID to translate language, and then transmit it to the Bradley's intercom. It seemed like absolute magic.
Gianforti felt a little silly talking to the small alien, but he decided to do it anyway. "What do you want there little fella? I don't really have time now, I've got more pressing matters that require my attention right now." It was then that the S-3 became very aware of the radio traffic that was going crazy on the battalion command net, and the noise of battle just on the other side of the ridgeline.
"I simply offer my expertise. I can fix things for you, and help your people in this fight." The Indowy had strange gestures and body language that made no sense to Gianforti.
The S-3 didn't know how this small unarmed creature could help them at a time like this, and he didn't really care. Right now, there were much bigger fish to fry. "Listen little friend, I've got to go now, but Delta company is over that way. They need all the help that they can get. If you want to help, head that way, and up over that hill." Gianforti pointed in the direction of Delta Company, and The Valley of Death.
The Indowy looked to where the S-3 pointed and then looked back at him. "Thank you. I will go there and do what I can." He then scurried off with his friends to the sound of the guns.
Major Gianforti watched them as they disappeared into the darkness. "Good luck little guy."
Jimmy Ngyuen lay on his back against a hard clay berm next to his wounded driver and RTO. His sweat-soaked BDU shirt stuck to him like a second skin, steam rolled off his body in the evening chill. He pulled the pin on the M67 fragmentation grenade and heaved it down the slope of the hill. It landed in amongst a group of three Posleen who attempted to claw their way through some wire. When it exploded all three fell to the ground, one dead, and the other two writhed in the dirt, bleeding profusely.
He looked over at his FIST-V. It burned brightly and did a good job of illuminating the immediate area. "How you feeling Bennett?"
The FIST-V driver, Specialist Bennett, lay next to Lieutenant Ngyuen. His shoulder was a bloody mess, and it was bandaged as well as possible under the conditions. He was conscious, but moaned softly, in absolute pain. On the other side of Ngyuen was his RTO, Specialist Jacobson. Jacobson would alternate between talking on his PRC-119 radio, and popping up over the berm to fire his M16 at the Posleen. Jimmy Ngyuen did his best to contribute to the fight, considering that there wasn't nearly enough artillery to go around.
Jimmy peered over the berm to try and size things up. The company had been pushed back earlier that evening to their alternate positions, located much higher up on the ridgeline. It was a nasty little maneuver that cost them a tank, a Bradley, and a bunch of grunts, all of which littered the hillside just down the slope from them. As bad as it was, the move saved the company team from total annihilation as the Posleen breached the last of the protective obstacles and started overrunning sections of the line.
As it was, the company was down to two tanks, seven Bradleys, and fourty-four dismounted infantry. The alien attack had bled to death after throwing themselves against a buzzsaw. It hadn't been an easy fight, but it had been a successful one, at least up until now. Jimmy monitored the battalion command net and knew that Delta Company and Team Demon to the north had only defeated the first wave, and that the scouts were reporting a second wave, of undetermined strength, heading their way. It was enough to make a grown man cry.
"Sabre Six, this is White One, over"
"White One, this is Sabre Six Delta, send your traffic, over." Carl held the handmike up to his ear while trying to read the map with a red lens flashlight.
"Six Delta, I've got another large group of Posties, approximately 3000 of them pushing past Checkpoint Three Four. Can we get some fires on Target 0024, over?"
"White One, standby." Carl leaned over from the driver's seat of the Humvee, to get his platoon leader's attention. "Sir, White One reports about 3000 Posleen pushing past Three Four. He wants to know if he can get some fires on Target 0024."
Lieutenant Andersen was busy talking to the S-2 on the O&I net. "Manchu Two, this is Sabre Six, standby, over." He turned his attention to Myers. "What did you say?"
"Sir, Sergeant Jiminez wants fires on Target 0024, he says there's 3000 Posties pushing through Three Four time now."
"Tell him that I'll check." Andersen reached over and switched his radio to over to the battalion fires net. "Manchu Steel, this is Sabre Six, over."
The fires net was busy, but not as chaotic as it had been earlier. "Sabre Six, Manchu Steel, send it, over."
"Roger, can you fire Target number 0024, we've got 3000 Posleen pushing through Checkpoint Three Four, time now, over."
"Sabre Six, can't do it right now. I've got the big guns servicing another target in Maddawg's sector, and the mortars are "Red" on ammo."
"Manchu Steel, roger, understand. Sabre Six, out." Lieutenant Andersen shook his head in disgust. He was starting to feel helpless.
Carl didn't waste any time. "I monitored sir. I'll pass the message along to White One."
Andersen just nodded, as he sent White One's report to the S-2.
"Manchu Three, Bushwhacker One Six, we're up, over."
That was music to Major Gianforti's ears. "Good, let's go. You guys follow me in. Guns free on anything running on more than two legs. You got it?"
"Roger sir."
Before the S-3 could give the order to move out, his gunner cut loose with a long burst with the coax machinegun. Gianforti was so startled he almost jumped clear out of the turret.
"SIR! POSTIES COMING OVER THE CREST OF THE HILL!"
The S-3 looked up at the hill directly in front of him, and saw hundreds of Posleen coming over the crest, running at full speed down the slope straight toward them. It was crystal clear that the Charlie Company had finally broken, and that the counter-attack was too late.
"BUSHWHACKER, THIS IS MANCHU THREE! CONTACT FRONT! GET ON LINE NOW!"
The four Bradleys were in a column, prepared to follow the S-3 up and over the hill. They were in a poor position to engage the Posleen unless they spread out. Which is exactly what they attempted to do.
The air defenders pivot steered their vehicles and began to peel off in each direction in order to get a clear line of fire on the enemy, as they raced down the ridgeline. As they did so, they were riddled with fire from 3mm railguns and flechettes. The rounds did not cause significant damage to the vehicles themselves, but they were deadly to the exposed Bradley Commanders.
Bushwhacker One Six, Second Lieutenant Voorhees, took two flechettes to the chest, and one in his left eye socket. He dropped like a bag of wet cement into the turret of his vehicle, while his gunner cut loose with the 25mm auto-canon. The driver hammered the accelerator as hard as he could and broke to the left of the S-3's track numbered HQ 33. The driver then pulled the steering yolk to the right while the vehicle was at speed and succeeded in throwing track clear off of the road wheels on both sides. The vehicle was effectively immobile.
The other three Bradleys fired a mix of 25mm and coax machinegun fire up the slope erratically. The fire was panicked, and unfocused.
It was then that the first God King flew over the crest of the hill and unleashed his energy weapons on the stunned counter-attack force.
The first vehicle hit was HQ 33. It took a solid hit to the right track and lengthwise along the armor plating. Sergeant Lightfoot fired back but his rounds flew wide. A hyper-velocity missile then hit the left side of the vehicle at an oblique. The missile didn't explode, it just passed in one side of the turret and out the other. The over-pressure it created crushed flesh and bone. Major Gianforti and Sergeant Lightfoot never felt a thing.
The surviving crews didn't last much longer. They were quickly destroyed without giving much in return. The Posleen continued to push their attack, running past the burning piles of slag, hunting for more prey.
Manchu TOC was a frenzy of activity. People darted around inside of the modular tent passing messages, updating charts, answering radios, and processing calls for fire. The assistant S-3 was sending and receiving situation reports while motioning in a primitive form of sign language to the S-2 NCOIC that he needed another dip of Wintergreen Longcut. The battalion fire support officer and his NCO sat on folding chairs in the back of their M577 with the ramp down managing the traffic that was flooding in over the fires net, while chain smoking Marlboro reds and using an old coffee can for an ashtray. The S-2 paced in front of "the big map" and listened to the hundreds of urgent transmissions coming in over the loudspeakers, and would move small unit icons, update the combat power chart, and write battle damage assessments on a large dry-erase board. Sergeant Major Branaugh stood quietly in a corner, watching the staff scurry around on the wooden floor pallets, drinking his millionth cup of coffee.
Major Jaeger picked up the transmitter for the Administration and Logistics net, while staring at the posted maps, constantly updated by the Assistant S-3 and the rest of the staff. The atmosphere in the TOC was tense, but everything was running as smoothly as could be expected.
"Manchu Four, Manchu Five, over." The XO decided that now was the time to get the emergency resupply pushed forward.
The S-4, Captain Krieger, sat in his Humvee with the engine idling. He was in the lead vehicle in a convoy of cargo trucks. They had been positioned there for the last few hours, waiting for the word to head out with their emergency re-supply of fuel, water, and ammunition. In the meantime, he listened to the battalion command net, and how the fight was going.
"Manchu Five, this is Manchu Four, over."
"Manchu Four, need you to move your element from the Combat Trains to the logistics rally point at this time. Expect representatives from Demon, Dragon, Thumper, Bulldog and Maddawg. We can't raise Cherokee at this time. Be prepared to run support packages to their company trains and to conduct hot refueling there. Acknowledge."
"Manchu Five, this is Manchu Four, roger, moving." Krieger picked up his ICOM hand-held radio and gave the order to the drivers and vehicle commanders in his convoy.
The ungainly group of vehicles consisted of refuelers, large cargo HEMM-T trucks, smaller LMTVs, and a couple of Humvees. They were stacked with crates of ammo, water cans, thousands of gallons of fuel, and they started down the rough trails with their headlights turned off, the drivers relying on night vision devices.
As Major Jaeger set the handmike down he heard someone fire a SAW just outside of the TOC. Everyone in the tent stopped in their tracks and froze for just an instant.
"EVERYBODY GRAB YOUR SHIT AND GET OUTSIDE!" The XO screamed. "MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
The assistant S-3 dropped his spit cup, snatched up his load bearing vest in one hand, his carbine in the other, and bolted out the exit and toward one of the handful of perimeter bunkers. The rest of the staff sat there stunned and did nothing.
"Come on you sonsabitches let's go!" Sergeant Major Branaugh grabbed the S-2 NCOIC and the S-3's Humvee driver by the back of their BDU jackets and dragged them outside.
Upon seeing the sergeant major manhandling two full-grown men out of the TOC, the rest came to their senses, picked up their weapons and ammo and ran outside to man their fighting positions.
The XO was pushing and pulling people out the door until he found himself outside in a jumble of bodies. His eyes weren't adjusted to the darkness yet, and everything was black as a coalminer's ass. The one thing that was visible were the tracers being fired from a machinegun on the perimeter, and Posleen plasma weapons firing back at them. He could hear soldiers screaming orders at each other and could start to make out people running all about, looking for cover as the TOC and everything in its vicinity got pelted with shotguns and flechettes.
"This is a complete cluster-fuck!" He said to himself as he tried to get his bearings, and do something to get the defenses somewhat organized.
"Major Jaeger, is that you sir?" The S-2 was standing next to him. He was starting to regain his night vision, and could just make Captain Gaston out.
Before the XO could respond, the S-2 lurched backward like he had been hit in the chest with a Louisville Slugger, and fell flat on his back, dead.
Major Jaeger didn't move. He was kneeling on the hard clay with his sidearm drawn, trying to figure out what to do. It was obvious that most had found their way to some form of cover and the volume of small arms fire increased dramatically. He squinted hard, and began to see the enemy.
There were hundreds of them, charging the perimeter wire at a full gallop. Many were being shot and killed by the pathetically inaccurate fire coming from his men, but most kept coming. When they hit the protective concertina barrier the first twenty or so got themselves hopelessly entangled, but by doing so, flattened the wire with their bodies, opening the floodgates for others to flow through.
The creatures poured into the perimeter and fired their weapons at everything. Sergeant Major Branaugh stood at the front of an M577 with two other soldiers, holding their little piece of ground, until they were dismembered by Posleen blades. The assistant S-3 rallied a small ground of drivers and radio operators, and attacked the aliens at the breach in the wire and got torn to shreds. The S-3 NCOIC tried to use his empty M16 like a club, but was pounced upon by three normals. His screams were horrible as they sank their teeth into his flesh.
Major Jaeger got to his feet and stood in the middle of the perimeter, while the defense crumbled around him. Carnivores and defenders fought and died. The shrieks of young kids being torn apart while still alive, raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
He looked to the sky and saw the stars, and how they illuminated the hills. He felt a cold breeze on his skin. He felt the hard clay under his boots, and smelled the spent gunpowder hanging in the air. And he distinctly saw the dozen or so Posleen normals coming straight at him. The XO pulled the hammer back on his pistol, brought it up and held it in both hands. When the creatures closed the distance and were almost upon him he fired. He fired his pistol quickly, killing one after another, but still they came. He kept firing until the slide locked to the rear, and the bullets were gone. He closed his eyes and flinched just a bit when the creature chopped off his head.
It wasn't long before they last of the humans were silenced. Some had tried to run but must stayed and fought. In the end it didn't matter, they were slaughtered.
The God Kings reigned in their oolts, and brought them under control inside of the wire. They howled in ecstasy as they hacked their quarry into chunks of meat.
The feeding began soon after that.
"Manchu Steel, this is Dragon Steel, over!" Jimmy Ngyuen threw the transmitter to the ground. "Jacobson, give me Company."
Specialist Jacobson complied, and then checked to make sure that his weapon was still loaded.
"Dragon Six, this is Dragon Steel, over."
"Dragon Steel, this is Six. You have any luck raising anybody on the fires net?"
"Negative Dragon Six. There are plenty of people talking on the fires net, but not Manchu TOC. I can't raise them on command either, I think they are off the air."
"Jimmy, I need you to take over as the battalion fire support officer until Manchu TOC comes back up on the net. I need you to send all fire missions to the mortar and artillery fire direction centers for the time being, over." Steve's voice cracked as he spoke, he was starting to get hoarse.
"Roger that Dragon Six, just be advised that my vehicle is gone and I am on foot. I'm talking on my dismount radios, and their range is limited, over"
"Yeah, I got it. Just do the best you can. Things are a little fucked up right now. Acknowledge."
Jimmy could hardly argue with that. "Roger, I'll be dropping off your company internal net for awhile Dragon Six. Sergeant Sanchez will take over for me until things change, over."
"Okay Jimmy, talk to you again soon. Dragon Six, out."
"Dragon Seven, this is Six, over"
First Sergeant Taylor was up in the hatch of his M113 armored personnel carrier cresting the hill on the backside of the company's battle positions. During the lull in the fight, he was racing around, picking up wounded with his vehicle and bringing them back to the casualty collection point located back in the company trains. "Dragon Six, this is Seven, go ahead, over."
"Roger, we have just completed our move. We have pushed back down the hill to re-occupy our primary positions. We need emergency re-supply though. Most elements are "Amber" or "Red" on water, ammo, and the tanks need gas too, over."
The first sergeant pulled up behind a Bradley that was a total wreck. An orange VS-17 panel was attached to an antenna, indicating that there were wounded crew members that needed to be evacuated. The back ramp was down, and the entire crew was lying on it, with an assortment of injuries. It was the company XO and his crew.
"Roger, I've been talking to Manchu Four on A&L. He says that he'll be at the LRP in fifteen mikes. I'll head back there in a minute to bring up re-supply. Oh by the way, I'm down here at the XO's track. Him and his crew are all alive, but they'll need evac, over."
"Roger, understand. Hey, tell the XO to quit malingering and get his ass back to work. Dragon Six, out." Steve checked to make sure that his gunner wasn't watching, then pulled out his mouthwash bottle and took a swig. The bottle was starting to get low, he'd have to go in the back of the track and top off pretty soon.
Sergeant Holmes crept forward cautiously as he approached the empty fighting position from the rear. He looked back behind him and felt a bit reassured when he saw the other three members of his team in a proper wedge formation. He raised his right hand into the air, and gave the "halt" signal to the other members of his element. All of them stopped, crouched down on a knee, and faced out, providing security. Things were somewhat quiet in their sector at the moment, but fighting could be heard both to the north and south, for hundreds of miles.
This calm wasn't going to last long. The squad leader had called on the ICOM earlier and told him to re-occupy their primaries, because another wave of Posleen was on the way. He had moved his guys out immediately, but carefully. The area was covered in Posties. Practically all were dead, but a few were just wounded, and still armed. Every time they came across an injured one they would quickly administer a killing shot to the head, and move on. They had to get back in their holes; there was no time to waste.
He looked over to the right and saw Delta Two Two ablaze, and then back behind him at Smigelski and Cartright. "Okay you two, back in your hole. Give me a commo check on the TA-312 when me and Miller get back to ours."
Smigelski and Cartright nodded in understanding, moved forward and slid back into their position. Sergeant Holmes headed off with Specialist Miller in tow.
Neither one of them was very excited about moving back down the hill and back into their original spots, but at least this particular hole had their ammo cache. The alternate position didn't, and it was starting to become a real problem up until they broke up the first wave of Posleen. The two of them immediately set to work reloading their ammo pouches, clearing empty ammo cans, empty SAW drums, and other garbage from their cramped little foxhole. A commo check was conducted with Sergeant Holmes, sector stakes were replaced and canteens refilled.
When the work was finished Smigelski pulled out a zip-lock bag containing a smashed pack of Marlboros. He pulled out two, handed one to Cartright, and lit the cigarette for him. "You doin' okay man?"
Cartright took a long pull on the cigarette before answering. "Yeah. I'm good. Just a little shook up. You?"
Smigelski lit his smoke. "I'll be okay. You think that this next push is going to be worse than the last one?"
"Hope not. If it is, I think we're screwed. We barely made it this last time."
They both stood there quietly smoking. The sounds of battle raged in the distance all along the line. It wasn't going to be long before they were thrown back into the mix again themselves, and they knew it.
Colonel Smith continued trying to raise the XO and the S-3 on the radio to no avail. He could speak with his companies and to the scouts, but not with the TOC or his operations officer.
The colonel was having his worst fears realized. Charlie Company hadn't reported in a long time, and their sector was quiet. The S-3 didn't answer the radio. The TOC was off the air. Communication with Brigade was breaking down. Last reports had 1st of the 503rd on his right flank hanging on by a thread, and then nothing. It was entirely possible that the Posleen had steamrolled over Charlie Company, were now in the battalion rear area, wreaking havoc, and effectively cutting the battalion off. The thought sent a chill up his spine.
The scout platoon out front was still intact; they had managed to keep themselves concealed very well as they sent valuable reports back, and called in dozens of deadly accurate fire missions.
The Bravo Company Maddawgs had received a bloody nose along their section of the line, but they still held. Captain Jake "The Snake" Rodriguez had lost half his company, but didn't give an inch of ground to the enemy. Things were quiet there now, as the Maddawgs licked their wounds and awaited the next inevitable enemy push.
Team Demon, the attached tank company, still occupied positions to the north side of Engagement Area Pistol. They had lost a Bradley and three tanks, but were still in relatively good shape. Their commander, Captain Hans Eichelberg, was killed early on in the fight, but his company XO had quickly taken command and was doing a superb job. Their biggest concern at the moment was getting an emergency re-supply of fuel for their M-1s.
Team Dragon to the south of EA Pistol had been hit hard, and pulled off a brilliant maneuver under pressure. They had succeeded in bounding their platoons back up the hill to their alternate positions just before being overrun. This was in no small part thanks to a certain First Lieutenant Jimmy Ngyuen who directed the battalion mortars to put white phosphorous almost on top of their own men, while they pulled out. It didn't sound very impressive, but the timing was perfect, and timing was everything. Captain Steve Murphy still had two M-1 tanks, seven Bradley Fighting Vehicles, most of his dismounted infantry, and he had just reported that they had re-occupied their original positions, overwatching the Valley of Death.
The $64,000 question was now, "what was the status of Charlie Company, 1st of the 506th?" They had fought the hard fight, in the rock outcroppings and cliffs located roughly in the middle of the battalion's center. The Posleen had a difficult time clawing their way up the ridgeline just to get at the Cherokees, and they paid heavily to do so. But once there, they exacted a terrible toll on the light infantrymen. The S-3 was supposed to take the counter-attack force up the one trail that could support vehicle movement, and occupy an attack by fire position that would have certainly relieved pressure along the entire company's line. As it was, the Cherokees and Manchu Three weren't answering the radio, and Colonel Smith had just about mentally written them off along with Manchu TOC. But he had to be sure.
The scouts were reporting a second wave of Posleen about to hit them along the entire battalion frontage again. He needed to know what the status of Charlie Company was. He needed to know what the status of Manchu TOC and the battalion rear was. The scouts were for all intents and purposes, stuck in their forward positions, and were totally unable to send any elements to the rear to recon and give him a report. He didn't dare to have one of his heavy companies dispatch a reconnaissance element, not when enemy action was imminent. His only option right now was the Bulldogs.
The task force engineers weren't decisively engaged right now. They weren't scouts, but they did know where all of his positions, obstacles, and engagement areas were, and they could get to them quickly, even in the dark, with nasty aliens shooting at them. They were the only option at the moment.
"Bulldog Six, this is Manchu Six, over"
"Manchu Six, this is Bulldog Six." The engineer company commander sounded even more exhausted than usual.
"Jonathan, I need you to take some of your sappers on a recon. Need to know what the status of Cherokee is. I also need you to send someone back to the rear, vicinity Manchu TOC and see if we've got enemy elements in our rear. Acknowledge."
"Manchu Six, this is Bulldog Six, wilco. I'll take a squad up to check on the Cherokees and send another to check the rear areas along 'Route Willow' and 'Route Alder,' over."
"Sounds good. Get me a SITREP as soon as humanly possible, over."
Captain Jonathan Powell wasted no time getting prepared. His engineers had been ready to do something, anything, for quite some time now. They were ready to go.
"Did you just hear that sir?"
Captain Krieger spat out the window of the cargo Humvee. "What are you talking about Jones?"
Krieger's driver was focused on his driving, but he was also paying close attention to the radio traffic coming across the net. The speakers in the truck were difficult to hear when they were moving, but not impossible.
"It sounded like the colonel just ordered somebody to recon the rear to see whether or not there are Posleen running around back here." Jones said.
"Are you sure?" It felt like electricity shot through Krieger's body.
"Roger sir."
"Stop the fuckin' truck!"
Jones slammed on the brakes, which caused every other vehicle following him in the convoy to do likewise. There were a lot of drivers cursing at the top of their lungs as the cargo trucks narrowly averted collisions with other vehicles along the dusty, darkened trail.
Krieger was about to call the battalion commander to request guidance when the first Posleen rounded the corner only twenty meters in front of his Humvee.
"Oh my God!"
The first normal was followed by dozens more, and they swarmed over the convoy before anyone could react. The occasional truck driver would get to his .50 caliber machinegun and get off a few rounds before he was shot down, dismembered, or worse. A God King fired a plasma round into the melee only to have it strike a truck carrying white phosphorous mortar rounds. The entire column, loaded full of precious fuel and ammunition, created a cataclysmic explosion.
The engineer company commander yanked back on the charging handle of his M2 Heavy Barrel and then toggled the transmit switch on his CVC to the rearward position for a quick commo check. "Jackson, can you hear me okay?"
His M113 driver had his hatch open, and turned around to look at his commander before answering. "Roger sir."
In the back of the track was an entire sapper squad, standing up through the open cargo hatch, with their weapons oriented in every direction. When Captain Powell turned to check on them, the squad leader simply gave him the "thumbs up," acknowledging that they were ready to go.
"Okay Jackson, let's go."
The M113A3's Detroit Diesel came to life as the driver gently applied pressure to the accelerator. He had adjusted his seat so that he sat high up, with his head completely outside of the vehicle, in order for him to see better. The M113 had a night vision block that fitted in through the normal periscope mounts, but hardly anyone ever used them, since they were cumbersome and difficult to see through.
"Where're we going boss?" Jackson asked his commander.
Powell scanned the scene with his night vision goggles while the vehicle rocked and jerked up and over every small bump in the trail. He rotated the .50 caliber machinegun off to the side and locked it in position. Many an inexperienced track commander had left the weapon in the forward position. Inevitably the driver would hit a stump or rock, causing the "TC" to slam violently forward and "eat" the weapon. Usually a concussion and or broken teeth resulted.
"Just follow this trail forward for about a klick. When it forks, we'll turn right, up and over the hill and go straight into Cherokee's battle positions."
Jackson had driven around the battalion sector so many times within the last week, he was intimately familiar with every route, battle position, engagement area, obstacle, and goat trail within twenty kilometers.
"Roger, got it. What happens if we make contact with some baddies?"
Powell continued to scan while he talked to his driver. "We haul ass."
"Hooah." Jackson smirked while giving the patented generic Army response.
"Dude, here they come!" Cartright loosed a long burst from his SAW into the front rank of charging centaurs. This triggered a reaction along the entire line, as dismounted positions came to life, and a storm of small arms fire tore into the charging beasts, ripping gaping holes in their lead ranks.
The second wave of Posleen took heavy losses as they charged forward, but not nearly as bad as the wave that had preceded them. Artillery was doing a good job, but everything else was degraded in effectiveness. The mortars were practically out of ammunition, the Brads and tanks had taken significant losses, and most of the obstacles had been reduced or breached in some way. Entirely too many of the creatures succeeded in reaching small arms range. A situation, that was highly alarming.
As Cartright and Smigelski shot at a small group of Posleen running over a small pile of carcasses, they were jolted by a mass of directed fire on their position. 3mm railgun rounds, flechettes, and shotguns blasted their foxhole and the area immediately surrounding it. The eighteen inches of overhead cover, consisting of railroad ties and sandbags, disintegrated, having never been designed to survive such punishment. Both soldiers were knocked backward into their hole, and were partially buried when it caved in. Their position silenced, the Posleen focused their attention on other positions along the line.
"Sarn't Holmes! I think Cartright and Ski just bought it!" Miller was trying to clear a double feed from his rifle when he saw the other two members of the fire team get hammered.
Sergeant Holmes jacked the M203 grenade launcher open and the spent 40mm casing fell to the ground. He jammed another grenade in the breach, and slammed it back shut. "What the fuck're you talkin' about?"
Miller was firing his M16 like a madman down the slope, into the screaming mass of carnivores. Un-aimed fire beat their position sending chunks of dirt and rocks flying everywhere, making it difficult for him to return fire with any degree of accuracy. Sergeant Holmes shoved him out of the way in order to get a better look up the slope at his two subordinates. It was hard to see, but the burning Bradley just a bit further down the line cast enough light. The roof of the fighting position had caved in and he couldn't see either one of his guys.
"Miller, when I tell you, I want you to blow the last of our Claymores and then lay down some fire while I go check on those two! You got it?"
Miller's eyes were wide as saucers. "Sarn't, you want me to stay here by myself?"
"I ain't gonna leave you behind. I'll be back in a minute. Just do what I tell you!"
Miller swallowed hard and nodded. "Roger sarn't."
Just down the line to their left a dismount position took a nasty hit. Someone over there started screaming for a medic at the top of his lungs. His voice was barely audible over the deafening rifle and machinegun fire.
"Now! Blow the fuckin' Claymores!"
Miller picked up the two remaining Claymore clackers and detonated a half-dozen mines that were "Daisy-Chained" down the slope behind a final protective obstacle. Twenty Posleen that were trying to tear their way through the wire were blown into scraps of bloody flesh and shattered bone. Miller then laid down the best suppressive fire he could manage with his rifle; just like he had been taught back in Fort Benning.
Holmes scrambled out of the fighting position and ran up the hillside for what seemed like a mile until he reached the smoking hole in the ground that contained the other half of his fire team. When he got there he dove in head first, as the ground around him was beaten with flechettes and railgun rounds.
He found both Cartright and Smigelski buried up to their waists, blood running from noses, ears, and other assorted cuts. Holmes leaned forward and started slapping them in their faces, trying to revive them.
"Come on you two! Wake up! You ain't dead yet!"
An illumination round popped overhead, producing an eerie light inside of the hole. The two injured soldiers looked like they had been dead for days.
Cartright started to regain consciousness first. He started coughing violently, and then his eyes slowly opened. It took him some time before he fully realized where he was, and what was going on.
Smigelski jolted back to reality. One minute he was out, the next he was lucid. The young soldier was in rough shape though, he looked like a heavyweight boxer after fifteen rounds; his left eye was swollen shut, and his nose was broken.
The both of them groaned as they came around, to find their big, black, bald, team leader grinning like a Cheshire cat.
"So how are my two white brothers feelin'?"
Smigelski coughed hard. "Like shit sarn't."
"How 'bout you He-ro?"
Cartright slowly wiped blood from his nose. "I'm okay I think."
"Good. Dig your weapons out of this mess and get hot. We ain't out of this shit yet."
As the two dazed soldiers started to dig themselves out, their fire team leader stood up and started popping off rounds and engaging targets just down the hill.
"BACK UP! BACK UP! BACK UP!" Captain Powell was yelling into his CVC boom mike while he unlocked the .50 caliber.
Jackson hit the brakes and everyone in the vehicle flew forward. The squad in the back of the M113 piled on top of each other in a big heap, Jackson hit his chin so hard it started to bleed, and Captain Powell was almost thrown out of the cupola. Jackson put the vehicle in reverse and gunned it. Powell was hanging on for dear life, but still oriented the M2 Heavy Barrel over the front deck of the track and pressed the butterfly trigger, slinging lead in the general direction of the enemy.
The engineers in the back of the track tried to get back on their feet while the vehicle bounced backward down rough trail, at top speed, straining the vehicle's suspension. Captain Powell's nods fell off and he could see absolutely nothing except for the massive muzzle flash of the .50 caliber machinegun, and the bolts of plasma that screamed past his head.
The engineer commander had just established that the Posleen had indeed overrun Charlie Company's position. Now all he had to do was live just long enough to report it over the radio. At the moment he wasn't all that sure he was going to be able to accomplish that simple task.
"MANCHU SIX, THIS IS BULLDOG SIX! THERE IS AN UNDETERMINED NUMBER OF POSLEEN CURRENTLY OCCUPYING BP CHEROKEE!" A flechette ricocheted off the front slope armor and almost nailed him in the face. "THERE ARE HUNDREDS OF THEM PUSHING THROUGH THE HOLE IN THE LINE TIME NOW! OVER!"
Jackson suddenly jammed on the brakes, the squad in back suffered from a chronic case of inertia and again piled on top of each other against the back ramp. Captain Powell's head snapped back with such force, his CVC came clear off. Jackson pivot steered the vehicle in position, and swung it around 180 degrees, put it in drive and punched it. A couple of sappers in the back untangled themselves, got back to their feet, put a couple of machineguns over the back deck and sprayed rounds at the enemy while the driver attempted to get them out of there as fast as he could manage.
The Detroit Diesel screamed as they bounced down the trail. Mission accomplished.
Colonel Smith had pulled his vehicle back into a shallow ravine while he feverishly worked out his next move. He didn't have any time to waste, or else the battalion was lost. Things were starting to get hairy, and if he didn't come up with a plan fast, they were screwed.
He had confirmed that 1st of the 503rd had been routed and was in full retreat; the right flank was wide open. He couldn't raise anyone from Brigade. The adjacent unit to his left had just told him that they were making preparations to pull back, on orders from the division commander.
It was settled. He was going to retreat. He would try and reestablish contact with the other battalions within the brigade along the way, but until he could raise someone, anyone, on the radio, he was just going to have to do what he had to do to keep his men alive.
His most immediate problem was how to fall back from his current positions, while still in contact with the enemy. With the Cherokees destroyed, Bravo Company was cut off from Team Dragon, and Team Demon. He had to get them linked up somehow. The scouts were out front, but every single route back to friendly lines was swarming with Posleen; they were stuck. Everyone else was okay, the battalion aid station, the combat trains, the unit maintenance collection point, and the mortars were close to secure routes and could bug out easily, as long as they started moving soon.
The colonel relayed word back through the S-1 at the combat trains, to have the HHC commander start picking out battle positions back vicinity of the brigade support area, which was over thirty kilometers to their rear, and get guides ready to place surviving combat units into position. Once he got the battalion back there, assuming he could pull it off, the companies would have to occupy hasty positions immediately, in case the Posleen were in pursuit.
It was bad. Things were going to shit.
"Guidons, guidons, this is Manchu Six. Make preparation for withdrawal. Maddawg, you will fall back along 'Route Alder,' to 'Phase Line Hatchet,' then push north until you reach 'Route Willow' vicinity 'Check Point One One.' You will have focus of fires as you fight your way through Posleen formations in order to make link up. Bulldog, linkup with Maddawg at 'One One.' Demon, on order you will pull back along 'Route Willow' and link up with Maddawg at 'Check Point One One.' Dragon, on order you will fall back along 'Willow' also. You are the rear guard protecting the back door. Sabre, there are no clear routes for you. Leave your vehicles. Head out on foot. You need to E&E back to friendly lines. Manchu One, take the aid station, combat trains, the UMCP and the mortars back to the BSA, time now. Once you arrive, Havoc Six will take over from there. Once the companies have consolidated at 'Checkpoint One One,' we push along 'Route Willow' all the way back to the brigade support area vicinity grid AV 268835. Order of march Maddawg, Bulldog, Demon, then Dragon. We've got to make this fast guys, time is running out. All stations acknowledge, over."
The company commanders sounded grim as they responded to their march orders. They were pulling out, quickly as possible in an orderly manner and the clock was ticking.
Sergeant Holmes fired the last round in his magazine, killing the last Posleen normal that was charging their hole. As he dropped the empty mag he noticed the sky to his left and right shimmering with green fireworks. It was green star clusters being fired into the air by several people all along the line, and it was almost pretty. It was also the signal for everyone in the company to fall back to their alternate positions.
"Cartright, Ski, both you guys need to fall back to the alternate position. The signal just went up all along the line!"
"Aren't you coming with us Sarn't?"
"Not yet. I gotta go get Miller. That kid ain't too bright. If I don't police him up, he's bound to get left behind. Now both all y'all get movin'!"
Sergeant Holmes leapt from the hole and raced down the hill toward his fighting position and Specialist Miller.
"Come on Cartright, let's get the fuck outa here!"
"Okay, I'm ready. Let's go." Cartright slowly got up and grabbed his SAW.
The two of them pumped their legs furiously up hill toward the crest of the ridgeline. Their muscles felt weak as they made the move, their lungs burned after each breath, and their legs ached. All around them the ground was pummeled by enemy fire, motivating them to push harder and get to some cover. Once they reached their position, they hopped in, and oriented their weapons back down the hill and began immediately scanning for targets. They could barely aim their weapons while hearts pounded, chests heaved, and eyes watered from the acidic smoke that hung in the air.
"Ski, I think my weapon is fucked up!" Cartright was wheezing as he gasped for air.
Smigelski moved over to his battle buddy and shined his red lens Maglite on the weapon. The SAW had taken a direct hit, and the receiver was bent inward and cracked. The bolt was jammed in place, and the machinegun was completely useless.
"You think I should go back down the hill and look for another weapon?"
"Negative. Sit tight man. We'll find another one for you later."
The situation was total chaos. Posleen bodies lay everywhere, their blood soaking the ground. Vehicles burned in their positions, while the ammunition inside cooked off. Tracers criss-crossed the killing fields, and explosions rocked the valley.
In the north, the armor company was firing madly down into EA Pistol at targets that were invisible to the naked eye. There were three machineguns on each M-1, and tank crews fired them simultaneously, raking the valley floor, as they desperately tried to beat back the steadily advancing Posleen formations.
It looked as if organization were starting to break down as practically every surviving member of the company struggled to get up the hill, trying to put some distance between themselves and the enemy.
A few Bradleys along the line maintained position in order to provide cover while the rest moved back. Their fire was inconsequential in the face of such overwhelming odds. The remaining vehicles climbed the steep grade at sprint speeds, the crews doing their best to get into better vantage points and rejoin the fight. The dismounted infantry could be seen everywhere, running under fire, some being cut down in mid stride. Others dragged wounded comrades and heavy equipment under a hail of fire. From behind the First Sergeant brought his track, the company mechanics, and the commander's Humvee over the crest of the hill, and used their crew-served weapons to try and lend some meager support to the move.
"You see Sergeant Holmes or Miller down there anywhere?"
Cartright tried to focus. It was practically impossible for him to tell who was who as individual infantryman and crews tried to fall back.
"I can't tell Ski. There's people running around all over the place."
"What a fucking mess! Where the fuck is the artillery? I haven't heard from them in a long while!"
Just then somebody else jumped in the hole with them. Both soldiers were startled to see that it was an Indowy, and it was trying to communicate.
"Do either of you need assistance?" It said.
Cartright and Smigelski looked at each other dumbfounded.
The creature had a weird, almost archaic accent, but neither of them had any problem understanding what the little Indowy had to say.
"What are you doing here?" Smigelski asked.
"There is no time for questions now. I am the leader of a small clan of my people. We have a small workshop hidden in the hills not far from here. We can repair or fabricate equipment and tools for you. If you don't need my help please tell me, so that I can move on to find others in your unit who might."
Cartright stood silent for only just a moment. "Can you fix this?" He showed the smashed machinegun to the hairy little creature.
"Yes. Is there anything else?" The Indowy gently took the SAW from Cartright.
"No, I guess not."
The Indowy leaped up to the edge of the fighting position, and strained a bit as he pulled himself out. He cradled the SAW in his arms as he ran back to two other Indowy pushing some sort of cart that hovered a few inches above the ground. The cart was loaded with broken weapons, night vision gear, radios, and other equipment. The three of them then quickly pushed the cart back over the crest of the ridgeline, and out of sight.
"What the fuck was that all about?" Smigelski asked.
"Fuck if I know. You got any empty magazines? I'll start de-linking some of my SAW ammo and reload for you. At least I can do something around here."
"Havoc Six, this is Manchu One. Manchu Six wants you to guide all elements into position back in your area once they arrive. He says that he hasn't had time to do terrain analysis, so you get to pick the battle positions for the surviving units, and firing points for the mortars, over."
"Manchu One, Havoc Six, wilco, I'll do what I can. Just be advised, it's a big goat-screw back here. Roads and trails are jammed with vehicles trying to retreat, and it doesn't look like anyone in particular is in charge, over"
"Roger, understand, I'll pass the word along, over"
"Hooah, Havoc Six, out."
Just as the Headquarters Company commander put his handmike down, the company XO walked into the Field Trains Command Post through a partially open tent flap.
The Field Trains Command Post was one of three fully operational command posts within the battalion. It normally functioned as the primary support element for the battalion, pushing supplies forward, and taking requests for parts, personnel, and equipment to the brigade. It was the direct support link between its parent battalion, and the Brigade Support Area. It was also the command and control for the rest of the Field Trains which was made up of the battalion's Support Platoon, the Mess Section, a slice from the Headquarters Company Maintenance Team, representatives from the S-1 section, reps from the S-4 Section, and the supply sergeants from each of the rifle companies.
Basically, the Field Trains was a hodge-podge of over a hundred support personnel, run by the HHC Commander, his XO, and the First Sergeant. It would typically take logistical requests from the TOC and give them to the brigade support elements, while delivering logistical packages forward to the company first sergeants at designated logistics rally points, or LRPs for short. The logistical packages, or logpacks, would be pushed forward on a small convoy of trucks under the leadership of the support platoon leader or his platoon sergeant. The logpack was the battalion's logistical lifeline.
The Field Trains Command Post itself was not much more than a small tent attached to the back of an M577 armored command post vehicle with tracking charts, maps, overlays, radios, field tables, folding chairs, and a small pot-belly stove. The FTCP was the domain of the HHC training NCO, Sergeant DuBois, and his assistant Corporal Ahn.
Sergeant DuBois was a portly NCO, with bad knees, a bald head, and a normally upbeat demeanor. He was an infantryman by trade, but had been stuck in the HHC training room for his bad knees, and his unfortunate ability to use a computer. He was always accompanied by his KATUSA assistant, Corporal Ahn. Ahn was a poor Korean rice farmer from the east coast before being drafted into the army. He had huge braces, liked to drink copious amounts of Soju, and enjoyed telling stories about his failed sexual exploits with young Korean college girls. The two of them spent hours playing video games on government computers, smoking cheap Korean cigarettes, processing paperwork, and pulling radio watch. An existence perfectly suited for the both of them.
"Well XO, could you find out what the fuck is going on out there?" Captain Fontaine asked.
Second Lieutenant William Pfeil placed his M4 Carbine on a field table and removed his Kevlar helmet. He was six-foot two, 200 pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes, and two eyebrows that almost touched each other. He had the look of a really dumb football player.
During his enlisted days in the 10th Mountain Division, 2LT Pfeil had made a reputation for himself as one of the finest NCO's in his battalion, and was assigned to the reconnaissance platoon. While there he earned his Expert Infantryman's Badge, went to Airborne School, Pathfinder School, Ranger School, and was getting ready to go to Air Assault School before he left the Army and went to college. After four years of school and ROTC, he was commissioned a Second Lieutenant in Military Intelligence, and was sent to Fort Huachuca for his Officer Basic Course. Upon graduation he was sent to Korea and assigned as the assistant to the battalion intelligence officer, or S-2. It wasn't long before Pfeil established himself as a rock solid performer, with plenty of potential.
When the vacancy for the HHC Executive Officer opened up the battalion commander hand picked him for the position. The HHC XO slot was easily the most demanding and difficult job that a lieutenant could tackle within a mechanized battalion, and Bill Pfeil was the obvious choice. The HHC Commander, Captain Rick Fontaine, was more than happy to have him, and in the following months proved to be a tremendous asset not only to the company, but the battalion overall.
As talented and experienced as the HHC XO was, nothing had prepared him for what he saw when he went to the 2nd Forward Support Battalion's TOC.
The 2nd FSB was the primary logistical unit that supported the brigade. They were responsible for maintenance of weapons, vehicles, and equipment. They were responsible for pushing water, fuel, parts, and rations to the maneuver battalions. And they were responsible for treating casualties received from the battalion aid stations. It was also the core element that composed the Brigade Support Area, which encompassed the 2nd FSB, the brigade S-1 and S-4 shops, and the field trains from each of the battalions within 2nd Brigade.
The FSB commander was in charge of the Brigade Support Area, and he was responsible for ensuring that maintenance, re-supply, and casualty evacuation were occurring within the brigade. At the moment however, he wasn't in charge of anything.
"Sir, you wouldn't believe what is going on over in Mustang X-Ray right now." Pfeil said.
Captain Fontaine was nonplussed. "What? You mean above and beyond the absolute insanity that is taking place outside right now?" Fontaine was biting his fingernails again, just like he always did when he was getting really stressed out.
"Colonel MacMillan was trying to prevent people from deserting their posts after word of the retreat got out. He was flagging down trucks loaded with FSB personnel on them, trying to get them to stop and return to their positions."
"Well, I'm glad he was trying to do something, although it hasn't done any good. Those FSB pukes are still bailing out of here like rats from a sinking ship."
"Apparently Colonel MacMillan was trying to stop a small group of mechanics from rushing the west gate and running off. He couldn't stop them so he pulled out his sidearm and shot some girl in the back. When I was up there at Mustang TOC the MP platoon leader was reading him his rights and placing him under arrest."
"You've got to be shitting me." Fontaine couldn't believe it.
"No sir. Major White is in charge now, but he ain't doing much to fix the situation."
"White is a fucking moron. What about the SPO? What's he doing?"
"Don't know sir. Nobody's seen him. I think that he took off too. It's a total disaster. As I came back over here there was abandoned vehicles and equipment everywhere, even weapons. What do you want to do sir?"
"I've called a meeting with the other HHC commanders from the other battalions. The field trains elements haven't run, and they are basically looking for guidance. I'll get those guys squared away, in the meantime I want you, Top, and the Support Platoon leader to go out and recon these potential battle positions." Fontaine pointed to positions he had drawn on his operations map. "What are your questions?"
"How much time before our first elements start to arrive back here?"
"Not sure. The support elements could arrive within the hour. The combat units sometime after that. Is that clear as mud?"
Pfeil smiled. "Roger sir. I'll go get Top and Harry and go get started on our recon. I'll be sure to knock this out fast and get back here." Lieutenant Pfeil was starting to think that his dad had been right, and that he should have gone to medical school instead of joining the Army.
"Thanks Bill. Just stay close to the radio in case there are some changes."
"Hooah. I'll give you a radio check before heading out." Pfeil plopped the helmet back on his head, picked up his carbine, and headed out into the early morning darkness.
"I don't think that this is such a great idea. I think we should try a little harder to get contact reestablished with brigade headquarters and try to get the maneuver elements organized. This is not going to accomplish anything." The HHC commander for 1st Battalion 503rd felt strongly about his opinion. He thought that Captain Fontaine was proposing a suicidal course of action for them and the men under their command.
Captain Fontaine gathered all of the HHC commanders within the brigade together and explained his plan to them. The division was in retreat, no one was in contact with the brigade commander or his headquarters, and the infantry battalions were either destroyed or running with their tails tucked firmly between their legs. Fontaine wanted to establish strong-point defenses at key choke-points located within valleys and ravines that the Posleen would have to pass through. This would buy enough time for the surviving combat units within the brigade to get their shit together and get back on the line. Nobody gathered inside of Fontaine's command post was arguing with the general concept of his plan, just the personnel available to execute it.
"Listen Dale, we've got to do something to slow the enemy advance down until the brigade gets reorganized. We can't just bail out of here like these FSB fucks." Fontaine was trying his best to reason with Captain Johnston.
"But you are proposing setting up defenses within the brigade sector with Field Trains personnel. You are aware that we are commanding a bunch of cooks, fuel handlers, truck drivers and mechanics right?"
"Okay Dale, don't forget about your clerks, commo guys and medics. Seriously though, I am painfully aware that we don't have any combat troops running around here, but we are all soldiers, and we all have trained with our rifles and wear camouflage suits for a reason. Our guys can handle this." Fontaine looked around the tent at all the other commanders that were assembled. None of the others argued, they were just happy to have someone come up with a plan.
The commander from 44th Engineers finally spoke up. "Dale, I think Rick's right. We've got four full-blown battalion field trains here in the BSA with just under a hundred personnel in each one. We've got almost a battalion's worth of people here amongst ourselves. If done right, we could kick some serious fuckin' ass back here. I say we do it."
Captain Johnston looked down and spat on the ground. "Okay, I guess I'm in. Who's going to lead this operation? Somebody's got to command this goat-fuck."
"HEY! I'VE GOT ROOM IN THE BACK! YOU GUYS GET IN!" Steve Murphy waved both of his arms and tried to get the attention of some dismounted infantry that were running past his vehicle.
Captain Murphy had backed his track into a vehicle fighting position so that it was oriented rear-end to rear-end with Delta One Two. Delta One Two was a Bradley from 1st Platoon, and it was commanded by Staff Sergeant Ko.
After Murphy had given the order to withdraw back to the company assembly area, Sergeant Ko reported that his vehicle had blown its transmission and couldn't go anywhere. Steve, was not about to abandon a vehicle so he raced down to Ko's location under a hail of fire and backed in. Murphy's gunner, Staff Sergeant Whitmore, leaped from the track and went to work disconnecting Delta One Two's universal joints while Staff Sergeant Ko attached a tow bar to his company commander's Bradley. The two NCO's worked as fast as they could while Murphy nervously waited and monitored the progress of his company's withdrawal.
Sergeant Holmes was running up the hill as he saw his company commander waving his arms and yelling at him. He stopped and turned around to face Cartright, Miller, and Smigelski.
"Come on let's go! Better to ride than walk!" The entire fire team started toward Captain Murphy and Delta Six Six.
Sergeant Whitmore worked the ratchet in his hand quickly while he shined a light into the vehicle's engine compartment with a maglite clenched between his teeth. Finally, after endless minutes of feverishly cranking on a handful of bolts, the last nut fell free and he pulled the joints loose. With the ratchet still clenched in his greasy fist, he squeezed himself between the side of Delta One Two and the wall of the fighting position until he got around to the back of the vehicle. Just as he rounded the back, he found Sergeant Ko emplacing the last safety pin into the massive tow bar that connected his vehicle to Captain Murphy's.
"You ready to move man?" Whitmore yelled.
"Yeah, I'm ready to go. Let's get the hell outta here!" Sergeant Ko clambered up on top of his track and started toward the turret.
Sergeant Whitmore didn't miss a beat. He climbed up the side of Delta Six Six in record time, jumped in the gunner's hatch, and jammed the CVC on his head.
"We're ready sir!" Whitmore wiggled himself back through his hatch and down into the gunner's seat.
"Just a second Whit, let's get these guys first."
As Sergeant Holmes and his fire team reached Captain Murphy's vehicle, a Posleen railgun stitched the ground in front of Miller, almost scoring a hit. He squeezed his eyes shut and started running harder.
"You guys get in through the troop door! I can't lower the ramp with the tow bar hooked up to One Two!" Steve yelled down to them. "Give me an 'up' when you guys are inside!"
Captain Murphy watched as four of his soldiers started boarding his track, and was a bit surprised to see them assisting an Indowy into the back of the vehicle with them. Oh well, he had seen a lot stranger things in the last twenty-four hours.
Holmes banged on the turret shield door with the butt of his M203 as the last of his small group entered the troop compartment of the vehicle, and started closing the armored door. "WE'RE UP SIR!"
"Okay Simmons get us the fuck out of here!" Steve said over the intercom.
The driver responded by putting the vehicle into gear and easing it forward. Since he was towing another Bradley behind him, he didn't gun the engine, fearing that it might shear a pin and disconnect the tow bar. The vehicle's engine strained as it worked to drag the other track up the side of a fairly steep incline. Simmons kept adding more pressure to the accelerator until the two vehicles started to creep up the side of the hill.
Delta One Two still had turret power, and Staff Sergeant Ko was slinging lead, killing anything on four legs as his track was dragged slowly up the ridge.
"Dragon Steel, Dragon Six, over."
"This is Dragon Steel, send it, over."
"Dragon Steel, go ahead and fire immediate suppression on the FPF, time now, over."
"Roger Dragon Six, fire immediate suppression on FPF, out."
Steve looked over the back deck of his track to see Ko firing down the slope at the Posleen normals until his guns went dry. Around him the last of his command was cresting over the hill to the other side where the surviving Dragons were assembling to move out, and link up with the rest of the battalion somewhere down the road at Checkpoint One One. It felt like a hot knife in the gut to see how few of them were left now. But at least the ones that were still alive would get clear; he hoped.
"Dragon Six, Dragon Steel, shot, over."
"Dragon Steel, Dragon Six, shot, out."
The air was filled with metal and plasma as Steve's track crawled up the ridgeline at a seemingly glacial pace. His heart raced, as he looked back and forth at the advancing hordes down below, and the relative safety of cresting the hill up above. Where the fuck was the goddamned artillery?
"Dragon Six, Dragon Steel, splash, over."
At last! "Dragon Steel, Dragon Six, splash, out."
The first 155 millimeter WP rounds started impacting and exploding all along the line. Each round made a beautiful white puff of smoke that showered the immediate vicinity with burning white phosphorous. The final protective fires created a wall of death that separated the ravenous carnivores and the retreating infantry.
As the rounds detonated among the attacking aliens, they covered their victims in burning goo. The unlucky Posleen caught in the barrage shrieked as the white phosphorous burned them unmercifully. The fires were so effective and concentrated that the Posleen were forced to break and run. It didn't last long though, the God Kings rallied them in a matter of minutes, and the attack continued.
Through it all, the heavy rounds continued to fall, and inflicted a terrible toll, allowing the last of Delta Company to escape by the skin of their teeth.
When Steve crested the hill he could see the remnants of his command lined up on the trail down in the open valley, ready to roll out. There were five Bradleys left in the company, including Delta One Two that he was towing. He had one tank, which was out of fuel and was being dragged by the M88 recovery vehicle from his maintenance section. The first sergeant had his M113, and so did the medics and the mechanics. The tool truck was down there, along with his and the first sergeant's Humvees. The rest of his vehicles were either destroyed, or had retreated with the battalion aid station after shuttling casualties back. All of the vehicles were packed with surviving infantry, and wounded. The wounded were sprawled out on litters and seats in the vehicles, while most of the able bodied grunts rode on the tops of the tracks and the tank. Rucksacks and equipment were piled on and strapped to vehicles in total disarray, and the whole scene resembled a gypsy caravan rather than some sort of military unit.
He drove up to take his position in the middle of the formation before giving the order to move out. As he did so he looked at each of the vehicles and the soldiers riding on them in order to get a quick mental headcount. He was a bit astonished to see dozens of Indowy riding on top of his small fleet of vehicles along with his troops. It was a tight fit to be sure. The Bradleys and tank could not move their turrets because they had so many riders.
Steve shouldn't have been so surprised to see the Indowy with his men, since all throughout the second half of the battle he had seen Indowy running around with his troops, hauling equipment back and forth for them, and repairing damaged fighting positions. The hairy little creatures had been assisting him and his men throughout the latter part of the fight, and now they were retreating with them. So be it. It looked as if there was enough room for everybody.
"Guidons, guidons, this is Dragon Six. Let's move out. Keep the formation tight, and come up on the net if you have any problems. White Four, you've got the lead. Six, out."
Lieutenant Colonel Smith had his driver pull the Bradley up next to the Field Trains Command Post, right next to the HHC commander's Humvee. He pulled off his CVC and rubbed a hand through his closely cropped hair without removing his nomex glove. He looked back in the bustle-rack of the turret, and had to dig through a large drip pan, some empty ammo cans, a chock block, some empty Doritos bags, an oil can, and a case of MRE's before he found his Kevlar helmet. Once he did, he plopped it on his head and fastened the chin strap in place before dismounting the vehicle.
He jumped down onto the hard clay and felt the reassuring weight of his nine millimeter pistol slap against his side, held securely in its cheap black shoulder holster. He gazed off into what passed for the direction of "East" on Diess, to witness a somewhat beautiful sunrise as the golden globe in the heavens cast its light upon the rolling hills and mountains of this hostile, alien world.
The drive from Checkpoint One One had been a long one. The enemy had been left behind in the dust, and they hadn't been shot at for the last three hours or so. Colonel Smith had taken this opportunity to plan his next moves, and to try and reorganize his command. But as each moment without immediate life-threatening danger passed, the adrenaline flowed a little slower, and fatigue gradually settled in. He hadn't slept in days and the lower lids of his eyes felt like they were stuffed with cotton. His head repeatedly bobbed and jerked back upright as he caught himself dozing off. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate, and he figured it wouldn't be long before the hallucinations started, just like they did back in Ranger School.
The sunlight of a new dawn did wonders to clear the head and to wake a person up, but the "Great Heat Tab in the Sky" could only help so much.
"I need a cup of damned coffee." He said to himself as he started toward the entrance of the FTCP.
He opened the tent flap and entered to find the training NCO, Sergeant DuBois sitting in a folding chair with his legs propped up on a field desk, arms across his chest, asleep. Corporal Ahn sat next to him, talking on the radio while writing something in the log. The pot-belly stove was running and the inside of the tent was noticeably warmer than it was outside. Captain Fontaine stood there, staring at his operations map posted on the wall with a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee in his hand.
When Fontaine noticed that the colonel had walked in, he spit some tobacco juice on the ground and offered his right hand for handshake. "Welcome to Shangri-la sir."
The colonel, too tired for humor, politely smiled and shook his subordinate's hand. "Thanks Rick. What's the situation back here?"
"Well sir, we've basically got it under control now. I've taken command of the other field trains elements and we've deployed them roughly along this line." Fontaine pointed out the positions on his operations map while he briefed the battalion commander. "I've designated this line as 'Phase Line Katana.' We've kicked out LP/OP's forward, and we've managed to get a large number of crew-served weapons oriented on decisive chokepoints throughout the sector back here."
The colonel studied the map with its scores of grid squares and contour lines. The positions that Captain Fontaine had prepared were tactically sound, but they weren't supported by obstacles, dug in, and most importantly, occupied by infantrymen. The whole thing stunk of desperation.
"What about fires Rick?"
"Sir, I've got every surviving piece of tube artillery and mortars within the brigade situated in firing points to our rear. They have been resupplied, refueled, and provided with a fires plan. They are ready to shoot." Fontaine replied.
"What are their numbers? What have we got left?" The colonel was starting to fade, he had to force himself to concentrate.
"2-17 Field Artillery is intact. They've got eighteen tubes of 155 millimeter self propelled guns just now pulling into their positions. I've got them setting up caches of rounds as we speak. We've got all the mortars from the Manchus. Headquarters Four Four blew a pack, so they've had to dismount one of the tubes, but they still have six guns total. All of the 81 millimeter mortars from 1st of the 506th made it back, and there are four of six tubes of 81 mike mike from 1st of the 503rd."
The colonel stood there silent for just a moment. He took off his helmet and yawned before pulling off his nomex gloves and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
"Do you want a cup of coffee sir?" Fontaine asked.
Colonel Smith just grunted in the affirmative.
"Sergeant DuBois, could you get the colonel a cup of coffee please?" Captain Fontaine gently tapped the NCO on the shoulder, waking him from a light sleep.
DuBois opened his eyes and squinted hard until they focused and he could make out who was in the room with him. He saw his battalion commander standing there studying the map and Corporal Ahn dutifully passing radio traffic along.
"Roger sir. I'll cook up a batch." His voice cracked as he answered. He then went into the back of the M577 to find a canteen cup and the small propane stove.
"Sir, what's the official count? What's our total combat power?" Fontaine asked.
Colonel Smith reached into one of the many pockets of his olive drab nomex suit and retrieved a 3x5 card, with notes scrawled on it.
"The last count had us at five tanks, eleven Bradleys, and fifty-something infantry. We've got less than one-third of the combat power that we had yesterday. We're in pretty bad shape. There are only three tracks left in Bravo Company; Captain Rodriguez didn't make it. Lieutenant Christiansen is in charge there."
"Jake the Snake bought it? Jesus." Fontaine was shocked, Captain Rodriguez was not just a crude individual who scratched his butt and farted a lot, but he was a warrior and a regular killing machine. He was the last one anyone expected to die. The news came as quite a blow.
"Delta Company has a tank, five tracks, and some infantry left, and Captain Murphy is the only officer left in the company. Delta Tank has the rest with Lieutenant Hively in command. There just aren't enough of us left to cover our section of the battalion line, let alone covering the rest of the brigade sector." The colonel folded up his 3x5 card and put it back in a pocket. "Have we regained contact with anyone else outside of the battalion?"
"Yes sir. Most of the 506th survived, but their command and staff hasn't been heard from; we're assuming that they're dead. We've regained contact with their surviving companies and they report that they are in decent shape, but they have been bypassed and are well behind Posleen lines now. They are going to exfiltrate back to us, but they are pretty far forward and on foot. It could take them days to get back here. 503rd is in much worse shape. We've got communication on and off with one of their companies. They report that they've got most of their people, but they are in the same situation as the guys from 506th. They are on foot, behind enemy lines, and will take a long time to get linked up with us."
"Okay Rick, let me see if I got this straight. The division is in retreat. We've got no communication with higher headquarters. We've lost contact with the units on both of our flanks. Our sister battalions within the brigade are behind enemy lines and might catch up with us in a few days. My battalion is down to one-third of its strength, and the line is currently being held by mechanics and fuel handlers. Is that an accurate assessment?"
"Yes sir."
"Is it also a fair assessment to say that the enemy is hot on our heals and should be here soon?"
"Yes sir. In fact, I estimate that they should be here in just over an hour."
"Great. So give me one reason why I shouldn't order a general evacuation and get every surviving unit within radio range to start falling back until we regain contact with someone, anyone else, with some combat power left?"
"Well sir, our support personnel have established fairly decent positions and we've got some good leaders out there in charge. Plus, we've had some unexpected help in our defensive preparations."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, there are hundreds, maybe thousands of Indowy running around all over the place. They have been digging holes, and helping to prepare fighting positions and obstacles everywhere. It's unbelievable."
Just as the colonel was about to respond Captain Murphy walked in the tent with a furry little Indowy in tow.
"Manchus sir, I've got my guys heading toward the refuelers and the cargo trucks loaded with ammo. We should be ready to roll within the next half hour. What are your orders?" Murphy asked.
Colonel Smith gestured toward the map on the wall and addressed his senior surviving maneuver commander. "Steve, I need you to take your people and place them..."
"Sir, there is no time for this." Captain Fontaine interrupted his battalion commander in mid sentence. "You are the ranking commander on the ground within the brigade right now. You need to take command of all the battalions and try to get communication reestablished with Division. If you don't, the brigade will fall apart in no time."
There was a pregnant pause within the tent. The only sounds were of Corporal Ahn talking on the radio, and hissing sound of Sergeant DuBois heating instant coffee on a propane stove.
Colonel Smith's guts churned inside of him. He had to take command of the brigade, Fontaine was definitely right about that. It sickened him to think that he would have to give up command of his Manchus though, not at a time like this, not when they needed him most. As much as it hurt, there really wasn't any decision to make, the only correct thing to do was give his beloved battalion to the next in the chain of command.
"Okay. You're right Rick. Are there facilities available here for me to regain command and control of the brigade?"
"Yes sir. The FSB TOC has communications gear and all the other facilities you need."
"Alright then, I'll go up there and try to get things under control. Rick I'm placing you in command of the battalion. Don't let me down... Manchu Six."
Sergeant DuBois handed the colonel a hot canteen cup full of instant coffee. The colonel took a careful sip before he spoke.
"I should have asked you for a 'To Go' cup. I need to get out of here and get to work. You don't have a set of wheels for me do you Rick? I seem to be short a Humvee at the moment."
"No problem sir, you can have my truck. It's parked just outside, I don't have a driver for you though." It dawned on Fontaine that the colonel's Humvee and driver were at the TOC when it was overrun by Posleen. He didn't want to think of what had probably happened to Corporal Shin.
"No big deal. What else needs to be discussed before I take off?" Colonel Smith started putting his helmet back on.
"Sir, before you leave I think that you need to hear this. It's a pretty interesting development that may be pretty helpful." Steve said as he pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights out of a ziplock bag and lit one.
"Let's just make it quick Steve, I need to go." The colonel took another sip of the hot coffee. The stuff tasted better than any other coffee he had drunk in his entire life. It seemed to give him renewed strength.
"Roger sir."
The little Indowy that had followed Captain Murphy into the tent, stepped forward and wasted no time addressing the new brigade commander.
"Colonel Smith, my name is Aelool, and I am the leader of my clan."
The colonel was taken aback by the small creature and its ability to speak English. It spoke well, but with an accent that seemed "old" to him.
"Before this great battle I was a 'dishon mentat,' a simple tech among my people, and had no particular leadership role. Now I have the great burden of taking charge and caring for my people. I am here today because I feel that it is in the best interests of my race to assist you in any way that we can. We are at your disposal, to help you in any way possible." Aelool wanted to tell the colonel that he was a member of the Bane Sidhe, and to explain the relevance of the organization to which he belonged, but decided there was not enough time for that. If they all survived to see the sun rise again, he could make that known, when the situation was more appropriate. He then continued with his story. "When the senior members of my clan were killed, the responsibility of leadership fell upon me and I took that opportunity to begin aiding your soldiers during the fight."
"That makes sense to me, we're all in the same boat. So it is you that is responsible for the assistance we have been receiving from all of the Indowy in the area?"
"Partly. There are fewer than fifty members left in my clan, so I went and talked to another more powerful clan leader in the area and convinced him that it would behoove him to lend help to you and your soldiers."
"I see. So how willing were they to come to our aid?"
"Not very Colonel. My people are afraid of you and your soldiers. But I convinced the other clan leader that his fate, and the fate of his people are intertwined with yours. Only if you prevail will we survive. He seemed to accept that and begrudgingly offered his support."
"Well Aelool, I'm glad to have the help. If you'd like, you can come with me and help me as a liason with your people. We can better coordinate our efforts that way. You can also better explain to me how you can best assist us during the fight."
The Indowy bowed slightly to the colonel. "It would be my pleasure Colonel."
"Well alright then. Why don't we head up to the TOC and get to work."
Colonel Smith turned to face Captain Fontaine and Captain Murphy. "Okay guys, let's get this thing rolling. Stay on the radio and get me SITREPs on our hasty defensive prep. With any luck we'll live to be old men and tell our grandkids about this."
Carl gently leaned the heavy five-gallon "Jerry Can" forward until water flowed out into his canteen. He had to hold it steady so that he wouldn't spill water all over the place. After filling both of his canteens, he screwed the cap on the plastic water container, and put it into its bracket on the back of the Humvee. When he came around to the front of the vehicle he tossed the canteens onto his seat and lit a cigarette. He shivered a little in the early morning chill.
Lieutenant Andersen was working hard in the truck, trying to figure out a plan to get the scouts back to friendly lines. While he did that, PFC Moulton scanned the horizon occasionally with their only set of binoculars.
"Hey Myers, you're the only white dude I ever saw smoking Kools."
Carl was hardly in the mood for their morning ritual of giving each other shit. "They're Newports, not Kools you retard." Myers retorted.
"Whatever." As usual, Moulton had a witty reply.
"LT, you want me to try and raise somebody from Battalion again?" Carl asked.
Lieutenant Andersen didn't even look up from his map to answer. "No, don't bother. They are well out of range by now. We could barely understand their broken transmissions an hour ago."
"So what are we going to do? The whole scout platoon is stuck out here." Carl took a deep drag from his menthol and looked out at the rolling hills in the distance. Morning fog filled the low areas, and made it difficult to see.
"Like the colonel said, we're going to have to E&E our way back to friendly lines."
E&E stood for "Escape and Evasion." It was the standard Army vernacular for sneaking around in the woods in small teams, with few weapons, while a better armed and numerically superior enemy hunted you down. If you were lucky, or skilled, or both, you would make it back to your lines where hot chow and a hero's welcome awaited you. If you weren't so lucky, you would end up eating fish heads and rice in a bamboo cage. Of course, since the Posleen tended to eat their enemies instead of incarcerating them, the latter outcome was quite unsatisfactory.
"When do we go?" Carl thought about the half-filled water can, and the last case of MREs on board the vehicle. They had to be moving out soon, they just didn't have the food and water to hang out on their happy little rock outcropping for long.
"We move tonight. Everybody gets some sleep today, then after the sun goes down, we move under the cover of darkness on foot. We can't move through the valleys or the low areas, 'cause that's where the Posties are, so we're going to have to stay up high, in the rocky shit, where they won't be."
"LT, don't we have to move something like forty kilometers on foot?"
"Yeah, at least that far. It's going to take a long time to move that far through the hills, especially humping rucks and weapons. It'll take us a couple of days minimum."
He looked down at the ground next to his door and saw a growing pile of cigarette butts. They had been accumulating nicely.
"This is going to be a suck-fest. How are you planning to brief the platoon?"
"I'll have to give an oral operations order over the radio. I'll be sending it here pretty soon so that everyone has enough time to start getting their shit ready for the long walk." Andersen put the map down, and pulled a can of dip out of his pocket.
"What kind of equipment are we going to bring with us?"
"Personal weapons, ammo, radios, batteries, some snivel gear, and all the food and water that we can carry. We leave the rest of it."
"What about the stuff we leave? Are we going to blow it in place?"
"No. We have survived this long by not compromising our positions. If we blow this shit, we will draw unwanted attention to ourselves." Andersen stuffed a small pinch of dip in his lower lip. "We'll just abandon it, and sneak off into the night. Not very sexy, but probably the best course of action."
Carl shivered some more. He decided to go grab the poncho liner from his rucksack. It was going to be a few more hours before it started to get warm again.
Cartright rocked back and forth in the back of the Bradley as it covered rough, broken terrain. The blue-filtered lights were on in the back and they cast just enough light so that he could see everyone else jammed in the belly of the iron beast. As they rocked and swayed, he became more and more conscious of how nauseous he was getting. If they didn't stop soon, he was going blow chunks all over his buddies.
Smigelski sat next to him, asleep, his head rolling from side to side under the weight of the heavy Kevlar helmet. On the other side was Miller, who was also sleeping, his head occasionally rolling over and resting on Cartright's shoulder. Sitting on the opposite bench was Davis, Montavor, and Sergeant Holmes. Sergeant Holmes was wearing a CVC and was communicating over the intercom with the platoon sergeant. It was extremely loud inside of the vehicle while it was moving, and he couldn't hear a word of what Sergeant Holmes was saying.
Davis and Montavor were from Alpha Team, and were the only two other surviving members of the squad. The squad leader, Staff Sergeant Jessup, had been killed along with the Alpha Team leader and his SAW gunner. That left six guys left in the squad, with Sergeant Holmes in charge. Six guys in a squad wasn't a lot, but they had faired better than most compared to the other squads in the battalion.
After the company arrived back in the BSA, the column came to a halt, and the drivers shut down their engines and dropped their ramps.
The CO gave some quick instructions to the first sergeant before he left to go talk to the battalion commander. Everyone took that opportunity to un-ass the vehicles, stretch legs, and light up cigarettes. It became readily apparent to Cartright that they weren't stopping for rest and recuperation. The job wasn't finished yet.
First Sergeant Taylor started giving out orders to the NCOs in the company and actually had everyone form up in company formation! The only ones that didn't fall in were the medics; they continued to load wounded onto their track, and shuttle them over to the FSB medical company which was only a few hundred meters away.
"FALL IN!" The first sergeant barked.
The dismount squads wearily shuffled over and the track crews hopped down off of their vehicles, and took their places in each of the platoons.
The Indowy that had arrived with them milled around and watched the spectacle. They weren't quite sure what to make of the whole thing. It seemed like some sort of primitive ritual that they couldn't understand taking place right before their very eyes. It seemed pointless and a waste of time. Nonetheless, the whole thing aroused their curiosity, and they watched in utter silence.
The formation was reminiscent of the countless others that had preceeded it, except that it was noticeably smaller. Corporal Kim came running up to the front of the company with the guidon in hand, while the unit mascot, a skinny in-bred mutt named "Coax," sniffed around, looking for a good place to pee.
The first sergeant took that opportunity to get a good count on his personnel, and to reorganize the chain of command. He called the NCOs forward while the enlisted men stood at the position of "At Ease."
The NCOs received a quick briefing from Top in a small huddle, and came jogging back to their platoons, falling back into formation.
Once everyone had resumed their positions, First Sergeant Taylor stood there in front of the guidon bearer for just a minute as he looked at the assembled group. Their faces had the look of the walking dead. They were pale, expressionless, and cold.
"Company!"
The platoon sergeants snapped to the position of "Attention" before echoing the command.
"Platoon!"
"Atten-shun! Platoon Sergeants take charge!"
The platoon sergeants saluted, faced about, and immediately started issuing orders. Cartright's platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Hernandez, addressed the eighteen remaining members of the platoon that stood in front of him.
"At ease! Okay check it out. This fight ain't over yet. Top says that the Posties will be here soon. We gotta go get refueled, get more ammo, and follow the CO up to our new positions. He says that the positions have already been picked out for us so all we have to do is occupy 'em. After this, all remaining wounded are to be placed over next to the FTCP so the medics can come back and police them up. He also said that all the support platoon personnel are up on the line right now, so when we get to the refuelers it's 'self serve.' Any questions?"
"Hey Sarn't, is it too late to cancel my appointment with the re-enlistment NCO?"
The platoon sergeant ignored the one smart-ass in the formation.
"Okay then, let's hustle. Fall out!"
The platoon scattered immediately. The wounded were carefully moved over next to the field trains command post, while squads reorganized, and reloaded tracks. Surprisingly, the Indowy also reloaded the vehicles with the members of Delta Company. They made it quite clear that they were part of the company now, and that they were going back into battle with them. Nobody argued with them.
As Cartright loaded into the back of his platoon sergeant's track, the small Indowy that had been helping their squad scampered up the ramp, and squeezed into the back of the overfull Bradley. In his arms was a seemingly new SAW, and he handed it to Cartright.
"What's this?"
"It is your weapon, and it is repaired." The Indowy replied.
Cartright studied the weapon and was in awe. The serial number was the same as his weapon, but that is where the similarity ended. The receiver had been repaired, and other changes had been made to the small machinegun. The butt-stock had been replaced with a skeletonized version, with a cheekrest that perfectly fit his face. The iron sights had a glowing material added to them, similar to tritium, making them visible under low light conditions. On top of the feed tray cover a three-power scope had been added, which amplified ambient light, making it useful in the dark also. The pistol grip fit his hand better than it had before, and the bipod was sturdier. The barrel was fluted, which enabled it to radiate heat faster, and the overall weapon felt lighter. The weapon had been completely rebuilt, and customized for him.
"What the hell did you do to this thing?" Cartright asked.
The Indowy seemed puzzled by the question. "It has been repaired in one of our workshops. Is it not to your satisfaction?"
"Yeah, it is to my satisfaction. This thing is fuckin' great. Where did you say you brought this thing? I haven't seen any workshops around here."
The Indowy's face wrinkled. The expression could have been anything but Cartright was sure that it was a shit eating grin. "All creation is of the individual. People are here, each to do the daily ritual. The ritual on your... weapon is of no consequence."
"Okay, that explains a lot," Cartright said, shaking his head. "not. Hey, next time, instead of a puny little SAW, can I get me a BFG?"
"A 'BFG?' I don't understand." The alien replied.
"Yeah, a BFG, a Big Fucking Gun. Maybe one of those electric gatling guns? Those things friggin' rock. Or maybe a plasma gun like those Posleen got?"
The Indowy continued to grin, but said nothing.
"Anyway, if you are going to stay with us, you need a name. I can't just keep saying 'hey you' all of the time."
The Indowy sat in his lap and made himself comfortable. The thing seemed to have a slightly higher body temperature than a human. It was real cozy when the driver raised the ramp.
Lieutenant Pfeil handed the headspace and timing gauge back to Private Koch and stepped back from the .50 caliber machinegun. "Okay, do you guys understand how to do this now?"
Private Koch and Sergeant Billings both nodded in understanding, after receiving quick instruction on how to operate the unfamiliar weapon system. Sergeant Billings still had a few questions though.
"Sir, at what point do you disconnect the weapon from that thing there?"
Lieutenant Pfeil took a deep breath in order to control his frustration. He had been at this all morning, trying to teach his soldiers how to use crew-served weapons, how to fill out range cards, primary directions of fire, signals, and other minutia. He kept reminding himself that they were truck drivers, mechanics, and fuel handlers, and that he should remain patient. After all, they were trying their best to learn under the circumstances.
"That 'thing' is the Traverse and Elevation mechanism. Don't disconnect it unless it's absolutely necessary. Use your T&E just like I taught you, or else you won't be able to hit shit with this weapon. It's not like in the movies, you can't just 'free gun' and blow all the bad guys away. What else? Any other questions before I take off?"
"Yes sir, I think we got it." Billings sounded less than confident in his response.
Pfeil looked them both over and felt almost guilty leaving them there to fend for themselves. The two of them were wheeled mechanics and they were obviously frightened, standing there wearing their olive drab cotton coveralls, smeared in grease and grime.
Koch looked especially pathetic. He was eighteen years old, five foot four inches tall and weighed 110 pounds soaking wet. His Kevlar helmet was cocked back on his head exposing his entire forehead. His filthy uniform hung off of him like a shroud, and his load bearing vest didn't fit correctly. He had rolled up his sleeves to just below the elbow, and his greasy hands shook each time brought a cigarette to his lips.
Pfeil did his best to sound confident in order to reassure them.
"Listen, if you guys need anything, just call me on the ICOM. Okay?"
"Yes sir." Billings said.
Lieutenant Pfeil moved out quickly. There many more positions to check, and lots of inexperienced troopers on the line.
When he emerged into the sunlight, he surveyed the scene quickly and was somewhat encouraged by what he saw. They area swarmed with combat engineers and Indowy working on obstacles in the valley floor, and fighting positions along the high ground. The activity reminded him of an anthill that had just been kicked over. The obstacles were fairly standard concertina wire and landmine setups, but the bunkers were another animal altogether. The Indowy were constructing them out of some composite material, that resembled concrete in some ways, but set infinitely quicker after being poured, and was a whole lot stronger too.
The Indowy were running around pushing carts that floated just off the ground loaded with strange equipment, and operating other bits of machinery. They worked in a frenzied manner. They seemed to be very aware of the approaching danger. By the way they moved, he guessed that that danger had to be close.
He was now the HHC commander after Captain Fontaine had been placed in command of the battalion. He inherited the defense of "Hill 353," which was one of a series of hills that ran roughly north-south along what had been recently named "Phase Line Katana." He had taken the Manchu Field Trains personnel and a platoon of engineers from Bravo Company, 44th Engineers, and told to hold at all costs. That roughly translated into a "Die In Place" mission.
He had a completely jacked up commo setup to control his element with. He had a dismounted PRC-119 radio to talk on battalion push, an ICOM hand held radio to talk with support platoon, a civilian Motorola walkie-talkie to communicate with the maintenance team, and a TA-1 field phone to talk to the engineers. His RTO, PFC Weyland carried the PRC-119, and with the exception of the field phone, he carried the rest. Not an ideal set-up, but it functioned.
Pfeil had assembled his group earlier that morning, established a quick down and dirty chain of command, and briefed the defensive plan all inside of ten minutes. He then got his men, as many crew-served weapons as he could scrounge, and loaded them on support platoon's trucks. Once up on Hill 353 Pfeil personally placed each two-man buddy team into their newly constructed bunkers. After they had been emplaced, he, the first sergeant, and the support platoon leader went into each bunker and established sectors of fire, talked through the fires plan, signals, and gave classes on how to operate unfamiliar weapons.
He felt like some German officer on the Eastern Front at the end of the Second World War, hastily given the task of rounding up a bunch of stragglers and forming them into an ad hoc unit, to be desperately thrown into battle to beat back some enormous Soviet attack.
"Now I know how Grandpa Wilhelm must have felt." Pfeil said to himself.
He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes to check on the progress of the obstacles. His attached engineer platoon was to continue work down in the valley floor up until the last possible second, and then pull back to occupy their battle position. Working with them had been about as fun as eating broken glass. Their platoon leader was a prima donna pain in the balls who believed he was God's gift to the Army. The kid was a competent officer who was convinced that his shit didn't stink. Bill entertained the idea of having a private conversation with the smart-ass later on and knocking some sense into his thick skull, but that would have to wait.
"Weyland, have the OP's checked in?" Pfeil was responsible for manning two observation posts about a kilometer forward of Hill 353. Because of a lack of radios, among other things, they were communicating directly with the S-1 at the Combat Trains. The S-1 had been made the battle captain/battalion XO, and the Combat Trains was now acting as the TOC for the battalion.
Weyland shifted the weight of the rucksuck that carried the dismount radio, along with some other gear. "Yes sir, they called in a few minutes ago and reported everything as still quiet out there."
"Good. Did they ever locate any maps back in the BSA?" Another problem that plagued them was a shortage of maps for the area that they were currently operating in. The observation posts, and key leaders throughout the battalion didn't have enough, and therefore would have difficulty sending detailed reports, and calling for artillery. It was a major concern for all of them.
"No sir. They can't seem to find anymore right now. I guess some people are still looking, but they're not having any luck."
Bill sighed. "Alright then. Let's get over to the company CP bunker and talk to the first sergeant. We need to get some more ammo cached up here."
"So did you figure out a name for him yet?" Smigelski watched all of the activity down in the valley, and then looked to the north at Hill 353.
Cartright finished taking a drink of water from one of his canteens before answering. "I'm going to name him 'Gunga Din."
Smigelski was exhausted, and his swollen eye throbbed.
"What kind of name is 'Gunga Din?' I don't get it."
"Don't you ever read books man?" Cartright screwed the cap back on his canteen, and put it back in its pouch on his left hip.
Smigelski yawned. "No. I spend my free time getting laid. Not wasting it up in my room reading."
"Getting laid? You haven't been doing much of that lately."
"I didn't mean here on Diess genius. I meant back home."
Cartright smirked a little. "Anybody can get laid in Toko-Ri. All you need is fifty bucks and forty available minutes."
"I can tell you didn't get out much. A 'Short Time' costs sixty bucks, not fifty." Smigelski removed his Kevlar helmet and looked inside to ensure that his casualty feeder card was still taped in there.
"Whatever, at least I didn't have to go see the doc to get 'The Swab' and 'The Silver Bullet.'"
Smigelski set the Kevlar down next to his rifle. "I didn't get that case of chlamydia from any of the girls working in the Olympus Club, I got it from that female MP I was banging."
"Oh. My bad. You got a cigarette?"
Smigelski retrieved the pack from his pocket and pulled out two. "This is my last pack, so we gotta take it easy. The rest of my cartons are in my 'B Bag.' So where is this 'Gunga Din' anyway? He took off a while ago."
"Beats me. Maybe he's down in the valley there helping the others put in those obstacles."
Just then the back door of the bunker opened up, and Gunga Din stood there smiling.
"I brought something for you Cartright." The Indowy was up to something and Cartright knew it.
"If it's not a hot meal and a bed with clean sheets, I'm not interested." The novelty of having this intelligent, hairy little creature hadn't worn off yet. It was like having a big puppy dog following you around, except that it walked on two legs, spoke English, and fixed broken shit.
"Come with me and I'll show you."
Smigelski slowly exhaled some cigarette smoke. "You go. I'll stay here. I'm too fuckin' tired to move."
Cartright grabbed his shiny new SAW, folded in the bipod, slung it across his back, and followed Gunga Din out the door. The bunker was recessed into the ground with only the top sticking out, but the backside had a paved ramp leading down to the back door. The two of them walked up the ramp to find one of the Indowy "carts" with a large crate and a couple dozen ammo cans stacked on it.
"What's this?" Cartright asked.
The Indowy grabbed a small tool and popped the top of the crate off so that Cartright could look inside.
"Ski! You gotta see this!"
"What?" Smigelski sounded annoyed.
"Just get your ass up here!"
"Fuck me." Smigelski mumbled as he came up the entrance ramp.
When he came to the surface he saw his buddy staring into a crate with an animated look on his face. He approached, mildly curious, and mildly agitated, until he saw what was inside of the box.
"Holy shit man! That's a fuckin' mini-gun!"
Cartright looked at Gunga Din. "Where'd you get this thing? Is this for us?"
"Yes, it is for you. I will help you assemble it in your bunker and show you how to use it." The little Indowy replied.
"Ski, go get Sergeant Holmes and the rest of the squad. We're going to need a little help hauling this heavy bitch into the bunker. Man, is he going to be surprised!"
Fontaine tried to spit over the side of the turret but could only manage a couple drops of saliva and a few flecks of Copenhagen. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. He was getting dehydrated and he knew it.
"Hey Colburn, you got any water on board?"
The gunner was fast asleep, his head resting on the brow-pad that was affixed just above the optics at the gunner's station.
Fontaine had his Bradley in turret defilade, sitting in the bottom of a brand new fighting position that had just been finished only a few minutes prior. The combat engineer who had recently dug the hole, was driving his D7 dozer off to another hill to dig more holes. He had the machine going as fast as it could drive, at a whopping three miles per hour.
Fontaine keyed the CVC again. "COLBURN! WAKE UP!"
Staff Sergeant Colburn snapped his head back, suddenly very awake.
"Whu? What do you need sir?"
"I asked you if there was any water on the track, but you were out cold." Fontaine replied.
"Uh, yes sir. There's some in the back. Do you want me to get you some?"
"No, I'll get it. When I get back up in the turret, I want you to go in the back and get some sleep. I'll wake you up when I need you. You look tired as hell."
"I'm fine sir. I'll be okay. I'll go in the back and make some coffee for us."
Colburn pulled off his CVC and gently placed it in the stowage space just behind his head. As he turned to open the turret shield door he felt the familiar sensation of pins and needles all over his legs. They had fallen asleep while he was dozing in the cramped and uncomfortable gunner's position. He opened the door and willed his unresponsive legs into motion.
"You want me to get any chow for you while I'm back here? There's half a case of MRE's left."
Rick thought about it for a minute. "No thanks, I'm good. Not very hungry right now."
When Sergeant Colburn turned on the light in the back of the track he found gear scattered everywhere in total disarray. Nothing had been lashed down or put away according to load plan prior to going into action, and as a result, equipment was piled in the middle of the troop compartment. Tools mixed with clothing, ammunition, weapons, batteries, bags, rucksacks, trash, and other junk. It reminded him of his three-year-old son's bedroom after he had just dumped the contents of his toy box onto the floor. After rummaging through it all, he finally found a small propane stove and a jerry can with some water still left in it.
It wasn't long before the coffees were ready, and Colburn handed one off to their driver Specialist Cummings through the "Hell Hole," before carefully bringing two steaming canteen cups up into the turret.
Fontaine happily took possession of his coffee and blew on it to cool the hot liquid a bit before taking his first sip.
"MANCHU SIX, THIS IS OP FOUR, OVER!"
Fontaine figured that by the tone of the transmission, he wasn't going to get to enjoy his coffee after all. "OP Four, this is Manchu Six, let me guess, you've got eyes on the enemy, over."
"Roger sir, I got Posleen coming my way!"
"OP Four, Manchu Six, can you give me a better report?" Fontaine swallowed. His mouth suddenly filled with cotton. "I need numbers and a specific location, over."
"Sorry sir, there're more than I can count, and they are down in the bowl in front of me, over."
"OP Four, Manchu Six, do you have a map? Can you give me a grid location so that I can put some artillery on them, over."
"That's a negative Manchu Six, I got no map. There's just lot's of them coming our way!"
Rick looked down at his own map. OP Four's position was clearly marked on it about 1500 meters forward of Phase Line Katana, just in front of Hill 353. Assuming the two guys manning OP Four were in the correct position according to his map, he could make this work.
"Okay OP Four listen up, I'm going to put some artillery in the open bowl in front of your position. The first round is going to be a marking round. If it does not hit in the right spot, you give me the corrections and I will shoot another. When the marking rounds are in the right place we'll fire for effect and hammer 'em. Do you understand? Over."
"Manchu Six, this is OP Four, roger, we understand. We'll be standing by for the first marking rounds to fall, over."
"OP Four, Manchu Six, standby. I'll get you some fires shortly, out."
"Manchu Six, this is Manchu Steel, I monitored your last transmission with OP Four. I'm shacking a grid time now, over."
Sergeant Colburn stood up in the gunner's hatch right next to Rick's commander's position. They both looked out at the open valley in front of them. Colburn took sip of instant coffee before toggling the intercom transmit key. "Let the games begin."
Fontaine picked up the binoculars and raised them to his eyes. "Yeah. No shit."
Colonel Smith clenched the handmike in his fist while he stared at the huge map that was suspended from the tent frame in front of him. The brigade S-4, Major Nixon was the acting brigade XO and stood next to him.
Smith turned to Nixon and then to the brigade Signal Officer, Captain Buchanan. "Okay, so now explain to me again why we can't raise anyone from Division."
"Sir, we can't transmit very far in this terrain because of the hills. FM just bounces off of the mountains here making it difficult at best to maintain contact with anyone." The SIGO's response was very condescending. It sounded as if he were lecturing a total idiot. This did nothing to improve the colonel's good mood.
"What about retrans? We've got the assets to set up retrans right?"
"Sir, we do have the assets available, but even FM retransmission has limits to its range. I'm afraid that we're just too far away to talk to anyone."
The colonel was getting angry. "So what do you propose SIGO? Just sit on our hands and do nothing? Why don't you offer me some solutions here instead of telling me that nothing can be done?"
Captain Buchanan's skin flushed. He didn't know how to respond to Colonel Smith. He just didn't know of any way that they could extend the range of their radios and get in touch with someone outside of the brigade.
"Sir, I'm doing the best that I can."
Colonel Smith just turned away from him in disgust. The radio traffic was starting to pour in. The Posleen were attacking again and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to do much about it.
The God Kings pushed their oolts as hard as they could drive them. The oolt'os intermixed with each other as they herded through the valley. The dust was so thick that normals could see nothing except for the other centaurs immediately surrounding them. They ran forward at a full gallop, their lungs burning and filled with dust, driven on by their Kessentai. Occasionally one would trip and fall, to be trampled and crushed into the dirt by the thousands of oolt'os that followed.
They had started taking casualties from artillery and mortars and had yet to make contact with any humans. It seemed to them that the hills had eyes, and those eyes were being used to bleed them as they advanced.
Though the artillery fell amongst them, there were no obstacles to slow their advance, so they ran. Better it was to get through the artillery quickly, rather than linger and be killed without getting the opportunity to exact revenge upon the Threshkreen. Besides, if there was artillery, the humans were sure to be near.
Steve could see normals working their way through the obstacle belt as mortars rained down on them, exploding and sending steel splinters in every conceivable direction. The Posleen suffered terribly from this pounding, but were hurt far worse when the artillery started dropping DPICM. It was a massacre. Still, they kept coming, using their bodies to detonate mines, and to jump onto the wire. The obstacles were reduced by the sheer weight of numbers charging into them.
"You see 'em?" Steve asked his gunner.
"Hard not to." Whitmore replied.
"Driver up!"
Simmons drove the vehicle up to its firing platform, and into the hull defilade.
"Fire!"
"On the way!" Sergeant Whitmore pulled the trigger and started sending long bursts of high explosive rounds downrange.
Captain Murphy watched through his binoculars as the rounds impacted among the Posleen, shattering and wrecking their unprotected bodies. Legs, arms, and heads were ripped from bodies. Disemboweled and disfigured creatures lay everywhere, screaming, their guts spread out all over the ground. Their blood flowed freely. But still the God Kings pushed them on.
"Cease fire! Driver back!"
Simmons put the vehicle back down in its hole, in the protected turret defilade position.
Steve looked to the south and saw the remnants of Team Demon engaging from their positions. The tanks were again doing great work of cherry picking God Kings on their small craft with 120mm smoothbore main guns. It was actually entertaining to watch a tank round take out a God King. Their small craft would explode, or cartwheel into a mass of normals, killing everything in its path. When God Kings died, they died with style.
Sergeant Holmes slapped the feed tray cover down on the M240B machinegun. The weapon was set up on a tripod in his bunker, with plenty of 7.62 NATO readily available. Miller had neatly lined up five spare barrels for the weapon, along with a couple pair of asbestos mittens.
Holmes set the sights on the machinegun for 1000 meters and peered down them as he manipulated the traverse and elevation mechanism. Out in the distance the aliens were pushing deeper into the engagement area even in spite of their best efforts to keep them back. The enemy was now close enough to start engaging with crew served weapons, and Sergeant Holmes was going start making his contribution to the fight.
"Miller, call up Ski and Cartright and tell 'em they got the green light to start engaging with that fuckin' contraption they got over there."
Miller picked up the receiver to the field telephone and started cranking on the ringer. "Roger Sarn't."
Before Miller could finish delivering the message, Sergeant Holmes placed the weapon from "safe" to "fire," and fired his first bursts down into the valley floor. 1000 meters was a long way, and Sergeant Holmes had a difficult time seeing where his rounds were striking, but he could follow the path of his tracers, and it was obvious that they were landing in the mass of Posleen attempting to penetrate Obstacle Seven.
"Miller, when you get off the phone, pick up those binos and spot for me!"
Miller finished delivering the message to Smigelski and hung up the phone. "Roger Sarn't!"
When Miller picked up the binoculars Smigelski cut loose with the mini-gun, and just for a moment the noise from that impressive weapon drowned out all the other sounds of battle.
The lead Posleen were reduced to carrion but they still came, and the distance between them and the defenders continued to shrink. They began to fire their weapons back at the defenders, and the occasional railgun round or bolt of plasma would dig a furrow into the dirt or the roof of a bunker. Their fire hadn't started to claim any victims, but it did have a sobering effect felt all along the line.
"Okay Larry, how's it coming?" Colonel Smith asked.
The brigade XO set the mike down and took the last drag from a cigarette that he had "bummed" from one of his NCO's before crushing it out.
"Sir, Major Johnson has rounded up another half dozen personnel and has handed them off to Lieutenant Ostercamp." The XO started coughing uncontrollably. He wasn't normally a smoker.
Colonel Smith had his back against the wall. He felt like a cornered animal that was about to be pounced on. He was going to go for the jugular, and make his enemies pay dearly before he was taken down. They wouldn't get him for free.
Phase Line Katana was the last bit of hilly terrain for the next couple hundred miles. If the line broke here, then the Posleen would spread out into open, practically undefendable terrain. It was too horrible to even think about. Not only would they not be able to stop Posleen attacks there, but they couldn't run from them either. If the Posleen pushed them out of the hills here, they were as good as dead.
Phase Line Katana was being defended to the best of their abilities, but the line was thin, and was currently getting even thinner. Casualties were starting to come off the line, and gaps were starting to open up. Smith had to get a reserve, and use them to plug any holes that the carnivores tore into his lines. They were to be the fire brigade, loaded on trucks, sent to where the situation was most desperate. The problem was to scrape together some warm bodies to make up the reserve.
He gave that task to the brigade S-1, and sent him with a small "press gang" to gather any stragglers that he could find. Actually, Colonel Smith had given him authority to grab anyone in a set of BDU's that he and his team happened across, with the exception of medical personnel actively caring for wounded. The S-1 was having a great deal of success and the reserve was growing at an impressive rate.
The fire brigade needed a leader, and the only available unemployed officer happened to be the FSB Shop Officer, First Lieutenant Ostercamp. Ostercamp was an ordnance officer by trade, but he had led a platoon attack once during ROTC Advanced Camp at Ft Lewis, and that made him the most qualified man for the job.
"How many people do we have now in Team Striker?" Smith asked.
Major Nixon rubbed his tired eyes. "We've got damn near three hundred people in the counter-attack force. At this rate, we'll have more people in the reserve than actually manning the line."
"Do they have enough trucks to move them?"
"Yes sir. One thing that the FSB doesn't have a shortage of right now, is abandoned vehicles."
"Sounds good."
"Don't we want to take some of these people and put them in bunkers?" Nixon dropped the cigarette butt to the floor and crushed it out with his jungle boot. "I mean, wouldn't some of them be more effective manning fixed positions, rather than in the reserve?"
"No Larry. First, there aren't positions prepared for them and the fight is well underway. Second, if we try to be strong everywhere, we'll be strong nowhere. Just keep integrating more people into Team Striker. If and when the time comes, they'll be more effective as the reserve, assuming of course that we've got some decent leaders on the ground with them."
Nixon pulled out a can of Skoal and put a pinch in his mouth. "If and when the time comes, I'll go out with Major Johnson and Ostercamp to help lead any counter-attacks. Three hundred people is a lot for one lieutenant to control, especially if he doesn't have enough quality NCO's running around."
Smith nodded in concurrence. Things were in the toilet, and the Posleen were getting ready to yank the chain. The only thing that could save them would be if that idiot SIGO could get commo with Division and get the brigade some help.
Bill Pfeil ran as fast as his legs could carry him with his M4 Carbine tucked firmly into his shoulder, firing aimed bursts at the rushing mass of creatures ripping their way through the last layer of protective wire. He was sprinting toward the next bunker and eventual cover, checking every now and again to make sure that his RTO was still following him.
Rounds and plasma zipped and flashed past him, kicking up rocks and dirt, while he moved. He tried to concentrate on keeping a good sight picture while running, but failed entirely. All he could think about was the gut-churning fear that gripped him like a vice.
"WEYLAND! GET MANCHU STEEL ON THE HORN! WE NEED SOME FIRES UP HERE RIGHT NOW!" Pfeil leaped into the air and jumped headfirst into the entrance trench behind one of the bunkers. His head slammed into the hardened wall, shredding the cloth cover on his helmet. He fell ungracefully into the bottom of the trench, still alive.
When he stood and looked over the top at ground level he saw Weyland running as fast as he could, right on his heels. Before he could make it into the trench he took a railgun round to the face. His head blew apart and the rest of the lifeless carcass dropped right in its tracks.
Bill climbed out of the recess in the ground and sprinted toward Weyland's body. He still had the radio, and Pfeil needed to retrieve it.
The base of the hill swarmed with aliens, and they tried to hold back the flood with dwindling numbers of weapons and people.
Using every bit of strength in his being, he ran over and tore the radio and its pack from the motionless RTO. He threw it over one shoulder and leapt back into the entrance trench, to the rear of the bunker. He could still hear the two soldiers inside of the bunker firing, so at least he knew that all wasn't completely lost.
"Manchu Steel, this is Havoc Six, need you to fire FPF for me time now, over!"
"Havoc Six, Manchu Steel, just hang on up there, I got rounds on the way. Keep your heads down, over." The sound of Jimmy Ngyuen's voice was not very calm or reassuring.
Pfeil slipped his arms into the shoulder straps of the rucksack containing the only available SINCGARS radio in the company and then picked up his weapon. He could tell from his position that the defense of Hill 353 was starting to unravel.
"Havoc Six, Manchu Steel." It was Jimmy again, and he was all business. "Shot, over."
"Manchu Steel, Havoc Six, shot, out."
The Posleen could be seen running through several holes in the wire attacking bunkers head-on, sticking their weapons in the firing ports and blasting the soldiers inside into bloody meat. Some of the men were fighting to the bitter end, while the rest were starting to break and run. He had to stop them. They had to stand and fight.
Bill started getting back to his feet. His knees shook under his own body weight, but he managed it. When he stood, he looked up to find a Posleen normal standing up above, looking down at him in the trench. The Posleen seemed almost curious as it stared.
Bill raised the carbine to his shoulder to fire and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The bolt was locked to the rear, the magazine was empty. He dropped the weapon to the ground and went for his M9 pistol. As he fumbled with the clumsy holster the creature jumped down into the trench with him.
Bill was knocked to the ground by the weight of the huge beast, but he managed to get the pistol free. As he lay on his back he saw the creature pull a monomolecular blade from its belt and raised it high into the air. Bill pointed the nine millimeter handgun and yanked on the trigger again and again. The Posleen normal jerked and twisted after absorbing hit after hit from the small weapon. The blade flew from its hand, and the animal fell on top of the young lieutenant in a heap.
Bill breathed a sigh of relief for just a second before attempting to push the large creature off of him. He wriggled and squirmed to no avail. He tried to struggle free but the body was too heavy for him to move. He was pinned underneath the corpse in the bottom of a shallow trench just when his company needed him the most.
"Havoc Six, Manchu Steel, splash, over."
He couldn't get his arm free to answer the radio. He felt completely helpless when the mortars started exploding all around. He was pretty sure that Grandpa Wilhelm never had any days like this.
"FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST! ARE YOU IN POSITION YET?" Colonel Smith was literally screaming into the radio. He had lost one fight already within the last twenty-four hours because the counter-attack came too late, and he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.
"Strike Six, this is Team Striker, we are in position and are now commencing our attack, over."
"Give me SITREPs often, do you understand? Over."
"Affirmative Strike Six. I'll make it happen, over."
"Good. And good luck to you. Strike Six, out."
Colonel Smith stood there, with the radios going crazy with people all around him, but he felt alone.
"SIGO, have you come up with anything yet?"
Buchanan sat in the corner of the tent. He was hoping that Colonel Smith had forgotten about him. He still hadn't figured out a way to talk to Division, and he wasn't on the verge of coming up with any miracles at the moment.
"No sir. I still haven't been able to raise them."
Rage was boiling up inside of him. Colonel Smith felt himself about to lose control. He had his Kevlar helmet in his hand and he was about to throw it at the pathetic signal officer in hopes of killing the useless piece of shit. But just then he heard the very distinct sound of Blackhawk rotors.
"What the fuck is that?" The colonel exclaimed.
Buchanan was still in a daze. "What do you mean sir?"
"The helicopter damnit! Don't you hear it?"
"Yes sir. It's the medevac bird. They're getting wounded from Charlie Med."
Charlie Med was the medical company from 2nd FSB. While most members of the other two companies had fled in the face of the enemy, Charlie Med had not. The doctors and medics weren't much to look at when the bullets weren't flying, in fact they normally resembled something out of an episode of M*A*S*H, but in actual combat their dedication to duty was something remarkable. They had not run, and they had tirelessly treated and evacuated the wounded without guidance or orders. And all throughout, there had been helicopters running wounded back from the medical clearance station.
Aircraft were a definite "no-no" when operating against the Posleen, but choppers were used with regularity in rear areas that were far from the front, especially when the front was located in mountainous or hilly terrain. This bit of information was coming as a big surprise to Lieutenant Colonel Smith.
The colonel was speechless for just a moment. "Are there any other choppers that have been flying in here besides the medevac birds?"
"Well... yes sir. There have been log-birds flying into the FSB at least once a day." Buchanan was confused. He didn't understand why the colonel was so interested in aviation at the moment.
"Don't you get it SIGO?"
"No sir, I don't understand."
"Aerial retrans SIGO! Use a chopper for the retrans platform! It'll extend the range of our radios because we won't have radio signals bouncing off these damned hills. We'll be relaying transmissions over top of them! Damnit SIGO, didn't they teach you any of this shit in signal school?"
Buchanan felt like a fool. He should have thought of this long before now. "Uh, sorry sir. I just didn't think of it."
"Get on with it SIGO! Get me an aerial retrans, and get me talking to Division, NOW!"
Smigelski fired another long burst down into the onrushing tide of assaulting marauders. The mini-gun fired over one hundred rounds in a second, and had the effect of cutting the Posleen down like a scythe. As he fired Gunga Din scooped up the spent brass and links with a large snow shovel and dumped the detritus into five-gallon pales in the corner of the bunker. Smoke from the huge gun slowly filled the unventilated bunker, stinging eyes and lungs. The three of them coughed and had tears running down their faces constantly.
Cartright kept pulling on the trigger of his SAW, heat shimmering off the barrel, the deafening sound all but drowned out by the roar of the gatling gun next to him. It didn't matter, his ears were ringing again so badly that he couldn't hear anything anyway. He kept it up until his weapon jammed.
"Goddamn motherfucking sonofabitch!" Cartright yanked on the charging handle of the weapon furiously but nothing happened. "FUCK ME! COCKSUCKER! GODDAMNIT!!"
As he worked to clear the misfeed he burned his fingers, but Cartright hardly even noticed. He looked out the viewports of the bunker at the carnage surrounding him. The valley down below was moving as if alive, with thousands upon thousands of carnivores, running and clawing their way toward the line, being slaughtered wholesale as they advanced.
Along the line, Bradleys could be seen burning on their firing platforms, thick black smoke rising into the air. Tracers flew and ricocheted everywhere, the dull thump of grenades and claymores echoed through the valley. But the most gruesome scene was to the north, on Hill 353.
The hill was over a kilometer away, and the humans and aliens visible to the naked eye were little more than specks in the distance, but Cartright could easily make out what was going on there.
The Posleen had broken through the last of the obstacles and were swarming over the defender's bunkers. Artillery and mortars were detonating at the base of the hill, showering the attackers with white phosphorous, ICM, and high explosive, effectively halting the alien charge. But the most shocking thing was the hundreds of soldiers that had crested over from the back side of the hill and were counter-attacking down the slope. There was no finesse in the human attack. There was no bounding overwatch, there were no support or assault elements, there was no fire and maneuver, there was only a large mob charging down the hill, firing their weapons from the hip. They ran and fired until they intermixed with the Posleen.
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 Ostercamp 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.
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.