His system changed from yellow to green as his targeting array came back online. Swinging to his left, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest, Antonious fired his MAC at a cluster of Tortantulas threatening to flank his men. The aliens backed off as the withering hail of gunfire tore into them. While he wasn’t sure whether or not any died, he knew for certain the Tortantulas would use a little more caution the next time.
“Zion? Mulbah?” Antonious wheezed as fresh pain washed over him. “It’s Antonious. I need help…at the Lion’s Gate.”
“You okay?” a concerned voice replied. It was Samson, which was surprising; Antonious hadn’t realized his old friend was still alive.
“Hurt…bad,” he managed to say as he stepped back, tired. He dropped to a knee and continued firing at the Tortantulas. Around him, CASPers began to fall as the overwhelming weight of the alien advance slowly ground them down. The remnants of the Liberian Army were either scattered or dead. Some Tortantulas were no longer attacking, instead feeding upon the bodies of the dead around them. “Need help.”
“Antonious? It’s Mulbah. Hang tight. Command Squad is on the way. ETA…three minutes.”
“Got it, bass,” Antonious wheezed as breathing became more difficult. Darkness began to creep in on his peripheral vision but he pushed it aside. He needed to kill more aliens and hold the gate. He switched back to his company’s radio frequency. “Three minutes, jockos. Hold, gods damn you all. Fucking hold!”
* * *
Balli Island, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
Balli Island during the dry season was the fastest route through the city for the CASPers. Since it was end of the wet season, however, Mulbah and the rest of the Command Squad soon became bogged down in the thick mud. Much like Donahue had predicted with the missile sites scattered around in nearby Chocolate City, the Liberian soil made everything more difficult.
“Are you serious? Right now?” Mulbah complained as he struggled to move more than five meters per jump through the muck. They needed to get back to the HQ before the last of 2nd Company was wiped out, but the environment was simply not cooperating.
“I’m free,” Corporal Obassi announced from the front as he cleared the last bit of mud on Balli Island. “Want me to wait, bass?”
“Yes!” Mulbah nearly shouted as he struggled to get one of his legs unstuck. Going in piecemeal would allow the Tortantulas converging on 2nd Company to wipe them out easily. “We’re almost through.”
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably only an extra few minutes, the entirety of the Command Squad was free of the island’s watery mud and moving toward the Freeport. Clearing the Mesurado River was a little more difficult, given the high waters, but they made it to the next checkpoint on Providence Island by simply sticking to the riverbank instead of trying to island hop through the marshy grounds.
Mulbah cursed his own stubbornness. He should have done this in the first place, instead of trying to follow the preplanned path. Adapting to a situation and improvising quickly was not something he was best at.
With nothing but paved road and old lean-to shacks standing between him and his base, Mulbah increased his speed. His squad dutifully followed suit, knowing precisely what he was doing and the plan of attack. They had to hurry, else the sacrifices made by Antonious and the rest of the Jackals would be in vain.
They quickly caught sight of the fight, and it was apparent the Tortantulas weren’t expecting any threats from the rear. Mulbah looked through assault plans before deciding to simply tear into the aliens while they remained blissfully unaware.
“Light ’em up!” he commanded, and the squad began firing their laser rifles and MACs into the seething mass of Tortantulas. The giant spider-like aliens, caught off-guard by the new threat, were slow to respond. The rear rank of Tortantulas fell as MAC rounds tore into them.
A shot from a grey and white Flatar atop one of the largest Tortantulas Mulbah had ever seen in his life killed Corporal Obassi in the blink of an eye. The round penetrated straight through the chest armor of the man’s CASPer and removed the corporal’s head. The armor was peeled open like a rotten tomato and the CASPer stumbled to the ground, crashing heavily onto the concrete. Sparks flew as it slid to a halt. Blood flowed and Mulbah looked away, horrified at the sight of his dead employee.
He returned fire but hit a different Tortantula as the screams of men filled his ears. The soldiers of the Liberian Army had been massacred by the alien mercs, and between them and the oncoming Besquith, the only thing Mulbah could even begin to consider a modicum of victory had been the losses inflicted upon the Zuul. In this regard, Samson and 1st Company had earned their pay.
“Sunshine!” Mulbah called out as he realized the end was near.
“Yes, bass?” the young woman asked as she targeted the last of the fighters and took a potshot at it. One of its wings dipped and they saw smoke appear from behind it.
“Holy shit,” Mulbah grunted. “Nice shot.”
“Luck,” she replied.
“Lieutenant Sunshine,” Mulbah began again as he stepped away from the fight and allowed the Command Squad to pincer the Tortantulas and give 2nd Company breathing room. “You are ordered to go to the storage warehouse and supply your CASPer with fuel and rations. You are then ordered to get the hell out of here and off this planet.”
“What?” The young mercenary fairly screamed at him. It was the reaction he expected, yet it still made him proud, knowing the girl wanted to stay and fight with the rest of the Korps. “I’m not leaving you, bass!”
“Are you disobeying a direct order, Lieutenant?”
“No, bass,” she countered immediately. He could hear the anger in her tone. “Just disagreeing with it.”
“I’ll live with that,” Mulbah told her. “You must get off the planet. You have to stay alive. Hate me all you want, but it is vital you stay alive and get off this planet.”
“And what, bass?” she asked him.
“Tell the universe what happened here,” he said quietly. “You must stay alive and get off-world.”
“Yes, bass,” she said in a miserable voice. She turned and headed toward the storage warehouse inside the base, away from the Tortantulas and her friends. She paused as her CASPer detected a fighter. She scanned the sky and saw it was descending directly at the Executive Presidential Mansion—and Samson.
“Samson!” she called out over the comms. “There’s a fighter coming right at you! I think he’s going to crash!”
* * *
Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
“Oh shit,” Samson muttered as he spotted the fighter gliding toward his position. He turned his MAC and fired his last few rounds at it. They struck true, but physics was not on Samson’s side. Recognizing that momentum was going to carry the fighter into his ranks, he could do little other than warn his men and hope they all survived. “Incoming! Find cover!”
Unfortunately, Alpha Squad did not heed his warning. The men were clustered together, their suits providing cover for one another as they struggled to hold the approaching Zuul at bay. This made protecting one another easier, but also made them a larger target for the pilot of the failing fighter to aim for.
The fighter slammed into the group of CASPers at over two hundred knots. The aircraft exploded violently and disintegrated upon impact. Two CASPers were consumed by the fighter’s fuel as the hot gasses expanded outward in a blue flame, cooking the two mercs inside instantly. The remaining three CASPers of Alpha Squad had enough time to know they were about to die before the larger parts of the fighter sliced into them, butchering the men and suits alike. CASPers were tough and had good armor, but when enough force was applied, anything could be defeated.
The mansion caught fire as jet fuel sprayed onto the outer walls. Burning hot, the fire quickly spread.
Bravo Squad, along with Samson, had managed to avoid the majority of the fighter’s impact, and they were still alive, for
the time being at least. Now it was up to them to hold the Zuul off until they received the all-clear from Mulbah.
It did not look promising.
* * *
Tubman Memorial Plaza, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
The last MAC burst fired by the company merely slowed the Besquith for a few moments, allowing Zion and the remaining survivors of 3rd Company a brief respite as they pulled back from the area.
Zion was exhausted. 3rd Company was in relatively decent shape compared to the rest of the Korps, but he also knew they had been extremely lucky so far. The Besquith had seemed timid in their approach, preferring to advance using cover instead of launching themselves into the prepared CASPer positions. This was both good and bad, he knew. Good, because it meant he still had the majority of his mercs available. But bad because this meant the Besquith Alpha knew precisely what he or she was doing.
“Fall back and provide cover,” he ordered as he shot at the exposed leg of a Besquith. The round punched through and the alien howled in rage and pain. The alien did not slow down, however, and Zion watched in dismay as it found cover around the back side of another building. Instinct screaming, he redirected the defenses to watch for a flanking maneuver. “Watch the left!”
The warning came too late as four Besquith that had managed to close in on the exposed left flank ripped into two of the CASPers. The drivers fought valiantly against the alien mercs, using every weapon at their disposal, but the Mk 7s were designed for sieges, not close quarters combat.
It was not an accident these CASPers were targeted, Zion knew, as the Besquith continued to move around the building and out of the prepared kill zone. He swore silently and tried to figure out a way to adjust the squads before realizing that without artillery support, his prepared kill zone was nothing more but a speed bump for the Besquith. The Korps had to find another way.
“Master Sergeant Nuhu!” Zion barked as he watched another Besquith make it around the corner. “The left flank is going to get hammered! Take a squad and cover it!”
“On it, bass,” the company’s senior NCO replied instantly. Three CASPers peeled off a moment later, following the master sergeant as they moved to provide support for the faltering flank. Zion looked back at his Tri-V and grimaced as the display shifted to show just how many Besquith there were still.
“Running out of ideas here, bass,” Zion hissed in a quiet voice as he shot another Besquith between the eyes. Still they came, unyielding.
* * *
Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
Samson’s suit had multiple holes in it, courtesy of the Zuul sniper rifles who had finally managed to acquire better firing angles on the CASPers. However, the heavier armor of the Mk 7 continued to serve him well. Around him, though, he was rapidly losing mercs as Alpha Squad was almost wiped out to a man when the alien fighter crashed into their final line of defense. Only young Private Fields remained. It was either a dead man at the stick or an insanely brave merc who had taken their dying aircraft into the midst of the CASPers. Either way, the Leopards were well below half-strength now, with only the company medic unscathed. At the rate the Zuul were continuing to push, however, Samson doubted this would remain so.
The Leopards had done what they needed to do. The last politician had escaped, leaving the Korps alone in the city, along with the Zuul, Besquith, and the Tortantulas. Of the three, Samson had never thought he’d find himself glad to be facing a horde of Zuul. If the Tortantulas or Besquith had the numbers the dog-like aliens had shown up with, the Korps would have been devastated instead of simply reeling.
It was time.
“Fall back, protect the tunnels,” he radioed to the surviving members of 1st Company. His breathing was labored and forced because a piece of the suit was squeezing his ribs. He ignored the warning symbols on his Tri-V and started backing into the large building. Even with the raised ceilings, he and the other Leopards were forced to duck slightly. The cramped quarters would favor the numerous Zuul. It was why he and the others needed to bring the entire building down on top of the tunnels below.
His Tri-V flashed. The Liberian Army had just slammed the Besquith with the final volley of artillery the Korps had, leaving dozens dead and more wounded. Whatever Zion and the surviving members of 3rd Company were doing, it was more than enough to keep the vicious Besquith at bay. Samson couldn’t have been any prouder of the lawyer.
He leaned out and shot two Zuul who were trying to advance on their positions. One toppled over, obviously dead, but the second was merely wounded and managed to get safely to cover. Samson cursed under his breath as he saw his laser rifle was running low on charges. He only had what was in the current magazine and two spares, nothing more. The end of the road was nearing, and they had not yet achieved their objective.
“Keep fighting!” Samson ordered. “Keep fighting until they dead, or we are!”
* * *
Warehouse Zero, Freeport of Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
Sunshine grew more and more frustrated with each passing breath. Intellectually she knew the warehouse was not deliberately set out to be a maze, but with each passing moment and unlabeled aisle she stumbled upon, it was obvious somebody within 2nd Company had a wild and crazy idea about organization.
Schematics appeared on her screen, as well as a map out of the city. She shook her head. This was not how she wanted her time in the Korps to end. She was loyal, though, and followed orders. Until Mulbah told her otherwise, she would do as told.
“Fucking menh,” she swore softly. The warehouse was huge. How had she ever found her way around here before she had joined the Korps? She racked her brains and tried to remember.
Two rights, then a left, a long path, then another…right? Or was it left?
* * *
Executive Presidential Mansion, Monrovia, Liberia District, Earth
Only three CASPers of 1st Company remained, yet the Zuul were still numerous and ferocious in their seemingly unending assault.
Samson was down to his last magazine and was taking sporadic shots. His rate of fire had dropped as he tried to make sure every shot took out an enemy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw both First Sergeant Simbo and Private Fields still up and shooting. Samson had expected his old friend to still be alive, since the First Sergeant was made up of scar tissue and spite, but the fact Fields was still alive shocked him a bit. He was glad, though, since it meant there was one more body to continue the fight, even if the rookie had very little actual combat experience.
“Top, I’m low on ammo.” He managed to put a round directly between the eyes of an unfortunate Zuul attempting to throw a grenade. A second explosion a few moments later created a lull in the fighting as a large gap appeared in the Zuul line. “How’re you holding up, menh?”
“Yellow, bass,” Simbo responded between shots. “One more magazine until I’m red.”
“We got these blades on our suits,” Samson reminded him. “Just keep the young boy over there shooting, ken?”
“Got it, bass,” Simbo answered and plugged another Zuul. “We shoulda kept score, menh.”
“Yeah,” Samson grunted. “I’d be winning.”
“No, bass, it be me.”
“Bullshit.”
“I don’t lie, bass.”
“I’m dry,” Samson announced as he fired his last round; it was a miss. He looked around at the ruined CASPers and tried to see if any were within range that had some spare magazines. Finding none, he sighed and looked over at Private Fields. The young newcomer was firing steadily, making each shot count. Samson was astonished to see the rookie making good selections with each squeeze of the trigger. His little incident in the Tanzerouft must have left an impression.
“What now, bass?” Simbo asked. “We surrender?”
“We don’t surrender,” Samson said. “Bass said we stay and fight until we can fight no more.”
“Rourke’s Drift,” Simbo muttered, surprisin
g Samson. He didn’t know the first sergeant had even heard of it. “Only this time, we them white boys.”
“Them white boys won that time,” Samson reminded him. He recalled something Mulbah had told him when the plan had first been proposed. “I don’t think we’re winning this. Bass say this is our Little Big Horn.”
“Don’t know that one,” Simbo admitted with a dry chuckle.
“Me either.”
“Bass,” Private Fields suddenly cut in. “I know you want me to use the chain of command, but since it’s just us left, I wanted you to know I’m almost out of ammo. All I got left is K-bombs.”
“You got K-bombs left?” Samson asked, astonished. He checked the count on how many the young private had fired and saw, according to his tally, Fields should be completely out. “How?”
“Sergeant Washington told us to carry extras even though it’s against regs,” Private Fields stated. “So we all got an extra five.”
“All of Alpha Squad has this?” Simbo asked him.
“Yes, First Sergeant!”
“That sneaky mother…” Samson’s voice trailed off as his respect for the dead squad leader grew. Washington had known there would be one hell of a fight coming and had prepared his men accordingly. An idea came to mind. It was a bad one, but better than nothing. Plus, it would permanently hide the underground tunnels from the Zuul. It would take some digging to locate them later. By then, it would be too late. “Private, can you eject those bombs without detonating them?”
“Yes, bass, no problem.”
“Eject four and tie them all together,” Samson ordered. “Keep one in the pipe. Take any from them dead boys if they got ’em and do the same.”
“Yes, bass.”
“Why you want to keep one in the hole, bass?” Simbo asked, curious.
Sons of the Lion Page 25
