The War of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic (Saga of the Iron Dragon Book 5)

by Robert Kroese

  Having nearly perished in an ambush not long ago, Eric felt a familiar disquietude in his gut. How far could he trust the information Dornen had given him? If Dornen had wanted to get rid of Eric’s men, surely there were easier ways. That didn’t mean the information on Voltera was accurate, though. Dornen himself had admitted it was all conjecture, based on reports that were weeks old. By now, the Izarians might have sent reinforcements to help the golems eradicate the saboteurs. Eric didn’t like the idea of running away, but he liked the idea of falling into a trap less.

  “Retreat!” Eric ordered. “Assault Team, reverse wedge formation and retreat! Top speed to Checkpoint Beta. Move!”

  A moment of chaos followed as the men pivoted and tried to find their places again in the formation. To their credit, none of the men questioned the order, even though they had to be wondering whether Eric had turned coward or lost his mind. When the wedge had re-formed, they moved out again, quickly falling into a loping run.

  A red dot appeared ahead of Eric. Then another, and another. Soon there were a dozen, then a score. Eric knew that there was a way to get the display to identify the types of machines they faced, but he was too agitated to remember how. He had a strong suspicion, though, that they weren’t all the man-like golems. As the hulking figures began to come into view, his suspicion was confirmed.

  A glance at the bird’s-eye view on the heads-up display told him that enemies were closing from the left and right as well. He had an idea. “Suit, what are those red dots?”

  “The red dots represent enemy units.”

  “I know that! What kind of units?”

  “Fourteen general duty golem class units and seventeen KW23 class heavy infantry units.” A short pause followed. “Eighteen general duty golem class units and twenty-one KW23 class heavy infantry units.” Another pause. “Twenty-five general duty golem class—”

  “All right, that’s enough!” Eric snapped. “Eagle Squad, what’s your status?”

  There was a burst of static in his ear. The Izarians’ jamming broadcast was interfering with the signal. “Say again, Chief?”

  “What is your status?”

  “About a mile north of the drop site. No sign of the marines.”

  “Head to Checkpoint Beta, on the double.”

  “Sorry, Chief. You’re breaking up. Say again.”

  A score of bipedal machines, a foot taller and much bulkier than the mech suits, were now visible on the horizon.

  “The bluff! Get to the bluff! All squads, get to the bluff. We’ve got a shit load of trolls. Assault Team is surrounded!” Eric’s men had faced machines like this in training—generally with poor results.

  “—that, Chief,” said Bjorn. Two other voices broke in with what sounded like confirmation of the order.

  The threat status icon blinked red, indicating incoming fire. Eric heard the budda budda budda of heavy machineguns, followed by grunts and curses from his men. Several of the green dots around him were now blinking.

  “Assault Team, use your missiles!” Erik shouted. “Active targeting on our flanks. Save your machineguns to punch through their line!” Active targeting would allow the suits to work together to coordinate their fire, sending missiles toward the most attractive targets. Stark shadows flickered around them as dozens of missiles shot into the sky. Each suit carried twenty of them, and they’d likely need them all. The bird’s-eye display now showed a near-solid ring of red around them.

  The missiles arced sideways and raced to their targets, and the plain was lit up as explosions erupted around them. Half a dozen red lights went gray. Eric’s optimism faded, though, as pinpricks of light raced toward them from the left: the enemy had launched a salvo of missiles as well.

  “Incoming!” Eric shouted, but the warning was lost in the deafening BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! of nearby explosions. Several green lights went gray, and several more turned white. Gray meant a dead man. White meant a living man trapped in a non-functional suit. Under the circumstances, that was as good as dead.

  The explosions went on and on, until Eric was half in a daze, barely aware where he was going or if he was still moving at all. The suit did its best to filter out the blinding light and dampen sounds that might damage his ears, flipping back and forth between infrared and normal vision as the battlefield was intermittently lit up like midday, but it was simply too much for Eric to take in. A dozen warnings screamed at him from the display, images and symbols and strings of letters in confounding combinations, and above it all, the near-constant string of screams: brave men, dying in blasts of fire and rending metal. The lucky ones died instantly. Others lay paralyzed in broken machines, bleeding to death or choking on the poisonous air leaching into their suits. This was not war. It was Hel itself.

  At last the explosions subsided. The mech suits’ missile batteries were depleted; he could only hope the enemies’ were as well. Still Eric ran, now at the lead of a group of perhaps twenty men. The rest—over half the assault team—were dead or dying, and there was nothing they could do for the latter. Eric’s men had done some damage too: the missiles had greatly thinned the ranks of the machines advancing toward their flanks, and the men in the lead had taken out a few of those ahead of them. The still-functioning machines to their left and right seemed to be mostly golem units wielding small machineguns that had a hard time piercing the mech suits’ armor. There were a few of the big infantry units, but these moved slowly and were out of machinegun range.

  The major threat now was the semicircle of twenty or so heavy infantry machines that lay between Eric’s men and the bluff, loosing a steady barrage of automatic fire toward the Norsemen. The suits were so well armored that even their heavy guns were of limited effectiveness, but the machines were uncannily good at targeting the suits’ weak points—particularly the helmet cameras and the knee joints. Eric’s men fired countless bursts toward the big machines, but the machines were at least as well armored as the suits, and the humans could not compete with the machines in sheer accuracy. Eric had intended to punch through the enemy to reach the foot of the bluff, hoping to lead the machines into the range of the other three squad’s weapons, but if they kept this up, his men were going to be torn to pieces.

  “Break off engagement!” he shouted. “We need to go around them. Dragon Squad, go left. Wolf Squad, go right. Now!”

  The two squads were now thoroughly intermingled, and there was a moment of confusion and near-collisions as the men tried to follow the order. The men just didn’t have enough experience with either the suits or this new organizational scheme to execute these maneuvers competently while under fire. A hail of bullets pelted Eric’s legs, and his right leg slid out from underneath him, nearly causing him to fall on his face. He caught himself, staggered a few steps, and then followed the rest of his squad to the left. Miraculously, the suit didn’t seem to have sustained any major damage. He broke into a run, following the four other men of his squad who were still on their feet. Gulbrand was just ahead of him; the others were Thorvald and Viggo. Wolf Squad, led by Halfdan, was down to six.

  Bullets pelted the men as they ran; several pinged against Eric’s helmet, leaving gouges in the transparent metal. The screaming had stopped: either the fallen men were dead or the suits had decided their screams weren’t worth transmitting.

  “Squad leaders, how far from the bluff are you?” There was no response, and Eric repeated the question. This time he received only a burst of squeals and static. “Ragnald?” Eric said. “You’re breaking up. Say again.”

  “Almost there,” said Ragnald. The signal was now coming through clearly. “Two minutes.”

  “Eagle Squad is five minutes out,” said Bjorn.

  “About five minutes for Serpent Squad,” said Halvar.

  “Get there as fast as you can. We’re bringing a few dozen trolls your way.” Another spray of bullets to his helmet drowned out any response. Viggo, hit in the knee, went down, and Eric had to leap to avoid tripping over him. The suit’s rocke
ts fired briefly, and for a moment he was airborne. The suit didn’t carry enough fuel for extended flight, but they fired automatically in response to vigorous movement. He would have to be careful: he would need some fuel to climb back out of the crater, and he was already down to twenty percent. He came down hard, just ahead of Gulbrand and Thorvald, and for a moment he considered going back for Viggo. But Viggo’s dot had gone white: his suit had suffered a debilitating hit. For now, Viggo was still alive, but there was nothing Eric could do for him. If he went back to pick Viggo up, they’d both soon be dead. He kept running, trying to vary his speed to keep the machines from getting a bead on him, as they had learned in training. When running from men with bows or spears (not that Eric ever had the occasion to do this), one’s best bet was generally to get out of range as quickly as possible. The danger of these machines, though, was in their precision. If you moved predictably, they could zero in on your weak points and disable you.

  Eric, Gulbrand and Thorvald were now a good hundred yards past the edge of the line of trolls. Seeing that the Norsemen intended to make end runs around them, the trolls had split into two groups in an attempt to block them, but the big machines moved slowly. Eric’s display told him that five men of Wolf Squad were still moving; they had flanked the trolls on the far side.

  They were almost in the clear now. Bullets streamed toward them, but even the machines’ preternatural accuracy would not do them much good at this range. The sheer cloth hood that covered most of Eric’s head was drenched with sweat; despite the frigid temperature outside, the suit was generating so much heat that it was having trouble keeping its occupant cool. The suit did most of the work, but Eric was breathing hard from exertion.

  “Head for the bluff!” Eric shouted, as he veered to the right. Gulbrand and Thorvald followed his lead, and the men on the opposite side turned toward the bluff as well. If they could get to the foot of the bluff—and if the other squads could get there in time to provide cover fire—they might still have a chance.

  The two contingents of trolls had pivoted to face the two groups of Norsemen running past them, and as the Norsemen moved farther away to the south, the trolls marched after them, still firing their machineguns. Their supply of ammunition seemed endless.

  “Ragnald, are you at the bluff?”

  “Almost there, Chief. Less than a minute.”

  The foot of the bluff loomed ahead, about three hundred yards off. Climbing back up by leaping from ledge to ledge, assisted by the rockets when necessary, was the only way out. The cliff continued on both sides of it for several miles, and the suits’ rockets only had enough fuel for a few quick hops. Flying two hundred feet straight up was out of the question. If the other squads didn’t reach the top of the bluff in time, Eric and the few others who had survived the ambush would be effectively trapped.

  There was nothing they could do now but keep going and hope for the best. They ran, zigzagging to avoid giving the trolls an easy target. But as the wall of rock grew closer, Eric realized the squads above were not going to be in position in time. Very well, then. He would die on this alien plain. But he would not die running away.

  Chapter Twelve

  “E

  ric slowed, readying himself to give the order to turn and face the trolls. But before he could speak the words, he saw something streaming toward him from near the base of the bluff. A missile? Were there enemies ahead of them as well?

  He ducked reflexively, coming to a halt, but it was unnecessary. The missile shot over his head, and he turned in time to see a troll erupt in a burst of fire. Then another, and another.

  A faint voice from the foot of the bluff shouted something he couldn’t understand. “Come on!” said the suit in his ear, translating. “Get your asses over here!” Eric turned back toward the bluff. He still couldn’t make out anything against the bluff, even with infrared, but the suit was now showing a dozen pairs of green brackets, indicating friendly troops. The marines? Another salvo of missiles confirmed his suspicion. The rest of Eric’s team was still running, and Eric rejoined them as missiles detonated behind him.

  He could now make out small figures in the distance, hunkered down behind shields of some sort. As he drew closer, he could see the shields were just thin panels. They didn’t look like they’d be much protection from the trolls’ heavy machineguns; most likely they were simply camouflage. That was why Eric’s suit hadn’t flagged the men at first. There were maybe twenty men, about a half-mile from the base of the bluff.

  The two squads—what was left of them—began to converge again, and the men slowed as they neared the marines. “Keep moving!” said a voice in Eric’s ear, translating the shouts coming from one of the marines. “We can’t hold them off for long!” The men wore bulky clothing with hoods to protect them from the cold, as well as masks to filter the poisonous air. Another salvo of missiles, fired from launchers mounted on tripods, went up as Eric’s men moved past the line of marines. The Norsemen stopped, looking to Eric for orders as the missiles took out the last few trolls. Eric’s suit warned him that several dozen more were advancing in the distance, along with many scores of golems. Too many for a few marines to deal with, no matter how many missiles they had.

  “How will you get out?” Eric said, standing with his face toward the backs of the marines. The suit translated for him.

  One of the men, wearing sergeant’s bars, turned and shouted something, his voice muffled by the mask. The suit translated the words: “We’ll be all right. Just go!”

  The Norsemen’s mission was to get the marines to Varinga, and Eric couldn’t see how they were going to scale the rocks without mech suits. But these men knew what they were doing; probably their commander had figured out why Eric’s men were here and had sent these few on a suicide mission to allow the others to escape. “Where do I find the others?” Eric asked.

  “Other what?” asked the man.

  “Marines. The rest of your company.”

  “We’re all that’s left. Get the [bleep] out of here!”

  Eric stood silently for a moment, not wanting to believe it. These twenty or so men were all that was left of an entire company? If it were true, then this mission had already failed. The best Eric could do was to get his men to the extraction point.

  “May the gods be with you,” Eric said, and the sergeant turned at gave him a curious look. He shrugged and went back to work unloading missiles from a crate.

  “Let’s go!” Eric said, setting off again toward the bluff. They reached it just as the next salvo of missiles shot towards the machines. When the explosions stopped, Eric heard machinegun fire. The last few marines on Voltera were most likely dead, thanks to Eric and his men walking into a trap. Eric put the thought out of his mind and walked toward a ledge that hung some twenty feet over their heads. A faint blue line superimposed on his vision showed him the recommended route up the cliff wall. The suit’s rockets fired as he jumped, carrying him to the top of the ledge. He took a second to get his footing and then jumped to the next rock. One by one, the Norsemen followed the route, bounding from one outcropping to another, assisted by the suits’ rockets when necessary. In addition to giving them lift, the rockets corrected for slightly ill-aimed jumps, allowing the men to scale the rocks with near superhuman precision.

  Before he was halfway up, Ragnald’s voice spoke in his ear: “We’re up top, Chief. We have eyes on you. Better hurry. Those trolls are coming up on you fast.” A moment later, Eric saw the flash of rockets overhead. As he reached the next ledge, he glanced behind him in time to see several more missiles detonate against the trolls. He was readying himself to jump again when the outcropping he’d been aiming for exploded in a burst of fire and rock. He turned away as an avalanche of debris rained down on him. Had one of the trolls, nearly a quarter mile away, guessed his next move? Another missile struck somewhere below him, causing the ledge to shake. Another dot went gray.

  When he could see again, the suit had given him an alternate r
oute, drawing a line to a barely perceptible hunk of rock some thirty feet above him. The suit warned him that his fuel level was at one percent. Not seeing any alternative, he leaped. The rockets sputtered as he shot toward the rock, and he fell short; only a reflexive grab with his left hand saved him. The suit’s huge, claw-like hand got a hold on the rock, and for a moment he hung there, swinging like a pendulum. At last he got a hold with his right hand as well, and pulled himself onto the ledge. It was an awkward maneuver in the bulky suit, but he eventually managed to get on his feet. Explosions continued to erupt in the distance and, intermittently, below him. Two more quick leaps brought him to the top of the bluff.

  By this time the other two squads had reached the bluff as well, and the Norsemen were firing their missiles en masse at the force advancing across the plain. Eric was surprised to see an unsuited man—one of the marines—standing on the bluff. The man bent down to help another over the edge. Eric saw now that the marines had secured a rope to the rock. Had they climbed to the top in such a short time? No, they were using some sort of mechanism to pull themselves up the rope. These people and their machines!

  As Eric’s men and the rest of the marines pulled themselves onto the bluff, missiles continued to streak toward the machines on the plain. Occasionally an explosion would erupt on the bluff face below, causing the ground beneath them to shudder, but the trolls, firing from below, were at a disadvantage, and the constant barrage from above seemed to have kept the bulk of their force out of range.

  “I’m out!” shouted one of the men, and he was echoed by several others. The last few missiles launched, detonating in a desultory smattering of distant explosions. The marines, who had left their missile launchers on the plain, had begun to move away from the edge.

  “If you guys are done admiring the scenery,” shouted the sergeant, “I suggest you get moving.”