by Hugh Taylor
He immediately sent the readings across the network and flagged them as urgent. In less than fifteen seconds an intel analyst had re-tasked one of the drones overhead and found signs of tunneling directly under his position, heading towards the airstrip.
“Fall back!” he ordered as he stood up from behind the berm that he was using for cover and started firing at the closest Drasin he could see. The devastation that the other sections in his platoon had wrought had pushed the enemy back to almost two hundred meters away, but it was still well within the effective range of his rifle.
Since Lang hadn’t had a chance to engage in combat until that moment, all of his magazines were full, so he kept firing—and moving—which was just as important for his survival. Though far away, the Drasin’s beam weapons traveled at the speed of light, so he had to be gone by the time one of them decided to open fire. He was well practiced at low, long leaps, so he flitted from one piece of cover to the next, firing at as many of them as he could in order to hold their attention. He knew that many of his rounds would strike home; they had some ability to guide themselves, as long as he aimed closely enough. The round’s fins could only correct its course so much in the relatively short distance that they would travel, given the speeds at which they were moving. Regardless, his primary concern was covering the retreat to firmer ground.
As more and more Marines made it to the new defensive position, the volume of fire picked up, which was Lang’s cue to make his own retreat. He fired one last burst as he turned toward the airfield. He started to jump in that direction, but as soon as he did, the ground gave out beneath him. All of the force that he had put into jumping only hastened the collapse of the sinkhole that was now opening beneath him. “Shit!” he yelled across the network.
As he started to slide farther down, his first thought was that him cursing on the open channel would be his dying proclamation. The sight of the Drasin crawling from out of the hole below him raised the sphincter factor far higher than his previous thought did, however. Fortunately, some combination of training and adrenaline got him to plant his legs in the firmer dirt toward his sides, raise his rifle, and empty an entire magazine into the thing.
Okay, so emptying the entire mag all at once isn’t how I was trained. But it was effective, as the Drasin took far more damage than it could survive. Without thinking, Lang had already ejected that magazine and slammed a fresh one home. He could see—no, feel—more coming from deeper in the earth, so he quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valor and scampered up the sides as best he could.
Somehow, he made it back to terra firma. He immediately started running, not bothering to look back or shoot. Granted, it was with long, powered strides, but he was clearly running for his life and no other purpose.
“Keep your head down, sir,” Clark said quietly over the net.
Lang’s only acknowledgement was to tuck his head a little lower and reduce his evasive maneuvers to those that he felt made it less likely that he would take friendly fire. The choices were purely subjective, but when you’re hungover, high on adrenaline, and running from alien invaders, sometimes you just do things. The amount of covering fire coming from what seemed like absolutely everywhere was … comforting was the wrong word … touching; it was nice to know that somebody cared.
As Lang closed in on the new firing line, he took one big leap and landed safely on the other side, less than ten meters from Clark. As his brain took a brief second to process what had just happened, the gunnery sergeant spoke to him directly. “Sir, with all due respect, you’re a moron.”
“Thank you, Gunny,” he responded without malice. When you’re right, you’re right. He quickly moved up to the Marines’ position and reexamined his HUD, finding some good news. Having the tunnels cave in was actually bad for the Drasin, because it opened them up to mortar fire, SCCMs, and drone attack. “I think we bought ourselves some time,” Lang said, to nobody in particular.
His words ended up being shortsighted. The Drasin, sensing that their position was tenuous, flowed out of the ground en masse toward their position. Lang was about to order a fighting retreat, but Major Gutierrez cut in on the command frequency. “Lang, you have to hold that ground. If they get any closer, the bunker-busters headed your way will damage the airstrip. L.A. can’t hold out without all the air support they can get.”
“Roger, wilco,” Lang responded. It was bad news, but he was a Marine and orders were orders. Improvise, adapt, and overcome. Still, the fact that Gutierrez broke formal radio procedure portrayed the extreme urgency of the situation. Switching channels, Lang said, “We’re holding this line!” As quickly as he could, he passed out orders repositioning the various squads under his command. In a way, it was a good thing that the Drasin were determined to get to the airfield, since they probably had the numbers to successfully flank his Marines.
Confirmations flashed across his HUD as the sergeants and corporals in charge acknowledged his orders to reposition. Unfortunately, they’d been pushed back so far that the assault squad had to move to rooftops that were closer to the airfield, since the angle that they had from their current position meant that they were now shooting in the direction of their fellow Marines. It wouldn’t take them long to move, but every second it took them to relocate meant a few more meters that the edge of the Drasin swarm got to the defensive line on the ground.
Lang needed to do something, but he was at a loss. It was like a chess game where, no matter what move he made next, he was headed straight to being checkmated. This was not a position he was used to; he’d graduated in the top few percent of his class, excelled in combat training, and had never lost a real battle. Lang was a natural problem-solver, but this was a predicament unlike any that he’d faced previously. He was briefly distracted by inbound attack helicopters, but as fast as they were, he knew they’d be too low and slow to avoid taking fire.
“Rock, Blaze Four Six; correction, Blaze Actual, over,” Lang said on the area command frequency.
“Blaze Actual, go for Rock,” Major Gutierrez responded.
“Rock, Blaze Six; get those birds out of here, sir!” Lang said, as he was too busy to think of anything more proper to say.
“Do your damn job, Lieutenant, and let us do ours. Rock out,” the major retorted.
Shit. Lang wasn’t in a position to rescue any downed chopper pilots, assuming anyone survived a hit in the first place. He knew how lucky he was to have walked away from the crash earlier. He forced himself to ignore that issue and focus on the tactical display in his HUD. He needed to think, and think quickly. His enemy was gaining ground, fast—but predictably fast.
Lang hastily developed the estimates, ran the numbers, and flagged the coordinates on his HUD, sending them to Staff Sergeant McKenzie and the mortar squad up on the hill. “Mac, I need you to saturate those areas at exactly this TOT,” or time on target, Lang said as he sent the targeting information along with the timing data. The countdown on his HUD started almost immediately.
Lang also sent the data to Rock, who smartly repositioned the choppers to a safer distance. He then returned his focus to his men and women on the line. They were holding it, but for the first time since he’d arrived on scene, they were starting to lose people. The simple change in color of a friendly icon to a gray one on the tactical display seemed like a callous reminder of the loss of a human being. He needed to change something, and now, but before he could turn those thoughts into actions, his HUD flashed a warning that the Drasin were progressing faster than he’d anticipated and the timing of the strike would end up being too late.
“Charlie Platoon,” Lang’s voice bellowed across the platoon’s frequency, “I need suppressing fire in three seconds … mark.”
A countdown was started in every Marine’s HUD at that moment. At zero, everybody on the line, as well as the repositioned assault squads, took aim and opened fire. Lang popped his head over the berm on cue, immediately tracking with his rifle. It did not take lon
g to find the enemy.
Damn, they’re close. Before that thought had passed, he’d already loosed a three-round burst at his chosen Drasin. Without waiting to see if his rounds struck, he aimed his rifle a few degrees to the left and fired at another alien drone, and another, and another, until his mag was empty. He reloaded quickly without bothering to take cover and kept firing as soon as his rifle was live again. He was almost through his second mag when the TOT countdown started to flash red. “Everybody down!”
He dropped and lay flat on the ground behind the small berm as the shrieks of incoming rounds turned into impacts that bounced his body off the ground; this was about as close as close fire support got, and it seemed to go on forever. Nevertheless, he was up and emptying the rest of his magazine the moment the indirect fire ceased. He was pleased to see that the rest of the Marines were doing the same.
It was even more gratifying that the closest enemy drone was now several hundred meters away, and there seemed to be far less of them. He checked the status of his Marines as he loaded another mag and started to think about turning on the offensive. The thought was cut short, however, by an unfamiliar voice on the area command’s frequency. “Blaze, Bounty Hunter.”
“Bounty Hunter, go for Blaze Six,” Lang replied.
“We’ve received your order and are prepared to deliver several of the most stupendous bunker-busters to a location of your choosing. ETA ninety-five seconds.”
“Roger that, Bounty Hunter; stand by,” Lang said. Keying his platoon’s command frequency, he said, “Barnier, I need the center of that nest lased; heavies are inbound.”
“Wilco, LT,” she responded immediately.
Keying the area command frequency, he said, “Bounty Hunter, Blaze Six; target should be designated.”
“Affirm, Blaze; Bounty Hunter sees it. TOT fifty-five seconds; you may want to gain some separation from the target area.”
“Understood, Bounty Hunter. Good hunting; Blaze out,” Lang said as he selected his platoon’s channel. “Listen up! Break contact by section and retreat toward the airfield, now. In,” he paused slightly to check the countdown, “thirty-seven seconds you’d better be in cover because we have incoming!”
The results of his order were instantaneous. Marines broke from the relative safety of their positions, one element covering another as they gained as much ground as they possibly could. Lang was in the middle of the line, essentially a parabola that had been designed to catch the Drasin in a crossfire, so he had a good view of the entire retreat. Holding his ground, he fired on any drone that looked like it would get close enough to take down a Marine.
So far, the withdrawal was going well, but he had to start moving backward or risk being left behind. He retreated with his troops, who provided him with covering fire when he was on the move. The fact that his platoon, during an alien invasion and with new faces mixed in, was functioning as such a well-oiled machine really made him proud. Screw making captain if I get to keep serving with these guys.
As Lang turned to make another sprint toward the airbase, he saw Clark stand straight up and open fire on full auto. Lang didn’t question Clark’s actions, but immediately turned to identify any threats to the gunny, the true backbone of his unit. Unfortunately, Clark had attracted the attention of at least two Drasin, so Lang fired off four, three-round bursts. Multiple rounds hit each of the spider-like creatures, which went down and stopped moving. Lang realized that it may now be him who was exposed, so he turned to make a powered leap toward the closest building on the airfield. Just as his feet left the ground, he saw something out of the corner of his eye.
He immediately felt heat and pain, but never saw what hit him.
Chapter 5
Lang was confused. He had no idea where he was, why he couldn’t see anything, or if he was even awake. If he wasn’t, then this was one weird dream.
“LT, can you hear me? LT?” a voice asked.
Who the heck is Elltee?
“Lieutenant!” a firmer voice yelled, and Lang realized that they were talking about him. He wondered why he couldn’t see any of them, though.
“Hey, dipshit!” Gunnery Sergeant Clark yelled.
Lang’s eyes snapped open. Everything was blurry, but he could tell that there were faces … people around him. “Whappnnd?” he slurred.
“He’s awake!” someone toward the foot of his bed shouted.
Lang tried to say something smart, but all that came out was a groan. At about the same time, he noticed that his side was on fire.
“What …?” he managed to ask.
“You got tagged, dumbass … sir,” Clark said.
“Gunny,” Major Gutierrez said in warning.
“Your suit saved you,” someone wearing the insignia of a hospital corpsman said. “You lost a lot of blood, but it stopped the bleeding in time. You’re lucky it was just a glancing blow; not many people have survived direct hits from those particle beams. The doc had to graft some skin.”
Lang knew enough about medical technology to know that they likely grew compatible skin in a lab, so he doubted that they had to take any from him, not that it really mattered. He was alive. “Thanks,” he managed to say to the corpsman.
“No problem, sir; it’s what we do,” he said as he took his leave.
All of the other people filtered out until it was just Clark and Gutierrez with him. “My platoon?” he asked them.
“Losses were light, considering the situation,” Major Gutierrez said. “We’ll go over that later, but you did well, kid.”
Coming from him, that was about as big of a compliment as one could get, but Lang was still dreading getting that list. “How long have I been out?”
“Not even seven hours,” the major responded. “The strike package penetrated the nest and killed most of them with overpressure. Your platoon mopped up the survivors.”
“Good job, Gunny,” Lang said to Clark, who just nodded in return.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Gutierrez said. “Only three NICS-qualified Marines made it here and are still FMC, including you, and L.A. is in bad shape. These … things seem to have targeted Earth’s population. So while it’s not as bad as Delhi or Beijing …”
“… it’s bad,” Lang finished. “Have we been able to contact them?”
Gutierrez sighed, and for the first time, Lang saw the man inside the façade: tired and under considerable stress. “We figured now that they’ve been on Earth for the better part of a day, we’d have more info on them; or something more, at least. But there really isn’t a whole lot to add from the briefings we’ve already received.”
The North American Confederacy, essentially the combination of Mexico, Canada, and the former United States, had launched the first human interstellar ship. Well, the first one from this planet, anyway. The NACS Odyssey had encountered an alien distress signal, only to find out that the alien wasn’t quite so alien after all. Earthlings, or Terrans as they were now called, had encountered a human civilization known as the Priminae, which had a recorded history going back at least fifteen thousand years and spanned multiple star systems. Consequently, they were far more advanced than Earth was, yet they were being slaughtered by an enemy against which the Odyssey, a vastly underpowered ship in comparison, had achieved some success.
The Priminae were, by nature, largely pacifist. They would defend themselves, but legacies such as military tradition, and the knowledge base that came along with that, were foreign to these colonists. For better or worse, the Terrans were not lacking, having fought amongst themselves since the dawn of recorded history on Earth. Additionally, the Drasin seemed almost custom-tailored to combat the Priminae’s technology. Terran weapons, though less powerful, were largely ones that the Priminae, and Drasin for that matter, didn’t use and therefore weren’t adept at defending against. For the Priminae, it seemed like the result of a paradigm trap, but for the Drasin … well, there were more questions than answers.
Due to the advanced tac
tics and asymmetric weapons from Earth, in addition to a shared biology, a loose alliance was formed. Terrans from the North American Confederacy advised Priminae military leaders, and the Odyssey had fought multiple battles on their behalf. Earth’s location was believed to be unknown to both their allies and the Drasin, but recent events spoke for themselves.
“Lang?” Gutierrez said, expectantly.
“Sir?” Lang asked, confused.
“The sergeant was talking to you.”
“Sorry, Gunny; what’s up?”
“No problem, sir,” Clark said, as it was obvious that Lang was on some serious painkillers. “I was saying that the platoon is now at full strength, with the exception of the EXO-12 operators. The major assigned us replacements for all of our other vacancies for the duration.”
“That’s good. Thanks, Major,” Lang said, still somewhat distracted.
“The doc says that you’ve had your last dose of the serious stuff,” Gutierrez informed him. “Between the nerve therapy and some over-the-counter PKs, you should be good to go in under twenty-four hours.”
The strained look on Clark’s face told Lang that the timeframe for his recovery was tight, but it was equally clear that he was needed back in the field. “Can we deploy sooner?” Lang asked anyway.
The major let out a half-hearted laugh. “Don’t fill your ego too high; it’s going to take about that long to get the platoon ready for deployment with or without you, especially since they’ve been assisting in securing the camp. We’ve had some other attacks, but nothing like the infestation you dealt with here,” Gutierrez said, referring to the airbase.
