by J. F. Holmes
“Sure thing, Sarge,” said the man, disappointment in his voice still, but accepting that he wasn’t going to get his way.
“Great.” Willie checked the instruments at his station, making sure everything was working. Or doing as much as he could at the moment, since sending out targeting radar was sure to get the attention of the enemy. He slaved his visuals to what the captain was sending him via the landline someone had plugged into the vehicle as soon as they’d stopped.
“You got a good path to the secondary positions?” the sergeant asked Josh. They wouldn’t know which one they’d head for, if any, until they joined the battle and could observe the reaction of the enemy.
“Don’t you worry, Sarge. You give me the word, and I’ll get us there.”
Willie shook his head. Josh didn’t have as much to worry about in his driver’s compartment, lower down than the turret, though something that could destroy the tank would likely kill the young man in his position as well. Of course, there was no use in reminding him of that.
Keep on coming in, thought the sergeant, watching as the mechs continued on, firing as they ran. The plan was to have as many of them in the basket as possible. If they turned and ran, they would have to cover a lot of open ground, taking fire the entire way. Just keep on coming.
***
Half a league. Half a league. Half a league onward. The words of Tennyson ran through the captain’s head as his machine strode toward the enemy in a jerking motion. His weapons spoke with each step. Men ducked down under his fire, or died as their upper bodies exploded when they didn’t get down in time. The enemy was taking a beating, and the words of the poem would not come true this day for his people. He was surprised the enemy hadn’t started evacuating their positions. Unless they realized that turning and running would only result in their deaths for no return. They might still get a few of his machines, but not enough to save them.
Even as that thought went through his mind, another mecha lit up on the HUD, its systems sending out the message that it was hit and inoperable. The life signs of the driver were still strong, so the man would survive to fight again, when his machine was repaired, if it ever was.
Something exploded ahead, a much larger fire ball rising than from a mere weapons hit. Something had been hit hard. The fireball dissipated almost instantly in the thin and oxygen-poor atmosphere of Mars. Smythe wasn’t sure what it was, but if he had to guess, they’d hit a vehicle, probably one of the rovers the Martians used to move across the surface. While sturdy machines, they weren’t armored, and a hit from a penetrator would rupture the hydrogen and oxygen tanks.
When the rebels broke and ran, he was sure he would see more of those abbreviated fireballs as his company lit the rovers up. If he had his way, there would be no survivors on the rebel side. Best they get the point that standing up to the UN, and the Coldstream Guards in particular, was a really bad decision.
“Dress up your lines,” came the voice of the platoon leader on the right flank.
Smythe checked on them, seeing that, sure enough, a couple of machines had gotten fifty meters ahead of the platoon. A good way to make oneself a priority target and soak up fire. The captain wouldn’t mind seeing a couple of his less-disciplined people doing that, but not just because they’d gotten overexcited.
A dozen gouts of Mars flew into the air on the enemy line, yet another volley of artillery. The enemy fire slackened, returning with less than the former volume. Smythe was sure they were about to break, and the infantry following at a jog behind his company would have a walkover.
Half a league. Half a league. Half a league onward.
***
Captain Kurtz watched the professionals moving forward at a ground-eating run. The weapons flared with sparks as their magnetic accelerators sent round after round out into the rebel lines. Small gouts of plasma, atmosphere turned into glowing gas, reached several meters out from the weapons. On Earth, those blasts would have been terrifying. The result of the rounds striking was still a terror.
So this is what it’s like to see death rolling toward you, thought the banker. He thought of the films he’d seen where the cavalry charged the infantry and rolled over them, sabers slashing down and killing them where they stood, or as they ran. He felt that way. There was no way he was going to stop that wave.
Maybe not me, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment and sucking in a breath, but the Beast?
If it survived long enough to do what it was capable of. He almost felt like ordering the tank to go ahead and reveal itself, maybe panic the enemy. That hadn’t been the directive from above. They didn’t have many of the tanks, and they had to get the most out of them they could. So instead of repelling the enemy charge, they had to lure it in, so they could shred it before they could retreat out of the killing zone. But it was so hard to watch those trained killers and their high-tech machines coming at you. To hear the calls of people you know just before they died. Calling for help, when there was no help for them.
“When the hell is the tank going to fire?” one of his people yelled out over the comm. The man’s voice shook with fear. “We’re getting slaughtered here, Kurtz. We need that thing to do its job before we all die.”
The captain had to agree, but he also felt that the people who’d planned this had known what they were doing. He hoped.
The enemy were almost to the firing line, four thousand meters from his lines. Something cracked overhead, there was a flash of dissolving metal, and his periscope sight blanked.
“Shit,” yelled the captain. He’d lost sight of the enemy, and there was no way in hell he was going to stick his head up there. “Beast. You are cleared to fire. Repeat. You are cleared to fire. Give them hell.”
For a few moments, nothing happened, and he was starting to worry that something had gone wrong. Come on, Willie. Get on the ball.
The subdued boom of the one-hundred-and-twenty-millimeter gun finally sounded, sending its first punch at the enemy.
“Hit,” yelled Willie over the com. “That’s a kill.”
Kurtz pumped a fist in the air but resisted the urge to look over the edge of a trench that was still being hit with fire. Some of the cheering that sounded from his people let him know that some couldn’t resist the urge. A couple of abbreviated screams let him know that some had paid the price for that decision.
***
“What’s the problem, Sarge?” called out McMurty after the order came in to fire.
They’re not quite at the point, thought Willie, caught off guard by the order.
“Engaging,” he replied, setting the sight on the mecha and pulling the trigger to send off the shot.
The Martian rebellion hadn’t been able to get their hands on some of the tech the UN used. They didn’t have the materials to make the shorter-barreled accelerators the enemy used on their mechs. What they could do was construct much longer barrels on the larger combat vehicle they’d built. The barrel of the tank could only accelerate rounds at half the speed of the UN weapons, but the barrels were five times longer, meaning that the larger penetrator coming out of the barrel traveled downrange at greater velocity. The combination of greater speed and mass translated into hitting power.
The tank bucked from the recoil of the round being flung into the target, which exploded so fast it seemed like the round was traveling at the speed of light. The cockpit of the mecha flew apart, kinetic energy converting into heat that vaporized the body of the trooper riding inside, armor and all. The remains of the mecha flew back, hitting the ground on its back, and sliding to a halt.
“Hit,” yelled the sergeant over the com. “That’s a kill.”
Willie hit the lever that rotated the turret with one hand while twisting the wheel that set the elevation, bringing the next target into view. The gun was automatic; another penetrator round fed into the chamber immediately after the first shot.
“Shot,” the sergeant called out as he pulled the trigger, watching as another mecha flew
apart from the hit.
After the third hit, the enemy seemed to have located his position, and rounds started to hit the turret with the sound of hammer strikes.
“Fire at will, Terry. Come on, get on the ball.”
As Willie fired the fourth round, he saw the wisdom of his decision to take the gun himself. He was sure he would keep up fire as long as the tank was operational. That last part was the clincher. The enemy had located him, and they were bringing a lot of fire on his position. He wasn’t too worried about fire from the mecha yet, but heavier stuff could be coming in at any moment.
“Three more rounds, Josh. Then get us the hell out of here and to the next position.”
Another shot, another kill, and then the sight blanked out as a shot hit its lens.
“Crap,” the sergeant yelled out as the next lens rose into place and he again had a sight picture. Do you like what you’re getting, you bastards? the sergeant thought, turning the controls to bring the next target into the picture, then letting the computer bring it into lock.
***
“What the hell was that?” called out a panicked voice over the com.
“Freddy’s gone,” another trooper called out. “Just gone.”
Smythe turned his viewer over to the section being hit just in time to see another of his machines blasted backward off its feet, cockpit shredded. There was no surviving that hit.
“Where the hell is it coming from?”
“They’re jamming our tracking.”
Whatever it was, they couldn’t jam the sensors of the mechs for long. But as long as they had it, they could hit him with impunity.
“I got him,” another trooper called out. “One o’clock. To the left of the rocks.”
Smythe spotted it as soon as the trooper reported. He didn’t have to give the command to engage. Everyone in the unit knew they had to take it out before it slaughtered them all. Almost forty mechs fired at the thing, whatever it was. Streams of ultra-fast rounds tore through whatever camouflage cover it had been hiding behind, revealing the blocky-looking emplacement and the massive gun that projected from it.
“It’s a goddamn tank,” the first sergeant called out.
Or at least the turret of one¸ thought Smythe, firing both of his own cannons at the target. Whatever it was, whatever it was called, it couldn’t stand up for long against that kind of firepower. Without a second thought, he marked the position and called in artillery. No use taking chances. As soon as he sent off the command, another mech about twenty meters to his right exploded, as whatever the enemy weapon was firing hit it. The concussion wave washed over his own vehicle. Not as fierce as such a blast would have projected on Earth, the thin Martian atmosphere lacking the mass, but enough to let him know that something bad had happened.
Hundreds of rounds were impacting on the structure, sparks and the tiny flashes of thirty-five-millimeter rounds showing that it was taking a beating. To no avail, it seemed, as the barrel moved again slightly and the plasma caused by a high-velocity penetrator ejecting into the atmosphere shone once again.
“Aim for the space between the turret and the hull,” the first sergeant shouted. “The ring?”
I don’t really care what it’s called, as long as the lads know where to aim. The captain aimed his own gun at the place and let off a stream. The rounds hit something that had been placed out from the weak point, bouncing away. So it seemed the enemy had taken care of that historical weak point, just like they’d erected hundreds of small shields around the barrel.
“Keep hitting the front,” he ordered. At least they could take out the sensor and sights.
Artillery came screaming in, impacting all around the tank. Some rounds hit the top of the turret, and the captain had hopes they might take it out. That was a weak point, wasn’t it? Smoke and Martian soil obscured the target. When it cleared enough to see through, the vehicle was gone.
***
“Move us to position Delta, Josh,” Willie ordered as the radar picked up the incoming artillery rounds. He didn’t think they’d penetrate the top armor, which was thicker than was traditionally found on such vehicles, but shifting positions would buy them time to keep killing mechs, and killing mechs was the name of the game.
The turbines whined as the driver pulled them back at high speed, turning it on its tracks and heading down the gulley that led to two of the other firing positions. Artillery impacted as they moved, one round striking the top of the turret with a roar. Josh and Terry cursed in unison, and Willie held his breath for a moment. That was the only hit, and everything still seemed to be working.
Josh sped ahead three hundred meters, passing one of the positions, then spinning into the next. The maneuver was tricky, as the driver had to make sure the barrel was sticking through the slot in the metal facing in front of the position. There was a bit of a screech as the barrel scraped through, but it was a good enough job.
“Eleven of them, Captain Kurtz,” he reported over the landline as soon as the indicator lit up, letting him know that an infantryman had plugged them in. “I’m in position Delta, about to fire them up again.”
“Good call,” Kurtz replied. “We need you to keep taking them out. We’ve been hammered. I doubt if half the company is still effective.”
No pressure, huh, the tank commander thought. He knew they were counting on him, and he and his people would do their best to kill as many of the bastards as they could. But they could only do so much.
“Preparing to engage. Shooting.”
The heavy body of the tank rocked back from the recoil of the huge gun. In an instant, another mech was flying backward, the impact to its left shoulder spinning it around to hit the ground and lay still.
Have to do better, the tank commander thought as he laid the weapon on the next target. Putting them out of commission might work, but he wanted kills. Enough kills to pay the UN troopers back for the Martians they’d slaughtered.
***
Kurtz cheered internally as he watched the first shot of the Beast in its new position take down another mech. He didn’t care that it wasn’t a kill shot, and that the driver would most likely walk away from it. The machine was out of action, it wouldn’t be killing any more of his people, and that was enough for him. Two seconds later, another mech died, this one a clean kill, the cockpit converted to a spreading cloud of plasma.
The tank got off two more shots before the enemy spotted its position and started streaming rounds into it. The tank kept firing as the rocks and armored paneling that covered and concealed it was hammered by the enemy, chunks flying away. The cover wouldn’t last long, but maybe long enough.
***
“Did we get them? Where did they go?”
“They moved to another position, you stupid twit,” the senior sergeant of second platoon called out.
He’s right, thought the captain, sweeping his sensors over the line ahead. He picked up gaps in the berm the enemy had been hiding behind, wrecked equipment, and many bodies, but nothing that looked like a tank. Are they going to come out in one of those gaps? Not if they’re smart, and the way they set this up shows they aren’t stupid. Wherever they show up, they’ll be covered.
“Everyone, stay sharp,” he stated over the com. “Keep a lookout for that vehicle on the chance that it survived the barrage and moved. Meanwhile, we’ll continue to advance until we overrun their line, and the infantry can close up with us.”
Acknowledgements came back. What else could they say? They were professionals, the order had been given, and as long as their officers continued to advance, so would they.
Mortar rounds, a few every couple of seconds, continued to drop. Grenades came at them from the front. It was really nothing more than a nuisance. One of the mechs catching a mortar round directly on the carapace showed that it could be much more than a nuisance. The trooper survived, his machine still able to advance with highly-degraded sensors and targeting equipment, but not really combat effective.
Shit. The captain’s sensors showed something coming in on an intersecting trajectory, ending at the point where his mech would be when it arrived. He pushed both thumb sticks forward, engaging the jump jets and sending him both high and forward at greater speed. It was a nice feature to have, if limited, and one most troopers preferred to hold onto until they really needed it. Well, he thought as the round went off behind him, if avoiding a heavy munition isn’t when it’s really needed, I don’t know what is.
Another machine four mechs to the east of his went up, the cockpit converting into plasma and globs of molten metal as it flew off the ground to strike twenty meters back and pinwheel away. The cockpit was peeled open, the trooper surely dead. Smythe fought with his emotions as he continued to run, his legs activating those of the mech and propelling him forward much faster than a human.
On the one hand, seeing mechs so easily destroyed sent a shiver of fear up his spine. Any second it could be him. Cold sweat was running down his face, and he was tempted to reach up and wipe it away, but his hands needed to stay where they were. It was cold as hell outside his cockpit, though it was comfortable inside, but the sweat had nothing to do with temperature.
On the other hand, he was enraged that his men were dying at the hands of people fighting against their lawful government. Men who, as far as he was concerned, were scum, not worth the sweat on his face. As always, conflicting emotions led to fatigue, and the captain felt like he could close his eyes and go into a deep sleep at any moment. Not yet, he thought. There are rebels to kill.
Another mech was blasted back, this one a machine closer to his, and he got the impression that the tank was going to work its way down the line until it hit his. He wasn’t sure what he could do about that. Order a reordering of the ranks, putting another trooper in line for death before him? That didn’t seem fitting, though part of his mind screamed at him, telling him it was his life on the line, and fair had nothing to do with it.
