by M. J. Konkel
I pulled my head back behind the boulder and flipped up the faceplate. I stared directly at Marla.
“You need my help right now. Give me back my frickin’ rifle.”
Marla stared at me for a moment, then rose to a crouch, and dashed toward one of the trucks.
Flechettes whistled past and banged off the armored vehicles. But Marla safely disappeared behind one of the trucks not hit by the aircraft’s missiles. A few seconds later, she again dashed. This time toward me. She dropped down behind me just as more flechettes whistled past.
She handed my rifle over with one hand but held a pistol in her other. It was pointed at me.
“Just don’t get jumpy with that,” I said. “Shit!” I realized I would need the rest of the armor to be able to sight out the rifle that far. “I need the rest of the armor for this to work,” I yelled at Marla.
“Just stay there.” Marla waved the pistol at me.
“I need the jack in the suit to turn this from a simple assault rifle into a sniper weapon. We don’t have time to argue about this. You’re either going to have to trust me, or you’re going to have to shoot me.”
I bellied it over to where Jergen was spread out flat on the sand, hoping Marla didn’t change her mind up about me and shoot me in the back.
Piece by piece, I stripped the armor off Jergen’s body while trying not to get hit by the flechettes whistling past just overhead. Getting into the armor while flat on the ground was damn near impossible. Sand got into the suit. That was going to chafe later if I had to do much moving around. But I liked even less the blood on the inside of the chest armor. I put it all on except for the gloves, figuring I didn’t need those.
I plugged the jack from my wrist into the stock of my rifle and bellied up next to Marla.
I peeked out from the side of the boulder. I didn’t see the earlier two, but I spotted a stupid GAT a little to left of the those at about 1500 meters. He peered up over a mound, a bit too fully exposed.
Phit! I fired off a flechette. A second later I saw his head jerk backward. That was a bit of a shock. I had fired my rifle before. But, for the first time in my life, I knew I had killed someone. I felt a bit nauseous as I imagined how the flechette must have pierced right through the soldier’s brain.
“Shit! I actually killed him,” I mumbled.
Something hit my shoulder hard. I ducked back behind the boulder and peeked at where I was hit. A small rip marked where a flechette had just grazed me. They were trying to kill me too. That eased my conscience.
I thought about the execution of the unarmed villagers. And the way the Spits invaded my world. I clenched my teeth. Anyone carrying a weapon for the Spits was the same as a Spit as far as I was now concerned. Especially if they were shooting at me.
More flechettes whistled past. I peeked from behind the boulder, but I could not spot a clear target to shoot at. Occasionally, one of the two spits I had previously spotted popped out for an instant and fired a shot before ducking again behind cover.
“Why aren’t you shooting at them?” Marla demanded.
“They’re sticking to cover, not advancing,” I grumbled. “They’re not even trying to get within grenade launching range.” And there were only two of them still left out there. It didn’t make sense.
Unless …
“Tell your people to watch the whole parameter,” I warned. “I think those out there are a distraction. We’re being flanked.”
Marla shouted out warnings to her people as I popped my head up for another peek. The two out there were stuck to the same cover, not advancing. I ducked back down and scanned behind me.
Not far behind us was a dried-up shallow streambed. It was only about a meter deep. It had to be what they were using for cover as they flanked us. Most of the rest of the basin was too flat and featureless.
“Cover me,” I yelled. “About four seconds of fire at those out there.”
Marla stared at me for a moment, probably debating whether to trust me. She then shouted out to her troops.
I stood up and fired twice on auto, sending three flechettes at the last positions I had seen each of the GATs. Sounds of rifle fire erupted around me.
Crouching, I dashed across toward the streambed and dove in. I landed on a bed of hard pebbles and was thankful for the suit cushioning my landing on my belly. Hopefully, the cover fire had kept the two out on the desert floor ducking their heads long enough that they didn’t see my dash back into the streambed. I didn’t want them informing the flanking troops that I was trying to outflank them.
Which way would they be coming? From my left or my right? I scanned around. If I had planned the assault, I would have chosen to come with the sun at my back and used the streambed for cover. That didn’t mean they would do the same because, after all, they knew more about this type of warfare than I did. But it was my best guess, so I went with it.
I rolled up out of the streambed onto the far side, using the lip of the bed for cover. I paused, scanning for any approaching Spits.
A shadow resembled a hiding figure behind a pile of pebbles. I stared at it for a minute. The shadow was on the wrong side of the pile from the sun. Still, there was no movement. I reached up to my helmet and cycled through a couple of filters. A high contrast filter with polarization gave clearer vision.
The dark body-shaped shadow was nothing more than a smaller pile of pebbles and its shadow behind the bigger pile. Shit! Quaking at rock piles! What was I going to do when real GATs came at me?
I laid my rifle diagonally over my shoulder, and it locked into place with a barely audible click. Then I crawled along the upper bank toward the sun with my belly scraping the ground while I intently listened and constantly scanned ahead.
Two hundred meters from where I had leapt into the streambed, I found what I thought to be an advantageous position. A little V was cut into the bank of the streambed.
I peeked through the little cut. I could see down the streambed for ninety-three meters before it curved off to the left. I knew that because the rangefinder on my faceplate said so.
With Ursa Phinia low on the horizon, the lip of the bed cast a shadow over my position. Anyone coming up the bed would not likely see me until they were quite close. Even then they would have to be looking right at me.
I pulled my rifle off my back, laid it next to me, and waited.
A shadow soon appeared where the bed bent. I felt a hint of conceit for being right. But mostly I felt fear – trained GATs were coming at me. How did I think I had it in me to take these guys on? I was stuck with my choice though. If I moved now, I was as sure to be dead as the local star was to set.
A helmet peered around the bend a few seconds later. Then a crouched Spit came trotting up the streambed toward me. Just a single Spit. I had hoped to catch several in the straight section where they couldn’t find cover from me in my position. A natural shooting gallery. Instead, they had sent up ahead a single scout. If I took him out, that would warn those behind him.
Once the Spit was about forty meters away, I slowly eased back and to my left until I could no longer see through the cut on the bank. I waited.
Soon my helmet-augmented hearing picked up the sound of the soldier’s footsteps even though he was being quiet, and then the footsteps stopped.
Did he spot me? My heartbeat quickened. I thought about rising and shooting the Spit before he could shoot me.
No, I needed to stay hidden. I realized the Spit had stopped because the streambed bent. He was most likely scanning the section ahead of him.
All my muscles still tensed up though, knowing a trained GAT was only meters away. If he stood fully upright from his crouch, he would most likely spot me, and I wouldn’t be able to react fast enough.
I heard footsteps again, and they soon grew too faint to be heard. The Spit had moved up the bed past me.
I waited a few seconds longer before I eased back up to the cut in the bank. My plan was to rise to my knees and shoot the Spit sever
al times in the back.
But I spotted another shadow around the bend and stayed frozen behind the cut. Another soldier scooted up the bed toward me. Then another appeared about ten meters behind the second one. After a bit a fourth appeared about twenty meters behind the third. I wondered where the rest were. A GAT platoon usually consisted of either nine or ten soldiers plus a sergeant. Several were still unaccounted for, assuming this was a typical platoon and just a single platoon.
The closest Spit was only twenty meters away, and no more had appeared. It was about as opportune a moment as I expected to get.
I fired bursts of three flechettes at each in rapid succession. I then stood up and fired at the scouting Spit who was now eighty meters up the streambed.
He had already leapt for cover, and I knew I had missed him even as I squeezed the trigger. I fired once more, but the Spit had already ducked around a curve in the bank.
I spun my head back to the three in the bed below me as I dropped back down to my chest. The three were not moving, but I put three more flechettes through each of them anyway. I was not going to have any of them rising once my back was turned.
I rolled over across my back until I flopped down into the streambed. I wanted to put some distance between me and the position from where I had last launched flechettes. I crawled toward a recess in the bank.
Foomp! I recognized the sound of a grenade launcher and pressed myself up hard against the bank of the streambed.
Boom! Sand flew up from above and rained down on me as the grenade exploded near to my previous position above the streambed. The bank caved, and sand flowed down over me, burying my rifle and half my body.
I could have pulled myself out of the pile of sand, but I stayed still instead. My head was in shadow and the muzzle of my rifle just peeked out of the sand. I stayed motionless and just watched.
After a minute, a Spit dashed across the streambed and dove behind the bank of the streambed where there was a small bend.
A sliver of him remained in view, but I didn’t have a clear shot. I was likely to just graze him. I shifted my rifle slightly in the sand for a shot. I was going to shoot through the edge of the bank that he hid behind. Even if the flechette didn’t have enough oomph left after penetrating the sand barrier to penetrate the GAT’s armor, a few rounds might be enough to cave in the sand bank and provide me with a clear shot.
Just as the crosshair was in position, the soldier sprang out and dashed across toward a new position. I fired but immediately knew I had missed.
I shifted my rifle, struggling since it was still half buried.
I fired again, and the man stumbled to the ground, holding his side. He struggled to his feet and stretched his arm out for the rifle he had dropped. I pulled the trigger on my rifle twice, and six flechettes sliced through the Spit.
I glanced up at my HUD.
Shit! Only two flechettes remained. I had four spare magazines when I had started out. But those had been taken from me after I was captured.
I switched my rifle to its fire position for the time being. I would have to make my last two shots count. There were likely at least three more son-of-a-bitchin’ GATs out there somewhere though. That was not a good kind of math for me.
I stared at the last GAT I had nailed. The solution to my ammo problem was right there staring me in the face.
I pulled myself up out of the sand and dashed in a crouch to the Spit’s body. The magazine popped out of my rifle and fell to the sand. I dropped to my knees, grabbed a spare magazine off the hip of the dead soldier, and slapped it into my rifle. A small display on the HUD now read 49. One still in the chamber, plus those in the magazine. I grabbed the other three spare magazines and pulled the one out of the GAT’s rifle. I figured it had more flechettes than the single one in the magazine I had just discarded. I stuck the spares on my hip.
I wondered where the other Spits were located. A typical platoon should have three to four more. They were sure to have heard by suit-to-suit radio that there was a firefight down here, and they had to know by now that their comrades had been dusted. All they had to do was look up at their HUDs.
Did they bug out? Were they still advancing on the resistance fighters according to their original plan? Or were they now advancing toward me. I didn’t know GAT psychology that well, but I was betting on the last of these options.
My suspicions were soon confirmed. A scraping sound came from ahead of me. A carelessly dragged boot over a stone gave their position away. They were coming from opposite the direction from the first group had taken.
I stared down at the dead soldier. There was one more thing I wanted, and I needed to act fast.
Chapter 8
What was I going to do? I had been able to take out the first four because I had surprise on my side as I ambushed them. The next three knew I was here, and I didn’t like my odds against three trained GATs.
I scanned around for an ambush site. Then I spied the perfect spot right where I stood in the middle of the streambed. In broad view of everyone.
I dropped my stomach down onto the pebbles and sand of the streambed. No, I did not faint. I curled my non-shooting arm under me to look awkward, turned my head to the side and craned it back a bit.
Then I took my fingers off the trigger of my rifle, although I left my hand close to it. That was really hard - forcing my fingers off the trigger. But I had to look like I was actually dead. I wore one of their armored suits, and I hoped that would sell the deception. But I didn’t have gloves. One hand was under the suit, but the other was out in the open. I dug the hand in until it was buried under a layer of sand.
As the GATs approached, I realized the magazine I had dropped was still in plain sight on the sand. That probably would not give me away, but the missing magazine on the rifle of the dead soldier behind me might. That was stupid of me.
It was too late to do anything about it though. I lay perfectly still as I watched the crouched figures of the approaching GATs. I didn’t dare even twitch. My face shield was down, so they couldn’t see my eyes. But I couldn’t see theirs either.
Two of them stuck close to the opposite bank of the streambed from me. I couldn’t see the third because my head was craned the wrong way, but I heard him behind me close to the near bank.
“This one’s Harold. Reading says he’s dead,” the Spit behind me said.
Shit! When he read my suit, he was going to know I was still alive and not one of theirs. Should have shut my suit off, even though that would have blinded me. I readied myself for action.
“Who’s the other?” asked one of the GATs in front of me.
I know my finger twitched as I thought about grabbing the rifle.
“Don’t know. Not getting a reading on the second one,” the man said. “Suit must have gotten fried. Looks like he took two through his backside.”
Those marks on my armor would have been the ones Jergen had taken. Jergen’s death might have just saved my life – at least for the moment.
Of course! It struck me that these GATs were from a different unit. They wouldn’t be able to read my suit. I should have known that. I felt both stupid and lucky. But if I have to choose between brains and luck, I will take luck every time.
“Appears to be dead. Let’s keep going,” said one of the others. She pointed ahead. “The others are probably around the next bend. Keep your eyes open. I want the frickin’ bastards who did this to pay.”
I watched as the two slid along the far bank. The one behind me was still out of my sight, but I heard him scooting along the bank.
I waited, hoping all three would come into my view before I sprang up. The two on the opposite side reached the bend. The first got a quick peek around the corner.
They could do the math. Too many bodies.
I sprang up and fired three flechettes into each of the two soldiers on that side, having reset my rifle to repeat. I then turned and fired twice at the third.
But he had dropped behind the p
ile of sand from where I had ambushed the GAT that was next to me. My flechettes kicked up only dust instead.
Twisting, I rolled over the body of the dead soldier as I heard the whistling of flechettes.
And felt an intense sting. One had pierced my right shoulder. I wanted to scream out but clenched my jaws instead.
I reached for the rifle I had dropped. Intense pain shot through my shoulder as I pulled the rifle closer. With my good arm, I pushed Harold up onto his side, giving myself a slightly higher barrier.
I took a quick peek over the lifeless body. More flechettes whistled overhead. The two GATs on the left were down and not moving.
I tried to lift the rifle with right arm, but the pain was too intense. I reached across with my left arm and grabbed the rifle. More flechettes whistled past, and I felt others hit my body armor. They had gone right through the armor of the dead soldier, but they didn’t have enough energy left to pierce mine after passing through both the front and back of the dead soldier’s armor.
Poor Harold. I hid behind his bottom because his hips gave the highest barrier. Those flechettes must have pierced right through his jewels or there about in order to reach me. No dignity, even in death.
Throwing my rifle over the dead man, I fired off three flechettes. I couldn’t aim well with just my left arm. Unless I expected to rely on luck again, I needed to come up with a better plan. And soon. Where were the resistance fighters? They should have been backing me up. Did they abandon me? I couldn’t count on them.
I switched the fire mode to A and peeked over the dead body again just long enough to see where the crosshair rested.
Flechettes whistled past over my body.
Foomp! Boom! I had popped the grenade launcher off the dead man’s rifle and attached it to mine.
I switched my rifle mode back to R and struggled to my feet. My right arm drooped as I carried my rifle with my left. I stumbled up to where the grenade had exploded and stared down at the motionless GAT. A three-round burst through the man’s chest insured he would not rise again.
