by John Bowers
Sgt. DuBose chinned his helmet mike.
“First Squad, activate ear protection right now!”
Nick didn’t have to be told twice. He fingered a control on the rim of his helmet; instantly, noise-insulated pads extended inward to press against his ears. He adjusted them for comfort and checked to make sure he could still hear comm commands. He was gratified a few seconds later when the battery roared again—this time the noise, though still loud, didn’t deafen him.
DuBose had walked away, fiddling with his own helmet. Everyone in the area was doing the same thing, then a sense of calm seemed to settle over the basin. Nick saw Lt. Jaeger approach and speak to DuBose; DuBose nodded and Jaeger hurried toward the next squad. Nick realized this was it—they were about to mix it up. DuBose gathered his squad around.
“Okay, men, here we go. Echo Company is going to assault from the northeast. India will hit from the southeast and Hotel from the south. Foxtrot will cut the road to the west and keep the Freaks from getting away. Gunsleds will patrol the north edge of town to prevent escape in that direction. We want to contain them and kill or capture every single rebel.
“Try to avoid hitting civilians, but don’t hesitate to fire if you have to. Looks like the Polygon isn’t going to send reinforcements, so we have to win this with what we have, which means that right now your lives are more valuable than anyone else’s on this planet.
“Questions?”
“What about the arty?” Kit Carlson asked.
“The artillery will lift just before we hit the ground. We won’t debark until it does. Anything else? Then mount up!”
Nick heaved a deep breath, strapped on his field pack, and grabbed his rifle. Everyone had loaded up on grenades and spare magazines and, as the 77mm battery fired again, began climbing into an infantry sled. Trying to forget his most recent sled trip, Nick adjusted his safety harness and settled in for what could be the last ride he would ever take.
Since quitting church at age fifteen, he had rarely prayed. He just wasn’t sure his prayers were going anywhere, but at this particular moment, the thought occurred to him that it might be a good idea. Maybe his dad was looking down on him—or maybe not—but his dad would want him to do it, whether it was real or not.
He lowered his chin; without closing his eyes, he gave it his best shot.
Okay, God, here we are. If you’re really there, you know what this is about. This mission is important, so give us success. And take care of the guys around me.
Keep them safe.
That’s all I ask.
Chapter 9
Goshen – Alpha Centauri 2
Fifteen infantry sleds carried Echo Company into battle; forty-five more carried the rest of the battalion. Thirty-one high-speed gunsleds ranged ahead, skimming up and down, side to side, searching for enemy pickets. Here and there, gunsleds dove on isolated positions, strafing them with laser and machine gun fire. The infantry sleds, keeping low to avoid enemy radar, ignored them and surged forward.
Back at the riverbed, the 77s switched to full-auto, pouring steady streams of high explosive toward the objective. The Star Marines could hear the shells singing overhead, a steady metallic whine as they cut through the atmosphere. Nick opened his mouth and breathed deep, as if he could store oxygen for when he needed it. Next to him, Rudy Aquino panted in fear, his eyes wide. Nick slipped an arm around him, gave him a squeeze, and grinned as Rudy looked at him. Rudy, looking sheepish, managed a grin of his own, but still looked terrified.
Watch over Rudy, okay? He’s a good kid—don’t let anything happen to him.
It was late afternoon. Nick didn’t know if that was part of the plan, but it seemed unlikely they could clear Goshen in the few hours remaining before dark. Keeping his head down, he couldn’t see the town approaching, but knew they were getting close when the sleds banked to the right toward the northeast corner of town. He expected to see or hear enemy fire reaching for them, but didn’t. He did hear exploding artillery, which told him they were getting very close indeed.
In the front of the sled, which carried sixteen men if one included the crew, Nick saw Sgt. DuBose talking on his helmet comm. A moment later, DuBose came through his helmet speakers.
“Twenty seconds, men. When the sled stops, deploy to the right. Wait for the sleds to leave before you advance. Remember your training, and good luck.”
Nick swallowed. His nerves were singing, but he still wasn’t scared. How crazy was that?
But his heart was pounding.
The sled hit the ground harder than expected and bounced once, then ground to a halt on its skids. DuBose shouted and everyone released their safety harness. Nick was next to the gunwale in the rear and was the first to roll over the side, landing on his feet in a grassy field. Ten seconds later the entire squad had joined him; they backed up a few yards until the sled lifted off and swung around for its return trip. Other sleds were unloading a few yards away, but Nick hardly noticed them. His eyes were fixed, instead, on the street that bordered the north end of Goshen, and the buildings that lined it.
The artillery had stopped on cue, but twenty blocks away, smoke was rising and flames leaped into the sky. From Nick’s vantage point, it looked as if four or five city blocks were burning.
He hardly had time to think about it.
“Let’s move!” DuBose shouted. “Let’s go! Go-go-go-go!”
Nick rose to a crouch and began moving forward at a trot. DuBose was in the lead and had already reached the street; 1st Squad double-timed to catch up and crossed the street in a ragged skirmish line. Nick’s fire team, led by Cpl. Mateo, dashed between a pair of houses, hugging the outer walls as they peered into windows for threats. The houses shared a common backyard, and when they reached it Mateo gave hand signals to split up. Mateo and Kopshevar kicked in the rear door of the house on the right, Nick and Aquino the one on the left.
Nick went in first, sweeping his rifle in every direction as he moved from room to room. He half expected to find rebel gunners waiting for him, but the house was empty. He and Rudy returned to the yard where they met Mateo and Kopshevar.
“All clear,” Nick reported, and Mateo nodded.
They reached an alley and waited for the other fire teams, led by Cpls. Chin and Wiebe, to arrive. DuBose gave a signal and they moved toward the next row of houses. Goshen was surprisingly quiet. Now that the artillery had stopped and the sleds departed, an eerie silence hung over the town. Nearly eight hundred Star Marines were advancing through the streets, but aside from the occasional scuff of combat boots, one would never have suspected it. No voices, no shouting, no gunfire—it was spooky.
They cleared the houses on the next street, then DuBose pulled his squad back to the alley, where they took a knee.
“Looks like the civilians may have pulled back after all,” he said in a quiet voice, “but we can’t count on that. The Freaks may be using them as hostages, so keep alert for the possibility.”
He consulted the data map on his e-tablet.
“S2 said they found five or six strongpoints, and one of them is only about a block from here.”
He pointed to his right.
“I don’t know exactly what to expect, but you can bet they probably have something heavy waiting for us. Second Squad is going to hit it from the west and we’re gonna hit it from the east; Mateo, take your team over one block and approach with caution. Chin, you proceed down this alley. Wiebe, hold your team back until we see what’s there, then we’ll try to deploy your SAW to best advantage.” Cpl. Wiebe’s fire team carried the Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW), a mobile machine gun used to increase a squad’s firepower.
“When all the squads are in position, the P-guns are going to pound that position for a couple of minutes before we go in.
“Questions?”
DuBose scanned his squad. They all stared back at him, slightly hollow-eyed. No one spoke.
DuBose nodded. “Move out.”
Nick swallowed on a dry
throat, rose to a crouch, and followed Mateo across the alley, Aquino and Kopshevar on his heels. They trotted through a couple of backyards, between a pair of houses, and turned right when they reached the street. Empty houses stared back at them with vacant windows, leaving Nick with a crawling sensation along his spine.
The houses were bigger than those in Minkler, and nicer. This was a middle-class neighborhood and the homes reflected it. The lawns, though slightly yellow, were neat and tidy; most of the roofs were fitted with solar collection arrays and about half the backyards boasted swimming pools. Several front yards were bordered by four-foot fences, mostly of stone. The fences were a morale boost, as the street itself was wide open and offered little in the way of cover. Mateo led his fire team from fence to fence, scanning the street each time before moving on again.
The last house on the block sat at an intersection. Directly west of it, across the street, sat a large shopping center. This was the spot marked on DuBose’s map where S2 had reported a strongpoint. As the fire team reached the border fence and peered over it, Nick saw a wide parking lot flanked on two sides by an L-shaped building that contained a variety of shops and stores. At the intersection of the L, what looked like a clock tower rose twenty feet above the roof; it was topped with some kind of enclosed platform.
Perfect spot for a sniper.
The near end of the building faced north, but at the far end of the parking area Nick saw a pet store, hair salon, electronics store, hardware store, and a restaurant. Aside from a few scattered surface cars, the parking lot was empty; as far as they could tell, nothing moved in either the parking lot or the shops.
But the north-facing part of the building was hidden from their view.
Mateo chinned his helmet mike.
“Fire team in position, Sergeant.”
“Okay. What about you, Jimmy?”
Cpl. Jimmy Chin, half a block to their north, replied in the affirmative.
“We just got here. Everything looks quiet.”
“Good. Sit tight for a minute; Second Squad should be in position pretty soon. Wait for the P-guns and don’t move until I give you the word.”
DuBose clicked off. Nick suspected he was talking to 2nd Squad. Third Squad was waiting in reserve. Echo Company’s Heavy Weapons platoon had been dropped off half a mile short of the town and should have their mortar arrays—P-guns—set up by now.
Nick settled onto a knee and sucked oxygen. Sweat was running into his eyes and he wiped it with a sleeve. There had been a breeze when they debarked from the sleds, but now the houses were blocking it. He took deep, slow breaths, trying to concentrate on what he had to do. He glanced at Aquino, whose eyes were closed. He was gripping his rifle in one hand and a rosary in the other, his lips moving in a frantic recital.
The kid was trembling.
Nick laid a hand on his shoulder, making him jump. His eyes popped open and he stared at Nick with raw agony in his eyes.
“It’s okay, Rudy. Just remember our training.”
Rudy nodded, but didn’t seem the least bit comforted. His breath was coming in rapid gasps.
“Rudy…I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You got that? Stick with me, okay? We’ll get through this.”
The kid blinked at him, then nodded in a jerky fashion. He managed the flash of a smile.
“Okay, Nick. Thanks.”
DuBose came over their helmet comms again. Quietly.
“Heads down, men. Fire in the hole.”
Even as he spoke, in the still air Nick heard the distant rapid thump of the parabola guns.
Boomp. Boo-boo-boo-boo-boo-boo-boo-boo-BOOMP!
Ten rounds, so close together he could barely count them. Sucking a deep breath, he lowered his head and placed a hand on his helmet. The men with him did the same thing.
Three, four, five, six seconds…
They dropped whistling out of the afternoon sky.
WHAM! WHAM! WHA-WHA-WHA-WHAM! WHAM! WHA-WHAM! WHAM!
The ground rocked under their feet. Concussion hammered them, making their ears ring. The house beside them lost all the windows on its north end. Great billows of smoke and flame leaped from the shopping center, chunks of wood and asphalt rained down around them.
“One more salvo,” DuBose warned. Nick barely heard him.
Ten more rounds plunged into the shopping center, doubling the devastation. Flame leaped from the stores nearest them; they were suddenly pelted by falling debris that included carrots, celery, assorted canned foods, and a frozen beef shank.
The shopping center apparently included a supermarket.
Suddenly, except for the crackle of raging flames, it was quiet.
“Okay, that’s it! Mateo, move across! Chin, cover them! As soon as they get across, you follow. Wiebe, move up to Chin’s position and hold.
“Move out! Go-go-go-go!”
Nick and his fire team leaped to their feet, ran around the end of the border fence, and dashed across the street. Nick was amazed at what twenty rounds of mortar could do—what had been a nice, pleasant, even pretty middle-class shopping center was now a blazing wreck. The good news was that, if any rebels were in there, they were probably dead now, or at least severely hampered. His combat boots pounded on the hard asphalt as they raced across the street, keeping line abreast so a lucky shot couldn’t take out more than one man at a time. His heart pounded in his ears, but he was in the best physical condition of his life, so he was far from out of breath.
They reached the end of the building nearest them and flattened out against it, even though the wall was hot from the fires inside. Mateo peered around the corner at the parking lot, then signaled the rest to follow him. Nick was next, followed by Aquino and Kopshevar. As Nick turned the corner and began to run along the front of the building, he saw half a dozen shell craters in the parking lot; four cars were burning like torches. To his left, all the glass in the front of the supermarket had shattered and lay scattered about like a million diamonds.
Portions of the roof had caved in and debris had been blown across the asphalt. He saw two bodies up ahead, both in black pants and white shirts, and suspected more rebel dead were probably buried in the blazing rubble. This entire wing of the shopping center was a mass of flame, but the wing facing them—the bottom of the L—had suffered less damage.
Mateo stopped. Twenty feet ahead of him, a rebel soldier stumbled out of a blazing shop, his white shirt smoldering. The man was beating at his hair, oblivious to anyone around him…but he still carried a rifle in his left hand.
Mateo shot him, then looked back at Nick.
“Put a grenade inside there. Could be more of them.”
Nick dropped to one knee and pulled a frag off his belt. He looped a finger through the pin and jerked it free, then flung the little bomb through the window toward the interior of the shop. All four men ducked. The grenade erupted with a thump and flame blasted across the walkway where the dead rebel lay.
Behind them, Cpl. Jimmy Chin’s fire team was crossing the street at a dead run. Cpl. Wiebe’s team was in the mouth of the alley, setting up the SAW for support. Except for the effects of the fire, everything was still disturbingly calm.
“Let’s go.”
Mateo got to his feet again and started forward. Ahead of them, the walkway stretched another forty yards to the base of the L where the building angled to the north. The little tower on top that Nick had thought might hold a sniper was gone, courtesy of the P-guns.
Nick followed as Mateo began to run again. Mateo had only made three strides when a rebel machine gun opened up. Before Nick even heard it firing, bullets were ripping the storefront beside him; he heard a thud and hot blood spattered his face. Mateo hit the ground face first and skidded to a stop.
“Down!”
Nick sprawled on his stomach, sliding to a stop two feet from Mateo. Behind him, Aquino and Kopshevar did the same. He saw the flash now, a steady twinkle from a window in the damaged restaurant. He heard the stutter a
nd heard the whine of bullets just over his head. They were totally exposed here, but the only cover available to them was on fire. Nick shouldered his rifle and, firing from a prone position, began to hammer back at the gun.
“Where is it?” Aquino gasped. “I can’t see it!”
“The restaurant,” Nick grunted. “He’s covered by smoke. Follow my tracers.”
A few seconds later, Aquino and Kopshevar joined in and spat bullets toward the gun.
But the enemy had changed targets. Nick and company were flat on the ground, but Jimmy Chin’s fire team had just crossed the street and was charging across the parking lot at a dead run. The gunner shifted and swept them with heavy slugs. Chin, in the lead, went down in a sprawl, his helmet tumbling away in one direction, his rifle in another. The men behind him jinked left toward the supermarket, but a second burst cut down Pvt. Singh, who hit the ground like a sack of cement. Kit Carlson and David Hall dived behind a parked surface car that had escaped the P-guns and began to return fire.
“We need a corpsman up here!” Carlson’s voice in the helmet comms sounded tense. “Jimmy’s been hit and so has Ajit.”
“Corporal Mateo is down, too!” Nick shouted.
“Corpsman on the way,” DuBose replied. “Wiebe, get that SAW cranked up! Shut down that rebel gun!”
As if he’d been waiting for the order, Wiebe’s fire team opened up. Gunner CC Clark and assistant Wayne Juhl opened fire on the restaurant seventy-five yards away. The rebel gunners had set up in the storefront window, but the fire inside the building was bathing them in swirling smoke, obscuring their position. From his vantage, Nick marveled that the rebel gunners could stand the heat. The restaurant was almost fully involved and the heat had to be horrific.
In spite of return fire from five directions, the rebels kept shooting, now shifting their fire toward the mouth of the alley where Wiebe’s squad was manning the SAW. Nick saw ricochets around their position and realized they were too exposed; if the gun kept firing, it was going to get them.
He craned his neck to talk to Kopshevar and Aquino.
