by John Bowers
Not that it mattered.
The HVIs returned and set down to pick up another load. Charlie Company boarded and the sleds disappeared again. Everyone else kept walking north, alert for ambushes, praying they didn’t encounter any mines.
“I don’t hear any shooting,” Rudy said after a time. “Looks like Delta Company got in without being seen. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, if it really happened that way,” Avila said. “Maybe the Freaks let them in so they could surround them and kill them all.”
Rudy gulped. “Aw, Jesus! Aw, Jesus, you didn’t have to say that!”
Avila giggled. “Don’t listen to me, I could be wrong.”
They continued walking. Another quarter-mile. The glow in the east was brighter. The sleds returned to pick up Bravo Company. Still no fireworks from Three Rivers. Nick began to feel uneasy.
Ten more minutes. Another five hundred yards.
Nick saw the flash and dived onto the ground. An explosion cracked somewhere to his right and a column of dirt geysered into the air. Someone was yelling. Two more flashes, two more explosions. More men yelling.
“Minefield! Hit the dirt and stay down!”
Someone screaming.
“Corpsman!”
Nick’s squad was already down, but there was no immediate danger. It wasn’t like anyone was shooting at them, but the dark, dry weeds in front of them could be even more deadly, if they concealed mines.
“This is great!” Nick muttered. “Just fucking great!”
Avila had landed a couple of feet from him. He was panting with fear.
“Told you the open ground might be mined.”
“You were right. I agreed with you.”
“You never said you did.”
“Waddaya want, a yellow star? Let’s get out of this mess, then we can cry over it later.”
“You’re an asshole, Walker.”
“Never said I wasn’t.”
Nick was aware of running feet behind him. The repeated cry for a corpsman had never stopped, and Starling was running toward Alpha Company, who had hit the minefield. Alpha’s own corpsman was already on the scene.
“First Squad, stay where you are,” DuBose cautioned over their helmets. “Heavy Weapons is going to break out the mine detectors. We don’t move until they tell us to, or until the sleds come to get us.”
Nick heaved a sigh and tried to relax. He had dived onto something hard that was digging into his thigh—he shifted slightly to relieve the pressure. He wondered how long this would take.
The minutes crawled by.
The sleds returned.
They hovered over Alpha Company, but didn’t set down. After a brief consultation with Alpha’s CO, they turned a few yards to the west and set down behind Echo instead—only they didn’t exactly land. No one knew where all the mines were, so the sleds hovered three feet above the ground.
DuBose came over the helmets again.
“Listen up! Alpha is kind of stuck where they are until the mine sweep is complete, so we’re going in next. Everybody back up ten feet before you stand up, then board the sleds.”
Everyone did as instructed, and a minute later the squad gathered next to a hovering infantry sled, keeping their faces turned away from the powerful air jets that blasted the soft ground underneath, sending billows of dust out to the sides. Nick grabbed a pair of metal handgrips on the gunwale and hauled himself over the side, then leaned over to help the others join him. In less than a minute, the entire squad was aboard the sled; they settled down and snapped their harness in place.
Another minute passed. The sled vibrated like a racehorse waiting to burst out the gate.
“Echo, listen up!” It was Capt. Seals. “Slight change of plans. Since Alpha Company is tied up in the minefield, we’re now going to be attached to First Battalion for the next few hours. Bravo, Charlie, and Delta are already on the ground; their objective is to clear the southeast quadrant of the town, to push the Freaks up against the river. We’re going to set down right on the edge of the river to block their escape. First Battalion will be the hammer and we’ll be the anvil. They’re going to push the Freaks in our direction, and it’s our job to kill them before they can get across the river.
“We’ll be in a vulnerable position. The enemy on the north side of the river may try to cross and reinforce the quadrant, so we could be taking fire from both sides. But do not under any circumstances try to cross that river, because our artillery is going to plaster it.
“Got questions? Ask your platoon leaders. Good luck, Echo.”
Chapter 21
Three Rivers – Alpha Centauri 2
0445 Hours
It was a Sunday morning. As the sleds skimmed across the edge of town, Nick wondered about the civilians. Hopefully, for most it would not be a work day, which meant that, if they had no chance to evacuate, they would at least be in a better position to keep their families safe.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. He had to stop worrying about things he couldn’t control. He already had enough on his plate.
The sled’s gunwales were too high to see over the side, but Nick hadn’t heard a shot fired all morning. On impulse, he released his harness and stood up, peering over the side.
“Walker! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Sit down!”
Nick ignored DuBose for ten or fifteen seconds as, with wind streaming over him, his gaze swept the ground below the sled. He was surprised to see streetlights still burning, and even more surprised that most of the industrial parks were also lighted. Parking lots were flooded with light and almost every building in sight had the inside lights burning.
It looked like a modern town, and was the first one he’d seen with an industrial zone. Below him, stretching almost a mile to the east, he saw a variety of industries. A fertilizer plant, a chemical plant, two farm equipment manufactories, warehouses, half a dozen sales outlets, and other buildings he didn’t recognize. He saw hardly any traffic, just a lone police car cruising an empty street.
He didn’t see anyone from 1st Battalion, but that was probably good—they should be under cover getting ready to strike.
He glanced to the north and saw lights along the South Trimmer. Just north of that, maybe two hundred yards on, was what looked like an elevated highway, four lanes if he had to guess. Three or four cars were moving along it, but it was apparently too early for heavy traffic, and hopefully, the traffic would be light on a Sunday.
He was about to sit down when a stream of bullets impacted the gunwale almost in his face. He ducked and dropped into his seat as the bullets sparked against the gunwale and whined away. His heart pounded as he reconnected his harness. He glanced at DuBose, but before either of them could speak, the sky around them filled with tracers.
They came from every direction, at least six streams, maybe more. The string of sleds, already descending to unload their passengers, jinked right and left to avoid them, but Nick heard repeated hits on the hull. They seemed to be moving faster now, diving toward the landing zone. Nick felt a quiver in his stomach as the lift jets intensified to slow their landing. The sled gunner went into action, sweeping the area around them with his machine gun.
The sled touched down with a bump and the pilot gave the signal.
“That’s it!” DuBose bellowed. “Over the side and take cover!”
Nick didn’t have to be told twice, nor did anyone else. First Squad boiled over the starboard gunwale and landed on their feet, keeping low so the sled could cover them, at least for a few seconds. Hot brass from the sled’s machine gun bounced across the asphalt.
Directly in front of him, Nick saw the river, maybe twenty yards away. He was standing in the street that fronted the river, and the only thing between him and the water was a strip of grass about ten yards wide. A sidewalk wound along the riverbank; here and there, separated by forty or fifty yards, park benches faced the sidewalk. The dark water of the river itself gleamed with refl
ected light from the opposite bank. Another pedestrian walk with benches was visible on that side, and beyond it stood a row of dark buildings that might or might not hold enemy troops.
The sleds began lifting off, leaving Echo Company on the ground.
“Cover!” DuBose yelled. “Get inside the warehouse!”
The warehouse was behind them. Nick hadn’t seen it until the sleds were gone, but it loomed large and dark and looked like a good place to hide. The entire squad turned and ran toward it. Rod Meredith slipped on half a dozen empty brass cartridges and fell, smashing his knee into the pavement. He cried out and rolled over in agony.
Avila knelt beside him.
“Come on, Rodney, get up! We’ll get somebody to suck your dick and make it all better.”
In spite of his agony, Meredith shoved him away.
“Get the fuck away from me, cocksucker!”
Avila giggled. “You should talk. Faggot!”
“Goddamn homophobe!”
Nick turned back and shoved Avila toward the warehouse. He bent over and grabbed Meredith’s arm, helping him to his feet.
“Come on, Rod, we gotta get under cover.”
Meredith grabbed his shoulder and hauled himself up, standing on one foot. He was gasping in pain.
“I think my kneecap is shattered, Nick!”
“Well, I hope not, but even if it is, you’ve got to get out of the street. Come on.”
Someone had kicked open the warehouse door and 1st Squad disappeared inside. As Nick and Meredith limped toward the door, two machine guns across the river opened up; bullets streaked over their heads, punching holes in the flimsy warehouse wall, which was nothing more than sheet metal stretched over steel beams. They were still five yards away, and Nick wrapped his right arm around Meredith’s waist to get a fresh grip. Meredith hopped on his good leg and Nick half-dragged him toward the black, yawning doorway.
They barely made it. Even as they plunged into what was apparently an office, the rebel gunners adjusted their aim and fired again. Tracers smashed through the walls and windows, ripped open a file cabinet, and blasted Meredith’s canteen off his belt. Nick dove to the floor and took Meredith with him. Meredith screamed as his injured knee hit the hard surface, but the next spray of bullets passed a foot over their heads.
“Sorry, Rod, I didn’t have any choice.”
“I know.”
Meredith’s face was contorted in pain and he whimpered as Nick pulled him along the floor, through the inner door to the warehouse floor, and around behind a piece of heavy equipment that looked sturdy enough to stop a bullet. Outside, men from other squads opened fire and poured lead back at the enemy guns; after a brief flurry of crossfire, both guns fell silent.
DuBose was giving orders over their helmet comms. The warehouse was about fifty yards long and filled with farming equipment; most of it had seen better days and some was probably obsolete. DuBose placed a fire team at each corner facing south, where the 1st Battalion companies were supposed to push the rebels toward them. Second Squad joined them a few minutes later and set up their own defensive positions. DuBose found Nick still bending over Meredith.
“Walker, what’s going on? Is he hit?”
“I don’t think so, but he tripped in the street and busted his knee.”
DuBose glowered at Meredith, who was still grimacing.
“You tripped? Are you shitting me?”
Meredith shook his head.
“Sorry, Sarge. I stepped on a pile of brass from the sled gun. The stuff rolled under my foot and threw me off balance. Ungh!”
“Is your leg broken?”
“I think so. It’s my right knee.”
“Shit.”
DuBose looked around for a minute, then turned to Nick.
“Help me set him up facing that office door. If the Freaks try to come through, he can warn us.” To Meredith: “Can you shoot?”
“Yeah, I can do that. As long as I’m sitting down.”
They each grabbed him under a shoulder and pulled him a few yards farther from the office door, then propped him up against a stack of wooden pallets with a clear field of fire. He caught his breath and charged his weapon. Sweat pouring down from his brow, he nodded.
“Okay, I’m good. Thanks, Sarge. Nick…thanks, man. I’d’a been a goner.”
“No problem.”
*
The north side of the warehouse, facing the street, featured not only the door to the inner office, but also three large, garage-type doors that could be used to move heavy vehicles in and out. The south wall was punctuated by fifteen large windows that reached almost to the roof. These not only provided light, but could be opened to allow fresh air inside. Some of the windows were cracked, but most were intact.
All three squads of 3rd Platoon broke out the lower windows and set up defensive positions facing south. They shoved several pieces of heavy equipment up against the wall for cover and men crouched behind them. The equipment yard behind the warehouse stretched for thirty yards, giving the Star Marines a short but welcome field of fire that no one could cross without being seen. It contained several randomly placed pieces of farm equipment, but none of them blocked the field of fire.
Other platoons occupied buildings on either side of them, and Heavy Weapons set up two machine guns outside the warehouse to cover the river in the event of an assault from that direction. Within minutes of debarking from the sleds, they were ready to defend the position.
Daylight was breaking over Three Rivers. In the east, Alpha Prime was rising and would come into view at any moment.
The town had fallen silent.
Then a clock tower somewhere to the west began clanging to mark the hour. A glance at his watch told Nick it was 0500. He took a sip from his canteen and pulled a partially-eaten ration pack from his pocket. Before leaving their foxholes, they hadn’t had a chance to eat, and he had a feeling it might be a long day. He finished the ration in just a few minutes, took another hit from his canteen, and wiped his hands on his pants. He glanced at his watch again—1st Battalion was supposed to be pushing the rebels this way. What was the holdup?
A rattle of machine gun fire answered the question. It came from the south, only a few hundred yards away. Another machine gun opened up, then another, and was answered by the familiar sound of .291 calibre rifles. Suddenly, within the space of ten seconds, a full-blown firefight was in progress. Nick, crouched behind a heavy robo-welder, peered out the window. He couldn’t see a thing, but the volume was ramping up. He checked his rifle again, laid out a couple of magazines for reloads, and placed three grenades next to them. Other Star Marines were doing the same. Everyone waited, silent, tense. This was the worst part of a battle—waiting.
The shooting continued for nearly ten minutes, punctuated by the roar of grenades. A machine gun fell silent, then another. The third continued to fire, but the infantry rifles became sporadic, as if the men carrying them were changing position. More rifles, more grenades—another machine gun opened up, this one closer.
The day was getting brighter. Now they saw smoke from a burning building. Within a minute they could see leaping flames five or six blocks away. The battle was moving closer.
The machine guns across the river behind them opened fire, loud and startling. Incoming rounds punched through the garage doors and everyone flattened out. DuBose got on his helmet comm.
“Rebels across the river!” he reported a moment later. “Looks like they plan to cross. Brace yourselves for incoming.”
Nick swallowed down his nerves, took a deep breath, and cowered against the wall. Thirteen seconds later he heard the unforgettable sound of incoming ordnance, 77mm rounds from 103rd Star Marine Artillery. They passed over the warehouse and slammed into the opposite bank of the South Trimmer. Nick couldn’t see them, but knew they had hit because the concussion slammed the garage doors with a sound like sledgehammers. What glass remained in the tall windows on the south side shattered and plunged to the grou
nd, spreading shards across the floor.
Another salvo, then another. The friendly machine guns outside continued to chatter, pouring fire across the river.
The artillery stopped for nearly a minute, then another salvo dropped out of the sky, this one hitting farther away, maybe near the highway. He heard the explosions this time, not the sledgehammers. The floor trembled under him. More salvoes, six or seven in all, spreading fire and steel across the opposite bank. Then the artillery stopped again.
Without the artillery masking the sound, they could hear the firefight again, and it was closer, maybe four blocks away. Only one rebel machine gun could be heard, but at least two SAWs were firing, identified by their rapid chatter.
The sun was up now, casting blinding rays at an oblique angle across the city. The equipment yard was now fully visible from where Nick crouched. It was bordered by a chain-link fence; a narrow alley paralleled it. Beyond the alley stood a string of small sheds. As he watched, one of the sheds suddenly sprouted holes as a Star Marine rifle sprayed it. He still didn’t see any rebels, but they must be falling back in disarray—he could hardly believe how rapidly their defense had come apart.
The rebel machine gun fell silent for the last time. Ricochets from a .291 whined around the warehouse, forcing everyone to keep his head down. Then Nick saw movement between two of the sheds. He took aim, but before he could identify friend or foe, Billy Avila opened fire. Nick saw two white-shirted rebels fall into view, one of them pumping blood from his chest. Another rebel grabbed his feet to drag him back, but Avila killed him too, and he dropped in a heap.
“Okay, boys, looks like they’re here!” DuBose shouted in their helmets. “First Battalion is right behind them, so be careful who you shoot.”
A flurry of gunfire broke out again, not more than a block away. More holes appeared in the sheds facing them, more ricochets they had to dodge. They heard return fire—hunting rifles and shotguns—then four rebels broke from between two of the sheds and raced into the alley. One covered while the other three started over the fence, but they never made it. Nick killed one as he crawled over the top and someone else killed the other two. The fourth man, still in the alley, turned to look in their direction. Nick stared at him with narrowed eyes.
