A Hymn Before Battle lota-1

by John Ringo

  “I guess the Posleen aren’t too happy about how things are going, huh, LT?” asked the sergeant. Perhaps the waiting was getting to him as well.

  “No, I suspect not,” he said. There was a brief pause. “And,” he continued, a note of animation in his voice, “they’re about to have a worse surprise. The last team is complete!”

  “Time to rock and roll!”

  “Fuckin’ A. Platoon,” O’Neal called, the AID automatically switching him to broadcast mode. “All personnel, retreat through the tunnels following the assigned vectors. You have fifteen minutes to reach minimum safe distance! Good luck and see you at the processing plant!

  “Let’s move out, Sar’nt.”

  They headed to the nearest lock along with a fire team following the same path. Mike checked the locations of all the teams and breathed a sigh of relief. The plan had invited defeat in detail: a gut-wrenching terror that was now off his back. It was a central military axiom that you never divide your forces in the heat of battle, but the intelligence conferred by the suits as well as the disorganization of the Posleen rear area permitted enormous missions to be accomplished in record times. Without a doubt, if a practical method could be found for passing through Posleen lines, the deep strike was the premium method for battling the Posleen. Outside their hordes they were as dangerous to a man in a suit as so many mosquitoes, painful but hardly life threatening. The difficulties would be finding a way to attack the Posleen rear area and viable methods of disruption. The fate of the shuttles was graphic proof that the traditional techniques of deep strike would be impossible.

  The teams slid through the tunnels as slickly as so many ferrets, noting and designating the location of the occasional human body. In most cases the personnel would stop to remove a dog tag or other identification if there was time. The platoon rally point was in the basement of a processing plant and fifteen minutes was plenty of time to get there.

  The building was technically in Posleen hands, but the formed units of Posleen were fully involved trying to dislodge the battered survivors of the 10th Panzer Grenadiers in the nearest megascraper and the only Posleen in the basements were unbonded stragglers.

  Mike triggered a fatal burst at a Posleen that wandered into the processing floor, and popped off his helmet. The basement smelled of seaweed and smoke, but not of rotting organics; the hygiene was surprising under the circumstances. The troops around him starting popping their helmets as well and before long there was a cluster of alert soldiers scanning the scattered machinery of the basement. The molecular seals of their headwear were bright circles in the dimness.

  “All right troops,” Mike said, for the first time seeing the faces of the soldiers he had been leading for almost twenty-four hours. The troopers in turn studied the diminutive officer who had carried them through hell. They were so far beyond any human reaction that Mike was unable to decide what was in their expressions. They faced him like so many sharks, eyes dead and uncaring in their carnage. He shivered for a moment, showing it no more than the troops around him.

  He had seen many of these soldiers only two days before suiting up in preparation for the battle to come. Most had been frightened, covering it with bravado. Some had been so brainwashed with the airborne mentality that they were awaiting the moment of contact with eagerness. Some had been openly fearful, but ready to do their duty. Now they were one and all automatons. He had taken them from childhood to some region beyond and at this moment he feared the Frankenstein monster he had created. But the professional dies hard and he carried right on.

  “In a minute and a half the remaining charges will blow,” he continued in a soft but carrying voice. There was distant gun and cannon fire, felt more than heard, and a drip-drip of water from broken pipes. “When they do we’ll watch on our helmet systems. That was why the scouts planted the flicker-eyes, that and to see if there was any concerted response to our little incursion.” He felt himself drifting with fatigue and wondered what would happen if he wavered. The way they were looking at him he half expected them to turn on him in some sort of feeding frenzy at the slightest sign of weakness.

  “When the buildings drop, the armor units should be able to break out to the MLR. After they pass through the lines we’ll sneak back to the MLR ourselves and hopefully get a well-earned rest.” He smiled tiredly at the half-hearted cheer. “Now, helmets on, unless you want to miss the show.” He ducked back under his helmet like a turtle. The eyes were on him still there but at least he could no longer see them.

  “Michelle, get me General Houseman.”

  “Okay, Mike.” The circuit crackled with static; General Houseman had to be away from his command post, using a shunt through a regular Army frequency.

  “O’Neal? What’s the hold-up?” the general asked impatiently. Mike could hear the freight-train roar of artillery in the background and a nearby jackhammer sound of a heavy machine gun.

  “The charges are laid and about to blow, sir,” he said, glancing at the countdown clock. “We ran into a few snags.”

  “Yeah, we saw what they did to the shuttles through the monitors. Was that you leaving your position?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t get carried away, son, this is gonna be a long war.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mike could not begin to explain over this open circuit the red tower of rage that had overrun him at that moment.

  “When do they blow?”

  “In… twenty-five seconds,” Mike answered. He split the screen to give him an overview of the trapped divisions. The numbers were not looking good.

  “Very well, the armor forces really need the help. Good luck, son, and carry on.”

  “Roger that, sir, Airborne.”

  “Out here.”

  Mike shunted the view from the remote sensors into the platoon’s helmets, each squad overlooking its own building. In the upper quadrant was a count-down timer. Precisely at zero there was a gout of dust, fire and less definable things out of the lower floors of the buildings. Slowly they began to topple, gaining speed and finally crashing to the ground in a shower of rubble.

  There was cheering on the platoon net with the troops laughing and swearing in relief. Until that moment Mike had not realized their level of disbelief. Only a couple of them had thought that the buildings would really fall. He shook his head in wonder that they had not simply evaporated to the rear.

  He put the thought aside and ordered the NCOs to assemble for move out. As the platoon started towards the locks he updated the schematic of the encirclement. Then he had to ask Michelle if it was accurate.

  There were too many breaks in the chain. The fighters in the encircled building were a hodgepodge of units from five different countries. Although there was a clear road out, the infiltrated Posleen and broken communications meant that none of the units could reinforce the panzer grenadiers on the open side.

  In that brief glance at his monitors Lieutenant O’Neal saw the end of his life and the lives of those around him. He considered for a moment ignoring the results. He and the troopers from the 2/325th had done their share and more. But, it is not enough for a soldier to simply do his best. A soldier has to continue the mission until the mission is completed or he is no more. The mission of the Armored Combat Suit units was to break the encirclement and relieve the armored units. The fact that the conventional units’ inability to maintain communication created the situation was beside the point; the mission was incomplete.

  “Hold it.” Mike called up a keyboard and began running scenarios. As he did the troopers held their collective breaths, not knowing what dark angel had dropped into their midst but gut certain that the promised haven was retreating.

  “They’re still pinned,” Mike said into the silence. The troopers shuffled their feet and began checking their virtually unused weapons. Feed tubes just so, grenades in place, swivel launcher. Mike tapped a command and a clear route out of the basement to the sea was displayed. The large seawater intakes would be m
ore than adequate to the task.

  “The panzer grenadiers can’t dislodge the Posleen straight on. Look.” He threw the image outward where the red and blue icons floated in the darkness like an evil kiss. Sip of water, check ammo levels.

  “The Posleen are the ones with their backs to the wall now, but they have enough forces to hold in both directions and there isn’t a good way to break that stalemate, not in time for it to matter.” Mike threw up a schematic of forces driving into the Posleen from either side.

  “Something has to hit them in the flank, preferably from the sea, and drive them inland to open a corridor to the walls.” The landward arrow disappeared and the seaward arrow drove in, pushing the Posleen out of position. The lines of friendlies drove forward in support and the Posleen symbols were gone.

  “And it looks like that’s gotta be us,” he concluded. He took a sip of the chilled suit water and smiled ferally. Dropping buildings on the bastards was just numbers; he could call up the estimates if he cared. But this was going to be one on one, at ground level. Point-blank slaughter. It was time and past time to build the samadh. Pile it high.

  “Why us?” asked one plaintive voice. “What about the Germans?”

  “Their ACS is shoring up the MLR inland,” Mike answered, checking that status of that unit. He was careful to keep the low snarl out of his voice. “And it’s nearly as beat up as our battalion. We are it, people.”

  “Fuck that, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Shiiit!”

  “At the fuck ease!” snarled Sergeant Green. “The LT was talkin’.”

  “Hell, Sarn’t,” Mike laughed. The sound was just a bit on the high side. “I agree. But like the man said, ‘ours is not to question why.’ On your feet, troopers. It’s time to follow the bouncing ball.”

  Mike wondered when one of them would get the idea to frag him, but so far so good. He suddenly felt a wave of energy enter him and his fatigue fell away like a cloak. He feared it was because he saw the future of glorious battle this morn’.

  His sudden desire to close with the enemy frightened him. He had no purpose leading troops into battle if he could not control his hatred. But he also could not see any alternative. The German ACS unit was well and truly engaged and could not be redeployed. An ACS unit was the only effective unit under the circumstances and his platoon was the only remaining mobile ACS unit. So, time for some payback.

  “Okay, here is how we are gonna skin this cat,” he said as the platoon filed into the lock. “We are going to go out to sea through the intakes and come up on the beach. The Schwerpunkt, the point of emphasis, is the Boulevard Alisterand which is being traded back and forth. We will deploy in close formation and move forward taking the Posleen under marching fire.

  “There is no way to do this except brutally. I’ve got a couple of tricks up my sleeve. They might keep us undetected even after we fire.

  “When we deploy it will be no place for scouts, your lighter armor’ll be useless. Stay under water until we open fire, then lift up under AG and enter the buildings. Go up a few stories and move to sniper positions. When you reach them start snipering the God Kings. I can’t believe their targeting is going to detect directed fire in the heat of battle, but I’ll take the first targeted shot at them just to be sure. Oh, yeah,” he chuckled for a moment, “no grenades without my call.” Some of the troops laughed grimly. “We’re here to pull the Germans out, not kill ’em all.” The platoon had hit sea level and ducked into the still, black water, their inertial compensators flying them through the muck towards the intake.

  The water was packed with siphonophores feeding on the detritus of the plant’s backwash. When the pumps failed, the water that had been in process flowed backwards and stirred up thousands of microscopic fungi that lined the walls. The jet-propelled siphonophores had rushed in to partake of the unexpected bounty, and the water was a mass of darting jelly creatures, each intent on getting its share of the feast. As they fed they vibrated internal organs that pulsed low-pitch sonar through the waves. Much of the sound was in the audible spectrum, a caressing wave of soprano cries.

  Slashing through their midst were the oversized carnivorous polychaetan worms. As the suits brushed the jellies they gave off multihued luminescence and little distress cries so that the platoon seemed to be flying through singing fire. The flash of a jelly’s death as it disappeared into the maw of a worm was a contrapunctuation to the symphony.

  The unalloyed beauty of the moment was lost on the platoon. They had entered the narrow straits between normal life and battle and in that chastened realm there was no room for distraction.

  “Now, when we were fighting our way over here,” Mike continued, “I saw God Kings break and run twice, so they can be routed. I want to scare the shit out of these bastards as we come out of the water. They just lost hundreds of thousands of troops and God Kings under those buildings and when we come out I want it to be the last fuckin’ straw.

  “We are going to maintain camouflage until we are on the beach, using holograms of the waves. Once we are fully emerged I’ll kick in a special hologram program for camouflage during the battle. Remember to let your barrels drain for just a moment before you open fire. At that point we will give them the whole can of kick-ass. Clear?” He finished the brief operations order just as the platoon reached the intake. The light beyond dimmed the flashes of light from the dying siphonophores and the water transmitted thunder of battle overwhelmed the delicate creatures’ subtle cries of distress.

  “Clear, sir,” they sounded off as they flew through the shallow water to deploy parallel to the shore.

  “Engineers, we’re gonna use a shit-load of energy here,” O’Neal continued. “Once we secure a beachhead, go into the building with B team Third squad and get to the reactor. Run us a heavy-duty line out to refuel us.” He paused and tapped a control.

  “And that my bonny boyos is the fuckin’ plan. Are you with me?” he asked, wondering at the precision of the moment. He hefted his grav rifle as his boots settled in the muck, the water only a meter over his head.

  “Yes, sir!” Whatever their individual doubts, as a unit they could say nothing more. Pride and unit-integrity, sin and savior, drove the soldier as always.

  “So, what are we gonna do?” he asked as he took the first step forward.

  “We’re gonna dance, sir!” they responded, following.

  “Who we gonna dance with?” His helmet crept out of the water and the fury of the battle beyond was shocking. Tank cannons jutted from the ground floor windows exchanging point blank fire with God King saucers while Posleen normals grappled hand to hand with the gray uniformed grenadiers. The thin line of beach was a charnel pit, impassable from the bunkers of bodies gathered from building to waterfront, the grenadiers and Posleen grappled even in death, their blood mixing in stagnant pools to flow to the cleansing sea. A volley of grenades opened a hole in the Posleen mass then it surged forward over the ruck of bodies. A tank gouted fire and threw its turret into the air as a plasma gun searched its vitals. The white curtain of fire incinerated the packed grenadiers and Posleen alike.

  “THE DEVIL!” screamed the troopers, the powered grav guns dipped to drain in awful synchronicity. A blast of fire from a God King’s heavy railgun sawed through lead Posleen and grappling grenadiers, their red and yellow blood flashing up in a fountain of gore. The fire from the God King saucer was abruptly silenced by a German sniper.

  “WE GONNA LEAD OR WE GONNA FOLLOW?” shouted Mike as he cycled his rifle and charged his grenade launchers.

  “WE’RE GONNA LEAD!” they shouted as the guns raised in unison. Barrels shifted slightly as individual Posleen were targeted. In the midst of the battle one of the God King saucers rose up and leapt across the battleline, diving on a panzer grenadier holding only a knife. Mike, and several troopers drawn to the movement, tracked in on the Posleen saucer.

  “Michelle, engage program Tiamat.” His command suit began to rise into the air under its
antigravity system, the energy level indicator dropping like a waterfall. The air in front of their suits shimmered for a moment and then cleared. “PLATOON, OPEN FIRE!”

  37

  Andata Province, Diess IV

  1004 GMT May 19th, 2002 ad

  Tulo’stenaloor, First Order Battlemaster of the Sten Po’oslena’ar, considered himself a connoisseur of war. He had studied the three disciplines and all the history available to his rank. Not for him the te’aalan battle madness that he had seen destroy his nest mates. But never in all his study, in all the time upon this conquest and other conquests, during his rise from scoutmaster to his current rank, had he ever faced ferocity such as the gray-clad demons his oolt’ondai now faced. The enemies’ ill-favored red fluid stained the walls in the fury of the combat, and still they resisted the might of the Sten Po’oslena’ar.

  “Tele’sten,” he shouted over his communicator, “take your oolt to the left to support Alllllntt’s, and prepare to receive his oolt’os.”

  “Your wish,” chimed the communicator. The nearby eson’antai was panting with exertion. He had dropped from his tenar to aid another kessentai, wounded by the thrice-damned threshkreen. Such selflessness was rare among the Po’oslena’ar, almost unheard of. Possibly even immoral. The young kessentai leapt back to his tenar, the mission successful. “You believe he will fail upon the path?”

  “As sure as the sun rises,” said Tulo’stenaloor. He looked up at the ill-favored green sun of this blasted world. He should have stayed on cloud-shrouded Atthanaleen. It might be well on its way to ordonath, but at least there was rain! And none of these fistnal gray thresh!

  “Those thrice-damned demons infest the upper stories no matter how we flail them. Note how he moves his tenar in a regular pattern, soon one of their simple chemical rifles will remove him from the path. Learn from his mistakes, eson’antai!”