An intense burst of white noise filled Springer’s ears, blasting away distracting thoughts.
“Stay alert, Tremayne,” growled Kalis. The white noise had been his audible equivalent of slapping the back of her head.
“Sorry, Corporal.”
Frakk! Kalis was already at the starting position, painting objectives into the tac-displays of his section. When did he get to be so competent?
Springer and Umarov’s assignment was to take out a row of laser fence repeaters, direct the initial surge of refugees, and then take and hold the nearest blockhouse.
As the wait counted down from minutes to seconds, the sense of Arun’s absence rapidly faded away, leaving just her comrades in 2nd Section.
She took aim at a laser post, asking Saraswati to confirm with Umarov’s AI that they weren’t firing at the same post.
Springer waited for the command to fire.
— Chapter 21 —
Seven minutes after Sergeant Gupta had disappeared from tac-display, Arun’s visor updated with fresh tactical information, displaying a wide view of the battlefield that showed the deployment of all the women and men in his command.
The time for secrecy was almost over. Gupta had switched to Wide BattleNet.
“In position, sir,” he said.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Laskosk, Heavy Weapons Section will destroy all watchtowers, and then throw some ordnance down every Hardit hole you can see.”
Arun’s eyes picked up movement twenty meters away as a camouflaged Laskosk, Stopcock to his friends, lifted his missile launcher onto his shoulder.
“With pleasure, sir,” said Stopcock, sounding like he meant it.
— Chapter 22 —
Excitement reared in the pit of Lance Corporal Stok Laskosk’s stomach. Finally he and Chung would get to show what they could do with the weapons they had specialized in… and lugged all the way here from Detroit with only the Heavy Section’s assistant, Cusato, to help. And not just from Detroit. This was his missile launcher that they’d brought down from Beowulf.
Weapons were not interchangeable, despite what logistics NCOs might say. Balance, heft, trigger resistance, recoil lift: all weapons had their unique characteristics and none was more significant than the targeting AI.
Stok sucked in a breath. Was he being fair? The Legion had enough dropship capacity to have brought another Marine with them, but used the space instead for Stok’s launcher, and the cannon. And it was true that the others – even McEwan – had helped by lugging around some of Cusato and Chung’s GX ammo.
He shrugged. The others could still go vulley themselves for saying he was in love with his tube. As far as Stok was concerned, his weapon system was as much a member of the unit as any of its flesh and blood components, and at long last he was about to show all the doubters exactly what he could do.
Chung and all the other Marines in Force Patagonia were waiting on his signal.
It was a simple signal really.
Stok made one more check of his targeting system. It confirmed it was locked onto the base of the largest watchtower, overlooking the main gate. The trajectory he’d selected would send his missile swinging around the camp and in from the east. Not only would that make the missile appear to be coming from the opposite direction to Stok’s firing position, but it should collapse the building, spilling its debris to block the main entrance through the perimeter fence, making it impassable for wheeled vehicles and low-power gravitics.
No better way to make your enemy feel vulnerable than cutting off their escape.
From his initial firing position, 30 meters up a tree, Stok tightened the grip of his thighs on the branch he was straddling and depressed the firing stud. He felt a soft kick and saw a blur of motion as the missile was ejected.
He kept the stud depressed, and soon felt another kick as the second missile launched. He’d programmed his first barrage to target each of the five watchtowers, and then the blockhouses, before sending a couple of incendiary specials down the main ramp that snaked down into the ground between the two blockhouses.
No sign yet that the Hardits had noticed. Nor should they. He was firing smart munitions, not dumb rockets. The missiles were spreading out in a holding pattern around the wood, using low-speed, low-visibility propulsion designed to obscure the location of the missile’s launch. Not exactly stealth mode, but if you weren’t looking carefully, you wouldn’t know the missiles were there. Not yet.
When the distributed intelligence of his missiles decided they were ready, their main engines would ignite and they would hit their targets simultaneously.
And those ignorant jokers at the bottom of the slope thought all a missile specialist did was press a button!
The Hardits didn’t appear to know they were under attack, but Stok wasn’t stupid enough to take unnecessary chances.
As soon as he’d launched the final missile of that barrage, he stood on his branch and jumped down to the forest floor. As he’d been trained to do, he let go of the missile system at the last moment before impact. He rolled to absorb the shock, crushing bracken until he slammed into a tree. He raced back to retrieve his launcher, and then hurried off to his next firing position a hundred meters away, where his carbine and the remainder of his missile ammo should be waiting for him.
He couldn’t imagine how ancient soldiers had ever managed to fight battles without powered armor. That jump from the tree would probably have killed them.
Then his ears filled with the roar of eight missile engines lighting up, and all he could think of was reaching his new firing position in time to make a difference to the fight with his next barrage.
— Chapter 23 —
With the scream of Stopcock’s approaching missile barrage ringing in her ears, Springer fired a burst of rocket rounds. Any doubts, any fear she might have had were banished by necessity, sealed away in a compartment at the back of her mind. Training and instinct took over. She aimed at a meter-high narrow cylinder that was a repeater post for the laser fence, her fire transforming it into a twisted, jagged-edged metal wreck. By the time she registered the damage, she’d already sent a second burst of fire into the next post along. She needn’t have bothered. The fence, with its lattice of lethal laser beams, had already shut down.
The humans in the cage within hadn’t yet noticed.
Not surprising. Stopcock’s missiles had blasted the watchtowers into rubble, smoke poured from holes punched through the blockhouses, and the main ramp leading underground was glowing with actinic white fire.
“Move in,” came the order from 2nd Section’s NCO: Corporal Kalis. “Head for the western blockhouse.”
“Don’t waste time with refugees,” added Sergeant Gupta.
No chance of that, thought Springer as she bounded over the ruin of one watchtower, her fire team buddies – Zug, Umarov and Kalis – close by. The watchtowers had been the strongpoints in the outer fence. Now, thanks to Stopcock’s attention, they were a highway into the camp.
And a route out... Some of the slaves had realized the laser fence was down. They could escape!
Before any overcame their fears and escaped, Springer plowed into the confused mass of slaves, naked and wretched the lot of them. Her stomach churned acid to think that she would be no different if she’d been captured by the three-eyed monkey-vecks.
“Spartika!” she shouted, her helmet speaker boosting her to near-deafening volume. “Does anyone know where they’re holding Spartika?”
Those who paid her any attention at all gave her a blank look. Like that helped!
“Or Esther?” Springer added, mentioning a regional Agri-Aux leader she’d known before the war. “Does anyone know where Esther is?”
It was hopeless. Even those who’d paid Springer a little attention now turned away. Some made for the mound of stinking clothing heaped outside of the cage. A few ran naked for the woods. Most turned their heads and cowered, as if the world and all its many ills would go away if they pretended
it didn’t exist.
Pathetic. She had no time for these losers.
“Don’t delay,” chided Kalis.
“If anyone wishes to fight,” yelled Springer at the slaves, “follow us. Dead Hardits will donate all the weapons you need. Everyone else, run! We’ve left a cache of Hardit weapons to the south west, where the stream crests the hill.”
At last! A few stronger-looking individuals joined her from out of the crowd. Perhaps they had some worth in them, after all.
“Follow me,” she said as she hurried after the rest of 2nd Section who had taken positions on the edge of the slave cage facing the western blockhouse. 1st Section was edging forward, trying to flank the blockhouse.
A sound came to her ears, a sound so unexpected that she skidded to a halt, throwing up a cloud of dust.
Saraswati picked up on Springer’s sudden, intense interest but not why she was so shocked. The old battlesuit AI took control of Springer’s visor, showing an overhead tac-display with an orange dot to indicate the location of this new, unidentified threat to her left-rear.
But this was no threat. The sound was the cry of a human infant.
A second infant joined the wailing chorus.
Springer searched the crowd for the children, only to find their mothers were searching out her.
The sight filled Springer with a stinging mix of longing and pride. The mothers were only a little older than her. Unlike the other women, whose gaunt bodies were flaps of skin stretched over prominent bones, the defiant-looking mothers were ripe pictures of health. There was a story here. The other starving wretches must have given up their meager rations so the mothers and their infants didn’t go hungry.
Her belief in these people soared.
“We want to fight,” said one of the mothers.
Springer’s assessment of the slaves plummeted.
“We aren’t stupid,” said the other mother. Springer sensed Saraswati sneer at that. “We reckon our chances are better sticking with you. If we hang around with these poor vecks who are pretending nothing is happening, we’ll be slaughtered by the Hardits, and our babies too.”
“No!” Springer was surprised by her own vehemence. “I don’t want you or your kids here. You’re a distraction. If you want a better chance for your babies, head up the slope to the ridgeline west of here. About 400 meters north of the stream. Command Section are there. Major McEwan will look out for you.”
Saraswati flashed an urgent tactical update. Another barrage from Stok was inbound.
“Everyone down! Cover your heads.”
The missiles blasted their targets, filling the air with the noise and fire of destruction.
“Stay down,” she shouted.
Rubble rained down on her, as she rose to one knee to inspect the results of the barrage. Fire was coming out of the eastern blockhouse and the spiral ramp into the ground, but that wasn’t as important as the western blockhouse she faced. The building was clearly far tougher than she expected, because it still stood largely intact. Even the door remained a sturdy barrier, but Stok had ripped a breach into the facing wall. A hole big enough for Marines to enter.
The breach was evidently big enough for Puja’s fancy recon scanner to see through all the way from the ridge, because she warned across WBNet: “Hostiles in western blockhouse.”
Saraswati confirmed this on Springer’s tac-display, showing the hidden crush of Hardits cowering just out of sight behind the breach.
“You’re insane,” whispered Springer, but she meant her words endearingly, and Saraswati knew it.
A Hardit snout emerged at the hole. It took a deep sniff of the air before its owner snatched it back under cover. The humans let it be. For now.
But there was another threat! Saraswati reported that more Hardits had sneaked out of the north side of the blockhouse where they were massing for an attack. Meanwhile, all Marine eyes were on the breach on the southern wall.
Battlesuit sensors could see a little way through the gap, but couldn’t see through walls. Saraswati’s ability to assess fuzzy observational data was acute, but even she couldn’t be seeing through two walls. Even Puja’s fancy box of tricks couldn’t manage that.
However… Saraswati hadn’t been wrong yet. Springer made a decision.
“Corporal,” she said over the section channel, “hostiles are massing on the far side of the blockhouse.”
Kalis growled in annoyance. “Is this another one of your visions, Tremayne?”
“No, Corporal. My AI is convinced.”
“I’m not seeing it on tac-display. Your AI is senile, Tremayne. I should never have let you keep it. If it doesn’t kill you first, replace with a working model as soon as you get a chance.”
“Corporal, I’m not so sure she’s senile.”
Springer meant her words. The old AI had blackmailed Springer, threatening to reveal her secrets if she went back to her newer AI. That was the real reason why she’d kept with Saraswati. But Saraswati claimed to be a recon specialist, with special capabilities that extended beyond blackmail. Springer was beginning to believe her.
“I’ll deal with you later,” said Kalis.
They heard a couple of rifle reports from inside the blockhouse.
A second later, three Hardits clambered out of the meter-high hole and jumped down to the ground onto all fours, rifles gripped in tails.
They scarcely looked to be in any better condition than the human slaves, with matted fur and threadbare clothes crudely sewn together from mismatched rags.
Springer picked a Hardit target and allowed her (not it: the local Hardits were all female according to intel) to land and stare out at the camp through its thick, two-tiered sunshades.
The creature looked surprised to still be alive.
Good, thought Springer. The sergeant wants to encourage you out into the open, but I just want you to have one last moment of hope before I snatch it away.
Suddenly the Hardit dodged sideways, and then flipped to and fro for a few moments as if, not having expected to live this long, it was struggling to figure out what to do next.
Springer had no such uncertainty. She put a dart straight through its stupid sunglasses.
That’s for imprisoning babies in a labor camp.
The whole of 2nd Section must have been in tune with each other because the other two Hardits died in that same instant, having been allowed that brief extension of hope.
But the three sacrificed Hardits had not been wasted. Even Springer had allowed herself to be distracted while dozens of militia emerged from behind the blockhouse, charging at the humans with guns blazing.
She heard a hail of bullets pinging off Marine armor, skimming the dirt and cutting bloody holes through unprotected human flesh.
“Hug the dirt and stay still,” Springer yelled for the benefit of the slaves.
“Evade,” ordered Sergeant Gupta. “Let them come.”
Springer fell into the familiarity of the evasion drill. Acting together as a team, she and Saraswati rolled and tumbled unpredictably, while avoiding crashing into Marines or slaves. She winced when she felt the crunch of snapping bone as she thundered into one of the slaves who was making a run for it.
Dumb veck should’ve kept still like I told him.
When the enemy had been drawn out into the open, Gupta sent an order to the Heavy Weapons Section up on the ridgeline. “GX Team, open fire!”
Stopcock had shown what he could do with his missile tube. Springer didn’t have to be there to know that Christanne Cusato’s eyes would be wide with excitement while she kept the ammo spooling cleanly and the temperature–killrate balance optimal so that Jerry Chung could concentrate on unleashing the power of their tripod-mounted GX-cannon.
Even armored Marines had no defense against such a weapon. All you could hope to do was survive long enough to trace a line back to the firing position and blast the weapon and its operators. These Hardits had nothing to reply with other than same crude slug-throwers that the patrol they’d met in the woods had been carrying. They didn’t stand a chance.
The GX-cannon was an infantry support weapon that was a maxed out version of a handheld railgun. It could also fire rounds where a shaped charge pierced the outer skin of the target before the main payload delivered a miniature gamma or x-ray blast, perfect for slicing through tanks, buildings, and personal armor. Cusato had set the ammo feed to one ‘G’ or ‘X’ round per ten kinetic darts, and Chung had cranked the muzzle velocity up to a power-sucking Mach 11.
Chung fired an initial five-second blast.
As the cloud of dust thrown up by the cannon began to clear, it was obvious Chung didn’t need a second one.
We certainly scared them, Springer agreed. The softening up phase of the operation had gone without a hitch.
She glanced around with her helmet in survey mode, and reassessed that judgment. Saraswati hadn’t bothered to mark on tac-display the many dead and wounded amongst the human slaves. Most of them had simply fled, but those who remained and were fit to fight were eager to do so, seeking orders from the NCOs. Of the mothers and their babies, she saw no sign.
Saraswati was also asking in her subtle way what they were supposed to do next. They’d reached the limit of her section’s initial orders.
Now comes Arun’s big gamble, Springer explained.
Whatever you might think of him, AI, he’s still our CO.
Renegade Legion (The Human Legion Book 3) Page 8
