by J. N. Chaney
36
“I still don’t see why we don’t have the Navy take them out,” Tanu said as they sat in their assault position, waiting for the word to go.
“You heard the lieutenant. Roher objected,” Nix said.
“Yeah, but I don’t give a flying fuck how much that would put back the terraforming, or how much it will cost them to rebuild the main emitter.”
“Neither do I, but them’s the breaks. Welcome to the real universe.”
“So, we gotta pay with blood so the corporations don’t gotta pay in credits,” Tanu said, not willing to let it go.
Rev let their argument go in one ear and out the other. He wasn’t concerned as to the why as much as the how. They’d gotten their last frag order, and it didn’t look too feasible to him.
At least their Yellowjackets had been modified to match the Frisians’ Stilettos. They would now arm at fifteen meters, which was the absolute minimum it could be and still arm the warhead. But that didn’t mean he thought much of the frag, either in its ability to accomplish the mission or to keep them alive.
“Hey, Staff Sergeant,” he called over to where the SNCO was leaning back, eyes closed. “What do you think of the plan?”
She didn’t open her eyes, but she said, “It’s a plan.”
Which didn’t install much confidence in him.
“Do you think it’s going to work?”
“Depends on our execution, like always.”
“Execution didn’t work on Preacher Rolls,” Hussein said.
“You missed the show there, Hus-man,” Tanu reminded him.
“Yeah, the execution, like I said.”
Rev wasn’t interested in their bickering, and he still wanted more from the staff sergeant. She was the smartest Marine in the team, after all, with the firmest grasp of tactics and strategy.
“Really, Staff Sergeant. Is this, you know, usual? We just line up and charge?”
The staff sergeant was still for a long moment before she sat up and opened her eyes. “Plenty of times. Maybe for most of human history. You know the phrase, ’C'mon you sons of bitches, do you want to live forever?’”
“Yeah, sure. They told us that in boot camp. What was his name? Daly? Twentieth Century Earth Marine?”
“US Marine, yes. But that was before he led his Marines over the top, as they called it, charging emplaced machine guns.”
“But that was ancient history, and not with Centaurs and their weapons,” Tomiko said, scooching over to get in on the conversation.
“Have any of you heard about the Battle of Rorke’s Drift?”
She was met with blank stares. She shook her head in disappointment.
“Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.”
“So, what’s this Rorke’s Drift?” Rev asked.
“OK, listen up, you meatheads. Rorke’s Drift was a sideshow of the Battle of Islandiwana in the Eighteenth Century Anglo-Zulu War. The British Army had just had their asses handed to them in that battle by the Zulu Nation when a contingent of maybe four thousand warriors diverted to attack a small garrison of a hundred and fifty British and colonials at Rorke’s Drift.”
“Four thousand to a hundred and fifty? That sounds like us,” Tomiko said.
The staff sergeant waved her silent.
“The British were armed with what were then the most modern weapons available. The Zulus were mostly armed with assegai and shields.”
“What’s an—”
“A short spear. At the time, the Zulu warriors thought it was cowardice to face an enemy with a firearm.”
“Stupid,” Hussein said. “I’m using anything I can get my hands on.”
“So, you’re saying that these Zulus weren’t as technically advanced as the British, but they outnumbered them twenty-five to one? Like Miko said, that does sound like us,” Rev said.
“The Zulu commander decided that he was going to just overwhelm the British force, just as the other Zulus had won the Battle of Islandiwana the day before. Four thousand warriors, assaulting along two major axes, what they called the buffalo horn formation.”
“Which is almost what we are doing,” Nix said.
The staff sergeant nodded and then said, “So, to answer your question, yes, this has been done before.”
Rev let that digest a moment, feeling a little better about the upcoming fight. “Well, if the Zulus could do it, so can we. Wait, what?” he added when he saw the staff sergeant’s expression shift. “The Zulus did win, right?”
“Nope. The British won. Maybe five hundred Zulus were killed, but only seventeen British soldiers.”
“What the hell, Staff Sergeant? Why are you telling us that then?” Rev asked, incredulous.
“You said you wanted to know if this had been done before. You didn’t ask if the low-tech side won. I’ve had Rorke’s Drift on my mind since the frag, that’s all.”
“So, we’re in deep shit?” Tomiko asked.
“Like I said, execution. Masses of lower-tech armies have overcome defenders before. Little Bighorn. Islandiwana, that I just mentioned. The Plains of Altair. Lots of times.”
And with that, the staff sergeant leaned back and closed her eyes again.
“Great pep talk,” Rev muttered to Tomiko.
“Like she said, execution. We just need to do what we’re supposed to do.”
“Yeah, fire our Yellowjackets and become targets.”
Which wasn’t far from the truth. Each infantry Marine had been issued four of the little missiles, but there was nothing else they carried that could be considered an effective weapon against a Centaur. Sure, in a built-up area like the emitter, they might get close enough to take out a Centaur with a Phoenix, but Rev had been damned lucky with that before, and that was with the advantage of his victim not realizing he was there. In this assault the Centaurs knew they were coming. Most of the kills would be from the tanks, mech-heads, and the squadron of Navy Air. The groundpounders were there to keep the Centaurs’ attention.
He took one last glance at the staff sergeant, wishing he could just z-out like that. But he was too hopped up. Raiders were specially trained for a variety of missions, but not specifically infantry assaults. Still, there was the ancient phrase, “Every Marine is a rifleman.” He knew how to fire a Yellowjacket, and that was what was needed out of him.
He settled down to wait, and six minutes later, his earset came to life.
“Five minutes, Raiders. Get your shit together,” Gunny Thapa passed.
Rev stood and adjusted his combat suit. It was time to earn his pay.
“Any time now,” the gunny passed as they kept up their advance.
The groundpounders had been inexorably moving forward, closing the distance to the emitter site. Rev had gotten several glimpses of it while crossing high ground. Two kilometers across, it was dominated by four huge white stacks that spewed out tons of O2 and other gasses an hour. There were satellite emitters across the planet, but none were this powerful.
A tank round whizzed overhead as it crossed the twenty klicks to the site. This was harassment fire more than anything else, particularly as the rounds were aimed as not to damage critical infrastructure.
The FDC, the fire directionl center, would be watching the drone feeds for any sign of Centaurs at which to aim. Rev didn’t have access to the feeds, but there’d be a concentrated volley of fire if anything had been spotted.
“Do you think they’re still there?” he passed to Tomiko, who was advancing on his left flank.
“Probably. I’m sure the Navy can tell.”
“Still pretty weird that there’re no tin-ass ships around.”
“Like the lieutenant said, this could be a trap. That’s why we’ve got Plan B.”
Which Rev knew. He was just talking to break the mental stress. Any moment now, they could cross the line where the Centaurs would start fighting. No one really knew why when in a defensive posture, the Centaurs generally forwent long-distance fires, pref
erring to keep behind their security bubbles. The inverse-square law limited the size of the bubbles, but in this case, with the huge amount of power available at the emitter, the bubble might be bigger than normal.
Kinetic rounds with dumb fuzes could penetrate a bubble, but energy weapons were useless against it. Even the Navy’s big weapons could be blocked, which is why they relied on orbital drops of inert hunks of tungsten—God Rods, they called them, and their impact was nothing short of catastrophic.
Once the Marines breached that bubble, all hell would break loose. For the Centaurs, it would be a target rich environment. Hopefully, there would be more targets than they could handle.
And everyone wanted the mech Marines to get through the bubble still operational on their backup power. If not, the infantry was going to be up shit creek without a paddle.
There was a whistling overhead. Arty was up and firing. Not for long, though. Each tube would fire three rounds, then displace before the Centaurs’ boblinks—as stupid a name that Rev could think of—would trace back the rounds and hit the firing pits. Slow gun teams would be dead gun teams.
But none of that was part of Rev’s universe. He focused his senses forward as he closed with the enemy. Not just him. Over a thousand Marines and Host soldiers were marching forward alongside him.
There was a shrill, piercing noise that made Rev wince and put his hands over his ears, then nothing. His comms were out.
“Hello, hello?” he said, just to make sure it wasn’t just his comms and that his hearing was still functional.
It had been expected. Centaurs went for comms and drones first with massive EMP blasts.
Around him, Marines were breaking out into a jog, pushing forward.
“You still here?” he asked as he started to run.
Which was what he was told would happen. His AI was housed in a series of linked crystals, after all, not circuits, and his helmet and combat suit were hardened.
“Is everything functioning?”
Thank God for small favors.
But a big part of him was relieved, as odd as that might sound to a layman. It was the slow buildup that was bothering him. But now that the Centaurs had played their hand, he had something to focus on. He was in the fight.
“How long until we reach the target?”
Rev knew where he was and where he was going, of course. The enemy EMP didn’t affect the planet’s magnetic fields, but he didn’t know how long it would take him to cover the distance.
Did those Zulus have to run nine minutes?
He should have asked before, but the die was cast. He’d get there when he got there—if he got there at all.
Running through the fart trees and in a dip in the landscape, he couldn’t see the emitter site at the moment. But he could see the signs of battle. Overhead, a Navy Shrike fighter screamed past, banking hard in the brilliant light. It would have been loitering out of range for the initial EMP. Centaurs needed to recharge their cannon before repeating—at least that was the current theory.
It screamed ahead, 30mm cannons chattering.
“Get some!” Rev yelled, a moment before the Shrike yawed to the side, then came apart in mid-air, parts tumbling to the ground ahead of him.
Centaurs didn’t need their EMP to take out air.
“Respect to the fallen,” he whispered.
The fart trees opened up just a bit, and he could see Tomiko running to his right. She was focused on what was in front of her and didn’t see him. He glanced to his left, and Ting-a-ling was loping along in his powersuit and full helmet, each bound accelerated by the power-assist joints. The Frisian gave him a huge smile and thumbs-up before he disappeared behind a stand of laurel. The Frisians had said they could keep up, and it looked like that was the case.
Rev ate up the ground with his strides, getting ever closer. The terrain began to rise, the fart trees closer together, but he refused to slow down, even when his cannula began to slip. He kept on having to readjust it on the fly.
Maybe the Frisian’s helmet was the way to go, he thought as he shoved the tip of his cannula into his right nostril, then pressed down the chameleon pad onto his cheek.
But he was doing OK—huffing a bit, but OK. He could manage.
The air was crackling and snapping around him as it was displaced by energy beams. The Centaurs were in full defensive mode. Each of those snaps represented Marines dying, and that only drove Rev harder.
He crested the next rise, and there, a couple of klicks ahead, the emitter rose like a castle they were going to storm. Except, it was a castle with no walls. With no people on the planet, there was no reason for them, so the Marines wouldn’t have to take time to breach any to enter the compound.
Tank rounds were being intercepted, exploding short of the target, but a few were making it through the defenses and impacting. Traces of displaced air were the only signs of outgoing fire—this wasn’t the holovids where beam weapons were bright lines of light, conveniently color-coded, of course, so the viewer could see who were the good guys and who were the bad.
Darting figures ran through the trees as he descended the slope and back into the forest. Another couple of minutes and he’d be at the target area.
Rev hit his thigh holster as he ran and pulled out his first Yellowjacket. He gave it a quick glance, and it looked operational. He shook his head at the irony of it. Here he was, going into battle with a highly developed enemy, and his weapon of choice was one of humankind’s more primitive. Twentieth Century Marines and soldiers would immediately understand it and how to use it.
“Might as well be using one of those Zulu spears.”
Above his head, the treetops vaporized, the remnants busting into flames that quickly went out with the lack of oxygen. He was showered with ashes and debris, but he never slowed. The lieutenant had stressed that speed was the only way they were going to win. Slow down, and that gave them more time in the kill zone, time that the Centaurs were sure to exploit.
It wasn’t just the treetops. As he pushed forward, he ran through burnt and smoking debris. It took him a moment to realize this had to be the crash site of the fighter he’d seen go down. He didn’t bother to look for survivors—the fighter was remotely operated. But what it meant was that they had much less support as they closed in.
A glint of light caught his eye—one of the damned mirror drones, which enabled the Centaurs to reflect energy beams to targets in defilade. Rev reacted immediately, raising his Yellowjacket and firing. A mirror was difficult for the Yellowjacket’s targeting, but it also made it easy to see, and Rev wasn’t the only one to spot it. A fusillade of fire reached up to it. Whether it was his Yellowjacket or the other fire, the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces and showered the ground underneath.
Rev burst through the last of the trees and into the open fields surrounding the emitter site. All around him, thousands of Marines and soldiers were emerging, all intent on closing the distance. Their tactical SOP, with Marines moving forward in squad and fire team rushes, one element covering the other, was ignored for this mission. It looked like a historical holovid, with medieval armies rushing to battle.
Two tanks emerged, both of which were immediately hit and stopped. One kept firing, and Rev cheered it on as he picked up his speed. Ten seconds later, it was hit again, and it went up in a gout of flame, the turret flipping over and over as it climbed in seemingly slow motion before falling back to the ground.
“Shit.”
Tomiko edged closer to him as they ran. She had her Yellowjacket ready, but there were no targets yet. There might be 150 Centaurs ahead, but it was a big complex with plenty of places to conceal themselves.
Past Tomiko, the gunny was frantically signaling the team to spread out. That wasn’t going to happen, though. They were converging onto a na
rrower front, so they couldn’t spread out.
Rev expected to feel the kiss of a beam at any second, but the Centaurs were not cooperating by targeting the infantry. The tanks and mech Marines were their focus. But not exclusively. To Rev’s left, two soldiers disappeared in a puff of mist, and three more went down hard. That isolated Ting-a-ling, but the commando never faltered. He shifted to his left, filling in for the fallen. Rev followed.
And then, somehow, in the chaos, Rev was inside the compound, his back up against a one-story building, his chest heaving as he fought for oxygen. He tried to see farther when something caught his eye. Before he even realized what it was, he dropped his Yellowjacket, pulled up his M49, and fired a burst that barely missed Ting-a-ling but hit the Centaur drone. It shattered and fell in pieces just a few meters from the Frisian soldier.
“Thanks!” Ting-a-ling said before he darted around the corner of the building and out of sight.
Rev was tempted to follow, but the Frisians had their own objectives, and even losing at least five of their fellow soldiers, that was still their mission. Rev’s team had their own.
“Good luck,” he said before turning back to where Tomiko had disappeared into the complex.
Rev reached the end of the building and peered around. Tomiko had advanced to one of the power substations, where she was crouched, her Yellowjacket at the ready. Rev sprinted up to her.
“Where’s the gunny?”
She pointed across a small open space to a low wall.
“We need to do this right, like in the order,” Rev told her. “None of this haphazard shit.”
But the gunny was already on it. “On me!” he shouted from behind the low wall.
“You heard him,” Rev said, taking off in a run.
An explosion rocked the ground, a shockwave knocking him down. He scrambled on his hands and knees to the minimal protection of the wall, then looked back just as Tomiko reached it.
“That’s one of the bastards down. Self-destructed,” Tomiko said.
The gunny shouted, “Our first objective is the injection station thirty meters ahead. Montez, cover us. Tanu, Reiser, Pelletier, let’s go!”
