First Strike

by Richard Turner

The dull crump of incoming artillery hitting their targets all along the front line seemed to be never-ending. For the past three hours, the Kurgan guns had been relentlessly pounding the houses occupied by the Marine defenders.

  Sheridan’s building shook from a near miss. Dust trickled down from the roof, like snow, onto everything below it. Sheridan sat by a viewport looking out at the horizon, lit up a hellish red by the enemy’s long line of guns. Inside the basement command post, each person awaited the coming assault in their own way. One of the Marines sat in the corner praying while another was flat out on the ground fast asleep. Garcia packed and unpacked her med kit. Sheridan had lost count how many times she had performed the ritual. Staff Sergeant Cole was absent, having been trapped by the heavy machine gun when the barrage started.

  With a growing sense of apprehension, Sheridan knew that the instant the barrage lifted that the enemy would be coming in their thousands. He was surprised that he wasn’t scared. Nervous perhaps, but definitely not afraid. He chalked that up to inexperience. Sheridan doubted he would feel this way the next time—if there was a next time.

  He edged over to another viewport and looked over at the buildings where two of his squads were holed up. Through the swirling dust, he could see that both houses still stood. He was relieved. If either one of his squads had been destroyed during the barrage, he knew that there would be no way he could possibly hold his position and would be forced to pull back.

  The shelling, like a demonic wave, shifted behind them and onto the depth units behind them.

  They were coming.

  “Stand to,” ordered Sheridan. He reached down to flip his rifle’s safety to automatic and saw that his hand was shaking. Sheridan closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. With a quick flick of his thumb, he placed his weapon on full-auto.

  In the gray light of dawn, Sheridan could just make out the Kurgan trenches. The scene reminded him of a picture he once saw of the First World War. Although centuries removed from that time, the similarity wasn’t lost on Sheridan when he saw all along the Kurgan lines, hundreds of crimson red banners being lifted aloft. Crimson he knew was the color that signified the Kurgan religion.

  Suddenly, thousands of voices all called out as one. The word they chanted was Kurgan for God. Sheridan found it be both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. His orders were to hold at all cost. There could be no withdrawal from their positions.

  He lifted up his binoculars and focused them on the Kurgan trenches. A second later, like creatures crawling up from the pits of hell, ten thousand warriors climbed out of the jagged lines dug in the ground and began to surge forward. Without any supporting artillery to assist them, there was nothing left to Sheridan and his Marines but small arms to bring down the long white line of Chosen soldiers.

  All along the line, the crew-served heavy weapons opened fire. The rhythmic noise of the machine guns firing filled the air. Tracers reached out like a long line of deadly scythes, cutting down dozens of Kurgans at a time. It, however, was precisely what the enemy wanted. They had sold the lives of their soldiers to identify where the Marines’ machine guns were located. Seconds later, dozens of drones swarmed over the Marines’ positions, firing off all of their missiles until all of the heavy weapons fell silent. Sheridan swore when he saw two projectiles slam into the side of the building where Cole and the .50 cal team were dug in. The building exploded and collapsed in on itself sending up a swirling plume of smoke and dust into the sky.

  The long line of Chosen warriors was now less than one hundred meters away.

  Sheridan placed his laser sight on a soldier and pulled the trigger. He never saw the man fall. All along the line the Marine defenders opened fire. It was impossible to miss; the Chosen soldiers were packed together running forward almost shoulder to shoulder. Everyone in Sheridan’s bunker was firing as fast they could, trying to stop the white-coated mass from reaching their lines. Quickly changing his magazine, Sheridan was surprised how fast he went through one-hundred rounds.

  Out front of their position, the long line of Chosen soldiers began to falter. It was like charging into a hailstorm. Men bent down and slowed down to a walk as they made their way over the mounds of dead and wounded in their path. Bloodied bodies littered the ground. The wounded knew they were on their own and began to crawl back toward their own lines. A Kurgan officer grabbed a banner and waved it over his head, trying to get his men to continue forward. He fell with a hole blasted through his head. All along the line, hesitation took hold of the Chosen as more and more of their officers fell under the lethal fusillade. The warriors had given all they could. At first, in ones and twos, they began to run to the rear and then, like a dam bursting, the entire assault force turned and ran for the safety of their trenches.

  “Cease fire,” yelled Sheridan as Kurgan smoke rounds fired by their artillery fell from the sky obscuring the enemy forces as they fled back to their own lines.

  A loud cheer broke out from the battered defenders. A young Marine patted Sheridan on the back and then let out a whoop.

  “We got ‘em, sir,” said the Marine. “They ain’t so tough.”

  Sheridan shook his head. “That was just a probing attack to pinpoint our positions. They’ll be back, and next time they’ll bring armor for intimate support.”

  “Armor?”

  “Yeah, the Kurgs are just like us. They have tanks, and I’m sure they’re not afraid to use them.”

  Sheridan turned to look out on the battlefield. It was a sickening spectacle to behold. In front of his platoon were several hundred Chosen soldiers. Most were dead; however, dozens lay there moaning in agony, while several more dragged themselves over the bodies of their comrades as they tried to make it back to their trenches. Sheridan knew from reading about the last war that Kurgan commanders did not believe in evacuating their wounded off the battlefield. They didn’t have medics at unit level. It was God’s will if you lived or died.

  He shook his head and turned about. “Garcia, I’m going to check on the platoon. If a runner comes from the CO, send him my way.” With that, he opened the door to the basement and climbed the stairs. The smell of burnt wood filled his nostrils. Carefully moving over to an open door at the back of the building, he peered out and saw that the path was clear. Stepping out, he heard glass from the shattered windows break underfoot. He sucked in air through his teeth as his heart raced in his chest. So much for being quiet, he thought to himself. Sheridan lifted his foot and looked for a better place to put it down. He warily edged to the side of the house and peered around the corner. When he didn’t see any movement coming from the long line of Chosen bodies, he sprinted across the open ground to the next closest house and slid inside through a hole blasted in the side of the building.

  Sergeant James greeted Sheridan with a weary smile. “Looks like we gave them a good ass kicking, eh, sir.”

  “They’ll be back,” replied Sheridan. “I want you to adjust your positions in the house. No one is to be where they were the last time the enemy attacked.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because they’ve probably identified all of our positions with laser target designators and when they come again, they’ll blast the hell out of those locations first.”

  “Got it, sir,” responded James.

  Sheridan pushed on through the wrecked house until he came to another opening in the wall. As before, he made sure it was clear before dashing over to the building where Cole and the heavy-weapons team had been. He climbed over a pile of rubble and made his way up inside the home. It was unnervingly quiet. Sheridan called out, “Sergeant, are you in there?”

  “Is that you, sir?” replied Cole.

  “Yeah, where are you?” asked Sheridan unable to tell where the voice was coming from under all the debris covering the floor.

  “Believe it or not, we’re on the floor below you. When the missiles hit, the floor gave way and dumped us down here.”

  Sheridan pus
hed some burnt timbers out of the way and bent down so he could see down into the next floor. He gritted his teeth when he saw Cole wrapping a field dressing around Agnar’s bloodied head. The front of the soldier’s uniform seemed to be caked with blood and dust. “Where are the other men?” he asked Cole.

  “Obermman and Shields are both dead.”

  Sheridan swore. “What about the machine gun?”

  “A total write off,” replied Cole. “There’s no way it could be repaired unless there was a weapons tech around, and I doubt we’re gonna see one of them in our neck of the woods for a long time.”

  Sheridan asked, “Is there a way out of there?”

  “Yeah, there’s a hole in the wall large enough for us to crawl through.”

  “Okay then, you and Agnar head back to the command bunker and wait for me there. I’m going to check on the rest of the platoon before I head back.”

  Cole looked up and nodded. “Hey, sir, keep your head down out there.”

  “Trust me, I will. I have no desire to end up as a notch on some Kurgan drone operator’s desk.”

  Almost an hour passed before Sheridan made it back to his command post. Cole and the rest of the people there had moved into the next room and were busy sandbagging the new firing ports.

  “How are the squads holding up?” Cole asked.

  “James’ squad is alright. Singh lost a man and Lanihan has two slightly wounded who refuse to go back to the aid station.”

  “So, three dead and three wounded. We came off fairly light, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, I doubt we’ll be so lucky in the future.”

  An out of breath soldier staggered down into the bunker and gave Sheridan a message. While he read it, Cole made sure the young man got some water. With all of their communications gear jammed, they had reverted to using runners to pass messages. A hazardous duty with all of the Kurgan hunter-killer drones circling the city ready to blast anything that moved out in the open.

  Sheridan signed the note and handed it back to the Marine, who headed out to the next platoon position.

  “What’s up?” Cole inquired.

  “Just an update from higher. We’re to expect another attack in the next few hours. This time they’ll be backed up by armor.”

  “You called it, sir,” remarked Garcia.

  Sheridan grinned. “I’m not that bright. It’s the benefit of studying the last war that gave me the foresight to know what to expect. Their equipment may have improved like ours, but for some reason, their tactics are still mired in the past.”

  “It worked for them before, didn’t it, sir,” said Agnar.

  “Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t,” responded Sheridan.

  “Hey, sir, look, it’s snowing,” said the Marine who had been praying during the artillery barrage.

  Sheridan grinned. At last, Lady Luck was shining down on them. The enemy’s thermal vision equipment would be severely degraded in the blowing snow. For as long as it snowed, the enemy would be blind.

  A voice called out. It was a Chosen speaking Kurgan.

  Sheridan edged to a firing port and peered outside. He could see a wounded man shot through both legs trying to sit up.

  “What’s he saying?” asked Garcia.

  “He’s asking for help,” responded Sheridan. “He wants us to put him out of his misery.”

  “I’ll gladly do it,” said Agnar as he reached for his rifle.

  Sheridan shook his head. “I’d rather take him alive. I’m sure regiment would love to interrogate him.”

  “No one’s going out there!” warned Cole. “I’ve seen this kind of crap before. On Setius-5, the rebels told their people that if they were wounded to call out for help. Same thing’s happening here. He’s trying to draw someone out so a Kurg sniper a kilometer away can kill him. He knows his life is forfeit, he just wants to take one of us with him.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Garcia as she crossed herself.

  A second later, a shot rang out, echoing off the walls of the buildings. The wounded warrior slumped back, dead.

  “I guess one of our snipers decided to get rid of the bait,” Cole said dryly.

  Sheridan stood there for a moment looking out at the dead man. He shook his head and then slumped down onto the sandbagged parapet. The thought, it’s going to be a long and brutal war, flashed into his mind. He suddenly felt tired as the adrenaline seeped out of his system. A growl from deep inside his stomach told him to eat something while he had the chance.

  “I was waiting for someone else’s guts to bark out,” said Agnar as he ripped open a box of rations and tossed the meals around.

  Sheridan grabbed his food out of the air. He let out a chuckle. He had spaghetti, his favorite meal. Thank God for small things.

  Cole looked over at the soldier who could sleep anywhere and said, “Marine, what’s your name?”

  “Private Angus Macdonald,” replied the Marine.

  “Well, Private Macdonald, you just volunteered to become the platoon runner. Pack your kit and make your way back to the company CP and stay there until you’re sent back here with a message for the Mister Sheridan. Keep your head down and make sure that you can find your way to and from this bunker in the dark.”

  The soldier nodded his acknowledgment and began to grab what few things he had, jammed them in his pack and left.

  “I’d give a month’s pay for some working comms gear,” said Sheridan.

  “Might as well save your money because it ain’t gonna happen,” Cole replied. “From paper maps to runners to an enemy that still believes in human waves, we’ve stepped way back in time to fight this war.”

  Agnar asked, “Sir, when do you think they’ll come again?”

  “I suspect they’ll spend the rest of the day massing their forces and then come at us late tonight or early tomorrow morning with everything they’ve got.”

  “Sounds about right,” added Cole as he removed the magazine from his rifle and checked how many rounds were still in it.

  Sheridan took a quick glance outside. The snow was coming down heavier than before; it was hard to see more than ten meters through the swirling blanket of snow. He couldn’t see the wall of Chosen bodies lying out on the cold ground anymore. “Sergeant, what do you think, should we do one last check of the squads before the sun sets?”

  “Yes, sir, I was about to suggest the same thing.” Cole grinned; they were beginning to think alike. A good sign for any command team.

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