I wasn’t sure, nor did I care, if the men on the machine-gun were Travelers or traitorous Realm citizens. What I did care about was silencing the weapon.
***
From this height and distance, I couldn’t reach the machine-gun with kinetic rounds, unless I tossed the MC forty-five at it. Not much help there, so I pulled out my Knight Protector of the Clan strap and slung it over my head. The Knight’s doublet and black trousers went on and I pulled down the hood.
Luckily for me, while the Troops and the machine-gun were spraying and praying, making a mess of the far side, this side of the warehouse was relatively safe. The Marines used fire control and I didn’t worry until I was top-of-a-crate high on the rungs. Then, I rushed my climb down as stray rounds pinged off the wall on either side me. Hitting the ground hard, I ran to a container in the back where a power line dropped from the tracks on the ceiling.
At the end of the power line hung a control screen. Now hidden behind a cargo crate, I flicked a few switches with my head tilted back. Above me, the motors moved to my directions. Unfortunately, I lacked the motors’ numbers, their location or which switch controlled which motor. Soon the tracks had transport motors moving around as if they were bugs in a newly opened cargo sleeve after a long flight under exterior drive.
As a pilot, control and response were my forte. After a few more trials and errors, I located a motor on the track passing down the center of the first line of crates. The extension and retraction control for the lifting straps was basic up and down. I felt as if I were almost ready.
I moved the motor to the far end of the warehouse and lowered the cargo crate hooks to knee high over the top of the last crate. Fortunately, no one looked up during a firefight. They wouldn’t unless a sniper began dropping bodies. Even the Troop beside the crate failed to notice the straps and arm sized hooks as they lowered.
My issue now was the speed of the transport motor. If it passed over the crate and machine-gun before me, the crew could manhandle the hooks around their weapon. If it arrived to long after me, I’d be a shimmering target for both Troops and Marines. I started the motor at the lowest speed, made a judgement, and bumped up the power. The straps and hooks drifted over the edge of the cargo crate, the gap, and over the edge of the next cargo container.
I left the control screen hanging on the power cord and shoved my arms into the muffler pouch. When I withdrew them, my forearms were encased in leather guards. The fighting sticks, I left in the pouch.
***
As I jogged across the warehouse deck, I tried to keep a container between me and the incoming rounds from the Marines. It would be a waste of my planning, and would certainly prevent me from finishing my mission, if the Knight Protector of the Clan was wounded or killed by friendly fire.
I skirted a Constabulary command post. While it was tempting to take out the Traveler commander, I felt the machine-gun was more of a threat to the Marines. No one noticed the man shaped ripple as I raced from crate to crate. Out of the corner of my eyes, I looked up for the motor and the straps. But, I was between the rows and the ceiling view was limited to a small section, none of which included the moving transport motor or the dangling hooks.
The machine-gun rattled again. Off the far wall, I could hear the pinging of rounds as if a group of people were throwing handfuls of rocks at a steel plate. Being smart, the Marines had ceased firing and ducked down which was good for me. During the lull, I sprinted to the corner of the crate where the big gun was mounted.
Somewhere off to my left, four large container hooks were drifting my way. I just didn’t know when they would arrive.
***
In Marine Corps’ leadership training, instructors taught the seventy percent solution. It wasn’t about blindly charging the enemy or tossing Marines against enemy positions to see what worked. The seventy percent referred to gathering enough facts to formulate a workable plan. Because there was no perfect plan, you couldn’t wait for all the information. Besides, the enemy’s positions would shift, the terrain would vary, circumstances would change, and the perfect plan would fall apart. In short, your perfect battle plan, the one you put together after collecting ninety-eight percent of available data, would not survive first contact with the enemy.
To allow for variables in combat, the Marine Corps asked for seventy percent of the available information. From this you could form a workable plan, and adjust the plan as the battle unfolded. I’d fixed the strap and hook height, set the motor in motion, and tried to time it to my arrival at the crate. I was as close to seventy percent as I could get.
***
The built-in rungs on the corner of the cargo crate allowed me to quickly scale the container. Another lesson from my days as a Sergeant of Marines, hesitation kills. I didn’t pause to look around at the firefight or for the location of the moving hooks. I charged at the machine-gun’s loader.
He was bent over an ammo box with a charged kinetic mag in each hand. My knee came forward on my last step. His head snapped back and he leaned over the edge of the crate. A nudge from my elbow as I stepped by sent the loader over the edge. He disappeared into the gap between crates.
The gunner was raised up with the weapon’s handles gripped in his hands. As he depressed the triggers and began another sweep of the Marines, I stomped on his arms. It brought ugly results. Both arms snapped at the radii. He released the triggers as his forearms bent at unnatural angles. While he screamed, I rolled him off the other side of the crate.
By now, the Troops on either side realized something was wrong. The silence of their machine-gun and the bodies of their gunners brought cries of alarm. I imagined the Constabulary commander gathering an assault team to scale the crate, sweep away the assailant, and get the weapon back in service.
I ignored the thoughts and turned to look for the cargo crate hooks. They were just reaching the edge of the next crate over from me. Slowly it seemed, they drifted towards me. I pulled the MC forty-five, dropped low and duck walked to the end of the crate. It was necessary as the Marines, realizing the machine-gun was off line, had begun to pick targets. One of their NCOs must have assigned the machine-gun shield as a primary objective.
While kinetic rounds, thankfully at a steep angle, came zipping through the slit, I leaned over the end of the crate and fired at the Troops climbing the rungs. I never thought having rounds fired in my direction would be a relief. But, while the Troops on the deck fired at the edge of the crate, I knew they weren’t climbing up to me. So, I squatted down below the intersecting fields of fire converging over my head and relaxed.
The hooks reached the gap. As soon as I could get a hand on one, I guided it to the center of the machine-gun. It easily fit around the twin barrels. As the motor traveled along the track, far below the loaded hook separated for the other three. The slack tightened before the hook and the heavy weapon were swept over the gap. Soon the machine-gun was half a crate away and swinging in the air as if waving goodbye.
Then, I heard the one thing I didn’t need right now. From the Marine line, an NCO barked, “People, get up. Form on line. Free fire zone. Maintain your distance. Forward. Make them pay.”
The one place you do not want to be was in front of a line of angry Marines. They were really good at killing people, creatures, bugs, or anything that moved.
***
With Troops behind the crate and advancing Marines in front, I had nowhere to go. I crawled to the shield, curled up next to the metal, and hoped a Marine didn’t toss up a sonic grenade to express his opinion of the machine-gun emplacement.
A voice, with a thick accent, called out from behind the crate and the reports from the Troops’ rifles began to recede. I low crawled to the edge of the crate. When a Marine passed through the gap beneath me, I leaped to the next crate. Once moving, I continued to run across crate tops jumping gaps. Four crates down, I moved to the front, and scaled the rungs to the deck and the aisle.
The Marines had left rear guards and I sli
pped between them. Once on the far side, I stripped off the Knight gear, stowed it, and strolled back to the Marines.
“I’m Lieutenant Piran. What’s the situation?” I asked while flashing my Naval Officer’s tab.
“They had us pinned down, Sir,” one replied. “But the machine-gun went…”
“Went?” I asked.
“There, Sir,” the other Marine said while pointing to the double folding doors at the end of the warehouse.
The motor had stopped beyond the last crate and a short way from the doors. The machine-gun hung high above the deck with its muzzle tilted upward.
“I see,” I said solemnly. “Why were you down here? On patrol?”
“Food run, Lieutenant,” the Marine said. “Our supplies are in that crate on the second row. The Constabulary must have found out we were coming. They set up an ambush.”
“Who’s in charge?” I asked.
“Corporal Nahia. I can point her out to you,” the Marine offered.
“I know Corporal Nahia,” I told him as I walked across the center aisle.
***
“Been in any good fights, lately,” I asked the Corporal as she directed her Marines.
Three were opening a cargo crate while the rest covered two exit hatches. She spun on me with a dark scowl.
“Yea. Look around you,” she spat out. Then recognition set in and she walked back the attitude. “Sorry Lieutenant Piran. I didn’t recognize you.”
The last time I worked with Corporal Nahia she had backed down the leader of the Red Circle combat team. While he threatened me, she pulled on a pair of fancy brass knuckles. Despite him being taller and heavier, she challenged him to single combat. He declined, deciding it was best to retreat, rather than face the ferocious Corporal Nahia.
“You walk into an ambush?” I inquired. “Or was this a search and destroy mission?”
“Ambushed, Lieutenant. We have this deck under surveillance because one of our supply drops is here,” she explained while pointing at the three Marines prying open the cargo crate. “The warehouse was reported clear before we left the command post. I brought three squads on a resupply run. As soon as were reached the deck, the Constabulary opened up.”
“Your point-man didn’t see the shield and the meat grinder?” I asked.
“The top of the crate was clear when we came down the steps,” Nahia replied. “My rear element reached the cargo deck and the shield snapped up. Before we could form on line and assault, the Constabulary shoved the machine-gun into place.”
“It looked pretty dire from my vantage point,” I said.
“And where would that be, Sir?” she asked.
I pointed at the airlock high up on the wall and a few crates down from where we stood.
“Up there,” I said.
“That was you?” Nahia asked turning in the opposite direction and indicating the hanging machine-gun.
“Best I could do on short notice,” I replied.
“It was good enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, Sir, we need to pack out as much as we can,” she said. “Our supply container location is compromised.”
I walked to the edge of the container and leaned around to look inside. The crate was over half filled with supplies. A cargo crate was big, holding more items than three under sized squads could ever hope to carry off the deck.
“Let’s move the crate,” I suggested. “If we can get it close to the stairs, your Marines can form a bucket brigade.”
***
With four Marines acting as crewmen on the crate and the rest watching all the entrances, I guided the supply container across the center aisle. It settled on the top of a cargo crate near the stairs and the crewmen unhooked the front two hooks. Propelled by lifting the rear, the container slid forward until the open end touched the stair rails.
Touch was a little understated. The bottom edge of the crate crushed the railing and I received four thumbs’ up from the Marines. Seems the crewmen were worried about handing supplies over the rail. It would have slowed up the handoffs.
Two squads and I were on the stairs receiving supplies and passing them up to the Marine on the next step. About a quarter of the supplies from the crate were moved to stacks in the corridor outside the airlock. We were making good time and the crate was emptying rapidly when the Constabulary returned.
***
A box landed in my arms. While trying to keep my eyes fixed on the entrance hatches, I twisted and handed the box off. Troops burst through in a coordinated attack from two hatches.
It was a good strategy and the Constabulary, but for a couple of things, would have flooded the warehouse with Troops. Corporal Nahia’s Marines, four at each entrance, expected the assault. Nahia had instructed them on the proper response.
Two of the Marines at each hatch knelt down and fired forty-five kinetic rounds into the first Troops through. The bulky creatures absorbed a lot of kinetic rounds before falling. While the area in front of the hatches filled with wounded and dead Constabulary soldiers, the other Marines began pumping sonic grenades over their heads. The percussion weapons flew through the open hatches and exploded in the corridors. Beyond the hatches, Constabulary Troops bunched up and waiting to file through found themselves exposed and targeted before they could get into the fight.
Another box dropped into my arms. I twisted sideways and I passed it up. By the time I turned back, the Constabulary had slammed the hatches closed.
“I want a grenade every minute on those doors until we vacate this space,” Nahia ordered. She was standing with her legs a shoulder’s width apart and one hand on her hip. The other arm ended in a knife-hand and she chopped in the direction of both hatches. “If they want to come out and play, let’s remind them of the score. Marines ten, Constabulary two.”
Three kinetic rounds banged from a Marine’s rifle. Nahia looked from the Marine to where a Constabulary Troop holding a rifle collapsed against the closed hatch.
“Correction, Marines eleven, Constabulary two,” Nahia announced then looked up at the stairs. “Supplies people. Is that crate empty, yet?”
“Not yet, Corporal,” someone four steps below me replied.
“Well, we haven’t got all day,” she replied. “More moving, less eyeballing.”
To the sounds of equally spaced sonic grenades exploding against the hatches, we caught and passed on box after box of supplies.
***
Before the last of the packages reached me, Corporal Nahia tapped me on the shoulder.
“It’s unseemly for an officer to sweat on a work detail,” she stated loudly.
Marines above and below me heard her. I noticed a few smiles as everyone on the stairs had long ago become soaked in their own perspiration.
“It’s almost as bad as having a Navy Lieutenant take out a machine-gun nest to save a unit of Marines,” she added. “Sir, please step off the line.”
I gave up my position to a Marine and followed the Corporal. As we climbed the stairs to the air-lock, I heard a few Marines say, “Way to go, Sir.”
Others were pointing to the hanging machine-gun and then at me.
“You’ve done enough for now,” the Corporal said before turning and descending the staircase.
***
Nahia and six Marines armed with extra sonic grenades stood on the deck. Her teams on hatch suppression raced across the center aisle, passed through Nahia’s unit, and sprinted up the stairs to the empty crate. There, they took up positions with their rifles trained downward and across the warehouse.
The clock was ticking and every second a grenade didn’t explode against one of the hatches let the Constabulary know the Marines were pulling out.
The Corporal tapped two of her Marines on their shoulders before leading the other four to the stairs and up to the level of the empty cargo crate. The hatch suppression teams broke off and took the steps two at a time until they disappeared through the airlock. Seconds later, the two Marines on the deck launched grenades, tur
ned and ran to the steps.
Two other Marines launch grenades and jogged up the steps. They were joined by four more and the six quickly climbed the exposed staircase. When they passed me, and disappeared through the airlock, I spun around and entered the corridor.
Boxes and containers of supplies were stacked against the bulkheads in both directions. A narrow passageway down the center of the hall was the only clear space.
“Seal it,” Nahia ordered as she stepped through the airlock. “Lieutenant Piran. I’m assigning two Marines to guide you to the C.P.”
“Show me where and I can locate it on my own,” I said while holding up my PID. I pulled up a map of the A deck side. “Shouldn’t be that hard to find.”
Nahia leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “Lieutenant. The Marines’ know the way and I’m not comfortable sharing the information. However, I have two walking wounded. They want to stay and fight. But, if the Constabulary comes through that airlock or attacks from either end of the corridor, they’ll slow us down if we have to book it out of here.”
“Good point, Corporal,” I announced as she leaned away. “I wouldn’t want to get lost.”
“Meinard, Tsubasa escort Lieutenant Piran to the command post,” Nahia directed. “And before you check in with the Corpsmen, have Sergeant Bima send me a herd of mules.”
“We’re on it, Corporal,” replied one of the Marines. Then he said to me, “I’m Lance Corporal Meinard. The sulking Marine leaning against the ration boxes is Private First Class Tsubasa.”
The Lance Corporal’s wound was obvious as his right hand was swaddled in field dressings. I could tell why Nahia needed him out of the fight. Besides the pain in his hand, Meinard was limited in his accuracy and ability to reload. But with PFC Tsubasa, I couldn’t locate any sigh of injury.
“I don’t see any dressings. Where are you hit?” I inquired of the PFC.
On Point Page 3
