by Tripp Ellis
“What the hell is he saying?” Lieutenant Thompson asked as he hovered over the charred rebel.
“He’s begging for a merciful death,” Talvar said.
“You tell this slimy dirt ball he’ll get a merciful death if he tells me how many troops are in those hills,” Thompson said.
Talvar translated.
The rebel muttered something.
Talvar hesitated.
“Well?” Thompson inquired.
Talvar hesitated again. “I think he’s lying.”
“What did he say?”
“He says there’s 10,000 troops in those hills.”
Thompson’s face tensed. He poked at the rebel’s charred skin with the barrel of his rifle. The top layer of skin flaked away, revealing bright oozing red flesh below.
The rebel screamed again in agony.
“Look, you little piece of shit. It can get a whole lot worse for you if you don’t start telling the truth.”
Talvar translated.
The rebel mumbled something almost inaudible.
“He says 10,000. He says you’re all going to die here.” Then Talvar added, “His words, not mine.”
The muscles in Thompson’s jaw flexed. “You tell that bastard I wouldn’t piss on his ass if his soul was on fire.”
Talvar hesitated. “I think his soul is on fire.”
“Go on. Tell him!”
Talvar relayed the message.
I knew this was going to start a shit storm. “Sir, the Galactic Convention requires that we provide this man medical assistance.”
Thompson glared at me. “I don’t give a damn about the Galactic Convention. Look around you, Sergeant. That’s Federation blood on this battlefield. It’s time for a little payback.”
I didn’t say anything. I just locked eyes with him for another moment.
“Now take your squad, get in those hills, and kill more of them.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
I gave a final glance to the Utabi rebel lying on the ground. His body was shaking uncontrollably at this point. I was never going to forget his face. Don’t get me wrong, my blood was still boiling from losing Bugs and half my squad. But there was something gut-wrenching about seeing another living creature in such agony. It was a grim reminder of what could befall any of us. There was life, and there was death—and then there was that horrible state in between. Not quite here, not quite there. If you survived in that state, it meant a lifetime of challenge.
No, thank you.
When my number came up, I wanted a clean death. None of this mangled, mutilated bullshit. Kronos was the kind of place that would make you envy those who got out quick and easy. A clean death. It beat slow and agonizing any day.
I rounded up the rest of my squad and we pushed deeper into the jungle. It didn’t take long to find ourselves in contact again. Bullets snapped through the air. I took cover behind a thick tree trunk. Bark exploded as enemy rounds peppered the tree.
The rebels had sprung up, seemingly out of nowhere.
“1-1-Zulu, this is 2-2-Alpha. We’re taking heavy fire. They’ve got us cut off.”
“2-2-Alpha, we’re coming to get you,” I replied. “I’ve got your location on my HUD.”
“Is that you, Pickle?”
“In the flesh.”
I’m not even going to go into how I got the name Pickle.
“If you could get here yesterday, that would be perfect.”
“Roger that, Mad Dog. Hang tight.”
I quickly glanced over the platoon’s statistics. They had a 42% casualty rate. So far, Operation Mighty Thunder was a complete cluster fuck.
4
DAK!
DAK!
DAK!
I angled the barrel of my weapon around the tree trunk and fired into the bush. The bullets tore through leaves and peppered a rebel soldier, sending him flopping into the high grass.
He was close. Too close. I could see his eyes and the expression on his face.
It didn’t matter how many of them my squad dropped, they kept coming. Wave after wave. We weren’t able to advance. They were too close to call in a fire mission—I’d have artillery shells dropping on my head if I tried.
My finger pressed the mag release button, and the magazine dropped out of the well. I slapped in a fresh 30 round magazine, pressed the bolt catch, and resumed firing. The barrel of my weapon danced from point-to-point as enemies attacked from all angles. My HUD lit up with incoming threats. At this rate, we weren’t going to be able to get to Alpha Company’s 2nd Platoon. There was no telling how long they were going to last out there alone.
“Be advised,” Mad Dog said, crackling in my ear. “They’re using tunnels to move around. They’ve got them running everywhere.”
It made sense. That’s how they had been able to swarm a location so quickly. I grumbled to myself, wishing we had better intel before we started this operation. “Roger that.”
I was pissed. It seemed like this whole operation was ill-conceived. Standard operating procedure would be to send a recon team in to scout the area and report back. Had they been sent out? If so, how could they have missed such a crucial fact? A network of tunnels running through the mountainside would be something to note on a report. Then another, more insidious thought entered my mind. Perhaps the recon team had discovered the network of tunnels, and no one in command bothered to tell us about it.
There was a general attitude among the brass that the Utabi were nothing more than savages. Incapable of organization and advanced battle tactics. But that was just plain arrogance on the part of command. These people were clever and ingenious. They had survived for eons on an inhospitable planet. They continued to thrive, despite our efforts to change the climate. Underestimating their capabilities and resolve would be a serious mistake, as evidenced by our lack of effectiveness here today.
I had no doubt that we were going to come out of this conflict on top. We always did. But at what cost? A defeat here, in these highlands, would be devastating to morale, and would embolden the rebels. It would set the tone for the rest of the conflict.
But I’m just a dumb grunt. Those broader musings about the nature of the war don’t serve me well. I’m paid to aim my rifle and squeeze the trigger. Not to think.
A grenade landed in the grass a few feet away. I caught sight of it out of the corner of my eye.
“Grenade!” I yelled as I dove for cover. The ground exploded, spraying dirt, grass, and shrapnel in all directions. I could feel bits of debris impact my armor. I tumbled to the ground. The blast was earsplitting. I couldn’t hear a thing, only the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
My heart pounded, and I was dazed. My vision blurred. My hands fumbled for my weapon. Once I grasped it, I scurried for cover behind another tree. It took a second to get my bearings. I was so high on adrenaline, I couldn’t feel a thing. I prayed I was still in one piece. I was almost hesitant to look down.
My panicked eyes glanced over my body. I had all my fingers and toes, and I didn’t see any blood. Nothing seemed to be broken, but only time would tell.
It was like someone had turned down the volume, then slowly turned it back up again. As my hearing returned, agonizing screams filled my ears. The clatter of weapons fire littered the air. Bullets snapped all around.
My horrified eyes fixed on a mound of shredded flesh that used to be a Marine. Painted red and raw, the mangled warrior tried to stuff his guts back into his belly. It took a moment for me to recognize him through the blood and muck.
It was Juggler.
My heart sank. How many more friends was I going to lose today?
I flopped on my belly and shuffled across the dirt to the wounded Marine. There wasn’t anything I could do. Within a moment of my arrival, Juggler’s last breath rattled from his lungs.
My whole body tensed. My throat tightened. Rage filled my veins. I scanned my HUD. Dizzy, Rebound, and Hacker were all that remained of my squad.
"LT, this is Pic
kle, do you copy?"
There was no response.
My HUD alerted me to threats that were emerging through the trees. I kept peppering the underbrush with weapons fire. The air was thick with smoke, and it was difficult to see.
"LT, this is Pickle, do you copy, over?"
Nothing but static crackled over the comm line. Finally someone replied. "LT is wasted. You’re in command now."
Third squad was to my left, second squad to my right. We were barely holding the line. It was either fallback and wait for reinforcements, or call in air support. I could see the faces of the enemy. Calling in a fire mission was risky. But falling back was not an option.
"Almighty, this is 1-2-Zulu. I need a fire mission, ASAP. Grid Victor-Kilo-239-8652, danger close. Copy?”
“1-2-Zulu, this is Almighty. Are you sure about that? That's awfully close.”
"Positive."
"Grid Victor-Kilo-239-8652. Keep your head down. Over.”
“Roger that."
Within seconds I could hear the whistle of incoming artillery rounds. I hugged the ground and held onto my helmet. It seemed like hundreds of rebels were charging toward us.
The artillery rounds pierced the green canopy, cracking tree branches before thundering to the ground. The explosions rumbled the hillside, and I felt the vibrations in my belly. It was like the fist of God had punched the mountainside.
An incessant flurry of rounds shellacked the area. Each blast spidering plumes of dirt and debris in all directions. The explosions snapped tree trunks and ripped apart body parts. Heads, arms, legs, and feet scattered everywhere. The agonizing cries of the enemy hung in the air along with the smoke from the blasts.
With everything that had gone wrong today, I figured we were going to be the victims of friendly fire. But when the shelling stopped, my platoon didn't seem to be any worse for the wear. My HUD indicated the same number of souls were still living as before the fire mission.
"Sound off!" I yelled into the comm line. I didn't trust electronics. I wanted real, tangible authentication that my men were still alive.
One by one they called out.
The fact that we were all still alive gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, my luck was beginning to change.
5
1-2-Zulu, this is Overlord.”
"Go ahead, Overlord,” I said.
"Fall back to the LZ and prepare for extraction."
My face crinkled with anger. "Say again?"
"Repeat. Fall back to LZ and prepare for extraction." The voice crackling in my ear spoke slow and deliberate.
My blood boiled. Surely they knew Alpha platoon was out there alone, cut off from the LZ? "Say again? Alpha platoon is cut off."
"Repeat. Fall back to LZ. Prepare for extraction, over."
I didn't respond. There was no way I was going to leave Mad Dog and the rest of the Alpha platoon to be slaughtered. But without reinforcements, we were going to find ourselves in the same position shortly.
"Repeat, fall back to LZ. Prepare for extraction. Do you copy?"
“Copy that,” I finally said, forcing a response.
My platoon was huddled behind trees, preparing for the impending onslaught. The fighting had died down after the artillery strikes, but more rebels would inevitably be coming.
My weary eyes looked over my tattered platoon. "You heard the man. You can fall back to the LZ, or you can help me rescue Alpha platoon."
Disobeying a direct order was going to get me court-martialed. But at that particular moment I didn't really care. Leaving Alpha platoon alone in this mess was a shitty thing to do.
Marines don't leave Marines behind.
But things had changed. The Division was on loan to the Volkov-Akagi Corporation. They had direct oversight and control of planetary operations. They had infused a handsome amount into the Defense Department's budget. In exchange, they ultimately controlled command decisions on Kronos. Sure, they still needed DOD approval, and the operations were technically under the command of Major General Edwin Easton—but with the amount of stock options he was receiving as a bonus, he wasn't about to obstruct the wishes of company officials.
I guess some suit at corporate had decided we’d taken enough casualties for one day. Reports of the sheer size of the enemy force that was scattered throughout the hills had filtered back to command. They had sent us into a bloodbath, and they knew it. Pullback, regroup, and re-evaluate. That was all fine and dandy, unless you were Alpha platoon.
None of the members of my platoon made even the slightest movement toward the LZ. A thin smile curled on my lips. My chest swelled with pride. I’d been fighting alongside these men for months, and they had become like brothers. I’d give my life to save anyone of them, and they would do the same for me.
“Pickle, tell me you’re not bailing on us out here?” Mad Dog’s shaky voice filtered in my ear.
“We’re coming to get you, buddy.”
“Anybody else?”
“We’re it.”
There was a moment of hopeless silence.
“I can’t believe they’re fucking us like this. I’ve got multiple wounded that need immediate med-evac.”
“We’re going to get to you as soon as we can.”
The thump of artillery rounds rumbled in the distance. The crackle of weapons fire filtered through the comm line.
“Get back to the LZ,” Mad Dog said in a resigned tone. “If you try to come here you’re just going to walk your men into a slaughter.”
“We’re not going to leave you behind. We’ll find a way to get to you.”
“You know they’re pulling the troops back so they can torch the mountainside. They’re going to scorch this place, then try again tomorrow.”
“Well, then. We better get you out quick.”
Alpha platoon was a half klick north of my current position. It didn’t seem like a long way, but the terrain was rugged, and the opposition was fierce. We advanced forward, not knowing when we were going to run into more rebels.
We cautiously moved through the thick foliage. Curran took point, hacking through the almost impenetrable jungle with a plasma blade. The distant clatter of gunfire filtered through the dense foliage. As we cut a trail, an eerie calmness fell over the area. It was disconcerting. Was this how alpha platoon found themselves surrounded? I got the distinct feeling that the rebels were letting us walk into an ambush.
Curran clenched his fist, signaling the platoon to halt. "I think I found something," he whispered over the comm line.
I made my way up to Curran’s position. He had found a tunnel that was covered with a patchwork of twigs and reeds. It had been left carelessly in place, exposing a portion of the tunnel entrance. Probably placed in a hurry by the retreating rebels.
I angled my weapon toward the tunnel as Hoffman pulled the makeshift cover aside. My tactical contact lenses gave me enhanced vision into the darkness. I could see about 20 yards into the passageway, until it curved to the right. The tunnel had been laser cut. Smooth, precise edges. It was no secret that the rebels had received financing from outside sources. Rival corporations wanting to thwart the profitability of Volkov-Akagi. Modern warfare was less about political ideology and more about corporate profits and greed.
"This is how they are moving around," Hoffman said.
I pulled a small mosquito drone from a pouch on my tactical vest. I launched it into the tunnel, and it fluttered away. The mechanical device flew erratically, mimicking the pattern of an insect. The device could be controlled from my PDU, and its optics fed directly into my tactical contact lenses. It buzzed through the passageway, mapping the environment as it fluttered along. Image stabilization in the optics provided a smooth view. With enhanced night vision, thermal imaging, and a 24K sensor it relayed detailed images.
The empty passageway meandered, then opened into a larger chamber that was full of enemy troops. Dozens of passageways crisscrossed each other. Miles of tunnels had been carved into the mountainside, c
reating a labyrinth of shafts. It was like an elaborate ant colony. And we were about to kick the hive.
6
I should have turned around right then and marched my platoon back to the LZ. That would have been the smart thing to do. But then, I’ve never been accused of being a genius.
Things were about to get ugly.
A map of the tunnel system slowly began to flesh itself out on my HUD as the drone relayed information. It kept a running total of the number of enemy troops detected. The count was already at 597, and only a fraction of the tunnel system had been explored.
There were 12 men left in my platoon. Not exactly great odds.
“Sarge, not to be that guy… but these tunnels are everywhere,” Curran said. “If we keep moving northeast, we are going to find ourselves in a world of shit. Rebels will pop up out of nowhere and flank us. They’re like rabid groundhogs with machine guns.”
Curran didn’t need to verbalize it. I was thinking the same thing.
Each member of the platoon had access to the same tunnel map that I saw in my heads-up-display. My tactical contact lenses were connected wirelessly to my bio-chip implant that interfaced with my neural network. I was able to select and highlight areas by thought. I selected one of the tunnel passageways and shared it with the platoon. “This tunnel opens up within 50 yards of Alpha platoon’s location. The endless supply of troops coming out of this tunnel is keeping them caught off.”
Curran looked at me with suspicious eyes. He knew what I was thinking. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about going into this tunnel system?”
“Break out your masks,” I commanded as I pulled mine from my pack.
The full face mask fit snug against my skin. It automatically measured seal integrity and linked with my bio-chip, providing detailed information to my HUD. The filtration mask was effective against nuclear, biological, and chemical contaminants—all of which had been banned by the Galactic Convention. But just because something is banned doesn’t mean it never gets used.
