by John Ringo
Bill manipulated the security settings on his radio as he prepared to stand up. The settings could be reset so that the commanders could speak to subordinates without being overheard. It was on the same frequency but anyone without the proper setting would only get a hissing in their ears. His suit and Miller’s were dialed in on the security setting.
“Miller?” Bill said. “Is this a good idea?”
“Tactically?” the SEAL answered. “Yes.”
“I mean, doesn’t the military sort of frown on chiefs, even command master chiefs, not listening to majors?”
“Yes,” Bill said, tersely. “It’s called disobedience of a direct order from a lawful superior under combat conditions. It means I won’t be getting a pension. On the other hand, I will be boarded by the United States Government, at no expense to myself, at a pleasant place called Leavenworth. Get the fucking box in the gate, Doctor. Leave the rest for me to worry about.”
“SEAL Team Five,” Miller said, his voice cold and professional as he reset to general communications settings. “Let’s roll.”
Bill started to stand up, then rolled over instead and lowered his feet over the slight bluff at the top of the ridge. The slope of the ridge down to the hollow was covered in light scrub — had apparently been cleared off a few years before — which broke under the weight of the mecha. But going downhill was, if anything, harder than going uphill in the suits. He more or less slid on his butt, half out of control, down the slope to where it flattened out. He felt rather than saw some plasma detonations, but they weren’t close to him so he ignored them. There was no way, as out of control as he was, that he could return fire, anyway. He was having enough trouble just hanging on to his weapon.
Finally the out-of-control slide stopped and he hefted his weapon, levering himself to his feet and getting ready to run to the gate. Then he paused. Face it, it was the job of the SEALs to clear the way. He was just there to set the ardune. Let them go first.
He looked around and found it surprisingly hard to spot them; the suits had a radiator on their back, just below the americium battery pack, but other than that spot they didn’t radiate heat. It was another benefit of the suits and if he survived he planned on adding it to his after-action field-test report.
There was no more plasma fire coming at them and as the SEALs slid forward, swinging their weapons from side to side, and scanning for threats, he followed, concentrating on the gate.
It was visible even in infrared, emitting a slightly higher temperature than the background. The planet on the far side must have been warmer and with a slight overpressure because whisps of what looked like fog in the thermal imagery were drifting up and out of the gateway. He quickly ran the fifty meters to the gate and set his Gatling gun on the ground, turning and fumbling to open up the container that held the ardune, just as one of the suits exploded in plasma fire.
* * *
“General Thrathptttt,” the runner was panting but he straightened and bowed to the commander of the combined Mreee N!T!Ch! assault force. “A group of human infantry has infiltrated to the gate area. They pushed off the forces on the ridge to the east. They are attempting to seize the gate.”
General Thrathptttt spat a curse and looked at his map. The detail was poor, it had been found in one of the human stores in the small town they had taken, but it was clear what was happening. The humans had used their heavy forces as diversions and then sent in an infiltration force to seize the gate, cutting off his reinforcements. He’d left light forces on the ridge, banking on pickets to tell him if there was an attack from that direction. If there was, the forces near the gate should have been able to reinforce the ridge, easily. But the humans were tricky, worthy opponents. He was pleased.
“We can let the reinforcements handle it,” one of his aides said. He had been updating the map and now put a marker on it for an unknown force at the gate.
“No,” Thrathptttt said. He fingered his eyepatch in thought. It was a long time since the Mreee had faced worthy opponents and he remembered what had happened, then. But the humans were not as much to be feared as the Masters.
“Have runners sent to Mraown company and S!L!K! company. Have Mraown come over this ridge on them. Take the ridge and provide covering fire. Let the N!T!Ch! go up the road and recapture the gate.”
“That will weaken our defenses along the road to Waaaarcrick,” the aide protested.
“And the humans will drive through them, eventually,” the general said, looking at the map and fingering his patch again. “Which will leave Mraown in position to catch them in the flank as they pass. We can push reinforcements from Flefffpt up the hill as well when they come through. Have Mraown and S!L!K! retake the gate area. The rest will be easy.”
* * *
“Son of a bitch,” Miller snarled. He didn’t know if this was forces retreating from the mech attacks or units sent back to reinforce the gate. But he did know that they were bloody well screwed. The ridgeline to the west had just spotted itself with what were apparently Mreee and he could see a whole passel, company, maybe battalion, strength, of Nitch running up the road into the hollow.
“SEALs, form perimeter around the doc,” Miller snapped. “Engage targets of opportunity. Keep fire off the doc.”
That was pretty difficult, however. The Nitch had eight legs and two “arms” which they used to carry slightly larger versions of the “raygun” the Mreee had been armed with. They apparently had trouble moving among the trees — their feet spanned nearly three meters across — but they could skitter along the road, fast. And they were stable enough to fire at the same time. Which these were doing. They were still a couple of hundred yards away and most of the fire was going overhead, but it was still brutal.
And the Mreee on the ridgeline could pour fire into them, just as they and the 101st had poured it into the scattered bodies of Mreee and Nitch in the hollow. Admittedly, they seemed to have some trouble spotting the SEALs and their fire was pretty inaccurate. But as each SEAL fired, tracers from their weapons revealed their location. The fire had already taken out one of the suits and would soon start pounding the rest.
“Major, we need heavy fire-support here,” Miller said on the battalion frequency. He had assumed the prone position and was now sending carefully aimed bursts into the Nitch charging up the road; he considered them the worst of the two threats.
“We’re on it,” the battalion commander replied. “This is why I said hold up.”
Miller didn’t bother to point out that if the major had started the assault earlier, the bomb would already be in the gate.
“Yes, sir,” was all he said. “All the fire support you can provide would be appreciated.”
“Alpha, Bravo, concentrate on the spiders,” the major said on the battalion frequency, disdaining callsigns. “Charlie, engage the cats on the ridge. Maximum firepower; keep ’em off the SEALs.”
“This must have been how Shughart felt,” Russell muttered on the SEAL freq as Miller switched back.
“Target-rich environment,” Ryan replied. “Nice to know somebody loves…”
“Seven down,” Russell said.
“Loves us,” Sanson finished.
* * *
For Sanson it was something on the order of a dream come true. Sure, he hadn’t risen out of the waves to take out a sentry on the beach, but this was the next best thing. He’d never been some anime geek but the suits, he had to admit, were damned cool and the firepower they supported was just awesome. He was toting a .50 caliber Gatling like the doctor and the thing would just saw one of the spiders, much less the little cats, in two. On the other hand, it ate rounds like there was no tomorrow and he was down to just stroking the trigger, watching his waterfall counter get closer and closer to the bottom. And there just seemed to be more and more of the damned things. Which was cool, too, in its own way. Target rich environment. Better than Mog. Much better than what the old guys talked about in Iraq and Ashkanistan.
He trigg
ered another burst, just barely stroked the trigger, and ten more rounds poured out of the Gatling, tearing one spider in half, you could see the parts separate on the thermal imagery, and getting a piece of the one next to it. Probably got the one behind, too. But that was it. He hit the firing circuit again and was rewarded by having the barrels spin around and around making a cute ratcheting noise and a whine. Fuck.
“I’m out!” he shouted, pushing the weapon to the side and looking around. He had an M-4 in his pack but no way to access it without bailing out, which he was loathe to do. On the other hand, he was lying on top of a dead Nitch, he’d been using its thorax for cover, and there was a Nitch plasma gun sitting on the ground not too far away. He shinnied forward and picked it up, trying to examine it. But there was nothing to see under thermal imagery. He switched to night vision and saw that there were some levers and buttons on it. Nothing that looked like a pistol grip or a stock, though. He set it against his shoulder, awkwardly, he was really just holding it up with his left suit-hand, and pushed one of the buttons. Nothing. He pressed another. Nothing. Then he pressed the first one again.
There was a burst of light from the front of the weapon and a sapling about twenty feet away blew up, showering them in bits of stem and dirt.
“Hey!” he yelled. “The plasma guns work!” He took more careful aim this time and pressed the button again, the bolt of lightning tracking over the heads of the closing Nitch. He felt like a damned fool missing that big of a target from this close. He lowered the barrel, slightly, and fired again. This time two Nitch were turned into spider-goo and a couple behind them dropped to the ground, their legs writhing frantically on the ground.
“Awesome…” the SEAL whispered. He never even felt the bolt of plasma that dropped on him from the ridge above.
* * *
Miller looked over at where Sanson had been turned into a blazing pile of carbon and titanium and then back at the oncoming Nitch. Not so oncoming anymore, though. The fire of the SEALs, not to mention support from above, was having an effect. He had switched the 30mm to single shot and had been hammering out round after round. Each of the rounds blew a spider apart, okay, he admitted it was overkill, and between his fire and the fire of the other SEALs the phalanx that had been attacking them wasn’t gaining any ground.
But they were still being slaughtered by the Mreee up on the ridge, that was what had gotten Sanson and Ryan, and if they didn’t get taken out pretty soon they were done for.
Of course, if the doctor could ever get the box in the gate, they could do the Mogadishu mile and leave the clean-up to the National Guard. If.
“How’s it coming, Dr.?” he said, calmly. Didn’t want to spook the guy, not with that thing in his hands.
* * *
Miller was lying behind the bulk of the dead Petty Officer Ryan’s suit, using it for cover from the fire from above and the road. It was not so much that he was a coward, although anyone would be a bit anxious in this situation, but if one of the plasma rounds hit the ardune, it was going to detonate on Earth. Which would be bad.
He’d initially ended up on the side with the box down. After rolling over he’d fumbled the metal container open and pulled out the ardune. He fumbled it around to where he could see it through the armored glass in the chest of the suit and cursed under his breath. It was night; he couldn’t see it. He shoved it up to where it was visible from his low-light circuit and cut to light enhancement. The symbols on the front still weren’t visible; the vision just wasn’t detailed enough.
“Miller,” he said, as calmly as he could. “Does anyone have a flashlight?” He’d argued for some sort of a light on the suits, but the military didn’t want them. Not white light, which was what he needed. The symbols were purple on violet; red light wouldn’t help one damned bit.
“Shit,” Miller muttered. He stopped firing for a moment and fumbled in a container, finally extracting something and arming it. He threw it to the side of the gate where it flashed into white heat.
“What the hell is that?” Bill asked. The late Ryan’s suit left the box in shadow so he tilted it up to where there was light enough to see. It was damned near as bright as day.
“Thermite grenade,” the SEAL said. “And I just lit our position so get a fucking move on.”
“You’re carrying thermite grenades?” Bill asked, starting to key the symbols. One, two, three…
“You never know when they’re going to come in handy,” the SEAL said. Plasma was falling all around their position now that the Mreee on the ridgeline could see them clearly. There was another cut off scream as a SEAL suit was hit.
Four… Bill was struck in the side, the box knocked out of his hands, as a Nitch coming out of the gate caught him with one of its front legs. He grabbed the leg and with half hysterical strength, aided by the suit, ripped it off. As the Nitch, pouring some sort of goop out of the hole, stumbled downward, he struck upwards and punched it in the thorax. The blow was unthinking, a Wah-Lum ground fighting move backed by all the power of the suit. His arm sunk into the thing’s thorax up to his elbow.
“They’re coming through the gate!” Bill yelled, rolling to where the box had fallen. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” He picked it up in one hand and pointed the .50 caliber at the gate, hosing rounds in the hope that he could hold off the forces on the other side.
“What?” Miller yelled.
“Besides the fact that we’re surrounded and about to get overrun?” Bill laughed, hysterically. “I had the damned thing half keyed! I don’t know if I can start over or what!” He fumbled the box around to where he could see it, again, but the light from the thermite grenade had been extinguished. “Aaaaagh! No light!”
“Stay cool!” Miller yelled. He turned around and started throwing things through the gate. One of them blew up before it went through and threw shrapnel all over Bill’s suit.
“Don’t hit the ardune!” Bill yelled, desperately. “I need light!”
One of the SEALs stood up with a plasma gun in his hand and started firing upwards. On the second shot he managed to nail the crown of a large oak that overhung the gate area. It had, miraculously, escaped fire to this point. But at the impact of the plasma round the crown burst into immediate flame. The SEAL was hit before he could even drop the weapon. The smoking legs of the mecha were thrown in two directions but they were all that was left of the suit.
“You got light,” Miller rasped.
Bill thought, frantically, about his instructions. He hadn’t asked what happened if the code entry was interrupted. Better to try finishing it. He hit the last symbol and was rewarded by a blinking light. He started pressing the counter.
“How long?” he yelled.
“Not very,” Miller replied, looking around. There were only two SEALs still firing besides himself.
Bill pressed five increments on the counter, about seven seconds, thought about having to key the second code, and pressed five more. Then he keyed the code, took the box in both hands and threw it through the gate as hard as he could.
It entered the gate and he started to get up but it bounced back and landed behind him. Immediately following it was a centipede tank.
“Fuck!” Bill shouted. “IT’S LIVE, ARDUNE IS LIVE, CENTIPEDE!”
* * *
Miller turned around and pulled out his last thermite grenade. He had noticed that the centipedes seemed to have some sort of mouth or breathing organ on their front. It was heavily armored and turned down, impossible to hit with a round, but he wasn’t planning on shooting it. He pulled the pin on the grenade, took two steps and shoved it up the opening as hard as he could, leaning the mecha into the face of the tank and pushing back, trying to keep it from extruding all the way out of the gate. His feet started sliding back as he counted.
“Three, two, one,” he muttered, wondering what hell was like. Probably pretty similar to Leavenworth, but longer.
* * *
Bill got one hand on the box and turned around. The centi
pede more than half filled the gate opening but he took two steps and leapt onto it, directly between two of the hornlike plasma generators. Taking the box in both hands he threw it towards the gate again, as hard as he could.
* * *
Bill never was sure what he saw in that moment. For just a second he thought that stars appeared in the gate as it turned black and lights flashed in it. But they seemed to be moving lights, moving in some complex pattern that defied explanation. The image was there for only a moment but it seared itself on his soul. He knew, in his heart, that they were not just stars, not burning bits of gas, but souls, entities. Perhaps even fuzzy children’s toys, waving a farewell salute. He felt, in that brief instant, that he truly knew what it meant to touch the face of God.
Then the world went white.
* * *
Miller saw the gate go black for a moment, then disappear, leaving the rest of the centipede, and Dr. Weaver’s suit arms, either on the other side or in some nowhere place. And then he felt the thermite grenade pop.
* * *
The explosion was not a plasma explosion. More like a very large transformer blowing up. Very large. Miller felt himself picked up and thrown through the air. It was a vaguely peaceful feeling, much better than the desperate combat he had been involved in a moment earlier. Right up until he hit the burning oak tree.
* * *
“Dr. Weaver?”
Pain. All-enveloping pain. Lots of it.
Weaver got one eye opened and groaned, or tried to; it came out as a croak. He swore that if God made the pain go away he’d live a good life and never, ever, do anything even slightly risky again. Wah-Lum? Hah, no chance. Mountain biking? And risk road rash? He’d buy a house on one level, never climb stairs again, never run, just walk. Nothing that could cause so much as a scrape. Blunt knives in the house. Put rubber on all the corners. His nerves felt jangled. Please, God, just let the pain go away.
