Bayonet Dawn (SMC Marauders Book 1)

by Scott Moon

  “All three of us have a death wish,” Kroger said.

  Arthur and Eve turned to look at the tattooed giant.

  “Am I wrong?” he asked.

  Arthur turned back the way he was heading. “I never thought about it.”

  “Sounds stupid,” Eve said.

  “You never used to disrespect me,” Kroger said, not bothered but rather just stating a fact. He had changed a lot during basic training, or perhaps revealed his true nature.

  “I don’t need you to protect me anymore,” she said.

  Arthur thought she sounded pissed off about everything, including her new independence.

  “I’m not sure they should give you a fighter bomber,” Kroger said.

  “They will,” she said. “Especially if they want a pilot who kills shit.”

  “All three of us have something to prove,” Kroger said. “Don’t know what that is for you, Arthur. But I’m right.”

  38

  Cyclops First Strike

  MUSHROOM clouds large and small reached for the sky. In their shadows, a smoking zone of carnage and destruction boiled where synthetic meteorites screamed down like cosmic fireballs. The air was so thick with dust and smoke, it was unbreathable for miles.

  “I heard they are sending in their secret weapons,” Foster said. “Are you sure those were not nukes?” The way he stared at the distant onslaught, he resembled a kid dressed up as a soldier

  “Positive. Stop stressing about nuclear weapons. If they had dropped as many nukes as kinetics, nuclear winter would be well on the way to Christmas.” Kevin watched the fighting up front. “We are going into the meat grinder soon. Whoever made first contact is probably dead.”

  “One of the Recon units or light infantry brigades,” Foster said. “Has to be. They are always sent way ahead of the main force.”

  Kevin decided not to comment. He wanted to see what was happening, then figure out what to do.

  “I liked being the tip of the spear,” Chaf said.

  Edwards and Foster laughed.

  “This is boring back here,” Chaf said. “What are you laughing at?”

  Edwards and Foster gasped for air and staggered around doing unflattering imitations of their friend. He rolled his eyes and responded with slow, deliberate jibes and japes.

  Kevin watched with moderate interest, worried about the escalating warfare over the last several days.

  “Attention Zulu Infantry Company, this is Captain Jon Murali. Stand aside for Cyclops Deployment,” a voice said through a clear command link.

  Foster, Chaf, and Edwards looked at Kevin.

  He motioned them to the ground and moved forward several strides to find his own place.

  “I can’t see from here,” Chaf said.

  “That is your position. Hold it,” Kevin said. “Same for you, Foster. I swear to God if you move one more inch, I will kick your ass.”

  “We need to see,” Edwards said.

  Kevin didn’t respond. He’d heard stories of the Cyclops Company. According to rumor, they were like the Performance Armor Specialist — the special forces of the armored divisions, mechanized warriors that ran on two legs over or through almost any obstacle. The difference was, according to Foster’s unnamed source, the Cyclops could also fly, at least during deployment. If Foster’s sources could be believed, they had starship force fields and enough firepower to fight a war single-handed.

  “What do you see?” Edwards asked.

  Kevin searched the landscape with his optics at maximum magnification.

  “Come on, Kev. Tell us what you see,” Foster said.

  “Looks like a squadron of smallish Hellfires deploying from orbit. Moving fast, arching across the horizon well away from the battlefield. Looks like they are going to level out and come in just above the treetops,” Kevin said.

  Foster laughed sarcastically. “You’re pulling my leg, Kev. When were there any trees left? Come on, tell us what you see or let us move so we can put eyes on it.”

  “Look up,” Kevin said as the newcomers angled for an approach that would cross the ZIC position.

  Engines roared low.

  “My source was telling the truth!” Foster yelled, seeming more surprised by this than by seeing mechanized soldiers rip through the air, then deploy braking jets to land on their feet.

  Kevin felt the air pressure fluctuate even at this distance as clearish-blue force fields went up around each member of the Cyclops.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Edwards.

  Kevin looked right and then left to find his friends had abandoned their zones to stand beside him. All four of were silhouetted against the sunset. Anyone or anything out there with the Cyclops would see them easily.

  “Get down!” He dropped onto his belly, annoyed with himself for standing. He knew better. Carelessness killed marines on Brookhaven.

  He wondered about Priest and the rest of Recon. From time to time, news of their exploits reached ZIC. Priest was always conducting a secret raid behind enemy lines, looking for Dr. Robedeaux.

  Several squadrons of Cyclops deployed to the battlefield and destroyed everything in their path.

  He’d heard rumors but never believed the details. There was always a super-duper new technology that was going to win the war.

  Despite what he saw now, he controlled his enthusiasm. The Void Trolls — increasingly independent — were harder to eradicate than the big bosses on their starships had guessed.

  Foster’s friends said there had been battles against Siren and Nix and about a dozen other impossible enemies since the Second Brookhaven War began.

  Kevin had little experience with the more exotic weapons of the UNA and CW invasion force. His experience had been like a factory worker going to war. Wake up, get his assignment, take his unit out, succeed or fail at the day’s mission, then find his way home to recuperate as best he could on bland food, cold showers, and limited sleep.

  He counted seven squadrons of Cyclops — twenty-eight individual units. At first, they smashed forward with shock and awe. Now they were organizing a long line with about two hundred meters between one Cyclops and the next. Captain Murali arrived with several bodyguard units, or that was what it seemed like to Kevin. The man addressed his officers.

  Kevin wondered about the conversation as he grew tired and bored.

  The Cyclops line marched forward. Each force field left a line of scorched earth behind.

  “Might as well pack up and plan how to spend our bonuses,” Foster said.

  “Do that on your next break. Meanwhile, we have orders to advance and mop up behind our new friends.”

  Something happened to one of the Cyclops units. He thought it might be Captain Murali in the center. His power surged. The glow of nearly translucent energy gave Kevin a bad feeling.

  A moment later, the same thing happened to other Cyclops units.

  Then arcs of what he could only describe as wet electricity shot between them, creating web fencing between the UNA’s secret weapons.

  They paused, then advanced.

  Every inch of the landscape between them was swept clean of life as they advanced.

  Kevin ignored the sound of Foster puking and Chaf praying in a language none of them had ever heard from their friend.

  Overkill, he thought. Then he saw hundreds of hidden DU ambush points explode along Cyclops line.

  The Cyclops Company left no enemy unburnt.

  39

  Void Troll Centurions

  DISSIDENT Union commanders occupied a hill several miles from the UNA and CWF, facing off with a mixture of angry resentment and grudging respect. Void Trolls arrayed themselves across the landscape like legions of ancient Rome. The four-meter-tall brutes didn’t stand shoulder to shoulder or lock shields. That would have been to invite artillery strikes. They lacked shields, short swords, or spears, but the methodical discipline of their line was plain to see. Gone were the frantic hordes of maddened aliens. Given proper separation, the monsters
behaved like steadfast troops of old.

  The comparison ended abruptly under the tortured sky of Brookhaven. The enemy army now had more alien giants than regular troops.

  Kevin couldn’t imagine the planet would survive after the war. The terraforming cities had been built to modify an environment too friendly to life, not filter an atmosphere pumped full of battlefield detritus. Nukes were being held in reserve, but there were other ways to poison a world.

  Veteran soldiers told Kevin it wasn’t as bad as it looked — assured him most of the planet was still paradise.

  “Just never where I am!” a soldier marching toward a new assignment said as he walked backward. “Thanks for the Cyclops story. I was too far back to see it myself.”

  “He is in a good mood,” Chaf said.

  Foster grunted.

  “What?” Kevin asked.

  “That guy is going to tell my story. By the time I get liberty, it will be stale,” Foster said.

  Kevin shook his head and studied the scene facing the front line of the UNA / CWF combined task force. He ignored the scorched earth blackened by the linked energy fields of the Cyclops attack. The damage wasn’t limited to the surface. He knew it went deep, although he wasn’t sure why he believed this. The terrain behind the mercifully short advance of Murali’s company was as barren and dead as a meteor hurtling through space.

  The Void Trolls carried personal weapons the size of small artillery and could take dozens of penetrating rounds — assuming the rounds had the velocity to pierce their tough exterior — without slowing down. Each organ served multiple purposes. Nature had made them combat effective on a grand scale.

  None of the enemy aliens showed fear. Kevin had seen DU patrols scouring the countryside for more of the UNA ultimate weapons, but the demeanor of the Void Trolls didn’t change.

  He supposed they were accustomed to living on lifeless space rocks.

  “I heard Roosevelt got court-martialed,” Foster said.

  Chaf and Kevin spun to face him.

  “For what?” Kevin asked.

  “Running a training platoon to death, is what I heard,” Foster said.

  Chaf made a skeptical face.

  “Are you sure you didn’t bitch about her methods and your ‘source’ didn’t just fashion you a story?” Kevin asked.

  “Hey, I’m not an idiot. I know when I am being hustled,” Foster said. “Besides, you knew she would cross the line sooner or later.”

  Kevin clenched his jaw against a headache that would not relent. Orders scrolled too quickly to read down the left column of his HUD. Listening to the various communications links wasn’t much better. Something interfered with the radio, causing static and random pops. Infrared laser technology was intended to fix the problems, but there were a lot of variables he didn’t understand.

  Sergeant Davis and the rest of Delta Squad moved forward. Lovejoy began his pre-battle inspection with Alpha, which gave Davis time to share his grim news.

  Kevin watched Lieutenant Davenport next to Lovejoy. She looked tired but uninjured. He wasn’t sure why that was such a relief.

  “Listen here, war dogs,” Davis said. “The Cyclops Company rolled back the enemy, but they are needed elsewhere. Ask me, and that’s just fine. We’ve got this covered. The battle has become a war and we will be here a while. You can thank me later for the job security.”

  “Hell yeah!” the Sanchez twins of Fire Team Two shouted as they jumped and thrust fists in the air.

  Kevin watched them chest bump, then close their helmets and press them together in some kind of weird two-person pre-battle huddle.

  “Nit wits,” Peterson, leader of Fire Team Two, said. He was the smallest, most confident FNG in the platoon. Kevin liked him, although they barely interacted since the war began.

  Sergeant Davis ignored Fire Team Two. Stepping toward Kevin, he leaned close. “The attempted Siren snatch hasn’t gone away. We need to focus on business for a while. The Nix and their girlfriends will be around when we finish with the DU.”

  Heat rose under Kevin’s armor collar. “Every day Ace and Amanda are out there is one day closer to them being gone forever.”

  “I’m sorry, Kevin. I wish I could help,” Davis said.

  Lovejoy moved to greet Davis, finished the inspection, and addressed the platoon. “This is going to get rough. Expect the enemy to press into our ranks to avoid orbital bombardment. Don’t expect much help from… well, anyone.”

  40

  Hold the Line

  “What are those Hellfires doing now?” Kevin shouted. During the last few weeks, in the darkest part of night guard duty, he regretted his decision to join the SMC. Danger, pain, and fear rarely invoked these thoughts — it was the boredom and futility of the battle that had become a war. Each day held the promise of either death or reassignment to another hill, another base, or another planet if God and the SMC were in a generous mood.

  Davis responded as though injured. His radio was full of static. “They are greener than you are, K. C.”

  Kevin shook his head and moved forward. His fire team, the rest of Delta and Charlie Squad, followed his lead. The pair of Hellfires continued over the horizon, the sound of their engines fading in the distance.

  “I don’t like the look of this position,” Foster said.

  “It must be held or the 343rd will suffer enfilade,” Kevin said.

  “I understand,” Foster replied. “I just don’t see how we can stop mega tanks and Void Trolls.”

  Kevin took a step forward, and then another. “Hold where you are. I will have a look around.”

  “Don’t do it, Kev,” Chaf said.

  “I need to make sure there are no fortifications on the other side of this slope,” Kevin said. Their current area of responsibility was mildly hilly but deceptive terrain. One thing had become clear to everyone in the UNA and CWF task force: the Dissident Union Army had been preparing the planet for a long time. More than one unit had fallen prey to traps sprung from secret bunker systems.

  The Hellfires again ripped across the horizon without firing a shot. For the briefest instant, he thought they were chasing a lone Cyclops in flight mode. Strange. After the first assault by the secret weapons, on the day of their big reveal, the situation had kept most of them on the ground pushing back mega tanks and what officers were calling the Elite Void Troll Legion.

  “Davis to Connelly, what are you doing? I see you moving ahead of your assigned position. Report.”

  “I want to check for hidden bunkers and traps,” he responded. The radio link was scratchy, but he knew his boss could see him from his position a half kilometer away.

  “Negative, K. C. The platoon is already stretched too thin. Lovejoy wants you back where I put you. No games today. No snatch and grab missions,” Davis said.

  That was when the Siren stood from the side of a stream. There was no place in the area to remain out of view from combat drones, observation posts, or Kevin’s squad leader. The Siren had chosen the position well. There was just enough ground cover — saplings and bushes — growing up from the edge of the water. The slope of the land offered minimal privacy, but it was enough.

  “I’m on my way back,” he said. “One moment. I need to piss.”

  “Do it in your suit,” Davis said.

  “Roger that,” Kevin said. “One moment.”

  Seconds passed.

  He opened his visor and peered at the alien, aware that the last time they met, the Siren had lured him hundreds of meters from the defensive line without him realizing it. “What do you want from me?”

  “I am Eigon. I want the Dream-rider out of my head,” the Siren said. “I want to be the Forever Siren.”

  “Don’t know anything about a Dream-rider or whatever you’re talking about,” Kevin said, backing up a step so the alien didn’t lure him too far. The long braids of her hair moved like a scenic lake concealing a monster beneath the surface. He realized the hair wasn’t hair. “I have to get back t
o my position. Give me Ace and Amanda, and I will see what I can do about the Dream-rider.”

  He had no idea what he was promising. Staring at the Siren in her battle armor, he noticed her skin was flush and her eyes bright. Something was happening. Or more accurately, something was coming.

  “I have to get back to my position,” he repeated.

  “Stay,” she said. “Wait.”

  Smoke from another battle drifted across the landscape. Clouds cut across the sky. He looked back until he saw Foster and Chaf watching him from several hundred meters away. “Shit.” He didn’t remember coming this far.

  He retreated from the Siren, walking backward until it was safe to turn away and double time it back to the SMC line.

  “You must remain,” she said. “Leave now, and you will never forgive yourself.”

  “Go to hell,” he said.

  “Stay where you are, and I will reveal a secret. Your heart’s most desperate hope ready to be fulfilled.” She sang.

  The music, he realized, wasn’t vocal but from her hair and extra arms rubbing together. When she opened her mouth to add melody to the harmonies, he wanted to run before an abyss of mindless oblivion took him down forever.

  “You must stay and see what has happened to your siblings,” she said.

  “HOLD the line,” Davis bellowed over the squad link.

  Kevin realized the area was being overrun, and he was out in the open. Artillery whistled down. He barely flinched. His time on Brookhaven had taught him what a miss sounded like.

  “Fire Team One, I am coming in,” he said.

  Chaf answered, which worried him, because normally, Foster was quicker on the radio.

  The Siren who called herself Eigon laughed. The sound was a judgment and a command.

  Kevin turned toward her, anger building. What he saw dissuaded him from acting rashly. Eigon was there, and behind her, standing with an aura of serenity, was the other Siren from the previous encounter. He liked this one better, despite her silence and dark intensity.

  Eigon had stolen the twins; he was sure she was the same Siren he’d seen from the window of TB 595. She took them and lost them. Now, with open warfare distorting the night, she radiated danger. The second Siren stepped to avoid a tracer round with casual indifference, then squatted to dodge the follow-up burst.