Creatures snorted and snarled at him as he walked by them and stepped out of the APC to stand in front of the hulking monster. The chief roughly stabbed the tip of his pointer finger into Hendershot’s chest, causing him to flinch from the pain, and then the chief pointed at the sky.
Hendershot nodded, thinking he understood what the chief was trying to get across to him.
“Yes,” Hendershot said, “We come from the sky…from beyond, it actually.”
The chief moved closer to him and sniffed at Hendershot. He could smell the rankness of the chief’s breath as it washed over him. It stank of blood and dead flesh. Hendershot relaxed a bit as the chief pulled back away from him.
To Hendershot’s shock, the chief spoke. The words were guttural and completely unlike any language he had ever heard, but there was no denying that the sounds coming from him were indeed language.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Hendershot answered. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Without warning, one of the chief’s massive hands lashed out to grab the front of his uniform. Its fingers closed tightly on his shirtfront, and the monster lifted him effortlessly from the ground. Hendershot made no attempt to struggle against the thing’s grip. The last thing he wanted to do was tick it off more. He let his legs dangle beneath him and kept his hold on his pistol. If the thing did decide it was going to kill him, Hendershot really hoped to take the bastard with him, and at this range, a single, well-placed round from his pistol would likely do it.
The chief shook Hendershot violently toward the sky. He clutched the chief’s wrist with his free hand, trying to lessen how much he was being flung about. The situation was nightmarish, but there was still room for it to be worse.
“What do you want from me?” Hendershot yelled at the chief hoping that displaying some aggression might work in his favor. Both the chief and his warriors knew that he and the rest of the Hellhounds were dangerous.
The shaking stopped, and the chief held him at eye level, glaring at him intently, as if struggling to understand what he had said. Hendershot saw the slightest shift in the chief’s expression and knew the monster had given up on “talking” with him. It flung him through the air away from the APC. He thudded to the ground, landing on his back, amid the warriors that surrounded the chief.
Hendershot jerked the barrel of his pistol toward the closest of the warriors as they all began to move as one, raising their spears to stab at him. The chief had vanished behind their numbers. He shot the first monster that tried to stab him through the head. The bullet entered through the thing’s brow and exited through the backside of its skull in a spray of blood and bone fragments.
Hendershot’s eyes desperately sought the chief as the tip of a spear was plunged downward through his right thigh. He screamed, putting a trio of rounds into the chest of the monster that had stabbed him. Several more spears pierced his body. One entered through his side, scraping the bottom of his ribs as it sank into his guts. Another went straight through his right shoulder, causing him to drop his pistol. The tip of another came bursting through the center of his chest, as one of the monsters behind him took its turn.
One surge of agony followed another until Hendershot felt nothing but pain. The world spun around him, as blood poured out of his body through its multiple wounds, and more spears stabbed into him. Then there was only cold and unending darkness.
* * *
Colonel Robert knew that Hendershot and his men were in deep trouble. Their equipment was older than his. Their mercs were less experienced and less battle-tested, because Hendershot was too cheap to hire the best. Robert, on the other hand, had deeper pockets from which to spend, and a much greater willingness to purchase the equipment that would keep him and his men alive. Never had he been more thankful for that than now.
Although he had primarily considered them as “aces in the hole”, and never really thought he would have to break them out for this mission, Robert had three upgraded MK8 units that were top-of-the-line, capable of longer jet jumps, and had been customized with firegel hoses that acted in much the same way as flamethrowers from the World Wars. The only difference was that the firegel, even if not ignited, could also serve as a chemical weapon that activated when exposed to atmospheres with an abundance of oxygen. Thankfully, Zala IV had an atmosphere that fit those conditions to a tee.
He hadn’t mentioned the MK8 suits to Hendershot, because he knew the Colonel would just puff up his chest, get indignant, and explain why they just didn’t make suits like the older MK7s anymore. Hendershot was a traditionalist and a man of pride. No one liked to see their neighbor’s sports car when they were still driving a station wagon. That didn’t mean Hendershot wouldn’t be grateful that Robert had brought them along. If for no other reason than to gloat, Robert was going to make sure to find a way to save Hendershot’s hide using the MK8s. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
The moment he received word that Hendershot’s entire crew was doomed, Robert made the call to activate the MK8s. At the time he’d placed his order and purchased the add-on customization for the firegel throwers, he hadn’t really known what they might be useful for, only that they possessed the capability for widespread destruction. Now, he knew exactly the right use for this particular upgrade.
Prolonged and extended jumps put the suits into the one place the savages couldn’t muscle their way into—the sky. The MK8s would be safe on their jumps as they rained down fire and brimstone on the unsuspecting savages. It was an unorthodox solution to an unorthodox problem. Unorthodox thinking was also one of the reasons Robert’s Guard never failed in their missions. The tactic might seem odd, but it might just work.
One moment, Robert and his group of mercs were losing and losing badly. CASPers were getting impaled on spikes, pinned to trees like mechanical bugs in an insect collection, and ripped apart as the savages grabbed a leg or an arm and pulled, showing the mercs their version of “drawn and quartered”. The beasts howled with glee as their enemies fell beneath the tips of their spears. The next moment changed everything.
The MK8s were in the air, almost seeming to hover there as their jumpjets kept them aloft in a series of controlled thrusts, spraying the contents of their firegel canisters into the atmosphere over the largest concentration of savages.
At first, the firegel sprayed and fell in droplets. Then, it began to react with the oxygen in the atmosphere, and it turned into a heavy vapor that fell in clouds like a rain of brimstone, causing severe chemical burns wherever it came into contact with the savages’ skin. The reaction was immediate, and the savages fell to the ground, their flesh smoldering and sloughing off in the areas the firegel vapor touched. The howls of glee quickly turned to howls of pain; the creatures were in agony, writhing on the ground, convulsing as the firegel vapor caused their skin to blister and peel.
In a matter of minutes, the tide of the battle turned, and the best part was that none of the savages had a method of taking out the MK8s. All they could do was hurl their spears into the air and watch them fall far short of the high-bouncing CASPers. They had no way of reaching the threat that rained destruction upon them until the suits came back to the ground, and by then the damage had been done.
Two of the MK8 pilots continued to lay down a spray of firegel that weaponized upon contact with the atmosphere. The third pilot used his firegel thrower too, and he ignited the spray and hurled long flails of flame out into the jungle, burning everything it touched. He then used his jumpjet thrusters to make a series of wide jumps around the savages’ perimeter, encircling them in flame, herding them together through the controlled use of fire.
As a joke, somebody started playing Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” through the comm unit. It was a much-needed morale booster, and even Robert himself could be heard singing along through his comm.
Now that it seemed they had a fighting chance at survival and even winning this battle, Robert decided to utilize a bit of strategy to help s
trengthen their position. If they wanted to bring things to a screeching halt, they needed to find the leader of these devils and force him to call off his dogs.
Fortunately, the leader was easy to spot. He stood much taller than the others, a mountain of muscle and scars, and wore the severed heads of his most important trophies on a belt around his waist. Having the MK8s in the air made it easy to spot him as well, which was another advantage they brought to the table. After seeing them in action, Robert made a mental note to buy a few more of them once they got through this mess.
“Christopher, Nicholas, Perkins. Anybody got eyes on the chief?” he barked into his comm.
For a moment, none of the MK8 pilots responded. No doubt they were scanning the area in search of the savage leader. Then Nicholas spoke up.
“Got him, sir. About two hundred yards due north of your location. He got hit by the firegel, but he’s stronger than the others. He hasn’t gone down yet.”
“Don’t take him out,” Colonel Robert said. “We need him.”
“Don’t kill him?” Christopher asked, incredulous.
“Did I stutter?” Robert replied.
“No, sir,” Christopher answered.
“Stand by,” Robert said as he quickly switched to a different comm channel. “Who all is left out there? Pilots, speak up!”
“Thacker.”
“Jenkins.”
“Paulson.”
“Deacon.”
“Smith.”
Robert gritted his teeth, amazed at how many pilots they had lost in this primitive place. “Ok, listen up. Thacker, Jenkins, and Smith take point and head roughly two hundred yards north of my coordinates. Paulson and Deacon, cover their flank. The mission has changed. I want the chief alive. The CASPer suits should insulate you from the firegel vapor, and you shouldn’t encounter much resistance on your way since the savages are dealing with a massive case of sunburn. Our mission right now is to get these devils to call off their offensive. The chief is the one with enough mojo to do that.”
“Roger that, sir,” the men all responded at once.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Robert said. “Kill anything you see on the way. Just not the chief.”
The CASPers followed their orders, and spilled enough blood to turn the ground beneath their feet into a sticky red mess. This time none of the beasts put up much of a fight. The only resistance they found came from those appointed to protect the chief. They had done their best to shield him from the chemical attacks, and were in obvious pain. However, they managed one last offensive when they saw the CASPers approaching. They hurled their spears weakly, but their limbs were shaking too badly to make the attack very menacing. The CASPers unloaded on them, filling the beasts so full of lead that their corpses would have been well insulted against radiation poisoning.
That left only the chief, standing upright and glaring at them, baring teeth that had been filed down into points. Despite the burns that covered most of his torso, neck, and face, he still looked like a very serious threat. The CASPers realized that too, and all leveled their guns at him the moment they saw his muscles tense in preparation to strike.
The chief, realizing he was beaten, did the only thing he could do. He raised his face to the sky and barked a strange series of commands. The effect was instantaneous. Across the riverbed, in the forests and the outlying areas that hadn’t been hit by firegel, the savages that were still fighting with infantry and busy ripping apart what was left of Hendershot’s forces stopped their attack.
Colonel Robert switched over to the comm channel that Hendershot favored. “You still alive out there, Hendershot?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Rai here, sir,” Ashley replied with a weak, trembling voice. “We’ve lost contact with Colonel Hendershot. Our column was hit hard. Those of us who are left are on the run and trying to regroup.”
“I see,” Colonel Robert said, “We all need to regroup and rethink this op. We’ve captured the chief of these monsters.”
“Understood, sir,” Rai answered. “What’s your location?”
“I’m uploading the coordinates to you now,” Colonel Robert assured her. “Get your asses here as soon as you can. Robert, out.”
* * *
Peterson had lost over forty of the seventy men he had led into the ambush that decimated the CASPers ahead of them. Another nine were little more than walking wounded, barely able to hold their weapons. Even so, his infantry was in a heck of lot better shape than Rai and her CASPers. There had only been thirty of the CASPers to begin with, and now he guessed there were less than twelve left.
The CASPers had scattered, using their jumpjets to escape the worst of the fighting. He and his own men had been on the run since the attack. They had to keep moving for fear the creatures would figure out where they were again and come at them in force. Even on the run and moving, they were still encountering the monsters in small groups. Nearly half of the forty men lost had been in the skirmishes that followed the ambush. What really worried Peterson, though, was he’d lost contact with Colonel Hendershot and the unit’s APCs.
He had tried several times to call in an arty strike during his infantry’s fighting retreat, but the only response he’d gotten back over the comm was the crackle of static. He hoped it was just the planet’s crazy atmosphere messing things up, because if it wasn’t, that meant the colonel and the APCs with him were lost.
He’d managed to reach Lieutenant Rai over the comm, at least enough to know that she was still out there and alive, but their exchanges had been short and almost pointless. The only information he’d been able to get out of her was that she was on the run too, and trying to gather her surviving CASPers back into an operational unit.
He could tell Rai had her hands full, and there would be no help coming from her any time soon. She had been able to tell him, though, that she had made contact with the other column, and that Robert’s Guard had been ambushed as well.
From the sound of things, Robert’s Guard hadn’t gotten as fragged as the Hellhounds had. They’d escaped the meat grinder the savages had trapped them in, and had at least managed to keep together in a somewhat defensible position. Rai had sent along a data packet with the coordinates to the first column’s position, and that was where Peterson was leading his surviving men to. On foot, it was going to take them a serious amount of time to reach it, and Peterson wondered if any of his men would be left alive by then.
His men were spread out in a pincer formation as they moved through the dense woods, with his worst wounded behind the combat effective troops at its center. Burroughs was on point. Peterson watched as Burroughs stopped in his tracks and held up a hand to signal the rest of the group to hold. Peterson made his way forward to join Burroughs at the front.
“Trouble?” Peterson asked.
“Don’t know, sir,” Burroughs answered him keeping his eyes on the trees ahead of them. “Just suddenly got a bad feeling about what’s waiting for us up there.”
Burroughs gestured toward the small hill ahead. Peterson eyed it. It was a perfect spot for the savages to try to hem them up again. If they pressed forward, and the creatures were holding the high ground, it was going to be a devil of a spot to fight their way through. Peterson considered going around the hill. Burroughs was sweating profusely but waited patiently for him to make up his mind.
“Going around could cost us a lot of time,” Peterson commented.
“Didn’t know we were in a hurry, sir,” Burroughs replied.
“According to the data Lieutenant Rai sent us, this is the shortest path to reach Robert’s Guard,” Peterson said. “We’re burning daylight. Do you wanna fight these things in the dark?”
Peterson didn’t know how much time he had left, but the sun was sinking toward the horizon. Being in these woods was bad enough during the day. He didn’t even want to think about how bad it would get when the sun went down. He checked the data Rai had sent him again, trying to figure out if they had any hope of reaching
the first column before nightfall. The other choice was to try to find somewhere to hunker down until the sun came up. The choice was taken out of his hands before he had a chance to make it.
“Incoming!” Burroughs screamed. He raised his rifle as an endless stream of savages came bounding down the hill like a black tide.
* * *
Robert considered their options, and none of them seemed good. Both companies had lost men, CASPers, APCs, and perhaps even the ability to complete their objective. It wasn’t a good start to a mission that, on the surface, had seemed like child’s play.
Who knew how many of Peterson or Rai’s groups would make it to the coordinates he’d uploaded? He knew he should probably wait for them to arrive and then formulate a joint plan, but things might go further south while he waited. Hendershot was dead, in all likelihood, which meant he was the only senior commander left, and it wasn’t in his nature to sit around while decisions needed to be made.
Robert would figure out what to do with the chief, and the rest of Hendershot’s gang would just have to fall in line with his decision once they arrived. If they refused to do so, he’d turn them over to Drake and let the wiry little killer deal with them.
The first order of business was figuring out how to communicate with the chief. So far all they’d heard was a series of guttural grunts and howls that probably made sense to others of his kind, but sounded like complete gibberish to the untrained human ear. If he could establish communication with the creature, he might be able to broker some sort of deal that would prevent more of his men from getting slaughtered.
Colonel Robert didn’t normally make deals of any sort with the enemy, but under normal circumstances, the enemy didn’t gut his forces the way these devils had. So long as he had the chief, he held the upper hand, and he wanted to make sure it stayed that way.
CASPer Alamo (The Revelations Cycle Book 9) Page 18
