by John Ringo
“…Concentrate on that curved patch.”
“What did Top say?” Rad-Man screamed. Lance Corporal Radovich was pouring cannon fire onto the beasts but while the cannon had some effect on them, it wasn’t much more than the Gatlings.
“Fire at the patch under the mandibles,” Sergeant Dunn said. If he was perturbed by the distinct possibility of being torn apart by giant crab-octopi it wasn’t apparent. He readjusted his fire and hit his laser designator. “On my spot!”
The combined fire of two Gatling guns and a cannon managed to punch through one of the crabpus’ armor and it immediately started to spasm in death throes, its tentacles jerking wildly as it rolled to the side.
“We got it!” Walker screamed. “We got it!”
Just as the rest of the pack closed.
“That’s what I needed,” Berg said, breathing deeply. “Sergeant Jaenisch, permission to move myself to the support of First Platoon?”
“What?” Jaen shouted. “Are you grapping nuts? No you can’t ‘move to the support of First.’ ”
“Sergeant,” Berg said, drawing one of the pistols. “This has got twice the penetrator power of one of the cannons. Those are grenade rounds, not penetrators. Forget the 7.62s.”
“Grapp,” Jaen said, wincing. “Go. Just grapping go. Gunny Hoc…” he said, switching frequencies.
“Are we down to runners, now?” Runner asked as one of the Marines vaulted a sanger and stared sprinting across the veldt. A few of the big herbivores were between him and the action and Runner hoped the Marine went around them. Pinging the armor he got the name “Bergstresser.” It took him a moment to figure out which Marine it was, but then he noted that the armor was wearing pistols.
“Two-Gun!” Runner said, direct linking the armor. “Are you grapping nuts?”
“Fifty cal pistols, Master Sergeant,” Berg said. “They’re about the only BMG systems except sniper rifles on the boat. I can kill these things.”
“Watch out for the herbivores, Two-Gun,” Runner warned. “They crushed Dr. Dean.”
“Got the solution for that issue,” Berg replied.
Going around the herbivores was out of the question. Sensors indicated that there were more of the predators closing on the Marines and they still hadn’t finished off the first group.
Berg wasn’t sure if he was an idiot or a genius. But if the patch under the mandibles was a kill point, he’d be able to prove it on the herbivores. If the pistols killed them, they’d kill the carnivores. If not… Well, they looked slow enough to outrun.
So he kept sprinting forward, drawing the right pistol as he approached the remaining elephant crabpus. There were three of them, spinning from side to side as if they couldn’t figure out which was the bigger threat, the predators they knew or the Marines. Berg didn’t intend to let them guess.
One of the massive beasts, fully nine meters tall at the top of the shell, started rumbling towards him on its stumpy tentacles and he paused, bringing up the pistol in a two-handed grip.
He carefully targeted the patch the first sergeant had noted and fired. The round punched through the refractory armor but the thing kept coming. After a second round, though, no more than a hand’s span from the first, the giant herbivore practically jumped into the air, then came crashing down.
It slid to a stop less than three meters away but from Berg’s perspective that was perfect. He took a running jump onto the top of its shell and then bounded off the far side between the two remaining herbivores. Dropping to a knee, he fired left in a two-handed grip, punching two rounds into the patch of the left-hand monster, then fired one-handed to the right, dropping that one with his last remaining round.
Bounding to his feet he dropped the clip, an unfortunately cumbersome operation with the converted rifle, and slid another magazine in place.
“Third Platoon,” he said, the system automatically switching to that platoon’s frequency. “Gang way. Two-Gun coming through.”
* * *
“Back, back!” Mammoth shouted. “More coming in from the south.” The lieutenant swept his Gatling gun to the right and shook his head. “Gunny, we have a situation here.”
“That we do, sir,” Big-Foot said. The last team was backing on their position, firing in a continuous stream at the pack. But, worse, there were motion sensor readings indicating more of the beasts no more than fifty meters away. The gunny targeted one of the remaining three carnivores, whose tentacles were shredded, not that it seemed to care, and began pouring rounds into the patch under the mandibles. Most of the rounds bounced off, some of them doing more damage to the tentacles. But if you put enough kinetic energy on a spot, it tends to crack. Finally, rounds began to punch through and the predator slid to a halt.
Mammoth had finished off another. But Wangen was down, the last predator’s mandibles fixed on his arm.
“Mothergrapper,” Wangen snarled, hammering at the beast. “Maulk, I can’t get up.”
“Gunny,” Mammoth said, chopping at the mandibles with his combat knife. The monomolecular blade rapidly broke through one of the mandibles and the arm was released. But the predator still pinned the suit.
“Sutherland,” Frandsen said, grabbing one side of the beast. “Other side. And a one, and a two…”
“More!” Lance Corporal Corwin shouted as another pack of the predators broke cover. There were more this time and, if anything, they were bigger. These were striped in red and green. The first pack had been flat red.
“Retreat,” Captain MacDonald said. “Just grapping run. We’ve got it.”
“Too close, sir,” Mammoth said, dropping to one knee and targeting the nerve junction. “Get Third out of here, sir. Semper Fidelis…”
“Third Platoon,” Captain MacDonald said. “Prepare to retreat…”
“Two-Gun, what the grapp are you doing here?” Top snapped as the PFC barreled past.
“Penetrators, Top,” Berg panted, holding up the modified sniper rifles. “Get… going… Got… it.”
“PFC Bergstresser…” the CO said, then paused when the first sergeant raised a hand. “Go get ’em, boy.”
* * *
“Go, sir!” Sutherland said, dropping to one knee and targeting the lieutenant’s beast.
“Staff Sergeant, this is an order,” Mammoth said. “Get your team out of here.”
“Sir…”
“I gave you an order, Staff Sergeant,” the lieutenant said. “You will obey it. Go.”
“Sir,” Sutherland said. “Alpha Team. Make for the boat.”
As Alpha retreated, Berg seriously reconsidered his sanity. There were nine of the charging monsters and only three remaining Marines. He knew he was pretty good, but he’d hardly used these things.
On the other hand, these things were much faster than a Wyvern. If somebody didn’t slow them down, they were going to be all over Alpha Team, and Third Platoon, like stink on maulk.
As Alpha ran past, he stopped and targeted one of the monsters, firing two rounds.
“Sir…” he said, pausing and blanking on the lieutenant’s last name. “Mammoth! Get the hell out of there. I’ve got it.”
“What?” the lieutenant asked as another beast crashed to the ground. “Who the hell…”
“Two-Gun?” Frandsen said, standing up as one of the predators closed. “Go, sir! Go!”
Mammoth had dropped one of the monsters and he got to his feet, backing up fast.
“Come on, sir!” the gunny shouted.
“Too late,” Dorsett said, firing point blank into the monster’s mouth. But its packmate took him by the arm and lifted the Wyvern off the ground, tossing it through the air to the rest of the pack.
“That kid’s got spirit,” Top said, turning to the rear.
“First Sergeant!” Captain MacDonald said, then paused. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Powell said. “You too, sir.”
As the pack closed, Berg reloaded, then drew both pistols. Two rounds per beast was about r
ight, sometimes three. He ran through the right-hand pistol killing two and putting a round in one, then backed and fired with his left hand, killing one more. He started backing faster, trying to reload on the backwards trot, dropping his first full mag as he stumbled over the rough ground. The predators were nearly on him as he fumbled a magazine into place.
“Nice pistol,” First Sergeant Powell said, snatching out his right-hand gun. If he was bothered by the closing predators it wasn’t apparent. He simply removed a magazine from Berg’s harness quite calmly and reloaded as if he was giving a demonstration.
“Yes, Top,” Berg said, stopping his retreat. He just couldn’t run backwards and fire worth a damn.
“Got to talk to Lurch about getting one of my own,” Top said, lifting the pistol in a two-handed grip. Six rounds ripped out fast enough that it sounded as if the pistol was on auto-fire. And three of the beasts dropped. “Want the last one?”
“Sure, Top,” Berg said, putting two rounds into the sensitive patch. The beast slid to a stop at his feet, thrashing on the red grass. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Report, Lieutenant,” MacDonald said as the last of Third Platoon cleared the sangers.
“Five MIA,” Lieutenant Berisford said. “I think we can count them as KIA, sir. The big crabpus that got the ship got them, too.”
“Any news on the ship?” the captain asked tiredly. Three Wyverns were just clearing the obstacle of the big herbivores, two of them leaping across the backs. Three out of thirteen with Top and Two-Gun not far behind.
“No, sir, not yet,” Berisford replied, stoically. “I’m sure they’ll be back.”
“Hopefully before our air runs out.”
22
Good Vibrations
“I hope we can get this done without our air running out,” Miller said as the air lock began to flood.
There were many problems with using the Wyverns underwater. The first was that they hadn’t, actually, been tested under fifty meters of pressure. They should hold, they were quite heavily designed, but should and would were two entirely different things.
The second, however, was somewhat more germane. Wyverns were heavy. Although they had a large pocket of internal air, it was insufficient to buoy them up. Without some sort of flotation, they were going to sink like stones.
The engineers and machinist mates of the ship had, again, come up with an answer. A cluster of sample bags had been put in large mesh bags used for food storage and handling. External air-tanks were run to the bags so that they could be inflated. Deflation was via a rope that would squeeze the bags.
It was the buoyancy air to which the chief referred.
“I hope we can do this, period,” Weaver said, hefting his mop. “Prepare to gargalize!”
“As a battlecry it leaves something to be desired, sir,” Miller replied as the water rose over his sensor dome.
The sensors stayed online as the water filled the compartment and reached full pressure. And no leaks sprayed across his pilot compartment. So Miller hit the air lock controls and stepped out.
The air lock was on the top of the boat and he could see the mass of the crabpus blotting out the light from above.
He clipped off a safety line and then, cautiously, walked down the exterior of the boat. There was another point to clip a line ten meters from the air lock and he clipped another line to that. Only then did he, oh so slowly, begin to fill the bags.
Finally, he felt a slight upwards tug and halted to check his buoyancy. There was a delay effect and as the bags pulled upwards they jerked him off the deck.
Flying up and slamming into the thing wasn’t in the plan so he paid out the safety-line, ascending slowly. Looking to the side, he saw Weaver heading up as well.
Dr. Robertson hadn’t determined what the things used for senses but they had to hope there weren’t many sensors on the underside of the thing. Otherwise, they were simply going to get eaten.
As he approached the underside of the leviathan’s shell he started trying to figure out where the ticklish patch was. There were twelve plates on the underside of the crabpus and he had to find the right one.
Stopping just under the shell, he looked over at Weaver, who was gesturing farther upwards. The problem was, they had ended up approaching the middle of the crabpus’ underside. The patch they had to get to was farther forward. The thing was resting with its “arms” around the ship, canted upwards. They could get to the patch by letting out more line, but then they’d be touching the underside of the crabpus. It was likely to react badly to that.
Miller gestured to the scientist, then let out more line until the bags of air touched the underside of the crab. No reaction. He let out a bit more line and the bags slid upwards. Then the crab shifted, like a sleeper moving in a dream, the metal of the hull crunching briefly on the submarine rocks.
Miller paused but the balloon was now away from the crab, floating invitingly near the patch he was looking for. He let more line out and wafted gently upward through the clear water until he was opposite the “tickle patch.”
His balloons, alas, were floating right in front of the crabpus’ massive maw. In fact, as the current pushed him back and forth, they tended to drift between the giant mandibles. He’d just have to hope that “tickling” didn’t cause the thing to close its mouth.
And the mop still would not reach. But… It was the RonCorp Vibro Mop with patented extending handle. So he extended the handle, turned on the vibrator and now it reached.
He looked over to see where Weaver had gotten to. The commander, though, was right there with him, on the opposite side of the patch.
He’d have much preferred to be placing a heavy charge on the thing, but he lifted the mop and began stroking it back and forth…
“Whoa!” the pilot yelled as the submarine shifted, violently. As the tentacles loosened, the sub was pulled sideways and down to rest on its side.
“Engage space drive!” the CO said. “Lift, now! Ten gravities!”
The SEAL was jerked away from the patch as the ship lifted and the balloons flew upwards. This was one of several bits he hadn’t been looking forward to but he braced in the Wyvern as the ship lifted upwards. Suddenly he was going down again as the balloons hit the surface. Worse, he could see the tentacles of the leviathan starting to shift. It was waking up.
The ship lifted out of the water, fast, but he stayed three meters under, dangling from the buoyancy bag, as the giant crabpus began to move, one tentacle coming up for the ship…
It had fallen asleep! The prey was escaping!
One of the lashing tentacles slid across the steel hull, then wrapped around the metal cover of Number Two Laser. Hit, stuck as others began to wrap around the prey and drag it downwards…
“We’re stuck again, sir!” the pilot called, desperately. “I can pull us out, I think, but…”
The sub began to shudder and shake as more tentacles wrapped around it. Spectre reached over and flipped open the switch for the view port and looked forward.
“Pilot, give me six gravs absolute forward and HIT it!”
* * *
Weaver pulled up on his rope as a tentacle lashed by just under his feet.
“Chief? You okay?”
“Grapping mothergrapper of a behanchod… Try to eat my ride… Put some octo where the sun don’t shine…”
“Guess that’s a ‘yes’…” Weaver said as he was yanked downward. “What the… ?”
The massive supercavitation system of the Vorpal Blade slammed into the carpalus plate of the sea beast at just under twenty miles per hour. Struck and penetrated, slamming the beast downward into the water. The beast spasmed but kept jetting outward, trying to escape, now…
“And back at ten grav,” Spectre called. “Hold that. Four degrees up, two left and gimme fifteen gravities! NOW!”
This time the supercavitation system hit the crabpus at the juncture of the carpalus plate and the gargalus, the “tickle
” plate, punching upwards into the monster’s limited brain and exiting just between its eyes. The gigantic crabpus dropped limp.
“Holy MAULK!” Jaenisch shouted as the ship erupted from the waves in a welter of foam. Stuck to the front, impaled by the “Blade,” the weight of gravity having slid it all the way down so that it rested against the nose of the ship, was the giant sea beast. Fully exposed, it was apparent that its carapace was as long as the hull of the massive sub which was, itself, the size of a WWII battleship. The tentacles of the thing dangled limp as the ship, nose up to keep the beast impaled, rose above the plateau and hovered.
“Captain MacDonald, this is the CO,” Spectre said over the general announcement freq. “I believe your suits have some very good cameras.”
“Yes, sir!” MacDonald said. “Two-Gun, I want a very detailed still of this image, son. Make sure you can get those two Wyverns on the side for scale!”
“I’m going to send a copy of it to grapping Space Command,” Spectre said. “With my compliments.”
“I wanna know how we’re gonna mount it,” Jaenisch said.
* * *
“You’re joking,” the CO said.
“Not really, sir,” Weaver replied, taking a sip of Coke. He really thought that, all things considered, it should be beer. “Freeze-drying something is just exposing it to vacuum for a specified period. If we pull it up to orbit, leave it there for, oh, a couple of days, then take it back down to, say, that north polar continent…”
“Yeah, but where are we going to store it?” Spectre asked. “I mean, once we get it back.”
