The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

  ME5 Abodoca, the smallest member of the platoon at 4’5” and 80 pounds, and their platoon commander, shouted out, “We’re going hunting!”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Jorge said as the rest pumped their fists in the air.

  “Chasseur” was an old French military term that meant “hunter,” and hunting was what they’d been trained to do. With a few succinct hand-and-arm signals, the platoon took off through the trees, ready to harass the Valks. They were part of the subterfuge, one more layer in leaving a false trail, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t bloody some Valk noses in the process. That would make the subterfuge even more believable.

  They glided like silent wraiths through the forest, the needle litter acting as sound dampeners. Chasseur units ran incessantly during training, first because it kept their weight down, but more importantly, at least from a combat standpoint, because it kept them in superb physical condition. Now all those miles were paying off as they closed with the Valks.

  Firing broke out somewhere ahead. The Valks would be thinking that they’d flanked what they believed was a full Gryphon dragoon platoon.

  Third team was taking point, and they were the first to initiate contact with the rear Valkyrie miltechs. As they opened fire, the other teams flowed around them as they had a hundred times during training. Isaac’s heart threatened to burst out of his chest in anticipation. This was what they were supposed to be doing, not hiding in a fighting position like a chipmunk in a hole.

  He glimpsed motion through the trees and fired, hoping to get a seeing-eye round through to strike flesh. Needles fell around him, torn free by the Valks return fire. He didn’t care as his warrior-self took over.

  He caught sight of a Valk through a gap in the trees, firing somewhere to his right. He pulled up against a tree, and using it as a support, targeted the Valk’s right arm. He was breathing heavily, and his sights rose and fell with each breath. He shut out the noise and commotion around him, exhaled, then squeezed off two rounds. At least one hit in a burst of pink mist as she spun around and dove for cover.

  That’s two of you I nailed!

  In his previous seven fights, Isaac had never taken out an opposing miltech for certain. He’d fired, and he’d undoubtedly hit others, but he’d never seen someone go down. Now, he’d dropped two. Civilized people didn’t hurt others, and Isaac thought of himself as a nice guy, but here in the reservation, where everyone was there by choice, the human veneer cracked. Two wasn’t enough, and he wanted more.

  He wasn’t going to get more now, though.

  “Break, break, zero-six-zero,” Abodoca pushed through their comms.

  Isaac fired one more burst at another Valk he could barely see before breaking off, running at the designated heading. He’d been right beside Tasha and Jorge when they moved to contact, but he’d gotten separated as he engaged. He could see four or five others as they ran, but not his team. It wasn’t until MT5 Abodaca halted 500 meters back for a head count that he married back up with them.

  Lassie Grundwild had taken a round through her upper arm, but she was still combat ready. No one else had been hit, much less wounded.

  “Again, but we’re hitting their J4s this time.”

  “Do we take them out?” Tasha asked.

  “If they’ll let us, sure,” Abodaca answered. “But they’ll be protected, and we’re not to become decisively engaged.”

  A Valk J4 opened up in the near distance, taking the First Platoon’s dragoons under fire.

  “That’s our cue,” Abodaca said. “Platoon wedge, guide on Singh.”

  MT2 Singh’s face broke out into a toothy grin, basking in the honor as he took off. Abodaca would keep him on course, and it was up to the rest of the platoon to guide on him. They were close, and within a minute, the platoon was receiving fire. Rounds zapped past him like angry hornets, but Isaac didn’t have a target. Even with caseless ammunition, the weight issue limited him on his combat load, and he’d expended quite a few rounds between the fight up at the OP and the clash a few minutes ago. He wanted concrete targets before he wasted any more ammo.

  He saw movement and snapped off a shot, but his intense focus was almost the end of him as a J4 opened up, the big rounds reaching out to him. He dove behind the tree as splinters filled the air. His body armor might be able to stop those rounds, but then again, it might not. Getting hit in his legs or arms could take them right off, and that was for sure a Cat 4 or 5 medical treatment.

  On his belly and keeping his head low, he peered around the tree trunk, trying to spot the J4. When it opened up again, the muzzle blast gave it away. Isaac fired five rounds at the spot, not knowing if he’d hit anything or not.

  “You OK?” Tasha asked, on her belly ten meters to his left.

  He gave her a thumbs up, then pointed in the direction of the J4, using the hand-and-arm signals for “heavy gun,” “assault,” and “interrogatory.” She nodded, and got to her knees just as the whumps of collapsing air of people porting reached them.

  Isaac wanted to rush forward to catch any laggards, but that was inviting a J4 round in the face. It was common deception: simulating a full unit port, but then leaving a defense force to surprise anyone following.

  Cautiously moving forward, they found nothing. No Valks, no guns. They must have realized that the supposed full dragoon platoon was a diversion.

  “At least they’re bleeding power,” Tasha said as she put her finger in the furrows left in the forest floor by the J4’s spades. “They won’t be able to port much more.”

  “So, now what’s for us? Are we done?”

  “Ask Lettie,” she said automatically, then added, “I mean, it depends on what goes down. She’s still going to try and lure them into one of the kill zones, and we might be needed to help nudge them along.”

  Being ported three times in a day, twice within 20 minutes, was not unusual, but the final clash in a trial was usually between dragoons or heavy infantry. The 2nd Chasseur Platoon might very well be finished, at least with the fighting.

  They rallied around Abodaca before sweeping the battlefield, searching for casualties. Lance Ithaca, one of the new joins was down hard, a good chunk of his femur gone from a J4 round. He was cursing up a storm as they inflated the temporary traction sleeve and gave him a shot of Be-Happy. Normally, people drifted off pretty quickly after that, but Ithaca was evidently made of sterner stuff, and he kept up his invectives for a good two minutes.

  “That’s pretty impressive,” Jorge said as the MT1 finally quieted. “He’ll be a good’un.”

  Three of the 1st Platoon dragoons were down hard, as were two Valks. All five were treated and flagged for medivac out of the AO as soon as the fight was over.

  “Look at that. The Sakuras aren’t even operational,” Tasha said as they did a last sweep.

  “Of course, not. They’re just tree trunks and rocks,” Isaac said.

  “No, not them. The real ones. Look.”

  There had been two of the company’s Sakuras in the position. As Isaac took a closer look at one, he realized that not only were there no ammo packs, the heavy breech assembly was missing.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered as he stepped in for a closer look.

  A Sakura was light-weight for a .30 cal, with most of the mass in the breech assembly. He knew that the two guns were to be sacrificed, but he hadn’t imagined that they would be stripped down to the minimum while still showing up on Valk sensors. Without the breech assembly, they were nothing more than big paperweights, however. The dragoons playing decoy had been sent in without their main weapon, all to save power. And as a result, three of them had been zeroed before Lettie ported the rest out to join the main effort.

  Sometimes, a chessmaster sacrificed their pawns in order to gain an advantage which would eventually lead to taking the opposing king. Good strategy, but it still sucked if you were the pawn being sacrificed. His four fellow miltechs were zeroed and faced long and painful rehabilitation.
/>   I hope it was worth it.

  The platoon gathered under the trees with the wounded. This wasn’t the Amazonian jungle where triple-canopy would hide them from prying eyes, but no one was too concerned. With things rapidly coming to a head, their little light infantry platoon would be way down upon the Valks’ priority list. However, this was still a live battlefield, so they took defensive positions as they tried to follow what was happening with the rest of the company. Move and counter-move, the two opposing MEs maneuvered their miltechs, seeking an advantage.

  “Standby!” MT5 Abodaca shouted.

  “What? Again?” Jorge asked.

  A moment later, Abodaca shouted out, “We’re joining Second Dragoons. They’re being hit hard! Listen up for orders!”

  The beast, circling high over the reservation in its dirigible, reached out its tendrils, and for the fourth time today, Isaac’s body was disassembled, the molecular bonds mapped and then broken. This was the worst, and despite his training, he wondered if something had gone wrong. He knew the beast was broken, and he’d never come back from whatever hell he was in now, living . . . no, existing . . . forever in torment . . . and then the pain was gone, the memory of it fading as he oriented himself. Second Dragoon Platoon was in heavy contact. Ten meters to Isaac’s right, one of the Sakuras chattered away, sending the big .30’s across a meadow dotted with hot mineral pools, the sulfuric stench overpowering the bite of the rounds’ propellant.

  Adobaca was everywhere, grabbing miltechs and plugging holes in 2nd Dragoons’ lines. Isaac was hit three more times before he went prone. One round struck high on his shoulder, numbing his arm, but it didn’t penetrate. There wasn’t any J4 fire from the treeline, which was a relief, but the sheer mass of J2 rounds made up for it. Walter Simms, the Sakura gunner, in heavier armor, was getting peppered. Isaac could see the rounds hit him. He kept up a steady stream of fire while Lindsay Han, his a-gunner readied the next box magazine. He signaled to Lindsay for the mag when he slumped, head lolling back.

  Both the dragoons’ and chasseurs’ armor were STF, or shear thickening fluid. Very effective against the smaller caliber rounds, but it could be defeated with multiple shots in the same spot one after the other. The Valks had put enough rounds into him to defeat his armor.

  He didn’t know who had taken down Walter, but as Lindsay scrambled to take over the Sakura, Isaac emptied his second-to-last magazine into the treeline to give her cover. He dropped the mag and slammed in his last one when the opposing fire stopped. The PrimeMils kept firing for a few more moments before Abodaca and MT5 Harris, the 2nd Dragoon Platoon commander ordered a cease fire.

  Silence hung heavy over the meadow while sulfur and propellant mixed, making Isaac break out coughing, his throat raw.

  Don’t just sit there, he told himself, jumping up to help Lindsay with Walter. He was alive, but had taken a round to the belly.

  “Put pressure on him,” Lindsay said as she pulled out Walter’s #12 flat from his cargo pocket.

  As Isaac leaned into Walter, Lindsay ripped open the pack, pulled the cover layer, then activated the flat.

  “OK, now!”

  Isaac released his pressure, and Lindsay slapped the flat over the entry point. The flat expanding, stopping the blood flow.

  “They’re gone. Ported,” Jorge said to Isaac, looking over his shoulder as Walter, who was out cold but seemed to be breathing better, at least.

  “Hell, how much power do they have left?” Isaac asked, trying to go over in his head how many times the heavier Valks had already ported.

  “That has to be about it,” Tasha said. “For us, too.”

  With porting out of the picture, the fight was going to come down to an old-time slugfest. The time for the engineers playing chess with their pawns was over, and the knights had to battle it out.

  Isaac sat down, pulled off his helmet, and wiped his brow with his forearm. The adrenaline that had kept him going had evaporated, leaving him tired. Whatever happened would happen without him.

  Never assume anything.

  “All hands, drop your armor,” Abodaca shouted out, running along the line while MT5 Harris echoed her.

  “What?” Isaac asked stupidly, confused.

  “Chasseurs in the first wave. You’ve got twenty seconds. Drop your armor now!”

  “Oh, hell,” Tasha said. “We’re getting sent back in, and Lettie’s short on power.”

  She was right. The company had to be in deep shit, and all resources were going to be sent to reinforce—all resources that Lettie could port. That meant without armor that would weigh them down. The lighter, smaller chasseurs would port first, and if there was any power left, the bigger dragoons.

  Isaac snapped into action and hit his armor releases, kicking free just as the beast grabbed him for the fifth time. Pain? Yes, pain. Agony. Yes, agony. But Isaac’s thoughts were on what was awaiting them. They were going into battle without their armor in the hopes of saving the company. Getting zeroed suddenly seemed to be the preferable alternative. Without armor, their chances of getting ghosted just rose tremendously.

  His body came apart and reassembled under ten-meter tall trees, a roar behind them. He recognized the place as the Upper and Lower Falls, one of the areas into which Lettie had hoped to lure the Valks.

  “Don’t just stand there, Stein,” Abodaca shouted, grabbing his arm and yanking him to a position behind a fallen tree trunk.

  With Tasha beside him, he rose to look over the trunk. Out across the road and the fields on the other side, he could see at least 150 Valks forming up. As he watched, more winked into existence.

  Two 2nd Dragoon miltechs ported to his left.

  “The beast is out of power,” Tasha said when no more appeared. “This is who we’ve got to the dance, I guess.”

  “How many do you think?”

  “First Dragoons, us, First Chasseurs, some cats and dogs. Maybe 80 all told.”

  Isaac tried to count the Valks, who were forming just out of Compton range before asking, “Any Sakuras?”

  “Nope. Too heavy. But we’ve got cover, while they have to cross a sweet killing field. We can do this.”

  More Valks joined the main body until there were at least 200 out there, 200 to face 80.

  “I’ve only got one mag left,” he told Tasha.

  She sighed, then pulled out one of hers and tossed it to him. “How about some fire discipline, huh?”

  “You got any more?” Jorge asked. “I’m out.”

  “Here,” Isaac said, tossing him the one Tasha had just given him. “Like she says, fire discipline.”

  The fives were running back and forth, adjusting position, checking fields of fire. Isaac didn’t know if that was just their commanders’ nervous energy or if they were really improving the company’s chances. Probably a little of both.

  Isaac ran scenario after scenario through his mind. With their Sakuras, the company would be sitting pretty, but they didn’t have any. With the 80 miltechs they did have, it was probably going to be touch and go, to see whatever client blinked first.

  Eight minutes after Isaac had ported in, the Valks started forward in line. Their undulating cries reached them, but muted from the roar of the waterfalls. Dwarfed by nature, they sounded like children.

  The won’t fight like children.

  “Eight hundred meters,” the skipper passed on the open net. “At six hundred, weapons free.”

  “You two ready?” Tasha asked.

  “Bring them on,” Jorge answered.

  At 700 meters, the sound of heavy gunfire swept over the line at the same moment as the Valks broke into a run.

  We’ve got Sakuras? Isaac wondered for a moment.

  But it wasn’t PrimeMil Sakuras. The unmistakable report of a J4, then another, then two more echoed from the ridgeline above as the ground around the PrimeMils erupted with rounds chewing into dirt, trees, and bodies.

  To their front, the Valk line shifted to their left, so they could concentrate
their forces and break the PrimeMil line. They had to shift to meet that threat, or the battle was lost. It was probably already lost anyway.

  It was a trap all along, Isaac thought. They out-smarted Lettie!

  They were pinned down under heavy plunging fire as the J4’s rained death and destruction upon them. If they maneuvered to meet the onrushing Valks, they’d be zeroed at best, ghosted at worst. Yet if they hunkered down, they were just waiting for the Valks to overrun them. They had the numbers, and the PrimeMills no longer had their armor.

  “She blew it,” Jorge said bitterly. “That freaking child genius couldn’t keep her numbers straight.”

  Isaac wanted to argue, to stick up for Lettie, but he couldn’t. Jorge was right. She’d played it too close to the razor’s edge, and now they were going to pay the price. If he’d been the Valk ME, he couldn’t have picked a better place for their ambush had he tried—better for the Valks, disastrous for the PrimeMils.

  And this time, there wasn’t going to be a rescue. The Valks were out of power, but so were they. Without porting, it was down to old-fashion military tactics, and the terrain and troop disposition left only one logical conclusion. All they could hope for was for Beaker Ag to pull the plug before too many of them fell.

  “Sucks, right?” Tasha asked him, her face just a foot from his while rounds kicked up around them.

  Someone called out in pain as one of the heavy rounds hit home.

  “Yeah. But we gave them a good run, huh?” Isaac said as he popped up and fired into the mass of charging Valks.

  “If Beaker Ag doesn’t call it, the skipper wants us to charge the Valks, hit them on the flanks.”

  “Two hundred of them and eighty of us? With those J4s pounding us?”

  “If we’re in among them, the J4s are out of the equation, right? And if I’m getting zeroed, I want to take some of those assholes with me.”

  “Me, too!” Jorge said.

  “So, what? We wait?”

  “I think it won’t—”