In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  “Mannie,” Coyle said more gently, “adjust the vertical gain on your forward display so you don’t see what’s down on the street. Just keep us from hitting the buildings, okay?”

  “Roger,” he managed, doing as she had told him. It wouldn’t matter, because the images of the crushed bodies were burned into his brain.

  “Shit,” Yuri said, keeping the turret aligned in the direction of the warriors. “They see us.” A number of the Kreelans looked straight at them and cried out to the others. But they kept coming after the civilians, driving them like cattle right toward the tank that now sat idling uncertainly in the middle of the street.

  “They’d have to be blind not to,” Coyle said as she scanned all around them in her vision display to make sure nothing took them by surprise. Aside from the still-rising fireball at the city center, all she could see were screaming people being pursued by the line of Kreelans. “Dammit, we’re not going to have enough clearance from the civvies for the main gun. Yuri, use the coax.”

  “I don’t have a clear shot,” he told her, praying that she wouldn’t order him to fire, anyway. In his digital gunsight, human heads bobbed in the sight picture as people ran past: if he fired, he would accidentally decapitate at least a few.

  “Crap,” Coyle snarled as she tried to bring her own weapon to bear. A three-barreled gatling gun that fired twenty millimeter shells at over a thousand rounds per minute, it was mounted high enough that it cleared the heads of the fleeing civilians in her own remote gunsight display. There was only one problem: it was jammed and wouldn’t move. “It must be jimmied with rubble.”

  “Grenades!” Yuri warned as he saw some of the Kreelans, whose attention was now fixed on the tank, detach some sort of weapon from their belts that could only be some sort of anti-tank grenade. The weapons glowed with electric fire, and he definitely didn’t like the look of them.

  Coyle had no choice: risk killing some of the civilians or have the Kreelans attack her vehicle. “Close-in mortar,” she warned, “danger close.” She lifted up a clear cover over a small red button and jammed it with her finger. Her sight display switched to a computer-generated overhead view of what was around the vehicle. Clearly displayed were yellow-colored dots representing the Kreelan warriors, and she quickly drew a box around them with her finger.

  In the roof of the massive turret was one of the vehicle’s close-in defense weapons: a small mortar that could fire one or more forty millimeter smart grenades. It could rotate and adjust the distance the projectiles would fire, covering the area she had marked on her display.

  She hit the glowing “Fire” button on the weapon control panel, and the mortar pumped out eight rounds in two seconds with precisely controlled spurts of highly compressed air. The weapon couldn’t reach more than a hundred meters, but that was more than enough for what Coyle needed.

  The line of Kreelan warriors suddenly disintegrated as the small but potent mortar rounds exploded among them at waist height, with a shrapnel pattern that expanded horizontally like an opening fan. It was none too soon: a few more seconds and they would have been within throwing range for their grenades. As it was, they were close enough that some of the shrapnel pinged off of Chiquita’s heavy armor

  Amazingly, none of the civilians were injured, the bodies of the Kreelans having absorbed nearly all of the shrapnel.

  The civilians safely past, Yuri opened up with the coaxial gun, another twenty millimeter cannon. The tank was suddenly filled with the weapon’s growl as it spewed shells into the few surviving Kreelans, who were still dazed by the mortar explosions. The alien bodies exploded under Yuri’s withering fire, and in a few seconds there were no targets left to shoot at.

  “Sergeant Coyle?” a voice suddenly crackled over her headset. “Can you hear me?”

  Breathing a huge sigh of relief that at least one of her platoon’s other tanks was alive, she said, “I never thought I’d be happy to hear your voice, Gomez, but we’re damned glad to see ya.” In her cupola display, she watched as Gomez’s tank moved to one side of hers, keeping its turret pointed in the opposite direction from where Coyle’s turret was aimed, covering their collective backs. She looked at her console, her suspicion confirmed: the tanks only had communications in line-of-sight mode by laser. The Kreelans must have done something to mess up any radio frequency communications.

  “Any word on the other two tracks?” she asked, wondering about the other two tanks in her platoon.

  There was a slight pause. “They both bought it,” Gomez said somberly. “Ivanova’s tank took what must’ve been a twenty centimeter round from one of those enemy cruisers right on the turret mount. She didn’t stand a chance. I don’t know what happened to Inoue, but his track was a burning wreck. No survivors.”

  “Fuck,” Coyle hissed, leaning her head against the coaming of the commander’s hatch. “Any word from company or higher?”

  “Zilch,” Gomez said somberly. “We just dug our way out of that crap we were buried in, so you’d have had a better chance than us to hear anything. Only thing working is the fucking lasers, and all the whiskers on our left side got scraped off when we dug out of the building. So we can only talk and hear on the right side.”

  “Okay,” Coyle said as she popped the hatch. She needed to try and free up her gatling gun. “Take up position in echelon left,” she said, which would put Gomez’s tank to her left so the other vehicle’s communications lasers would be able to network with hers, “and let’s move back toward the battalion CP to see if we can find anybody else. Surely there must be someone else left alive in this clusterfuck.”

  “Oh, shit,” Yuri whispered as he scanned back and forth with the turret to cover their portion of the street and what lay beyond. “We’ve got company. And lots of it.”

  Coyle looked up from hammering at the gatling gun’s mount to see what must have been hundreds, if not more, Kreelan warriors come striding around a corner a few hundred meters down the cross street from the intersection where the tanks now sat.

  The warriors paused momentarily as they caught sight of the pair of tanks. Then they broke into a run straight toward the two human vehicles, and Coyle’s skin crawled as the Kreelans howled their bloodlust.

  Hammering one last desperate time at a bent pin that was all that was keeping the gatling gun’s mount from moving freely, she grunted in satisfaction as the weapon suddenly slewed around on its mount, centering itself. Coyle dropped back into her seat, the hatch hissing shut behind her. “Jesus,” she said in wonder as she looked at the display. “They must not have a fucking clue what they’re attacking.” The Kreelans were running headlong toward them like a bunch of primitives who had never seen an armored vehicle. “Fine by me,” she muttered. “Dumbass alien bitches in the open,” she called out her own version of the target type. “Load flechette, area fire.”

  “Up!” Yuri instantly replied, having already selected the round he knew she’d want.

  “Fire!”

  The tank rocked back as its twenty centimeter cannon, the same size as those fitted on the Terran heavy cruisers, but not as powerful or fast-loading, fired with a gout of flame. Propelled by a powerful binary liquid propellant that was injected into the breech and ignited, the flechette round wasn’t simply a gigantic equivalent of a shotgun round. Much like the close-in defense weapon that could cover an area designated by the tank’s commander, the flechette round could cover a larger or smaller area, as necessary. After he’d loaded it, Yuri had swiped his thumb across the line of Kreelan warriors shown in his display, designating the entire mass as a target. The tank’s computers did the rest.

  As the round sped downrange, miniature explosive charges inside detonated at precise intervals, spreading the thousands of flechettes into a broad horizontal pattern to cover most of the Kreelan line.

  The results were horrific. Fully the first three ranks of alien warriors were cut to ribbons in a spray of bloody mist by the finger-length razor-sharp projectiles. Their breast arm
or was strong, but not strong enough to stand up to flechettes moving at three thousand meters per second. Coyle, as happy as she was to give the enemy a pounding, was sickened at the sight. The street was instantly awash in blood and bits of bodies. While she had fired flechette rounds at the ranges for training, of course, she had never actually used one on live targets. With the exception of a few of the senior officers and NCOs who had served during the St. Petersburg war, none of the soldiers of the Terran units had actually seen combat before this. Despite years of training, it was a rude awakening.

  “Oh, God,” Yuri said in nauseated wonder.

  “That should slow them down...” Coyle said with a shaking voice as she clamped down on her own urgent desire to vomit.

  But the alien warriors didn’t slow down. If anything, the massacre of their front ranks sent them into even more of a frenzy. Coyle couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t seem like rage, either: it was like they were all having some sort of alien orgasm. But they weren’t stupid: the mass of warriors instantly broke up into groups. Most of them headed for the cover of the surrounding buildings, while a couple of groups continued toward the tanks, running fast and weaving to make harder targets.

  As Yuri tried to blast them with his coaxial weapon, Coyle ordered the driver, “Mannie, turn us around and head down the street toward where the battalion CP was. Gomez, echelon left.” She needed to get the tanks away from the buildings the Kreelans were swarming into: if they could clamber through the rubble to this side of the buildings, they’d be in great positions to hit her tanks from above with whatever weapons they might have for the job. While the gatling guns on the roof could nail them on the upper floors, the main guns couldn’t elevate that far.

  Then again, they didn’t necessarily have to.

  “Target, building,” Coyle snapped to Yuri as she moved the pipper on her command console over the nearest building the Kreelans had headed for, showing Yuri the target she wanted serviced. “HE-Thermo.”

  There was a brief whine as the turret’s primary magazine whirred, bringing up the type of round she wanted, then a solid thunk as the autoloader rammed it into the breech. A second later, the gun now aligned to the target, Yuri barked, “Up!”

  “Fire!”

  Chiquita’s main gun roared, sending the high-explosive thermobaric round into the already heavily damaged building across the street. Unlike a regular high-explosive round that exploded in much the same fashion, if with more effect, than its progenitor TNT centuries before, the HE-thermobaric rounds used a variety of chemical and metallic compounds, detonated in a precise fashion, to greatly enhance the weapon’s explosive blast. They weren’t useful in every situation or against every target, but in this case it was just what the doctor ordered: the round streaked through a window to hit the back wall of the room within, and the resulting fiery blast and shock wave blew out the entire front wall. A moment later, the roof sagged and what was left of the three-story building suddenly collapsed into a heap of flaming debris. She didn’t see any bodies, but Coyle knew that if any of the enemy were in there, they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

  “Punch it, Mannie,” she said, keeping a close eye on her displays as the big tank rumbled down the street, with Gomez’s alongside. She needed to find the rest of the battalion. Because as powerful as her tanks were, stuck here in the close confines of the city, it was only a matter of time before the Kreelans killed them.

  * * *

  “Colonel, this is suicide,” the operations officer argued quietly. He kept his voice down because he didn’t want to embarrass Sparks in front of the others.

  Holed up in the shop they’d sought refuge in, the others looked out the remains of the front window, watching the terrified mob. They had barricaded the door to keep the river of people from flooding into their safe haven, but most of the civilians weren’t interested in finding a hideout: they were simply trying to flee.

  Momentarily ignoring the major, Sparks finally caught a glimpse of what had caused the panic outside: a mass of alien warriors, looking just like Sato had described them, were driving them down the street like cattle. But instead of using prods, the aliens were using swords and other weapons. The Kreelans didn’t seem to be intent on massacring the civilians; it was more like they were simply trying to get them out of the way. Even at that, they were still killing dozens every second, hacking their way through the people at the rear of the mob who were penned in by the crush of people in front of them.

  He didn’t have any illusions about their own chances of survival: while he couldn’t see them clearly, there must have been hundreds of warriors, and he only had half a dozen soldiers and a journalist. He knew at least some of his tanks had survived, because he could hear the piercing crack of their main guns and the rumbling purr of their gatling guns somewhere in the distance. But he couldn’t see a way to reach them without being swallowed up by the mob. And the only way out of the shop was through the front: there was no back exit.

  Even if there was a back way out, Sparks would not have taken it. This had gone beyond something that could be dealt with through application of the appropriate tactics and sufficient firepower. For him, it had become a question of honor. “Major,” he said, loud enough that everyone could hear him, “when you first came to my regiment and I asked you what you thought your primary job was, you told me it was to help me manage the deployment of my regiment. Do you remember what I told you?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” the major replied as everyone’s head turned to watch them.

  “What was it I said, major?”

  “You said, sir,” the operations officer managed, automatically bringing himself to attention, “that the first job of every member of the regiment was to kill the enemy.”

  “That would be correct, major,” Sparks growled, turning to him with smoldering eyes. “To kill the enemy. That is what we do. There, major,” he shouted, pointing to the rapidly approaching Kreelans, “is the enemy! If you think for one damned minute,” he went on, lowering his voice slightly, “that I am going to simply stand here while those things butcher more civilians, you are badly mistaken. If we die, so be it. Nobody joins the 7th Cavalry because they want to live forever. Do you understand me, major?”

  “Garry Owen, sir,” the major said, saluting. The 7th Cav had been known as the Garry Owen regiment, the name taken from the Irish drinking song Garryowen. The tune had been a favorite of the regiment’s most famous commander, General George Armstrong Custer, and Garryowen was made the regiment’s official song. Since then, the term “Garry Owen” had come to mean a combination of yes and can-do underscored with the sort of determination that only those who are willing to risk their lives every day in the line of duty can truly understand. It was at once a very small thing, and at the same time a very important thing to those who served in the regiment.

  “Good,” Sparks said, dismissing the man with his eyes. “Listen up,” he said to the rest of them. “This isn’t going to be fancy or pretty. As soon as the enemy line reaches us and we have a clear shot down their flank, open fire with everything you’ve got. Hadley, you’ve got the best throwing arm: take whatever grenades we have and let fly. Everyone keep shooting until we run out of targets or ammo. Miss Guillaume,” he said, turning to her, “this isn’t something I can order or force you to do. But in the interests of what is no doubt a very slim chance of your own survival, it would behoove you to use your weapon to good effect.”

  Gulping, Steph nodded. “Yes, colonel,” she said, her voice shaking. Her insides felt like everything had turned to jelly, and she felt like her stomach, bladder, and bowels were all ready to let go at the same time.

  “Fix bayonets,” Sparks growled as he pulled his own from his combat webbing and attached it to the muzzle of his rifle. The others immediately did the same, although Hadley had to help Steph attach hers, taking the bayonet from the standard combat webbing he’d given her when they abandoned the command vehicle.

  She stared at the blac
k blade, the silvery edge of the weapon reflecting the many colors of the people who were still streaming by. But they were getting to the end now, and the screams of fear were being replaced by cries of agony from those who were being cut down by the Kreelans. She thought she might be able to shoot one of the aliens, but to stab one with a bayonet? “Jesus,” she breathed.

  “Stick next to me,” Hadley told her as he moved her behind a counter made of thick wood. After placing a handful of grenades on the floor by his feet, he put his rifle on top of the counter, pointing toward the window. “Remember, the rifle’s going to kick some, so don’t let it surprise you.” He double-checked that her weapon was set for single-shot fire and not automatic: he didn’t want her to accidentally spray bullets around the shop and hit the others. “Take your time and remember to breathe.”

  “Okay,” she said in a small voice, trying desperately to rally her confidence. “God, I have to pee,” she muttered to herself, then suddenly giggled as she realized that she was still recording everything. I’d better win the Pulitzer for this one, she thought giddily.

  Sparks and the others had also taken cover where they could find it, some behind the counter, Sparks and the major kneeling on either side of the window. Luckily, the shop was big enough that they could all shoot through the front window without getting in each other’s line of fire.

  “Stand by,” Sparks warned as he peered around the edge of the window, holding his rifle to his chest. The Kreelan line wasn’t perfectly straight, of course, but it was close enough. “Steady...” he brought his own rifle up, making sure the muzzle would not protrude into the street. “Open fire!”

  Half a dozen assault rifles chattered in unison, slamming hundreds of rounds into the flank of the Kreelan line, completely surprising the enemy warriors. Their chest armor saved some of them, but unlike the shotguns that the Alliance sailors had used against the Kreelan boarders, the Terran assault rifles, especially at point-blank range, had a lot more penetrating power.