by Unknown
Larger aircraft began to land further back, unlatching huge tanks from their underbellies. The tanks began to motor forward, their side guns blazing. One would occasionally pause to fire its main gun, sending fat, glowing rounds against the concrete in heaving blasts.
The defensive response from the wall was so intense that the wave of marines slowed to a literal crawl, their attack stalled as they were forced to dig in, and use cover provided by impact craters. The exchange of fire was relentless. Holloway stood transfixed, unable to move. It was a sight that he’d only seen in movies, and there it was before him, taking place on the edge of his own property.
The tower guns were beginning to home-in on some of the Hueys that were hovering to disgorge their payloads of marines. Machine gun fire peppered one in particular, chopping through its engine housing. Smoke began to pour from it, and the shuttle attempted to pull up as the last trooper jumped from the side door.
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Plasma raked forward, punching into the cockpit. The chopper-shuttle banked sideways, landing hard atop a squad of marines. Another Huey took a solid hit from an RPG, the explosion blowing troopers from its open doors moments before it, too, plunged down on top of unwitting men on the ground. These casualties did not stop the flow of infantry being delivered to the battlefield. The choppers just kept coming.
A mortar round exploded not far away from where Holloway stood, sending shrapnel slapping against the side of the barn. That seemed to shake him from his stupor, making Steven realize that standing there in the open was likely not the wisest thing to be doing.
A UEMC tank came plowing through his barnyard, rumbling to a halt not fifty feet away. It let-fly with its main gun, the muzzle wash staggering Holloway on his feet, further driving his hearing toward deafness. The fat round of plasma shot out, disappearing into the thickening dust that was being kicked up. An explosion followed soon after beyond it. One of the machine gun towers began sweeping their rounds toward the tank, but they bounced harmlessly off of its armored hull.
Steve found his feet, and ran back to the side of his house, pulling the doors open to the storm cellar. He reasoned correctly that it would be far safer to ride things out underground.
Campbell, Ohio
6 miles south of Omaha Sector, 5 miles west of Dog One
The heavy Blackhawk shuttles had begun to descend as they approached town, flying in from the south with an almost leisurely
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speed. People lingered in the streets, gawking at the sky, pointing at the squadrons thumping loudly overhead. What little traffic there was ground to a halt, the drivers stepping out for a better look. The chopper-shuttles were low enough for everyone to clearly see the emblem of the 1st Global Marine Division. Cheering erupted.
As did fire from the mobile gun platforms that had been positioned all around town.
Anti-aircraft streams, and bursts of flak abruptly began to fill the air, forcing the neat formations to rapidly disintegrate as the pilots fought to maneuver through the sudden firestorm. Two of the aircraft collided with one another, and spun to the ground, exploding across the parking lot of a shopping center. The shockwave swept across the intersection, enveloping a gas station. The flames engulfed the building and its pumps, then set off the tanks. The entire block erupted in what very much resembled a nuclear plume. Burning gasoline rained down across the streets, setting off even more fires.
The helos struggled mightily to gain altitude and spread apart, scattering out wide, but the ground-to-air fire was so intense that nearly all of the aircraft were taking hits. On the Blackhawk that First Sergeant Ford was riding on, the roller coaster ride was so wild that the marines in the crew bay were screaming in sheer terror. Ford had unstrapped, and was leaning over the back of the co-pilot’s chair, watching through the cockpit window. He and the pilots witnessed a flak burst take out the center of the command chopper, cleaving it nearly in two. The ruined helo immediately dropped from the air, trailing smoke and fire all the way to the ground.
“Why the hell were we coming in so slow and tight to begin with?” He bellowed.
The pilot spared a quick glance over his shoulder, “Major Gold wanted to impress the civilians on the way in!”
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Ford was incredulous, “You’re shitting me!”
The pilot just shook his head no, and continued to do his best to steer clear of other helos as they made their way in the direction of the landing zones. The problem was that harassing fire from the ground was so thick, that they couldn’t descend low enough to deliver the marines.
“There’s only one way we’re going to be able to deploy!” The pilot shouted, pulling back on the yoke, taking them into a steep climb as the engines roared louder. “And, you’re not going to like it!”
Minerva had also staggered her way to the cockpit of the helo she was on, and was gaping out of the front windshield. The formation was scattered to the wind, and she had no clue as to which helo was which once the command chopper went down. The air was alive with plasma streams, and the black popping of flak rounds.
“How far to the landing zone?” She shouted.
The pilot shook his head, “We’ve probably passed it already! This is a real shitstorm!”
Another helo off to the left and slightly below took a bad hit to its side, and began a hard climb even as it began to bank sideways. The side doors blew off, and marines began jumping out, their chutes flopping open moments after. The wounded chopper reached the zenith of its climb, and started banking harder right, swinging in front of them.
“Shit! Shit!” The pilot yelled, yanking on his stick in a desperate attempt to avoid a collision.
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Minerva gulped, and braced herself for the crash that was sure to come. The Blackhawk veered left and down as the other loomed, filling the windshield. She screamed at the jarring impact. The entire right side of the helo peeled back and they began to spin. The force of it yanked Minerva from her squatting position, and sucked her right out like a ragdoll. The world tumbled in her seconds of freefall, impossible to distinguish ground from sky in the blur. Then her chute opened, yanking her yet again, and hard. This time she was flying upward, above the spinning Blackhawk as it plummeted to the earth trailing smoke.
There were other chutes opening all around her, but were scattering with the wind, which had begun to pick up. Scanning the ground, she could see the burning wreckages of other Blackhawks. Two more were joining the carnage---her own, and the one that had smacked into them. Adding to her horror was the fact that much of the anti-aircraft fire seemed to be trying to hit the parachutes. It was a helpless feeling, knowing that at any given moment, some Storian on the ground could shred her chute, sending her sailing the rest of the way to a sure death.
She mentally keyed the company frequency, finding that it was absolutely packed with over-lapping chatter, and people screaming.
“Mark! Can you hear me?”
Mark’s platoon was looking a little on the green side themselves, thanks to the heaving and shaking, as if the plummet into atmosphere hadn’t been enough. Now it sounded as if giants were pounding war drums outside the helo, each bang slamming the aircraft to one side or the other. The pilot had made a frantic climb a few minutes earlier, then leveled off for a second.
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The sergeant had his visor open, swallowing air. He got a strange kick out of the wild rides in and out of atmosphere, but the idea of real AA fire snapping and banging scant feet from his aircraft brought on a newfound fear of heights that he’d previously never had. Practice was one thing, but this was real!
He turned his head toward the front, trying to see out of the windshield from where he sat, snuggly strapped in to the web bench, but it was impossible to make anything out. From his perspective, all he could see was sky, anyway.
That was when the side of the Blackhawk imploded near the back. A flak burst had hit them, and blown the hull inward, killing nearly half of the platoon in one i
nstant. Wind began rushing through the troop bay, sucking debris out through the gaping hole. The side doors blew open, and tore free, and the pilot’s voice sounded over their helmet pick-ups.
“Bail! Bail! Bail!”
Mark’s hands flew to his crotch, and pressed the harness release. The surviving marines of his platoon were doing the same, and leaping from either door---a few from the blast hole. He found himself the last one still there, gripping the edges of the side door, so terrified that he couldn’t move.
The pilots were still doing everything they could to retain control, but for some reason, the helo began to climb instead of easing downward, then bank precariously on one side, the engines beginning to stall. His side, angling him almost straight down. He watched in mute horror as another Blackhawk from behind found themselves in the same path, about to collide. That clinched it for him, and he finally leapt free.
The wind slapped him like a giant hand, nearly knocking him unconscious. The chute opened, trying to pull his arms from his shoulders, and his tumbling finally ceased. He watched the helos
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nearly hit full-on, the one he’d ridden peeling the other’s side open like a tin can. Both began to spin, spewing out marines as they fell. Other chutes popped open. Not nearly as many as there should be. Columns of smoke rose from the wreckages of another three choppers, and AA fire continued to streak upward, sometimes finding someone’s chute, and shredding it. That marine would then fall helplessly.
Blood was running from Mark’s nose, and thanks to the whipping of the wind, smeared all across the side of his face. He cursed himself for forgetting to close his visor. Swallowing his panic, he knew that what decisions he made in the next few minutes might determine whether or not he lived. The sergeant took stock first of himself. He still had his rifle, which was attached to his breastplate by a clip, as well as all of his crap that was on his harness.
Next, he took advantage of the clear view around him, making a mental note of where the wall was, and the various positions of Storians that he could spot on the ground. His platoon was supposed to have been deployed near the Omaha sector, but that plan had clearly gone south, as he was quite literally. Hubbard looked to be several miles north, and the wall even further east. A wind was carrying him westward, adding miles to what would be a real trek just to attempt to get into any meaningful attack position.
How did everything go so wrong?
Of a flight of fourteen Blackhawks, it looked like seven of them had been shot down, according to the plumes of smoke he was seeing.
That was all the time Mark had to think. He was picking up speed as he drew nearer to the ground, with the treetops reaching up to grab at him as he swept past. Branches scraped at his boots as he lifted his legs to clear them, then he was over a corn field, the earth
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rushing to meet him. His boots touched dirt, and the forward momentum pulled him into a tumble, rolling into his chute like a damned burrito. He had to pull his knife to cut himself free, just knowing that a Storian was closing in on him.
At last free, he came to one knee, releasing his rifle from its clip, thumb flipping the safety off. The corn was young, providing little cover. He craned his head, trying to see in all directions at once, satisfying himself that at least for the moment, no one was charging toward him with intent of murder. He was alone in the field which looked to be a good five acres square, lined with mature trees on every flank. Other chutes were still floating down from the sky while AA fire tried to eat them up. He established the direction of east most easily, by the thickest banks of black smoke boiling upward.
The first order of the day was to find some cover. He rose to a crouch, and ran full-tilt to the nearest tree line, sliding into a patch of young scrub oak. Feeling reasonably hidden, Mark closed his visor, and attempted to open the command link. Of course, adding to the current state of affairs, the net was down. Only the company freq seemed to be responding, and it was garbled, as if being jammed, which it probably was.
A figure emerged from the trees south of his position, and he leveled his rifle, taking aim. Mark’s finger was resting on the trigger when he realized he was looking at a suit. The Storians wore grey cotton fatigues, and rimmed helmets. This one was a fellow jarhead. Mark mentally cued the suit-to-suit comms to give that a try.
“Stay out of the open,” he warned.
Whoever it was evidently heard him, as they crouched down, looking about for the source. A familiar Irish-like accent sounded over his pick-up.
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“This is Corporal Ecu.”
“This is Mark. Cut to your left, and follow the tree line north until we meet.”
Ecu did so, and within a few minutes was near enough for him to hear her approaching through the brush. He rose, and stepped from the cluster of saplings, opening his visor so that they could speak face to face
Her eyes bulged, “Jeeze, what happened to you?”
Mark spat a wad of blood, and shook his head, “Just a nosebleed. Weren’t you on the same helo as Minerva?”
Ecu nodded, “Yeah, we had to bail.”
“Oh, God. Tell me she made it out.”
She nodded again, opting to leave out the detail of just how Minerva had left the chopper, “We were all separated on the way down, though. I don’t think we’re anywhere near where we’re supposed to be.”
“You got that right,” he agreed. “Is your comm link working? All I’ve got is suit-to-suit.”
Ecu tapped the side of her helmet, “Dead as a door nail.”
The sergeant gazed south, trying to make calculations since the visor tactical was out as well, “That line of smoke is from Campbell, which puts us closer to Dog One, than Omaha.”
Ecu motioned in the direction of the wall, “And, we’re a good ten miles west of the danged drop zone. What do we do? This wasn’t supposed to be an airborne landing, and we’re all literally scattered all over the place.”
Mark thought for a moment, “Well, best I can figure is we start hiking north-east, and try to link up with as many of our people
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as we can.”
“Sounds good to me, Sarge. Who’s on-point?”
He hefted his rifle, and started walking in response, “I hope Minerva’s okay.”
Minerva was, in fact, doing just fine. By sheer chance, the wind, and the way that she had been flung from the chopper had sent her nearer to the intended landing zone than most of her company. She found herself floating down over the south-western edge of Hubbard, above what had once been an upscale residential district.
She managed to steer clear of a big pine tree, and came down on the roof of a house (thankfully a single-story job), and skimmed across the shingles, plopping down in the front yard. Her head was spinning from the mixture of fright and exhilaration. An irritating Yorkie dog appeared at the side of her head, yapping and baring its tiny teeth. Sitting up, she unclipped the chute, and wriggled out from its spent bag.
There were residents gathered in the neighborhood street, watching the Blackhawks recede in the distance, the shower of parachutes floating gracefully to the ground, and gawking at the thundering display of firepower off to the east. Someone that Minerva assumed to be the home owner of the house she’d just came scrabbling down over came to her, and offered a hand. She took it, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The look on his face was one of elation.
“Thank God you’ve finally come!” The man exclaimed.
Others were beginning to gather around, asking a flurry of questions, wanting to know what was happening. Having no idea
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how to answer them, Minerva politely excused herself, and began walking up the street toward other marines that were slithering out from their own chutes. One of them noticed her coming, and saw the chevrons on her sleeve plate.
“Glad to see you, Sarge.”
Minerva didn’t recognize the kid’s face, or his name, “What company are you with?”
> “Bravo, Second Battalion.”
“Second Battalion!” She frowned, “You guys were supposed to be hitting Dog One!”
The private just shrugged, “Things went crazy, Sarge. People are spread out over Kingdom Come.”
A few other troopers joined them. It turned out that not one of them were from her own company, but were at least from 1st Battalion. One kid, she did recognize. The big, grinning form of one Private Lunk.
“Well, you seem to be the ranking marine among us,” Lunk said, casting weary glances, watching for the appearance of any Storians, “what’s the plan?”
With a casual attitude, Minerva looked upward, “First, we cut that idiot down.”
The other marines followed her gaze, and for the first time came to notice a lance corporal dangling from some tree branches by his chute. The kid gave a sheepish grin, and waggled his fingers hello.
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It took the better part of an hour just to cross the neighborhood, and reach the beginning edge of downtown Hubbard. Minerva led her hodge-podge squad of nine in small advances, weaving and dodging from one point of cover to another. They had managed to avoid detection despite spotting a few small groups of Storians along the way. The enemy had been too occupied with gathering weapons, and rushing off on vehicles toward the wall.
To Minerva’s utter astonishment, she saw a group of five marines just standing right out in the open, and in the center of an intersection at that! From behind the protection of a parked car, she scanned the area, ensuring that no Storians were around. It appeared to be clear, and by the looks of one of those troopers, it was an officer doing the talking. That was a black lieutenant’s bar on the front of the helmet.
Assuming it to be safe, she signaled to her squad that it was okay to advance, and she stood, holding her rifle up above her head to show that she was a friendly. Ford had warned them before about how in the heat of battle, people might get trigger-happy, and just shoot.
