by Jay Allan
“Keep up that fire.” Holm was crouched in a small foxhole, targeting the approaching Janissaries and dropping them with perfectly aimed, three-round bursts. He’d been first in marksmanship in his basic training and officers’ Academy classes, and the enemy troops were getting a lesson in precision shooting. The Janissaries were going to win this round by virtue of sheer numbers, but it wasn’t going to be a battle that went down in their unit lore. They’d taken horrendous casualties fighting a force they outnumbered at least 5-1. The Marines had fought with a savage determination beyond anything the Caliphate’s elite troops had ever seen. Elias Holm had directed his outnumbered forces with enormous skill and determination, and his people had responded to his leadership, giving them all they had.
Holm watched as the advancing Caliphate forces staggered and fell back to regroup. His people had dodged another bullet…beat back one more charge. He felt a rush of elation, but it didn’t last. His people were near the end. The next attack – or maybe the one after that – would be the last. There was no more room to pull back, no fallback position this time. When the enemy broke through and burst into the rear of the Marines’ position, Third Battalion would be destroyed.
“Let’s use the break, Marines.” Holm pushed his dark thoughts aside. They served nothing…and if his people were going to die here, they were going to go down fighting. “Shore up your foxholes, and check your ammo supplies.” And stay busy, he thought. He didn’t want them to have too much time to think now. It couldn’t do anyone any good.
“Sir, Simm’s company is down to their last 2 or 3 cartridges per man.” Burke trotted up behind Holm. “He’s requesting resupply.”
Holm sighed, turning to face his erstwhile aide. “Danny, all I’ve got for Lieutenant Simms is my best wishes.” The supplies were gone, even the extra ordnance Worthington’s reinforcements had brought down. The Marines on the line had whatever ammunition they carried on their suits…then they’d be down to deploying their blades and hunkering down until the enemy got into close quarters. “Tell Simms’ people, burst fire only…no full auto.” He paused a few seconds then added, “And tell them to use up their popguns…they may not be that effective, but I want every weapon we’ve got put to use. Understand?” They were almost out of reloads for their assault rifles, but Holm would have bet his last credit they all had full mortar racks.
“Yes, sir.”
Holm could hear the fatigue in Burke’s voice. The lack of sleep, endless fighting, constant terror…it was a terrible burden on any man, but an almost unimaginable strain on a young rookie thrust into the responsibilities he had borne over the past ten days. Holm had nothing but admiration and respect for the Marine Burke had become, but he also knew the young private had to be near the end of his endurance. All the Marines on Persis were.
Holm sat on the edge of his foxhole, taking a few deep breaths. His AI had been adjusting the mix of his suit’s atmosphere, feeding him extra oxygen when he was in the heat of battle. A fighting suit not only increased a Marine’s strength and protection…it also allowed the human warrior inside to maximize his or her own natural capabilities. Holm knew that none of his people would still be standing, much less fighting, after what they’d been through…not without their suits. They were all strung out on stims, fed a bunch of chemicals and raw nutrients, and kept in the fight…far longer than their natural equipment could have sustained.
“Here they come again!”
Holm’s eyes snapped to his tactical display. Sure enough, another wave was advancing, coming across the blood-soaked plain directly at the Marines’ fragile line.
“All units…fire on my command.” Holm stared out across the yellow sand, his eyes darting up to his tactical display every few seconds. “Fire!” He screamed the command, the word ripping across his parched throat like a knife. He pulled his trigger as he did, firing an unaimed 3-shot burst…a waste of ammunition he did not intent to repeat. He looked out, choosing a target and coolly dropping the soldier with another burst.
All along the line the Marines were firing, using the last of their precious ammunition to meet the Janissaries with a wall of death. The elite enemy soldiers pushed forward into the deadly maelstrom, firing as they did. Then, at 200 meters their line staggered. They didn’t run, didn’t fall back. They began to go prone, singly at first then in groups. They hugged the ground, taking advantage of the cover offered by any small hills or gullies. The intensity of their fire increased as they opened up at full auto…then again as their autocannons and heavy rocket launchers deployed.
The small patch of ground between the two forces became a nightmare, a horrific demonstration of man’s powers of destruction. Holm knew his people would lose this duel in the end. The Marines could match any force of devastation the Janissaries could unleash, but they were almost down to the last of their supplies, and their adversaries could resupply themselves. In the end it would be materiel and not men that determined the outcome of the battle on Persis.
He focused on the enemy in front of him, picking them off one by one. The supply situation was beyond his control, but until they ran out completely he and his Marines had a job to do. There was no command responsibility left…his people knew what to do. For the moment, Elias Holm was just one more Marine in the line, his assault rifle one of many. If he had to die on this miserable enemy rock, he thought, this is how he would go…shoulder to shoulder with the Marines he led.
“Captain Holm, I am tracking a wave of attack ships approaching from orbit.” It was Nate, the AI’s voice calm, unaffected by the savage fight going on all around.
Holm was startled by the sudden announcement. “Is that confirmed? Whose ships?”
“Scanning report is confirmed. Incoming craft are broadcasting Alliance transponder protocols.”
Holm was silent, stunned. He opened his mouth, but before he could ask another question, the forcewide com channel crackled to life.
“Attention all Marines…this is Lieutenant Samson, commanding attack wing 6. Admiral Clement sends his complements.”
Holm heard a loud explosion, followed by another…then another. He could see plumes of smoke rising up behind the enemy lines. Samson’s attack ships were bombarding the enemy rear areas, targeting supply lines and headquarters and spreading disorder in the enemy’s ranks.
The fire from the Janissaries slowed, and they began to gradually pull back. The Marines let out a cheer, and they kept firing all along the line, gunning down their retreating enemies.
“Cease fire.” Holm understood the bloodlust taking hold of his Marines, but they weren’t off Persis yet, and their ammo was still running low. “I said cease fire!” He roared into the com, angry that he’d been forced to repeat his order.
He watched on his tactical display as a group of Reynolds landers came in after the attack ships. In a few minutes there would be fresh Marines on the ground. He felt a rush of hope, a wave of excitement. Maybe…just maybe his people would make it off of this stinking planet.
“Danny…get back to the LZ. I want a complete report as soon as those ships land.”
Silence. Then a response…soft, weak, forced. “I’m…sorry…cap…tain.”
Holm felt a chill inside. He spun his head, looking all around for Burke. He found him a few meters to the rear, lying on his back in the mud, at least half a dozen holes in his armor. “Medic!” Holm shouted into the com. “I need a medic here, now!”
He ran over, his eyes running up and down the stricken private’s armor. The holes in the suit were large, and blood was pouring from them. He’d been hit by one of the enemy autocannons, and the big hypersonic projectiles had cut through his armor like it was paper.
Holm opened his visor and reached for the controls on Burke’s armor, pulling the release and opening the private’s helmet. He looked down at the young Marine. “It’s ok, Danny. I’m here.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but he knew immediately there was nothing he could do. Burke’s suit would fight to sta
bilize him, to save his life, but Holm could see that the damage was just too extreme.
Burke looked up at Holm, his face splattered with blood, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please…help…me. I…don’t…want…to…die…sir.” His words were slow and tortured, his eyes wide with fear. He tried to move his arm, to reach out for Holm, but he didn’t have the strength.
“Just stay still, Danny.” Holm was struggling to hide his grief. “The medic’s coming.”
Burke took a deep, raspy breath. “I’m…scared…captain.” His voice was shaky, weak. “I…want…to…go…home.” Holm looked down at his mangled body.
“I know you do, son.” Holm closed his eyes for an instant. He watched the blood pouring out of Burke’s suit and into the pale yellow sand. He tried to imagine the wounds hidden by the armor, the massive, gaping holes the autocannon rounds had torn into this young boy’s flesh. He could see wet pink foam oozing out of the holes. Burke’s trauma control system was trying to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were just too large, too deep. Holm knew the system was pumping artificial blood substitute into Burke, but that wouldn’t last long. He could already see the change in color, more orange than deep red…the synthetic blood coming out as quickly as it was pumped in. “The medic will be here in a minute, Danny.”
“I’m cold, sir.” Burke was crying, trying again, unsuccessfully, to reach out for Holm. “I can’t feel my arms.” He coughed, spraying blood from his mouth as he did.
Holm’s steel-gloved hand was resting on Burke’s armor. He couldn’t imagine a less effective way to succor a dying man. Barely a man, he thought, more a boy. Holm was fighting back his own tears as he tried in vain to comfort his young aide. Burke had shown his true quality over the last ten fateful days. No one’s first mission should be in hell itself.
Burke coughed again. He struggled to breathe, choking on blood as he did. Holm watched silently as he took one last throaty breath and then lay still. The struggle was over. Daniel Burke was dead.
“I’ll organize a rearguard and hit the enemy. It will buy us some time, hold them back from the LZ.” Holm was watching Marines board transports all around as he spoke. The initial wave of ships had included a contingent of Reynolds landers and 200 fresh Marines, but the follow up flights were retrieval craft only. There was no point in sending down too many Marines…anyone who came down only had to be evac’d.
The ships were coming in slowly, a few at a time. Clement only had limited control of the fleet, his deadly dance with Alliance Intelligence and the operatives deployed on his ships still going on. Some of the troopships had rallied to the admiral…others had been neutralized by the agents onboard. There had been fighting and arrests on some ships…even a few assassinations. But Clement kept the ships coming…and one group at a time the Marines were getting off Persis.
Holm had been loading the ships as they arrived and sending them back as quickly as he could…gradually pulling strength from defensive lines. Those defenses had been bolstered by the 200 fresh reserves from the first wave. He tried to get the wounded and most exhausted Marines onboard first, but he took who he could get, taking them from the strongest sections of the line first. He watched himself as Lieutenant Fargus and Sergeant Tremont were loaded onto the first boat. They both had stayed long in the front lines, fighting despite wounds and unimaginable fatigue. Both had almost died there, and they’d only made it back by the slimmest of margins. Now they were going home.
“You can supervise the rest of the loading for me, can’t you general?” He was standing next to Worthington, staring across 20 meters of wet yellow sand, watching more wounded being loaded onto an evac boat. The operation was just beginning, and the enemy was throwing everything at the Marines, trying to breach their lines and wipe them out before they could complete their evac. Holm was grateful that at least some of his people would get off the Godforsaken planet, but his thoughts were still grim, the dead face of Danny Burke staring back at him from the dark recesses of his mind.
“No.”
It took a few seconds for Worthington’s unexpected reply to sink in. Holm turned toward the general, his surprised look hidden by his visor. “Sir, we need to hit them now…or they’ll overrun us before we complete the evac. I have to go, sir…or it will be too late.”
“No, Elias.” Worthington’s voice was strangely calm. “You stay here and see that your people get on those boats and get out of here.” He paused for an instant, turning to look at the wounded being helped onto the transports. “You owe them that. We owe them.” He turned back toward Holm. “I’ll lead the rearguard. That’s my job.”
Holm started to argue, but Worthington put his hand up. “That’s an order, captain.” He stood still for a few seconds, staring at Holm, and then he turned and began walking toward the perimeter. He stopped about 50 meters away and turned back briefly, facing toward Holm. “Good luck, Elias. Your Marines were lucky to have you here. I can’t begin to tell you how I respect and admire the job you’ve done.”
Holm started to speak, but Worthington raised his hand again and turned back, marching off to the front line. Holm just sat in stunned silence and stared…until the general walked up over a hill and out of sight. Then he turned back and focused on getting his people loaded onto the transports.
Holm had listened to the whole thing on the com. He hadn’t expected many of the rearguard to make it back, even when he was planning to lead it himself. But he’d never imagined anything like the savage counterattack General Worthington had launched with 50 volunteers. It was insanity…it had no chance to work. But it did. At least for the few moments it had to.
The general had held the line for over an hour, repelling attack after attack as the waves of landing ships swooped down into the LZ, picking up the battered Marines and ferrying them up to the fleet. He kept weakening his line, sending units back to board the waiting shuttles. Finally, he was alone with his 50 hand-picked veterans. There weren’t enough of them to hold the line…so Worthington put himself in the front and ordered an attack.
The enemy had been caught by surprise. There were 50 Marines, charging across the shattered landscape, directly into the maw of a force ten times their numbers. Holm listened to them on the com, screaming as they charged at the stunned Janissaries. They had no chance to win, no hope of defeating the enemy. But all they wanted was time…time for the last of their comrades to board the shuttles and get off the ground.
Holm was listening when he heard it. “The general’s down!” He never knew which one of Worthington’s fifty said it first, but he could hear the horror in the voice. His stomach clenched, waiting, listening. When the words finally came they didn’t seem real. “He’s dead. General Worthington is dead!”
Holm wanted to drop to his knees and vomit. He couldn’t believe it. The general was dead? How could that be? Worthington had been a hero since Holm had been a raw cherry doing garrison duty on a dustbin of a planet out on the rim. Now he was dead. The fighting heart of the Marine Corps was gone.
“Take off…now.” Holm snapped the order to the shuttle pilot and jumped back, out of range of the backblast. The Marines were finally off Persis…all except Elias Holm and the survivors of Worthington’s force. There was nothing Holm could do for Worthington now…nothing but take care of his people. “All personnel…retreat to the LZ immediately. All other units have successfully evac’d.”
He knew they’d have a hard time breaking off. The surprise had worn off, and the enemy was fighting them hard. Half of them were down already, and the survivors had half a klick of open ground to cross.
Holm stood out in the open, ten meters from the last shuttle, watching the Marines running toward the shuttle. “C’mon,” he screamed. “Move your asses!” He watched them approach, the enemy in pursuit, firing. He saw one fall…then another. Five in all, but 18 survivors made it into the LZ, running toward the ship.
Holm stood alongside the shuttle. “Let’s go…get onboard.” He stepped to the side
, grabbing his assault rifle and firing at the pursuing enemy, blazing away on full auto. He watched Worthington’s survivors climbing onto the shuttle until the last one was aboard.
Elias Holm snapped his last clip in place, firing as he fell back, grabbing onto the handholds on the shuttle. He was the last live Marine on Persis, and he grabbed on and pulled himself aboard. “Let’s go,” he screamed to the pilot, and a second later he felt the g forces as the ship’s engines blasted hard, lifting them off the planet…on the way back to the fleet.
The Battle of Persis was over.
Excerpt from the memoirs of General Elias Holm, Commandant, Alliance Marine Corps:
I survived my journey through hell on Persis, though barely a third of my Marines came through with me. Those men and women were some of the finest I’ve ever been privileged to lead. It was a tragic, brutal battle that never should have happened, but it has entered into a proud and revered place in the history of the Corps…an example of the tenacity and brotherhood of the Marines.
Third Battalion was destroyed as a fighting force; its survivors would be dispersed to other formations and the unit’s colors cased, retired. Some of us who survived would go on to new battles…the God of War was not done with us yet. But most of the men and women who’d fought at my side and bled with me through those fateful days had seen enough of war. Peace had come, however foully achieved, and with it, most of the surviving Marines of the Third Battalion mustered out to seek another kind of life, one where they could share the opportunities their sacrifices had for so long defended.
