Off World- Ragnarok

by J. F. Holmes

  “Holy shit!” exclaimed Walters.

  Grozen whistled a low tune. “Know what I see here, kid?”

  “I see goddamned Ironman!” said the excited cadet. In front of them, encased in transport webbing, were three slightly-larger-than-human figures. Weapons racks and transport cases were secured to the container floor.

  “I see a goddamned maintenance nightmare. Where’s the frigging shipping manifest? Here we are,” he said, pulling out a tablet and bopping an RFI signal to the package on the wall. A data dump, and he brought up the spreadsheet. “Hmm, twelve M-47 Land Combat Systems, with support packages. Three battery packages each, two modular weapons systems each, ammo loadout…hey, kid, get your ass back here! Don’t touch that!”

  Walters had squirmed past him and was busily unlashing the cargo straps that secured the first unit. “I read about these! General Dynamics Soldier Augmentation Land Combat Systems, but I didn’t think they were in production yet. This is some cool shit!” He ran his hand in loving admiration over the titanium and ceramic matrix that formed the outer armor.

  “Yeah, well, take your happy ass back to Major Brune and tell her what we’ve got down here. Twelve sets of prototype pieces of shit that have never been tested under field conditions, never mind combat. Look at this, they fucked up. ‘Maximum operator height no more than one hundred and sixty-seven centimeters’. That’s like,” he grunted, “five foot nothing. Fucking midget suits.”

  “It’s five foot five inches, and they had to do it to keep the battlefield silhouette down, it’s probably about six and half feet total with the sensor package and over-the-shoulder weapons systems,” babbled the cadet excitedly.

  “Don’t tell me shit, son, about battlefield stuff. I was killing ragheads before your momma was stripping to keep you in diapers. Go over to my office and call her on the landline, I gotta get back to the ammo loadout. AND STOP TOUCHING SHIT!” he bellowed.

  The cadet ran to the depot office and waited impatiently for a free phone. There were two other sergeants in there, yelling into landlines about ammo distribution and something about fuel. Apparently there was something wrong with the kerosene the Abrams tanks were loaded with, or something else with the tanks. He waited impatiently until one of them slammed the phone down and ran out of the building. Picking it up, he dialed the Log Toc. A PFC answered, and it took more than a minute, with the cadet finally yelling at him over the phone, to get Major Brune on the line.

  “Hurry up, Walters, I’m really frigging busy. What do you have?”

  “Powered armor suits, a dozen, Ma’am, with weapons pods and everything!” he said, the excitement plain in his voice.

  She swore and said, “What the hell good does that do us now? No one’s trained on them!”

  His heart sank, and she said, “Go back and see whatever else you can scrounge up, and tell Grozen to repair parts for the goddamned tanks!” With that, the line went dead.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, then an idea occurred to him. He jogged out of the supply depot office in search of Chief Grozen. He found him back at the ammunition loading point, back to directing the trucks and work crew.

  “Uhm, hey, Chief.” It took more than a minute and a few tries to get his attention.

  “What?” he growled. “I gotta get this shit out, and now I’ve got MPs crawling all over the ASP looking for a saboteur.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s French. That woman that busted your ass.” He turned to yell at someone smoking a cigarette near some artillery shells.

  “I know what that is. I thought she was dead.”

  “Nope, she’s got a tough skull. I thought she was, too.”

  Walters paused, and then went for it. “Major Brune said to find a few soldiers that can fit in the suits and start using them to assist in the munitions loading. She said there’s no time to figure out the weapons, but they should be good with the power assist at handling the bigger stuff.”

  “Think you can handle it? I’m kinda busy.”

  “Uh, yeah, I scored great on leadership and LDAC!”

  Grozen rolled his eyes. “OK,” he said and pointed to two soldiers. “YOU, and YOU, you just volunteered. Go with Cadet, uh, Mr. Walters and follow his directions.” The two privates, both female, came over. For once, Walters didn’t feel intimidated. Both were about his height, and slightly built. His heart raced in his chest. My God, he thought, I’m going to Leavenworth, but it’s going to be worth it.

  “What’s the code for the container, Chief?”

  “Five Five Five One Two One Two. I reprogram all of them when they come in, and I can’t remember thousands of codes. Ain’t got the time to look them up. Why the hell are you still standing here? GET TO WORK.”

  His yell was punctuated by cannon fire in the distance, a rumble like thunder.

  Chapter 29

  Walters led the two privates back to the container units. “What’re your names?” he asked them.

  One pointed to her name tape and said, “Uh, says it right here, Cadet.”

  “I can see that, Private Hemmings. I mean your name? Like, first name?”

  “Mary. Does we call you sir or sometings?” she asked. Her accent was pure Caribbean, but she looked smart and on the bounce.

  “No, I’m just Billy. I probably have less authority than your sergeants. What about you, PFC, uh, PFC Kimber?”

  “It’s Sue. You ain’t getting in my pants, so don’t even try it, dude.” She looked at him square, a slight grin on her tanned face, and Hemmings chuckled. Honestly, if they’d met someplace else, he’d have tried, because she was a California knockout. If he’d had the courage, which he never did.

  Her response left him tongue-tied for a moment. This wasn’t something they’d taught in ROTC, dealing with things without the authority of rank to back him up. “Listen,” he said urgently, “can you hear that?” The supply area was close to the cliffs on the west side of the island, and the roar of surf was continuous, but even so, they could hear the staccato bursts of gunfire punctuated with cannons booming. “Even if I wanted to get in your pants, which I don’t, we don’t have time for that bullshit.”

  “Getting into my pants isn’t bullshit, dude. Whatever!” She was actually chewing gum as she spoke.

  Walters sighed and said, “Are both of you checked out on the HOE suits?”

  “Excuse me?” said Hemmings, obviously offended. She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “What did you just say?”

  Kimber laughed and said, “He means the M-27 Human Operated Exoskeletons. I know you covered them in AIT.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot, I did the week-long ammo handler’s course. I can operate them, but they don’ let no privates use them here.”

  “Great!” said Walters, excited now. “The controls are about the same, so you should pick it up easily enough. Come on!” He broke into a run to the containers that held the LCS units. The two privates looked at each other and slowly followed.

  When they got there, Walters had already opened the conex and was busy unstrapping the first unit. “Bop your tablets to the operating package on the wall and bring up the startup procedures. The container has a solar panel set on the roof, and the suits are plugged in, so they should be ready to go.”

  Kimber stopped and looked at all the equipment secured to the walls and deck. “These…these aren’t logistics bots. They’re combat units.”

  “Are you out of your frigging mind?” said Private Hemmings. “I didn’t sign on for this shit.”

  She turned, and Walters grabbed her arm. She wrenched it out of his grasp and shoved him away, starting to leave. “Sue, you coming with me?” The other woman hesitated, looking into the conex.

  “Hold on a minute!” said Walters, moving around in front of them. “Do you HEAR that? The cannon fire? The machine guns? The Gvit are coming, and they aren’t going to stop! The tank company is deadlined from fuel, our aviation wing is blown to hell and gone. Don’t you see?”

  “I d
on’t see shit, mon. I see you gonna get us killed in some fool stunt, and you ain’t got no authority here, Cadet.” The woman stood with her arms crossed.

  “I dunno, Mary. That’s some mighty cool shit in there, and they might need us,” said PFC Kimber.

  Hemmings turned to her and said, “Girl, you outta your MIND! This fool thinks this is some kinda video game, all Call of Duty shit. Let me tell you, I grew up in the slums of Jamaica, I know violence like nobody’s business.”

  “Listen to me,” pleaded Walters, seeing his plan going up in smoke. “Yeah, we might die. But there’re seventy thousand civilians out there who are gonna die, too, if the Army doesn’t stop them.”

  “You ain’t no Army,” she shot back.

  He shook his head and said, “No, but sometimes the right people in the right place can make the all the difference. In an LCS we can move faster, hit them from the side where they don’t expect it, and get away.”

  Hemmings turned and looked at Kimber, saying nothing. The PFC said, “Mary, listen to him. He’s right. You heard what happened to the Gate. Aviation’s fucked, and we gotta put every weapon into the fight we can. Just because some dumbass officers don’t know how to get their heads out of their collective asses doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing to do.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Kimber said, “Besides, think about what a rush it’ll be. Better than catching a pipe on the north shore of Oahu!”

  “You know I don’t surf, you crazy white girl,” said her friend.

  Kimber laughed and said, “I know, but this is gonna be even better. We’re gonna kick some Gvit ass and get the Medal of Honor.”

  Hemmings sighed and said, “OK, shit. I got your back, just like always. Don’t get me killed following this dumbass.”

  “OK!” said Walters, and went to give Hemmings a high five. She just gave him a drop-dead stare and left his hand hanging there. “Right then, let’s do this.”

  He turned back to the conex and sat down at a computer terminal, bringing the screen to life. Like all things in the service, it was dumbed down to kid’s level, and he quickly figured it out. Green lights appeared over the cradles holding the three units, and they popped open.

  “OK, this system of movement is based on the M-27. It’s a learning biofeedback; you gotta give it some time to get used to your movements. This one is hyped up, so be careful.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” said Hemmings. “Sue, if I get killed, I’m gonna come back and do some serious voodoo on your ass, but it ain’t going to be shit compared to what happens to Cadet there.”

  Like all teenagers, Sue Kimber thought she was immortal, and laughed as she climbed into the suit. “Piece of cake, just gotta catch the curl.”

  Chapter 30

  Firebase Glory

  In front of the firebase, the dead steamed in the brutal sunlight. The grey wave had crashed and broken like a thunderclap on the ditch, piling themselves high just as the last artillery rounds had been fired point blank. Then, as if the tide had gone out, the attackers had receded into the distance, joining in with the columns that still streamed across the bridge. The dead in front of the base numbered in the thousands, and machine gun barrels had bent, glowing cherry red from the furious fire. The human defenders sat, stunned, deafened by the cannon and gunfire, unable to hear the screams of their wounded comrades.

  Specialist Shin, his shoulder aching from the hundreds of times he’d fired his M-14, sat with his back to the sandbagged wall. His throat felt like someone had poured sand down it, and he desperately needed water. All he could smell was cordite and blood, a pool of which was slowly drying under the body of Sergeant Tomaso. The NCO was pinned by an arrow to the wall, a look of surprise on his face.

  The gun chief walked from man to man on the crew, a few of them already asleep from exhaustion. Those who were he left to sleep, despite the primary blazing overhead, after checking for wounds. He came to the body of Tomaso and stopped, then shook his head. “Shin,” he said, “give me a hand.”

  “I…” he started to say, then merely stood, shakily. He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and lifted, while the chief reached behind and worked the arrow free of the wall. They laid Tomaso down on his side, and Shin closed his staring eyes. He felt like crying, but was too numb inside.

  “Gonna go get some water, Chief,” he managed to croak.

  Staff Sergeant Biggs nodded and said, “Bring back a five gallon, if you can. The guys’ll need it. If you hear the siren again, haul ass back here.”

  “Think they will?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. Just hurry back.”

  Shin walked out of the gun pit and stopped to wait as half a dozen stretchers hurried past, being carried by support soldiers and attended by medics. He recognized some of the guys from Gun One to their right. One stretcher was being carried by four guys, and a medic sat on top of the patient, pumping furiously on his chest.

  One of the gunners, a new girl he barely knew, was walking slowly past, a bloody bandage on her face. She held an M-4 by the barrel; it was broken in half. “Hey!” he said, gently grabbing her arm. “Are you OK?”

  “Gotta get to the aide station,” she mumbled.

  “What happened?” he asked, guiding her along.

  She turned to look at him, eyes dull, face dirty and blood-smeared. “One of them got into the gun p-p-pit. It just, it just, just went wild, swinging an axe all crazy,” she sobbed. “Ah shot it so many times, ah emptied mah magazine into its head. There was blood everywhere, and it done hit me with its fist. Ah killed it, though. Put mah barrel right up against its neck while it wuz eating Sergeant Jones, and ah killed it.” Shin, raised in California, could barely understand her accent, but he saw that she was in bad shape. In addition to the blood, a large bruise was forming across her face.

  “Come on, let’s get you to the medics,” he said, taking the broken rifle from her hands and guiding her along the trail, all thoughts of water forgotten. They slowly made their way up the small hill and into the base clinic.

  Inside was chaos, with the screams of the wounded and shouts from the medical personnel. One doctor grabbed the soldier and looked at her quickly, then told Shin to take her out back, handing him a yellow tag. The artilleryman slowly maneuvered her through the feverish activity, pushing aside the tent flap and bringing her into the alphalight. He saw a row of bodies lined up, more than a dozen, their tan boots sticking out from under blankets thrown over them.

  He looked at her nametag, covered with her own blood, and said, “Specialist Johnson, you just sit down here, the docs will be along any minute to look at you, you’re going to be OK.” Sitting her down on a cot, he turned her away from the sight of the dead and started to get up. She gripped his hand fiercely and pulled him back down, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce embrace. Then she buried her face in his shoulder and screamed, over and over. He held very still and let her go on, until she finally subsided into sobs.

  “Hey,” he said, patting her back, not knowing what else to do, “it’s gonna be OK.” She fell silent after a minute, and he lowered her onto the cot, taking off his shirt and bundling it under her head. She continued to stare sightlessly into a very far distance that had nothing to do with the tent wall, tears streaming down her face.

  Someone touched his arm, and he turned to see a kind-faced older woman in civilian clothes. “I’m a volunteer here, soldier. She’ll be alright; I’ll take care of her.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said simply. Then, “Can I get some water?”

  “There’s a buffalo right over there.” She pointed, and Shin gratefully left her to drink directly from a spigot. Then he took off his helmet and ran water into it, sloshed it out, and put it back on his head. He suddenly remembered what his chief had told him, and he looked about. There was an empty water can sitting behind the trailer, and he filled it.

  Carrying it back to the gun pit, the five-gallon jerry can felt like it weighed a
hundred pounds, and he was dragging it by the time he stumbled into the position. Biggs took it from him and told him to get some rest. Shin sat down on the trail of the gun, took off his helmet, and ran his hand through his hair. It was matted with sweat and sticking to his scalp, but it felt good to get the weight off his neck.

  Around the back of the howitzer were hundreds of brass canisters shining in the alphalight. He picked one up and flipped it through the air, landing it upright on its base, and smiled. “Hey, Tomaso! Check it out!” he yelled, and started to turn, then saw the blood pools drying on the ground, NT flies already swarming over them.

  “This really fucking sucks,” he said, to no one in particular.

  Chapter 31

  Approaches to Fort McHenry

  “Bravo Six, this Bravo Niner Three, they’re coming, about a click way, and damn fast. We’re going to ground, out.” Stupid to use call signs, but old habits die hard.

  He knew if he answered, they wouldn’t hear him. The two scouts at OP Three were dug in deep in a hide site several meters up a hill from the road, and their field phone was probably going to have its line trampled any minute now. The OP was five miles or so down the road, about where asphalt turned into ancient paving stones.

  “Probably copied us,” he thought aloud. Captain Santos drew his fingers across the satellite generated map, looking at the hastily drawn defensive positions that guarded the approaches to the base. Around him the men and women of Bravo Company, 1-9 Infantry continued to dig, throwing up walls and planting sharp stakes in front of their positions. Intermixed with them were civilians, any that could lift a bucket or swing a shovel.