Grunt Life (28 page)

A second wave of drones leapt free. These weren’t so quick to attack, but balanced on the edges of their ambush holes, long wings fluttering in the night. Then they exploded as the remaining missiles found them.

“Romeo Three, reverse! Move!”

Now out of missiles, they turned, swinging their miniguns forward. Last was now first, with Thompson, followed by Aquinas, Ohirra, and Olivares, each keeping to their sectors. My gaze was pulled from one feed to the other as the Cray began closing the trap.

Into the Valley of Death Rode the Six Hundred.

The words came unbidden. I blinked them away as I watched my mates fire in controlled bursts, taking out target after target. Had they not gone so far into the trap, professionalism might have gotten them out of it. But there were just too many Cray.

Thompson’s minigun jammed. He fought with it for a moment before returning it to a travel position. He reached back for his blade, which he held before him two-fisted, like it was a holy cross.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered the battle captain. “He looks terrified.”

I impaled the man with my gaze. I’d met officers like him before. All he cared about was being right, even if it was at someone else’s expense.

Mr. Pink noticed my displeasure. “Rolf, sit down.” To the room, he ordered, “Get an infantry platoon moving in their direction now.”

The battle captain sat, his smirk now replaced by a wounded look. The only thing that kept me from kicking the shit out of the smug asshole was my concern for my team.

Thompson had gone down and Aquinas and Ohirra were standing over him. Aquinas still had ammunition and was firing tight bursts into the heads of every Cray that came within arm’s length.

Ohirra and Olivares did the same, only the sergeant was besieged from the rear. Several times he had to kick out, once as his minigun paused to switch from one 500-round magazine to the other. Cray claws slipped and scratched against his suit, desperate to get at him.

“Sir, we’ve identified three possible escape routes,” one of the technicians said. “I’ve plotted them on the overlay of Romeo Three’s position.”

One was back the way Romeo Three had come, back into the apex of the V where they’d originally been headed. Sure, once they reached there the presence of Cray would be lessened, but it looked as if there were a hundred creatures between them and the exit.

The other two routes were perpendicular to the trap.

Suddenly all attention was diverted to Romeo Nine, who were coming under attack while laying their devices.

“Is anyone going to be able to complete this mission?” Mr. Pink asked.

“Check for pings on devices 9-1, 9-2 and 9-3,” a tech called.

“I have ping confirmation,” the tech beside me answered. “And here comes the readout.”

“And there goes the machines,” said the first tech. “They were on for six seconds before the EMP killed them.”

“It’s enough, though,” answered the other tech.

Romeo Nine had other things to worry about besides the success or failure of their mission. Cray were surging towards them from the mound. Romeo Nine was already moving, bounding overwatch in dead sprints of a hundred meters. As each stopped in turn, they turned and fired both missiles and minigun.

As I turned back to my team, my heart flipped as I saw Aquinas’s feed drop to static. I stopped breathing before I saw her running in Thompson’s feed.

“What’s wrong with Aquinas’s feed?” I failed to keep the panic from my voice.

Mr. Pink glanced at me.

“I’m reading all systems go,” the tech beside me said. “She might have taken a blow. Could be a loose wire.”

I rolled my eyes. What a time for a loose wire! The thought that she’d been dead had terrified me. A hole had opened where my heart had been. Ohirra and Olivares were running in the other direction, splitting their enemy.

A gutsy move, and it appeared as if it was going to pay off.

Romeo Nine lost a man as he stumbled and fell. Three Cray were on him, lifting him from the ground. His mates took them down with a hail of gunfire, the Kevlar-titanium armour shielding the soldier from stray rounds, but the suit didn’t help when they dropped him. The EXO hit neck first, the body buckling behind it. Blood covered the screen before the feed went to static.

Back to Romeo Three, and Thompson and Aquinas were fighting back-to-back, wielding their blades. They were surrounded. I balled my fists, believing beyond reason that if I’d been there, none of this would have happened.

“Alpha-Two-One ready to engage. Two-hundred-and-fifty-meter offset,” the battle captain said. “Alpha, prepare to engage.”

Mr. Pink nodded. “Do they have a Vulcan ready for support?”

“Thirty seconds.”

Mr. Pink waited.

I turned to the digital overlay on the right wall and saw an infantry platoon ready to engage the Cray assaulting Romeo Three. The platoon was two hundred and fifty meters away, but their weapons would be just as accurate as if their targets were at fifty meters. The distance allowed the unarmored soldiers to support operations, and still be able to escape if necessary. The key to their support were the Vulcan cannons, without which they were sitting ducks. As much as I wanted them to engage the Cray and come to the aid of Romeo Three, I knew the infantry needed their cover support.

Back to the action, and Thompson was down on the ground again.

“What’s wrong with Thompson?” I asked.

“Leg servos are inop,” a tech replied.

Aquinas was standing over Thompson, protecting him. I couldn’t see a thing through her feed, but I saw her through his, facing upwards. She held both their blades, her torso twisting as her arms windmilled like a Kali Escrimadora from the old Philippines. Between her twists and thrusts, I saw flashes of her face, eyes determined, mouth set, jaw firm, beautiful.

A Cray barreled into her, sending her sprawling onto Thompson. He grabbed one of the blades she’d been wielding and stabbed the drone in its flank.

The Cray fell, but as Aquinas straightened, another replaced it.

“Vulcan cannon in place,” came the call.

“Order Alpha-Two-One to open fire,” Mr. Pink commanded.

“Romeo Three, this is Tactical Control. Hit the dirt.”

I’d long ago memorized Field Manual 7-8: Infantry Platoon and Squad Operations. We’d had to recite entire passages from it. Our ability to remember it dictated whether or not we received extra duty or were allowed off compound, and was the golden ticket to alcohol, sex and freedom. The field manual had been my bible for years and I knew exactly what was happening.

A Deliberate Attack:
Firepower is the capacity of a unit to deliver effective fires on a target. Firepower kills or suppresses the enemy in his positions, deceives the enemy, and supports maneuver. Without effective supporting fires the infantry cannot maneuver. Before attempting to maneuver, units must establish a base of fire. A base of fire is placed on an enemy force or position to reduce or eliminate the enemy’s ability to interfere with friendly maneuver elements. Leaders must know how to control, mass, and combine fire with maneuver. They must identify the most critical targets quickly, direct fires onto them, and ensure that the volume of fire is sufficient to keep the enemy from returning fire effectively, and the unit from expending ammunition needlessly.

Thirty-nine rifles began spitting 5.56mm rounds at the Cray. Members of the headquarters section and three rifle squads fired HK416s, selecting their targets through night vision devices with aiming points, concentrating on sectors of fire, each soldier responsible for his own area. Weapons squad added their own sustained rattle with M240B and SAW machine guns, conducting grazing fire as they swept their barrels back and forth.

Thompson’s feed showed Aquinas, and the Cray dancing above her as the rounds ate through their carapaces. Alien body parts rained down upon them. The fire sustained for ten more seconds, then silence.

“Reloading and standing by.”

“Romeo Three, what’s your status?”

“Still in the wire,” Olivares said.

A-2-1 opened fire again, and this time explosions could be heard off feed, punctuated by a significant lightening of the sky by white phosphorus grenades from a battery of M32 six-shot multiple grenade launchers. The chemical would stick to any flesh—alien or human—it came in contact with and burn until there was nothing left. It was deadly, terrible stuff.

“Romeo Three, prepare to return to base,” a tech ordered.

I became aware that I hadn’t breathed in at least a minute. I released my fists, feeling the indentations my nails had made in my palms. I wasn’t the praying kind, but I prayed for my team.

“Romeo Nine is available to assist,” a tech called.

I turned to Mr. Pink. He chewed on his thumb for a moment—it had to be half-eaten by now—then shook his head. “Negative. RTB.”

Return to base? I thought about arguing, but he was right. Romeo Nine had done their jobs and needed to get back. Romeo Three had been the ones to enter the ambush. Throwing more EXO-wearing recon soldiers at the problem would only put more of them in the shit. Plus, Romeo Three was already receiving assistance from the infantry. I got it, I understood it. But I didn’t like it. If it had been up to me, I’d have sent the entire Brigade Combat Team to help. But then again, that’s why they don’t let some grunt corporal like me make the important decisions.

“Alpha-Two-One reports all targets down.”

“Get Romeo Three out of there,” Mr. Pink commanded.

“Romeo Three, converge with Alpha-Two-One.”

“Roger, control.”

Olivares stood and pulled Ohirra up beside him. They headed towards Thompson and Aquinas. They tossed bodies aside as they came upon the pair. Aquinas got to her feet, but Thompson was unmoving.

I checked his stats and he was doing fine.

“Legs won’t move,” Thompson said. “Something wrong with the servos.”

Back in the Tactical Operations Center a tech shook his head. “They’re offline, and I still can’t get them back up. I’ll try and reset one more time, but I think they’re shot.”

“Alpha-Two-One, fire at will,” the battle captain ordered.

The infantry platoon began to fire as targets became available.

Olivares reached down and hauled Thompson to his feet. He ordered Aquinas to take the other side and Ohirra to lead the way.

“Okay, Romeo Three. We’re going to move. We’re not stopping for anything. You see something, kill it.”

I felt a surge of pleasure that the team was back together. Together they stood a chance. They had five kilometers. Just 5K. Back before the aliens had decided to take the world away from us, a 5K was something people did for fun. And, of course, because I was in the military, I had had my own share of mandatory fun, being forced to run in the Fourth of July 5K or the Christmas 5K or the Thanksgiving 5K.

Of course there were no more holidays. The very idea of Thanksgiving had been irrevocably stolen by the invasion. If we were to ever win our planet back, I didn’t think the holiday would survive.

Back in the day I could run a 5K in twenty-three minutes. With the EXOs, it should be much quicker, perhaps fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of trying not to be jerked into the sky by the Cray and bounced from a thousand feet.

Romeo Three began to jog towards friendly lines. There wasn’t any contact at first. Had A-2-1 done such a terrific job? Then I saw something on one of the feeds which mystified me: dozens of Cray, standing around a glowing mound on the ground. Overhead, I could see the flitting shapes of many more. They were gathering around a clump of burning white phosphorus, like moths to a flame.

My team didn’t spare a moment to investigate. They continued moving.

“Alpha-Two-One is holding fire,” a tech said.

“Telemetry?” Mr. Pink asked.

“We count sixty-five Ks in a single mass above the mound. They have yet to engage.”

Aquinas’s feed, both front and back, was still fuzzed by static. I only knew she was alive because Olivares would sometimes glance at her, and it was her keeping Thompson upright.

“Thompson, you have bogies inbound to your location.”

“I... I see them,” he said, switching to night vision. The switch made the lower left hand corner glow so bright from the residue of a white phosphorus grenade that it washed out detail. But the rest of the view was the greens and blacks everyone knew.

Seven Cray had taken flight from somewhere on the ground and were chasing after them.

“You got to take them out,” Olivares said.

“Go, got it handled.”

Thompson brought his minigun up, but it jammed again. He fought to clear the jam even as the Cray drew near. The weapon finally cleared and the gun accessed the second magazine; the barrel spun a few times before rounds began to pour from the end. Three of the Cray faltered, then tumbled, but the remaining four kept coming.

“Easy on the ammo, son.” Olivares sounded calm, but I could hear his concern.

Thompson slowed his rate of fire, but had trouble aiming because of the way he was being carried. For every ten rounds, only one found a home.

The Cray were now only a dozen feet away.

Thompson forgot about aiming and really opened up.

The lead Cray, only five feet away, took the rounds in the head. The others ate more rounds.

Ohirra opened up from the front.

Her feed showed a huge pit in front of them. Cray soared from it, angling directly toward them.

“We count an additional thirty-five Cray from the new location,” telemetry said.

New location?
What new location?

“Romeo Three, veer left and keep left. There’s been a cave-in. Probably the result of yesterday’s explosion.”

“You couldn’t have told us this yesterday!” Olivares shouted.

“Sorry, Romeo Three.”

“Mason, are you there?” Olivares asked.

I looked at Mr. Pink and shrugged. How was I to reply?

“He’s here and monitoring,” Mr. Pink said for me.

“Hey, slacker.” Olivares fired his minigun at a cluster of Cray, then continued. “Do me a favor. If any of those REMFs says they’re sorry again, feel free to kick the holy hell out of their asses, please.”