DISCLAIMER: The background for this story is set in the "Starcraft
Universe." Starcraft is a PC Game created by Blizzard Entertainment.
Although the characters and events that take place within the following
story are of my own creation, the general background and the technology
used is the creation of Blizzard Entertainment. Please don't sue me.
NOTES: This is my first attempt at fanfiction. The story is not complete and I have yet to think of a good title. Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Let me know if I should even bother finishing the story. If you have any in-depth comments I can be reached at the following email address: oddi3all@aol.com. Enjoy.
Earth, overcrowded and polluted in the 23rd century, is ruled by a totalitarian dictatorship. This government sends three ships of "malcontents", in hibernation, on a colonization mission into the depths of outer space. Something goes horribly wrong and the ships fly much further than planned; finally crash landing on three different planets in the same system, some 60,000 light years from Earth. Each ship was cut off from the others, as well as Earth, and over time developed its own culture.
As time passed the three planets were unified under a government called the Confederacy, which used ruthless means and superior technology to create a single Terran government in the system. Over time, many became unhappy with the rule of the Confederacy, which lead to open rebellion.
July 6 2023 Hours
Lieutenant Colonel Bruce Garret slowly brought the cigarette up to his lips and took a nice deep drag. It had been a long day. Garret smiled as the smoke filled his lungs and the nicotine began to take its effect. With a sigh of relief he leaned against the wall and exhaled several smoke- rings before taking another long drag. He had been on his feet for much of the afternoon, which was usually the case when General Raddick had one of his special dinners with the division command staff.
A noise came from outside and startled Garret. He instinctively snapped to attention and hid the cigarette behind his back before realizing that the noise was nothing more than the muffled voice of one of the guards outside the conference room. What next? Garret licked two of his fingers, extinguished the butt, and opened the door.
"I have orders petty officer whatever the hell your name is; and those orders are that the general is not to be disturbed!" barked a burly marine gunnery sergeant.
"What seems to be the problem gunny?" Garret asked in a commanding tone as he entered the hallway.
Upon hearing the officer's voice the marine quickly realized that his fun with the petty officer was over and with a quick angry glance toward his grinning fellow marine guard, who had not warned him of Garret's presence, snapped to attention.
"No problem here, sir. Just some navy puke tryin' to bust up the general's meeting. I informed him of our orders that the general is not to be disturbed."
Garret sighed. "What's your name petty officer?"
"Petty Officer 3rd Class Roberts, sir. I have..."
"Mr. Roberts I don't have time for this. I believe the gunny here informed you of the standing order for this evening. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pack of Lucky Strikes with my name on it."
"But sir, I have a level delta message for the general and..."
"What did you say son?" Garret snapped as he turned his full attention to the petty officer.
"As I've been trying to get through these gentlemen's thick heads sir," Roberts said while ignoring the fierce stare from the two Marines, "I have a level delta message for General Raddick. As you know, sir, level delta messages must be delivered in person. That's why I'm here despite the orders not disturb him."
"Come with me," said Garret and quickly ushered him through the door.
*****
"Goddamnit! How did this happen?!" General Alfred Raddick boomed while storming through the metallic hallways of the battlecruiser toward the bridge. "I don't know sir," Garret quickly replied as he tried to keep up with the general, "A Major MacNiely was in command of the garrison."
"MacNiely, huh?" Raddick suddenly stopped in his tracks and methodically shifted through his vast memory. "Ah, yes, MacNiely! A good man," the general resumed his march toward the bridge while ignoring several salutes from passing marines and sailors. "What's his status?" One of the General's staff orderlies quickly fumbled through a folder and handed one of the papers to Garret. "He's listed in the initial report as MIA, sir," Garret replied and handed the paper back to the staffer.
"What the hell happened to my marines?!" the General roared as the automated door to the bridge slid open with a hiss. "Attention on deck!" came the immediate response to Raddick's arrival. The duty officer stepped forward, "Why, General what can..."
"Open a secure channel with the Chamberlain, commander," Raddick ordered, "I need to speak with Colonel Morland immediately." "Aye, sir," the commander responded and then repeated the order to his communications tech.
"Colonel," Raddick motioned to Garret.
"Sir?"
"Get a hold of Captain Willard. We need some ghosts on the ground so we can find out what the fuck is going on."
"Sir!" Garret smartly pivoted and left the bridge.
2300 Hours
As Colonel Randy Morland carefully strapped into his seat aboard the dropship, he silently began to think over the two hour briefing he had just had with General Raddick. The Confederate colony on Nolaris Prime had been attacked and overrun by rebel forces. After a short, but intense firefight that lasted no more than an estimated half hour, the marine garrison was destroyed en masse. Morland's battalion was ordered to go in, close with, and destroy the rebel occupation force. Morland could not have been happier.
A slight shove tore Morland from his thoughts. He looked up to see the crew chief tapping the mike on his helmet and pointing to a headset next to Morland's seat. The pilots must have finished their pre-flight check because the engines were up and running. Unable to speak over the noise that the engines created, Morland simply nodded and donned the head set.
"How we lookin' Jim?" Morland quipped over the intercom.
"I've just been informed that the Chamberlain has entered lower orbit and is holding steady. We're ready for launch Colonel. Lights are green across the board."
"Roger that, lieutenant. Lets go flying. I want a scenic tour of that rock."
"My pleasure, sir. Stand by." Twenty three year-old lieutenant Jim Hatch turned to his co-pilot and motioned for her to switch his mike off intercom and over to the battlecruiser's frequency. She flipped a switch and Hatch spoke into his comm set, "Chamberlain control, this is longhorn 23 drop. Request permission for space launch L.P.O."
"Longhorn 23 drop, this is Chamberlain control. You are authorized for space launch L.P.O. Standby while we lower you to the launch deck. I'm turning you over to launch deck control. Have a nice day. Out."
"Wilco, Chamberlain control. Thanks. Out."
Hatch turned his head and gave the crew chief a thumbs up. The chief nodded and turned to Colonel Morland. "They're sending us downtown for launch, sir," he said over the intercom, "Everyone good to go?" Morland turned and looked at Captain Anthony Willard and his team of ghosts, who were sitting beside and across from where the colonel now sat.
Each member of Willard's team looked as if he were merely going out for a stroll rather than on a dangerous mission to recon an enemy force of an unknown size and of unknown capabilities. Morland expected as much. The ghosts were the cream of the crop, the best of the best, and in the colonel's personal opinion, the finest soldiers that the Confederate military had ever fielded. Morland, of course, had been a ghost officer himself before finally accepting the fact that he could not defeat the aging process and, at the age of thirty-eight, took command of a marine battalion. Four years had passed since Morland got behind the wheel of the second battalion, twenty-seventh marines. Jesus, had it really been that long?
"Good to go Willard?" Morland asked. Fighting back a yawn, Willard gave the Colonel a thumbs up. Morland glanced at the rest of Willard's team and they each in turn gave him a thumbs up.
The dropship was being lowered to the launch deck and the combined noise of the engines and the hydraulics from the elevator was defeaning. "We're all good to go back here chief," Morland screamed into his comset, "Lets light this sucker." The crew chief turned, tapped Hatch on the shoulder, and gave him a thumbs up. Hatch nodded and turned back to the controls as the dropship suddenly shuddered and halted.
Colonel Morland leaned slightly forward and looked out through the cockpit window. The view of Nolaris Prime from 180 miles up filled the window. He always hated this part. He felt like a dangling turd.
"Launch tower control, this is longhorn 23 drop. We have authorization for space launch L.P.O. All systems are go. Limits are set. Engines are lit. We are go for launch."
"Longhorn 23 drop, this is launch deck control. We confirm authorization. Concur all systems are go. Concur limits are set. Concur engines are lit. You are go for launch."
"Roger. Throttle's up."
"Good hunting longhorn 23. Out."
The dropship rocketed from zero to three-hundred and twenty knots in just under three seconds. Morland and the rest of the passengers let out a grunt as they were pushed into their seats and then relaxed when zero gravity kicked in. The pilot dropped the nose and the ship dove toward the Nolaris surface.
*****
The flight to the insertion point was taking longer than normal. To avoid detection, Colonel Morland had ordered the dropship to enter the atmosphere on the far side of the planet and then to fly nap of the earth. With this type of flying it wasn't safe to go faster than nine hundred knots. At an altitude of two hundred and fifty feet, should the flight control system malfunction, it would only take a split second to slam into the surface. Bye, bye dropship.
"Ten minutes," Lieutenant Hatch's earily calm voice was heard in Morland's headset.
Morland turned to Captain Willard and flashed ten fingers while at the same time, Hatch threw the engines into reverse and began to flare the aircraft to slow it down. Willard nodded, turned to his team, and flashed a hand signal which meant to lock and load. Magazines were inserted into rifles, equipment was checked and re-checked, and thermal imaging visors were pulled down over faces.
The crew chief un-buckled his shoulder harness and moved toward the secondary exit, a sliding door on the starboard side of the ship. The crew chief strapped himself into a seat facing the door and with the push of a button it slid open with a mechanical hiss. Cool night air filled the aircraft as the chief readied his weapon system, which was activated along with the door. The gun-mount housed two retrofitted, marine issue, C-14 "Impaler" Gauss rifles, which he began to swing left and right looking for any possible threats.
"We're beginning our decent," Hatch's voice was again heard over the intercom.
Morland peered over the crew chief's shoulder. He couldn't see shit. It was as dark as hell out there so he quickly grabbed a pair of night- vision goggles. As he pulled them down over his eyes, the canopy jungle that covered most of Nolaris Prime was revealed some one hundred feet below him. Willard and his team stood up and moved to the rear of the aircraft.
"Seventy feet. We're lookin' good."
"Wilco, Jim. Let's get Willard and his boys in there and then get the hell out. I wanna take a good look at this battlefield."
"Roger that Colonel. Fifty feet. Gear comin' down."
The ship shuddered as the landing gear locked into place. Morland could just barely see some flickering lights on the horizon. That must be what's left of the colony. What the hell was it called again? New Vicksburg. Stupid name.
Morland intended to use this dropship as his command and control bird throughout the coming battle. Marine Corps standard operating procedure called for the battalion commander to run the fight from the safety of the battlecruisers, but that was just not the way Morland operated. He led from the front. General Raddick would probably throw a shit fit if he knew that Morland had decided to ride along with the insertion, but what the hell did he know? He probably hadn't gotten up off his fat ass since he got those stars pinned on his shoulders. Morland needed to survey the terrain with his own two eyes, he certainly didn't trust those damn scanners run by the navy pukes. If Raddick didn't like it, well, he could go fuck himself.
"Ten feet. Standby," Hatch spoke as he flared up for landing, "We have touchdown."
Hatch put the throttle into idle and lowered the rear ramp. Within seconds Willard and his team were on the ground, spread out in a defensive formation, and heading for the safety of the jungle.
"This is hunter one," Captain Willard's voice came up over the radio, "We're on the ground. All elements secure. Thanks for the lift, longhorn. Out."
"Roger that, hunter one. Good luck. Out."
"Drop the hammer, lieutenant. Lets clear out of this L.Z. and circle the colony," Morland commanded. Hatch raised the ramp, applied the throttle, and the dropship leapt into the air.
*****
"All right Randy, but just remember that your primary objective is to destroy those rebel battalions. I don't give a rat's ass about the colony. Civilian casualties will be regrettable, but justifiable. Waste as many of those sons of bitches as you can. I will not have these people spreading throughout my jurisdiction like they did in the Orian Sector! Not on my watch they won't! Am I clear, colonel?"
"Crystal, general. The second of the twenty-seventh is on it. We won't disappoint you."
"Be sure that you don't, colonel. I'm counting on you. Now brief your people and get this operation moving. Admiral La'Gaul and I will be maneuvering the fleet to seek out the rebel transports within the hour. Keep me informed. Raddick, out."
"Yes, sir. Morland, out."
Morland switched off the comm link and leaned back in his chair. A smile crept across his face. For months Morland had been trying to get his battalion transferred from Raddick's division to the 32nd Fleet, which was operating in the Orian Sector. For once, the war had come to him.
The rebels routinely used guerrilla tactics against Confederate colonies. Their favorite trick was the hit and run. They would assault a resource-rich colony, destroy the garrison, gather as many resources as they could, and then vanish before any major Confederate response could be organized. For three years the war continued in this fashion. It now appeared that the rebels were finally satisfied with their gathered wealth and were attempting to expand. They had hit New Vicksburg with an estimated two battalions; roughly one thousand men.
Morland grinned. This was a game he knew how to play. He had been trained in similar tactics during his years with the ghost corps. The colonel had been given free reign to conduct this operation and he was going to see to it that his battalion finally got to show what it was made of.
Morland swung his chair back around to his desk and carefully looked over the intel that had been provided by Captain Willard and his team. Morland must've gone over it a hundred times already, but what the hell, once more couldn't hurt.
Willard and his ghosts had done good. New Vicksburg was located in the Northern hemisphere of Nolaris Prime; right smack in the middle of a rich field of mineral deposits. The entire colony ran about five kilometers from east to west and about 2 kilometers from north to south.
The mineral field and mining operations were situated in the northwestern corner of the colony. This was the most heavily defended sector of the perimeter and was studded with bunkers, left from the previous Confederate inhabitants, and newly dug systems of trenches, courtesy of the rebel soldiers. This same trench system stretched for the entire perimeter of the colony, with an occasional bunker located at key positions.
Near the center of the colony was the command center, barracks (where the Confederate garrison had been located), and the colony's single starport, which according to Willard's boys, had only two operational wraith fighter aircraft left. There was also a small armory and two factories nearby.
To the east was the colonist's housing district as well as a majority of the colony's vital supply depots. Most important, New Vicksburg's power generator was right next-door. The generator, Morland had decided, would be a key factor in the coming battle, for if taken out, any anti-air missile turrets or other automated defenses would cease to function.
Morland shuffled through the papers until he found a topographical map that had been printed up using intelligence from both Willard's team and the Chamberlain's scanners. He studied it closely.
About two hundred and fifty meters from the northeast corner of the colony was a river, which provided a natural barrier that prevented anyone on foot from getting in or out from that direction.
A ridge, four hundred meters to the south, ran parallel to New Vicksburg's southern perimeter. Another ridge, five hundred meters form the northwestern corner of New Vicksburg, ran diagonally from the southwest to the northeast.
Captain Willard and his ghosts already occupied the highest piece of terrain in the area, a small hill seven hundred meters to the south, which overlooked both the ridge south of the colony, as well as the colony itself.
Morland intended to insert three of his four companies onto the high ground surrounding New Vicksburg. Alpha and Bravo Company would secure the ridge to the south while Delta Company occupied the ridge to the northwest. Charlie Company, specially trained in airborne assaults, would remain behind on the battlecruiser as a quick reaction force. In case things got hairy, Morland wanted to be able to fall back on the Q.R.F. to get his boys out of trouble.
Once Morland's marines occupied the two ridges, only three avenues of escape would be available to any rebels on foot: a gap between the river and the southern ridge, a gap between the southern ridge and the northwestern ridge, and a gap between the northwestern ridge and the river. To prevent the rebel's from using these three gaps, Morland was going to utilize a company of Arclite Siege Tanks that he had at his disposal.
Morland chuckled. The AAV-5 crews probably all had hard-ons just thinking about all the shit they were gonna get to blow up.
The tanks would be inserted, along with a platoon of marines for security; into a small jungle clearing located approximately two kilometers east of New Vicksburg. With the AAV-5's in place, Morland's marines could call on them to rain fire on any groups of rebels that attempted to move through the gaps.
With the rebel soldiers thus pinned in the colony, Morland would call on the navy wraith pilots to pound the enemy positions with air strikes. The wraith fighters would be used in conjunction with the Chamberlain, which would stabilize in orbit over the colony, and give the rebels hell with its laser batteries.
Morland checked his watch. He had a date with destiny.
July 7 0500 Hours
"Battalion, ah-tenn shun!"
The metallic click of five hundred armored heals, clapped together simultaneously, echoed throughout the hangar deck as Colonel Morland made his way to the front of his marines.
"George," Morland greeted the battalion's executive officer, Major George White, as he passed.
"Sir," White was quick to respond.
Morland climbed atop one of the dropships that were standing by, their crews at the ready, and stood on the protruding tail fin. With his hands clasped behind his ramrod straight back, the colonel looked over his troops. The faces that looked up at him were young, but they were frosty. The marines, nothing more than pimply teenagers under normal circumstances, had donned their armored combat suits; it gave them an intimidating, inhuman look.
Morland spoke in a deep, commanding tone that he reserved for such occasions.
"Gentlemen, you've all been briefed. Every man here knows his job. You are the most highly trained, best equipped, and deadliest soldiers in the history of mankind. Who are we?!"
"Confederate Marines!" the troops roared in unison.
"What do we do?!"
"Kill, kill, kill!"
"What makes the grass grow?!"
"Blood, blood, blood!"
Morland paused. His expression was fierce. "May the Lord forgive us," he spoke, "for we are not going to show any mercy."
This was met with a deafening cheer from the marines. Morland turned to Major White.
"X.O., lets board 'em up."
"Yes, sir! Company commanders, fall out by platoon to your assigned dropships," White ordered.
Morland climbed down and stood next to White. The marines lumbered past as they began climbing aboard the aircraft; their armored footsteps thundering throughout the hanger. Morland smiled and turned to the major.
"Ya know George, compared to war, all other human endeavors shrink to insignificance."
"Yes," White responded. He'd heard the colonel say that a hundred times. "Yes, you're absolutely right, colonel."
He couldn't help but notice the gleam in the colonel's eye. White had never met a man that enjoyed the business of killing other human beings as much as Colonel Randy Morland did.
"Lets, get this show on the road, X.O. I'm gonna board up. Make sure Charlie Company is squared away and is good to go on a moments notice."
"Wilco, sir. Good luck, colonel."
Morland nodded and walked over to where his command and control bird, piloted by Lieutenant Jim Hatch, was waiting. As Morland neared the dropship, he saw both Hatch and his crew chief slowly walking around the aircraft; performing a last minute check.
"Everything ready, Jim?"
"Yes, sir. I see you've yet to completely turn into a jarhead, huh, colonel?"
Morland was wearing the standard issue, lightweight body armor worn by ghosts. Most marine officers wore the same powered combat suits that their troops wore, but Morland preferred mobility over protection any day. Who could move in those fucking sardine cans?
"Once a ghost always a ghost," Morland quipped as he climbed the ship's ramp, "Now get your ass in that cockpit so we can do this up."
*****
Damn, it's fucking hot. The ghost-sniper lifted the visor from his face and wiped the sweat from his eyes. This fucking jungle. Fucking planet. He slid the visor back into place and peered through the scope of his rifle. He took a deep breath. Control your breathing man; keep your heart rate low. He shifted slightly. Get a natural point of aim. The wind blew, causing a piece of brush to momentarily block his vision. The sniper was covered in foliage. From head to toe he had stuck leaves, branches, and anything else he could find that would blend in with the surroundings, into gaps in his body armor. He slowly, deliberately moved the piece of brush aside.
Another deep breath. With a seasoned eye he returned his gaze to the telescopic sight. From atop the hill, south of New Vicksburg, he had a clear, unobstructed view of the colony. He slowly pointed the rifle toward the eastern perimeter. A rebel soldier was walking toward a bunker. The sniper zoomed in. Steady now. The soldier was clad in marine combat armor. It was damaged; probably taken from a corpse after the assault on the colony. How are we today mister rebel man? The sniper tracked the soldier's movements with the rifle as he approached the bunker. Relieving the guard, I bet.
The ghost shifted his weapon further to the right; toward the wood line about fifty meters from the bunker. Can't see a damn thing; jungle's too thick. He flipped a switch on the scope to activate thermal imaging. The sniper immediately picked up two heat signatures moving through the woodline, towards the colony. He smiled. Got ya.
He keyed his comm set, "Hunter one, this is hunter six. I have you in sight. Got ya covered."
"Roger, hunter six," Captain Willard's voice whispered in response, "We have a visual on the colony."
Willard crouched and peered through the dense foliage. There was a bunker to his front, no more than fifty meters distant, atop a gentle slope. He turned to the ghost kneeling next to him.
"Sergeant," he whispered, "go dark."
With a nod the sergeant pressed a button on the breast plait of his body armor. As the cloaking device activated, the sergeant disappeared before Willard's eyes. The captain switched his visor to thermal and his companion reappeared in the form of a heat signature.
"Keep on eye on your suit's energy level," Willard said, "if one of us uncloaks in there we're dead."
"Roger that, sir. I know the drill."
Willard activated his own cloaking device and stood up. Raising his weapon, he pulled back the charging rod, released it, and chambered a round.
"OK. Get on my ass. Don't separate."
The pair carefully made their way to the edge of the jungle and emerged into the open.
"Hunter six, standby," Willard whispered into the mike of his comm set, "We're going to breach the perimeter."
"Wilco, hunter one," the sniper replied, "I'm on it. Make your move."
Willard and the sergeant moved with precision, carefully placing each step where it would make the least amount of noise. They quickly passed the bunker and then nimbly leapt over the trench. Willard paused and looked around. The sergeant spotted the top of a missile turret, towering above the roof of a nearby supply depot. Since the towers were equipped with infared radar that was constantly scanning, it would have to be avoided.
Willard signaled for the sergeant to follow and they both sprinted behind the depot. Willard crouched down and then peered around the corner. The tower was about one hundred meters to their left. On the other side of the depot was a dirt road and on the other side of that were several crude houses.
"Hunter six, we're in," Willard whispered, "I've got a tower to my left. One hundred meters."
"Roger that, hunter one. I've got eyes on the objective. Move onto the road and head north for half a click. Hug the walls and the tower shouldn't have an angle on you. The target will be on your left. Be advised, I see a large crowd of civilians gathered near your position. How copy? Over."
"Understood, hunter six. We're heading up the street."
Willard moved to the edge of the depot and readied his weapon. The sergeant slowly crept passed Willard and then sprinted across the street. The ghost put his back to the wall of a metallic house and knelt. He brought his weapon up and signaled to the captain that he had him covered. Willard repeated the sergeant's move and knelt behind him. Willard tapped his companion on the shoulder, and the sergeant sprinted forward several meters. He knelt against the wall of the next building and again signaled to Willard.
They leap frogged in this manner until they came within a stone's throw of the crowd of colonists that the sniper had warned them about. There were maybe thirty civilians, all gathered in a loose semi-circle around a female rebel officer. The officer was standing atop a rundown space construction vehicle and from what Willard could hear, she was trying to recruit some of the colonials into the rebel army.
"We no longer have to live under the tyrannical rule of the Confederate Government," she spoke emphatically. "Why shouldn't our sons and daughters grow up under a government that actually cares for its people. Come with us! Join us! Only together can we..."
They easily slipped passed the crowd unnoticed, which was good for Captain Willard. If he had to listen to anymore of that drivel he was going to vomit.
Approaching the end of the row of depots and housing, Willard and the sergeant dropped to the ground and assumed a prone position. Willard carefully scanned the area with his visor and then keyed his comm set.
"Hunter six, we are in position just off the road," he whispered, "we have eyes on the target."
"Wilco, hunter one. I see you. You're looking...wait," the sniper paused for a moment before continuing, "You've got a rebel infantryman approaching from the west! He's at ten meters and closing fast. You copy?"
"I copy that. Shit!" Willard swore as he looked over his shoulder just in time to see an armored foot coming from around the corner of the building.
Willard and the sergeant reflexively rolled to the side, only narrowly avoiding being stepped on. Neither of them breathed. The soldier lumbered past, clad in his combat armor, and then began making his way toward the perimeter.
"Drop him?"
"Negative, hunter six," Willard said as he relaxed, "He didn't spot us. We're gonna proceed with the mission."
The sergeant smiled as he crawled back to his position. Willard shot him a questioning look.
"Well, captain," the sergeant said with a slight chuckle, "I just love my work."
"I know the feeling sarge. Switch us over to the command freq," Willard ordered.
The sergeant flipped a switch and Willard spoke into the radio, "Hardcore one, this is hunter one. Do you copy?"
The radio was silent.
"Hardcore one, this is hunter one. Do you read?"
Colonel Morland's voice was heard in response, "Affirmative, hunter one. I'm with you."
"Hardcore one, be advised: The chicken is in the pot. I repeat. The chicken is in the pot."
"Roger, hunter one. Cook it."
"Wilco. Hunter one out."
Willard turned to the sergeant and nodded. With that, the ghost drew what resembled a small pistol from his gear. He aimed the laser designator at the New Vicksburg power generator, which was one hundred meters away. He pulled the trigger. A small red dot appeared on the generator.
"She's lit," the sergeant whispered.
Willard switched his comm set over to the Chamberlain's designated frequency.
"Big brother, this is hunter one. The target is painted."
"Roger that," the battlecruiser's comm technician responded, "Standby."
The tech turned to Captain Mike Holland, who was pacing nervously on the bridge, and said, "Captain Willard has just advised us that the target has been designated, sir."
Holland nodded. "Very well. Sound battle stations. Mr. Smith, bring us over the colony. All ahead full."
"Aye, sir."
Alarms were going off throughout the ship and red lights began flashing. Sailors started to hustle to and fro. Holland folded his hands behind his back and carefully looked over the weapons console, which was manned by a young sailor. He was always nervous when using tactical nuclear missiles.
"We're approaching the target area captain."
"Ready tubes one and four," Holand commanded, "Go hot."
"Aye, sir."
Holland resumed his pacing.
"Sir, we're over the colony."
"Stabilize the ship. All laser batteries are to charge their pieces. Gunners standby. Weapons, how are we looking?"
"Missiles are hot captain. We're ready for launch."
"Fire tube one."
"Aye, sir. One away."
0530
Willard turned to the sergeant, "Is she airborne?"
"Hell yeah," the ghost said with a grin as he monitored the digital readout on the laser designator, "I've got a nuclear launch detected."
"Outstanding. What's the E.T.A.?" Willard asked.
"Two minutes."
Willard raised his head and looked around. The gaggle of civilians to his rear were beginning to disperse. Several were heading in Willard's direction.
"Whoa, hang on," Willard mumbled as he readied his rifle.
"Minute and a half, sir."
An engine roared to life in the distance and caught the captain's attention. Ignoring the civilians, Willard crawled forward and peered around the corner of the building. He increased the zoom on his vizor to see a large colonial truck, which was being loaded with minerals by several space construction vehicles. Willard carefully rose and crept forward for a better look.
"E.T.A. is one minute, sir," the sergeant whispered nervously, "We gotta be ready captain."
Willard crouched, switched off thermal imaging on his visor, and looked around. He could see several rebel soldiers moving into position near the truck. He turned to his left. A large column of rebel soldiers, clad in their battle armor, along with several other mineral loaded trucks, were passing through the perimeter and heading south.
"Thirty seconds, sir."
"They're pulling out sarge. They're gonna run smack into those marines comin' down on the southern ridge. We gotta let them know or else..."
"Captain! The nuke is tracking, sir," the sergeant yelled as he glanced over his shoulder to view the missile, which was now a small, glowing dot in the sky. "She's acquired the target and she's tracking, sir. It's time to go!"
"Alright, alright. Let's move!"
Alarms began to sound as the ghosts sprinted toward the perimeter. The New Vicksburg radar had obviously picked up the incoming threat.
"Fifteen seconds!"
The pair leapt over the entrenchments and came down hard on the other side. A nearby rebel guard heard them yelling and saw a small plume of dirt fly into the air as they landed outside the perimeter.
"Ghosts! Hey, there's fucking ghosts!" the soldier yelled into his radio and then promptly fired a wild burst toward the woodline.
"Here she comes," Willard screamed to the sergeant as they both made one final leap toward the safety of the jungle.
The tactical nuke screamed overhead and slammed into the power generator as the ghosts sprang into the air.
"Oh, shit!"
The force of the blast literally threw both Willard and the sergeant into the woodline.
In less than a second, the armored hull of the generator melted and gave way. Bits of metal flew in every direction. The deadly shrapnel tore through anything in its path while hunks of steal, clumps of dirt, and other debris rained down from the heavens. The ground shook from the force of the explosion and the entire northeast corner of New Vicksburg was reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble.
A tree, cut in two by a piece of shrapnel, crashed to the jungle floor. It missed Captain Willard by barely a meter, showering him with bits of bark and leaves as he struggled to regain his bearings.
Willard rose and began dusting himself off. He tried to look through the brush, but a huge cloud of smoke still lingered over the colony. Willard looked for the sergeant.
"Hey, sarge. You alive?"
The wind began to pick up and it slowly lifted the veil of smoke, revealing the sergeant a few meters from Willard.
"Almost makes you wish you joined the damn navy," the sergeant observed as he emerged from a pile of tree limbs.
"Almost," Willard responded.
They broke into laughter.
Willard's smile suddenly faded. He had switched his visor off of thermal imaging when he was observing the rebel trucks, and yet, he could clearly see the sergeant. He looked down at his wrist to check his body armor's energy level. The indicator was flashing zero percent. They weren't cloaked.
When the C-14 "Impaler" Gauss Rifle is fired, it makes a very distinct sound. The armor-piercing rounds launch from the barrel at supersonic speeds; each slug emitting its own little sonic boom as it soars toward the target. When the depleted uranium bullet begins tearing through steal as if it were paper, one can't help but feel empowered. Each time that trigger is pulled, that recoil slams into an armored shoulder, and those rounds fly down range, anyone who happens to be where the metal meets the meat is in a world of shit.
At the moment, Captain Anthony Willard was in a world of shit.
The first burst slammed into the sergeant's torso. He didn't even have time to scream before he was cut in two. Willard dove to his right and tumbled while the second burst sliced through the air just above his head. He watched the tracers tear through tree after tree as they passed, sounding as if someone was merely snapping twigs.
"One down, I saw one go down! Where's the other?!" Willard heard a soldier asking.
He was gonna have to make a run for it. Willard nimbly jumped to his feet, but before he even took a single step he knew he was dead. He could see the rebel soldier, combat armor and all, a mere thirty meters from the woodline. He had raised his rifle. He definately had a bead on Willard.
The C-37 "Hawkeye" Sniper Rifle is a totally different story. Its laser guided ammunition, unlike the armor-piercing slugs of a Gauss Rifle, are only as effective, and as deadly for that matter, as the skill of the individual using the weapon. In this case, the C-37 "Hawkeye" Sniper Rifle was the baddest motherfucker on the planet.
Before he could even shit in his powered combat suit, the rebel's face plait exploded in a shower of glass while the slug made a neat incision in his skull. Several seconds later, the sound of the shot echoed throughout the landscape, accompanied by the loud thud of the rebel corpse hitting the ground.
"You can thank me later, hunter one. Get the hell outa there!" the ghost-sniper's voice spoke in Willard's comm set.
"I hear that!" Willard exclaimed as he ran into the depths of the jungle. "I owe you big time, hunt..."
Willard ducked in response to the sound of a long burst coming from outside the woodline. Another burst was heard and several tracers sliced through the air directly in his front, causing the captain to come to a jarring halt.
"Shit, that was close!"
Willard reversed directions and began to sprint for all he was worth. A lone shot echoed throughout the surrounding jungle. The firing form the woodline ceased.
"Hunter one, your six is clear."
As the sound of the shot faded, it was replaced by the distinctive noise of jet engines. The silhouettes of Confederate dropships were visible on the horizon.
*****
NOTES: This is my first attempt at fanfiction. The story is not complete and I have yet to think of a good title. Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. Let me know if I should even bother finishing the story. If you have any in-depth comments I can be reached at the following email address: oddi3all@aol.com. Enjoy.
Earth, overcrowded and polluted in the 23rd century, is ruled by a totalitarian dictatorship. This government sends three ships of "malcontents", in hibernation, on a colonization mission into the depths of outer space. Something goes horribly wrong and the ships fly much further than planned; finally crash landing on three different planets in the same system, some 60,000 light years from Earth. Each ship was cut off from the others, as well as Earth, and over time developed its own culture.
As time passed the three planets were unified under a government called the Confederacy, which used ruthless means and superior technology to create a single Terran government in the system. Over time, many became unhappy with the rule of the Confederacy, which lead to open rebellion.
July 6 2023 Hours
Lieutenant Colonel Bruce Garret slowly brought the cigarette up to his lips and took a nice deep drag. It had been a long day. Garret smiled as the smoke filled his lungs and the nicotine began to take its effect. With a sigh of relief he leaned against the wall and exhaled several smoke- rings before taking another long drag. He had been on his feet for much of the afternoon, which was usually the case when General Raddick had one of his special dinners with the division command staff.
A noise came from outside and startled Garret. He instinctively snapped to attention and hid the cigarette behind his back before realizing that the noise was nothing more than the muffled voice of one of the guards outside the conference room. What next? Garret licked two of his fingers, extinguished the butt, and opened the door.
"I have orders petty officer whatever the hell your name is; and those orders are that the general is not to be disturbed!" barked a burly marine gunnery sergeant.
"What seems to be the problem gunny?" Garret asked in a commanding tone as he entered the hallway.
Upon hearing the officer's voice the marine quickly realized that his fun with the petty officer was over and with a quick angry glance toward his grinning fellow marine guard, who had not warned him of Garret's presence, snapped to attention.
"No problem here, sir. Just some navy puke tryin' to bust up the general's meeting. I informed him of our orders that the general is not to be disturbed."
Garret sighed. "What's your name petty officer?"
"Petty Officer 3rd Class Roberts, sir. I have..."
"Mr. Roberts I don't have time for this. I believe the gunny here informed you of the standing order for this evening. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a pack of Lucky Strikes with my name on it."
"But sir, I have a level delta message for the general and..."
"What did you say son?" Garret snapped as he turned his full attention to the petty officer.
"As I've been trying to get through these gentlemen's thick heads sir," Roberts said while ignoring the fierce stare from the two Marines, "I have a level delta message for General Raddick. As you know, sir, level delta messages must be delivered in person. That's why I'm here despite the orders not disturb him."
"Come with me," said Garret and quickly ushered him through the door.
*****
"Goddamnit! How did this happen?!" General Alfred Raddick boomed while storming through the metallic hallways of the battlecruiser toward the bridge. "I don't know sir," Garret quickly replied as he tried to keep up with the general, "A Major MacNiely was in command of the garrison."
"MacNiely, huh?" Raddick suddenly stopped in his tracks and methodically shifted through his vast memory. "Ah, yes, MacNiely! A good man," the general resumed his march toward the bridge while ignoring several salutes from passing marines and sailors. "What's his status?" One of the General's staff orderlies quickly fumbled through a folder and handed one of the papers to Garret. "He's listed in the initial report as MIA, sir," Garret replied and handed the paper back to the staffer.
"What the hell happened to my marines?!" the General roared as the automated door to the bridge slid open with a hiss. "Attention on deck!" came the immediate response to Raddick's arrival. The duty officer stepped forward, "Why, General what can..."
"Open a secure channel with the Chamberlain, commander," Raddick ordered, "I need to speak with Colonel Morland immediately." "Aye, sir," the commander responded and then repeated the order to his communications tech.
"Colonel," Raddick motioned to Garret.
"Sir?"
"Get a hold of Captain Willard. We need some ghosts on the ground so we can find out what the fuck is going on."
"Sir!" Garret smartly pivoted and left the bridge.
2300 Hours
As Colonel Randy Morland carefully strapped into his seat aboard the dropship, he silently began to think over the two hour briefing he had just had with General Raddick. The Confederate colony on Nolaris Prime had been attacked and overrun by rebel forces. After a short, but intense firefight that lasted no more than an estimated half hour, the marine garrison was destroyed en masse. Morland's battalion was ordered to go in, close with, and destroy the rebel occupation force. Morland could not have been happier.
A slight shove tore Morland from his thoughts. He looked up to see the crew chief tapping the mike on his helmet and pointing to a headset next to Morland's seat. The pilots must have finished their pre-flight check because the engines were up and running. Unable to speak over the noise that the engines created, Morland simply nodded and donned the head set.
"How we lookin' Jim?" Morland quipped over the intercom.
"I've just been informed that the Chamberlain has entered lower orbit and is holding steady. We're ready for launch Colonel. Lights are green across the board."
"Roger that, lieutenant. Lets go flying. I want a scenic tour of that rock."
"My pleasure, sir. Stand by." Twenty three year-old lieutenant Jim Hatch turned to his co-pilot and motioned for her to switch his mike off intercom and over to the battlecruiser's frequency. She flipped a switch and Hatch spoke into his comm set, "Chamberlain control, this is longhorn 23 drop. Request permission for space launch L.P.O."
"Longhorn 23 drop, this is Chamberlain control. You are authorized for space launch L.P.O. Standby while we lower you to the launch deck. I'm turning you over to launch deck control. Have a nice day. Out."
"Wilco, Chamberlain control. Thanks. Out."
Hatch turned his head and gave the crew chief a thumbs up. The chief nodded and turned to Colonel Morland. "They're sending us downtown for launch, sir," he said over the intercom, "Everyone good to go?" Morland turned and looked at Captain Anthony Willard and his team of ghosts, who were sitting beside and across from where the colonel now sat.
Each member of Willard's team looked as if he were merely going out for a stroll rather than on a dangerous mission to recon an enemy force of an unknown size and of unknown capabilities. Morland expected as much. The ghosts were the cream of the crop, the best of the best, and in the colonel's personal opinion, the finest soldiers that the Confederate military had ever fielded. Morland, of course, had been a ghost officer himself before finally accepting the fact that he could not defeat the aging process and, at the age of thirty-eight, took command of a marine battalion. Four years had passed since Morland got behind the wheel of the second battalion, twenty-seventh marines. Jesus, had it really been that long?
"Good to go Willard?" Morland asked. Fighting back a yawn, Willard gave the Colonel a thumbs up. Morland glanced at the rest of Willard's team and they each in turn gave him a thumbs up.
The dropship was being lowered to the launch deck and the combined noise of the engines and the hydraulics from the elevator was defeaning. "We're all good to go back here chief," Morland screamed into his comset, "Lets light this sucker." The crew chief turned, tapped Hatch on the shoulder, and gave him a thumbs up. Hatch nodded and turned back to the controls as the dropship suddenly shuddered and halted.
Colonel Morland leaned slightly forward and looked out through the cockpit window. The view of Nolaris Prime from 180 miles up filled the window. He always hated this part. He felt like a dangling turd.
"Launch tower control, this is longhorn 23 drop. We have authorization for space launch L.P.O. All systems are go. Limits are set. Engines are lit. We are go for launch."
"Longhorn 23 drop, this is launch deck control. We confirm authorization. Concur all systems are go. Concur limits are set. Concur engines are lit. You are go for launch."
"Roger. Throttle's up."
"Good hunting longhorn 23. Out."
The dropship rocketed from zero to three-hundred and twenty knots in just under three seconds. Morland and the rest of the passengers let out a grunt as they were pushed into their seats and then relaxed when zero gravity kicked in. The pilot dropped the nose and the ship dove toward the Nolaris surface.
*****
The flight to the insertion point was taking longer than normal. To avoid detection, Colonel Morland had ordered the dropship to enter the atmosphere on the far side of the planet and then to fly nap of the earth. With this type of flying it wasn't safe to go faster than nine hundred knots. At an altitude of two hundred and fifty feet, should the flight control system malfunction, it would only take a split second to slam into the surface. Bye, bye dropship.
"Ten minutes," Lieutenant Hatch's earily calm voice was heard in Morland's headset.
Morland turned to Captain Willard and flashed ten fingers while at the same time, Hatch threw the engines into reverse and began to flare the aircraft to slow it down. Willard nodded, turned to his team, and flashed a hand signal which meant to lock and load. Magazines were inserted into rifles, equipment was checked and re-checked, and thermal imaging visors were pulled down over faces.
The crew chief un-buckled his shoulder harness and moved toward the secondary exit, a sliding door on the starboard side of the ship. The crew chief strapped himself into a seat facing the door and with the push of a button it slid open with a mechanical hiss. Cool night air filled the aircraft as the chief readied his weapon system, which was activated along with the door. The gun-mount housed two retrofitted, marine issue, C-14 "Impaler" Gauss rifles, which he began to swing left and right looking for any possible threats.
"We're beginning our decent," Hatch's voice was again heard over the intercom.
Morland peered over the crew chief's shoulder. He couldn't see shit. It was as dark as hell out there so he quickly grabbed a pair of night- vision goggles. As he pulled them down over his eyes, the canopy jungle that covered most of Nolaris Prime was revealed some one hundred feet below him. Willard and his team stood up and moved to the rear of the aircraft.
"Seventy feet. We're lookin' good."
"Wilco, Jim. Let's get Willard and his boys in there and then get the hell out. I wanna take a good look at this battlefield."
"Roger that Colonel. Fifty feet. Gear comin' down."
The ship shuddered as the landing gear locked into place. Morland could just barely see some flickering lights on the horizon. That must be what's left of the colony. What the hell was it called again? New Vicksburg. Stupid name.
Morland intended to use this dropship as his command and control bird throughout the coming battle. Marine Corps standard operating procedure called for the battalion commander to run the fight from the safety of the battlecruisers, but that was just not the way Morland operated. He led from the front. General Raddick would probably throw a shit fit if he knew that Morland had decided to ride along with the insertion, but what the hell did he know? He probably hadn't gotten up off his fat ass since he got those stars pinned on his shoulders. Morland needed to survey the terrain with his own two eyes, he certainly didn't trust those damn scanners run by the navy pukes. If Raddick didn't like it, well, he could go fuck himself.
"Ten feet. Standby," Hatch spoke as he flared up for landing, "We have touchdown."
Hatch put the throttle into idle and lowered the rear ramp. Within seconds Willard and his team were on the ground, spread out in a defensive formation, and heading for the safety of the jungle.
"This is hunter one," Captain Willard's voice came up over the radio, "We're on the ground. All elements secure. Thanks for the lift, longhorn. Out."
"Roger that, hunter one. Good luck. Out."
"Drop the hammer, lieutenant. Lets clear out of this L.Z. and circle the colony," Morland commanded. Hatch raised the ramp, applied the throttle, and the dropship leapt into the air.
*****
"All right Randy, but just remember that your primary objective is to destroy those rebel battalions. I don't give a rat's ass about the colony. Civilian casualties will be regrettable, but justifiable. Waste as many of those sons of bitches as you can. I will not have these people spreading throughout my jurisdiction like they did in the Orian Sector! Not on my watch they won't! Am I clear, colonel?"
"Crystal, general. The second of the twenty-seventh is on it. We won't disappoint you."
"Be sure that you don't, colonel. I'm counting on you. Now brief your people and get this operation moving. Admiral La'Gaul and I will be maneuvering the fleet to seek out the rebel transports within the hour. Keep me informed. Raddick, out."
"Yes, sir. Morland, out."
Morland switched off the comm link and leaned back in his chair. A smile crept across his face. For months Morland had been trying to get his battalion transferred from Raddick's division to the 32nd Fleet, which was operating in the Orian Sector. For once, the war had come to him.
The rebels routinely used guerrilla tactics against Confederate colonies. Their favorite trick was the hit and run. They would assault a resource-rich colony, destroy the garrison, gather as many resources as they could, and then vanish before any major Confederate response could be organized. For three years the war continued in this fashion. It now appeared that the rebels were finally satisfied with their gathered wealth and were attempting to expand. They had hit New Vicksburg with an estimated two battalions; roughly one thousand men.
Morland grinned. This was a game he knew how to play. He had been trained in similar tactics during his years with the ghost corps. The colonel had been given free reign to conduct this operation and he was going to see to it that his battalion finally got to show what it was made of.
Morland swung his chair back around to his desk and carefully looked over the intel that had been provided by Captain Willard and his team. Morland must've gone over it a hundred times already, but what the hell, once more couldn't hurt.
Willard and his ghosts had done good. New Vicksburg was located in the Northern hemisphere of Nolaris Prime; right smack in the middle of a rich field of mineral deposits. The entire colony ran about five kilometers from east to west and about 2 kilometers from north to south.
The mineral field and mining operations were situated in the northwestern corner of the colony. This was the most heavily defended sector of the perimeter and was studded with bunkers, left from the previous Confederate inhabitants, and newly dug systems of trenches, courtesy of the rebel soldiers. This same trench system stretched for the entire perimeter of the colony, with an occasional bunker located at key positions.
Near the center of the colony was the command center, barracks (where the Confederate garrison had been located), and the colony's single starport, which according to Willard's boys, had only two operational wraith fighter aircraft left. There was also a small armory and two factories nearby.
To the east was the colonist's housing district as well as a majority of the colony's vital supply depots. Most important, New Vicksburg's power generator was right next-door. The generator, Morland had decided, would be a key factor in the coming battle, for if taken out, any anti-air missile turrets or other automated defenses would cease to function.
Morland shuffled through the papers until he found a topographical map that had been printed up using intelligence from both Willard's team and the Chamberlain's scanners. He studied it closely.
About two hundred and fifty meters from the northeast corner of the colony was a river, which provided a natural barrier that prevented anyone on foot from getting in or out from that direction.
A ridge, four hundred meters to the south, ran parallel to New Vicksburg's southern perimeter. Another ridge, five hundred meters form the northwestern corner of New Vicksburg, ran diagonally from the southwest to the northeast.
Captain Willard and his ghosts already occupied the highest piece of terrain in the area, a small hill seven hundred meters to the south, which overlooked both the ridge south of the colony, as well as the colony itself.
Morland intended to insert three of his four companies onto the high ground surrounding New Vicksburg. Alpha and Bravo Company would secure the ridge to the south while Delta Company occupied the ridge to the northwest. Charlie Company, specially trained in airborne assaults, would remain behind on the battlecruiser as a quick reaction force. In case things got hairy, Morland wanted to be able to fall back on the Q.R.F. to get his boys out of trouble.
Once Morland's marines occupied the two ridges, only three avenues of escape would be available to any rebels on foot: a gap between the river and the southern ridge, a gap between the southern ridge and the northwestern ridge, and a gap between the northwestern ridge and the river. To prevent the rebel's from using these three gaps, Morland was going to utilize a company of Arclite Siege Tanks that he had at his disposal.
Morland chuckled. The AAV-5 crews probably all had hard-ons just thinking about all the shit they were gonna get to blow up.
The tanks would be inserted, along with a platoon of marines for security; into a small jungle clearing located approximately two kilometers east of New Vicksburg. With the AAV-5's in place, Morland's marines could call on them to rain fire on any groups of rebels that attempted to move through the gaps.
With the rebel soldiers thus pinned in the colony, Morland would call on the navy wraith pilots to pound the enemy positions with air strikes. The wraith fighters would be used in conjunction with the Chamberlain, which would stabilize in orbit over the colony, and give the rebels hell with its laser batteries.
Morland checked his watch. He had a date with destiny.
July 7 0500 Hours
"Battalion, ah-tenn shun!"
The metallic click of five hundred armored heals, clapped together simultaneously, echoed throughout the hangar deck as Colonel Morland made his way to the front of his marines.
"George," Morland greeted the battalion's executive officer, Major George White, as he passed.
"Sir," White was quick to respond.
Morland climbed atop one of the dropships that were standing by, their crews at the ready, and stood on the protruding tail fin. With his hands clasped behind his ramrod straight back, the colonel looked over his troops. The faces that looked up at him were young, but they were frosty. The marines, nothing more than pimply teenagers under normal circumstances, had donned their armored combat suits; it gave them an intimidating, inhuman look.
Morland spoke in a deep, commanding tone that he reserved for such occasions.
"Gentlemen, you've all been briefed. Every man here knows his job. You are the most highly trained, best equipped, and deadliest soldiers in the history of mankind. Who are we?!"
"Confederate Marines!" the troops roared in unison.
"What do we do?!"
"Kill, kill, kill!"
"What makes the grass grow?!"
"Blood, blood, blood!"
Morland paused. His expression was fierce. "May the Lord forgive us," he spoke, "for we are not going to show any mercy."
This was met with a deafening cheer from the marines. Morland turned to Major White.
"X.O., lets board 'em up."
"Yes, sir! Company commanders, fall out by platoon to your assigned dropships," White ordered.
Morland climbed down and stood next to White. The marines lumbered past as they began climbing aboard the aircraft; their armored footsteps thundering throughout the hanger. Morland smiled and turned to the major.
"Ya know George, compared to war, all other human endeavors shrink to insignificance."
"Yes," White responded. He'd heard the colonel say that a hundred times. "Yes, you're absolutely right, colonel."
He couldn't help but notice the gleam in the colonel's eye. White had never met a man that enjoyed the business of killing other human beings as much as Colonel Randy Morland did.
"Lets, get this show on the road, X.O. I'm gonna board up. Make sure Charlie Company is squared away and is good to go on a moments notice."
"Wilco, sir. Good luck, colonel."
Morland nodded and walked over to where his command and control bird, piloted by Lieutenant Jim Hatch, was waiting. As Morland neared the dropship, he saw both Hatch and his crew chief slowly walking around the aircraft; performing a last minute check.
"Everything ready, Jim?"
"Yes, sir. I see you've yet to completely turn into a jarhead, huh, colonel?"
Morland was wearing the standard issue, lightweight body armor worn by ghosts. Most marine officers wore the same powered combat suits that their troops wore, but Morland preferred mobility over protection any day. Who could move in those fucking sardine cans?
"Once a ghost always a ghost," Morland quipped as he climbed the ship's ramp, "Now get your ass in that cockpit so we can do this up."
*****
Damn, it's fucking hot. The ghost-sniper lifted the visor from his face and wiped the sweat from his eyes. This fucking jungle. Fucking planet. He slid the visor back into place and peered through the scope of his rifle. He took a deep breath. Control your breathing man; keep your heart rate low. He shifted slightly. Get a natural point of aim. The wind blew, causing a piece of brush to momentarily block his vision. The sniper was covered in foliage. From head to toe he had stuck leaves, branches, and anything else he could find that would blend in with the surroundings, into gaps in his body armor. He slowly, deliberately moved the piece of brush aside.
Another deep breath. With a seasoned eye he returned his gaze to the telescopic sight. From atop the hill, south of New Vicksburg, he had a clear, unobstructed view of the colony. He slowly pointed the rifle toward the eastern perimeter. A rebel soldier was walking toward a bunker. The sniper zoomed in. Steady now. The soldier was clad in marine combat armor. It was damaged; probably taken from a corpse after the assault on the colony. How are we today mister rebel man? The sniper tracked the soldier's movements with the rifle as he approached the bunker. Relieving the guard, I bet.
The ghost shifted his weapon further to the right; toward the wood line about fifty meters from the bunker. Can't see a damn thing; jungle's too thick. He flipped a switch on the scope to activate thermal imaging. The sniper immediately picked up two heat signatures moving through the woodline, towards the colony. He smiled. Got ya.
He keyed his comm set, "Hunter one, this is hunter six. I have you in sight. Got ya covered."
"Roger, hunter six," Captain Willard's voice whispered in response, "We have a visual on the colony."
Willard crouched and peered through the dense foliage. There was a bunker to his front, no more than fifty meters distant, atop a gentle slope. He turned to the ghost kneeling next to him.
"Sergeant," he whispered, "go dark."
With a nod the sergeant pressed a button on the breast plait of his body armor. As the cloaking device activated, the sergeant disappeared before Willard's eyes. The captain switched his visor to thermal and his companion reappeared in the form of a heat signature.
"Keep on eye on your suit's energy level," Willard said, "if one of us uncloaks in there we're dead."
"Roger that, sir. I know the drill."
Willard activated his own cloaking device and stood up. Raising his weapon, he pulled back the charging rod, released it, and chambered a round.
"OK. Get on my ass. Don't separate."
The pair carefully made their way to the edge of the jungle and emerged into the open.
"Hunter six, standby," Willard whispered into the mike of his comm set, "We're going to breach the perimeter."
"Wilco, hunter one," the sniper replied, "I'm on it. Make your move."
Willard and the sergeant moved with precision, carefully placing each step where it would make the least amount of noise. They quickly passed the bunker and then nimbly leapt over the trench. Willard paused and looked around. The sergeant spotted the top of a missile turret, towering above the roof of a nearby supply depot. Since the towers were equipped with infared radar that was constantly scanning, it would have to be avoided.
Willard signaled for the sergeant to follow and they both sprinted behind the depot. Willard crouched down and then peered around the corner. The tower was about one hundred meters to their left. On the other side of the depot was a dirt road and on the other side of that were several crude houses.
"Hunter six, we're in," Willard whispered, "I've got a tower to my left. One hundred meters."
"Roger that, hunter one. I've got eyes on the objective. Move onto the road and head north for half a click. Hug the walls and the tower shouldn't have an angle on you. The target will be on your left. Be advised, I see a large crowd of civilians gathered near your position. How copy? Over."
"Understood, hunter six. We're heading up the street."
Willard moved to the edge of the depot and readied his weapon. The sergeant slowly crept passed Willard and then sprinted across the street. The ghost put his back to the wall of a metallic house and knelt. He brought his weapon up and signaled to the captain that he had him covered. Willard repeated the sergeant's move and knelt behind him. Willard tapped his companion on the shoulder, and the sergeant sprinted forward several meters. He knelt against the wall of the next building and again signaled to Willard.
They leap frogged in this manner until they came within a stone's throw of the crowd of colonists that the sniper had warned them about. There were maybe thirty civilians, all gathered in a loose semi-circle around a female rebel officer. The officer was standing atop a rundown space construction vehicle and from what Willard could hear, she was trying to recruit some of the colonials into the rebel army.
"We no longer have to live under the tyrannical rule of the Confederate Government," she spoke emphatically. "Why shouldn't our sons and daughters grow up under a government that actually cares for its people. Come with us! Join us! Only together can we..."
They easily slipped passed the crowd unnoticed, which was good for Captain Willard. If he had to listen to anymore of that drivel he was going to vomit.
Approaching the end of the row of depots and housing, Willard and the sergeant dropped to the ground and assumed a prone position. Willard carefully scanned the area with his visor and then keyed his comm set.
"Hunter six, we are in position just off the road," he whispered, "we have eyes on the target."
"Wilco, hunter one. I see you. You're looking...wait," the sniper paused for a moment before continuing, "You've got a rebel infantryman approaching from the west! He's at ten meters and closing fast. You copy?"
"I copy that. Shit!" Willard swore as he looked over his shoulder just in time to see an armored foot coming from around the corner of the building.
Willard and the sergeant reflexively rolled to the side, only narrowly avoiding being stepped on. Neither of them breathed. The soldier lumbered past, clad in his combat armor, and then began making his way toward the perimeter.
"Drop him?"
"Negative, hunter six," Willard said as he relaxed, "He didn't spot us. We're gonna proceed with the mission."
The sergeant smiled as he crawled back to his position. Willard shot him a questioning look.
"Well, captain," the sergeant said with a slight chuckle, "I just love my work."
"I know the feeling sarge. Switch us over to the command freq," Willard ordered.
The sergeant flipped a switch and Willard spoke into the radio, "Hardcore one, this is hunter one. Do you copy?"
The radio was silent.
"Hardcore one, this is hunter one. Do you read?"
Colonel Morland's voice was heard in response, "Affirmative, hunter one. I'm with you."
"Hardcore one, be advised: The chicken is in the pot. I repeat. The chicken is in the pot."
"Roger, hunter one. Cook it."
"Wilco. Hunter one out."
Willard turned to the sergeant and nodded. With that, the ghost drew what resembled a small pistol from his gear. He aimed the laser designator at the New Vicksburg power generator, which was one hundred meters away. He pulled the trigger. A small red dot appeared on the generator.
"She's lit," the sergeant whispered.
Willard switched his comm set over to the Chamberlain's designated frequency.
"Big brother, this is hunter one. The target is painted."
"Roger that," the battlecruiser's comm technician responded, "Standby."
The tech turned to Captain Mike Holland, who was pacing nervously on the bridge, and said, "Captain Willard has just advised us that the target has been designated, sir."
Holland nodded. "Very well. Sound battle stations. Mr. Smith, bring us over the colony. All ahead full."
"Aye, sir."
Alarms were going off throughout the ship and red lights began flashing. Sailors started to hustle to and fro. Holland folded his hands behind his back and carefully looked over the weapons console, which was manned by a young sailor. He was always nervous when using tactical nuclear missiles.
"We're approaching the target area captain."
"Ready tubes one and four," Holand commanded, "Go hot."
"Aye, sir."
Holland resumed his pacing.
"Sir, we're over the colony."
"Stabilize the ship. All laser batteries are to charge their pieces. Gunners standby. Weapons, how are we looking?"
"Missiles are hot captain. We're ready for launch."
"Fire tube one."
"Aye, sir. One away."
0530
Willard turned to the sergeant, "Is she airborne?"
"Hell yeah," the ghost said with a grin as he monitored the digital readout on the laser designator, "I've got a nuclear launch detected."
"Outstanding. What's the E.T.A.?" Willard asked.
"Two minutes."
Willard raised his head and looked around. The gaggle of civilians to his rear were beginning to disperse. Several were heading in Willard's direction.
"Whoa, hang on," Willard mumbled as he readied his rifle.
"Minute and a half, sir."
An engine roared to life in the distance and caught the captain's attention. Ignoring the civilians, Willard crawled forward and peered around the corner of the building. He increased the zoom on his vizor to see a large colonial truck, which was being loaded with minerals by several space construction vehicles. Willard carefully rose and crept forward for a better look.
"E.T.A. is one minute, sir," the sergeant whispered nervously, "We gotta be ready captain."
Willard crouched, switched off thermal imaging on his visor, and looked around. He could see several rebel soldiers moving into position near the truck. He turned to his left. A large column of rebel soldiers, clad in their battle armor, along with several other mineral loaded trucks, were passing through the perimeter and heading south.
"Thirty seconds, sir."
"They're pulling out sarge. They're gonna run smack into those marines comin' down on the southern ridge. We gotta let them know or else..."
"Captain! The nuke is tracking, sir," the sergeant yelled as he glanced over his shoulder to view the missile, which was now a small, glowing dot in the sky. "She's acquired the target and she's tracking, sir. It's time to go!"
"Alright, alright. Let's move!"
Alarms began to sound as the ghosts sprinted toward the perimeter. The New Vicksburg radar had obviously picked up the incoming threat.
"Fifteen seconds!"
The pair leapt over the entrenchments and came down hard on the other side. A nearby rebel guard heard them yelling and saw a small plume of dirt fly into the air as they landed outside the perimeter.
"Ghosts! Hey, there's fucking ghosts!" the soldier yelled into his radio and then promptly fired a wild burst toward the woodline.
"Here she comes," Willard screamed to the sergeant as they both made one final leap toward the safety of the jungle.
The tactical nuke screamed overhead and slammed into the power generator as the ghosts sprang into the air.
"Oh, shit!"
The force of the blast literally threw both Willard and the sergeant into the woodline.
In less than a second, the armored hull of the generator melted and gave way. Bits of metal flew in every direction. The deadly shrapnel tore through anything in its path while hunks of steal, clumps of dirt, and other debris rained down from the heavens. The ground shook from the force of the explosion and the entire northeast corner of New Vicksburg was reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble.
A tree, cut in two by a piece of shrapnel, crashed to the jungle floor. It missed Captain Willard by barely a meter, showering him with bits of bark and leaves as he struggled to regain his bearings.
Willard rose and began dusting himself off. He tried to look through the brush, but a huge cloud of smoke still lingered over the colony. Willard looked for the sergeant.
"Hey, sarge. You alive?"
The wind began to pick up and it slowly lifted the veil of smoke, revealing the sergeant a few meters from Willard.
"Almost makes you wish you joined the damn navy," the sergeant observed as he emerged from a pile of tree limbs.
"Almost," Willard responded.
They broke into laughter.
Willard's smile suddenly faded. He had switched his visor off of thermal imaging when he was observing the rebel trucks, and yet, he could clearly see the sergeant. He looked down at his wrist to check his body armor's energy level. The indicator was flashing zero percent. They weren't cloaked.
When the C-14 "Impaler" Gauss Rifle is fired, it makes a very distinct sound. The armor-piercing rounds launch from the barrel at supersonic speeds; each slug emitting its own little sonic boom as it soars toward the target. When the depleted uranium bullet begins tearing through steal as if it were paper, one can't help but feel empowered. Each time that trigger is pulled, that recoil slams into an armored shoulder, and those rounds fly down range, anyone who happens to be where the metal meets the meat is in a world of shit.
At the moment, Captain Anthony Willard was in a world of shit.
The first burst slammed into the sergeant's torso. He didn't even have time to scream before he was cut in two. Willard dove to his right and tumbled while the second burst sliced through the air just above his head. He watched the tracers tear through tree after tree as they passed, sounding as if someone was merely snapping twigs.
"One down, I saw one go down! Where's the other?!" Willard heard a soldier asking.
He was gonna have to make a run for it. Willard nimbly jumped to his feet, but before he even took a single step he knew he was dead. He could see the rebel soldier, combat armor and all, a mere thirty meters from the woodline. He had raised his rifle. He definately had a bead on Willard.
The C-37 "Hawkeye" Sniper Rifle is a totally different story. Its laser guided ammunition, unlike the armor-piercing slugs of a Gauss Rifle, are only as effective, and as deadly for that matter, as the skill of the individual using the weapon. In this case, the C-37 "Hawkeye" Sniper Rifle was the baddest motherfucker on the planet.
Before he could even shit in his powered combat suit, the rebel's face plait exploded in a shower of glass while the slug made a neat incision in his skull. Several seconds later, the sound of the shot echoed throughout the landscape, accompanied by the loud thud of the rebel corpse hitting the ground.
"You can thank me later, hunter one. Get the hell outa there!" the ghost-sniper's voice spoke in Willard's comm set.
"I hear that!" Willard exclaimed as he ran into the depths of the jungle. "I owe you big time, hunt..."
Willard ducked in response to the sound of a long burst coming from outside the woodline. Another burst was heard and several tracers sliced through the air directly in his front, causing the captain to come to a jarring halt.
"Shit, that was close!"
Willard reversed directions and began to sprint for all he was worth. A lone shot echoed throughout the surrounding jungle. The firing form the woodline ceased.
"Hunter one, your six is clear."
As the sound of the shot faded, it was replaced by the distinctive noise of jet engines. The silhouettes of Confederate dropships were visible on the horizon.
*****