Holding A Line
"Bugs! Bugs!" Under any other circumstances, I would not have found myself overly disturbed by my buddy's frantic cry. After all, mention the word 'bug' to the average Federation citizen and it would immediately conjure up images of creepy-crawlies which border between cool and revolting but are ultimately small and crushable creatures. 'Bug' was simply not a term that extended to two-meter tall, half-ton monstrosities that were capable of charging along at sixty-four klicks an hour.
Not that Arachnids were really bugs per se. Well, they weren't even spiders as their name implied. Back in school, we learnt (those of us who actually paid attention) that the Arachnid race was akin to societal insects such as ants or bees where culture was concerned. Or so the xenologists thought. The fact that your standard-issue Arachnid warrior (by far the most common and iconic bug species) resembled a giant spider of sorts was merely a cosmic coincidence, the galaxy's idea of a cruel trick of fate.
Still, my good friend and squadmate, Lydia Goh, couldn't exactly be faulted for referring to those oversized, pseudo-spiders as 'bugs'. After all, that's what everyone called the Arachnids for short. At least everyone in the MI does. Take one look at the Arachnids' ever-growing menagerie and you'd probably start to understand why we troopers call them 'bugs'. What with your warriors, workers, tankers and even the behemoth plasma bugs which look pretty much like mammoth beetles . . .well, you get the idea.
But enough of the anthropology lesson for now. It's probably the sort of thing that Chandler, our platoon medic, or my dear friend Lois Lafraniere at Games and Theory Branch would be able to expound on in far greater detail. While I do take a greater that normal interest in bug psychology, physiology and other fascinating tidbits of info as compared to my fellow troopers, I had far more pressing matter to attend to.
"Stand to, everyone! Move! Move! Move! " Even before our platoon commander emerged from his tent, Career Sergeant Al Fremantle, our platoon sergeant, was moving through our encampment, rousing and rallying the troops as he went. "Come on, you slackers! Shake a leg and move those asses! On your feet and into your holes! Go! Go! Go!"
The advance of the bugs would soon become a veritable onslaught on the senses. From my suddenly not-quite-high-enough perch atop a steep outcrop of rock, I could see the bugs coming. Well, ok, so I could only catch glimpses of them since they were churning up large, billowing clouds of dust as they skittered forward. But then, that's the reason why man made infrared snoopers. I could also hear their high-pitched screeching and felt the ground start to tremble with their approach. Loose sand and pebbles on the sill of my hastily dug fire trench began to dislodge, cascading forward down the slope as well as backwards into my hole in the ground.
Could I smell them? Normally, yes. But I had a blocked nose and the oppressive heat and choking dust weren't exactly helping much. Taste? I always get this funny taste in my mouth when I see a bug on the move . . . especially if I'm in their path of movement. Maybe it's just the taste of bile.
"More of them! To the right!" Someone else shouted as the rest of the platoon began to take up firing positions in the trenches dug around our encampment. True enough, I could see a second column of bugs pounding up from the other end of the canyon.
Our position was located on a narrow finger of rock protruding into the bend of a dried river bed. The river that had once flowed through this canyon had probably dried up centuries ago and military intelligence (our ever friendly Games and Theory Branch) believed it was being used as a major artery for bug movement between the various 'Bug Towns'.
First Platoon, 'Kraft's Kriegers', had swept the area the morning before, cataloging a dozen bugholes in a three-kilometer radius around our platoon's camp. Under strict order not to engage, they had left those holes undisturbed and they were most likely the source of our uber-pest problem now.
Our camp was far from complete and our defenses weren't going to stop such a massive assault. The first phase of Operation Royalty called for Mobile Infantry strike teams to descend onto Planet P (a most miserable, arid dustball if I ever saw one) to draw out the bugs from their underground cities and onto the surface where they could be destroyed by the massed firepower of the Fleet's warships and TAC fighters.
Hopefully, enough casualties would be inflcted on the bugs up on the surface to allow follow-on MI teams to penetrate into the underground warrens in search of a new species of bug which Games and Theory were calling a 'brain bug' for now. A certain Colonel Holland was championing the theory that the actions of all Arachnids, down to each and every single warrior, was in some way directed by a specific leadership caste yet unseen by human eyes. A hive mind made flesh. Well, it's all very interesting but it'd have to wait for later.
The bugs were coming from both sides now, intending to pinch off our little bulge in the twisting canyon. We didn't have all that much to hold them off with since this was firstly a mission to lure the enemy onto the surface and secondly there really hadn't been all that much time to prepare.
Our rocket teams weren't even allowed to pack nukes today since the powers-that-be decided that it didn't want its grunts on the ground doing undue damage to the bug's tunnel networks which would eventually serve as MI assault entry points into their realm. How it can stand to reason that we cannot use tactical nukes, (which are really firecrackers, comparatively speaking) when the Fleet was waiting in orbit to practically glass the planet, eludes the pitiful cerebral capacity of a mere Mobile Infantry private such as myself.
"Gosh, there's millions of them!" Lydia gasped as she stood next to me in the trench, loose sand sloughing off the protective berm that had been hastily piled up the night before. Actually, I've never seen a bug shoot (other than plasma bugs that fired into space) or a simple trench stop a charging Arachnid before but I suppose tit's the thought that counts.
"Nah, maybe tens of thousands . . ." I replied as laconically as I could. "Doesn't look like they could squeeze even a quarter of a million of them into this canyon." I added. Well, everyone loves a smart aleck from time to time, no?
"Oh, and you've seen a million bugs before, then?" Lydia retorted with a trace of disdain as she extracted one of her high-capacity power mags for a rifle and slam it home into her Morita's receiver.
"No. Why, have you?" I replied, doing the same with my own Smartrifle.
"Belay that idle chit-chat, ladies!" That was the loud voice of Career Sergeant Fremantle as he passed by our position. He was moving up and down the line now, mixing encouragement with admonishment. Hurling insult and support as he went. "Bainbridge, Armistead, eyes front! Ain't nothing to see behind you except me!"
Well, whatever. I snuck a peek over our shoulder and saw our platoon commander emerging from his tent at a quick trot. First Lieutenant Joshua Deleon seemed satisfied with Fremantle's efforts, opting to remain silent while the senior NCO continued to inspect the line. And unlike us, the Lieutenant (as we always referred to Deleon) was standing perched atop a large boulder with his communications specialist by his side. Presently, both were unmoving as the rock they stood on.
I wondered why the boss wasn't calling for our extraction yet. I mean, I really kinda thought the mission objective was achieved once the bugs starting boiling out of the ground toward us. Guess I forgot the golden rule of combat: Never assume.
A quick glimpse through the rangefinder on my helmet display told me that the closer of the two bug echelons was now only three hundred meters away – easily within reach of my Morita Smartrifle. But the Lieutenant hadn't spoken so not a single one of us fired, though I was willing to bet at least half of us were just dying to. It takes a whole lot of nerve to stand in a shallow cut in the ground with a rifle while several thousand tons of living, screeching, chitin covered insect life comes rumbling towards you. I once read that the key to discipline was to make your own troops more afraid of their superiors that of the enemy. I used to think it was a load of crap. But today, I'm feeling a little more thankful that Al Fremantle was born human . . . if Career Sergeants were actually ever born, that is.
"Alright, lock and load, you ladies!" Our platoon sergeant barked in a manner that made it clear he wasn't actually addressing only the female troopers in our platoon. "Cover your sectors and check your targets! Hold fire till the Lieutenant gives the word!"
Two hundred meters and no signs of the bugs slowing. Dust cloud or no, the bugs were fully visible now. A grotesque montage of black, red and yellow. A teeming mass of insectoid destroyers headed right at us.
Lieutenant Deleon was finally moving now. His communications specialist and the four troopers of the platoon special weapons section in tow. He hopped down from the boulder in an almost jaunty fashion, speaking to us all through his helmet pickup, the headsets in our M3 Tactical Helmets relaying his voice to us.
"Rocket teams load and ready. I want those blasts hitting their front ranks for maximum effect. Grenadiers, plunging fire. Let's see if we can pin them down." The Lieutenant was saying in a brisk but business-like tone. "Sharpshooters, fire."
Almost at once, the troopers armed with scope-equipped Morita's began to fire single shots. The harsh reports of their weapons drowned out by the oncoming tidal wave of the enemy. I could see a few of the bugs jerking and dying as well-placed shots caught them in the brain stem.
By now, the shrieking was really unbearable. It always gives me a headache so I guess it validates the stand that humans were never meant to co-exist with the bugs. Some scientists believe that the bugs were psychic, like some of the 'special talents' that the Federation employs. If that were the case, my migraine may have been the result of such massed psychic ability close to me. Visions of bug language overwhelming my brain flitted through my mind before I blocked it out. Maybe I was just sensitive. I never did have the time to go for a psychic aptitude test so I really won't know.
Lydia had already shouldered her rifle next to me and was peering through the sights of her weapon, finger poised over the trigger. I always thought she looked funny carrying a Morita since those Smartrifles were about two-thirds as long as she was tall.
One hundred and seventy meters . . . I swallowed. I wasn't particularly squeamish about bugs (the regular and Arachnid kinds) like some other people I know. But when faced with a creature, any creature, that has immensely powerful claw-legs and jaws capable of snapping steel bards, coupled with the ability to deliver a killing blow to a human being in under a second . . . you understand my discomfort, don't you?
"Alright, Neon Lights! Fire at will!" It was the first time the Lieutenant had raised his voice all day and perhaps it came as a slight shock since my finger closer around the trigger reflexively. I felt my weapon buck slightly in my hands as I sent the first stream of bullets out into that horde. An instant later, our position was drowned out in the harsh chatter of automatic fire.
The effect of our bullets became apparent almost immediately. The high-capacity power mags for our Moritas are normally loaded with a mix of regular armor-piercing and XC14 high explosive rounds when whenever we go up against the bugs. This had the effect of shattering their chitin carapaces while the HE rounds exploded inside them, sending sprays of gore everywhere.
The first line of bugs staggered, as if trying to walk into an immensely strong gale which happened to tear them from limb to limb. Then the missiles and grenades began to land amidst their packed ranks, causing even greater destruction than the hail of bullets. One rocket imbedded itself into one of the warriors before exploding, blasting it into tiny pieces. A confirmed kill. A second rocket landed in between a trio of warriors, whirling shrapnel removing several limbs in gruesome fashion. All three tumbled but two didn't stay down and had to be killed by sustained Smartrifle fire.
That's the biggest problem with your standard Arachnid warrior. You could easily blow off a limb or two and it'd still come right at you as if nothing had happened. I've seen warriors with half their legs missing still hobbling forward to their deaths so you can take it from me when I say that warriors take a whole lot of killing.
The bug advance began to stall as the canyon choked up with the bodies of dead and dying bugs. The front ranks had been reduced to a heap of screeching, writhing, bullet-riddled alien scum. One would learn quickly (as most survivors did) not to waste your fire on these bugs that were entangled with one another in their death throes while there were other, combat-fit warriors stampeding over their fallen comrades. But then, only a fool would take their eye off of these fallen but still thrashing foes.
"Doing good, people!" The Lieutenant's voice sounded calmly in our ears amidst the deep-throated hammering "Keep firing! Hold them back!"
"Looks like we've really got them in the open, sir!" Fremantle yelled to the Lieutenant while taking up firing position next to my trench, inadvertently showering me with, hot empty brass casings. Normally, I would complain rather loudly about that sort of thing except: 1) It was already too damned hot on Planet P for it to matter all that much; 2) We were in combat and if we weren't too careful, it could turn into a world of hurt; and 3) This was Career Sergeant Alvin Fremantle we're talking about.
"It appears so." The Lieutenant said as he came sauntering up from further down the line, his Morita carbine in hand and his communications specialist in tow. The Lieutenant would loose off frequent but accurate bursts of fire from his carbine as he came, never missing a beat in an effort to maintain his air of perpetual calm.
He was quite simply the epitome of serenity in the confused swirl of battle and we all loved him for that. Joshua Deleon was the sort of officer and trooper you could trust to have his head screwed on right and tight when the Legions of Hate are descending upon us. He may have been relatively young for a First Lieutenant but he was still like a father to us. I understand most MI troopers view their officers that way, regardless of age. Most importantly, he was truly dedicated to bringing us home . . . on way or another. Deleon's Neon Lights have never left anyone behind in all the time I'd been with the platoon. We all came back alive or in the form of corpses and dogtags. The Lieutenant made sure of that.
"I think we're really stirred them up, sir!" Fremantle was saying as the bolt of his Morita slapped against and empty chamber and he began extracting the expended magazine while fishing for a fresh one with his other hand. I, for one, was glad for the respite that gave me from the torrent of empty brass casings that had been plinking against me and my helmet.
Career Sergeant Al Fremantle was pretty much the opposite of the Lieutenant. Well, I guess that came with the territory of being the platoon sergeant, the trooper who was expected to take command should something ever happen to the Lieutenant. Where Deleon always seemed to be at the eye of the storm with his terse and somewhat soft-spoken manner, Fremantle was a tempestuous god of war, appearing all over the place and never hesitating to be the one at the forefront of the hardest fighting. He also had a vociferous voice which he never hesitated in using to motivate us troopers whenever things weren't looking good. Oh, did I mention that he did use the toe of his boot from time to time too? No, well, he does pack one hefty kick. Not like I've ever been on the receiving end but I've seen . . . well, you get the idea.
More and more bugs were trying to rush us now and the pile-up had grown from a heap into a proverbial wall of twitching bodies. The dusty canyon floor had been soaked with blood and gore and was churned into a sickly green quagmire. I put one last long burst into the enemy before my gun clicked empty. And still they were coming. Soon or later, they were really going to break through and unless we got out soon, things were going to get real ugly for us.
"Sir, recommend we call for a retrieval boat now!" Fremantle was saying to the Lieutenant. Thank God for Career Sergeant Fremantle, bless his soul. He may have been a barely controllable brute in combat but he was also blessed with the kind of common sense that I sometimes found lacking in the Mobile Infantry's more gung-ho NCOs. Yes, what about that retrieval boat, I wondered as I pulled another mag out of my webbing. I had burned off half my ammunition as it was, not through senseless expenditure though. There were just so many to kill.
"I think you're right, Sergeant." Deleon said in a soft by strong voice. He turned to the communications specialist and nodded.
Whether in an effort to raise our spirits or by simple accident, the comms spec had keyed on his lip mike so the whole platoon could hear him as he put his call up to the fleet that was holding in orbit over Planet P.
"Gettysburg, Gettysburg! This is Neon Light One! Requesting immediate pick-up, over!"
"Neon Light, this is Gettysburg Control." The familiar voice of Lieutenant Josephine Loftquist, the Gettysburg's Tactical Officer sounded over our headsets. Her calm, contralto sounded scratchy and faraway. I didn't really like Lieutenant Loftquist's tone. She always sounded so posh and arrogant over the comms. Maybe things would be different if she were down in the mud with us troopers with hordes of bugs coming for us. "What is your status?"
"We've got bugs all around us down here. Situation is extremely hostile. Repeating request for immediate evac!" The comms specialist said in a more urgent tone. I forced my eyes forward and focus my attention on the bugs. They were already beginning to breakthrough the barrier of their own dead.
"Roger, Neon Lights. Command is calling your mission a success. A retrieval boat is already in orbit and enroute now." Loftquist said in her unflappable near-monotone. "Stand by and it will be with you shortly."
"Lieutenant! Boat's coming down . . ."
"I heard!" Deleon nodded savagely in reply. "Keep up your fire, people! Just hang on for a few more minutes!"
"Breaking through to the left!" Lydia shouted as she trained her rifle in a different direction, fresh bursts of firing stuttering forth as she squeezed the trigger. About twenty meters away from our position, the barricade of bug bodies was giving way and a phalanx of very angry bugs were threatening to spill over and wash up those last few meters into our position.
"Goh, Chan, grenades! On me!" Fremantle was already charging past us, his Morita hanging by his hip as he reached for the grenades in his pouches.
"This is crazy . . ." Lydia muttered next to me as she hauled herself out of the trench and dashed after the platoon sergeant.
I was just a second behind her, thinking the exact same thing as I reached for my grenades. One did not charge bugs. Period. Even in a Marauder suit, it wasn't wise to go charging at Arachnids. You simply couldn't kill them as fast as they could kill you and neither could you cross the same distances in as short a time as they could.
I saw Fremantle stopped abruptly no more than ten meters away from the seething bugs, hurling a grenade into that mass of screeching bugs as soon as he came to a stop. The first detonation came even as his second grenade was sailing through the air, followed closely by Lydia's.
My own grenade was already in hand and I pulled out the arming pin as I came up to the two other troopers ahead of me. Certain that the handheld bomb was armed and ready, I aimed for one of the bugs and hurled that explosive device as far as I could.
There were double thumps as the Lydia and the platoon sergeant's second grenade detonated. A moment later, I saw my own grenade add it's explosive power and shrapnel storm to the death and destruction. One unfortunate (or fortunate, depending on who you were rooting for) warrior was literally blown into the sky, missing a few limbs, shattered stump spewing sickly green blood.
"Move! Move! Move!" Fremantle was running backwards past me, his Morita still chattering away at the blasted heap of bugs. "Back to the lines!"
I needed no further encouragement. The grenades may have shocked the enemy and repulsed them. But it was only for a very short while. The shock of our sudden devastating three-trooper attack was beginning to fade and it was time we got clear before we found ourselves surrounded and outnumbered by nasty bugs set on tearing us from limb to limb.
I bounded up the last few meters and practically dived into the dubious, relative safety of my trench, Lydia only moments behind. Having regained our sense and our breath, we were peering over the edge of the trench again, sending fresh streams of bullets punching into the hate enemy. Fremantle was still backing off toward us at a measured pace, calmly pumping bullets into the bugs that were struggling to get close to our lines.
A single warrior managed to breakthrough, leaping out from the mound of bodies with grace that was stunning for something so huge. Our platoon sergeant managed to sidestep the creature, somehow avoiding it snapping jaws and stabbing claw-legs. I tried to fire but realized that they were too close to one another for me to get a clear shot. And there was no way Fremantle could get away in time.
But getting away seemed to be the last thing on the sergeant's mind as he continued to blast the bug with his rifle, the muzzle flickering as bullet after bullet was sent on it's short trip into its target. The bug jerked and staggered until the muzzle flash stopped abruptly. The sergeant was out of ammunition and the bug was still alive. For a horrifying second, I grappled with letting loose with a burst to kill the bug and risk hitting Fremantle in the process.
Then there was a cough. The harsh bark of the sergeant's underslug shotgun attachment. Fremantle worked the pump-action slide again and sent another shell into his foe, this second blast finding the mark and the arachnid folded in on itself.
And then he was running back towards us, with several more bugs hot on his heels. He was in the clear now so we could keep them off him and that was exactly what we did, our rifles bucking in our hands as we killed and killed.
"Boat's coming down!" Someone shouted.
Above the din of battle, we could hear the familiar mechanical whine that grew into a roar. Banking out of the clouds and coming straight for us was a most welcome sight. Utilitarian in design, it was neither sleek nor glamorous where looks were concerned. But no Mobile Infantry trooper could deny the joy of seeing one of those machines in flight. Especially when it was coming towards them.
The box-shaped retrieval boat made one circuit, swinging around our position and cutting loose with its rapid-firing defensive weapons which chewed up the bugs. The arachnids were one more stunned by this sudden addition of firepower and their advance stalled once more.
"Out of the trenches!" Deleon was snapping out now. "Fall back and give covering fire!"
The retrieval boat completed its graceful turn and it's landing thrusters flared hotly as the pilot cut velocity like an old pro, bringing the craft to a near-hover in a short span of time. A small dust storm was whipped us as the retrieval boat began to touch down behind our position, the fine particles forming a cloud that made us all look like ghosts as we abandoned our positions.
As I retreated towards the safety of the boat, I caught the familiar number and markings on the chariot of our salvation. I should have known. There was only one pilot aboard the Gettysburg who could handle a retrieval boat like that.
Ensign Grace Fong was assigned to our platoon since the previous pilot team was killed in action. For a rookie pilot, she was pretty hot stuff. Despite the skill with which she flew, there was no cocky arrogance in the way she ferried us into and out of battle. She just did her job and did it well and the craft that she regularly flew was appropriately christened: Amazing Grace.
"Back to the boat! Fall back!" Deleon had establish a ring of fire with the heavy weapons team around the retrieval boat's now open access hatch.
"Come on, people! Let's go, let's go!" Fremantle was literally picking some of us up and thrusting us into the interior of the boat. "Haul ass, ladies!"
In the cockpit of the retrieval boat, I could see Ensign Fong working calming to prepare her craft for a hurried take-off. I shouldn't have spent so much time sightseeing. What was I thinking? With hundreds of bugs rapidly converging on us and Career Sergeant Fremantle standing right next to me, lingering around was one very bad idea.
Well, it was too late to do anything about that since the platoon sergeant grabbed me by my backpack and hurled me unceremoniously through the hatchway and into another trooper who had gone in just before me.
Few of us lingered and in less than a minute, we were all aboard the retrieval boat and not a moment too soon. I could hear the sound of claws scraping against the boat's hull as everyone's favourite Fleet pilot rammed the throttles full forward and sent us boosting up into space in a surge of acceleration that floored the whole lot of us grunts who were stuck in the passenger cabin.
"Everyone alright back there?" Grace asked in her delightfully sweet voice, looking back over her shoulder from the cockpit as soon as we were clear and soaring towards the relative safety of space. A few tired but thankful grins gave her the answer that she sought and she returned to the task of getting us back to the Gettysburg where hot food and hot showers awaited.
I heard that Fleet plastered our position with tactical nukes and napalm just minutes after we had vacated. The estimated body count was somewhere between three hundred and four hundred, killed with our faithful Moritas and the follow-on air strikes. Battalion HQ had considered the mission a success. We had drawn the enemy out of their holes and onto the surface where we had defeated them decisively by inflicting heavy loss upon them while suffering none of our own. We had all made it back from this one.
But it hadn't always been easy . . .
And I hadn't always been Private Breanna Chan of Deleon's Neon Lights, Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 6th Regiment, 3rd Brigade of the 1st Mobile Infantry Division . . .