it.
“You’re shooting bullets?” I asked. “I expected you to have something …I don’t know …bigger. Maybe shoulder-fired nuclear-tipped rockets or something.”
“These will do,” Freeman said.
“Powerful?” I asked.
Freeman pointed out a tree on a distant hill. The crack of his rifle attracted the attention of the men milling around us.
Up on the hill, the upper half of a very large pine tree hopped in the air and fell like a bowling pin. Freeman slung the rifle over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you back in town,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I want to get to their drop zone,” Freeman said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I have a package to deliver,” he said.
“Something that makes a loud bang?” I asked.
“Something more scientific,” Freeman said. With this, he bounded a wide drift and headed off.
“Where does your buddy think he’s going?” Lieutenant Moffat asked.
“He didn’t say,” I said. Lying to officers like Moffat was easier than telling them the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In all the battles I’d fought, this was the first time I had ever seen Jackals in action. Jackals were jeeps with enhanced engines and armor. They had ten small, independent wheels along their chassis instead of the standard four—four wheels up front and six in the back. Each had shielded tank armor along the sides and front and a machine-gun turret up top. The machine gun fired variable loads.
The military categorized Jackals as a “dated, but not obsolete” combat vehicle. The design of this venerable old battle-ax had not changed for eighty years. Fast and maneuverable, Jackals were an especially useful unit for lightning attacks in tightly confined areas.
I watched the Jackals weave in and out of trees at speeds nearing forty miles per hour. They leaped over ledges, sliced through snowdrifts, and splashed across creeks. I suppose a Jackal would make an easy target in an open field, but traveling at those speeds through trees, they looked impossible to hit.
We marched five miles into the forest, moving east toward town. Our battalion would be the spearhead, the wedge that would snap the enemy column in two. We would sweep down from the north. If everything went according to plan, we would leave the bastards with only a token force to attack the city while other battalions dissected the rest of their force in the woods. There would be no quarter given. We would pound the Mudders until we destroyed every last one of them.
As we pushed through the forest, the echoing thunder of rockets became louder. Occasionally we would pass some break in the trees and see tails of smoke rising in the distance. Then we crossed the invisible line bordering the battlefield, and the explosions became something we felt as well as heard. The ground trembled slightly when rockets were fired, and branches rattled above us.
The ATVs and Jackals continued streaking ahead, then channeling back, running along our flanks, then clearing new paths. At one point, an ATV leaped over a ridge, and exploded into a fireball. Through the flames and smoke and the glare of the ion curtain, I saw the bolt that speared the vehicle.
Flames trailing behind it like a wild mane, the ATV finished its arc and landed smoothly before skidding sideways into a tree. Medics ran to check the two-man crew, but they did not need to bother. Already twisted around the trunk of the tree, the ATV exploded, and the passenger tube broke open to reveal the driver and gunner, covered in flame, skin charred black, and motionless.
I saw this as I ducked behind a tree and prepared to fire. We had not run into the alien army itself, just a couple of scouts. The nearest platoon tried to pin the enemy with suppressing fire as a second platoon flanked them and cut them down. But you cannot pin an enemy that has no fear of being shot. The two aliens marched forward and returned fire as an entire platoon shredded them with an endless stream of M27 fire.
As if attracted to the gunfire, the next wave of aliens came pounding through the trees. Had it not been for the glare of the ion curtain, the Mudders would have blended into the forest. Their dark skin would have worked like camouflage had there been shadows.
An ATV streaked past, presenting a diversion. The Mudders did not take cover but simply marched ahead, firing spears of light that bored through trees, rocks, and anything else they hit.
We were not entirely ready for them, but the Mudders did not catch us by surprise, either. We would have had a better position if we had had more time to dig in. Many of our men found cover behind trees and fallen logs. Others had no choice and simply knelt in the open. Our entire company showered a continuous stream of M27 fire, battering the Mudders and everything around them. Shreds of bark and wood flew through the air; branches fell, then danced along the ground.
Moffat radioed me to say that another large force of Mudders was headed in from the north. Our company was assigned to form a skirmishing line with three other companies. The objective was to maintain a hundred-foot buffer between us and the aliens while the rest of the regiment dug in.
“Spread out, spread out,” I radioed as I moved up and down the line. “Thomer, take your platoon and cover that rise.” Moffat moved among the men, doing the same. We only had a few moments before the aliens arrived. The first of them walked out from a stand of trees. More followed.
The Mudders’ absolute disregard for our firepower made holding our position nearly impossible. They just did not care if we hit them. I’d seen Marines spend more time bracing themselves to step into a cold shower than these aliens spent before preparing to walk into our fusillade. Our gunfire chipped away their bodies, slowly splintering their broad chests and heads.
Looking across our line, I saw Philips out in the open, firing three-shot bursts from his M27. White bolts struck the tree behind him and sailed through the air around him.
As a survivor of the previous skirmish, Philips knew what would happen if he got hit. But there he was, not even trying to take cover.
I set up an interLink connection between me and Philips and heard nothing but his breathing. He wasn’t even talking to himself. Normally he was the noisiest Marine I had ever known, maintaining nonstop commentary with himself when he could not find another audience.
“Philips, fall back,” I ordered. He did not respond.
Thomer, always the guardian angel, climbed out from good cover so he could pull Philips to safety. “Leave him,” I yelled.
“He’ll get hit,” yelled Thomer.
But Philips had angels looking out for him. An alien light bolt drilled through the tree directly behind Philips’s head. The trunk caught on fire. Philips seemed not to notice any of this. More bolts speared the ground near his feet and the bushes around him, but nothing hit him.
“Harris, take your platoon and fall in around my beacon,” Moffat ordered. Had I been a general-issue clone, I would have called up a platoon and started toward the beacon before sizing up the situation. Automatic order response was programmed into their DNA. As I followed the beacon signal, I saw that it led to an indefensible knoll with no trees or rocks for cover and no strategic value.
“We can’t hold that area. It’s in their path, sir,” I yelled.
“I gave you an order, Harris.”
Following that beacon would expose our flank to the aliens. Moffat had a point, though. If we could hold that area, we might turn the tide of the battle. I wanted to get to that knoll but following a different path.
I switched to a private frequency so I could speak with Thomer. “You got Moffat’s beacon?” I asked.
“Yeah. Is that for us?” Thomer asked.
“No,” I lied. If I had told him the truth, his reaction would have been to follow orders. “Take the platoon in from behind the hill, and don’t take any chances. Those bastards can shoot through rock.”
I watched Philips, expecting him to ignore the order, but his programming won out. He stayed with Thomer
