Anthony DeCosmo - Empire

“Remember, General,” Reverend Johnny advised. “These fiends have proven themselves to be the cleverest of our adversaries. They seem to share our own species’ devilish love for the combat arts.”

Jon nodded and barked new orders, “Fink, get me a squad on each flank and keep the rest in reserve.”

Captain Fink radioed orders as he moved to personally oversee the deployments.

“Reverend, get the mortar teams organized. I want no more than three shots in a row from the same position. These son-of-a-bitches know all about counter-battery fire.”

“Let us pray,” the Reverend told Jon, “that they did not see fit to bring their own batteries with them to this snowy Hell.”

“Amen, brother.”

While Johnny saw to his orders, Jon Brewer hunted down three of his best snipers. As he led them to the front lines, two of those snipers went down with enemy fire in their foreheads. Apparently the Vikings trained sharpshooters, too.

He observed that the aliens did not sit and wait. They unloaded the cargo belts carried by their big furry lizards and removed gear from storage compartments on those giant, motorized tricycles. Just as the humans planned a strategy of attack, so did the aliens.

In fact, both species concentrated on preparing defenses and plotting assaults to the extent that neither saw the cloud on the western horizon; a low hanging twirling mass like a dust storm or a tornado, gray and white and slowly spinning its way toward them.

Brewer summoned his command staff.

“Reverend, what type of ordnance did we bring along for the mortars?”

“Standard high explosive and some white phosphorous. Would you prefer to blow them up or burn them?”

“I want to lay down some Willy Pete in front of their lines. That should give us a good smoke screen.”

Fink, rubbing his gloves together for warmth, said, “And heat things up, so there’s another plus.”

“Dear heavens,” the Reverend ignored Fink. “I do not think our foes will be fooled. A smoke screen means attack.”

“I reckon they won’t be,” Brewer said in his best Jerry Shepherd imitation. “But I don’t plan to go head on at them. You will.”

Reverend Johnny gulped.

“Relax, Rev,” Brewer smiled. “I want you to take one squad and make a hell of a lot of noise. Let them think we’re coming at them through the smoke. I’ll take a force around the eastern flank and try to get at their rear area.”

“Mr. Brewer, I believe your plan runs a very high risk not only to my own precious life, but in its success. They are well entrenched on their side of this redoubt.”

Almost in answer to Johnny’s observation, the first of the Vikings’ terrible artillery shells fell. A blast of concussion hit a few feet from two men pulling supplies off a dog sled. It seemed more an explosion of silence, a sort of anti-noise, followed by an unimpressive weak shockwave causing the men and dogs to topple over; but no shrapnel.

A half-second later, a glowing red singularity in the center of the blast radius sucked everything in like a vacuum swallowing air. The men, the dogs, and several heavy crates flew into that red center where every molecule of matter-flesh and equipment-disintegrated.

Fortunately, the big boulders and stone ridges filling the rocky ‘island’ mitigated the kill zone of the alien artillery, yet it was still a frightful sight.

Jon spoke with a renewed sense of urgency, “We can’t sit here and slug it out! We’ll just keep taking casualties and lose time!”

A gentle thwump-thwump-thwump signaled human mortars responding. Satisfying sounds of explosions and alien screams came from the Vikings’ half of the rocky plateau.

Brewer winked at Johnny and said, “I think you’re the best guy for this because you sure can make a lot of noise.”

“Like thunder, Mr. Brewer! Like thunder!”

Jon patted his friend on the shoulder and reminded, “Have your teams switch over to WP and lay down that smoke screen.”

General Brewer then summoned a force of thirty men and a half-dozen Siberian Huskies. They gathered at the eastern edge of the rocks.

At the center of the island, mortar rounds fell on the rough plain in front of the Viking lines. The white phosphorous shells exploded like brilliant white fireworks and simmered on the ground. A blast of heat swept over the battlefield; ice around the impact zone melted to water. As the shells burned, they released clouds of smoke, creating a visceral wall in front of the enemy’s eyes.

The Reverend and his men shot wildly into that cloud then proceeded forward, slow and low. The aliens answered with blind fire of their own.

On the eastern flank, Jon heard the frantic gunfire, his cue to launch the assault. His force left the rock and jogged across the frozen glacier at the rim of the island, moving north and staying low. He hoped to hit his foe on their flank.

Just as he dared dream the plan might work, enemy soldiers popped up from hiding spots along the stone walls. The Vikings had anticipated the attack and now unleashed a volley of merciless fire from cover.

The two men standing to either side of General Brewer fell. The rest of his team returned fire but held little hope of dislodging the defenders from the rocky battlements.

“Fall back! Fall back!” the General commanded as he threw a grenade to cover their retreat.

More of the Empire’s fighters died as they ran, even more suffered injuries. Jon grabbed and carried a young woman trooper when an alien round shattered her knee cap.

Two more Viking artillery blasts hit the retreating assault force, one a clean miss but the second sucked in four men. The Viking artillery was brutally efficient, allowing no middle ground. Either you were caught in the blast radius and pulled in to your death or not.

The enemy batteries stopped firing. Viking troops jumped from cover to pursue Jon’s force along the eastern flank, going from defense to offense.

Brewer and company reached the protective walls on their side of the battle where they were joined by reserve troops commanded by Captain Fink. This time the Vikings suffered the bloody nose and were forced to withdraw after losing eight of their number killed and several more wounded.

At that point, Reverend Johnny called off his diversionary assault. The lines settled and the combatants exchanged sporadic gunfire across the no-man’s land.

General Brewer gathered his two officers again.

“We’re in a stalemate here,” he told them between heavy exhales as he caught his breath. “We’re in the same boat, too. No re-supply out here. No more bullets and no reinforcements. We’ve got wounded now, and so do they. If one side bolts to head for the objective, they’ll be ripped apart by the other firing from cover.”

Casey Fink pointed out, “As long as both sides are hiding in these rocks, seems like the arty can’t do much damage. But we make a run for it and we’ll be creamed. Probably lose half our guys before we make it half a mile.”

Johnny added, “And I assure you, Captain Fink, that our mortar teams would do the same to those vile invaders if they attempt to make a dash.”

“We can’t stay here forever,” Brewer said. “We need something to change the equation. A weapon…a tactic. Something that either forces them from cover or covers us while we get out of here and continue on to the coordinates for the objective.”

Reverend Johnny changed the conversation: “Good God, what in Lucifer’s name is that?”

Aggravated, tense chatter rose like a chorus from the soldiers guarding the western flank.

A whirlwind of gray and white bore down on the island. A wall of spinning air pushing across the snow now within half a mile of the battle. It moved with a whoosh, not quite the roar of a twister.