Graham Paul - The battle for Commitment planet

The Hammers started to fight back. The Aqabas that had stopped short of the ridgeline joined the battle in earnest, their guns pounding the battalion's positions, 95-millimeter hypervelocity rounds chewing away at the battalion's positions with murderous, clinical efficiency. Their assault was backed up by laser fire and fuel-air bomblets from attack drones and cannon fire from light armor, all overlaid by rifle fire and microgrenades from the advancing marines.

It was the most brutal display of military power Michael had ever seen. These Hammers were not to be stopped.

Despite the fear grabbing at his chest and churning his bowels, he kept shooting. Alongside him Sadotra did the same, their firing position filled with the racket of assault rifle fire punctuated now and again with a flat crack as a microgrenade arched away into the night before exploding with a bang, shrapnel and blast tearing at any Hammer unlucky enough to be caught too close. Effortlessly, Michael's neuronics pulled targets out of the dust and chaos of battle, marine after marine reeling back out of sight. When the marines paused, Michael's attention shifted to the attack drones. They were no match for neuronics-assisted marksmanship, and his rounds ripped through their thinly armored skins, the stubby, slow-moving shapes exploding in huge balls of fire and smoke when their microfusion plants blew.

One of the tanks had found their position. Michael cringed as the turret pointed right at him; the gun fired, and the round slashed through the air centimeters over his head to smash into the ground behind his position, blasting broken rock and earth onto the chromaflage netting.

Ears ringing with the shock of the impact, Michael struggled to regain his composure. As he brought his rifle to bear on his next target, a voice on battalion net broke his concentration.

"Mendel One Six, this is Memphis Four." The battalion headquarters' radio operator sounded calm, untroubled. "Withdraw."

"Memphis, Mendel One Six, roger," the sergeant in charge of the battalion's antitank missile squads replied. "Withdrawing now."

Michael swore softly even though Mokhine's order made sense. Stabber missiles were precious, and there was no point wasting them; the Hammer tanks were far enough away for their defenses to make short work of any that tried their luck. Michael swore some more. If Mokhine had had the heavier, faster Sampans-not to mention tanks, heavy mortars, attack drones, and ground-attack landers-it would have been a different story.

The Hammer commander's plan emerged slowly out of the chaos. Supported by tanks firing relentlessly to break up the 2/83rd's fixed positions and heavy mortars walking a creeping barrage forward to clear the killing zone of mines, it would be up to the Hammer infantry to open a way through. Time to go, Michael thought as he destroyed another Hammer drone before a near miss blew a huge hole in the ground in front of his position, the back blast throwing him off his feet, showering his body in dirt.

"Mosaic Seven Two, this is Mosaic Four One." Hrelitz's voice betrayed none of the stress of combat. "Immediate. Withdraw to rally point and initiate Kilo-6."

Anna acknowledged the order. "Mosaic Seven Two, roger, immediate withdraw to rally point, initiate Kilo-6."

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Sadotra snapped when Michael did not move, more interested in yet another Hammer drone. "Mosaic Seven Two, that's us. Go! Now!"

Michael did as he was told. Scrambling out of the trench he had spent so much time and effort constructing, he followed the rest of Second Platoon, a mass of chromaflaged blurs fleeing back through the gap in the razor wire, through the vehicle park's main entrance, running hard for the rally point. Orders snapped out, and Michael threw himself belly down in the dirt under an earth mover, safe for the moment behind the machine's massive tracks, happy to see that the Hammers were showing little interest in following them into the cluttered vehicle park. Instead, they had dropped to the ground and were subjecting the heavy equipment around his position to a sustained rifle and machine gun barrage that made a lot of noise but did no damage. The Hammers seemed reluctant to destroy their own heavy equipment; slowly the tank and mortar fire dwindled away to nothing, leaving the battle in the hands of the marines. So why have the marines gone to ground? he wondered, scanning the area for targets.

Anna reported back to Hrelitz. "Mosaic Four One, this is Mosaic Seven Two. Engineers have initiated Kilo-6. Vehicle power plants are online, charges set to blow at minute 55. I say again, minute 55."

"Mosaic Seven Two, Mosaic Four One. Understood, charges set to blow at minute 55. Withdraw to Juliet-24 Alfa."

"Mosaic Seven Two, roger. Withdrawing to Juliet-24 Alfa, out… Sadotra!" Anna had to shout to make herself heard over the racket.

"Yes, Sarge?"

"I want Yankee section to lay down cover while the rest of the platoon withdraws to Juliet-24 Alfa. Hold for two minutes if you can, then you follow. Just make sure you're back inside before minute 55, understood?"

"Cover, hold for two, back inside Juliet-24 Alfa before minute 55. Got it," Sadotra said.

Michael's chest tightened as he realized how exposed they would be, then tightened some more when he spotted a trio of tanks accelerating hard off the ridgeline and down the slope toward Yankee section's position. Now he knew what the Hammer infantry had been waiting for; sure enough, the marines broke cover and started to move toward the vehicle park the instant the Aqabas pushed through their lines.

Michael was no foot soldier, but he was smart enough to know a bad tactical situation when he saw one. When the marines and their tanks arrived, Yankee section would be in trouble. So be it, he thought, forcing himself not to think what that meant. Instead he narrowed his focus back onto the familiar routine. His neuronics were spoiled for targets, the Hammer marines moving fast now, more concerned with closing than with staying concealed. Someone's lit a fire under their asses, he thought as the red target icon settled on a Hammer marine moving out of cover. He squeezed the trigger, the marine dropped, and he was a machine again: icon, shift aim, fire, icon, shift aim, fire, the process repeated over and over until the marines' advance stalled. Then the Hammer commander lost patience; no longer concerned about the collateral damage to their equipment park, the tanks rejoined the battle in earnest, autoloaded cannons pumping 95-mm round after round at Yankee section.

It took another near miss to bring Michael back to his senses, the back blast from a tank round smashing into the earth mover over his head hard enough to pick him up and throw him bodily to one side, ears ringing, blood from his nose a metallic trickle down the back of his throat, pain skewering his right arm. This is madness, he thought. If the Hammers didn't get him, a fusion power plant losing containment would. Why was Sadotra waiting? Surely the two minutes was up.

"Corp," he hissed. "Corp. Time to go, I reckon. Corp!"

There was no answer.

Michael crawled over to where Sadotra had taken up position behind the massive tracks of an armored bulldozer. "Time to go, Corp," he said to Sadotra, shaking her leg. "Corp! Time to go!"

When Sadotra did not respond, Michael slithered alongside her. His chest tightened when he saw the shattered plasglass visor of her helmet, the lower half of her face opened up side to side by a single savage slash of shrapnel, eyes wide open, staring at something Michael knew she would never see. "Shit, shit, shit," he muttered.

For an instant, he lay there paralyzed. Then, from somewhere deep down, a desperate urge to survive galvanized him into action.

"Yankee section," he barked, his voice barely audible over the racket of incoming Hammer fire. "Juliet-24 Alfa now! Move! For chrissakes, move!"