John Ringo - Eye of the Storm

As he was reaching into the sachel by his side, though, the lieutenant keyed his comm.

“All tracks! INCOMING! Displace five hundred meters west! NOW! NOW! NOW!”

Fuck. The notional Hedren counter-battery wasn’t due for another thirty seconds.

Balmoral gunned the AFV as it hit the flats to the east of the Huzzah and hammered through the light screen of brush. As it hit the area near the stream, though, he could feel it bogging.

“Ground effect,” Sergeant Toyley said.

Hitting the ground effect button the AFV hammered forward, slamming the troops in the back backwards then dropped into the rushing stream, slowing again and slamming them forward.

“What the fuck are you doing, Ballsman?” Campbell screamed from the back.

“Shut up, Campbell,” Sergeant Toyley snapped as the M84 screamed into action. Their crossing point was in view of the defense point on the stream and they were taking missile fire. The 5mm commander’s railgun sounded like an electric chainsaw the size of a Mac truck and the coating on the rounds left a blue track of fire through the air like tracers.

“Where the fuck is the artillery?” Campbell yelled. “We were supposed to have mortar cover!”

“Shut up , Campbell,” Toyley replied as the track crossed the stream.

As soon as they were on the far side they were in cover from the defense position. Balmoral dropped to the ground and gunned it again, heading up the trace of an old road that climbed through a narrow notch in the cliffs. The trace was half-covered by a brook that was rushing with spring rains and the track tore up a sheet of spray as it headed up into the hills.

“There should be an old trace to the right,” Toyley said, looking forward. “There, you see it?”

“See it, sergeant,” Balmoral said, spinning the track in the narrow corner and gunning it hard. It was a steep damned road and the trees were thicker than normal. But there weren’t any big boulders or stumps. But the trace quickly died in thicker timber from before the Posleen War. “I don’t have a road!”

“Unass!” Sergeant Toyley said. “Get it off the road if you can and lager up.”

As soon as the troops were off, Balmoral spun the track into the trees, shoving it off the road. Other tracks were discharging behind him and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to do.

“We’re staying here,” Sergeant Chofsky said over the radio. “We can partially interdict artillery from here.”

As he said it the blue-force-tracker chimed.

“Incoming Hedren fire. Mark Three Plasma Mortars.”

“You know,” Balmoral said, crossing his arms and leaning his seat back as the M84 began to rave. “This is just a little too real.”

“Thirty!” Keren called.

“All tracks, displace five hundred meters down the road. Prepare for counterbattery mission.”

“Move it, Opie!” Keren yelled, grabbing a stanchion and hauling himself forward.

“Incoming Hedren fire,” the BFT said in a soft contralto. “Incoming Artillery classified as Hedren Mark Six Plasma Artillery.”

The M84 was slewed up and to the right at nothing Keren could see. But he wasn’t going to be graded as killed so he pulled the commander’s cupola down and strapped himself into his seat. What the hell. The vision blocks were wide plasma screens. He could see nearly as well down here as up there.

“Get in line, Opie,” Keren said as Three Gun’s track, which had yet to start moving, started flashing red lights. Keren noted that the commander’s gun was pointed straight forwards. “Well, the good news is that we’re not going to be waiting for Three Gun anymore… ”

Specialist Adolpho Littlefield flopped to his face and pointed his railgun up the hill, searching for targets.

The training was far cry from fighting the Posleen. Adolpho had spent most of his time in the war near the Harrisburg defense line. Fighting the Posleen in the open was generally suicide; only the ACS could really survive under direct Posleen fire. He’d spent most of the war servicing gatling guns in fixed positions.

But he’d been trained, long long ago, in the techniques of fire and maneuver. And better than half the volunteer recalls had training in it. So he was picking it up pretty quick. But, Lord God, was it tiring.

Fire and maneuver meant that while looking for targets you also had to spot your next cover position. Then, on command, you pushed yourself to your feet and sprinted forward while another group covered the movement of yours. Hit the ground fast, pop up to find targets and cover the next group as they moved.

There was a rave above his head as one of the AFV gunners fired at a target on the hilltop. Technically, that was their job. But he wasn’t real happy with 9mm rail rounds going by overhead. The exercise wasn’t using blanks or simunitions. The ‘enemy’ was dummies and some robots so they were authorized to shoot them up. But if one of those railgun rounds hit him he was going to be paste.

“Bravo Team, move!”

Push to his feet, sprint uphill through the underbrush, find another tree to hide behind. Suddenly, his harness started to blink red lights.

“What the fuck?”

“You are an… artillery casualty,” a soft contralto said. “You are graded as… terminated.”

“Motherfucker!”

“Where in the hell is the counterbattery?” Cutprice asked as more units dropped off the screen. “RTO, call battalion and tell them we’re getting slaughtered by artillery out here. And for some reason we can’t get any.”

“Bravo Battery just got graded as 50 percent casualties,” Specialist Simmons said.

Lieutenant Colonel Nathaniel Moberly had been a cannon cocker back when that was a real term. He’d been a battery commander in Vietnam, had once had a wife named Helga as a result of one of many trips to the Federal Republic of Germany and had, in his time, been associated with everything from 105 towed shorties to MLRS.

But the quality of Hedren counter-battery was taking him by surprise.

“Remind all batteries to immediately displace on firing,” Moberly said. “And ask Delta why we’re still taking fire. I want those Hedren batteries silenced. And keep and eye out for Hedren probes. They’re bound to be looking for us .”

“What the hell?” Cutprice said as the M84 by his ear started firing up and to the left. It wasn’t the right angle for artillery fire.

“Sir!” Specialist Riley shouted. “BFT says we’re auto-engaging a Hedren probe rocket. That’s their version of a… ”

“UAV,” Cutprice finished. “Command team! Four hundred meters west! Now! Now! Now!”

“Lieutenant John Mullins,” the BFT chimed. “Captain Thomas Cutprice is graded as… terminated. You are now… Commander… Pro Tem of… Bravo Company… First Battalion Fourteenth Infantry Regiment. Congratulations on your… temporary assumption of command.”

Mullins sighed and looked at the screen in his track. He’d spent most of his military career in special operations and more or less been shang-haied by that bastard Cutprice into the Ten Thousand. Even then, Cutprice had made him a fucking adjutant of all things.

Now he was supposed to take over a company that was getting bogged down and wasted by artillery fire.

But he’d been watching the tactical situation and knew that Cutter had gotten way too involved with what looked like an over armed Observation Post.

“First and Third Platoons,” Mullins said. “Hammer down the road. Third dismount on the target. Kill anything there and then get back in your tracks and continue the movement. Second Platoon, swing your tracks back onto Highway Eight and link up there with your dismounts. All tracks maintain maneuvering. Mortars, discontinue fire on objective and see if you can get counter-battery information for those fucking Hedren mortars. Everybody: Boot their ass, don’t piss on them. Log team, displace.”