John Ringo: Hell's Faire

In this case, however, it was not in vacuum and it was not between planets except by the widest description thereof. And all of the differences came into play.

The shock wave from the explosion slapped downward, hurling the ships aside. If the violent acceleration from the nuclear-driven hurricane of wind were not enough to defeat them, the sudden stop as they slammed into the unyielding ground did the trick. Subjected to forces they were not designed to withstand, the two ships hit the ground, crunched, bounced, and rolled to a stop, one just east of the Cullasaja Bridge and the other on top of the West Franklin Wal-Mart.

Glennis popped her hatch and looked around, shaking her head to clear the ringing. Most of her tracks appeared to be intact, whatever that said about the crews. Anyone who had had a hatch open was probably dead and at least one Abrams looked that way; it had blown out its ammunition relief panel indicating that bad things had happened inside. One of her Bradleys was upside down as well, which probably indicated the crew hadn’t made it.

She looked to the east and could just see one facet of one the C-Decs sticking up out of the Cullasaja valley. The facet mounted an anti-ship plasma cannon which was throwing sparks into the air from electrical overload. As she watched the emplacement belched purple fire and blew a thousand feet into the air.

“Fuck this,” she muttered. “I want back into intel.”

All in all, though, for having been hit by a bit more than the edge of a nuclear blast, they were looking pretty good.

Of course, they didn’t have any radios to speak of. And she couldn’t have heard one if they did. But all things considered…

“So do we drive back and yell at Mitchell?” she asked herself. “Or just stay here?”

She looked around at the devastated landscape and at the crews who were slowly pulling themselves out of their tracks then shook her head. “Stupid question.”

“Somebody with a working radio call the SheVa and find out how long until it’s up here!” she yelled to the scattered groups of troopers. “We’re not going another inch !”

She smiled at the scattered cheer and slumped into her seat.

“What a fucking night,” she muttered, pulling out a resupply request form. “Let’s see, we need about a hundred bodies, a full load of ammunition…”

In the end, even with the resupply and the standard rounds and the Reapers and the repeated nuclear blasts, there was nothing O’Neal’s battalion could do.

The Posleen, having found a way through the roadblock, had attacked without pause, wave upon wave of the yellow centaurs, climbing over the bodies of their dead to close with the hated suits. With only 140 troopers left there wasn’t enough fire pressure to stop them cold and they came on, meter by meter, against a relentless tide of fire.

“I’m clocking out!” one of the troopers cried as even the seemingly inexhaustible supply of grav-cannon rounds started to run low. “I need resupply!”

The cry went up all down the line as trooper after trooper found his ammo supply running lower and lower, the counters going from the thousands to the hundreds and then zero.

“Breakthrough on the left!” Duncan called, scrambling out of his fighting position and lowering his rifle to fire. The group of centaurs had forced their way through to the remnants of Charlie company and broken the center by the simple expedient of swarming the suits with their boma blades.

The Posleen in the front rank weren’t even firing anymore, just hurtling forward, their blades raised. The monomolecular edge could not penetrate the Indowy-forged armor with one strike, but as chop after chop descended on it the armor eventually gave way and the human within was hacked to death.

With the sundering of the line the beleaguered suits seemed to give up hope. Trooper after trooper lifted himself out of his hole, stepping to the rear, those with remaining ammunition firing to try to keep the Posleen at arm’s length.

“NO!” O’Neal cried, scrambling out of his own position as the suits in front of him obscured his line of fire. “INTO THEM!” He charged forward through the line of troopers and threw himself on the front rank of centaurs, his own blades out, chopping and whirling in place.

“Captain’s down!” a trooper from Charlie called out and was cut off in mid cry.

“Bloody hell, boss!” Stewart cursed, sprinting forward to the side of the commander while laying down blasts from his grav-rifle. “GET BACK!”

“I Am Not Going To Let Them Have This Pass!” O’Neal snarled, chopping sideways. But the tide was irresistible and even he could finally see that. Bravo and Charlie were either falling back or just gone . The Posleen had the line and nobody was left to defend it. The suits still in the line were going yellow then red and dropping off the screen.

“Fall back!” he called, glancing at his readouts. Graphs and charts meant nothing to him now, as indicator after indicator went from green to red. “Fall back on the Reapers!”

Sunday was firing from the hip, flipping out magazines one handed and reloading as each expended mag dropped from his rifle. But nothing seemed to help. The remaining suits were running from the oncoming tide of yellow bodies and no firepower in the world was going to stop them.

“Reapers, prepare for short-ranged volley fire,” he called as the Posleen passed the line of holes that had once been filled with ACS troopers. He didn’t even bother to try to figure out who was left. It was him and his troopers and that was more or less that.

“Gots to die someplace,” he muttered, glad he’d had one last time with Wendy. He flipped another magazine in as Stewart slithered over the side of the hole followed by the major.

“Fall back on the Reapers!” O’Neal called again, flipping around and starting to lay down fire.

“Ammo! I’m out!” One of the Marauder suits scrambled into the supply cache, tearing open boxes, and then cursed. “Reaper ammo!”

“Reapers, open fire!” Tommy called as the front of the Posleen assault came within thirty meters.

The four Reaper suits were each mounted with four flechette cannons, and the hail of metal slivers opened a huge rent in the Posleen mass, even checking it for a moment. But the pressure from the rear pushed the front ranks forward against the tide of fire and the down side to the horrendous amount of fire the cannons could put out was that they ran dry fast .

“Clocking!” McEvoy called. “I’m clocking out!”

“Gotcha,” the Marauder said, popping open the ammunition container and opening the Reapers’ reload bin. “Ammo coming up!” he said, tipping the container up and dumping the contents into the bin.

“ Feed me! ” another Reaper called, laying down a wall of fire to the north.

But as the Reapers went through bin after bin, and the remaining suits, most of them commanders, laid down their fire, the ammunition ran lower and lower and the wall of Posleen closed in on the surrounded hole.

“I’m cold!” McEvoy called, then looked around at the person behind him. “Hi, Major.”

“Pick up a rock!” O’Neal snarled as his magazine dropped into the hole.

“Boxes are empty!”

“I’m out!” Sunday called as his last magazine dropped free. He reversed his rifle and swung it into the first Posleen to the hole. The heavy duty stock smashed at the impact, leaving him holding only the iridium barrel. Which he then used to smash the next skull in line.

“Fuck this,” O’Neal muttered. “FUCK THIS! I am not going to die in a stinking HOLE!”