Sean-Michael Argo - Trade War

The group fell silent after that and let the wind whip around them as they sped onwards. They had been starborne for months now, spending all of their time aboard the tug or deployed with the scrap wagons, and all of them were happy to finally be planetside. For over a year their war had been one waged in zero gravity, amidst the debris of void battles, fighting over scraps against lesser scavengers.

The feel of natural air-flow and planetary gravity was something they had missed deeply, as if their very biology had begun to crave atmosphere and solid ground. That was what they had evolved to be, planetside creatures, not starborne beings, thought Samuel to himself, and perhaps that’s where the space dementia phenomenon came from. Regardless of why, the marine was happy to be out of the void and planetside, even if that meant that in fifteen minutes when they reached the processing planet he could be under fire by hostile elements.

After a few more minutes several lights appeared on the murky horizon, and soon the outline of a sprawling factory complex could be seen looming out of the haze.

Samuel had known from the mission briefing that this would be a lighting fast beachhead action, with the boats hitting max speed and rushing the complex. It was a bold move, and while not one Samuel relished, the terrain offered little choice. Had the Reapers been equipped with dropsuits and a launch craft then perhaps they could have engaged that way, though as usual, the marines were put into a position where the most cost effective and blunt method was chosen by Command.

The squad leader was shaken from his thoughts as several gun emplacements opened up from the complex and began to pepper the oncoming marines with hard rounds. By his count there were at least three hostile weapons spitting bullets at the assault force, though in the gloom it was difficult to be sure.

“Lights out!” snapped the voice of Boss Marsters through the com-bead, “Pilots take your chances with obstacles. I don’t want to lose half our number before we’ve taken the beachhead.”

Immediately, Marcus and Ben shut off the deck lights, and Bianca worked the stick as best she could while grinding her teeth in concentration. The boat pilot narrowly missed a large rock outcropping, though the tactic did seem to confuse the gunners defending the complex.

Samuel could now see four separate gun emplacements firing wildly into the fog that clung to the surface of the swamp. The engines of the assault craft still gave throaty growls as the boats churned through the water, and the marine knew that even if they’d run dark for the entire approach the enemy would have known they were coming. At least they’d been able to avoid many of the potentially fatal obstacles as they drew near the complex which was now less than one hundred meters between the first wave of craft and the beachhead.

“Shouldn’t they still be able to see us?” asked Ben as he prepared his own firearm for action. “Most crew served weapons have some kind of target sensor. This fog shouldn’t reduce their accuracy all that much.”

“Low tech, small caliber machine guns,” observed Marcus as he held onto the railing of the boat, which helped keep him from falling overboard as Bianca swerved once more to keep the vessel from smacking into another rock outcropping. “There’s no way an operation with the kind of money to cross the Line and build a complex of this size is going to bring those without a reason.”

“We’ll find out soon enough, get ready marines,” said Samuel in a low commanding tone as the fog began to clear and the beachhead and much of the complex became visible.

Samuel could hear over the task force channel that not all of the marine vessels had gotten this close to the target unscathed. One boat from Epsilon Platoon had smashed into an outcropping and flung its passengers in multiple directions into the brackish water. Two other craft had reported minor injuries from the hail of bullets, though so far, no deaths. As the fog cleared completely, Samuel could see that Tango Platoon was in the lead and looked to hit the beach first. He felt a simultaneous swell of pride and a grim weight of certainty that the platoon would suffer for it.

Now that they were not obscured by the haze, the gunners on the complex embankments were able to find more accurate firing solutions, and the rain of projectiles began to fall in earnest.

“Flak boards up and prepare to disembark!” ordered Boss Marsters as his squad’s boat appeared to Samuel’s right and sped up to take the lead. “Assault pattern phalanx! Pilots hit the surf and stay hull down until we clear the objective!”

Without hesitation the marines of Squad Hyst gripped the flak boards they’d stacked across the middle of the boat and held them like shields to cover both themselves and partially the person next to them. After the battle in deepspire, Boss Marsters had developed several tactical maneuvers involving the marines using flak boards in the same manner as ancient warriors from the histories. The platoon leader had used the tech staff to plumb the Grotto historical database for images of primitive warriors, and though what they could find was little more than artistic renditions on clay pots or stucco walls, it seemed that now such an unorthodox approach would prove useful.

Samuel looked out from behind his flak board and saw the beach rushing to meet them. Now that they were close he could see that the grimy wet sand was strewn with loose bones and bizarre skeletons that looked as if they belonged to lizards or fish perhaps. Another round impacted against his board and the marine shook the sight from his mind, his combat awareness overlooking the implications of the bones and cataloging them as obstacles to proper footing once the marines landed.

The flak boards shuddered from the continuous impact of enemy fire, and some of the boards were already showing signs that they might crack under the withering salvos. The enemy might be using low tech guns, but the sheer volume of fire they were hurling at the marines was punishing. Once they reached a range suitable for the heavy machine gunners, both Harold and Ben stood up in their respective boats.

Each of the gunners was using his retractable belt clip to help him stand steady, with the added resistance of other marines bracing them with their backs. Ben and Harold opened up with their own guns in response to the enemy, and the effect was immediate.

The Grotto heavy machine guns were also low tech, unequipped with the kind of target finders and recoil suppressors that more sophisticated contractors or Helion troopers used. However, the Reaper heavies were notorious for their impact velocity, and even if they didn’t pierce the thick armor that some enemies wore, the bullets would knock a dent in just about anything.

The two veteran machine gunners strafed the four gun emplacements with swift bursts of fire, and soon there were only three emplacements that were capable of returning fire. Seconds later, Epsilon Platoon’s remaining two craft entered the fray and their gunner lent her fire to the exchange, followed soon thereafter by gunners from Omicron and Sigma platoons.

By the time Squad Hyst’s boat rammed its prow into the beach only one of the enemy guns was still firing. Bullets smacked into the flak boards of the squad as they leapt out of the boat and onto the wet sands of the beach. In seconds they had formed a phalanx of interlocking flak boards and were marching swiftly towards the complex ground floor bay.

Behind the squad, Bianca leapt off of the pilot’s chair and into the shallow surf, narrowly avoiding getting stitched by hostile fire as the enemy gunner attempted to take advantage of her lack of defense.

Samuel turned to see that she was okay and saw the defiant marine already standing in water up to her chest and returning fire with her combat rifle. It was at that moment that Samuel saw the creature swimming up behind his former lover and suddenly all of the bones that littered the beach made a terrible sense.