Without a pause or waver the indefatigable enemy trotted towards the beleaguered company. Occasionally a mortar or grenade would, by chance, kill a God King. The mass around him would falter, momentarily, in its advance, then, as the individual normals of the fief shifted allegiance to other local God Kings, it would drive forward again.
Eventually the reduced mass, originally about three hundred thousand individuals, reached a range where their inaccurate fire began to affect the company. According to plan the company began to leapfrog back by platoon sections, two platoons maintaining cover fire as one withdrew. At this point another problem arose.
First, as a platoon stopped firing to withdraw, the retreat and reduced fire pressure caused the remaining mass to rush forward; the sight of the retreating platoon created a chase reaction in the normals and Posleen had apparently never heard of taking cover from fire. Second, the stop and bound nature of the maneuver was slow and difficult to coordinate. The combination caused 3rd platoon to be overrun in the second withdrawal as it made an out of position halt trying to cover 1st platoon.
At this point the original plan, a Cannae-like envelopment, went straight out the old air lock and Alpha and Bravo were ordered to leave their positions on the ridge, get down in the valley and prepare a defense for Charlie to pass through. Battalion weapons company was ordered to ascend the ridge and get plunging fire with their terawatt lasers.
A bright rear-rank God King, noticing the struggling troopers dragging the bulky lasers up the ridge slope, had his fief take the group under mass fire, destroying the battalion laser platoon. When Captain Wright of Alpha company was killed, the momentary confusion let a group of pursuing Posleen slip through with Charlie company. The flanking fire from this group, about two hundred and a God King, destroyed the Alpha second platoon and the whole Posleen mass poured through the breach, rolling up the battalion from its center. The centaurs poured over the troopers, stripping them out of their refractory suits and butchering them for a celebratory barbecue. Their hoots and cries of victory could be clearly heard on the ridge.
“Well,” said General Houseman, on the observer channel, “that was… words fail me.”
“A really quick way to lose a billion credits, sir?” Mike quipped.
“The worst defeat since Cumberland College versus Georgia Tech?” asked his chief of staff, General Bridges.
“Huh?” said two or three voices, General Houseman’s among them.
“222 to 0, Tech,” said the Rambling Wreck.
“Clear VR,” they heard Lieutenant Colonel Youngman say on the command channel.
The visions of drifting uranium residue, smoke, dust and feasting Posleen cleared to reveal a large cargo bay scattered with fully intact combat suits in various states of immobility.
“AID, cut Lieutenant Colonel Youngman and Major Norton into this channel,” ordered General Houseman. “Colonel Youngman, Major Norton, listen up. I want first reports on the G-3’s desk at 1200 hours tomorrow. Hot wash on the exercise will be at 1630. Okay, you got your asses kicked, but you’re improving. We’ll do it again day after tomorrow, urban scenario. Get to work. Clear circuit.
“Christ,” he continued on the local circuit, “I hope they’re doing better on Barwhon.”
23
Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V
1228 GMT February 25th, 2002 ad
“Sarge, you got any nine millimeter?” asked Trapp, taking a careful bead on a shotgun-toting Posleen slogging through the swamp. A massive forest giant had fallen and been consumed save for the root ball; in its lee the two human warriors crouched awaiting the centaurs.
“Sorry,” grunted Mosovich, tying a bandage on his upper arm with his teeth. The shotgun flechettes had come within a hair of taking his left arm off and had torn away the transceiver on his hip, but close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.
The MP-5 phuted and the Posleen point slumped into the purple muck. “Well, guess it’s time to get down to hand-to-hand.”
“I hope not, I’ve only got one. Here,” Jake said, tossing Trapp his .45. “It’s not much…” The .50 caliber ammunition was long gone, but it had been put to good use. The Five-O was the only weapon they had that could stop the God King’s saucers. After the first week the God Kings had discovered not to follow too close to the chase.
Trapp and Mosovich had left a trail of Posleen bodies in their wake. The two master killers had used every bit of resource they possessed over the past month as they fled the vengeful residents of Site B but it was starting to look like the last morning at the Alamo.
“Fuck it, it’s bullets,” the SEAL said philosophically. “Can you handle that Street Sweeper with one hand?”
“I can kinda use the left, and it’s only for steadying.” Jake studied the back trail for a moment and rested the shotgun on a gnarled root. He did a quick check to ensure the barrel was clear.
“I’ll pop the next one that comes through, then when they spread out we’ll move back. Got any demo left?”
“Only grenades,” said Trapp. “And I wanna keep ’em.”
“Fer what? Okay, get ready.” There was movement in the bushes across the open area.
“With what?” muttered Trapp, slinging the MP-5 and pulling out a set of concussion grenades. Although there was minimal shrapnel effect because of the mud, the liquid transmitted the shock wave with great effectiveness. “Oh, well.”
A group of five Posleen burst out of the concealing ferns and charged across the clearing. Mosovich’s fire tumbled four of them, but another small group charged out slightly to the side. Neither group fired back, content to close to steel range in the teeth of the fire. As Mosovich tracked on the new group, Trapp hurled his grenades. One landed perfectly in the midst of the second group but the second was a slice and fell out of effective range. Just as both detonated, one taking down the second group wholly, a platoon-sized band charged out of the side of the clearing.
Mosovich switched from carefully controlled blasts to continuous fire as the centaurs closed. Trapp flipped three more grenades but the handful of remaining Posleen closed to steel range in moments.
Trapp flipped around his MP-5 and expended his last three rounds on three head shots as the Posleen got absolutely too close for a SEAL to miss. He threw the now-useless weapon at a closing Posleen as he drew his combat knife. He had studied the physiology of the Posleen the pair had killed. The Posleen chest turned out to be well armored by bone so if it came to hand to hand he had planned on being behind them, but this time lady luck was all over playing favorites.
Mosovich’s shotgun locked back and he knew he was done. There were at least six Posleen still moving and he regretted giving up his .45 to Trapp. He drew his Gerber and stepped out from behind the root ball as the centaurs drew their own yard-long blades.
As the centaurs charged, Trapp grasped an out-thrust root and flipped himself into the muck. As the remaining Posleen closed with the injured sergeant major, a steel-filled hand swept out of the muck and disemboweled the trailer. A mud-covered figure erupted from the swamp and slithered across the back of the next Posleen before it could even buck, with a flash of steel faster than the eye could follow. As the nearly decapitated centaur slumped into the mud the group turned towards their slithering attacker but he had disappeared again into the bog.