The hovercraft were sitting ducks at this range, and the massive rocket barrage took down more than half. A few were direct hits that blew the hulking transports apart, showering burning wreckage across the churning waves. But the rockets weren’t precision weapons, and most of the hits were glancing or peripheral impacts that disabled a craft, causing it to spiral down and crash into the water.
The elation of the submersible crews was short-lived. The surviving transports painted the now-surfaced ships with laser sights, relaying the targeting data back to the artillery batteries. In less than 30 seconds there were heavy shells landing all around the submersibles. Clarkson ordered the fleet to dive, but they had to retract the rocket launchers before they could submerge. Blue Lady made it, though she suffered significant damage before she did. More than half the ships were less lucky, some blown apart by direct hits, others crippled by damage from nearby explosions. Only three remained fully operational. The invasion force had paid a price, but now the sea route to Carlisle was clear.
Jax took cover in a cavern along the rocky cliffs on the southern Carlisle coast. The shelling was relentless, the heavy explosive rounds impacting all around. The south cliffs were too difficult for the invasion force to navigate – they’d go around and hit the eastern or western beaches. But the rocky heights offered the best vantage points for the rebel missile launchers…the last line of defense before the invaders set foot on the island. The rebels needed to take out as many troop transports as they could, but the federal artillery was making that difficult.
Jax and Dave Sawyer had come over to direct the missile launchers personally. They moved over some of their experienced heavy weapons crews to replace Marek’s less seasoned teams. They had to make the first shots count…the incoming artillery fire was only going to get worse when they gave up their own positions by launching.
“These damned things are too heavy. They take forever to move.” Jax was frustrated. Normally he’d have his crews fire once, maybe twice, then pack up and move to a secondary position. Of course, typically his troops would be suited up and have no problem throwing 500-kilo rocket launchers over their soldiers. That was a harder proposition using only the flesh and blood muscles they were born with. He’d doubled the crew sizes, assigning two of Marek’s people to two of his veterans. That would let them move the things, but it would still be slow going, taking vital firepower offline while they hoisted the bulky launchers over the steep rocky ground. There was no way to move after every shot or two, not while maintaining the volume of fire they needed. Jax had to compromise, and he ordered each launcher to take five shots and then bug out. It was better than remaining stationary, but five shots was more than enough time for the artillery to target a position and blast it. He was afraid his rocket crews had some hard duty ahead.
“They’re a bitch, sir.” Sawyer was fairly plainspoken. “But I think you’re right about moving them after five shots. It will cut down firepower, but if we leave them stationary they’ll all be knocked out in twenty minutes.”
Jax looked down at his foot as he kicked a pile of small stones. “We need a rotation though. I don’t want every launcher relocating at the same time.”
“We can have half the launchers hold fire until the other half move.” Sawyer looked up at Jax, squinting and putting his hand to his forehead. The early morning sun was rising bright just behind the colonel’s head. “But that will cut our initial output. They’ll get transports through, no question.”
“Dave, they’re getting transports through no matter what we do.” Jax moved to the side, turning so his companion could look at him without staring into the sun. “We just need to wear them down as much as possible.” He looked out over the sea as he spoke. He didn’t have any reports on losses to the fleet, but he knew the fragile submersibles most likely suffered heavily. They shattered the federal first wave, though…so badly that Jax and Marek agreed to withhold fire from the missile launchers as the survivors approached the island. The plan was to stay in cover and hit the transports of the second wave with everything they had. If all went well, the first wave troops would be overwhelmed on the ground before they were reinforced.
“Troop transports incoming.” Sawyer turned instinctively to look out over the ocean, though he knew the approaching craft wouldn’t be visible yet. “At least a few of the submersibles survived…I’m getting reports from three different ships.”
“Ok, let’s make this count.” Jax reached out and put his hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “This is your show, Dave. You’re in charge here. Marek and I agree.” Sawyer had been a heavy weapons man for years in the Corps before he got bumped up to platoon sergeant. He had a lot more experience with this sort of thing than Jax…and certainly than any of Marek’s people.
“Yes, sir.” Sawyer turned to face Jax, but only for a second. Then his head snapped back to the sea, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
Jax smiled. “I know you will.” Time for me to leave, Jax thought, and show him he really is in charge. “I’m going to the north command post. I need regular reports.” He started walking slowly down the gravel path.
“Yes, sir.” Sawyer’s voice was distant, distracted. He was already planning his attack. “Attention heavy weapons teams. This is Sawyer. Odd numbered teams will fire on my command. Even numbers are to remain inactive. Repeat, evens, do nothing to give away your position until the odds have fired five rounds.”
He got a rapid series of acknowledgements. “Odds, shout out your targets as you fire. I don’t want everybody shooting at the same transports.” Sawyer was used to sophisticated AI-assisted targeting systems. If this had been a Marine op, they’d have the AI feeding each team its assigned targets based on range and trajectory. But the rebels didn’t have that kind of equipment. Even the launchers themselves were old out-of-date units, probably bought surplus for the Columbia militia. They needed visual sighting to get a lock, which meant they’d only get a few shots at each craft as it flew by.
Sawyer could see a slight glint in the sky…then another. “Here they come.” He shouted the warning into the comlink, but it wasn’t necessary. His veteran crews were already firing.
“Sam, get outside.” Sarah’s voice was calm and cool, though most of the people around her were panicking. “Now. There are more barges coming in. I need you on triage.” The hospital was full of wounded, and it was just getting worse. The fighting was heavy across the island, and wounded were pouring in.
“I’m on it, Sarah.” Samantha Jordan was just as steady. The two were veterans of the Carson’s World campaign, which was as close to a living nightmare as either of them was likely to come. Sarah Linden’s field hospital had worked miracles despite being overrun with wounded. As crazy as things were here, they were nothing like Carson’s World. At least not yet.
Sarah’s white suit was soaked in blood, her arms wrist deep inside a patient as she barked out orders. As usual, she thought…though at least we don’t have to cut them out of their wrecked armor with plasma torches this time. They were short on supplies, though, and it was approaching the critical point.
She was frustrated. They were going to lose a lot of people here…people she could save with the right equipment and supplies. But she had no critical care units, no evac, no backup, no resupply. It was the waste of it all that got to her. She knew the reasons for this fight; she even agreed with them. She knew soldiers too. Her friends, her lover, everyone important to her…they were all combat Marines. She was a Marine too. She understood the reasons they fought. But every time she found herself neck deep in bleeding, broken bodies all she could see was the horrific, stupid waste of it all.