The Devils were the first to respond as Ward, Zander, and Harnack came together to form a solid front. The rangers and marines hurried to realign themselves as Ward loosed his remaining missiles. The closely spaced explosions left ragged gaps in the enemy’s ranks, but the battle was far from one-sided, as one of the guards fired his flamethrower and a ranger was engulfed in a fiery conflagration.
Retribution came swiftly. Because rather than charge the enemy with the others, Kydd had orders to hang back and choose his targets with care. So the man with the flamethrower blew up as a slug found a fuel tank and Harnack triggered his own weapon. “You bastards want to play?” he demanded angrily, as a gout of flame played across the guards in the Kel-Morian front line. “Well, let’s fire it up!”
Tychus, meanwhile, had met his match. The KM taskmaster was as tall as he was, but not as broad in the chest, and armor clashed as they collided. They were so close together that neither man could use his rifle for anything other than a club, so both took swings at each other. As each man blocked the other’s blows, they were forced to release their weapons and fight hand to hand.
It was a situation that favored the Kel-Morian, because the Guild Guards prided themselves on close-quarters combat while Confederate military forces spent precious little time on such training. So Tychus found himself being subjected to a well-executed leg-wheel hip-throw and a follow-up blow that dented his helmet. Sweet mother of mercy, Tychus thought to himself, this bastard needs to die.
But killing the other man wasn’t going to be easy as Tychus attempted to roll away. The suit’s backpack made that difficult as the Kel-Morian methodically kicked him in the side.
As Tychus came to rest on his back, and the exhaust from his backpack splashed the ground, he caught one of the huge boots and gave it a powerful twist to the right. That brought his opponent crashing down. Tychus was quick to follow up by rolling on top of the taskmaster and sitting astride the other man’s chest.
Tychus felt for a grenade with one hand, found it, and thumbed the Kel-Morian’s visor release with the other. It opened to reveal an unshaven face that was contorted into a fearsome grimace as the Kel-Morian struggled to buck his opponent off. “Sweet dreams, asshole,” Tychus said as he armed the grenade, dropped it into the other man’s helmet, and immediately rolled away.
Maybe, had there been a little more time and had the Kel-Morian been able to pull his gauntlets off quickly enough, he might have been able to reach down into the cavity next to his chin and remove the bomb before it went off. But such was not the case. There was a flash of light and a loud bang as the taskmaster’s helmet exploded.
“Quit laying down on the job,” Raynor said as he arrived on the scene and reached down to give his friend a hand.
“I thought you were dead,” Tychus said as he came to his feet and bent to retrieve his rifle. “We were going to have a big party and everything.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Raynor replied dryly, as a marine lieutenant led a platoon of resocs across the body-strewn expanse of concrete toward the ramp beyond. “Maybe next time.”
“Come on!” Ward shouted. “Today is the day! I can feel it!”
“The crazy sonofabitch is going to try and get himself killed!” Raynor exclaimed. “Come on!”
Max Speer grinned happily and continued to record the action as the Heaven’s Devils chased after Ward up the ramp and into the meat grinder beyond.
Raynor hadn’t traveled more than a hundred feet before his boots began to slip on the blood-slicked surface. Then it became necessary to climb over piles of bodies, as the twin-barreled gauss cannon on the landing above continued to roar, and spikes blew holes through both the living and the dead. One of the badly shot-up suits belonged to the lieutenant who had been leading the platoon. He lay with an arm outstretched, as if pointing the way.
It might have ended then and there. But the Heaven’s Devils had a guardian angel looking out for them and his name was Ryk Kydd. So as Ward charged up the incline bellowing his rage, a piece of divine intervention was on the way. It was shaped like an armor-piercing round and smashed through the gunner’s visor. As he fell over backward, the weapon ceased firing and tilted upward.
Another KM tried to take over, but Ward had arrived by then, and fired his gauss cannon from six feet away. A hail of spikes blew divots out of the Kel-Morian armor until one of them found a way in and bounced around for a second before running out of kinetic energy. Ward, who was surprised to be alive, paused. That gave the others a chance to catch up and hem him in.
Having arrived on the landing, Tychus and Raynor took the opportunity to eyeball the path ahead. It was a zigzag affair that switch-backed up the hill. That enabled the defenders to fire at the attackers not only head-on, but from above as well, which made for a deadly combination. The realization was punctuated by the flat crack of a high-powered rifle. From above, a figure threw up his hands and toppled down the hill. Kydd was still on the job.
“These people are starting to piss me off,” Tychus said, as he let his rifle fall so he could free the gauss cannon from its tripod. That was when a fresh platoon of resocialized marines arrived from below. They were under the command of Master Sergeant Rockwell. As usual he was following rather than leading as he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Get up there, you jerks! Rip the bastards apart!”
Raynor threw up a hand and stepped out to block the way. “Hold on… . There’s bound to be a gauss cannon on the next landing. Sergeant Findlay is going to take it out. Then you can advance.”
“Ignore that command,” Rockwell ordered sternly, as he arrived on the platform. “The platoon will advance! And that’s an order.”
With that the marines surged around Tychus and ran up the slope. A hail of spikes cut them down. “Stop!” Raynor shouted. “Wait, goddamn it!”
But it was too late. Struggle though they might, the marines didn’t have a chance. But they were brave, or crazy, not that it made much difference. As the front ranks fell, those behind struggled forward, boots slipping as rivers of blood flowed downhill, desperately trying to achieve the goal that had been assigned to them.
Finally, after thirty seconds or so, the last marine fell. And that was when Rockwell spoke. Raynor realized that the noncom was still on the platform! “What a bunch of losers,” Rockwell said disgustedly. “It makes you wonder what the Confederacy is coming to.”
The haymaker started down around Raynor’s knees, gathered force as it curved upward, and made contact with the lower part of Rockwell’s helmet. It packed enough force to lift the noncom an inch off the pavement and throw him backward. He landed with a crash, skidded for three or four feet, and came to rest against the waist-high wall. “I’ll have your ass for that!” Rockwell shouted from his position on the ground. “You’re on report!”
“And you’re an asshole,” Raynor responded disgustedly, as he turned to follow Tychus upslope. “Not to mention a coward.”
Logically enough the repository’s overseer had sent all of his armored personnel down to the bottom of the hill in a vain attempt to stop the invaders at the main gate. So, as Tychus marched up the ramp firing the gauss cannon, the unarmored troops on the next landing were badly outmatched. Especially since each time someone tried to bring the weapon into action, Kydd killed them.
By that time the Devils were like a well-oiled machine, darting from position to position, always careful to cover one another before advancing further. So by the time the Devils arrived on the level area, there was little more than a pile of bodies waiting there to greet them. “One more stretch to go!” Raynor exclaimed, as another squad of resocialized marines brushed past.