“All right,” the colonel said, nonplussed. “Be there on time.”
“We’re the timing, Colonel,” Bill said. “The whole thing starts when we’re ready.” He glanced at his watch. “Five hours.”
“Understood,” the colonel said, clearly not understanding. “Just be there.”
“We will, sir,” Miller replied. “With bells on.”
As it turned out it took just over four hours until all the units were in position and Colonel Forsythe found out what the “special materials” were.
“What the fuck, pardon my French, is that?” the colonel asked, looking up at the kneeling mecha suit.
After the first Wyverns had worked out so successfully, Bill had convinced Columbia to fast track construction of the Mark II. The Mark II had a bit more fluidity, less of a tendency to disco at just the wrong moment and the stylish face had been removed. The whole upper half had, in fact, been significantly lowered and the armor had been modified into reflective glacis ridges. The suits were also camouflage covered and, in the case of the nine that the SEALs were now suiting up in, covered further in a special camouflage netting that would break up their outlines.
“It’s a Mark Two Wyvern armored combat mecha,” Bill responded. He was now wearing the skin-tight black coveralls that were necessary to properly “fit” the Wyvern and he ran his hands over the suit proprietarily. “The Mark Twos are armored about like a Bradley and can carry some serious firepower. They also are going to be better armor for the ardune.”
“The what?” the colonel asked.
“The gate closing device,” Bill replied, glancing at the light violet box. It had been carefully placed on the back of the truck that had carried the Wyvern to their assembly area and his eyes, and those of most of the SEALs, were never far from it. The blue charging bar on the top now within a smidgeon of reading full. Bill’s Wyvern had been hastily modified with a metal box to carry it and he had carefully ensured that the Wyvern finger systems were dexterous enough to key the arming system. He hadn’t had the guts to actually key the full sequence, though. “The SEALs and I will let you carry the assault up to the gate but if you get bogged, we’re going to go through on rock and roll. The ardune will be placed on the other side of the gate, and it will be triggered, one way or another.”
“I want your people to understand something,” the colonel said. “I know they’re SEALs. I know they’re the best of the best. I know that the mission is important. But you don’t go until I say you go, understood?”
“Yes,” Bill replied. “The flip side being that when it is time to go, you let slip the hounds.”
“I will,” the colonel said. “But I let them slip. My assault, I’m in command. You’re just supernumeraries until we get up to the gate. You’re in line between Bravo and Charlie company, right ahead of my section. Get suited up, Doctor.”
Bill nodded and stepped into the suit. Once fitted, the Wyverns were relatively easy to take on and off. He simply put his hands in the controls, settled his feet into their holders and pressed a button. The front closed and he was ready to fight. With one small exception.
Miller came over carrying both his own and the doctor’s weapons. Miller had insisted on another 30mm but the doctor had opted for a .50 caliber Gatling gun. The Mreee and the Nitch were not as hard targets as the Titcher units and Bill felt that the gun, which was the first Gatling gun accessorized with a semiauto selector switch, was more in keeping with the threat. Miller’s philosophy, on the other hand, had not changed. More firepower is better firepower.
Bill picked up the big gun in one hand and waited until the command master chief had hooked up the feed tube and checked the connections. Then he keyed the external speaker and raised one hand in a half salute.
“Ready when you are, Colonel,” Bill said.
“Maybe I should think about putting you on point,” the colonel replied, then hefted his own M-4. “Okay!” he said, raising his voice. “Let’s roll out!”
“This is Juliet Five-Four,” the commander of the 35th Brigade said over the command net. He was half whispering despite the rumble from the command Bradley he was in. “Our advance scouts have the Nitch lines in sight. Ready to initiate.”
“Juliet Five-Four, this is Sierra One-one,” Task Force Command said. “Stand by. We’re awaiting word from the Lima Eight-Six units that they’re in place.”
“Fucking One-Oh-One,” the colonel bitched. “They think they’re so hot shit and here we sit waiting on them.”
“I dunno, sir,” his S-3 opined. “Them ridges are a bastard. I hunt in country like this and making that movement, stealthily, in three hours? I would have been awfully surprised.”
It had been a total bastard of a march.
The distance wasn’t far, no more than three miles in direct line, but they hadn’t taken a direct line. The guide from the Kentucky unit was a short, broad young sergeant, dark hair covered by a floppy “boonie” cap and a dark growth of beard apparent in a five o’clock shadow. He had led them up and down hills, across streams and along knife-edge ridgelines, never in one direction for very long.
Bill was glad that the Mark Two had more maneuverability, otherwise the march would have been impossible. It was necessary at times for the mechas to walk one foot in front of the other, something impossible with the Mark One. And while they were not holding up the advance, they definitely didn’t feel slowed by the soldiers in front of them; it was all the clumsy mechas could do to keep up with the pace.
But the unit had stopped, all of the soldiers dropping to a squat and facing outward for threats as the colonel held the radio and talked to someone.
Bill kicked in his external directional mike and shamelessly eavesdropped as the Kentucky scout came back down the line and squatted by the battalion commander.
“Honest to God, sir,” the scout said. “They wasn’t there five hours ago.”
“Picket,” Miller said over the radio. They SEALs had been training with the essentially effortless suits for two weeks and he’d learned some of the ins and outs, too. Like the directional mike. “The Mreee have a picket up on our line of march.”
“What do we do?” Bill asked as the colonel shook his head and looked at his map.
“Take it out,” Miller replied, stepping forward in a crouch. “Excuse, me, Colonel.”
“Yes, Master Chief,” the colonel said, clearly annoyed.
“Sir, taking out sentries is our specialty,” Miller pointed out, ignoring the fact that the colonel had missed the “command” part.
“I don’t think that, despite your wonderful camouflage job, you can exactly sneak up on these Mreee,” the colonel said, sarcastically. The suits were well camouflaged, visually, but even with the enhancements they were as noisy as a platoon of regular infantry.
“I wasn’t planning on using the suit, sir,” the SEAL said, politely. He turned and made a series of hand gestures towards the other SEALs, who were down on their knees and elbows to reduce their visibility. One of the suits sat up and kneeled, opening along the front. The SEAL within stepped out and around the suit, opening up a side-panel on the ammunition storage box. From it he extracted a silenced M-4, a black balaclava, a combat harness and a camouflage “ghillie” suit made, like those over the suits, of netting strung with soft colored cloth. In a moment he was suited up and soft footed over to Miller’s position. Bill noticed that he was wearing what appeared to be dyed black moccasins.