“Appears to be seven American operators set up on the first three decks, all wearing advanced armor with directed energy weapons, except the one with the heavy machine gun. He’s not wearing armor, or winter gear. Not sure what the hell he is?”
“Probably a genetically engineered warrior, super strong and fast. I’ve seen reports that they can trade blows with a BAS unit with their bare hands. He’s the one who shot my fighter before you got here.”
“Great,” Manpugna muttered. “Nearly a fair fight against our fourteen.”
“Don’t forget the tank; there could be two or three Americans operating it,” Nox reminded.
“Yeah, what if there are survivors? From the initial crash?” Manpugna pondered.
“Anything’s possible. We could be out numbered.”
“True. But time is one our side. We can reinforce, not sure they can,” Manpugna said, as he shouldered his rifle and stepped out from the debris.
Nox leapt over the twisted metal wreckage and sprinted toward the opening. He drew the American’s fire like nails to a magnet, bright flashes of light smashed into the ground all around him. The first three direct hits caused seconds of white blindness but did little damage to his advanced armor.
Good. My armor is still superior. The Americans and their Vitahician benefactors still don’t have what it takes to beat me.
Nox ran along a path that provided the most cover from the American weapons, knowing that they had rockets and heavy machineguns that could cause him substantial damage. Two overly confident Russian BAS operators followed Nox and were cut down in flashes of light.
Nox yelled into his COMM, “Operators, do not follow me, your armor is not strong enough to withstand a direct hit. The Ondagra armor cannot yet be duplicated on this planet.”
Inside the hulk, and shielded by a large collapsed bulkhead, Nox was drawing intense fire from the Americans. He stepped from the broken bulkhead and fired at one of the Americans who had revealed himself three times in the same position. Perfect timing. The bold American stepped into his line of fire and a large smoldering hole appeared in the center of his chest.
Josh Miller was dead.
Nox had little time to enjoy the small victory as he was nearly struck by a hail of heavy machine gunfire. Rolling back to cover unharmed, Nox thought to himself, ‘that giant has got to go.’ Two more Ondagra joined him inside the hulk, while the other Russian operators were being effectively held to the debris field by the Americans holding the high ground.
Nox gave the order to charge the Americans, and chaos ensued. In the swirling, white mayhem of madness, Nox came face to face with an American in FALOS armor. Reflexively, Nox struck the American in the helmet with his metal clad fist. The American stepped back, apparently momentarily stunned, and Nox raised his rifle and fired.
The American expertly dove to the right, and the flash of light singed the metal deck. In a split second, the American had tackled Nox, and they were both on the ground. The alien easily overpowered the invader, and, using brute strength ripped the American’s helmet off.
Nox raised his right hand, intending to smash the American’s head like a cantaloupe.
What. The. Fuck? It was Dale Matthews? His old adversary from the Great War? How was this possible? Dale would be nearly 100 years old, yet, here he was?
Nox froze in confusion. Nothing made any sense.
Am I going crazy? That was not normal for Ondagra. Could this planet be driving me insane?
Nox lowered his fist, he could not kill Dale Matthews. Why?
Nox was suddenly struck by a barrage of machine gun fire in the back, throwing him to the ground. Nox raced for cover before the giant clone could get another shot.
Shaken and wounded, Nox retreated from the battlefield and returned to his fighter. The wounds were not fatal, but his armor had sustained significant damage from the machine gun. Nox monitored the progress of the Russians from his fighter craft as he tended to his wounds.
How was Dale Matthews here in Siberia? Why had he not aged?
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Snap grabbed his broken helmet and stumbled to cover. Neal West and Bob were the only two of his team that had seen the incident.
“Thanks, Bob. You saved my life,” Snap gasped between cold breaths. Bob could not hear him because the COMM system was in the detached helmet.
Neal pulled Snap to cover behind a twisted bulkhead. The Russian operators were now all inside the ship’s hulk, and advancing.
Snap’s face was freezing as he gulped down frigid air. “Did you see that?” Snap asked Neal, who was directly in front of him. Snap was fumbling with his broken helmet, trying to reattach it to his FALOS armor.
Neal helped Snap somewhat reattach the helmet and COMM. “It’s damaged beyond battlefield repair,” Neal said. “But this should work for now.”
“Thanks. Did you see that alien? Why did he freeze? He had me dead to rights. I knew I was a dead man.”
“I saw it. Thank God for Bob.”
“It wasn’t Bob. The alien recognized me and lowered his fist. He had time to kill me before Bob shot him.”
“I don’t know, that’s pretty messed up. Maybe we will never know.”
The Russian operators had settled back into positions, with their backs to the frozen tundra, and were trading fire with Lightning Squad. Davis and Moore had made their way to Snap and West’s position to give cover, while Snap got his helmet back on.
“Looks like one of the big ones is trying to flank us on the right,” Timothy Moore said, while pointing to movement behind some wreckage.
“I can’t get a clear shoot at him,” West said, as he inched his way into a better position.
“Doesn’t matter. The big ones can’t be harmed by our DE rifles,” Snap said, as he switched to his 50 BMG Lynx. “Maybe this will help.”
“Damn. I was hoping we would never need that thing again,” West whispered.
“Semi-automatic 50 caliber Exacto rounds. But only five shots per magazine,” Snap said.
The Ondagra sprang from the rubble and landed in the middle of the group, swiping the Lynx sniper rifle from Snap’s hands. The powerful rifle clattered to the deck, which was slowly turning white from the wind-blown snow.
“Fuck,” Timothy Moore said, as he was flung against a pile of jagged metal debris that had seconds earlier been affording him cover.
Davis and West, knowing their rifles were useless, grabbed the seven-foot-tall armor-clad alien and attempted to wrestle him to the ground. Snap scrambled for the rifle, as Moore slowly picked himself up.
The Ondagra flung West off with ease and rolled over, pinning Davis to the ground beneath him. The device on the alien’s chest began to glow bright blue, and Snap knew Davis was about to be incinerated. Snap, lying on the ground, raised the powerful sniper rifle at the alien and fired three times. Snap could feel the recoil of the 50 caliber rounds through his armor. The alien lurched to the left, and the flash of light from his chest missed Davis.
“You hit him,” West yelled, as the alien leapt from the ground and scurried away before Snap could line up another shot.
Davis and Moore lie on the ground, not moving. Moore sat against the pile of jagged debris, with a grapefruit-sized hole burned through his armored stomach, a thin trail of steamy smoke was climbing upward.