“Harris, you and your platoon better hurry if you want to catch your trains,” the colonel called to me.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
The colonel transmitted virtual beacons to guide us to the station. The beacons led us through alleys rather than along main streets. Unless we got very lucky stopping the Mogats, we would need to retreat. The colonel’s path would let us fall back more safely, leading the Mogats through gauntlets in which our men would already have high ground.
We ran another three blocks, crossed an open square that was probably the Mogat version of a commons. The park had benches and sculptures of people, but when it came to plant life, it had not so much as a single bush.
Then we arrived. The train station had a roof but no walls. Weather was not an issue in this artificial environment.
Another platoon had already set up. The lieutenant in charge came out to greet us. “Sergeant Harris, am I ever glad to see you,” he said.
“Find cover,” I told my men, then I turned to the lieutenant. “What’s the situation, sir?” I asked.
“We’ve mined the tracks,” he said. “I have snipers on every roof.”
“Do you know how much longer till they arrive?” I asked.
“How could I know that?” the man asked.
“Evans, search the station. There should be a computer monitoring which tracks are in use. I want men with rocket launchers watching each of those tracks,” I said.
“Got it,” Evans said.
Turning back to the lieutenant, I said, “My men and I will have a look. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
A moment later Philips called me. “Hey, Master Sarge, ain’t those trains shielded?”
“They are,” I said.
“So what’s the use of shooting rockets at them?”
“We’re going to shoot at the front car,” I said. “Let’s see if we can derail a train or two.”
“Derail the suckers; I like it,” Philips said.
“Thomer, keep a leash on Philips, will you?” I asked.
“I found your control system,” Evans called back a moment later.
“Open band,” I told Evans. “We need everyone to hear you. Where’s the first train?”
“Track number seven. It arrives in thirty-eight seconds.”
“I got this one,” Philips called over the interLink. He trotted off toward a track carrying a rocket launcher in his right hand and his M27 in his left.
“I’ll watch him,” Thomer said.
“No, I’ll go with Philips,” I said. “Take care of the rest of your squad.”
“There are trains coming down tracks one, three, eight, nine, and eleven,” Evans radioed me.
“Did you get that, Lieutenant?” I asked.
“Got it. My men can take eight, nine, and eleven,” the lieutenant said.
The tracks were trenches with plasticized edges and metal floors. They were five feet deep and fifteen feet across, and they seemed to worm their way under the horizon. The trains used magnetic levitation. The Mogats had undoubtedly shielded the tracks and the trains floating inside them, but the men inside those trains would be as vulnerable as eggs in a carton.
I ran to join Philips. At the edge of our vision, the train sped toward us. At first it was nothing but a tiny spot of light. Soon I saw the massive wedge of its engine, then I could identify the dome on its nose and the airfoils along its top. A mine blew up beneath it, and the train seemed to wriggle in the track. Another mine exploded. A small burst of flames erupted under the heavy engine; the cars kicked from side to side in the track.
“Steady, Philips,” I said. Now I was calm. My combat reflex had begun, and warmth spread through my veins. I knew I could have made the shot, but I trusted Philips to shoot as well as me.
“I hope they shut down those shields soon,” Philips said.
“Hit the train low,” I said. “Let’s try to upend it.”
“Damn it, Master Sarge, I know that,” Philips snapped. He fired the rocket. A long rope of smoke appeared three feet above the floor of the track. The rocket reached the train so quickly that the smoke and the explosion seemed to all happen at once. A star-shaped flame exploded beneath the base of the train. Philips had fired a damn-near perfect shot.
What happened next was as beautiful as any ballet. The train veered toward the edge of the track as its nose kicked up. Magnetic levitation had placed that train in a nearly frictionless environment, so its bulk and momentum continued forward despite the upward thrust of the rocket.
Barreling forward at hundreds of miles an hour when the rocket struck, the engine bounced nearly three feet on its magnetic cushion, enough to leap the edge of the track. The rest of the train followed, twisting over on its side as it did. The track sort of ejected the train.
The rear cars slid over three more mines as they threaded their way out of the magnetic tracks. I expected sparks and a trail of destruction to follow the derailed train, but it did not happen that way. The shielded train slid across a shielded street, hitting a couple of shielded walls. The train gave off no sparks; but smoke rose from its windows as its cars slid along the street, rebounding against walls before skidding to a rest. The outside of the train went undamaged; but liquid, maybe blood, maybe oil, maybe both, slowly seeped out of the wreckage.
The cheer started spontaneously. Marines stood up from behind cover, waved their rifles in the air, and shouted at the tops of their lungs. You had to have your ear to the interLink to hear them, of course, but I imagined the noise ringing through the air. In that moment, I imagined us as the Israelites watching David slay Goliath. I imagined us as the Union soldiers on Cemetery Ridge after Hays’s men stopped Pickett’s Charge. Our armor and interLink technology did not fit into my image of this battle.
“Nice shooting, Philips,” I said as I slapped him on the back.
For the first time, maybe in his whole entire life, Philips had nothing to say. He stood staring at the carcass of the train absolutely silent. Perhaps he was in awe of what he had accomplished.
Our revelry ended quickly when we heard men firing rockets a few tracks away. One of the Marines from the other platoon fired his rocket too early. It struck the track more than a hundred feet ahead of the oncoming train. The train continued to barrel toward us. Mines blew up beneath it, creating small geysers of flames that flashed and disappeared.
Rushing because he knew his life depended on it, the Marine slipped open the back of his launcher and reloaded it. He brought the tube up and rested it on his shoulder. By this time the train was only a quarter of a mile away. I could read the numbers printed along its cab.
The Marine fired his second rocket. It struck the engine head-on but too high. The train buckled and continued on. Then a Marine two tracks down fired a rocket that slammed into the side of the train, just behind the “gills”—the flexible corridor between the engine and the first car. The front of the train leaned over precariously. It would have righted itself, but another Marine fired a second rocket into the side of the engine, tipping the heavy car over.
The train had come close enough to the station that it had already begun to slow for its stop. With so little momentum, many of the rear cars did not follow the engine off the track but sat upright just behind the cars that had tipped over.
Trains started coming down other tracks, but I no longer had time to watch. A Mogat soldier climbed from the wreckage of the train that Philips derailed. The train had come to a stop less than a hundred yards from us, so I could see blood smeared on the man’s face and tunic. The train was lying on its side, and he popped out of a door, headfirst, like a prairie dog popping out of its hole.