And then I wasn’t. Just before he fired, his body lurched backwards, his arm flying upward, spraying the air with fire. The top half of his body twisted to the right, the bottom to the left. He wasn’t cut in half, not quite, but he fell in a gruesome heap, half a meter from where I was laying. Standing there, silhouetted against the reddish light, was the lieutenant, his arm raised, bloodied blade extended. He sliced its edge, a single molecule thick, into my would-be killer’s side, driven with all the enhanced power his suit’s servo-mechanicals could deliver.
I was laying there in shock, thinking I should thank the lieutenant when his voice boomed into my headset. “Get the hell up, Jax!” His voice was still calm, but even his even tone was affected by the stress of battle. “This isn’t time for a nap.”
He jogged past me without another word, leveling his mag-rifle and shooting down half a dozen Janissaries who were coming over the rock wall and taking aim at the auto-cannon. Glenn was firing that alone, targeting the second wave of enemy troops still emerging from the smoke and advancing on our position. Langon was down. I didn’t know then, but he taken a hit early. His suit’s auto-repair managed to close the breach, saving his life for all of ten minutes. He took a second hit, this time in the neck, and he fell to the ground, dead.
I climbed up to my feet, watching the lieutenant for a second. I glanced over the rock wall – there were no troops approaching my position, so I spun to the left. All along the line there were Janissaries pouring up and over the broken ridge. It was a confused melee, with point blank fire and blade fights. The Caliphate troops had their own version of the molecular blade, and it was longer and more effective than ours. They trained with it more than we did too, and they thought they could beat us in a hand to hand fight. But our close range fire drill was very effective, and not many of them got close enough to one of our troops to force a knife fight.
The snipers played a key role too, picking off enemy officers and non-coms, targeting them even when they stood centimeters away from our own troops. Our sniper tactics and training were light-years ahead of theirs, and it showed. This range was child’s play to the sharpshooters, and they scored hit after hit. The company’s three snipers went a long way toward helping us cope with the enemy numbers.
Still, we were gradually being pushed back from the ridgeline. The enemy’s third wave came pouring over the rocks, and we had nothing left to face them. I was standing against the outcropping, with enemy troops climbing over to my right and left. I crouched down and fired as they came over, facing left for a second than switching to the right. I heard the autoloader slamming my last clip into place, and I knew things would be over soon. We were being overrun at every point, and enemy troops were racing to the rear. The snipers’ positions were compromised, and one by one they were taken out.
I was determined to go down fighting and not panic, but it’s hard to stay cool when you know you’re likely to die any instant. I just kept firing, bursts now to conserve my last ammo, and somehow I didn’t get hit. My heart was pounding and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. I just kept fighting, waiting for the inevitable end. My resolve was strong, but my mind wandered. I wondered if it would hurt. Would I die in an instant, never knowing what hit me? Or in agony, bleeding into my armor, choking on the toxic Tombstone atmosphere?
I was so focused I wasn’t even watching the scanner. If I had been I would have seen them. Reinforcements, a whole company, running forward with blades out, into the melee. The enemy, weakened by the staggering losses they had already taken, turned to face the new threat. But now they were on the defensive, their momentum lost. They fought bitterly, but in the end our fresh reserves were too much for them. The troops who’d made it over the ridge were almost entirely wiped out and their reserve waves, seeing that the attack had failed, retreated.
It was the first significant battle I’d been in, and we’d won. I was glad, but I didn’t feel the elation I’d expected, just crushing fatigue, and the somber realization of the losses we’d suffered. As the adrenalin and anger subsided, the pain and sadness took its place. It had been a hard several days, but we’d proven our worth. And we’d met the Janissaries head on and bested them.
It had been a difficult and costly day, but it wasn’t over yet. The enemy had spent their strength on that last attack and, while we were just as battered, we’d managed to stabilize our greatly thinned line. A counterattack was out of the question, but we were in good shape to repel anything they had left to throw at us. Nevertheless, both sides remained on their respective ridges, trading sporadic long-range fire.
The lieutenant walked over to me, crouched low behind the ridge. He was working his way down the reduced frontage of the vastly shrunken platoon, checking on each of us. There were only fifteen of us left in the line, though of the 35 casualties, about 20 were wounded or suffering from suit malfunctions. Maybe ten were wounded lightly enough that they’d be treated right here on Tombstone and return to duty fairly quickly. The rest would be shipped off to one of the Marine hospitals, probably Armstrong, and likely be reassigned elsewhere when they recovered.
A unit is an odd thing; it has a life of its own. The traditions, history, and achievements create a culture that survives, even as the soldiers themselves come and go. The men and women die or get reassigned, but the unit goes on, remaining much the same as it was as long as it doesn’t lose too many people too quickly. With about half of the personnel still standing or likely to return soon, I was confident the platoon would remain the place I’d come to think of as home. Especially with the lieutenant. I knew he’d make sure it stayed the same place.
He was about ten meters from me when it happened. He was facing in my direction, walking right toward me. He was very hands on, and he wanted to see firsthand that each of us was OK. He was just passing a section of the rocky wall that dipped low, forcing him to crouch further down to stay in cover. I saw it all, and to this day I remember it as it were in slow motion.
He turned suddenly. I don’t know if someone from behind commed him and he instinctively turned or he saw something on his scanner, but he spun around, and when he did he came up out of his crouch. It was careless, a small slip made by the most careful and consistent man I’d ever met. That one time he lost his focus, let his guard slip. One small mistake that 99 times out of 100 would have been harmless. But that day it was tragic.
I saw his head snap back hard. His body seemed suspended in the air, though I know that is just my memory of it. He crumpled and fell, sliding down the slight embankment and landing on his back.
I rushed over, screaming into the com for a medic as I did. I can’t remember if I kept my own head down in my panic, but if I was careless, my fortune was stronger that day than the lieutenant’s. He was lying with his head on the low side of the slope. I reached over and cradled his upper body, lifting his head as I did.
The sniper’s shot had struck him in the neck, tearing a huge gash in his armor. The suit’s repair circuits had managed to patch the breach with self-expanding polymer, and while it didn’t look too secure, it was keeping out Tombstone’s heat and toxins for the moment.
But the wound itself was mortal. In a hospital he could have been easily saved. If I could have opened his armor, a medic could probably have kept him alive until he was evac’d…even I might have managed it. But opening the suit would kill him on the spot, and the wound was just too much for the suit’s trauma control system, which was damaged by the shot and only partially functional.