When the Devil Dances

“We can’t do this, we can’t do this…” Mike heard. The circuit was open to the entire battalion and he was picking up bits and snatches of conversation. The suits were protected by the cover of the top of the hill, with only their guns elevated above the crest. But a plasma cannon or hypervelocity missile fired from the far side of the other valley could tear through the ground and take them out with just a couple of hits. For that matter, the number of Posleen meant that some of them were bound to make it through the fire, if for no other reason than that others were masking them. And once the Posleen got to hand-to-hand range, their boma blades could get through the armor. Not to mention point-blank cannon and railgun fire.

“Steady down,” Mike said. He’d turned off the unpleasant view and had pulled up the schematics again. They were saying the same thing, but the view wasn’t so visceral. “Steady down, keep your barrels low and maintain fire dispersion.” He glanced at his readouts and chuckled. “The good news is that even we can’t miss.” Because of the automation of the systems and the fact that the ACS was designed to “spew” fire, it was an article of faith among the conventional forces that they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

“Major,” said Captain Holder. “We’re getting heavily flanked to the north. It’s not like they’re meaning to do it, but that’s where they’re being pushed.”

“I’m aware of that, Captain,” O’Neal said calmly. The numbers on Bravo did not look good. They had twice the separation, which meant half the fire pressure, that the rest of the battalion did. And in the face of forty million Posleen the main battalion’s fire lanes seemed woefully inadequate. For that matter, Bravo had already expended forty percent of their onboard ammo. “Duncan, get all available fire in front of Bravo Company.”

“What about us, sir?” asked Captain Holder.

“Well,” Mike answered, “we’re just going to have to kill all these Posleen by our own selves.”

“We’re in the right place, though,” Mike whispered to himself. Shelly, correctly, didn’t transmit the mutterings. “We’ve got the heights, we’ve got the position, one flank, at least, is secure. We can do this. All we have to do is hang on.”

The majority of the Posleen directly in front of Alpha and Charlie company for a half kilometer or so had been killed by the explosion of the second lander. But that dead zone was quickly being filled up by the tremendous pressure from the rear. The Posleen, as normal, were coming on fast, hard and blind, charging right into the fire. But this time there were so many of them it might just work.

Mike had gamed out scenarios just about this bad and “won.” That is, some personnel survived and they held on long enough that the follow-on forces were able to get into position. But in this case he had no artillery support and the battalion was just too spread out. It didn’t take him long to calculate their odds of survival.

“Slim to none,” he muttered.

“Battalion,” he called. “All units lay down interlocking fire with your sharpshooters concentrating on the God Kings. Bravo, you need to tuck your corner in a little. All Reapers from all companies to the corner and dig in. All medics and technicians just became ammo runners; start ferrying ammo and power packs. And bring up the Reapers flechette cannons; I think this is going to end up being some close-in work.” He worked his dip and spat as the first hypervelocity missile flew overhead. Over the past five years he swore he’d used up his entire fund of motivating things to say at moments like this. “I can’t get my boots off to count on my toes, but if we win this one I do believe it will be one for the record books.”

CHAPTER 6 Rochester, NY, United States, Sol III 0817 EDT Sunday September 13, 2009 ad

Staff Sergeant Thomas (“Little Tommy”) Sunday realized that he just loved this shit too much.

He stepped off the platform attached to the side of the tenar and shot one of the Posleen in the head and smiled. The normal had been hacking at one of the pieces of shattered combat armor adorning the ridgeline. The extender for the suit’s grav-gun was blown away and Sunday couldn’t tell if the ACS trooper had tried fighting in direct view or if he’d been killed by one of Posleen at short range. Whatever, the position looked just about right for him to hunker down and do some killing of his own.

Reaching onto the tenar he hefted a two-hundred-pound battle-box in one hand and then marched up the hill, firing the twenty-pound railgun one-handed at any Posleen that showed its head over the ridge.