ATLAS 2 (ATLAS Series Book 2) (20 page)

I noticed most of the crabs had returned to the “sheathed” positions on the slugs, while the superbehemoths themselves moved in a way I hadn’t seen before, which reminded me of the lateral undulations of a snake—their bodies alternately flexed left and then right. Transversal muscular waves added to the forward motion, passing from head to tail with creepy regularity, at turns expanding and compressing their bodies.

“Got some good news,” Facehopper said over the comm. “Three parts. First, contact with the fleet has been restored. Second, the Chief reports the
Gerald R. Ford
is intact, and has taken out the enemy flotilla in its entirety. Third, all drop ships are cleared for return.”

“We’re going to evac
already
?” Dyson transmitted. “Sir?”

“We are,” Facehopper said. “We need to regroup, and rethink our strategy for another day. We’re losing too many assets.”

“So I got something on my mind,” Bender sent. I noticed he wasn’t in the amtrac, according to the HUD, but rather keeping pace some ways to the right. Dyson wasn’t aboard either, for that matter. “The
Gerald R. Ford
defeated the small flotilla you say? Wahoo baby and all that. But what happened to the rest of our fleet? The carriers sent against the Big Bad mofo?”

I glanced at the horizon behind me. The Skull Ship remained in place, hovering against the twilit sky. It was hard to imagine anything sent against that ship had succeeded in any way.

“No news on the remainder of the fleet,” Facehopper replied, rather curtly.

We reached the insert site and the amtracs started unloading. The Marines hurried to the drop ships in orderly groups. The crafts assigned to the units were marked out on each member’s aReal, so everyone knew exactly where to go. The robot support troops still on our side went off to their own drop vehicles. I remembered how many HS3 scouts had been present when we’d first landed. I only spotted maybe five of the basketball-sized HS3s in total now.

The remaining Abrams and Equestrians dispersed at maximum speed onto the plains behind us, because, like the ATLAS mechs, they utilized booster rockets for the return trip.

None of the ATLAS 5s themselves were yet retreating to those boosters, I noted.

“The order is coming in,” Facehopper said over the comm as he and Tahoe jumped down from the amtrac. “ATLAS 5s are to remain behind until all drop assets have lifted off. If you are in an ATLAS mech, do not proceed to the booster rockets. Protect the drop vehicles.” He glanced significantly at me.

“I’ll give them hell, sir,” I said.

Facehopper’s gaze lingered on Dragonfly’s sparking, severed limb. “Are you sure, mate?”

“I’m not out of the fight. Not by a long shot.”

“I’m staying with Rade.” Tahoe took a step toward me.

Facehopper extended a blocking arm. “No. You’re not.”

Tahoe maneuvered past Facehopper and continued toward me.

Facehopper jumped him from behind. The two scuffled in their strength-enhanced exoskeletons and in moments Facehopper had Tahoe restrained and weaponless on the ground.

“You insubordinate little shit,” Facehopper said. “Ever heard the expression, don’t bring a knife to a gunfight? If you don’t have a mech, you don’t stay, mate. It’s as simple as that. Now move before I have your dumb ass court-martialed.”

Tahoe got up, abandoning his heavy gun on the ground.

“Take your weapon, Mr. Eaglehide,” Facehopper told him.

Chastened, Tahoe retrieved the weapon.

“Now get to the DV.”

Tahoe jogged toward the assigned Delivery Vehicle with hunched shoulders.

“Sorry about that, mate,” Facehopper said to me over the comm after a moment. “Someday Tahoe will understand why I did that.”

“Yeah.” I felt bad for Tahoe. He just wanted to stay and help me. I would’ve wanted to do the same for him.

“Now listen: Most of the ATLAS 5 booster payloads landed to the northwest. Do you see them on your map?”

I zoomed out on my map, and saw the flashing blue dots that indicated the payloads. “I see them. I can make it.”

Facehopper’s eyes dropped to Dragonfly’s sparking limb once more. A bit doubtfully, I thought.

“See you topside, sir,” I said before he could add anything further, or change his mind. “You owe me a beer next liberty.”

“I owe you more than a beer.” He gazed past me, at the growing group of ATLAS 5s forming a perimeter beyond the amtracs and DVs. “There are a couple of other MOTHs out there. You’re not alone. You’re never alone. Stick together. Watch each other’s backs. And always remember: you’ve had it worse. This is damn well luxurious compared to some of the crap we’ve been in.” With that, Facehopper cut communications and ran after Tahoe toward the designated DV.

I approached the line of ATLAS 5s that had taken up defensive positions along the edge of the insert site. The mechs were distributed in a zigzag pattern, about ten meters apart. Each one had burrowed into the shale, and lay prostrate, with the ballistic shield held out in front at a downward angle. The position of those shields ensured only a small portion of each mech was exposed, namely the barrel of the weapon held by the other hand. The video feed from the scopes of either the Gats or the serpents could be fed directly to the cockpit, so the pilots wouldn’t even have to peer around the edges of the shields to aim. The angle of the shields also encouraged the upward deflection of incoming bullets, away from the mechs.

Basically we were forming a line of one-man, mobile machine gun bunkers.

It was a good thing the enemy didn’t have air-strike capability. If they’d dropped some Napalm D, they would’ve easily routed us from our makeshift dugouts. It was what we would have done when faced with a similar situation.

At a glance, most of the mechs in the defensive line seemed just as battered as my own. Some had arms and other pieces missing. One ATLAS 5 had half its head blown off. And judging from the vitals I saw next to each mech on my aReal, more than a few of the pilots inside were wounded. Some seriously.

Yet they all fought on.

I marched toward a mech labeled “Bender-Rocketman” on my aReal.

“Hey, Rocketman,” I sent him over the comm. “I’d quote a line from the song here, but you know, copyright issues.”

“You don’t even
know
any lines from the song,” Bender retorted.

“And you do?”

No answer.

I nodded at his mech. “Hope the owner gave it to you willingly.”

“Hey, what are you trying to say, bitch? The dude was dead.” Bender’s face appeared in the upper left of my aReal courtesy of a vidlink overlay. “What happened to your arm?”

“Had a little tangle with an ATLAS 6,” I told him.

“You serious?” Bender said. “I didn’t think the SK bitches brought any with them.”

“They didn’t.”

“Daaamn. Who won?”

“Since I’m still standing, I think it’s pretty obvious.”

Bender chuckled. “Yeah man, but with one arm, that only counts as half a win.”

“A win’s a win, whether your mech comes out of it with one arm or two.”

“If you say so,” Bender answered.

I started digging in behind him. “You get to be my shield today.” Since I had only one arm, I couldn’t have a weapon and shield active at the same time. I’d have to choose one or the other, and to be effective I’d chosen the Gatling gun, which meant my ATLAS 5 remained unshielded. I didn’t think I’d be able to burrow deep enough into the shale to protect my whole body. Hence, I’d have to share Bender’s ballistic shield.

“Hell no!” Bender said. “I ain’t being no one’s goddamn human shield! Find someone else to make a bigger target with.”

I knew him well enough by now to realize that was his way of agreeing, albeit grudgingly, so I ignored him and continued digging in.

“Bitch,” he sent.

“Hey,” I transmitted. “You’re the one who’s my bitch. I’m in back, after all.”

Though his vid feed had cut out, I could imagine his disgusted expression. “Don’t go all gay on me.”

After I’d settled in, I aimed my weapon over Bender’s shield, and transferred the vid feed from my Gatling to the cockpit and surveyed the battle space from the weapon’s point of view.

The line of possessed mechs and robots had halted a short distance beyond weapons range. The enemy front appeared to be waiting for the slugs to catch up. That they even knew about weapons range was telling. I had a feeling more than a few of those Phants had possessed human-designed robots before.

“Hold your fire,” came a voice over the comm channel we’d put together for the ATLAS units. I saw the speaker’s name at the bottom of my HUD: Sergeant Crabbuster.

Nice.

“We’re going to bust some crabs for you, sir!” someone joked over the comm.

When the three superslugs reached the ranks of the possessed robots, the enemy line moved forward in a coordinated advance.

None of the targets were in range. Not yet.

I switched to Dragonfly’s POV and glanced up and down our lines. I viewed the name and rank of each pilot on my aReal. Privates, sergeants, and corporals from across the three allied nations. Brave, brave men. Thirty-three of us in total.

The enemy meanwhile had at least a hundred robots, half of them ATLAS 5s. They also had the superslugs and their attached crabs.

We were vastly outnumbered.

But what the enemy had in numbers, we made up for in heart. Not to mention skill. We’d invested countless hours over the past few years training inside these mechs. The possessed ATLAS 5s? The most time any of the Phants had had to practice was two months. We outclassed them.

At least, that’s what I believed.

Hoped.

“Dammit,” someone said over the comm. “Those drop ships are sure taking their time.”

I swiveled to look. The drop ships had been arrayed in a rough circle, and the closer crafts had already departed. Marines were still loading into the remaining drop vehicles, and some of the soldiers on foot still had a ways to go.

Apparently the order to withhold air strikes had lifted, because just then two gunships swept overhead. I switched my view back to my Gatling, and watched the gunships strafe targets.

The enemy line easily shot down both gunships. One of the pilots managed to steer his rapidly descending craft into the possessed ranks, taking out two enemy ATLAS 5s in the crash.

I checked the vital signs of the gunships’ occupants: dead. It was horrible to think it, but it was almost better that way, because we wouldn’t have to worry about mounting a risky rescue.

A shuttle darted in from the side and loosed a few hellfires at the enemy ranks, and as it passed high overhead it dropped a couple of cluster bombs, one of them incendiary.

The ground shook as the shockwave passed over my position, and a massive fireball plumed from the enemy front, covering the skies.

I saw the glowing liquid of Phants spew out from that plume and splash the no-man’s land between our opposing sides. That none of it reached our ranks was sheer luck.

Then a voice came over the comm. “I’ve lost control!”

So much for sheer luck.

On the far right flank, Gatling fire erupted.

“Eject, Marley!” someone said. “Eject!”

More Gatling fire. One of the green dots on my HUD turned black.

“Target eliminated,” a grieved voice came over the comm.

“Rightmost units, reposition,” Sergeant Crabbuster transmitted. “Move away from the liquid seeping from that mech on the double!”

Overhead, the shuttle pulled away. Either the pilots had seen the unintended side effects of their bombing run, or someone had told them to get the hell away.

The enemy front was well within range now.

“Engage!” Sergeant Crabbuster sent over the comm.

I started picking off the weaker Praetors and Centurions with my Gatling. Some of them were on fire from the jellied gasoline splashed by the incendiary bomb, and I could see the glowing mist of Phants around the brain cases of the smaller units as the heat converted the alien entities to vapor.

Other defenders along the line were opening fire as well. Gatlings unleashed. Serpents launched.

Many of the possessed ATLAS 5s knew how to use their ballistic shields, and they provided cover to the weaker units beside them. Some of the possessed mechs fired off Trench Coats in response to the incoming rockets. Most of the enemy combatants simply returned fire. They were spread out in a wide line. All the better to outflank us.

Up and down our zigzagging ranks, defenders launched Trench Coats in response to incoming missiles.

The superslugs surged forward, through the enemy front, drawing fire away from the robot units. Connected by their “ripcords,” crabs started plunging from the slugs. Most of the crabs touched down in the battlefield in front of us, but some managed to land right in our midst.

I covered Bender, protecting him from crabs while he concentrated on the more dangerous robots. We made a surprisingly good team.

“Sinkhole on our six!” someone said over the comm. Directly behind us.

I swiveled around, switching my vision to Dragonfly’s perspective.

Another sinkhole had indeed opened up in the middle of the insertion site. Two slugs and their respective crabs had emerged, and were harassing the drop ships we were assigned to protect. These slugs were smaller, roughly half as big as the behemoths, and their crabs were a quarter the size of my mech. Still, they wreaked havoc upon the Delivery Vehicles, despite the Gatling guns those crafts employed in defense. There were just too many of them.

As I watched, a slug plowed into two DVs, knocking them over. The crabs from it swarmed the vehicles. Claws ripped into the fuselage, mandibles tore out squirming human bodies and promptly ripped them apart.

“Marines, hold the line!” I sent over the comm. “MOTHs, on me!”

I clambered to my feet. Along our ranks, five ATLAS mechs, including Bender’s, rose from the shale and joined me. I had hoped for more, but five MOTHs were the equivalent of ten ordinary men as far as I was concerned. Dyson, surprisingly enough, was the other MOTH from Alfa; the remaining three were from Bravo platoon.

“Dyson, what the hell are you doing in an ATLAS?” Bender sent. “Actually never mind. Just watch where you put your unskilled ass. I ain’t coming back for you if you go down.”