“For Christ sake, start acting like Marines, not like a bunch of fucking girl scouts… although on second thought that might be an insult to them, they could do it a hell of a sight better, now move out!”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate your assistance.” The Lt still looked a little shaken.
“No trouble at all, sir. We all have to learn. Your orders?” Sharon kept his face perfectly straight; keeping in mind that this was the Lieutenant’s first time in combat.
“Let’s take it a little easier from here on. The Thrakee are a lot closer than HQ thinks.”
“As I said, sir. I’m sure we’ll run into them again soon. That was probably just a scouting party from the main group.”
“I hope you’re right, Sergeant. We just got our asses kicked.” He wiped a trembling hand across his forehead.
“We’ll just have to work out better tactics, sir.”
“Right, of course… what do you suggest?”
“Well, sir, you’re in charge, but I’d suggest tightening up on the point people. They should have seen something and given us a warning.”
“Yeah. I think I’ll have a few words with them.” He did, venting his fear and frustration out on them and threatening to shoot them the next time they let the troops walk into an ambush.
They moved off again, a little more cautious this time, and with none of the joking and horse play of the morning. Sharon nodded to himself. They were starting to learn. What none of the recruits knew was that the supposed ‘dead’ and seriously wounded had been immediately sedated by the combat medics and ferried back to the MASH unit. They would be kept that way for a day before being revived and told they’d been treated for something minor and then they’d be sent back to the front line, this time to a different training unit. With so many units on the battlefield it was easy to keep hidden the fact that no one had died, or had been seriously injured for a long time. By the time any of them returned to their original units, few would remember them at all.
“Yeah, but how come our gallant point men didn’t see the ambush?” Someone growled.
“The Lt is having a word with them about that, as will you this evening I suspect.”
Back into the skirmish line, they started again, leap frogging across the open fields in the classic scoot, and shoot maneuver. This time they took advantage of every bit of cover they could find, ducking for cover and firing back the moment the first plasma bolt streaked across the field. Only three troopers were hit, none ‘critical’ this time. They were learning the hard lessons of war fast; even if the recruits didn’t know the bolts were low powered, they still hurt like hell. Still that was better than actually getting wounded or killed. For five days, they moved up country, alternating between watchful, weary boredom, to the sheer panic of the short vicious firefights. By day five, all of them had been wounded multiple times, but by day ten, less and less of them were getting hit as they learned the art of war, even the replacements. When they came off the shuttle the third and fourth time they moved right into their assigned positions with little muss and none of the wide eyed ‘what the fuck is going on’ look that most FNG’s had. They knew just where the shit was coming from, and what to do about it. There were the occasional questions and puzzled looks when they bivouacked at night, but most just wanted to eat their MRE’s and get what sleep they could before going on silent watch. Talking, even in a whisper brought blaster fire.
And so it went, day after day, bivouacking at night the best they could with what they had. It didn’t take long for the would-be Marines to figure out the best way to protect themselves and their teammates from the pouring rain, or freezing cold. Fire team discipline got better and they started acting as a unit rather than a bunch of recruits looking out for themselves. By the fourth week, their ‘casualty’ rate was down to one or two ‘injured’ per firefight, much to the delight of Staff Sergeant Sharon. At first, he’d been a little skeptical of the new training methods as they were so out of character from what he’d grown up with. Their new high command didn’t give a damn about marching up and down, or dress parades, feeling they could fill in those gaps when needed. Colonel Ellis and Colonel Cassidy wanted trained fighting men as fast as they could, and the only way to do that was to give them a simulated war as close to the real thing as possible. True combat has a way of weeding out the incompetent or just plain unlucky very quickly. Here at least they’d get to learn from their mistakes rather than being sent home in a body bag. Here they had a vicious, tenacious enemy to fight, made more so by whatever was controlling the ‘training’ ground. If the real enemy were as tough as these simulated warriors, his men could take them, but he wasn’t about to fall into the trap of underestimating his enemy. That had proved the downfall of more than one army in the past, be it human, or alien. Yet no matter who they were fighting, the ROE’s were the same. As one Earth General, George Patten said, let the enemy die for what he believes in, not you’… Tactics were the key, and never fight the enemy the same way twice. If you did that, the other side would soon learn to exploit your weaknesses and use them against you. Each time his training brigade encountered the Thrakee they changed their plan of attack as his squadron commanders came up with ever changing methods of taking an enemy position. Gradually the training groups joined up and started fighting together as a unit, so that by the end of the fourth month, they’d started to work and act as an army. Several times, Richard Penn and General Marks turned up to see the progress, pleased at what they found. The ‘training’ ground they were using, obligingly provided by ‘Michael’, had all the possible and impossible combat scenarios the human mind could dream up. With thousands of years of combat experience to draw on, that was a lot.
“I don’t see any tanks, Richard.”
“You won’t. The back room boys ran hundreds of scenarios and came to the conclusion that we didn’t need the added strain on resources to come up with our own tanks. The ones the Imperials are using only have a limited value, and are very dependent on terrain. Open savanna, steppes or fields is about the only place they can use them except as semi mobile artillery. Marshy or boggy ground, jungle or mountains and their weight works against them. Also, most bridges were never meant to carry something with the weight of a tank, and the same goes for deep or swift running rivers.”
“True, but they make great mobile artillery batteries.” Penn shook his head.
“Only for line of sight with energy cannons. If they are static, between the fly-eyes and drones, the artillery can stop them and destroy them even if they are on the move.” He reached over and touched a control of the console they were standing next to. “Watch.”
The giant screen lit up to show several hundred Imperial MTB’s moving across some open farmland. Hovering over them was a thin cloud of fly-eyes and small drones and before they’d moved more than a hundred yards across the open ground, the ground in front of them blossomed upward in hundred foot high fountains of dirt and debris.
“Once spotted by the Marines, and their position sent back by the fly-eyes and drones, the artillery or MRL dropped a barrage of cratering rounds ahead of the tank formation.”
“Youch!” General Marks barked as dozens of deep craters appeared ahead of the tanks, some as much as sixty feet deep. Predictably, several tanks fell in before their drivers could halt the massive tanks. With the number of craters in front and around them, they were trapped. The moment they came to a halt, the artillery boys dropped armor piecing rounds on their heads, and within moments, all but a few were smoking wrecks.
“On top of that, they came up with MANPAT, or M-PATS, man-portable antitank-defense-systems. Even with limited anti-gravity capability and some shielding, imperial tanks are vulnerable in several places. It didn’t take long to figure out where to hit them.” Penn smiled as he watched the simulation, seeing the next generation man portable anti-tank missiles go into action.”
“But what about their POLS, point of origin location system? That will pinpoint the launch location of the missiles in a split second. After that, they’ll rain hell down on their heads. They have fly-eyes as well.”
“True, our troops found that out the hard way during the invasion. The little wrinkle with these is, you don’t fire them at the enemy. Each comes with a swarm of tiny fly-eyes, which seek out a tank, or bunker and relay its position back to the missile. You can be up to twenty miles away, and fire it in the opposite direction. The missile takes off, circles around staying low, flying nap-of-the-earth and then… Well let me show you.” Penn keyed up another video, and General Marks watched the new generation of anti tank and bunker busting munitions in action.
The first thing he noted was that the missile was traveling incredibly fast and very close to the ground. The first missile streaked into the rear of the tank and took out the power plant, effectively killing the tank. The second also streaked in, except at the last second, it shot skyward to the vanishing point before returning and slamming into and through the thin, vulnerable roof hatch. The moment it did, the tank seemed to disintegrate outward in an expanding ball of shattered metal and ceramic.
“With the built in computer, you can pick the exact spot where you want to hit the beasties, including, as you saw, up and straight down onto the top of the turret. It’s traveling so fast that not even their air defense can stop it.”
“Given time they can figure out a way.”
“True, but we aren’t going to give them time. The research boys are already working on the next generation of M-PATS and MANPADS, man-portable air-defense systems”
“Damn! I wish we'd had those…” The General trailed off, but Richard knew what he was thinking. If they’d had the weapons they had now, back when the Empire invaded, a lot of people would still be alive.
“They’ll pay the debt soon enough, General. By the way, what’s our failure rate?”
“So, so.” Marks answered, looking pensive. “Those we find that get ‘killed’ too many times in combat we recycle to the rear. An army needs fitters, armorers, cooks, and an assortment of REMF to keep everything moving in the right direction.”
Penn nodded, understanding the logic. There were always people in combat who just seemed to have no luck at all, and no matter how much they tried, they just didn’t have whatever it was to stay alive in combat. Call it luck, brains, or a death wish. Even so, their services could still be used in the rear as part of the HQ Company, and rear area supply, maintenance, and sundry support positions.
“How are we doing overall?”
“I’d say great. We are still receiving a steady stream of volunteers from around the planet, so our training staff is working around the clock. This new training program works well, as by the time they get to the end, so to speak we’ll have fully integrated, and battle trained Marines. With luck, I’ll have ten to fifteen thousand of them ready by the end of the year.”
“Which year?” Richard asked with a smile.
“Shit! I keep forgetting that we’re in a damned time bubble.” He laughed. “Damn! Won’t the Imperials be surprised when they come back.”
“They’ll probably wonder where we got a fully equipped army from.”
“That little wrinkle still takes some getting used to. Even if it takes the Empire five years to get back here, it won’t matter. By that time the Sol System will be one big trap. Their chances of getting boots on the ground again are slim to none, which makes me wonder why I’m building you an army in the first place?”
“Simple, we are going to go out there and kick some ass, General, and carve out a bit of the universe for ourselves.”
“Too right, we are.”
* * * * * *
Lieutenant Lewis looked at the fortified Thrakee position through his HUD with tired eyes. To him it felt like they’d been fighting forever and they still hadn’t pushed the damned lizards off planet.
“Fly-eye up, Lt.”
“Thanks, Ben.” Isaac Ben-Sharon smiled. Even after explaining to the Lt that ‘Ben’ in his name, as in many Jewish names means ‘son of’, he couldn’t get people out of the habit of calling him ‘Ben’. Not that Ben-Sharon minded, he was kind of getting used to the kid, as he listened and learned fast, unlike some others he’d tried to train.
“Now let’s see what we have.” Not much, as the first cloud of fly-eyes were flash burned out of the sky.
“Shit! Those effing mother-loving lizards are getting too smart for their own effing good.” Lewis snapped, turning his head to one side and spitting. “You’d think they couldn’t tell the difference between real bugs and our fly-eyes.” Thankfully the bug repellent spray they were issued with actually worked against real bugs that swarmed around them.
“So, what do we try next, Lt?” Ben-Sharon asked.
“We have any hawks left?”
“We do, two in fact.”
“Good, get them aloft and have them start from a long way off at high altitude. If we’re careful they won’t be able to tell the difference between them and the other hawks circling over them.”
“Unless they shoot them down for lunch.” Ben-Sharon laughed.
“There you go, raining all over my nice parade… again” Lewis sighed.
Ben-Sharon slapped him on the shoulder and slithered off through the wet underbrush to check on the rest of the squad. Lewis tracked him for a few moments but with the chameleon suit on active, he quickly vanished into the surrounding vegetation. If he couldn’t see him, it was doubtful the Thrakee could, especially at this distance. The Thrakee were dug in on top of a scarp and even from here, it was possible to see some of their emplacements. The Thrakee had set up interlocking fields of fire with their heavy weapons, so crossing the two hundred yards of cleared ground between the edge of the forest and the top of the escarpment was out of the question. It was an open invitation to get all his Marines killed without gaining a foot of ground. The tricky bastards had learned their lessons well about not clearing a field of fire in front of their positions, and had paid the price in an earlier engagement. The word from ‘brass hat’ was never to attack the Thrakee the same way twice, and so far that advice had paid off. It also meant they had to think harder about ways to attack differently each time, a tall order after a while. They’d tried the feint and thrust, advancing under a hail of mortar and artillery fire and a half dozen different ways to attack the Thrakee defense positions. From the look of it, this was the lizard’s main LZ and initial landing point. Capture this base and the battle would be over, other than some cleaning up of wandering units. Flicking through the filters and frequencies, he muttered a soft curse. As if the heavy weapon emplacements weren’t enough, the Thrakee had a shield over the whole base. Not really unexpected for their main LZ, but frustrating. Pounding them with MRL and mortars was out of the question while the shield was up, so first they had to figure out a way to disable the shield. Moving back under cover, He went onto a vid conference with the other commanders and the Captain as they tried to find a way to crack this nut.