Wings of Steele- The Series, page 167
part #1 of Wings of Steele Series
“Then let's give them a little parting gift,” commented Dooby, opening the soft bag he'd been carrying around from the Dragonfly, retrieving a small glass cylinder about five inches long with metal ends, a shimmering blue-green substance swirling inside.
“What's that?” asked Dan, sliding up next to him, hoping for a grenade or something equally as devastating.
“A liquid bio-plasma system fuse,” he said, seeing disappointment in Dan's face. “Inert unless you expose it to atmosphere...” he smiled wryly, whacking the metal end on a rock. He checked the glass cylinder, shaking his head before striking it again. Satisfied with the crack he had created in the tube he cocked his arm back and threw it in the direction of the entrance like a quarterback throwing for the end zone. “They're under pressure,” he grunted, ducking down, pulling on Dan's sleeve to get him below the ridge.
A dull whump that could be felt to the core, accompanied an intense blue flash reaching out in a sphere, incinerated everything it touched; turning sand to glass, men to ash and metal to slag. Dan peered over the crest of the berm watching a lone survivor drag himself across the smoking sand, nearly naked, his legs gone below mid-thigh, meat cauterized with his bare femurs protruding from blackened stumps, most of his clothing flash-ignited off his body.
“Good. God...”
“They're attempting to flank around the outside...!” snarled Myomerr.
A chorus of blasts split the air, a stereo of low whistles screaming in from the left and right, prompting the group to retreat as far to the bottom between the ridges as they could get, the high explosive rounds from the tanks shaking the earth, sizable craters appearing in the outer berms on both sides of the maze.
Dan scrambled back to the top, followed by Dooby and Janine Luack, “Is everybody OK?”
“They're trying to breach the walls,” called Ivan, “if they do, we are finished.”
Closest to the outer wall of the maze on the right flank, the Frenchman, covered in dirt and sand, managed to claw his way to the top of his berm, staggering along its ridge, his eyes glazed over, blood running from his ears, dragging his carbine loosely by the barrel.
“Phillipe, get down from there!” screamed Janine Luack. “Phillipe! Get down! Phillipe...!”
Dan pulled her down by the arm, “He can't hear us...”
Dropping her carbine, Myomerr sprang up from cover and sprinted across the top of the berm; a blur running along its ridge, AK-47 rounds whizzing past all around her. The Frenchman staggered and stumbled, his body twitching, bullets passing through him before one struck something solid, pitching him backward out of sight.
Myomerr dove after him, sliding with him to the bottom between the berms, eight feet below the top of the ridges. Rising to one knee, she crouched over him looking at the blood splashed across his jumpsuit, trying to access his injuries. “My friend gave her life to save you. You are not allowed to die...” Hearing the roar of the tanks' cannons, she threw herself over the Frenchman and covered her ears with her hands. The concussion of the high explosive rounds on the outside of the maze bounced her bodily off the ground and covered the defenseless pair with nearly a foot of sand and rocks, stunning her into semi-consciousness.
Pressing herself into a kneeling position, it took Myomerr a moment to get her bearings and regain her senses, her ears ringing, her head buzzing. But the hereditary huntress in her had not lost her sense of smell... she knew he was there before he realized what he was seeing.
■ ■ ■
The figure rose out of the sand, its back to the Iranian soldier, a head of hair like a lion's mane, wild platinum and gray striped fur. When the figure turned to look at him, dressed in a dark-gray flight suit of some kind, the Iranian soldier froze, stunned to see a human tigress with bared fangs snarling at him, steely platinum-gray eyes staring through him, unblinking. It didn't immediately register as real in his mind, it was beyond his meager comprehension. Not truly wanting to look away, knowing he shouldn't look away, he hazarded a glance over his shoulder for support from someone, anyone, in his squad. When he looked back, he'd realized his mistake, but it was too late for him. In a low-ready position, he tried to raise the muzzle of his AK-47, but the sling over his shoulder slowed his response and she was almost on him at a full run, arms outstretched, claws extended, teeth bared, emitting a bone-chilling, gut-wrenching snarl. She caught the fore-grip of his rifle, her nails digging into the wood, redirecting the barrel and passed him shoulder-to-shoulder, yanking and turning him around as she ran up the berm perpendicular to the ground, then down, spinning on her feet and using her momentum, swinging him, slamming him face-first into the opposite berm with bone-crushing force. Torn from his grasp, she pulled the rifle behind his back and choked him with the sling, her knee between his shoulder blades for leverage, wrenching the rifle violently, breaking his neck.
■ ■ ■
Freeing the sling from the body, Myomerr had yet to figure out how the primitive weapon worked when a second soldier appeared, yelling for support. Holding the rifle by the barrel, she launched herself, using the weapon like a baseball bat, connecting with his jaw in a home-run swing, the heavy wood stock destroying bone in a sickening crunch, spraying blood and flying teeth. He stumbled backwards and fell on his back, unconscious, his own AK-47 flung wide.
Retreating back to where Phillipe lay, Myomerr fumbled clumsily with the rifle. Frustration overtaking reason, she grabbed it by the barrel and flung it overhand with both hands at the approaching footfalls, the rifle cartwheeling through the air end-over-end like an axe. Its weight dropped it to the ground too soon and the Iranian soldier coming to the call of his fallen squad mate kicked it harmlessly aside. Roaring with her teeth bared as she tore at the hybrid 1911 charged particle blaster holstered in her chest rig, she knew it was going to come down to who shot first.
Unsure of what manner of human deviltry he was witnessing, the soldier took a step back, his confidence shaken after seeing the nearly faceless soldier on the ground. Hesitation in combat is deadly. The moment her 1911 cleared its holster, two more soldiers appeared and she knew the tables had turned against her. But Ketarians aren't known for surrendering – in fact, there wasn't even a word for it in their vocabulary, though they understood the concept. Flattening against a minor depression in the wall of the berm, she sighted one-handed as the 1911 vibrated with each squeeze of her finger; pom, pom, pom...
Her hearing returned in a rush of sounds; the bark and metallic clacking of the AK-47s, the sound of her own particle blaster, the AK rounds whizzing past her... and the whistle of a laser carbine on full auto, a cloud of magenta streaks coming from high and behind her. In a blink it was quiet again, the soldiers cut to pieces by laser fire and charged particle projectiles. The respite was sure to be temporary and short-lived.
“Get your ass up here!” shouted Dan Murphy, peering over the ridge behind her, ejecting his carbine's power cartridge into the dirt and slapping in a fresh one.
The Ketarian turned and sprinted, holstering her handgun on the run, detouring halfway up the side-berm on the way, scooping up Phillipe's carbine from where he'd dropped it. She dove over the ridge past Dan and they both slid to the bottom together on the other side. There was no time for thank you's or discussion, they were in danger of being overrun.
“Phillipe?”
“Dead...”
Scrambling up the next berm, Dan looked back over his shoulder in the direction of the fight, seeing new arrivals, “Dooby! We have more company! Make some noise!”
Dooby smacked another bio-plasma system fuse on the rock next to his knee, “Going out...!”
■ ■ ■
“Skipper, our sensors are picking up a series of small plasma emissions.”
Commander Dar Sloane shot his EWO a glance. “Where?”
“Bearing two-fifty-eight.”
Dar keyed his mic, “Zulu One to Rescue Two; you seeing any plasma traces, Fidos?”
“Affirmative, Commander. Just picked one up at about thirty miles off our port side.”
“Vector us in,” Dar ordered his EWO.
“Aye. Come to a heading of two-forty-one...”
The Commander keyed his mic, “All birds come to a heading of two-forty-one. Weapons hot; choose your targets carefully, we have friendlies down there somewhere. Rescue Two, drop back a bit.”
Nera Margareth lead White Flight through a high yo-yo, pulling up, rolling and turning back, dropping from altitude to the new heading at a five-hundred feet, ahead of Zulu One and Rescue Two. She glanced down at the pale sand passing below them, a dark stripe ahead, cutting across it at an angle. “You heard the Commander, no mistakes.”
Flipping scan frequency from IR to pulse magnetic, Torn Dado caught the two helicopters as they skimmed the desert ahead. “White Two... I've got two craft called; AH-1 SeaCobra - described as combat rotary craft, on an intersecting course. Altitude, two-hundred feet, and below two-hundred miles an hour. No other details available...”
“Copy that, White Two,” replied Nera Margareth. “Approaching coordinates, we'll do an assessment pass first... Eyes open, people.”
■ ■ ■
The Israeli looked a Myomerr over his shoulder, “Where is Philippe?”
“Dead,” replied the Ketarian without looking up, checking the level of charge in the carbine she was holding.
“We need to go get him!” urged Janine Luack.
Myomerr looked up, her head tilted to one side, “But he is dead.”
“We can't just leave him out there...”
Myomerr's feline ears twitched, rotating in agitation, “I am afraid I do not understand your obsession in risking a live body for a dead one...”
Ivan could hear them before he could see them, “Helicopters!” he croaked, his voice hoarse from yelling and the blistering heat and sand.
Dan caught the sun's reflection off the cockpit canopies coming from the west, “Over there,” he pointed. Skinny bodies...”
AirCobras,” offered Ivan.
“SeaCobras,” corrected Avi, “Iran has SeaCobras...”
Dan looked confused, his eyes flicking from Ivan to Avi and back again, “I thought only the U.S. had Cobra gunships.”
The Israeli shook his head, “Back in the 1970's when America was friendly with Iran, and the Shah was still in power, Iran was allowed to purchase American equipment...”
“Then we're screwed,” groaned Dan.
“Three barrel 20 mm XM197 cannon, Aim 9M Sidewinder missiles and either AGM114 Hellfire missiles, or 70mm Hydra rocket pods...” offered Avi.
“Gee thanks,” sighed Dan, “that makes me feel better...”
“It does?”
Exasperated, Dan Murphy blinked slow with a sigh, “Nooo, I'm being sarcastic.”
Myomerr watched the troops withdraw from the maze in a hurry. “There they go again.”
Fountains of sand danced across the desert surface just outside the maze walking toward them at an alarming rate, 20mm explosive rounds from the XM197 chin turret thumping the ground, leaving little smoking craters.
“Down! Everybody down!”
Huddled all together at the bottom of the trench, they were either going to survive together or die together. The 20mm rounds thumped the outside of the berm, sand raining down upon the group, accompanied by an ear-splitting bone-shaking explosion that pushed down on their bodies and squeezed the air from their lungs, sucking the oxygen away, leaving them gasping. Rockets, it had to be rockets...
The Earth bounced them off the ground like rag dolls as the left berm collapsed in on them, the ridge above them exploding, accompanied by the sound of screaming metal, crushing glass and flying debris, smoke and fire.
Numb, dazed and with ears ringing, it was a fight to claw and scramble free of the avalanche of sand and rock, crawling and stumbling over one another. There was no telling how much time had passed, whether they had been unconscious or not... Crawling on all fours, Dan wasn't sure if the metallic clom, clom, clom, sound of hoof-beats was his heartbeat inside his head or something else. He could feel it through his hands as well... He staggered to his feet, “Is everyone alright?!” He knew he was talking loud, but he could barely hear himself, his senses reeling.
Thunder split the sky and he ducked out of reflex, a heavy wave of compressed air pushing down on him, threatening to drive him back to his knees. The world around them, out of sight from their vantage point, sounded like all-out war; artillery strikes specked with small arms fire.
Heavy clouds of smoke drifted over the top of the ridges, blotting out most of the cloudless sky and it was a tempting thought to just hide where they were and wait it out. But waiting to get overrun or captured was not an option. Like it or not they were going to have to fight. Whether they would survive or not was anybody's guess.
Dan Murphy cleared the sand and grit off his carbine by banging on the side of it, looking at the faces around him, “Are we ready...?”
A dark metallic shape dropped down through the smoke, sliding down the face of the berm like a surfer riding a wave, a cascade of sand and gravel following it to the bottom with a heavy teeth-rattling thud, “AahWoo!”
Janine Luack screamed in terror when the heavily armored figure dropped into the trench ahead of them, looking like a six-and-a-half foot tank with legs, staring at them through a faceless gold visor.
“We'd prefer you stay put,” said Marine Warrant Officer, Dale Alaroot with a wave of an armored hand, his voice metallic through the suit's speakers.
Dan had swiveled to face the armored figure, the muzzle of his carbine following suit, “We who?” he asked suspiciously. Standing closest to him, Janine was on the verge of apoplexy, her eyes threatening to leave her head.
“Warrant Officer, Dale Alaroot,” replied Dale reaching out with an armored hand, index finger extended, gently guiding the muzzle of Dan's carbine in a safer direction.
“UFW Space Marines,” called another heavily armored Marine, dropping into the trench behind them with a dust-raising thud. “3rd Battalion, 347th Platoon...”
“Where did you come from? How many of you...”
“They're off the Conquest,” interrupted Myomerr.”
“There's four of us,” answered Dale, “we have a Dragonfly standing by to pick you up, but we have to secure the zone first.”
Dan raised an eyebrow, “Four? They have tanks and over fifty men...”
The Marine smiled inside his helmet, invisible to the others, “Heh-heh-heh,” he chortled, “not for long...”
“The helicopters...”
Dale Alaroot reached past Dan and tapped on the bent gun barrel of a SeaCobra's chin turret, sticking out of the berm behind him, “Oh, you don't have to worry about them. As it turns out, they're pretty fragile little fellas. Fell right out of the sky when White Flight passed over them on their recon run. They were only doing about 2500; but I guess these guys couldn't handle the shock wave.”
The second Marine tapped on his helmet, “WO, White Flight is reporting all armored targets are neutralized... Zulu One is remaining on station, White Flight returning to CAP.”
“Rescue Two?”
“Headed for the LZ.”
“We need to get going then. Have Rusty and Dagger police up enemy targets and cover us while we extract these folks,” waved Dale.
“Aye, aye, WO.” He turned and made his way back up the berm, “Rusty, Dagger, this is Tin Man...”
Dale turned back to Dan, “Are we missing someone?”
“We lost one of the astronauts on the other side of that berm there...” pointed Dan.
“And Maria didn't make it,” added Myomerr quietly, tears in her eyes.
Having consistently held it at the ready, the muzzle of Dale Alaroot's light machine gun dropped downward, pointing at the ground. He reached up with his free hand and touched the visor control on his helmet, the gold ballistic glass hissing as the seal released, sliding up and disappearing into a slot in the headgear, his face becoming visible in the opening. “Ahhhh, geez,” he winced in anguish. “How...?”
Myomerr took a deep breath, “She was pinned in the crash. She was... crushed.”
■ ■ ■
Commander Dar Sloane crabbed the Zulu gunship sideways across the highway, holding on station near the maze, high enough to look down inside but low enough to be a difficult target for anything airborne. “Zulu One - White One; status?”
“White One is back on top, angels ten. We've got you covered Zulu One. Get it done and let's get out of here.”
“Copy that. Rescue Two, make the pickup.”
“Copy, Rescue Two inbound.”
Dar Sloane caught the line of dust rising from the road coming from Taybad and taking gun control from the EWO, swung the nose turret in that direction, the targeting pipper following his eye. He squeezed the trigger and the Mercury Gatling growled, cutting a wide trench across the highway, the road simply disappearing in a cloud of gravel dirt and concrete dust. “That ought to hold them for a while...”
■ ■ ■
“Watch the right, Rusty, watch the right... they're flanking...”
“I see him Dagger.”
“Watch it! Watch it! He's got one of those RPGs. Remember what it did to Corporal Dunnom...”
“I know! Dammit I'm stuck in another dead end...!”
“Dagger to Zulu One, we're pinned here!”
Dar Sloane leaned the stick over, the horizon tilting as the Zulu slid sideways, the nose coming around as he kicked the rudder pedals, firing maneuvering jets. “Zulu One has targets... engaging.” Infra-red allowed him to see the enemy troops through the smoke and confusion, outlining the Marines on the ground with green halos provided by their suits, an ID for each Marine, tagging each outline.
“Danger close, Zulu One, danger close!”
“Head down Rusty. Fire out...” Dar Sloane squeezed the trigger and the Mercury Gatling growled, following his eye in a line, cutting through the group of Iranian soldiers concealed around the corner from the Marine, their silhouettes turning into splashes of fading heat as they disintegrated.
