A Hymn Before Battle, page 34
"Yes, sir!" Whatever their individual doubts, as a unit they could say nothing more. Pride and unit-integrity, sin and savior, drove the soldier as always.
"So, what are we gonna do?" he asked as he took the first step forward.
"We're gonna dance, sir!" they responded, following.
"WHO WE GONNA DANCE WITH?" His helmet crept out of the water and the fury of the battle beyond was shocking. Tank cannons jutted from the ground floor windows exchanging point blank fire with God King saucers while Posleen normals grappled hand to hand with the gray uniformed grenadiers. The thin line of beach was a charnel pit, impassable from the bunkers of bodies gathered from building to waterfront, the grenadiers and Posleen grappled even in death, their blood mixing in stagnant pools to flow to the cleansing sea. A volley of grenades opened a hole in the Posleen mass then it surged forward over the ruck of bodies. A tank gouted fire and threw its turret into the air as a plasma gun searched its vitals. The white curtain of fire incinerated the packed grenadiers and Posleen alike.
"THE DEVIL!" screamed the troopers, the powered grav guns dipped to drain in awful synchronicity. A blast of fire from a God King's heavy railgun sawed through lead Posleen and grappling grenadiers, their red and yellow blood flashing up in a fountain of gore. The fire from the God King saucer was abruptly silenced by a German sniper.
"WE GONNA LEAD OR WE GONNA FOLLOW?" shouted Mike as he cycled his rifle and charged his grenade launchers.
"WE'RE GONNA LEAD!" they shouted as the guns raised in unison. Barrels shifted slightly as individual Posleen were targeted. In the midst of the battle one of the God King saucers rose up and leapt across the battleline, diving on a panzer grenadier holding only a knife. Mike, and several troopers drawn to the movement, tracked in on the Posleen saucer.
"Michelle, engage program Tiamat." His command suit began to rise into the air under its antigravity system, the energy level indicator dropping like a waterfall. The air in front of their suits shimmered for a moment and then cleared. "PLATOON, OPEN FIRE!"
37
Andata Province, Diess IV
1004 GMT May 19th, 2002 AD
Tulo'stenaloor, First Order Battlemaster of the Sten Po'oslena'ar, considered himself a connoisseur of war. He had studied the three disciplines and all the history available to his rank. Not for him the te'aalan battle madness that he had seen destroy his nest mates. But never in all his study, in all the time upon this conquest and other conquests, during his rise from scoutmaster to his current rank, had he ever faced ferocity such as the gray-clad demons his oolt'ondai now faced. The enemies' ill-favored red fluid stained the walls in the fury of the combat, and still they resisted the might of the Sten Po'oslena'ar.
"Tele'sten," he shouted over his communicator, "take your oolt to the left to support Alllllntt's, and prepare to receive his oolt'os."
"Your wish," chimed the communicator. The nearby eson'antai was panting with exertion. He had dropped from his tenar to aid another kessentai, wounded by the thrice-damned threshkreen. Such selflessness was rare among the Po'oslena'ar, almost unheard of. Possibly even immoral. The young kessentai leapt back to his tenar, the mission successful. "You believe he will fail upon the path?"
"As sure as the sun rises," said Tulo'stenaloor. He looked up at the ill-favored green sun of this blasted world. He should have stayed on cloud-shrouded Atthanaleen. It might be well on its way to ordonath, but at least there was rain! And none of these fistnal gray thresh!
"Those thrice-damned demons infest the upper stories no matter how we flail them. Note how he moves his tenar in a regular pattern, soon one of their simple chemical rifles will remove him from the path. Learn from his mistakes, eson'antai!"
"Your wish my edas'antai."
"Tulo'stenaloor!" His communicator boomed at him in turn, "get your tel'enalanaa oolt'os into that building or I'll pass through you!"
Al'al'anar, his fellow battlemaster, had been heard from.
"I wish you would, Al'al'anar. Then you could lose oolt after oolt on these threshkreen."
"You always have been too soft! Move or lose the path, a'a'dan!" snarled his fellow battalion commander.
"You want the path!" shouted Tulo'stenaloor, sudden rage turning his vision yellow. "Take the fistnal path!" He had lost half his oolt'ondai so far and was in no mood to listen to this puppy's complaints.
"Tulo'stenaloor! Al'al'anar!"
"Your wish," said Tulo'stenaloor, the rage still rippling in his voice. He clacked his teeth and fluttered his crest in a battle to regain control.
"My edas'antai," chimed Al'al'anar.
"Tulo'stenaloor will take the path," ordered the higher commander from the distant dodecahedral landing circle. "Al'al'anar will wait and learn wisdom."
And I will lose my whole oolt'ondai because he is your eson'antai. "Your wish, aad'nal'sa'an. However, soon I will be without oolt to progress."
"I discern this. Al'al'anar, pass behind Tulo'stenaloor's position and prepare to attack from the seaward flank again. I discern a weakness there; there are less of those tel'enalanaa tenar."
"Your wish!" exulted Al'al'anar.
"Your wisdom," said Tulo'stenaloor. Thus I lose status, he thought. Now, to make the best of it as that thrice-damned puppy bungles a simple movement.
Again and again Al'al'anar had failed to effectively support other oolt'ondai, instead succumbing to battle madness and chasing the defenseless green thresh like a wild oolt'os. Without the influence of his gene derivative he would be a scoutmaster at best, or more likely dead. Such is the battle of the Path.
Alllllntt's saucer suddenly spun out of control as the God King's head burst like a melon; a German G-4 had successfully targeted him after he raised his tenar for a better angle on the front line. The oolt'os of his company flailed the upper stories of the building for a moment in a berserk rage, then began clawing their way to the rear. As they did the panzer grenadiers pressed in a hard local counter attack and retook their secondary positions.
"Tele'sten! Get your oolt in there now!"
"Yes, aad'nal'sa'an, your wish." The young God King, only recently promoted from scoutmaster, was attempting for the first time in his life to rebind the normals of a deceased God King in the heat of battle. At the same time he was trying to retake the lost positions. Since each normal had to be physically touched, there were, for a moment, simply too many demands on his time and he paused in his random shuffling. A single 7.62mm round ended the path for the young company commander.
"Tel'enaa, fuscirto uut!" cursed Tulo'stenaloor at the death of his son. "Alld'nt! Drive the oolt'os of Tele'sten and Alllllntt into the gray demons and be damned with them!" Tele'sten, my eson'antai, how many times did I tell you: Never stop moving.
* * *
"Major Steuben, we have retaken the secondary positions!"
"Wonderful Lieutenant. Hold them hard! I am trying to get some help here but I am now confident we can hold this position until relieved!"
"Yes, sir, the Tenth Panzer Grenadiers will never surrender!"
"Good job, Lieutenant Mellethin. I have to go now. Hold like steel!"
"Like steel, sir."
Like steel, indeed, thought Major Joachim Steuben, even the steel is burning.
From his position on the lower floor of the megascraper he could clearly see the tanks of his depleted division burning, charnel pits for their dead crews. Worse than the sight was the smell, strong even at this distance, of burning pork and rubber. The remnant of the 10th Panzer Grenadiers could not make a decent reinforced battalion and they were out of contact with the majority of the supporting divisions of French, British and Americans elsewhere in the megascraper. If something didn't happen, and soon, they were all finished.
He had just said as much to high command and they had responded with their usual platitudes. Help would come, the American Armored Combat Suit battalion was still mobile and was on the way. What they could do when they arrived he had no idea. The officers of the 10th Panzer had spent the division as frugally as a miser, as frugally as any officer corps in Germany's illustrious history. But it had been to no avail.
Early on they discovered that in the heat of battle the God Kings' targeting systems could not spot sniper fire and Steuben's late battalion commander had pressed that to great advantage. By targeting God Kings and relentlessly counterattacking in the confusion immediately following their deaths they long delayed the inevitable. But now it was simple mathematics. They were surrounded by overwhelming force and the best they could do was spend their lives as carefully as possible.
"Major," said the one of the few remaining communication technicians, holding out a microphone, "Corp Command."
"Major?" barked the voice of the American Corp commander.
"Yes, Herr General Leutnant," he replied tiredly.
"You are about to receive a pleasant shock. It will not take the pressure off you, but it will allow the other units to reinforce you. The megascrapers to your east and north are about to fall over, hopefully missing yours."
"Ex . . . excuse me, sir? Could you say that again?" As the startled major stuttered into the microphone, the ground began to shake. "Mein Gott! Was ist so heute los, hier?"
Around him the sturdy panzer grenadiers were screaming in supernatural terror as the ground surged beneath their feet. The communications tech, with the consummate discipline so characteristic of the panzer grenadier, hurled himself into their last remaining long-range transmitter just before it crashed to the floor.
"Major!" screamed an operations NCO from the landward side, "the other buildings!"
The street to the east was suddenly filled with dust and rubble as the building to their northwest scattered its upper stories along the boulevard. Rubble crushed the front rank Posleen and a few of their remaining Leopards were covered until they huffed and grunted out from under the debris. However, most of that front was covered by the French and English, with the remnants of the American 3rd Armored and 7th Cav on the north. Now if he only had viable contact with those units he could call on them for aid to break out toward the lines. He suddenly realized he had a Lieutenant General on hold.
"Herr General?" said the major, coughing on the cloud of dust that blasted through the headquarters.
"I take it worked?"
"Yah, all ist so heute los at the moment but we'll soon be over it. This may give us a chance, Herr General!"
"That's the idea. Now order those other armored units over to your position, we're out of communication with them, and break out as fast as you can."
"I would, Herr General," said the major, apologetically, "but I regret to inform you that we have been out of communication with those units as well, for over two hours."
"Damn! Well, send runners."
"I have, sir, and radios, but none have returned. We have Posleen infiltrated into the building in company strength at this point. My flank is in contact with a French unit but I am out of communication with that flank and I cannot get to the other NATO units without detaching all of my reserve." He paused and considered the situation. "I have had to use it too many times to be willing to do that, sir, without a direct order. For all practical purposes I am only in control of the troops in my immediate vision."
"No, you're absolutely correct. Major, this is a direct order. If you can get your unit out without the support of those units, do so. Do not hold that position in the hopes they will turn up, we can't take that sort of gamble at this point; for all we know they could already be gone."
"Jawohl, Herr General."
"Good luck, Major."
"Danke schön, Herr General. Good luck as well."
"Yes, we all need a dose of luck at this point."
"Major!" shouted an NCO, listening to a radio. "The seaward flank!"
* * *
Would the a'a'lonaldal battle demons of this world never quit? What new surprise would await them? Tulo'stenaloor had heard of the great fall near the mesa, but that had been put down as battle damage by most observers or perhaps poor construction. This was clearly an action designed to deny the area from the oolt'ondai to the north and west. Here on the south, they would soon face the full wrath of the combined or'nallath in the building.
The only good note was that Al'al'anar's oolt'ondai had completed its move to reinforce his seaward flank and had started a te'naal charge the likes of which he had rarely seen. He might not like Al'al'anar but he had to hand it to him, he could motivate his oolt'os. The oolt'ondai had descended on the gray demons as they tried to recover from the disaster to the west and had been pressed home hard. It was taking tremendous damage but they were down to hand to hand at which the Po'oslena'ar excelled. The fistnal or'nallath would soon be cleared to the seaward side and they could press forward here in the center.
The 10th Panzer Grenadier command post was completely abandoned. Major Steuben hurled the entire reserve and every clerk and walking wounded he could find into the seaward flank but the new Posleen battalion pushed them steadily backwards into the building. The grenadiers were down to hand to hand and as he reached the line he saw the turret of one of the remaining Leopards leap into the air in a catastrophic kill. The sheet of fire from the exploding ammunition cooked the grenadiers and Posleen packed around the tank into one continuous bubbling mass.
Seeing there was nothing else to be done, he grabbed a G-3 from a dead trooper and raced into the battle, determined at the end to at least get an honor guard in Valhalla. Overcome with emotions, all the anger and frustration of the day welling up out of control, he leapt to the top of a pile of rubble, fully exposing himself to fire, and searched for the enemy commanders.
* * *
Al'al'anar of the Alan Po'oslena'ar, battlemaster and warrior, was in his element. The ill-favored blood of his enemies anointed his head and he searched for honorable single combat. His oolt'os and oolt commanders knew their jobs, leaving him free to engage himself as he would. He drove his tenar forward, driving down oolt'os that failed to leap clear and striking down the gray-clad thresh like so much wheat. He saw, on the far side of the battle line, a thresh brandishing its puny chemical weapon. It met his eyes and contemptuously tossed the weapon aside, drawing an even more puny knife. Al'al'anar drew his blade, raised his saucer on anti-grav and pounced on the thresh with a bitter laugh.
* * *
The Posleen saucer swept across the battle with blinding speed. Major Steuben's Gerber combat knife was contemptuously sliced off three inches from the tang by the God King's monomolecular blade and the saucer banked around for another run. Steuben spun around, determined to go to his end like a man, on his feet and facing the enemy. As he turned to meet his fate he stopped, arrested by a form rising from the sea. A multiheaded red dragon the size of a building was humping itself up out of the green waves. Dozens of heads were snaking low out of the water, while one central head was raising itself to full extension with a broad fringe ruffling and puffing around the purple-lined maw.
As the battle-maddened and oblivious God King lined up for another charge, the dragon heads opened their mouths and began to breathe silver lightning.
With the first silvery breath a ringing scream, so loud that it was for a moment a physical thing, burst forth from the beast. At that first scream of rage and raw emotion Major Joachim Steuben, oblivious and uncaring of the closing death, sank to his knees and burst into un-Teutonic tears. Then the drum riffs of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," at the maximum volume available to the sophisticated sound systems of the Armored Combat Suits, brought every action to a momentary stop.
* * *
Mike's first action was to destroy the Posleen God King attacking the lone soldier on the mound of rubble. Since three other troopers had the same target, the God King and his saucer disintegrated under the concentrated fire of the grav guns. The slap of explosion as its energy bottle let go killed hundreds of the packed Posleen normals. Since the God King had been lined up almost across the boulevard from the soldier, the effect on the panzers was negligible.
Next Mike targeted God Kings elsewhere in the battle. When the platoon had been consolidating he had taken a few moments to consider the first contact battle. That battle had been fraught with mistakes. Deploying the battalion without any fixed fortifications, without mines, barbed wire or bunkers, meant that the Posleen had been able to use their full mass and fury against the troopers without any distractions. Furthermore, deploying the battalion vertically, while it permitted fire into the rear ranks of the enemy, had opened the unit up to fire by tens of thousands of Posleen instead of hundreds.
By contrast this style of battle was what the suits had been designed for. At ground level with both flanks secured, there were only so many Posleen that could fire at the troopers at one time. And the pile of Posleen and human bodies acted as a breastwork over which the platoon could fire.
The one item that would have helped the battle of Qualtren, no one had thought of until afterwards. The battalion had been ordered to open fire at the mass of the Posleen. However, deployed vertically as they were, hundreds of God Kings had been in sight. If the battalion had been ordered to concentrate on the God Kings, the mass of Posleen normals would have been left bereft and leaderless. The deadly mass that destroyed the battalion in minutes would instead have been as insignificant as the loner rogues they had been destroying for the last day. Mike intended to rectify the situation if possible.
As he potted God Kings, the main body of the troopers began concentrated and continuous fire into the Posleen mass. There was nothing elegant about the conflict, no charges or feints, it was simple, brutal slaughter. Most of the Posleen by the beach had allowed themselves to get so packed in their rush to reach the panzer grenadier positions that they could not even deploy their weapons. Since they completely filled the boulevard, it was first necessary to move them out of the way and the only way to move them was to mow them down. For the first few minutes of the battle hardly any fire was returned toward the main body of troops as they fired continuously and without contest into the mass of Posleen.
