Operation Breakout (The Sleeping Legion Book 3), page 8
However, her spy was heading to the Makoni Ship Factory. Perhaps the solution to her problem might be there.
— CHAPTER 21 —
Late Morning, Post-Revival Day 48
Human Legion Trenches, Unnamed Isthmus Chokepoint, Serendine
Commander, 6907th TAC RGT, Task Force Keita, Human Legion
The Marines of Task Force Keita were exhausted and dirty, but they’d managed to dig their trenches and secure a defensive perimeter. The soft, wet ground made digging their fighting holes easier and harder at the same time. Unfortunately, the fighting holes were a sloppy mess, and muck was already caking up weapons and body armor alike.
The Sangurians had pitched in with the building of trench lines. The rabbit-looking beasts were evolved to burrow, and the Marines watched them rip and dig out ditches with antlers and claws. A handful of Sangurians could do the work of fifty Marines in a quarter of the time. Among their own lines, the Sangurians built their own trenches, tunnels, and burrows. The casual observer would never know the ancient warriors were even there, since they preferred to stay under the ground.
The Sangurians were an oddity the Legion Marines were slowly starting to accept. They were a furry species, though unlike the Jotun, their fur appeared soft. Unlike the Jotun, the Sangurians had only two arms and two legs. Their males had antlers on the tops of their heads, though Lance knew that these were trimmed to fit into combat suits.
What was most surprising about the Sangurians, at least to Lance, was their sense of smell. Lance was never able to sneak up on them, even when he knew he was as silent as a ghost. Even though his body odors were contained by his combat suit, they assured Lance that they could smell the lubricants that greased the joints. Such skills would prove invaluable at finding the New Order Janissaries.
The Sangurians, when set to a task, appeared to be unstoppable. Perhaps the sight of Mount Durior was pushing them. It was no secret that the Sangurians were driven by a deep-seated need to secure the Hardit Incubation Station. Their colonels told Lance that they viewed it as the only way they could re-breed their species.
For the Sangurians, this was a battle of survival, and the Hardits were mere obstacles to crush along the way. Field Marshal Grigonna repeatedly warned Lance not to let them sway him into the extremely reckless actions the Sangurians were demanding be taken. They were a warrior race, fond of close-quarters battle. Unlike the rest of the Legion, who had frowned upon Lance rushing the field, they expected this. To hide in the face of the enemy was cowardice.
Cowardice of not, his actions had cost lives. As Lance walked the fighting holes, stopping occasionally to help dig, he overheard the Marines calling the unnamed isthmus “Cresil’s Pass.” The name, to him, felt like an issuance of blame. But why should Cresil be forgotten? He had Xena “unofficially” tag the isthmus with the name in hopes it would stick. The loss of Cresil was another scar on his soul, one that he wouldn’t forget.
Lance hoped they’d never seriously have to use the trenches and fighting holes. These were just meant to be a show, and he knew it wasn’t being missed by the New Order troops defending the isthmus.
The Hardit scouts weren’t very proficient in the arts of camouflage or concealment, and Lance had to ensure his Marines wouldn’t take shots at the drenting monkeys before the appointed time. The last thing he needed was a full-blown battle to ensue ahead of schedule. Given the current battlespace, he knew they wouldn’t come out on top.
After the entire command was in a defensible position, the Marines began lobbing sabots toward the Hardit lines, breaking the uneasy ceasefire they had enjoyed. They did little damage, but it served to keep the Hardits occupied.
There could be no doubt that the Human Legion was there on this field of battle where they didn’t want to fight. It felt unnatural to him, this game of deception, but Lance fought the urge to seek action. Ducking low into a muddy trench to avoid the occasional sabot, Lance waited to sound the order to pop smoke. The moment air assets were above, his Marines needed to mark their positions. He just prayed air support would come, because if the Hardits pushed forward, Lance and his Marines would be frakked.
— CHAPTER 22 —
Noon, Post-Revival Day 48
Skies Above Unnamed Isthmus Chokepoint, Serendine
Commander, 1st SQDN, 1st TAW, Human Legion
The Tranquility sun blazed overhead, bathing the continent in brilliant hues. This would make it especially easy for the 1st Tactical Assault Wing, or TAW, to find their targets. Lieutenant Commander Thann Filar-Tubant squinted as the landscape underneath his fighter craft rocketed by in a blur.
The new Legion rank he wore was almost as odd as the unit he now commanded. They were a new and untested group, having logged most of their flight-time in simulators. Perhaps the most bizarre aspect of this squadron was the pilots. Humans, Jotuns, and Hardits commanded these Vengeance and Drako atmospheric fighters. To Thann’s knowledge, this was likely the first time in history such a group of species had flown together.
Thann’s most trusted technician, Teon, along with the human Chase Arbor, had stated the intention was to create a unit capable of taking advantage of the weaknesses of the New Order Conquest. The Conquest fighters were formidable, having won victory against the Jotun destroyer Indomitable.
Despite not having an actual sortie under their belt, Thann felt confident the TAW would be able to deliver the air superiority the Legion needed. More importantly, it would allow Thann to exact some needed retribution on the New Order abominations.
“Brothers and sisters of the TAW, now is our chance to prove our value,” said Thann over the radio. “Visual acquisition of targets should occur momentarily.”
A series of confirmations sounded in his ears as the TAW acknowledged his comms.
“1st Heavy, keep your eyes open for any Conquests while the TAW strafes the lines,” ordered Thann. “If there aren’t any Conquests, join the strafing run.”
The flight leaders of the 1st Heavy Hybrid Squadron, or 1st Heavy, acknowledged. The 1st Heavy was a standard squadron of six flights, with two reserve flights. They were a high-flying mix of the remaining Drakos, along with captured Vengeance craft. Simulations had revealed the fast and agile Drakos could swarm the slower Conquest fighters in unpredictable ways.
Thann smiled as Mount Durior grew from a tiny lump into a larger mound. The rolling hills below, a blur of oranges and greens, flattened out. Then Serendine’s landscape narrowed until water surrounded a sliver of land on each side. They had arrived at the isthmus the Legion was unofficially calling Cresil’s Pass.
The simulator Teon and Chase had created was brilliant, but it didn’t compare to the sense of speed and power Thann felt as they closed in on the target.
“Weapons free!” said Thann.
Given the order, his six flights swarmed the entrenched New Order forces, being sure to overshoot the red smoke of the Legion Marines. Knowing they’d be facing only small arms fire, gravtanks, and artillery, Thann ordered his pilots to strafe the lines with their railguns and main cannon for two passes to force the New Order militia to panic. In the ensuing chaos, he knew there would be opportunities to isolate the gravtanks and artillery while hopefully giving the militia the room to abandon the perversions of their Janissary officers.
I’m sorry for this, my packmates, thought Thann as his eyes followed the glowing tracers he fired. He hated killing his fellow Hardits; the mother goddess frowned upon it. To save the many, though, the few would have to be sacrificed.
The first two passes mimicked their simulator practice. They lost only two of their fighters to enemy arms. Thann was surprised. They were human pilots, nefnasts, and yet he found that he mourned their passing. They were no longer simply nefnasts to him; they were a part of the brotherhood of the wing, pilots like him.
“Phase two. I repeat, phase two,” said Thann as his right thumb pushed a button on the u-shaped yoke he used to control his craft.
The air separating the aircraft from the enemies on the ground grew still. Militia fled from the field in the lull, leaving gravtanks and artillery to fend for themselves. The New Order had brought no air assets to bear, and Thann planned to make them pay for this.
“Claws out. I repeat, claws out,” said Thann.
The stillness of the air was churned up by a flurry of rockets and missiles as the TAW and 1st Heavy unleashed their “claws.” Deadly blooms of orange and black annihilated New Order assets. After pulling short of Mount Durior and circling back, Thann dumped the last of his rockets into the enemy.
Thann felt the crushing weight of g-force as he banked his aircraft to point back toward Mount Durior. Glancing down through the red smoke, he could see the Marines cheering from their muddy little holes. His tail beat happily on the floorboard. Casting his eyes back to the ground below, he saw the final combat order needed to be passed.
“Fire wall,” said Thann. “I repeat, fire wall.”
The squadron broke off, circled around, and began dropping blaze-bombs behind the fleeing militia to force them to charge toward the awaiting Marines. It was the best Thann could do, giving them the chance to surrender and join the cause of righteousness. His hope was tempered by sadness, knowing many would be burned to a crisp, killed by their Janissary officers, and perhaps gunned down by Marines in the chaos below. But even with his hope being tempered, he prayed to the goddess that some would survive and be afforded the freedom the Legion would provide.
— CHAPTER 23 —
Noon, Post-Revival Day 48
New Order Trench Line, Unnamed Isthmus Chokepoint, Serendine
5th PLT, 3rd Co., 2nd BN, 2nd Hardit Militia, New Order Army
Sabots strafed, bombs dropped, and still the relentless enemy fighters came at them. Subaltern Fenzar Loda-Hoia sat there, numb, as he held the body of his platoon commander in his arms. The expanse around him, once a proud series of trenches and earthworks bolstered by artillery and gravtanks, was shredded and destroyed.
Why are our pilots flying alongside nefnast aircraft? thought Fenzar.
At first, Fenzar had assumed the pilots had missed the real targets: the cowardly humans who had dug in at the entrance to the isthmus. The truth was plain, however. Either those pilots were traitors, or the nefnasts had stolen their airpower.
A rocket tore a gravtank apart in front of Fenzar, and a piece of shrapnel whistled by his ear. Dropping his commander and falling flat to the ground, he weighed his limited options.
Run forward and get shot by those cowardly nefnast. Run away and be shot by the infernal Janissary officers for fleeing. Stay here and be torn apart by aircraft.
Rolling onto his side as dirt rained down from a nearby explosion, Fenzar looked to see what those around him were doing. Across the smoking expanse, under the deadly Tranquility sun, the militia abandoned their armor. Once armor hit the ground, the unencumbered owner dropped onto all fours and fled. Direction was irrelevant, though none ran toward the human lines.
Fenzar didn’t know which would kill them first: the cancer from the sun’s radiation, the entrenched enemy, or the New Order Janissaries. Thinking of running off into the trees and finding a cave or hole in which to live out the rest of his short days, Fenzar abandoned his armor, too.
The armor was quick to shrug off, with only a handful of clasps holding it onto his frame. Feeling the weight reduced, he vowed to return for the armor and his commander’s body before he sank his claws into the soil and took flight.
He figured he was likely one of the last remaining militia officers, and hoped to use this sway to gather others who were fleeing to his cause. Increasing his speed, he attempted to catch a small group ahead of him. A screaming noise stopped Fenzar. Before he could pinpoint the origin of the wailing, a wall of fire ignited in front of him.
The group he pursued vanished into the living, breathing inferno. The heat was unbearable. Fenzar smashed his three eyes shut and stumbled backward, falling into a trench. More whistling screams fell from the sky, and more walls of impassable fire cut the isthmus in two.
The heat intensified. The smells of burning fur and roasting flesh turned his stomach. With no other choice, he turned toward the Marine lines and ran. Those around him did the same. A few howled in pain as their fur danced with flames.
They’d have to cross the miles of the dead zone and trenches before they reached the nefnast lines. There was no plan, no coordination. Fenzar couldn’t rally those around him because anytime he dared moved rearward to issue orders, a new roadblock of flames fell from the sky.
Oddly, even when Fenzar abandoned the militia trenches to flee, the Marines did not target him. The entirety of his packmates from the trenches followed Fenzar’s lead. Perhaps they simply realized the inevitability of the rolling fire. Regardless, they now charged together, expecting to encounter enemy sabots. There were none. The enemy wasn’t firing, not even their snipers.
What are the nefnasts waiting for? Perhaps they will engage us with the assault cutters they are so fond of, thought Fenzar while his hands and feet dug into the soggy ground and propelled him forward.
Together they pushed ahead. Always forward. It was his mantra, drilled into him since he entered the militia training, a concept borrowed from the very Marines he charged toward. The only way to counter an ambush was to go through it, charging straight ahead. He never could get behind that logic, but forward they ran. Their line was irregular and chaotic, with no solid front.
Fenzar wanted to stop. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, but onward they ran until Fenzar was sure they were in range of the humans’ standard guns. The surviving Janissary officers in their midst howled orders for the militia to open fire. When one refused, a sabot to the brain resolved the dispute.
After the first shot was fired from the fractured Hardit line, the Marines responded. As his commander had warned them, the humans fired with deadly accuracy. Puffs of red mist sprayed as sabots contacted the exposed pelts of the Hardit line. The particulates of crimson floated in the humid air, momentarily caught in an unexpected breeze, as if the gods themselves were punishing them.
Under the slow and calculated fire of the Marines, the militia around Fenzar began turning on the Janissaries. It wasn’t hard, with the line of fleeing troops being as it was. Knives and sabots found the backsides of unsuspecting Janissaries, and the militia howled and barked in approval. With the militia and Janissaries focusing on each other, the Marine guns went silent. They seem reluctant to kill us. Do they seek to capture us for torture?
Fenzar didn’t know the answer. Just when he thought it was over, the momentary silence having tempted him like a female in heat, the rolling blaze crept forward. Again, they ran forward, ever forward, ever closer to their eventual demise on the foul cutters of the nefnasts.
Up and down the line, the stuttering start resumed as individual Hardits decided that human sabots and blades were preferable to being roasted alive. Fenzar had somehow advanced to the front of the surging line. Figures approached from the nefnast line, odd figures. These weren’t humans. They were robots.
The growl and rumble of the fire behind them was dwarfed by multiple loudspeakers emanating from the robots.
Attention, all militia assets. This is Thann Filar-Tubant. The time has come to execute Righteous Freedom, the treaded robots droned. Drop your weapons and surrender to the Human Legion Marines in front of you, and you will be given safe quarter. Join me and the Legion, and let us wipe the abominations that are the New Order from the system.
Fenzar didn’t recognize the voice, but the name was known to him. This Thann had propagated a rogue message that managed to override the New Order comms network for a short period. The New Order had severed the signal and claimed the message was a nefnast trick.
Salvation with the nefnasts?
It was as if the world had been turned upside down. The line of fleeing Hardits slowed to a trot. Rifles fell to the dirt as Hardit militia raised their tails. Those who walked upright did so with their arms in the air, showing the furry pads on the undersides of their hands.
Slowly, they were absorbed into the enemy line. Guards were placed on them as they waited. Questions, countless questions, bounded through Fenzar’s mind. Was this Thann real? Did the human scum offer salvation or damnation? Fenzar was left sitting, waiting, for an uncertain future. One without the flames, he hoped.
— CHAPTER 24 —
Early Afternoon, Post-Revival Day 48
Human Legion Trenches, Unnamed Isthmus Chokepoint, Serendine
Commander, 6907th TAC RGT, Task Force Keita, Human Legion
The rushing mass of smoking Hardits charging toward the Human Legion line was not what the Marines on the ground had thought would happen when they called for air support. Lance peered over the muddy lip of the trench at what was left of the isthmus before them.
Black smoke twisted into the sky, and even the soggiest ground was dancing with flames. The fire bombs the trigger-happy flyboys had dropped were liquid-based and engulfed anything they touched. It would be hours before the flaming, swampy isthmus would be passable again.
Lance wasn’t opposed to roasting an enemy alive, but funneling panicked Hardits toward their position was disconcerting. Lance was preparing to have his Marines play target practice with the incoming Hardits when Field Marshal Grigonna ordered the line to hold fire until fired upon. Privately, through Lance’s helmet, Grigonna threatened bodily harm if he charged the incoming enemies. Her words, beat you with the broad side of your sword, were still ringing in his ears.
