The top laser turret whipped around to the left and fired twice within two or three seconds. Only the onboard tactical computer knew whether there were two incoming targets, or the first shot was a miss.
I rolled my eyes up to check the status monitors. Our altitude was just under 6 kilometers, a bit high to be taking this much fire from hand-held rocket launchers. According to the training manual, most hand held surface to air weapons had a generally effective range against a point defense equipped target of 3 km, though the theoretical maximum ranges were far greater. Most likely there was some kind of vehicle mounted SAM down there. Not a huge danger if there weren’t too many of them – the Gordon’s point defense was state of the art. Besides, the SAM couldn’t fire too many times without moving. The Guadalcanal was still monitoring the landing area and would provide suppressive fire if the launcher gave up its position.
The lander’s thrusters fired again, and we banked sharply to the left. I couldn’t see any of the other ships, but a quick click of my finger brought up the deployment display again, and we were still in perfect formation. Our altitude was 3.5 km and descending rapidly.
The comlink crackled to life again. “Four minutes until touchdown. Landing proceeding according to projection. The tactical plan is unchanged….I repeat, the tactical plan is unchanged.”
Every specific aspect of a planetary assault is thoroughly planned before a single marine enters the launch bay, but with so many variables it is crucial that modifications can be made at any time. If any of our landers were off course, or if the resistance on the ground was substantially stronger than expected, the battle plan could be altered in response to the change in conditions. Our platoon commander remains in constant contact with the company CO, who himself is tied in directly with tactical support services on the Guadalcanal. If changes are required, he would revise the plan, and the new instructions would be downloaded into the squad leaders’ personal AIs. After a briefing by the platoon commander, the squad leaders would then be responsible for transmitting revised orders to their own troops.
With the landing going as expected, the mission was to proceed as planned. The entire population of Carson’s World lived in a cluster of small mining towns in the southwestern section of the single major continent. The Central Asian Combine had sent in an invasion force about three months before and had taken control of the developed areas. With no regulars stationed on the planet to support them, the local militia had been unable to hold the towns against the CAC assault troops.
Intelligence reports indicated that the militia, rugged miners all, had hurt the CAC regulars badly and had withdrawn into the hills with much of their strength intact. Based on these reports, Fleetcom had decided to launch an immediate counter-invasion with a single battalion rather than wait for more units to arrive.
“Two minutes until touchdown. Power-up weapons systems.” I clicked the levers under my right middle and forefingers. There was a series of loud clicks as the autoloader fed five grenades from the magazine on my back into the launcher on my left arm. My AI could have done that for me, but I felt better feeling the switches under my fingers.
“Squad two, weapons check. Report status.” The voice on the comlink had changed. It was Sergeant Harris, our squad leader. One by one the members of the squad sounded off. “Jenkins operational. Kleiner operational….”
I glanced up at the status monitor. The two green weapons control lights indicated that my battle computer had successfully completed a full diagnostic test of armaments. My grenade launcher and auto-rifle were loaded, charged, and ready. As the only raw member of the squad I had not been outfitted with any other weapons, though my armor could have carried and powered at least two additional systems.
“Thompson operational.” The rest of the squad had sounded off; it was my turn. My throat had gone dry, but I managed to croak out the required report. “Cain operational.”
The second squad was ready. Although I couldn’t hear it on my comlink, I knew the squad leader was reporting this status to the lieutenant over the command circuit. Weapons power-up was our last procedure prior to landing. I couldn’t speak for the other three squads or the command group but our two fire teams were ready.
The lieutenant’s voice came over the comlink again. “Touchdown in one minute. Squad leaders initiate tactical plan upon landing. Good luck, marines!”
Even from my closed in position I could see the ground now. We were landing in an area of rugged, sparsely wooded hills, about 10 km west of the nearest settlement. We were to establish contact with and rally the local militia units believed to be dug-in up in these hills. Once we linked up with the locals, we were to evaluate the situation, and if command gave the go-ahead, drive toward the built-up areas. The assault was to be coordinated with the attacks of the rest of company A, who would be moving in our direction from their landing points along an arc stretching 20 km northeast of our position. Company B and the heavy weapon section would move toward us from 50 km south. If all went according to plan, the CAC troops would be caught between us and penned in. If the plan went awry Company C was still in reserve, buttoned up on their ship and ready to launch.
I was slammed against the front of my armor as the lander’s braking thrusters fired causing us to decelerate rapidly as we neared the ground. The forward pressure ended abruptly as we came to a virtual stop 30 meters up. The landing jets mounted on the underside of the assault ship activated and eased us slowly down. We hit ground with a gentle thud. There was a metallic scraping sound as the locking bolt retracted, releasing me from the lander.
“Fire team B, disembark. Come on, let’s move it!” The gravelly voice on the comlink belonged to Corporal Gessler, my immediate superior. Gessler commanded fire team B, my half of the squad, consisting of the five occupants of this particular lander.
I scrambled out of the harness and onto the rough, rocky ground. The dirt of Carson's World was a reddish gravel, a sign of extremely high mineral content, particularly iron. There were some tufts of bristly weeds, but most of the ground was bare dirt.
I glanced up at the tactical display and confirmed that there were no enemy contacts within 2 km. An experienced marine would have done this before disembarking, but I was lucky this time – the LZ was well outside of the enemy’s defensive perimeter, and our landing was unopposed.
I was still scared out of my mind, but I managed to remember what I was supposed to do. The entire squad was forming a skirmish line at 100 meter intervals and heading northeast toward the last reported location of militia activity. If they had landed in the right spot (and if I’d thought to check out the status monitor I could have confirmed that they had) the 1st squad would be deploying to extend this line to the northwest of our position. The 3rd squad was to deploy in reserve about a klick behind our line.
I headed out toward my designated position at a slow trot. The rest of the squad was doing the same except for Kleiner, who was retrieving the squad heavy weapon from the Gordon’s cargo hatch. She was just strapping the massive M-411 rocket launcher over her shoulder as I trotted by. An unarmored person couldn’t even have lifted the 300 kg weapon, but it was no trouble at all for an armored marine.
The lander itself was in pretty rough shape. It was a disposable vehicle designed for a one-way trip to the surface. The heat shield was three-quarters gone, and the remaining portion was pitted and blackened. The frame, though bent and twisted in a few spots, was essentially intact. Although they appeared to be in decent condition, I knew from training that the Gordon’s thrusters pretty much burned themselves out during the landing. The ship would stay here, with its upper point defense laser remaining operational and providing the immediate area with some protection against missile attack.
If all went well we would never see the lander again, but if the mission went seriously awry, the Gordon, with its anti-missile defense and emergency ammunition and supplies, was our designated rally point. Of course if the rally command came it would probably mean a lot of us were already dead.
I continued toward my assigned position at the trot, and I could see Will Thompson jogging off to my right. My position was second to last in line with Will positioned on the right flank of the squad. His blackened armor was speckled with a few remaining chunks of partially charred, heat-resistant foam. For all its equipment and capabilities, the Model 7 fighting suit was remarkably trim. The wearer looked like a slightly bulkier version of a medieval knight.
I glanced up at the mission clock – it read 00:21:05. To avoid any confusion, all aspects of an assault were scheduled according to mission time, measured from the moment the first lander launched. This avoided any confusion, since ships were run on Earth Greenwich standard time, and every planet had its own timekeeping system. Mission time was consistent for all troops in an operation, whether a single platoon or an entire army.
I glanced up at the area display. I was about half a klick from my assigned position, jogging slowly. I was almost a minute ahead of schedule. I forgot the amplification factor of the power armor, and my slow jog was moving me at about 40 kph as I bounced along. It had just occurred to me that I should keep lower when Corporal Gessler’s voice barked over the comlink. “Cain, get your god-damned head down before you get it blown off!”
“Yessir!” I hoped I sounded confident, but I was pretty sure my voice cracked a little. I slowed my gait and concentrated on keeping low. Actually, there were no enemies showing on my display, but if there’s one thing they tried to beat into us in training, it was that carelessness gets marines killed. I was ahead of schedule and there was no reason for me to rush, not when those big, exaggerated strides bounded me high enough to be a perfect target for any enemy within 1,000 meters.
I had drawn a pretty good mission for a first assault. Because we were trying to contact and rally the locals, we landed much further from the enemy than we would in typical assault. That gave us plenty of time to form up before we were likely to see any action. And because we were attacking an enemy who had recently seized the planet themselves, we didn't have to face entrenched defenses. At least nothing serious.
I reached my assigned position, approximately 2 kilometers northeast of the landing point about 45 seconds ahead of schedule. I took a quick look down the line, and it looked like most of the squad had reached the assembly point. The terrain was fairly rugged but relatively open for most of the way. Ahead of us the ground was rocky with scattered patches of the yellow-green fungus that seemed to be Carson’s World’s equivalent of grass. Our intel had advised that there was a militia group positioned somewhere in the area ahead and we were here to establish contact.
“Second squad, slow advance. Crank up to magnification level three. Report any signs of militia presence.” It was Sergeant Harris, the squad leader, on the comlink.
A slow advance was a very moderate pace, about 5 kph. I headed northeast, taking care to move very cautiously. I depressed my right thumb three times, activating my visual magnification system and toggling it up to level three. My vision was now sharpened and enhanced. Level three is just enough to double the range at which you can pick out a man-sized object. In theory the price for amplification was a loss of detail, but the suit's computer worked constantly to sharpen the images, so usually you couldn't detect any change in focus at less than mag 10.
As we advanced, we moved into an area with scattered stands of scrubby, grayish brown trees. There were tangled clusters of the thorny weeds around them. After about fifteen minutes of moving through the sparse woodlands, we came upon a section that was burned out. The ground was blackened, and the few remaining trees were charred and splintered. It was obvious that there had been some pretty heavy fighting here, and I knew I needed to report this to Corporal Gessler and the squad leader. I was still processing all of this when Will Thompson beat me to it.
“Thompson reporting. Signs of some kind of action at coordinates 45.05 by 11. The area’s all burned out….looks like there was some pretty heavy fire here, some kind of incendiary strike, maybe. Scanning…stand by for results.” There was a brief pause before he continued. “Temperature normal, spectral analysis negative…looks like whatever happened here was at least a day ago.”
Will’s report had been broadcast over the squad frequency, so the entire unit was aware of the situation. Nevertheless, after a brief pause (during which he’d probably reported to the lieutenant), Sergeant Harris addressed the squad. “Alright second squad, we know there was some kind of fight over near our right flank. Keep your eyes open and report any contact immediately.”
Over the next 20 minutes there were no additional contacts in our sector, but there were three other burned out areas in the first squad’s zone. It appeared that the enemy had been conducting search and destroy ops in this area, trying to hunt down the locals who were operating out of these hills. There was no sign of casualties at any of the sites.
I was just thinking that the CAC troopers didn’t seem to be doing too well when I crested a small hill and saw what looked like six or eight bodies in the center of a blackened section of grasslands at the extreme edge of my visibility.
This time I didn’t hesitate. “Cain reporting. I see some bodies up ahead.” My voice was shrill with excitement. I could feel the droplets of sweat running down the back of my neck.
The sergeant snapped back quickly. “OK, Cain. Get a grip, and give me a full report. Now!”
I swallowed hard and said, “Estimate six to eight bodies, range 1000 meters. Area burned out. No energy readings, no enemy contacts.” After a second I added, “Should I move up and check it out, sarge?”