Just Another Mission

Just Another Mission
A practice short story for the upcoming book Keystone, by Dan Rankin

It started like most missions. Then again, they also do. A nerve-wracking, stomach-wrenching ride through the turbulent Sorrova atmosphere in a Peregrine transport that was not designed for comfort – the padding in the seats was only there to stop the occupant’s organs leaking out through his skin in G’s of 20+. Flipping, twirling and skidding sideways to avoid to searching beams of Rourke Alliance radars on the ground. A landing, only called a landing and not a crash because the brakes were on slightly, and a slightly paranoid feeling as your only air support streaks back into the upper reaches of the atmosphere, far too far away to help.

Marine Lieutenant Korros “Bailey” Wells was secreted behind a large, slightly alien-looking bush, searching the surrounding area through his ultraviolet vision binoculars for any enemy ambush. Rourke troops had long since stopped attacking while the transports were still in the area – the first three times there had been no survivors from the vicious AA-H 254 Miniguns mounted on each side of the Peregrines, so they had been slow learners, and the fourth time a hidden sniper had squawked a 3-second long radio message before being turned into a vaguely human-shaped red mash.

Booted feet hit the ground with muffled thumps, his platoon of men and women scurrying for cover and concealed positions as they rappelled down from the two transports, six at a time from each. His unit had set the fleet’s fastest combat deployment time at twenty seconds, from the time the transport opened its doors to when they turned their backs and rocketed away into the grey, heavy clouds.

They were in a towering jungle, huge trees surrounding them like pillars holding up a leafy green sky, enormous buttress roots folding them firm against the frequent, lashing storms. A storm had passed over several hours before, and the area was still showing the damage. Winds of up to 400km/h would rip branches from the mighty trees and hurl them like wrecking balls through the undergrowth, tearing enormous holes and spraying mud. But now only a slight rain dripped through the leaves atop the gargantuan trees, pattering on his Coronate body armour and running down his helmet’s visor. It would be cold outside, very cold, but the thermo-controlled full body suit kept his body in full fighting condition. The forest was almost pitch black, thanks to a combination of night time, the thick jungle canopy and the ever-present impenetrable Sorrovan cloud cover.

“Clear.” Korros whispered into his helmet’s radio. Similar echoes came back from the unit’s sergeants and snipers, and a distant flash of lightning briefly illuminated the top of the huge trees.

“Alright, let’s take it slow up to the first landmark. We ain’t losing anyone today. Scouts have point.”

The small squad of four specialist Scouts/Trackers that made up the command squad advanced carefully into the undergrowth, the dull red patches on their armour the only part that showed visually on their camouflaged armour. Korros followed – an ex-scout himself, it was the perfect tactical position for the platoon leader. He paused in the shadow of a large tree.

“First squad. Move. Second, you’ve got flank.”

Eight men and women of the Serran Coalition’s 3474th Assault Marine Regiment, 4th Battalion, 4th Company, 4th Platoon slowly slid from cover and slipped through the thick ferns that made up the jungle’s lower story. A sergeant, two snipers and five marines, all with silenced, camouflaged, long-range weapons. Korros padded the fifty-odd metres to an enormous tree stump, ducked beneath the enormous fallen tree trunk and brought up his KAH-87 Assault Rifle, scanning the undergrowth. The fallen tree had to be at least three hundred metres long. They had reached the edge of the small plateau-like ridge that the transports had dropped them on, and were now advancing down the side of a steep slope.
“Third, rearguard.” The whole platoon, about thirty-five soldiers all told, was strung out over about a hundred metres of jungle, with the second squad about forty to their right.

Sorrova was known for several things – its impenetrable jungle, huge trees, constant rain, storms and deep grey cloud cover, amazing variety of life, and huge mountain ranges. They were currently about nine kilometres above what would be sea level, if Sorrova had any seas, but the mountains extended up to thirty or forty kilometres above the given ‘base level’. Apart from forests, and rocky mountains above about 20km, Sorrova was made up of huge, sweeping plains of grass. A farmer’s Utopia, the grass could be consumed safely by most of the stock animals used by Agricultural Scientists in the Human States. The planet also had an enormously oxygen-rich atmosphere, which meant that humans could breathe freely up to about thirty-five kilometres up. However, at anything less than about ten, it was too thick for humans to breathe, and required breathing apparatus. For an unknown reason this thinned out over the plains and was largely replaced by nitrogen, suspected to be a part of the grass’s energy production system as there was never any sunlight.

The deep valley they were advancing into would take them down into the foothills of a particular mountain range, where a small Rourke airbase had been secreted. 4th platoon, along with the other 3 platoons of their company, were to set up a small, secret camp at a position outside of the airbase where reconnaissance could be maintained and raids performed in preparation for a final assault by the rest of the battalion. The fourth company were the elite, the special recon marines for who being cut off from the rest of the fleet was their stock and trade, used to being isolated and to completing difficult missions with an assured degree of success.

Korros made a mental note to send a comms expert up here to establish a stealth ship-surface relay, using shortwave radio to connect it with the camp. They would be able to talk to the fleet without being detected, and be advised of tactical information and weather reports– here, weather speculation was not an idle guess, it could mean life or death – and could even call in supply drops and airstrikes as needed. As the second squad, led by Sergeant Gar Johonsan, passed him in complete silence, he rose like a spectre and stalked forward to his next piece of cover. A veteran soldier, Korros always had at least three routes & cover options ready – one forward, one back, and one flanking – and was so used to it that it was subconscious. The rest of the platoon, a well seasoned, experienced unit, were the same.

They had moved about three kilometres when he paused behind a large boulder that stuck out over the suddenly steeper valley, almost like a ravine. The first squad was about twenty metres below him, Sergeant Janil Morcos in the lead, her slight body made bulky and tall by armour, weapons and pack. A slight sound made him turn, and the scarred Lieutenant just caught sight of a large Leokin vanishing into the shadows. Leokin were large, carnivorous big cats, very shy of anything larger than an owl and for some reason only ate small birds and rats. They were extremely good at climbing trees, and they always made him smile – his sister, a civilian from Ancalmor, had a Leokin cub for a pet. It seemed to enjoy attacking his ankles, his alone, above all other forms of play.

A slightly crackly whisper brought him back to the present. “Enemy observation post ahead, sir.” One of his scouts was looking up and back, one hand pointing. “Four unfriendlies, light arms, no state of readiness. No others in sight.”

“Copy that. Platoon, hold up, Second advance to first.”

Korros crouched and slid a few metres down the slope, dislodging a small rock. It missed Janil’s head by about a foot. She looked up, surprised, as he clambered down next to her.

“Take your squad around to that tree, get in cover and wait for my mark. On my go, get to that big fern there. Snipers on me.”

They moved silently. The squad’s two snipers, invisible with ghillie suits over body armour, rose to a crouch and stayed put. Karros moved across the face of the near-cliff, in the opposite direction to the second squad. The observation post came into sight, about a hundred metres below them, on a small outcropping of rock and watching over the path down the ravine, the bottom of which was about twenty metres below. It was little more than a machine gun nest, with three men playing cards over a crate while the other sat against the sandbags. They had a small fire, set back towards the rear. Some long, dangling bushes camouflaged the top and a small path led off to the left, then twisted and turned until it reached the bottom of the ravine. A fifth man, behind a rock and unable to be seen by his scouts, was reading a book on a Digital Reader, head down and lost to the world. A small glow illuminated the Rourke insignia on his helmet.

Korros was surprised at the lack of discipline – this area was only a few hundred kilometres from the front line, and the airbase was a valuable strategic objective. Nonetheless, the post was well made, and without the fire and light from the Reader it wouldn’t have been seen until they were almost on top of it – massacre range for the heavy machine gun that lay on the sandbags. He gestured at the soldier who was reading, and made a hand sign to one of the two snipers beside him. A flat hand, wait, and a closed fist, kill. He raised his large, silenced rifle.

“First squad, move up.” They were advancing along the side of the ravine from clump of bushes to rock to tree, sets of threes leapfrogging each other. Forty metres away. He made a sign at the other sniper and indicated the man on the machine gun with his laser pointer, a particular shade of light only visible through Serran visors. The sniper’s crosshairs settled on the soldier’s head. The first squad was thirty metres distant. Readying his own rifle, he looked up, checking his other troops. They were spread out atop the ravine, ready to provide supporting fire if need be. Twenty metres. The first squad paused.

The man reading looked up, straight at Korros, and grinned.

The sniper’s head beside him exploded in a mess of gore and bone. Korros was hit in the shoulder, the shot knocking him over, as three shots blew the other sniper off the face of the cliff. He tumbled, dead, and hit the distant ground with a thump. The real observation post, on the other side of the ravine, concealed an enormous anti-aircraft minigun and was filled with soldiers. The second and third squads had no warning as .80 cal explosive rounds tore them apart, blood, armour and body parts flying. A grenade killed Janil and another Marine from the first squad instantly, and took the arm off of another. Korros rolled up and sprinted to a rock, twenty metres back, as the ground where he had been fountained dirt and leaves, raked by bullets from the first nest. As he dropped heavily to the ground he had a brief glimpse of a Corporal in the first squad, trying to get her men moving, being shot in the leg and chest. She fell in a tangle of blood and floppy limbs like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Fall back! Fall back!” he yelled over the airwaves, face contorted with pain as he slapped an Omni-Bandage with his wound with his right hand. The bullet hadn’t penetrated his armour, which was severely dented and cracked, but his left arm was unusable and bleeding heavily. From a quick mental diagnosis, shards of bone had probably ripped through his shoulder muscle. If he was unlucky and the artery had been opened, he would die of blood loss within minutes. He readied himself and made another clumsy dash, covering thirty metres to a small but thick tree.
“Sound off”, he gasped, head lolling onto his shoulder as he pressed a button to link with the fleet. Stealth was the least of his worries.

“Scouts, 1, 2, 4 here.”

“First squad, 4,5,7, 8 here, 2 is still alive and we’re carrying her.”

“Third squad...” a hacking cough interrupted the call, “8 and 2.”

“Second?” Korros said quietly, stunned. There was no reply. The platoon had lost two thirds of its men in thirty seconds. The minigun fell silent for a moment and the jungle was completely silent. There were no cries from wounded, or sound at all other than the still slightly pattering rain. He moved quickly, getting behind a thick tree root as two sniper rifles echoed around the valley. A Scout fell, and the other shot punched through the root, narrowly missing his left foot. The forest fell silent again as they swapped ammo drums on the minigun.

“Callidar”, he said, calling his ship and control centre, “encountered extremely heavy resistance, lost two thirds of men. Require immediate evac, heavy med, air support. Over.”

“Copy, Callidar has enemy on visual. Shooting detected. Air support inbound, transports E.T.A five minutes. Gunship E.T.A thirty seconds.”

“Callidar, be advised, concealed AA minigun on cliff. Marking.” He lit the nest up with his invisible laser, easily detected with the highly advanced equipment aboard the ship.

A brief yell that was more a scream echoed from the Rourke emplacements, and the minigun swivelled skyward. Milliseconds later it was annihilated in swirling flame and an enormous roar as a Hellhawk Assault Gunship lowered itself into the ravine. Machine guns roared from the side doors as smoke wafted from a recently fired missile pod, beneath its large wings. The huge, twin guns of the anti-armour weapon mounted on the nose swivelled and blasted automatic fire around the surface of the cliff as a crack team of RAZOR Special Forces Soldiers rappelled from the hovering aircraft, submachine guns blazing as soon as they touched the ground. They mopped up all of the remaining resistance with expert double-taps.

Korros went for his pistol as a helmeted head appeared over him, then realised it was the friendly face of a Serran Coalition medic. Peregrine transports inserted themselves into the narrow valley with expert skill and lowered medivac stretchers, as a large flight of Coalition fighters blasted overhead.

“Situation’s changed”, the medic said, giving Korros a shot and going to work on the wound itself. “Top Brass wants this airbase ASAP, whole front line’s advancing. If only they’d known about this mission a few hours earlier, this never would have happened.”

Korros could not believe what he had heard – but somehow could. It all made sense, even to his confused mind, which was rapidly slipping into a deep sleep, thanks to the sleeping shot given to him by the medic. Over a hundred missions were carried out every day without needing to notify the various Admirals and Generals of the fleet, and his just so happened to be made unnecessary by a changing battlefield. The only thing was, twenty men and women had died just a few minutes two early.

The last thing he saw before his flickering eyelids gave in was a large pile of orange body bags being lifted into a transport. The mission had started normally...

'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.'<i>