The landing craft rocked wildly in Columbia’s upper atmosphere. Jax had always been annoyed by the Marine regimen of pre-launch intravenous nutrition and anti-emetic drug cocktails, but now he understood. He didn’t vomit, but that was purely a testament to his will, to the stubbornness of the hardcore Marine colonel. About a third of his troops, however, veterans all, succumbed, and the landing ship was quickly becoming a very unpleasant place to be.
The ride was rougher than it had to be, but that’s because the Richter had a very limited window to launch. Admiral Compton had managed to arrange fleet deployments to allow a small corridor for the Martians to change course and disgorge their cargo undetected, but it didn’t leave time for plotting easier entry trajectories. They had to take what they could get, and if that meant a bunch of grizzled Marine veterans threw up all over themselves, such were the fortunes of war.
At least they weren’t coming into a hostile landing zone. In fact, they weren’t landing anywhere near an inhabited area. Keeping the drop undetected was the primary consideration, and that meant landing in the desolate equatorial zone, far from population centers. It would be a long trip for the expeditionary force once they were on the ground, but it couldn’t be helped.
The landing craft were heavy shuttles, not the sleek, maneuverable Gordon landers the Marines used, so it was just as well they were nowhere anyone could take a shot at them. Not one of these pigs, Jax thought, would make it to the ground in an opposed landing.
The craft were descending much faster than they were designed for, which was making the turbulence worse. But caution demanded they hit ground as quickly as possible. The longer they were airborne, the likelier one of Compton’s ships would detect them…and that would just make things even more difficult for the admiral, who already had his hands full.
The landing zone was a huge plain, almost a desert - over 100,000 square kilometers of dry, flat ground. It would give them plenty of room to land and deploy, but it was totally open and difficult to defend. Jax was going to kick some butt as soon as they were down – he didn’t like that position, and they were going to get off it right away.
The ships banked left and came in for their final approach, firing their engines to brake hard. Positioning thrusters ignited, and the flotilla floated to the ground - surprisingly gently considering how rough ride down had been.
They were completely unopposed, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to be lazy, at least not to Jax. As soon as the shuttles landed, the rear ramps lowered and squads poured out, moving into a defensive perimeter. Jax looked out over the plain, impressed with the regularity of the formation of the landing craft. These Martian pilots are good, he thought. I’m glad we’re on the same side…more or less.
All through the mass of men, women, and supplies, designated officers and non-coms were shouting out orders and organizing the unloading. The ships were taking off in one hour – if they stayed any longer the Richter would be too far away for them to reach. And while the Martians had provided transport and supplies, they weren’t yet willing to deploy Confederation personnel in any capacity that would expose their role. If there were still weapons and supplies onboard, they would go back to the Richter. And Jax’s troops and the rebels needed that equipment.
“Let’s get moving.” Jax was yelling, but mostly for effect. He’d already organized the unloading plan, and it was being executed to the letter. Every one of his 500 troops was a veteran, most of them with five years’ service or more, and the officers and non-coms were among the best in the Corps. They were poorly-equipped by Marine standards, powered armor an impossible dream. But they were one of the most veteran forces ever deployed, and Jax knew they could do a lot…even without nuclear reactors strapped onto their backs. Whether they could do enough to make a real difference…that he would have to wait and see.
The larger transport shuttles had landed off to the left. Half of them were loaded with weapons and other supplies; the rest carried armored ATVs, 80 of them. It was enough transport for the entire force and all of the supplies. They were a generic design – the Confederation wasn’t looking to broadcast its involvement – but they were military grade…nuclear powered and armed with heavy auto-cannons.
His troops were unloading the supply ships and stacking the crates on the ground. They only had an hour to get everything off the ships; they would load it all onto the ATVs later. Jax ran everywhere, from ship to ship, but he realized he just wasn’t needed. His troops knew what they had to do, and they had the shuttles unloaded in 45 minutes. By the time an hour had passed there wasn’t a ship left on the ground.
They spent the rest of the day organizing and loading the vehicles and prepping and inspecting weapons. By nightfall of Columbia’s 27 hour day, they were 100% ready. They would camp here for the night and move out in the morning. The insertion was complete and flawlessly executed. Jax was at war again.
Chapter 17
Kyle Warren was crouched down behind a small berm, his assault rifle gripped tightly in his hand. The fire from the advancing federals was heavy, but his own troops were giving it back to them…and then some. The rebels weren’t heavily fortified, but they had dug crude foxholes and built some hasty works. The scrubby woods gave the advancing forces some cover, but not much, and they were starting to take heavy losses.
His comlink buzzed…Will Thompson calling. “Warren here, sir.” He took a few shots at a Fed he saw aiming in his general direction as he answered Thompson’s call. The first two missed, but the third hit the trooper just under her right eye. She snapped back and fell to the ground, the side of her face ripped open. “Things are hot here, sir. We’re about three klicks south of your position.” He took a breath and ducked deeper behind some cover. “This is more than a scouting force, Will.” Kyle was a veteran, and he knew he shouldn’t be calling his commander in chief by his first name. But the Arcadian army was new, and there was an odd combination of military discipline and familiar informality in play.
“God damn Merrick.” Thompson’s voice betrayed his frustration…and grudging respect for his adversary. “Your position is a must hold, Kyle. If you need support let me know, but retreating is not an option. Understood?”
“Understood, general.” Warren’s voice was calm, despite the heavy fire. He was a combat veteran, and the months of fighting on Arcadia had honed his command skills. “I estimate we are facing a reinforced battalion.” He paused, considering. “I believe we can hold unless the enemy commits additional strength.” Another pause, then: “But it’s going to be hot work.”
“I’m counting on you, Kyle. Give me status reports every fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” He saw a clump of federals advancing off to the right, and he yelled for one of the auto-gun teams to direct fire there. “Report every one-five minutes. Understood.”
“Good luck, Kyle. Thompson out.”
There was a brief lull in the fire, and Warren took advantage to crawl back from the front line. He needed to find someplace he could get his bearings and take stock of the overall position. His troops were deployed in an extended line stretching about a kilometer and centered on the peak of the ridge.
They had been making the federals pay, but they were starting to take losses too. The attackers bogged down, unable to continue advancing into the heavy fire, and a line formed. The combat was turning into a bloody, close-range firefight, and the federals were also going prone, using whatever cover they could find.
Kyle was fine with exchanging fire. His job was just to hold the line – if the Feds wanted to have a firefight all day that suited him just fine. But he was still worried. Thompson had reminded him not to underestimate the federal forces. Their commander was a strong tactician – he wasn’t going to make stupid mistakes.