Horishito, one of the grenadiers under Lon's command was among the first to fire. Bullets pinged all around him and tracers from the friendly SAW behind him streaked less than two feet over his head as he concentrated on the MP cart in the main foyer area where the flashes were emanating from. His body was flooded with adrenaline and he was seriously wondering if he would live through the next two minutes but he went forward nonetheless. He pointed the targeting laser on his M-24 at the cart and sent it out. The reading flashed before his eyes, seeming to float in the air courtesy of his combat goggles. 93 meters.
He flipped the selector switch on his weapon to the grenade setting. A red targeting recticle appeared in his goggles. He centered it in the air about a meter above the cart.
"Ninety-three meter air burst," he said into his throat microphone, which was set to computer command mode. When his instruction was logged, he spoke a single word and switched it back to communications mode.
"Hoary, taking a shot," he told Lon.
"Weapons are free," Lon replied. "Get the fuckers."
He pushed the fire button on his weapon and it kicked harshly against his right shoulder as the 50mm high explosive fragmentation grenade was shot out of the stubby barrel below the M-24s main barrel. The grenade exploded precisely over the top of the cart and the weapons firing behind it went instantly silent. He inched forward some more, focusing on a planter where another group of flashes was emanating from. He pushed the target laser and began setting up the next shot.
From all three locations where MPG troops were facing the MPs from tunnels or corridor entrances, grenades came flying out, exploding with deadly precision over the top of groups of defenders. The steel shrapnel sliced easily through the armor and helmets of the MPs, killing many outright, horribly wounding others. The sounds of the explosions echoed loudly off of the steel walls, reverterbrating back and forth with jarring concussions. In between explosions the air was filled with the chattering of machine guns and the screams of wounded men.
When the firing positions in front of them were knocked out or forced into silence, the MPG troops were at last able to rush out of their hiding holes. The reinforcement squads came first, all at once. They ran into the main foyer area and spread out, diving to the ground and searching for targets. The remaining MPs reacted quickly, shooting at the choke points and hitting a few of the Martians as they exited.
Lon, positioned in the middle of his squad, his own weapon gripped tightly in his hands, saw rounds from the MPs' weapons go flashing within inches of his head, some of them close enough that he could feel the wind of their passage. On his right Jim Gantry, one of his senior men, suddenly gasped as two high velocity bullets slammed into the top of his head, drilling through his helmet and sending a spray of blood into the air. He slumped forward lifelessly, his weapon dropping from his hands, a puddle of blood forming beneath him. A part of Lon wanted to cry out at the loss of one of his men, one of his friends, but his training kept him from reacting. Instead he simply continued to crawl forward, placing his targeting recticle on the head of an MP and squeezing off a burst. Around him, the rest of his men were doing the same, including his newest member, Matza, who was spraying the MP positions with pinpoint bursts from his SAW, providing covering fire for the advance.
At the entrance of the pedestrian station the two companies that had been pinned in place for nearly forty minutes now finally were able to attempt a break out. With the defenders of the entrance occupied by the flanking squads, they began to pour out of the tunnel using the same entrance maneuvers that the rest of the teams had. One by one, from each side of the entrance, they hurled themselves outward, diving to the ground and then rolling clear for the next man, firing as they went. They drew some fire from the MPs of course, some of it quite heavy, and several of their numbers were struck by bullets, but within thirty seconds enough of them were out to lay down a vicious blanket of gunfire on the MPs.
Hit from three directions at once, and unable to find anywhere on the entrance platform where they could be safe, even for a second, from bullets smashing into them, the MPs gave up the field very quickly. Those who had not been killed or wounded retreated in disarray towards the main corridor of the base, desperate to get to a place of relative safety. Many were shot down since Evers had given the order to keep the pressure on them. Targeting recticles were placed on their backs and rounds reached out, cutting them to the ground. But the MPG could not get them all and more than twenty made it through the wide door at the far end of the platform before the steel door was shut and locked. Battered and terrified, they were ordered to the control building to help with the last line of defense.
The foyer area, for the first time since the doors had been blown, was now silent of gunshots and explosions. Men were screaming in pain and despair and the air smelled thickly of gunpowder and burned explosives. Expended shell casings were everywhere, marking every point that someone had fired from. The MPG soldiers, weapons trained before them, fanned out through the platform to secure it. For the first time they saw the results of the battle they'd been engaged in. They saw it in graphic detail as they came across dead MPs with their heads torn open and brain matter leaking out, armor ripped apart by steel fragments with intestines, kidneys, livers protruding through the holes. They saw heads blasted apart by high velocity bullets and higher velocity, larger caliber SAW bullets. They saw wounded MPs screaming in pain and fear and they kicked their forgotten weapons away from them. They saw their own comrades dead on the steel deck or wounded by the same weapons they carried. They looked at each other with haunted eyes, the gravity of what they were a part of coming home to them in a big way. Thoughts of shouting "Free Mars" at the MSG base a few hours ago entered some minds. They were hard pressed to believe the ease with which they'd shouted that incantation.
Medics went to work on the wounded, treating the MPG first before they even headed for the worst of the MPs. Captain Evers, himself somewhat shaken by the mayhem that had taken place, did his best to put it aside and immediately issued orders for the attack to continue towards the base control room. Within three minutes of securing the platform, primacord was being placed on the door that the surviving MPs had escaped through.
Admiral Rosewood had watched the entire battle on the security cameras. He was numb with disbelief and fear. He could not believe how quickly his MPs had been overwhelmed and soundly slaughtered by the MPG troops once the break out had occurred. The entire thing had taken less than eight minutes. Only twenty of the ninety-three MPs that had been deployed at the main gate had made it through the corridor at the end of the battle. They were now rushing to join the defense of the control building. He had forty-five MPs already in position there. 115 more, including the elite TIRT team, were moving in from other parts of the base but their deployment was pitifully slow, hampered by the very security procedures that had been initiated by the Martian attack.
He checked his computer, looking at the time display. The marine reinforcements would arrive in less than an hour now. Would they make it to the control room in time to prevent the MPG from gaining entry?
As if in answer his Internet screen came to life, showing the face of General Sega. Sega did not look happy at all, in fact, he looked downright miserable. This did little to allay Rosewood's own fear.
"General," Rosewood enquired, "did you see the results of the main gate battle on your display? Those MPG troops killed..."
"I saw it, Admiral," Sega said with a nod, his voice strained. "I'd hoped your MPs would have held longer, but I suppose it doesn't matter now."