"Now you see why timing is the important thing in this war," Lon told them. "Let's keep going."
They made it to their pick-up point five minutes later. The Hummingbird was sitting at idle on the ground. They climbed inside and a minute later they were in the air, heading back towards the safety of Eden.
Eighteen hundred meters to the west, atop yet another hill, Corporal Brogan Goodbud lay nestled behind a boulder watching as the WestHem tanks blew the shit out of the hills where Lon Fargo and his team had just been. In his hands was his M-64 sniper rifle, which he hoped would soon be put to use. Three meters to his right, behind yet another boulder, was his spotter, Private John Rimmer.
"I just got the word," Rimmer told him. "Main team is safely away. No casualties."
"Static," Rimmer said, nodding in approval. He was glad they'd made their escape in time. Nothing could have lived through the plastering those tanks had just inflicted.
"Rick and Glory are still in position on Hill 678," Rimmer said, referring to the other sniper team located three kilometers east of them. "The mortar teams are standing by at Hill 650 and Hill 589."
"Right," Goodbud said, looking around. The tanks had stopped firing and had formed up in a protective semi-circle around the hills. The APCs were now moving forward, spreading out into position behind the tanks. He checked the range on the closest tanks to their position and saw that it was only nine hundred meters. That was a little too close for comfort. "Tell Rick and Glory that we do no more than three shots. Nine hundred meters is within potential detection range for our gun flashes. Reiterate that in a stern manner if you will. I know the pickings will be rich but we're not out here to get ourselves killed."
"You got it," Rimmer said, looking nervously at the tanks, wondering if even three shots was maybe two too many. Nevertheless, he recorded his message and ordered it sent. Since the other teams were well over half a kilometer away it did not go out over radio waves since this would potentially give away their position. Instead, the message was encrypted and sent via communication laser to a com satellite where it was then re-broadcast by the transmitter in Eden. As such, it took almost six seconds to get a reply. "They understand and agree," he reported.
"Good," Goodbud said. "It looks like they're going to start dismounting here in a minute. As soon as they do, start finding me some green helmets."
"You know it," Rimmer said.
The APCs all came to a halt. Their rear ramps opened and biosuited marines began to emerge, hundreds of them, all carrying M-24s or SAWs. They formed up into units and began to move forward, towards the hills, moving slowly and awkwardly.
"I can't believe they're dumb enough to try this after what we did to them last time," Rimmer said. "Don't they ever learn anything?"
"They do but their commanders don't," Goodbud replied. "At least not for awhile. Their doctrine says to dismount and engage any enemy forces so that's what they're doing. Like General Jackson said, their predictability and their underestimation of us is what will be their undoing."
"I suppose," Rimmer said. "It almost seems unsportsmanlike, doesn't it?"
"Almost," Goodbud agreed. "But who said war had to be sportsmanlike."
The marines passed through the gaps between the tanks and continued southward, towards the hills. They moved more slowly now, more carefully, as if they expected the special forces teams to engage them at any second.
"Tell the mortar teams to sight in on grid 47-2, 47-3, and 47-4," Goodbud said. "Ten meter fused high explosive. Fire on my mark."
"Sending it," Rimmer said. Eight seconds later, "acknowledged."
The dismounted marines moved closer and closer to the hills, spreading out a little. Slowly but surely Rimmer began to identify those among them who were speaking on multiple radio frequencies and turned their helmets to a green color. By the time they reached the flat area Goodbud had chosen as the killing ground, sixteen had been "tagged", as the expression went.
"Okay," Goodbud said, "this is it. Have the mortar teams fire for effect, maximum rate."
"Fire for effect," Rimmer repeated. "Maximum rate." He sent the order off.
Goodbud zoomed his goggles in on one of the green helmets and adjusted his rifle, putting the recticle on his face. His finger went to the firing button and he waited. He didn't want to shoot until the mortars began to fall. The idea was to use the confusion and chaos they caused to cover their fire.
"Here they come," said Rimmer, who was looking off to the south and had spotted the white streaks of the mortar shells arcing over the hills. "Get ready for the big bang."
The marines apparently spotted the incoming rounds as well. They began to dive to the ground, falling in that slow manner the Martian gravity caused. Goodbud didn't look away. He kept his recticle on his target, following it to the ground. When the mortar rounds began to explode, showering the formation of marines with shrapnel, he fired, sending his bullet directly through the middle of that green helmet. He immediately zoomed out and found another green helmet, this one lying twenty meters further out. Before he could sight on it, however, the head it was attached to was blown to pieces by the second volley of mortars. He shifted his recticle again, finding yet another green helmet, and this time he was able to zoom in and fire, erasing another officer or NCO from existence.
"One more," he said, zooming out and finding another green helmet. "Be ready to move."
"Fuckin' aye," Rimmer said.
Goodbud zoomed in and fired, his third shot just as true as his first two had been. He safed his weapon and then began to roll backwards, off the crest of the hill. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he said.
"I'm with you," Rimmer told him, following him down the hill.
While the mortars continued to fire, Goodbud and Rimmer made their way south, towards their pre-determined rendezvous point. Three kilometers to the east, the other sniper team did the same. Since there was no WestHem artillery set up and since there were no WestHem hovers in the air the two mortar teams could keep firing with impunity. They did so, raining eighty millimeter shells down on the helpless marines until their entire inventory was expended. They then packed up their equipment and moved at an almost leisurely stroll towards their rendezvous points. Two Hummingbirds were waiting there. One sniper team and one mortar team climbed into each of the aircraft. They took off and headed towards Eden to re-arm for another deployment later that day.
No sooner had they left then two more flights of Hummingbirds came screaming in from either side of the valley. They made two runs apiece and killed another thirteen WestHem APCs and all inside of them.
The entire formation had come to a halt and many of the troops had dismounted from their APCs to stand on the surface of Mars. Ambushes had taken place both on the north and the south and medivac operations were currently underway to remove the many marines that had been wounded by the Martian mortars. Everyone was expecting attacks on the evac hovers — it would be just like those greenies to hit them from the air or from the hillsides — but so far everything was quiet after the last air attack.
Callahan stood sixty meters away from his APC, his rifle in his hands, his eyes looking over the remains of the APC that had contained Lieutenant Goldberg and the third squad of his company's second platoon. This was the first time he had ever seen close up what an anti-tank laser could do to an armored vehicle and it was horrifyingly fascinating. The vehicle was hardly recognizable. The turret was lying nearly ten meters away, the gun barrel of the cannon twisted and distorted. The body of the vehicle had split open in multiple places from the force of the explosion of the ammunition and fuel inside. The treads had been blown clean off and were nothing but twisted, distorted shapes that were already half covered with Martian dust. And the men inside... well... they were still there but they were kind of like a jigsaw puzzle now. Shredded arms, legs, pieces of skull and bone, fragments of biosuits, pieces of rifles, a few teeth, nothing bigger than a hand or a foot but all of it in an untidy mess inside the compartment or scattered on the dust outside of it. Such was the same with every other APC that had been hit, either from the air or from the shoulder-fired AT-50s the Martian ambush teams had fired. If they hit the body of the APC, this was the result without exception. The only wounded they had to deal with were the ones hit with mortars.