Such a withdrawal had been well under way when Dickenson's order went out. The first troops ordered from their positions had been the combat infantry units, including the platoon Jeff and Hicks belonged to. They were positioned below the anti-tank platoons on the hillside and had watched in terrified fascination as the hoards of WestHem tanks had closed on them and had been attacked by the lasers from above and below. While eighty millimeter fire had raked the hillside above them, sending dust, dirt, and rocks tumbling downward to sift into their trench, they had remained unscathed by a single round since they were not presenting an immediate threat to the tanks. And then, at the height of the battle, as WestHem tanks began to get within five hundred meters, they had been ordered to pick up all the ammunition and supplies they could carry and move as quickly as possible to the rear of the hillside to secure the extraction zone.
Jeff had been almost down on the valley floor, a pack containing seventy-five kilograms of ammunition clips and food packs slung over his back. That was when Walker ordered everyone to hold up.
"Captain Sing reports the WestHem armor is pulling back," he told them.
"Pulling back?" asked Hicks, who was just behind Jeff in the semi-orderly formation.
"Fuckin' aye," Walker said. "They did it. They beat the motherfuckers back."
A symphony of cheers and obscene epitaphs directed at all things Earthling filled the tactical channel for several seconds. They held in place for another five minutes, waiting for confirmation. Finally, it came.
"It's official," Walker said. "The marine tanks have withdrawn back over the horizon. We held. All infantry units return to your former positions."
"Yes!" Jeff said, pumping his fist in victory. "Fuck you, Earthling pigs! You got your asses kicked worse than the Thrusters in the Battle of Ninety-Second Street."
"Hey, watch that shit, dickweed," said Hicks. "You didn't beat us. We gave up Ninety-Second for economic reasons. The anti-dust units of the EPD were making it too hard to get good cash flow on our product."
"Are you fucking dusted right now?" Jeff asked him. "Ninety-Second was premo territory. We was clearing sixteen fucking grand a week down there."
"But what were your arrest stats?" Hicks enquired.
"Uh... if we could put this military tactics discussion on hold for a bit," Walker interrupted, "perhaps we could start shagging our asses back up the hill? We need to get everything re-organized before the marines start sending their dismounts after us."
"Right, sorry, sarge," Jeff told him.
They went back up the hill, working their way through the access trenches step by step. Jeff — though in the best shape of his life at this point — was huffing and puffing almost instantly. The discharge warning indicator appeared in his goggles letting him know he was using more oxygen than his suit was pulling from the atmosphere. By the time they made it back to their trench his reservoir was down to sixty-four percent and sweat was dripping down his face to pool in the neck junction of his helmet and suit. With relief he set his bag of ammo and food down and slumped against the rear of the trench.
"Okay, people," Walker told them. "Let's take about ten minutes to get our air supplies back up to full and then we'll start unloading and re-distributing everything. Remember the rule. No hoarding of food, ammo, or waste-packs or I'll personally back-flow your waste system until shit spews out your mouths."
Jeff stretched a little, relieving the ache in his tired muscles, and then leaned forward into the opening in his sandbags. He looked out over the landscape and saw dozens — no, hundreds — of burned out WestHem tanks, most still glowing red with the heat of their destruction. Beyond the horizon the blue tendrils and white twists of rising heat from the intact armor were still making their way upward.
"Xenia," he whispered, low enough that it was not transmitted over the channel. He felt a sudden stab of worry for her. Was she still alive? During the frantic exchange of laser shots just after the battle had begun he'd seen a bright, lethal-looking flash from somewhere down to the left of them. That was where the tank platoon Xenia, Zen, and Sanchez belonged to were holding their position. Had it been their tank that had bought it?
He called up his text messaging software and brought the holographic keyboard to life. He composed a quick message: ARE YOU STILL ALIVE DOWN THERE? He hesitated for a few moments, afraid to send it for fear of not getting a response. Finally, deciding he had to know, he addressed and shipped it.
A minute ticked by and he became increasingly convinced that she was dead. And then, just when he'd almost resigned himself to her demise, a reply came flashing in.
HANGING IN HERE, it read. TOOK A HIT ON THE LEFT SIDE AND BLEW A HOLE THRU THE CORNER OF THE TANK BUT NO MAJOR DAMAGE. LOPEZ, LEE, AND DEALERMAN BOUGHT IT THOUGH. DIRECT HIT.
Jeff's thrill at hearing that Xenia was still alive was dampened a bit by hearing about Lopez, Lee, and Dealerman. All three of them had been regular attendees at the nightly poker sessions during the waiting period and he knew them well. Now they were burned, blasted bodies in a smashed tank.
SORRY TO HEAR THAT, he responded. I'LL TELL HICKS. GLAD UR OK THOUGH. AND YOU TOOK IT OUT IN SPADES ON THE EARTHLING FUCKS.
YEAH, WE DID, she replied. ZEN GOT 16 CONFIRMED KILLS ON WESTHEM TANKS.
He felt a stab of jealousy at her mention of Zen but ignored it. He was about to reply back to her when Walker's voice suddenly barked over the tactical channel again.
"Hicks, Creek, Drogan," he said. "I'm showing that you three are almost fully charged on air. I got a little job for you."
They all turned in his direction, none of them speaking though, as was the custom in the MPG.
"They got some wounded upstairs," Walker said. "And they don't know when the WestHem armor is gonna come back so they can't release too many of their people to evac them down to the hover LZ. Shag your asses on up there and give 'em a hand. Leave everything but your weapons."
All three nodded and removed everything from their biosuits but their M-24s and their extra ammunition clips. They made their way through their own trench and into the rear access trench that led off of it. Once in the main withdrawal trench, a narrower side trench led off to the north and upwards. They entered it and began to climb. This time, without the extra weight on their backs, their biosuits continued to replace air faster than they were using it.
Jeff told Hicks about Lopez, Lee, and Dealerman.
"That fuckin' bites," he said, his voice a mixture of sadness and anger.
"Yeah," Jeff agreed. "It does."
They finished their climb and entered the main anti-tank trench near the crest of the hill. It was clear at first sight — even in infrared — that this position had not fared well during the battle. Many of the sandbags that lined the front had been blasted open, the shavings from inside of them littering the floor along with dozens upon dozens of spent charging batteries. In several places entire sections of the protective barrier had given way and fallen inside. As they made their way further inside the damage grew worse and the human casualties began to become visible. Pushed down beneath the protective overhang were two still bodies. On one of them the helmet had been blasted open and half of the head was gone. In the other a massive hole could be seen in the chest portion of the suit. All three of them stared at this sight in mute horror and fear.