We trampled down the stairs and out into the plush hotel lobby. As I entered the lobby, I received the same instructions issued to every Marine in the hotel. “This is not a drill! Companies, form up in the parking lot. This is not a drill!”
The lobby of Hotel Valhalla was jammed as multiple regiments of Marines rushed through. All told, nearly twenty thousand men were billeted in that hotel.
Long lines of trucks formed in the parking lot. Officers in service uniforms segregated us into battalions as we ran, directing one battalion this way and another battalion that way. By the time we reached the trucks, they were breaking us down into companies. Our briefing—whatever briefing we would receive—would come as we drove to the front.
As I headed for the trucks, I saw Ray Freeman running with a field bag dangling over one of his shoulders. Being a full foot taller than any of the clones around him, he stood out.
“You have any idea what’s going on?” I asked Freeman, as he got into the back of a truck. Other men climbed into trucks, Freeman simply stepped onto the bed.
“Nobody’s talking,” Freeman said. His voice was so low I felt it as much as I heard it.
I climbed in behind him. Across the bed of the truck sat Lieutenant Moffat, our intrepid company commander. As his executive officer, I took the seat across from him and waited for orders. Freeman sat beside me.
“Harris, get me a head count,” Moffat ordered.
They’d squeezed an entire platoon into the back of the truck—forty-five men, including Moffat, Freeman, and me. As I scanned the men crammed in around me, I was relieved to see Philips among them. I radioed to our other trucks and asked for a head count.
“Is every man accounted for?” I asked my platoon leaders. Once all three combat platoons radioed in the affirmative, I relayed that message to Moffat and the briefing began.
“Listen up,” Moffat, the kind of CO who enjoys reminding his men who is in charge, shouted as if we were not wearing equipment which automatically controlled the audio volume in our helmets. “The Mudders are back. An Army tracking station picked them up seven miles west of town. They’re headed north-east toward Valhalla. From what we can tell, the dumb bastards plan to hit the exact spot they attacked three days ago.”
They could have gotten us to the battle more quickly in helicopters, I thought. Then I remembered the ruined gunships on the battlefield and decided that the trucks seemed like a good idea.
“We’re going to try to come in behind them,” Moffat said. “Command is sending two light infantry divisions to keep the Mudders pinned down while we flank them from the west. When we are in position, we will launch a counterattack, dividing their line in two.
“Once we have broken their lines, our objective is to finish the bastards off before they can retreat. That is all.”
Not a very inspiring briefing, I thought to myself as the battle plans slowly took shape in my head. I thought about that deep forest with its dense growth and slow rises. There would be no point in taking cover behind hills and rocks in this battle when the enemy could shoot through anything.
I looked over at Freeman. He sat, his helmet on, leaning back against the wall of the truck, his huge body rolling along with the truck’s bumps and jounces. “You think they’re going to bring more men this time?” I asked.
“Fifty thousand,” Freeman said.
“Fifty thousand?” I asked.
“Fifty thousand, just like last time,” Freeman said.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I just heard from the Science Lab,” Freeman said.
“You’re in touch with the Science Lab?” I asked. Freeman did not bother answering.
The trucks rolled fast. We took a main artery out of Valhalla, then followed a highway deep into the forest. Somewhere out there, the fighting had begun. I could hear the rumble of handheld rockets in the distance. We were too far away to hear the rifles.
We drove for less than an hour before the trucks pulled off to the side, and everybody got out and fell into ranks. I did not realize the sheer size of our convoy until I climbed out the back of the truck. A line of two hundred trucks stretched out behind us, each carrying a platoon with forty-two men. Bringing tanks into this battle would have done us no good because the forest terrain was too overgrown for heavy equipment. I did see smaller vehicles—missile-bearing ATVs and Jackal attack vehicles.
We formed into companies and headed away from the road. The grounds around us were virginal. We trudged through deep drifts and air powdered with miniscule flakes of snow. A layer of clouds floated below the ion curtain, but the clouds cast no shadows. Just as the air was bright under the trees of the forest, the space under the clouds had its own illumination.
We marched into the trees, ten thousand men strong. My company belonged to the Second Expeditionary Marine Brigade. The first brigade and several other units would pour into the forest from other directions. Our heavy-artillery units would act as a hedge to keep the enemy from reaching the city limits while we flanked the aliens. If everything went according to plan, we would break their lines and cut off their retreat. Everything hinged on the numbers. The Army reported the enemy force at a mere fifty thousand troops. If their report held true and the aliens returned as understaffed as they arrived the first time, the battle would end quickly.
While the rest of us prepped our M27s, Freeman brought out his sniper rifle and loaded a magazine into it.
“You’re shooting bullets?” I asked. “I expected you to have something …I don’t know …bigger. Maybe shoulder-fired nuclear-tipped rockets or something.”
“These will do,” Freeman said.
“Powerful?” I asked.
Freeman pointed out a tree on a distant hill. The crack of his rifle attracted the attention of the men milling around us.
Up on the hill, the upper half of a very large pine tree hopped in the air and fell like a bowling pin. Freeman slung the rifle over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you back in town,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I want to get to their drop zone,” Freeman said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I have a package to deliver,” he said.
“Something that makes a loud bang?” I asked.
“Something more scientific,” Freeman said. With this, he bounded a wide drift and headed off.
“Where does your buddy think he’s going?” Lieutenant Moffat asked.
“He didn’t say,” I said. Lying to officers like Moffat was easier than telling them the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY
In all the battles I’d fought, this was the first time I had ever seen Jackals in action. Jackals were jeeps with enhanced engines and armor. They had ten small, independent wheels along their chassis instead of the standard four—four wheels up front and six in the back. Each had shielded tank armor along the sides and front and a machine-gun turret up top. The machine gun fired variable loads.
The military categorized Jackals as a “dated, but not obsolete” combat vehicle. The design of this venerable old battle-ax had not changed for eighty years. Fast and maneuverable, Jackals were an especially useful unit for lightning attacks in tightly confined areas.
I watched the Jackals weave in and out of trees at speeds nearing forty miles per hour. They leaped over ledges, sliced through snowdrifts, and splashed across creeks. I suppose a Jackal would make an easy target in an open field, but traveling at those speeds through trees, they looked impossible to hit.
We marched five miles into the forest, moving east toward town. Our battalion would be the spearhead, the wedge that would snap the enemy column in two. We would sweep down from the north. If everything went according to plan, we would leave the bastards with only a token force to attack the city while other battalions dissected the rest of their force in the woods. There would be no quarter given. We would pound the Mudders until we destroyed every last one of them.