As we pushed through the forest, the echoing thunder of rockets became louder. Occasionally we would pass some break in the trees and see tails of smoke rising in the distance. Then we crossed the invisible line bordering the battlefield, and the explosions became something we felt as well as heard. The ground trembled slightly when rockets were fired, and branches rattled above us.
The ATVs and Jackals continued streaking ahead, then channeling back, running along our flanks, then clearing new paths. At one point, an ATV leaped over a ridge, and exploded into a fireball. Through the flames and smoke and the glare of the ion curtain, I saw the bolt that speared the vehicle.
Flames trailing behind it like a wild mane, the ATV finished its arc and landed smoothly before skidding sideways into a tree. Medics ran to check the two-man crew, but they did not need to bother. Already twisted around the trunk of the tree, the ATV exploded, and the passenger tube broke open to reveal the driver and gunner, covered in flame, skin charred black, and motionless.
I saw this as I ducked behind a tree and prepared to fire. We had not run into the alien army itself, just a couple of scouts. The nearest platoon tried to pin the enemy with suppressing fire as a second platoon flanked them and cut them down. But you cannot pin an enemy that has no fear of being shot. The two aliens marched forward and returned fire as an entire platoon shredded them with an endless stream of M27 fire.
As if attracted to the gunfire, the next wave of aliens came pounding through the trees. Had it not been for the glare of the ion curtain, the Mudders would have blended into the forest. Their dark skin would have worked like camouflage had there been shadows.
An ATV streaked past, presenting a diversion. The Mudders did not take cover but simply marched ahead, firing spears of light that bored through trees, rocks, and anything else they hit.
We were not entirely ready for them, but the Mudders did not catch us by surprise, either. We would have had a better position if we had had more time to dig in. Many of our men found cover behind trees and fallen logs. Others had no choice and simply knelt in the open. Our entire company showered a continuous stream of M27 fire, battering the Mudders and everything around them. Shreds of bark and wood flew through the air; branches fell, then danced along the ground.
Moffat radioed me to say that another large force of Mudders was headed in from the north. Our company was assigned to form a skirmishing line with three other companies. The objective was to maintain a hundred-foot buffer between us and the aliens while the rest of the regiment dug in.
“Spread out, spread out,” I radioed as I moved up and down the line. “Thomer, take your platoon and cover that rise.” Moffat moved among the men, doing the same. We only had a few moments before the aliens arrived. The first of them walked out from a stand of trees. More followed.
The Mudders’ absolute disregard for our firepower made holding our position nearly impossible. They just did not care if we hit them. I’d seen Marines spend more time bracing themselves to step into a cold shower than these aliens spent before preparing to walk into our fusillade. Our gunfire chipped away their bodies, slowly splintering their broad chests and heads.
Looking across our line, I saw Philips out in the open, firing three-shot bursts from his M27. White bolts struck the tree behind him and sailed through the air around him.
As a survivor of the previous skirmish, Philips knew what would happen if he got hit. But there he was, not even trying to take cover.
I set up an interLink connection between me and Philips and heard nothing but his breathing. He wasn’t even talking to himself. Normally he was the noisiest Marine I had ever known, maintaining nonstop commentary with himself when he could not find another audience.
“Philips, fall back,” I ordered. He did not respond.
Thomer, always the guardian angel, climbed out from good cover so he could pull Philips to safety. “Leave him,” I yelled.
“He’ll get hit,” yelled Thomer.
But Philips had angels looking out for him. An alien light bolt drilled through the tree directly behind Philips’s head. The trunk caught on fire. Philips seemed not to notice any of this. More bolts speared the ground near his feet and the bushes around him, but nothing hit him.
“Harris, take your platoon and fall in around my beacon,” Moffat ordered. Had I been a general-issue clone, I would have called up a platoon and started toward the beacon before sizing up the situation. Automatic order response was programmed into their DNA. As I followed the beacon signal, I saw that it led to an indefensible knoll with no trees or rocks for cover and no strategic value.
“We can’t hold that area. It’s in their path, sir,” I yelled.
“I gave you an order, Harris.”
Following that beacon would expose our flank to the aliens. Moffat had a point, though. If we could hold that area, we might turn the tide of the battle. I wanted to get to that knoll but following a different path.
I switched to a private frequency so I could speak with Thomer. “You got Moffat’s beacon?” I asked.
“Yeah. Is that for us?” Thomer asked.
“No,” I lied. If I had told him the truth, his reaction would have been to follow orders. “Take the platoon in from behind the hill, and don’t take any chances. Those bastards can shoot through rock.”
I watched Philips, expecting him to ignore the order, but his programming won out. He stayed with Thomer and the rest of the platoon as they fell back, then moved up to take point as they circled the hill.
“I told you to secure that hill,” Moffat called to me. He was screaming like a lunatic now. I imagined more than a little spit flying inside his helmet.
“We’re on our way, sir,” I said.
A Jackal skidded to a stop to the left of the beacon. The Marine in the turret sprayed heavy-caliber shells into the growing bank of Mudders as they came swarming out of the woods. The three-inch shells tore through trees and Mudders alike. One alien tried to charge the Jackal, wading into the heavy fire. The bullets slowly ground the crazy bastard into mulch, shredding it even as it continued its charge. The Mudder managed to get about twenty feet in that barrage before falling in a heap of pieces.
A line of five Jackals sped in from another direction, firing into the enemy line while weaving through the trees. Moments later they emerged for another pass, their tires kicking up mud and twigs as they skidded past.
The Mudders fired back. When three bolts struck the first of the Jackals, the driver lost control, and the vehicle flipped. More bolts hit the chassis as it burst into flames. The Jackal spun through the air and settled roof down.
The Mudders opened fire on the other Jackals. Two made it to safety; two more crashed.
“Heads up!” Thomer yelled, as hundreds of Mudders crested a distant ridge and opened fire.
Grenadiers standing near the top of the hill fired rockets into the Mudders’ ranks, then dropped back. The ground around the aliens seemed to boil as the rockets kicked up a veil of steam, mud, and leaves.
We could not let the Mudders drive us back, but a single platoon could not hold this hill. At least a hundred Mudders had gathered on a nearby ridge. Hiding proved useless when the aliens returned our fire; the bolts from their weapons cut through the ground like needles through a sheet. I saw a bolt pass through a boulder and hit one of my men in the face. The bolt continued on through the back of his helmet as the Marine fell to the ground, his dead body still trembling as the muscles in his arms and legs exerted their last impulses of life.