Starfist: Wings of Hell (32 page)

Second squad, naturally, was given the job of taking out the first rail gun. Second squad’s second fire team had the point on the mission—Lance Corporal Hammer Schultz wouldn’t have it any other way.

The forest was thinner than Schultz would have preferred for a stealthy approach, scattered trees and low, scraggly undergrowth, but he knew better than to be put off by the less than optimal. The Skinks were going down and Schultz was going to see to it that as many of the Marines as possible were going to survive.

The squad was on line moving through the forest, and it wasn’t Schultz, but PFC Gilbert Johnson, the platoon’s newest member, who spotted the first Skink.

“Corporal Doyle, bad guys,” Johnson said on the fire team circuit, from his position on the squad’s right flank. “Thirty, thirty-five meters, my right front.”

Sergeant Kerr, listening in on all the fire team circuits, heard, and said, “Second squad, freeze.” Then, to his third team, “What do you have, Doyle.”

“I, ah, I—. There they are. I c-can make out seven. Oh hell, they’ve spotted us! Summers, Johnson, back up! Fire as you go!”

Kerr heard the
crack-sizzle
of blasters from his right and saw the flashes as two Skinks were hit and flared into incandescence. Before he could give commands to the rest of his squad, Schultz came on the squad circuit:

“Second team, flanking them.”

“Wait up, Hammer,” Corporal Claypoole shouted on the fire team circuit. “Who told you to—”

A rapid series of
crack-sizzles
from Schultz’s blaster cut off Claypoole’s words. Shouts and conflicting orders came over the radio on all of second squad’s circuits: “There they are!” “Get down!” “There’s a dozen of them!” “Fall back!” “Over here!” “Aim your shots!” “They’re all around us!” “Volley fire!” “Where’s the rail gun?” Until Sergeant Kerr’s voice managed to cut over the others:

“Second squad! Second fire team, pull back, firing as you go. Third fire team, swing to your right, pivot on first fire team. First fire team, pick targets and flare them!”

The confused shouting stopped and the Marines’ fire became more disciplined. Flashes flared up in the forest where the Marines were firing.

“Cease fire!” Kerr commanded after a moment. “Fire team leaders report!”

The fire team leaders reported none of them had casualties.

“Is anybody else moving out there?” Kerr asked when the reports were in. Nobody saw sign of Skinks to their front. Kerr reported to Lieutenant Bass.

Bass looked beyond second squad’s line, toward the rail guns that were the platoon’s objective. And at just that second, the nearest rail gun turned and began firing in the direction of third platoon.

“Down!” Bass screamed into the all-hands circuit. They were still about half a kilometer from the rail gun, and the gunner was shooting a little bit high, so the rail gun’s pellets zipped harmlessly overhead. But Bass knew that state wasn’t likely to last. What Bass didn’t know—and wasn’t anxious to find out the hard way—was what the extremely high-speed pellets from the rail guns did when they hit the ground in front of a prone man.

Lance Corporal Schultz wasn’t concerned about what the pellets flying at two-tenths the speed of light did when they hit the ground in front of a prone man—he wasn’t prone. As soon as he’d let Corporal Claypoole know he was all right and there weren’t any living Skinks to the squad’s front, he crouched and began trotting to his right front. He knew the brief firefight was going to attract attention, and part of that attention was likely to be from the nearest rail gun. He’d only gone a few paces when he was proved right and the rail gun began firing in third platoon’s direction. Schultz kept moving, with only part of his attention on the rail gun; it was shooting more toward the left side of the platoon than in his direction—and his route was taking him even farther from its likely cone of fire.

Movement to his right front made Schultz pause in his advance, frozen immobile for a moment. He turned up his ears and rotated through his helmet screens. Seven Skinks, armed with the acid guns, were running through the forest, headed toward second squad’s position. He radioed a warning to Sergeant Kerr, then began moving again, ignoring Kerr’s and Claypoole’s demands to know where he was, and their orders to return to his position.

Schultz had seen enough of the Skink rail guns in action on Kingdom to know how they were set up and that he didn’t need to close on one in order to kill it. When he’d increased his lateral position relative to the gun by a hundred meters, he began moving straight on a perpendicular path that would lead him to a position a hundred and fifty meters to the gun’s left. Behind him, he heard the
crack-sizzle
of blaster fire, and the
whooshes
of flaring Skinks.

Little more than two minutes after leaving his position, Schultz was where he wanted to be. Now he was thankful for the thin forest—he had a clear line of sight to the Skink rail gun crew. But that same line of sight gave him a clear view of a platoon of Skinks heading on an angle to flank third platoon. Most of them were carrying the acid shooters but one team bore a rail gun. The nearest of them were within the fifty-meter range of the acid guns.

Schultz smiled.

Halfway down the platoon line, a small group of Skinks, maybe half a dozen, advanced closely together. Schultz carefully lowered himself to a prone position and sighted on the farthest Skink in that group, aimed, and pressed his blaster’s firing lever. Instantly, he shifted his aim to the middle of the group and fired again. Once more he shifted aim and shot the nearest. The Skinks in that group were bunched so close together that each hit ignited at least one other Skink. Then Schultz turned his attention to the Skinks closest to himself. They had been confused by the unexpected fire, but their sergeants and officers quickly began shouting orders, and they were dropping to the ground to return fire. But Schultz had moved after he shot the three closest Skinks. It was less than fifteen seconds since he’d fired his first bolt and already the Skink platoon had lost more than a squad.

Schultz looked to where he’d seen the crew carrying the rail gun and saw they had gotten it set up and were about to begin firing. He snapped off three quick bolts, and, on toes and elbows, changed his position, five meters to his right and ten back just as streamers of acid splashed the area he’d vacated. He looked through the thin undergrowth but couldn’t make out prone Skinks through it. He’d have to wait for them to fire again and give away their positions. The rail gun crew was gone, likely vaporized when he shot them. But as Schultz looked, he saw three more Skinks running to crew the weapon. Three quick shots took them out. He moved again, then sent several bolts into its barrel, heating it enough to bend and thus rendering it useless.

Once more he moved and this time marked the positions from which Skinks had returned fire. He fired several quick bolts into the undergrowth a few meters short of where he’d seen the acid streamers begin their arching flights and was rewarded by three or four flashes of flame as plasma bolts skittered along the ground and struck home.

The original forty-Skink platoon was down to half strength. But Schultz hadn’t yet taken out his primary target—the rail gun that had third platoon pinned down. Or rather,
had
had the platoon pinned. That rail gun was now shooting over the heads of the Skink platoon, fishing for Schultz.

And coming close.

Schultz raised his shoulders, propped himself on his elbows, and sighted in on the rail gun. He took out the gunner, then fired three more bolts at the weapon—it didn’t matter if the rest of the crew survived, they were no threat if the weapon was useless. But he couldn’t finish the job.

Officers screamed and sergeants barked and the remaining Skinks jumped to their feet and charged, spraying a wall of acid as they came. Schultz pushed himself up and rapidly backed away, firing as he went. Nearly every bolt hit home. Some of the bolts must have hit the officers and sergeants because suddenly nobody was yelling orders, and the few remaining Skinks broke and ran.

Schultz let them go. He didn’t care whether they lived or died, but alive, after so many of their comrades had been killed by one Marine, they could spread uncertainty and fear among the ranks. That uncertainty and fear would reduce their fighting ability, and that would save the lives of Marines. Besides, he still had to render the rail gun useless. He knelt and aimed at it, pouring plasma bolt after plasma bolt into it until its receiver glowed red, then white, and started to sag.

Satisfied, Schultz turned and began trotting back to where third platoon was beginning to advance again.

“Schultz.” Lieutenant Bass’s angry voice came over Schultz’s helmet comm. “I want to see you. With your squad and fire team leaders. Right fucking now!”

When Lance Corporal Schultz reached Bass, the lieutenant sent the rest of the platoon on under Staff Sergeant Hyakowa. Bass stood, bare arms akimbo, fists jammed into his invisible hips, helmet dangling from one wrist. Sergeant Kerr stood to Bass’s left, bare arms folded over his chest, also helmetless. Both were glowering at Schultz, who raised his helmet screens to show his coppery face. Corporal Claypoole was also there, to the left of Kerr, bare-armed and bare-headed and with an expression of
Why, gods? Why one of my men?
on his face.

“Lance Corporal.” Bass’s voice was a growl that began somewhere deep in his chest and grew louder as he spoke. “Who told you to go off on that flanking movement by yourself? I’m waiting for an answer, Lance Corporal!” He did his best to tower over Schultz but failed, since Schultz was taller and not about to be intimidated by anybody, not even the one officer he respected above all others.

Schultz looked back at Bass laconically, and didn’t bother to answer—he figured the question was rhetorical.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, Schultz?” Bass’s voice rose as he asked the question.

“Two rail guns. Twenty Skinks, maybe more” was all Schultz had to say.

“I
know
what you accomplished out there, dammit!” Bass shouted. “But you could have gotten yourself
killed,
pulling a stunt like that. Don’t you realize that?”

Schultz gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

Bass shook his head. “You’re fucking impossible, Schultz. If you hadn’t done so well, I swear I’d have your ass in front of Commander van Winkle for disobeying orders and insubordination. And endangering government property! A Marine
is
government property—you do understand that, don’t you?”

Schultz gave another minor shrug. He knew that Bass wasn’t going to do anything to him, that he was just upset because Schultz had gone off on his own and might have gotten killed. Except, Schultz knew he wouldn’t have gotten killed. The fact that he came back without a scratch was all the proof he needed.

“Corporal Claypoole,” Bass snapped, making Claypoole jump, “keep better control over your people in the future. Now take him and rejoin your squad.”

“B-but how am I—I mean,” Claypoole stammered, “this is the Hammer we’re talking about.
Nobody
can control him!” But he was leading Schultz back to the rest of the squad as he voiced his objection. He rolled his sleeves down and donned his helmet as he went.

“What do you think?” Bass asked Kerr in a much calmer and quieter voice when Claypoole and Schultz were far enough away not to overhear. “A Gold Nova?” The second-highest decoration given out by the Confederation Marine Corps.

Kerr considered the question for a few seconds before saying, “If it was anybody else, I’d say the Confederation Medal of Heroism. Or at least the Marine Heroism Medal. But for Hammer Schultz? Yeah, the Gold Nova sounds about right. That was ballsy even for him.”

Bass nodded. “I’ll put him in for the Marine Heroism Medal. That way, if higher-higher wants to knock it down, he’ll still get what he deserves.” He looked in the direction the platoon had gone. “Let’s catch up.”

Kerr headed for his squad and Bass went to where Hyakowa had moved, behind the center of the platoon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Third platoon, Lance Corporal Schultz actually, had killed two of the rail guns that were raking the front of the 499th Infantry Regiment. But six more of the weapons were in the platoon’s area, along with an unknown number of foot soldiers. Lieutenant Bass had the platoon shift a hundred meters to the north along their west-to-east axis of movement. The angle of movement of the Skink platoon that Schultz had encountered suggested that the bulk of the Skinks were either on line with the rail guns or slightly in front of them. By shifting north, Bass hoped to reduce the chances of running straight into moving Skinks. He somehow doubted that the enemy was building up in depth.

Bass stopped the platoon a hundred meters beyond Schultz’s one-man assault on the first Skink rail gun. The platoon should have been directly behind the second gun on their assigned list. But he didn’t hear it firing.

“One, on me, bring your second fire team,” Bass ordered on the all-hands circuit. “Five, put the rest of the platoon in a defensive perimeter.”

Sergeant Ratliff and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa rogered. A moment later, Ratliff and Corporal Pasquin, along with Pasquin’s men, reached Bass.

Bass got right to it. “There should be a rail gun about one-fifty meters south of us, but I don’t hear one firing. It could be that it was the one with the platoon that Schultz took out, but I don’t know. Pasquin, you’re former recon. Get close, see if that gun’s still there, and if not, what the Skink disposition is. Questions?”

Pasquin looked at his men, Lance Corporal Quick and PFC Shoup. Both were good men and had fought Skinks on Kingdom but neither man had recon experience. Could they snoop and poop well enough this close to the enemy? He knew they knew how to move close to enemy positions. If he was careful about guiding them, and did not let them get close enough to alert the Skinks’ sixth sense…Yeah, under his leadership, they’d do all right. “No questions,” he said. Except for the obvious one: Why was Bass giving the job to him instead of to Hammer Schultz? He decided that, as former recon, he knew how
not
to fight, but Schultz only knew how
to
fight.

“Keep in close touch with your squad leader.”

“Aye aye.”

“Do it.”

Pasquin took the point and led his men south. Quick was staggered to the right, Shoup to the left, and all three could shoot straight to the front without danger of shooting one another.

Pasquin turned his ears all the way up and he used the light-gatherer screen on his helmet; it wasn’t very dark under the thin canopy but he knew from experience that the Skinks’ skin and uniform colors allowed them to blend in with their surroundings if there was some shadowing; the light gatherer should make them stand out. He heard rail guns fire along a line to his right front but not to his front or left. The
whizz
of army flechette rifles came from farther ahead. At the moment he wasn’t concerned about getting hit by friendly fire; flechette darts were so fast they quickly burned up in atmosphere. He and his men were beyond flechette range anyway.

Seventy-five meters from where the nearest Skinks should be, Pasquin halted his patrol. He still hadn’t heard or seen sign of the enemy to his immediate front, only to his right front, and the nearest sounds he heard there were more than a hundred meters to the right. He considered his options, then called Quick and Shoup to join him. When they did, he drew them close and touched helmets, to communicate through direct conduction rather than via helmet comm, which could be intercepted by the Skinks.

“Stay here, back to back,” he told them. “I’m going forward on my own until I find where they are. As soon as I locate their positions, I’ll be back. Got it?”

“Are you sure you want to go alone?” Quick asked. “Wouldn’t it be safer if we went with you?”

Unseen inside his helmet, Pasquin shook his head. “One man is quieter than three,” he said. “Plus, I’ve got more training and experience in the kind of movement that’ll get me close undetected. You two stay here.”

“I don’t like it,” Quick murmured.

“You don’t have to like it, Marine,” Pasquin said harshly. “Just do it.”

Quick shrugged. “Whatever you say, Corporal.”

Satisfied that his men were going to do as he said, Pasquin broke contact and headed farther south by himself. He didn’t bother to check that Quick and Shoup went back to back as he’d told them; he was confident that they’d do as he said without close supervision.

Weaving cautiously, avoiding contact with the undergrowth as much as he could, and keeping behind trees where he could, Pasquin advanced toward what he thought should be the Skink line. He reached it without seeing anything more than traces of past movement.

And then he was right where the Skink rail gun had been. Examining the ground, he saw where the crew had picked up the gun and headed west. Looking more, he found where what must have been an entire platoon, maybe more, had gone with the rail gun—this was evidently the markings of the platoon and rail gun that Schultz had encountered. Pasquin wondered where the survivors of that platoon had gone. He resumed moving south but turned back after he’d gone two hundred meters without seeing more signs. What convinced him to turn back then, though, was the
whizz
of a flechette dart that spit past him; he was within the extreme range of the army’s shoulder weapons.

Pasquin followed a track fifty meters west of his original route on the way back to his men. Standard procedure: Never return along the same route you came out on. The enemy might discover your movement out and set an ambush to catch you on your way back. Because of his changed route, he came across signs of movement that he wouldn’t have otherwise seen: traces of large numbers of troops moving at an angle to the Skink main line. He checked his position and turned off his route to follow the Skink marks—they might lead to the transport the Skinks had used to get from their underground bases to the positions of the Fifty-fourth Light Infantry Division.

He found what he sought but it wasn’t what he was expecting. Instead of vehicles, he found the entrance to a tunnel, a long ramp dug into the ground, well enough camouflaged that it wouldn’t be spotted from orbit or by an air patrol. Faint sounds from inside suggested vehicles and a ventilation system. He wondered if the tunnel ran all the way to the underground bases—and whether there were more such tunnels. He shook his head in marvel.
Just how long had the Skinks been on Haulover?
he wondered.

Pasquin hurried back to where he’d left his men. The three Marines followed a different track returning to the rest of the platoon.

“I wish I could tell you more, sir,” Corporal Pasquin said when he completed his report to Lieutenant Bass.

“You told me plenty, Corporal,” Bass said. “I’m going to get this to the skipper ASAP. Return to your squad, but be ready to be called in to report higher up the chain of command.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Pasquin looked to Staff Sergeant Hyakowa for directions to the rest of first squad.

As soon as Pasquin left, Bass had Lance Corporal Groth contact the company command unit on his comm then reported Pasquin’s discovery to Captain Conorado.

“Well, that’s very interesting,” Conorado said. “I’ll report it to battalion. There are probably more tunnels out there; it would have taken too long for so many Skinks to come out of one tunnel. Carry on, and keep me apprised of what’s happening.”

“Aye aye, Skipper,” Bass replied.

Half an hour later, third platoon had killed another Skink rail gun and was closing in on yet another. Lance Corporal Schultz, as was his habit, was on the platoon’s right flank as it moved on line through the forest; the position most exposed to the enemy. This time, the Skinks were waiting for them.

The Skinks may have been ready
this
time, but Hammer Schultz was ready
all
the time.

“Bad guys, sixty,” Schultz said into the squad circuit.

“Second squad, halt,” Sergeant Kerr said into the squad circuit, then into the platoon command circuit, “Schultz reports bad guys sixty meters ahead.”

“Third platoon, hold in position,” Lieutenant Bass ordered when he got Kerr’s message. Then to Kerr, he said, “Have they seen us?”

Kerr was already asking Schultz the same question. Schultz grunted in reply; if the Skinks had detected the Marines, he would have already been firing at them.

“Negative,” Kerr told Bass.

“Third platoon, take a knee,” Bass ordered. Sixty meters was a pretty extreme range for the Skink acid shooters, but he was concerned about the rail gun; the Marines didn’t know what its range was, guesses ranged all the way up to interstellar, if the pellets didn’t burn out in the atmosphere before they escaped a planet’s gravity well. “Does anybody have a fix on the rail gun?” he asked.

All through the platoon, the fire team and gun team leaders asked their men, then reported negatives back to their squad leaders. Nobody in the platoon saw the rail gun to their front but they could all hear it—and more of them reported seeing Skinks to their front, Skinks facing in their direction. While Bass waited for the squad leaders to report, he contacted Captain Conorado and informed him.

Bass considered his options. He had an approximate position for the rail gun, but the reading on his UPUD from the string-of-pearls wasn’t capable of giving him any more accurate a location than he would get by triangulating on what his Marines could hear. Anyway, if he had everybody fire where they thought the rail gun was, the other Skinks would be able to see where the Marines were and could quickly close to effective range. Even though the chameleons his men wore were impregnated with an acid repellent, the acid could still cause casualties. His other option was to fire on the closer Skinks and try to take them all out, and then shift fire before the rail gun could turn. He didn’t like either option, but the latter was probably the better one.

“Listen up, everybody,” Bass said into his all-hands circuit. “We’ve got to clean out those Skinks right in front of us before we can go after the rail gun. Don’t fire until I give the command. If you have targets, on my command burn them. If you don’t have targets, then fire into the dirt fifty meters to your front, and make those rounds skitter along the ground. Gun one, sweeping fire from left flank to center, gun two, sweeping fire from right flank to center. I’ll tell you when to shift your fire to the rail gun. Squad leaders, report when all your men understand.”

All along the platoon line, fire team leaders checked their men to make sure they understood the orders, then reported to their squad leaders, who in turn checked that the fire team leaders had it right.

After the three squad leaders reported to Bass, he said, “Stand by to do it. One, two,
fire
!”

The Skinks, as Bass had hoped, were caught off guard—all along the Marine front Skinks flared up as they were hit by plasma bolts. But there were a lot more Skinks than Bass had suspected. Hordes of them—maybe an entire battalion of Skinks—suddenly rose up and raced forward to get in easy range of their acid shooters. There were so many that, even if every plasma bolt the Marines fired flamed a Skink, there were too many Skinks to get them all.