Starfist: Wings of Hell (33 page)

Suddenly, after charging forward thirty meters, the Skinks dove for the ground, and the rail gun that had been third platoon’s objective turned and began firing. Not all of the Skinks got down fast enough, and some of them virtually exploded when the rail gun’s pellets hit them.

Acid streamers, hundreds of them, began arching at the Marines.

“Down!” Bass screamed, “everybody get down!”

Everybody was already down; they’d gone prone when the rail gun opened fire. With the Skinks in front of them also down, most of the Marines could see their targets only by noting where the acid arcs started.

“Volley fire,” Bass ordered. “Twenty meters. Pull back between volleys! Fire!” A volley of twenty bolts
crack-sizzled
from the two blaster squads, striking the ground along a line twenty meters in front of the Marines. The bolts skittered forward, spreading as they went; some fragmented and continued on as though they were multiple shots. Skinks flared into brilliant flame as the Marines shifted positions, moving slightly to one side or the other, and a few meters to the rear.

The rail gun’s fire swept back and forth, across the width of third platoon’s position and beyond, but the fire was ineffective—the gunner had to shoot high enough to avoid hitting the Skinks who were so close in front of the Marines, and so the bursts sped harmlessly over the Marines’ heads as long as they remained prone.

“Fire!” Twenty more bolts flew at the Skinks, immolating more of them. The guns continued sweeping fire, left and right to center, their bolts striking the ground along the same line as those from the blasters. The Marines moved again, and acid streamers struck the ground all around where they had fired from, some splashing far enough for Marines to be struck by drops of acid.

“Shift aim, up five meters,” Bass ordered. “Fire!” The Skinks were dying by the dozens, yet the rate of their acid streams didn’t ebb.

“Fire!” Bass heard shouts to his right front and left front and looked to where the cries mounted in frequency and intensity.

He saw the flanks of the Skink mass rising and running to the left and right.

“Fire!” Bass continued to watch the Skink flanks while his men fired volleys into the massive formation in front of them, and then shifted position, further increasing the distance between themselves and the acid shooters. Another volley and the Marines would be far enough back to shift their aiming point again.

“Fire!” Now Bass saw the Skinks on the flanks turn forward—they were moving to close on third platoon from both flanks!

“Blaster squads, continue volley fire front,” Bass commanded. “Guns, turn to your flanks. They’re trying to flank us in both directions!”

The volume of fire to the front was sharply reduced as the guns shifted their fire to the flanking elements. But still Skinks flared up in front of the platoon. Then Skinks began flashing into vapor on the flanks as well.

Lance Corporal Schultz noticed, here and there along the front, that when a plasma bolt struck right at the base of a bush or other bit of the undergrowth, the vegetation hit began burning, though the fire generally went out in a few seconds. Vegetation struck a glancing blow, or through its leaves, didn’t burn. He experimented; the next time Bass called “Fire!” Schultz shot three quick bolts into the base of a bush, right where he saw its stem emerge from the ground.

The bush started burning. It was still burning two volleys later, far longer than any of the bushes that had been hit by one bolt had.

“Rock,” he said into the fire team circuit. “Watch.” He fired another three rapid bolts into the base of a bush.

Claypoole saw the bush go up in flames that didn’t look like they were in any hurry to die out. Beyond that bush, he saw the one Schultz had fired at before; not only was it still burning, the fire was beginning to spread to other bushes.

“Mohammed’s pointy teeth,” he murmured. He switched to the squad circuit. “Honcho, three hits at the base of a bush sets it on fire. If we zap enough of them, we can make a wall of flame between us and the Skinks, maybe drive them back.”

Sergeant Kerr looked at the bushes Schultz had lit up. “You may be right,” he said. Then he switched to the platoon command circuit and reported Schultz’s finding to Lieutenant Bass.

“Claypoole said that?” Bass asked. “Doesn’t he remember what happened on Maugham’s Station?” Third platoon had been caught in a forest fire, started when the Marines’ fire had ignited some volatile brush. None of the Marines were killed in the fire, but Claypoole was one of several who had to be evacuated and treated for smoke inhalation.

“Fire!” Whatever reports Bass was getting from his squad leaders, the platoon still had a battle to fight. He consulted his UPUD, checking the meteorological report for the area third platoon was in. The prevailing ground wind was from the northwest but midlevel currents could shift the ground current to the east shortly.

“Fire!” Still, he liked the idea of making a wall of fire between the platoon and the Skink battalion. If the shift in wind direction held off for a little while, the ground wind could sweep a fire toward the Skinks to the platoon’s front—and maybe even go far enough to get the rail gun.

As soon as the volley was fired, Bass said into the platoon circuit, “Blaster squads, listen up! For the next volley, fire three rapid bolts into the base of the closest bush to where the Skinks are. Gun squad, continue your fire on the flanks. Fire!”

A dozen bushes between third platoon and the Skinks to their front ignited.

“Do it again,
fire
!” More bushes ignited and the fire was beginning to spread.

“Again,
fire
!” Then he asked Sergeant Kelly, “Guns, which gun is on our left flank?”

“First gun team,” the gun squad leader answered.

“You know what the blaster squads just did?”

“Affirmative.”

“Have first gun team do the same. Second gun team is
not
to fire at the base of the bushes. Got it.”

“Gun one, light up the bushes. Gun two, do
not,
” Kelly said.

“Do it.” Then to the blaster squads, “Fire!”

The Skinks in front of third platoon had been slowly crawling toward the Marines, not allowing them to increase the distance between them as fast as they wanted to. But burning bushes began to block them and the Skinks’ forward progress was broken up. Some were able to continue but others stopped and were unable to see where the Marines were firing from. A few jumped up to run from flames that were beginning to advance on them, and in their panic some of them were killed by the rail gun that was still firing over their prone companions.

Bass had Hyakowa take control of the volley fire while he contacted Captain Conorado to update him on the action—and inform him about the fires the platoon was starting in the underbrush.

Conorado checked his UPUD’s real-time map. The Skinks were hard to detect, but it looked as though a huge mass of them was closing on the front of the 499th Infantry, which Company L was trying to relieve with its attacks on the Skink rail guns. A fire coming at the Skinks from behind could break up the assault. The fire in front of third platoon showed clearly in infrared and was becoming visible in visible light. Moreover, it seemed to be spreading farther. He checked the location of the tunnel entrance that Corporal Pasquin had found and thought it was a good time to move third platoon, or even the entire company, to the tunnel mouth to set an ambush for Skinks who might retreat to it.

“All right, Charlie, I want you to run a fighting withdrawal, get away from the fire you started. Then swing back east and set an ambush at the tunnel mouth. I’m going to check with battalion, see if I can get permission to move the entire company.”

“Aye aye, sir.” They signed off.

“Fire!” Hyakowa called, for the sixth time since Bass gave over control to him.

The attackers on the left flank stopped their advance in the face of the growing wall of fire, a wall that the northeast wind was beginning to push in their direction. The only Skinks still making a serious attempt to get to the Marines were the company or more coming from the right flank. However, that group was no longer a company or more; second gun team had reduced its number by nearly half. Still, fifty or seventy-five Skinks were now within acid range of the gun team, and the gun wasn’t able to maneuver as agilely as blastermen. The three Marines of second gun team were getting hit, hard enough that the acid retardant on their chameleons was in danger of becoming overwhelmed.

“Two,” Bass ordered between orders to fire a volley, “turn one fire team to assist gun two.”

“Second fire team,” Kerr snapped, “wheel right, assist gun two. Lay down enough fire for them to withdraw.”

“Three men, enough fire to hold down that many Skinks,” Claypoole grumbled, as he and his men slithered to the right flank to assist the gun team. “Right.” They began firing past second gun team, and enough extra Skinks flared up that the rest of them hesitated.

“Let’s move!” Corporal Taylor ordered, and his men picked up the gun and its tripod and pulled back, out of range of the Skink acid shooters.

“Honcho, we’ve got to get out of these chameleons soon,” Taylor reported to Kelly. “Mine are starting to steam. I think they’re pretty close to being eaten through.”

“Did you get that, boss?” Kelly asked Bass, and repeated Taylor’s report when Bass hadn’t.

Bass looked to the front and the left flank. The Skink advances in those directions had stopped and the Skinks were withdrawing. It seemed like a good time for the platoon to break contact. But first…

“Everybody not involved in the fight on the right flank, listen up. Estimate where that rail gun is and put everything you’ve got into it.
Fire!
”

One gun and seventeen blasters opened up on the estimated position of the rail gun. Some of the bolts must have struck their intended targets, because the rail gun abruptly fell silent.

“Second squad, assist gun two to break contact,” Bass ordered.

“You heard the man,” Kerr shouted. “Let’s do it!”

First and third gun teams jumped to their feet and ran to the flanks of second fire team, adding their fire to what was already flying at the Skinks. In less than a minute the few surviving Skinks ran.

“Third platoon, let’s bug,” Bass ordered. “Second squad, guns, first squad. I’m with guns.”

The platoon began to move at a trot away from the Skink lines. Bass checked on second gun team as they went.

“Damn!” he said when he saw the state of their uniforms. “I’m surprised your chameleons held out this long.” And he
did
see the chameleons—they had been coated by so much acid they were visible to the naked eye.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Second Lieutenant Steven Moreau’s fourth platoon, George Company, Second Battalion, 499th Light Infantry, held the regiment’s right flank, where it linked with the left flank of the 227th Light Infantry, Fifty-fourth Light Infantry Division. Moreau couldn’t remember for the life of him which company of the 227th was on his right—or was supposed to be there. All he knew was that all the devils in hell were coming straight at the front of his platoon, and an equal number were trying to get at his platoon’s flank through the remnants of the 227th. At least that’s how he saw the Skinks.

He’d called Captain Grady Riggan, the George Company commander, and asked for artillery support, but the CO couldn’t get any for him. The captain had said he’d tried already, but all of the division’s artillery was busy supporting the 138th, which was in imminent danger of being overrun.

“Well, so the hell are we, Captain!” Moreau had just about screamed into his comm.

“The whole damn division is in danger of being overrun, Lieutenant!” Riggan shouted back. “Now fight your platoon and try to kill those Skinks before they
can
overrun your position! George Six-Actual out.”

Fight my platoon, sure,
Moreau thought.
Fight my platoon?
Sure, a platoon commander’s weapon was his platoon, but Sergeant First Class Smith Downes, the platoon sergeant, and the squad leaders seemed to be doing well enough on their own without his meddling. Moreau risked raising his head far enough to look along the line of his platoon from its left, where it linked with third platoon, to its right, where one fire team had turned to meet the threat from the flank. Yeah, everything seemed about the same as it had the last time he’d looked. The Skinks with the acid shooters were pinned down beyond the range of their weapons, in the cleared stretch of ground between the division’s hastily prepared defenses; and every time a Skink stood up to dash forward a few meters, one or more of the soldiers of fourth platoon zeroed in on him and the Skink went down hard, shredded by flechettes.

Speaking of flechettes, his men were putting out a horrendous amount of fire. How was their ammo holding up?
That
was something he could do something about. But before he could, a lengthy
whirr
made him duck back down below the lip of the hole he was in—a Skink rail gun seemed to be devoting its entire attention to the platoon. He didn’t have a recent count, but he knew the platoon had already suffered several casualties with devastating wounds.

The rail gun’s fire moved on, and Moreau got on his comm and asked his squad leaders about their ammo. All of them were getting low.

Not the report Moreau had been hoping for, it meant he was going to have to expose himself. Sure, he could send a runner to get fresh ammo boxes and distribute them, but he was in charge and it was incumbent upon him to take care of his men. That meant that going for more ammo was on him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t take his runner with him—the two of them could carry twice as many needle boxes.

“Yancy,” he said, “come with me, we’re getting more ammo.”

Private Yancy looked at his platoon commander with horror. Get out of the bottom of their hole and expose himself to the rail gun? Was the LT out of his mind? Yancy listened, heard the whine of the rail gun’s pellets way off to the side somewhere, and decided it was safe enough for the moment. He poked up like a prairie dog and looked toward the company’s supply point, where the ammo dump was, some two hundred meters away. He saw three piles of thrown-up dirt that indicated hidey-holes along the way.

“Right after you, sir,” Yancy said.

“Good man.” Moreau vaulted out of the hole and ran, zigging and zagging, toward the supply point. Yancy followed five meters behind him. They only had to go to ground once along the way, but it was close; Moreau’s helmet got sideswiped by a high-velocity pellet from the rail gun. When he took it off and looked at the damage—a fist-size chunk was missing from the helmet’s rear—he thought it was a miracle that his head hadn’t been shattered at the same time. He’d have to get a new helmet—if the supply dump had any.

The supply dump wasn’t out in the open, it was in an interconnected maze of bunkers that had been dug by heavy equipment. Two soldiers Moreau didn’t recognize were in the trench, guarding the entrances to the bunker.

“Whadaya need, Joe?” one of the soldiers asked when Moreau and Yancy dropped into the tunnel.

“I’m looking for Sergeant Grubley,” Moreau answered.

The stranger shook his head. “Grubley got took out by the damn Skinks,” he said. “He looked above the trench when the rail gun was firing this way. Took his head off.”

“’Cept we couldn’t find his head afterward,” the other stranger said with a snort.

“Then who’s in charge here?”

“I am,” the first soldier said. “Sergeant Constable. Battalion sent me down to replace Grubley. Who the fuck’re you?”

“Lieutenant Moreau, fourth platoon. We need more ammo.” Moreau decided to ignore the noncom’s insubordinate attitude for now.

“Ammo. You got it,” Constable said. “As much as you two can carry?”

“Every bit of that.”

“This way.” Constable turned to the entrance to one of the bunkers and motioned for Moreau and Yancy to follow. In about a minute, Constable had the two loaded so heavily with needle boxes they could barely stand.

“Where’s your helmet, LT?” Constable asked.

“Got whanged by a rail gun.”

“Were you wearing it at the time?” Constable’s eyes opened wide when Moreau acknowledged that he had been. “You’re damn lucky you’re still alive. Here, take this one, you need it more than I do.” He yanked his own helmet off and plunked it on the officer’s head. “I’ll scrounge up another one for myself. Now let’s get you back to your platoon.” He led the way out of the bunker, to the ladder that climbed out of the trench.

“Wait one.” Constable held up a hand as he listened to the fighting. “Now!” he shouted when the rail gun whine sounded farthest away. He and the other soldier gave Moreau and Yancy a boost, and the two were on their way back to fourth platoon.

Their progress on the return was much slower than it had been on the outgo; Moreau and Yancy didn’t so much zig and zag as they staggered and stumbled. And they had to go to ground twice—deliberately. But at last they made it back to the hole Moreau had begun thinking of as home, sweet home. They dropped into the hole, drenched with sweat and heaving for breath, but otherwise unscathed.

Moreau quickly divided the needle boxes into six approximately equal piles. Pointing at one of them, he said to Yancy, “Take that to third squad.” They were on the right of the platoon line.

“Yes, sir,” Yancy gasped. Having made it to the supply dump and back without undue incident, he was perhaps feeling a touch invincible. He slung the needle boxes over his shoulders and clambered out of the hole.

Moreau scooped up the second pile and scampered to the platoon sergeant. He reached him and got down just as the rail gun came back.

“Get this to second squad,” he said without too much gasping; he’d almost regained his breath. “I’m going back for more for first squad.”

“Don’t take so long this time,” SFC Downes said. “They’re dangerously low.”

Moreau shook his head. “I only have to go back to my CP; Yancy and I brought back two full loads for the entire platoon.”

Downes looked at the young lieutenant with new respect; he knew how much two full loads for the platoon weighed—and they’d hauled it under fire. “Will do, LT.” Downes waited for the rail gun to pass them by, then jumped up and ran for second squad’s position. Moreau headed for first squad at the same time and made it back to his hole before the rail gun returned.

A few minutes later, when he looked up after another pass by the rail gun, he saw the most peculiar thing he’d ever seen on a battlefield.

Streamers of fire were coming out of the forest, arching over the prone Skinks, who were still pinned down by the fire from fourth platoon. The fire moved back and forth on the killing ground where so many Skinks had flared while trying to get in range of their weapons, and every time a streamer hit one of the bodies, the body blazed up in brilliant, vaporizing fire. When the flashes cleared, the Skinks were retreating into the forest. The rail gun had gone silent.

“Get them!”
SFC Downes’s voice rang out, and the soldiers of fourth platoon increased their rate of fire into the retreating Skinks. As soon as most of the Skinks were far enough into the trees, the flaming streamers began arching again, incinerating the dead and wounded left behind.

Moreau reached for his comm to report to the company commander, but Captain Riggan beat him to it:

“George Company,” the CO ordered, “this is Six-Actual. Cease fire! Repeat, cease fire!”

The command was repeated all along George Company’s line, and the fire quickly died out.

“Is anybody still engaged?” Riggan asked.

All four platoons reported that the enemy had broken contact and that they were no longer receiving fire from the rail guns.

“Casualty report!”

Moreau called for a squad leaders’ report, and waited for the squad leaders to get back to him. The news was bad, but his voice was calm when he gave the casualty report to the company commander.

“Fourth platoon. Six dead, four major wounds. No minor wounds.”

Ten casualties in a platoon that an hour earlier had been thirty-five men strong. Moreau was sick; he’d never had that many casualties before. He didn’t think SFC Downes ever had, either. He wasn’t at all consoled by the thought that the 227th was hurt even worse; some of its platoons had been wiped out.

There was a brief pause after all the platoons delivered their casualty reports, then the CO came back. “I just got word from battalion,” he said. “The Marines hit the Skinks from behind, that’s what broke their attack on us. The Marines are pursuing the Skinks. We sit tight and tend to our wounded.”

After a hundred meters, Bass stopped the platoon for a moment.

“Roll on the ground,” he ordered the Marines of second gun team. “Maybe the dirt will sop up some of that acid and keep it from eating through your chameleons until we can replace them.” It didn’t stop their disintegration altogether. The platoon hadn’t been on the move for very long when Lance Corporal Dickson stifled a scream and tore off his shirt.

“Shit!” Corporal Taylor swore, only in part because one of his men was suddenly visible. Dickson’s shoulders and torso were speckled with tiny greenish dots.

“Get him on the ground!” Sergeant Kelly yelled. “Roll him, try to get that shit off him.”

Taylor and PFC Rolf Dias knocked Lance Corporal Dickson off his feet and began rolling him in the dirt.

Dickson gritted his teeth to keep from screaming as the droplets of acid nibbled away at his skin. Some of the acid was absorbed and drawn away from Dickson by the dirt he was rolled in, but most of it remained on his skin, eating away at him under the dirt that now coated his body.

Kelly stripped the leaves off a bush branch and shoved them at Taylor. “Wipe off the dirt,” he snapped. “That should get rid of more of the acid.”

Taylor snatched the leaves from Kelly and began wiping. Kelly stripped more handfuls of leaves, gave one to Dias, and held the other ready to give to Taylor when he tossed the first.

In moments they had most of the acid off Dickson, but some continued to eat at his flesh.

“Start cutting,” Kelly ordered. He bumped Dias aside and knelt on the opposite side of Dickson from Taylor. He drew his fighting knife and began scraping acid from Dickson’s body, wiping the blade in the dirt between swipes. Then he began digging the point of his knife into the holes the acid had eaten into Dickson’s body, flicking away the mix of acid, blood, and flesh that he dug out. Taylor did the same. When Kelly thought they had cleaned Dickson’s chest and belly well enough, he flipped him over and set to on his back.

An occasional whimper passed Dickson’s lips, but he never cried out again, despite what must have been excruciating pain.

Lieutenant Bass had been on the comm with Captain Conorado and the other platoon commanders while the platoon was stopped. He checked with Kelly when he had the platoon’s new orders.