Descent from the Black: An Odyssey One Novella Page 7

  Covering fire from both his Marines and a tank that poked its barrel around the corner were almost definitely the only things that kept him alive to this point, so he kept crawling until the big set of combat armor completely died; there was no power left whatsoever. He didn’t know what had caused it to finally fail, but Lang knew that he had to get out of the EXO-12 immediately. He popped the hatch and worked his way out, now able to hear the full volume of the firefight. He made sure to use it as cover and was about to make his move toward the building when a burst of full-auto gunfire deafened him. Before he could process what was happening, inhumanly strong hands had grabbed him by the back of his armor and dragged him to safety as bullets and lasers flew in what seemed like all directions.

  Once he was behind the wall of a building around the corner, he steadied himself on his feet and the hands let go of his uniform. Lang turned to his savior and, unsurprisingly, found that it was First Sergeant Clark, who pointed to a storefront a little farther down the street. “Stay there, sir. New gear is on the way.” With that said, Clark went back to what had now become a defensive line. With Marines on the rooftops and tanks in the street, the Drasin were destroyed when they approached the intersection. Unfortunately, there were too many Drasin left to sacrifice the position and go on the offensive.

  Lang stood in cover and waited, his ears ringing from having been closer to the firefight, since his rifle and the helmet to his normal armor were trapped in the emergency compartment of his EXO-12. He didn’t know how long it took, but not being connected to the battle was torture. Finally, he saw a powered chute carrying a box of gear headed his way. It didn’t take long for the chute to move off, after which he cracked the case and found his new helmet, infantry assault rifle, and ammunition. He wasted no time putting his gear on, and the first thing he did once he shut his helmet was retrieve the tactical display. As soon as he did that, Command could tell he was back online. “Can the heroics shit, Lang,” the unmistakable voice of Major Gutierrez said, “and get this assault moving again! We’re falling behind the other elements and the line is starting to bulge.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Lang replied, his mind scrambling. He desperately missed his NICS interface as he relied on his HUD to provide him with information at what seemed like a snail’s pace. As he’d expected, the resistance was the most on the west side of his line, but his elements to the east weren’t making enough progress to flank them. The complexity of the terrain was also a problem. Though this area had built up over the past century, there was still a bit of suburbia and more hills to the west-northwest. The tanks would do the best in suburbia, with its wider streets, lower buildings, and occasional open ground. Conversely, his infantry was better suited for the hills. It was the more urban areas about which he worried; both the infantry and the armor were having issues with cover and mobility, and there were also more Drasin present.

  He did notice that airstrikes had been called in at times throughout the engagement, but in an ad-hoc manner. He also noticed that his line was essentially along a parkway that ran roughly southwest to northeast; in fact, only a few elements west of the I-5 had passed it. “Ridge, Blaze Six; over,” Lang said over Command’s network. His company had inherited his call sign for the battle, but someone at headquarters clearly had a thing for geology.

  “Blaze, go for Ridge; over,” replied an unfamiliar voice.

  “Requesting close air support, over,” Lang said, providing the details when prompted. He wanted something devastating to the enemy which wouldn’t destroy the roads that the tanks and artillery needed in order to advance. Once he confirmed the details of the strike package, he ordered all of his units to stay south of the parkway, requiring a few of his units to retreat a couple of blocks. He had to admit that he was mildly surprised that nobody questioned him regarding this move, but his reasoning became apparent when the first missiles hit.

  Ground-attack jets travelling at barely subsonic speed unloaded their cannons at the Drasin on the parkway as they blasted past. No less than ten seconds later, a flight of attack choppers followed the same path, albeit at a slower velocity. They were able to be a little more precise with their cannon fire, mopping up many of the remaining Drasin.

  Less than two minutes after it had started, the attack runs were complete and Major Hall ordered the advance. Lang had been about to do that, but he reminded himself that he was in a supporting role. Now that the cat was out of the bag, it was the Army’s show, so he had to focus on keeping them alive. But with the Drasin decimated and caught off guard by the air assaults, the tanks made quick work of the remaining enemies that were out in the open. Once it became obvious that the assault was successful along the entire front, Lang modified a few orders to maximize his Marines’ coverage and was pleased to notice that while the major was pushing them with his advancing pace, he wasn’t outrunning them. Though humans could run almost forty miles per hour in combat armor, the tanks were still faster if they stayed on the throttle.

  Lang hoofed it along with the rest of them, now approximately in the center of the advancing line. Carter and Weiss fell in with him. “This is where you’re needed, sir,” Carter said. “The lieutenant did a good job in your absence, but—”

  “—but I shouldn’t have been absent,” Lang finished, quickly scrolling through personnel data on his HUD as they ran. What he saw made him queasy. They had taken casualties. He knew that it was almost guaranteed that they would, but he did not expect there to be so many.

  As if Clark could read his mind, he said, “You recovered the situation well, Captain.”

  Lang just nodded in return. The unspoken half of that message was that he’d also let the situation get out of control, and people had died.

  Chapter 10

  The assault had made much progress since its pre-dawn beginning. The perimeter around Los Angeles wasn’t downtown yet, but they had come far more than halfway to their objective. The mission planners were puzzled; after the initial battles, like the one that Bravo Company had faced in the south, the Drasin resistance was thinner than they’d expected. Pretty much everyone had assumed that they would encounter more Drasin as they got closer to downtown, not less. The unexpected reality made Lang’s superiors cautious.

  The solution to the problem was determined to be a large, nighttime scouting mission. Bravo Company was selected and given some downtime until dusk, but Lang had only managed to grab about ninety minutes of sleep. In addition to fatigue, the other problem that the advance faced was that the closer they got to Los Angeles, the more civilians they encountered. Lang hadn’t given it much thought previously, but it made sense; these areas were too congested for all or most of the people to escape during the initial Drasin attack. It was this factor that had slowed the progress of the attack over the afternoon and evening more than the Drasin. For this reason, their mission was primarily a rescue one; intelligence was a secondary objective. The military wanted to be able to blow buildings up when needed without worrying if there were human beings inside. Given the primary objective, the decision was made to go in light and quiet, so Bravo Company was going in without heavy armor, including the EXO-12s.

  The sun had set almost twenty minutes ago, so Lang checked with his platoon COs to ensure that everyone would be ready as soon as the last light faded. He wasn’t surprised that it looked like none of them had gotten much sleep, either.

  “Howdy,” Carter said as she and the other first lieutenants saluted.

  Lang returned the salutes and motioned for them to sit down. All they had for seats were extra cargo and ammo crates, but they would do. He looked his officers over for a moment to make sure that all of them looked truly ready for what was to come. Settling on the youngest, First Lieutenant Johnson, he asked, “Status?”

  “Echo Platoon is FMC, sir. We finally got the ammo we were waiting for,” the tall, dark-haired woman responded.

  Lang nodded as he noted that she appeared the most awake of all of them. He nodded to First Li
eutenant Snyder of Golf Platoon next.

  “We’re only at about eighty-five percent,” Snyder, the only other male in the group, informed him. “We got assigned a few more, but …”

  “Understood, Lieutenant,” Lang said, not wanting to dwell on the subject. He’d keep their lightened status in mind during the mission. “Lieutenant Stewart?” he asked the CO of Lima Platoon.

  “FMC, sir,” the young woman responded. Lang noticed that she seemed almost half the size of Snyder, but was built like a freight train, which was good. He’d need all of the athleticism they could get from his Marines tonight.

  “You know Charlie Platoon is good to go,” Carter said, beating him to the punch.

  “Damn well better be,” Lang responded while returning her smile. Addressing them all, he continued, “I just want to go over this one last time. The lead elements are solely looking for aliens or other threats. Your main forces should be two to three blocks behind, quietly emptying any buildings and sending the refugees toward this base camp.” Using the word “refugee” in his own country was equally accurate and horrifying.

  “Who is going to lead them the rest of the way back?” Johnson asked. “I heard the Guard was too busy.”

  “LAPD will be doing us the honors,” Lang responded.

  “But, sir,” Stewart began, seeming unsure of herself.

  “Go ahead,” Lang encouraged.

  “They’re not equipped to fight the Drasin.”

  “I’m aware,” Lang said. “But they know the terrain and they’re in the best position to keep the peace amongst a large, scared group of civilians.”

  Everyone nodded in response to his remarks except for Snyder, who said, “We’re not going to be able to retreat faster than they can.”

  That realization had dawned on Lang as soon as he had received his orders, but he knew it wasn’t great for morale, which was why he hadn’t mentioned it specifically. Police officers and civilians were not wearing strength-augmenting body armor. “We’ll make do,” Lang said. “The good thing about us being the only ones in our sector is that we have air support and this whole front line to call on if things go south.” Snyder didn’t seem pleased, but he nodded anyway, so Lang continued. “Lieutenant Weiss will be a few blocks behind you, liaising with an LAPD captain, while First Sergeant Clark and I will be close behind, monitoring your progress. If you need anything, you ask ASAP, understood?” A chorus of “yessirs” followed, but without much enthusiasm. “I’m serious,” Lang added emphatically. “I don’t want anyone’s ego getting in the way of asking for assistance. There are too many lives at stake.”

  In return, Lang got a mix of ooh-rahs and “sir, yes, sir!” It would do. “Alright, we move out in twelve minutes,” he said, after checking the time. Everyone stood and saluted, and he dismissed them. He found Clark and Weiss not too far away. “Are we good to go?” he asked them, to which they both responded in the affirmative.

  “Sticking to the plan this time, sir?” Clark asked him with what would’ve been insubordination if it weren’t for his tone and their history.

  “Yeah, you and I are going to be right where we need to be,” Lang answered, which was close to the line, but behind it—much like a quarterback would be. “And Weiss,” Lang added, “I’m not benching you with the LAPD assignment. Our working relationship is critical; there could be tens of thousands of civilians left there.”

  “Or more,” Weiss said.

  Lang nodded at that scary potentiality. “Keep them safe,” he added.

  “Wilco, sir,” Weiss said as he saluted and took his leave of them to go join the LAPD brass.

  “Ready?” Lang asked Clark.

  “Ooh-rah,” the large sergeant said with a predatory grin.

  ***

  Captain Lang stood in the shadows of a building on the corner of an intersection three blocks behind the main scouting force. First Sergeant Clark was across the street, also settled into the darkest spot on his corner. Lang’s palms were sweaty as the lead element gave the “all clear” to begin searching for survivors. His HUD showed movement as the rest of his Marines cautiously approached buildings and tapped on doors and windows as their suits’ scanners searched for signs of life inside. In less than five minutes, the streets heading out of the city had a steady stream of bewildered, but so far quiet, civilians.

  “Status?” Lang asked Weiss over the network.

  “So far, so good,” Weiss responded. “LAPD has been able to handle the volume so far, but man, are they moving slow.”

  Lang had expected this, but he’d also half-expected to be ambushed before they made it this far, so he was counting his blessings. Still, as the number of civilians and pets on the street increased, he wanted more of an advanced notice if Drasin were spotted. He sent an order to the platoon COs to move the lead elements forward another block. He had drones circling at relatively high altitude, but he’d feel more comfortable with the additional vantage point, especially since the Drasin were visibly at work destroying buildings farther downtown.

  Shortly after the scouts moved forward, gunshots rang out. Lang immediately checked his HUD and was surprised to see that it didn’t involve any of his troops. He was about to ask Command for an update when ISR data from one of the drones showed the location of the gunshots.

  They were from behind his position, about a block.

  “What the fuck?” Clark asked.

  “Check it out, Gunny,” Lang said, accidentally using his old rank.

  “Roger that,” Clark said as he expertly and quickly moved to the location on their maps. Lang was looking at the overall situation again, until more gunshots rang out. He quickly accessed Clark’s video feed and saw a group of LAPD officers in front of a building.

  Clark’s audio was also turned on for Lang, so he listened as the first sergeant approached—and apparently scared the crap out of—the closest cop. “What the fuck, over?” Clark asked the officer.

  The policeman recovered from the initial shock of a six-foot-four Marine in combat armor sneaking up on him and replied, “Rival gangs. Idiots started shooting at each other. We got one group to throw down their weapons and follow everyone else, but these guys holed up over there,” he pointed to the building across the street, “and started shooting at us and some civilians.”

  “Don’t they know—” Clark asked.

  “Yeah, they do,” the officer replied. “But they’re convinced that they’re going to jail, and even then they’re still taking potshots at anyone wearing the wrong color.”

  “Jesus,” Clark said.

  “Yeah, and now we have to route the civvies around this whole area, and it’s slowing us down.”

  “Clark,” Lang said over the network, “make sure these guys know that martial law is in place.”

  “Roger that,” the sergeant replied. Clark activated his suit’s PA system and, as quietly as possible, yelled, “This is the NAC Marine Corps! You are subject to martial law and will throw down your weapons at once!”

  The only response was a burst of automatic fire from a third-story window, forcing everyone to dig a little deeper into their cover. “We can’t stay here all night,” the LAPD officer said.

  Lang saw that Weiss was a couple of miles away and made a command decision. “Lieutenant, keep an eye on things,” he said as he went “on the bounce,” leaping up and forward about forty meters at a time. Clark was ready and waiting, so as soon as Lang arrived, they broke cover and made for the front door.

  “They’re going to bring the Drasin down on everybody,” Lang said, almost defensively.

  “Sir, with all due respect, fuck these guys.”

  Lang responded by kicking down the door, an easy feat in powered armor. He burst into the room, heading left and staying low, while Clark came in high and headed right. The entryway was clear, but not two seconds later a silhouette came around the corner to Lang’s front. He hesitated for a second, saw the barrel of a rifle, and then loosed a three-round burst. All three
rounds, which were designed to kill Drasin, hit the human target. For better or worse, there was not much left.

  “Fuck you!” an unfamiliar voice yelled as another armed banger came running around the corner, having seen his friend die. Lang stayed low and fired two bursts as he kept moving forward, hitting the second attacker before his enemy could fire a shot. As he moved farther in that direction, he could hear Clark’s rifle fire as he cleared his side. The inside of the building was deep but relatively narrow, with rooms on either side and the backside of a stairwell in the center, so Lang and the sergeant met at the rear, at the entrance to the stairwell.

  “How many?” Lang asked.

  “Three; you?”

  “Just the two. You ready?”

  “Ooh-rah,” Clark responded as they turned to assault the stairwell. Both of their HUDs flashed alerts as the electronic suites detected a grenade that had been thrown down the stairs. Clark moved faster than Lang and, likely using the trajectory information on his HUD, snatched the grenade out of the air and threw it back up the stairs. Then they both hit the deck as it exploded, which was followed by screams from the second floor.

  Not wanting to waste the initiative, they got up and ascended the stairs three and four at a time. Lang exited the stairs heading left, finding two wounded but armed men. He was about to call for a medic, but they both reached for their weapons, so he fired two more bursts and ended the threat. There was another burst of fire from Clark’s gun, and then nothing else moved on the second floor. Still, Lang knew that there was some heavy weaponry on the third floor, so they formed up next to the stairwell again. The gunman upstairs must’ve heard them, though, as he fired a burst of full auto down the stairway, forcing Lang and Clark to move back. Lang was about to consider their options when, screaming at the top of his lungs, the man came running down, shooting wildly. Clark simply stuck his rifle into the stairwell and pulled the trigger until a dead body rolled down the stairs to his feet.