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Hold the Line

Kevin Ikenberry

“L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace!”

(Audacity, audacity, always audacity!)

—attributed to General Napoleon Bonaparte


Middleton

2154


The Buzzers charged with their armor in front and ten million infantry behind them. Captain Vanessa Ransom, commander of Alpha Troop, Regimental Cavalry Squadron for the Fighting 79th Tank Regiment, climbed up through the commander’s cupola of her MR-110 magtank, gently patting its armor as she did. Never superstitious, she’d always felt it necessary to appreciate her mount. In ancient times, a cavalry soldier was nothing without their horse. Ransom held the belief close to her heart more from necessity than nostalgia. A non-mission-capable vehicle meant a lack of combat resources. Since they’d named the beast Reprisal, stenciling the letters along the length of both gun tubes, she’d kept up the ritual. Aside from routine preventative maintenance, an appreciative tap was the least she could give her tank on a daily basis. Her life, and that of her crew, depended on it.

With practiced ease, she locked the hatch open with one hand as she detached her communications and oxygen lifelines. She hauled herself up to the angular turret deck and stood. She wanted a look at the situation herself, not trusting anything other than her good human eyes. The young combat veteran couldn’t help but think the whole damned lot of aliens were charging straight at the Earth Maneuver Forces lines. Again. Yet, something about the sight of the massed attack unsettled her.

The insectoid enemy hadn’t stooped to the level of using chemical or biological weapons, but she wouldn’t put it past them. For the last ten years, Earth had been at war and the Buzzers—what humans called the insectoid, wasplike aliens—hadn’t stopped coming. After suffering stunning defeats on Honalee and Spira-Two, there was speculation the Buzzers would withdraw and regroup. Instead, they attacked, advancing toward the galactic core with a hundred divisions of infantry and armor. Middleton was their first objective.

The rumble of artillery fire from the division’s artillery battalion caught her attention. The volume of indirect fire along the front was louder and more insistent than it had been the previous three days. Buzzer positions at the forward edge of their advance seemed to writhe like a living carpet of beings on the valley floor below. They were indeed massing to attack. Ransom studied them for a moment and then turned her attention to the friendly units she could see, which weren’t many. There was time for a more detailed look. She pulled her knife from her lower-right-leg sheath and rapped its handle twice on the auxiliary hatch. It swung open a moment later and her communications specialist, Sergeant Vines, stared up at her.

“I’m going up on the hill again. Make sure nobody tries to kill me,” Ransom said as she sheathed her knife and checked her pistol in its shoulder holster.

“Yes, ma’am,” Vines said. The young woman was already on the radio with the adjacent unit on the far side of the hill. Ransom stood and moved swiftly down the turret to the lower hull. At the front of the vehicle, she jumped down from the left front skirt and made her way up the rocky incline immediately west of her cavalry troop’s position. She’d placed her vehicle there to be able to use the terrain to her advantage. If the uneasy sensation in her stomach was any indication, she’d need every possible advantage soon.

From the top of the craggy knoll, she studied the Earth Maneuver Forces lines. Condensation from her breath fogged the inner faceplate. She moved behind an outcropping of rocks and removed her helmet. Without the constant, albeit unnecessary, flow of cool oxygen, the faceplates notoriously clouded. She activated the external faceplate control and swung it open before pulling the helmet again over her close-cropped black hair. Some females wore their hair longer, but she used the clippers like the men in her unit. Easier to handle. No muss. And, most importantly, it enabled her combat vehicle crewman helmet to fit snugly. She stopped and adjusted the helmet, leaving the sliding faceplate open to catch what breeze there was on Middleton. Having a breathable atmosphere was a blessing in more ways than one. While the oxygen-laden Middleton air also allowed fires to burn, it enabled a modicum of freedom she could not overlook.

Tanks of the 2nd Brigade of the 1087th Armor Division filled the position adjacent to her unit’s to the west. Beyond them, she found the EMF line intermixed with the alien forest as far as she could see. Her squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Peffers, said the visual had to rival the Maginot Line. She’d managed not to laugh. Things hadn’t gone too well in France in 1944 against the Blitzkrieg. Two hundred and ten years later on a different planet and facing a numerically superior enemy was not the time to bring up failed attempts at human engineering and strategic blunders. There was a war to win.

Rounds from the division artillery battalion ripped overhead as they streaked north into the Buzzer formations. The rules of engagement authorized the use of harassing artillery fire while the Buzzers moved significant portions of their units into attack positions. Action was coming, and while the division’s plan to receive and repel the Buzzer attack sounded solid, there were far too many unknowns. Given her troop’s position overlooking the nearby narrow draw, away from what was supposed to be the main effort, she should have been elated. Whether it was the division commander’s dislike for her methods or simply the staff failing, once again, to understand the use and application of cavalry forces, her unit’s position was a terrain feature away from the center of the line.

Out of sight and out of mind.

Unless they feint.

Ransom snorted. Of course they’re gonna feint. It’s exactly what I’d do.

Behind her and past the rock formation, overlooking the draw all she saw of her camouflaged vehicles were their yellow guidons. She’d ordered the small flags and had them flown from the main communications antenna on the rear deck of each magtank. The flags were against every regulation in the book, and every time they ordered her to remove them, she gave the order to her crews. The guidons bearing two Celtic lions would disappear for a day or two and then magically return. Peffers had wisely given up asking for their removal. She’d heard, secondhand of course, that he actually approved of them for their visual references on the battlefield. He always knew where his lead cavalry troop fought.

Ain’t that hard to find us. We’re always in the middle of the shit.

“Ma’am!” First Sergeant Juan Lopez called from down the hill. She turned and saw him scrambling toward her. “What’s wrong?”

Lopez was smaller than her, but all muscle. His face scarred from a bomb blast on another shithole of a Buzzer planet, his dark eyes glinted like chips of obsidian. He closed the distance between them quickly and brushed his dusty hands on his coveralls.

“Change in orders?”

“No, Top. No change.” Ransom stopped and took a deep breath.

As the troop’s first sergeant, Lopez was her partner in running the troop. The leadership manuals all said the relationship between a commander and their senior enlisted leader was professional and solely focused on the troop. When leaders actually assumed a role of leadership at that level, they learned differently. Lopez was her friend and confidant as much as he was her partner in leadership. He felt the same way about her, and the impact on both of their leadership styles and outcomes had been palpable. The troop loved and respected them, just as they loved and respected each other. Together, the troop was better than the sum of its individuals, which was all she could have asked for.

She met his eyes. “I don’t think our position is dumb luck anymore. I think they put us out here on purpose. To keep us from mucking up the general’s plans.”

Lopez snorted and then grinned. “I mean, it’s not like any of their plans have survived contact recently. And how do they call winning the battle mucking up anything?”

Crump! Crump!

Several explosions came from the western side of the rock formation they occupied. Ransom looked past Lopez and tried to see the impacts. Buzzer artillery rounds found their range on the far edge of the 1087th’s position.

“Guess we’re going to find out soon enough.”

Lopez didn’t reply. They stood there for a moment taking in the sight of the battlefield below them without saying anything. Nothing Ransom saw gave her hope for the outcome of the battle. The Buzzers would keeping charging until they broke the EMF line.

And we fall back. Again.

“Ma’am?” Sergeant Vines called through a direct laser connection to her helmet’s receiver. “Division is preparing to engage forces. They want all commanders on the line.”

She frowned and turned to Lopez. “Here we go again.”

“You got that right.”

Together, they made their way down the hill. The sound of an approaching tank from the right caught their attention. Ransom turned to glance over her right shoulder at the tank commander and frowned inside her helmet. Their eyes met and her gut twisted on itself. Not only was Peffers visibly upset, it was clear his anger was directed at her.

What did I do this time?

Peffers hadn’t wanted her to attend the most recent briefing, and with good reason. The previous operations order briefing had ended badly. Seeing the staff in their clean coveralls receiving their third hot meal of the day, when her troops had eaten cold rations only for the last seven, set off her simmering anger and ended her attendance at future briefings. No one in the staff wanted to hear what life was like on the front line. For them, it was a video game. Detached. Impersonal. They knew nothing of warfare or had forgotten what they’d learned as a result of their relative comforts. Their attitudes infuriated her and their deference to command pushed her over the edge.

Peffers dismounted his tank and climbed off the front skirt. Ransom, with Lopez at her side, met him.

“Sir? What can I do for you?”

Peffers opened his faceplate to stare at her and then at Lopez. His mouth worked silently. Lips pressed into a thin white line, he took a sharp breath. “The division commander has ordered you to hold this position. You are to hold the line and not—I repeat, not—pursue the initiative unless specifically ordered.”

The frown on Peffers’s brilliant red face said it all. General Higashiyama’s scorn wasn’t something easily shed. While she’d toed the line of insubordination on numerous occasions, she’d never crossed it—in garrison. In combat, the situation dictated everything, including when to deviate from plans and orders.

Plans never survive contact with enemy forces.

“Vanessa?” His deep voice was low and firm. “You heard what I said?”

“I did.” She suppressed the attitude and her exasperation threatened to erupt. “Sir, I’ve never taken a chance that didn’t—”

“You’ve been lucky.” Peffers’s eyes bored a hole through her. “Yes, you’ve been successful to this point, but luck doesn’t always work on the battlefield. It’s bound to run out. The next time you think you see something and you act, it’s going to bite you in the ass.”

Ransom swallowed. Peffers stared at her, and it was clear he expected some type of response. She sucked in a breath. “It might, sir. But this army can’t move without a general’s approval, and they’re so out of touch with what happens on the line that people die while they fuck around.”

“They’re not fucking around.”

“Oh, please, sir, you can’t expect me to think they actually give a fuck about anything other than their next star. Really? They don’t want to look bad. That’s why he said that.”

Chickenshit motherfuckers, generals. All of ’em.

“Just—” Peffers stopped. The cords in his neck tightened and then released. His eyes flashed to Lopez at her side and then returned to her. The coloring in his face eased, slightly. “Hold the goddamned line, Ransom. You better hope you’re right. The next time you gain the initiative, the general’s going to court-martial your ass. You can’t keep hoping he won’t.”

“If it makes the difference and gives hope for my troopers, sir, I’ll take that proposition.” Ransom smirked. “I know full well that hope isn’t a method. That doesn’t mean there ain’t a place in the universe for it, even on a hellhole like this.”

A deafening fusillade of artillery from the line behind them covered everything with a blanket of sound. All of them turned to it. The battle had been joined.

“Hold the line. Good luck, Vanessa,” Peffers said and turned back to his tank.

“You, too, sir.”

She turned to Lopez. She watched him try not to grin. “Orders, ma’am?”

“Stay with the combat trains. Move headquarters back to them and stay there. When the shit hits the fan, you’ll need to be ready to receive us and pass the division reserve through.”

“If they make it on time, I will.” Lopez stuck out a gloved hand. “Be safe, Vanessa.”

“Conquer or die, Top.” She shook his hand and slapped his shoulder. Their unit motto never failed to make her smile.

“Give ’em, hell, ma’am.”

Without looking back, Ransom boarded her magtank and settled into the commander’s station. In front of her was the Commander’s Information Display System. The display enabled her to not only see and track the status of all the vehicles in her command, it gave her the opportunity to communicate directly with them on a variety of frequencies. Each tank had a crew of three: driver, gunner, tank commander. However, both her tank and the one commanded by Lopez were command variants and carried a crew of four. The additional crew member served as communications specialist in charge of maintaining the network between the troop’s vehicles and higher headquarters. With a series of taps, she called up a topographic map of the area showing their current position and the information about the enemy’s location, which came directly from division headquarters intelligence.

That’s almost an oxymoron.

Ransom studied the enemy’s displacement and immediately theorized a couple of courses of action. The first was the most likely, and that meant the enemy was going to charge headlong into the center of friendly lines. They’d seen this type of attack repeatedly. It was as if the Buzzers wanted to fight a war of attrition. They had the replication rates to do just that and given the biological makeup of their armored vehicle’s systems, what humans would have thought insanity seemed to be the Buzzer method of warfare.

The second course of action was the least likely. Given their experience, it was unlikely the enemy was just going to harass friendly positions. Between every major engagement there’d been some type of harassing fire from the Buzzers. Whether it was artillery barrages or strikes that looked like an attack but were just designed to harass friendly intelligence, they never failed to lob mostly harmless rounds at the Earth Corps. She didn’t think that was going to happen today. Given the concentration of forces and the preparatory artillery fires falling on the main line now, they were gearing up for something larger.

The most dangerous course of action was that the Buzzers were setting up for an attack but would employ a very different tactic than a straightforward penetration attempt. Given what she could see of the terrain occupied by the friendly line, there were two options. If she were the enemy commander, she’d look at probing the line to the far west or to the far east of the center of the human defense. The far western edge introduced much more significant terrain restricting their movements. The Buzzers’ vehicles, unlike her own magtanks, actually touched the ground. Given that, the restrictive terrain to the far west didn’t seem a likely course for an attack. The valley facing her, though, looked like a reasonable avenue of approach. While she wasn’t holding the flank, her position slightly forward of the friendly line could present an opportunity to a determined enemy.

“All Typhoon elements, this is Typhoon Six.” General Higashiyama’s voice was soft but firm. “Prepare for attack. Do not fire until fired upon. When that happens, give them hell.”

Ransom heard several other commanders, including Lieutenant Colonel Peffers, chime in with exuberance on the division’s main frequency. She verified she received but kept her mouth shut. The business of war was not about cheerleading and grandstanding. She wasn’t excited to put her troopers at risk. She would never be excited about the potential for anyone to die.

Ransom resumed tapping the screen and prepared a hasty plan based on the most dangerous course of action. When it was complete, she tapped the transmit button to send the graphic to all her vehicles. Verification came that everyone had received the message. She touched her communications button and activated the local laser communications network.

“Guidons, this is Black Six. You’ve got new graphics. Red One and Blue One, I want you to move forward down the slope to provide a screen. Push out as far as you can to maximize your cover and concealment. I think the enemy might send an attack in this direction. I want them to see we are not fully displaced along the line like Division wants us to be, give them a little depth to worry about. White One and Green One, orient your tubes in the kill box. Hold your fire until Red One and Blue One withdraw by fire. If we do this right, any enemy that comes this way, we can suck them in. That might be the break we need. Acknowledge, over.”

Lieutenant Winters, leading the first scout platoon, replied, “Red One, over.”

The next call came from Lieutenant Hinata, second tank platoon, who replied, “White One, over.”

Lieutenant Nguyen, the third scout platoon leader, replied, “Blue One, over.”

And, finally, Lieutenant Savon from the fourth tank platoon replied, “Green One, over.”

As she hoped, Lopez chimed in at the last. “Black Six, this is Black Seven. Copy all. Good hunting. Steel on target.”

As she watched her two scout platoons push forward, Ransom turned her attention to her own vehicle. “Crew report?”

“Driver, ready,” Zeno called from the hull.

“Comms, ready.” Vines didn’t bother looking at her. There was a ton of information coming in and it was partially her job to get it sorted for Ransom to decipher.

“Gunner, ready,” Fellrath whooped on the frequency.

<<Interface, ready.>>

Technically, the Interface wasn’t crew, but the automated command-and-control system made it much easier for her to monitor the tank’s internal vehicle and communication systems, as well as maintain situational awareness from its onboard sensors. In a pinch, the Interface could take over for the gunner or the communications specialist. Redundancy was a good thing.

Her headset chimed and Ransom turned to the communications display to her right. First Sergeant Lopez was calling on a private frequency.

“Go, Top.”

“You think they’re coming this way?”

“You know I do. When have they ever disappointed us before?”

Lopez chuckled. “Division intelligence seems to believe they’ll try to spearhead through the center of the line again.”

Ransom frowned. “You know they said that of the last three attacks, right?”

“I know,” Lopez replied. In all three attacks, they’d eventually probed for weaknesses along the line, either with air support or with swift movements of tactical forces. “I think you’re right.”

I hope I’m not.

Over the whine of the magtank’s systems, Ransom heard, and felt the tremors of, an increase in the volume of fire from the adjacent units. Contact reports came in over Division’s operations network in rapid succession.

She relayed the information to her units. “Guidons, Black Six. Contact to our west. Keep your eyes open. Red One, deploy an Oscar Papa atop the hill at your seven o’clock. Over.”

“Black Six, this is Red One. Copy and acknowledged,” Winters replied instantly. There wasn’t a question or a need for clarification.

Her intent in pushing an observation post team to the top of the hill was simple: she needed eyes on the full measure of the enemy formation. Where she was, she couldn’t see all of their activity. While the sensor feeds and the intelligence network provided excellent information, it was not a total picture. An observation post would provide her live video of what the enemy attack looked like. It would also give her the opportunity, through other sets of well-trained eyes, to detect any change in the enemy’s movement or disposition. It took a couple minutes longer than she expected because of the terrain, but the reconnaissance post team set up their sensors and engaged direct laser communication to her.

“Black Six, OP One. The feed is live and the sensor is yours.”

“OP One, Black Six. Visually scan anything I’m not looking at. I want to know the whole situation as you see it. Anything goes. Be ready to un-ass your position.”

Click-click.

The clicking of the microphone, something they’d learned from the aviators and their exocraft, transmitted both an affirmative and an acknowledgment without saying anything.

The first thing she did was study the enemy formation. The Buzzers tended to put their armor up front in a stacked column formation with at least two regiments of the heaviest armored vehicles forward. Their purpose was to break the line behind their strongest and most resilient armor. In typical Buzzer fashion, their armored vehicles resembled those of twentieth-century Earth. Ransom had to admire their intent to deceive humans by using the iconic forms of wars past. The sleek, angular shape of the Abrams or the Leopard were readily identifiable, as were the T-80 and Challenger analogs. While they were nowhere near as capable as those vehicles had been, they caused confusion far too often because of how close they were in appearance to the modern magtank. They’d placed the Abrams-like vehicles in the front of their attack formation on more than one occasion.

From what she saw of this attack, they’d done the same thing. She studied the units immediately behind the lead regiments and something didn’t look right. Typically, Buzzers deployed their heaviest units forward and used their infantry and lighter vehicles toward the middle and rear of the formation. This time, there appeared to be millions of infantry immediately behind the tanks. The presence of the infantry wasn’t necessarily unexpected, but the sheer number of them took her breath away. Over what looked like eight or ten square kilometers, the ground was completely invisible underneath a blanket of moving Buzzers. There were far more infantry than she’d ever seen in one single operation.

Our frontline units are having kittens about now.

The camera swung violently back to the right as she heard the young soldier at OP One call, “Ma’am, I’ve got movement to the north.”

Ransom steered the camera and found what the soldier was looking at. Another regiment of Buzzers, with their heavy armor up front, had peeled off from the main effort and appeared to be on a parallel course.

Second wave. They must be facing more resistance than they expected. We’re holding up well for a change. Maybe that bullshit rock drill was really worth it.

Another regiment pulled away from the main effort and took up a parallel course on the eastern side of the first regiment. Not only were the Buzzers building a second wave, they were throwing a lot of combat power toward the Earth Maneuver Forces line. Ransom steered the camera back to the south for the main attack and saw that another group, mostly lighter reconnaissance vehicles, had broken away from the enemy formation and appeared to be oriented on her position.

Not unexpected. They’re probably looking for ways around. Now is where we give them hell.

A plan formed quickly. She depressed her radio transmit button and said, “Guidons, this is Black Six. Prepare to execute staggered withdrawal. Red One, I want you to move forward—I say again, move forward—roughly four hundred meters. That should keep you masked terrain-wise from friendly fire. Break.”

She released the transmit switch for a few seconds and then depressed it again. “Blue One, I want you to move forward two hundred meters. Prepare to engage the enemy and then withdraw. Conduct hasty passage of lines through White and Green elements. We want to pull them in. Acknowledge?”

Her platoon leaders checked in in rapid succession. Her intention was to make the Buzzers think they’d found a weak point in the line. They’d pursue her withdrawing forces, and then she’d hit them with her tanks and give them no quarter.

<<Orbital gunfire warning. Thirty seconds.>>

“OP One, Black Six. Leave your post and take cover,” Ransom called over the laser connection.

Twenty-six seconds later, the Interface chimed, <<OP One has been recovered.>>

The valley in front of them erupted in a cloud of dirt, smoke, and Buzzers. Each impact of the tiny tungsten slugs dropped from the Earth Maneuver Forces destroyers in orbit tore through the Buzzers like canister rounds from the nineteenth century.

“Targets obscured,” Fellrath reported.

“Interface?” Ransom asked.

<<The Buzzers are preparing to move.>>

The enemy movement took only a few minutes. As their combat reconnaissance patrol turned the corner of the exposed rock formation, first scout platoon engaged. The firefight lasted only a few seconds, and then Lieutenant Winters pulled their troops back toward the center of the tank platoon to their rear. Emboldened, the Buzzers sped up their pursuit. Within another minute, her third scout platoon was engaged. The firefight lasted two seconds longer than the first, but the effect on the Buzzers was noticeable. Ransom watched as two Buzzer tank regiments paralleling the main attack turned her direction.

“Wabash Six, this is Wabash One.” Ransom used the squadron’s standard radio coding instead of her troop’s color-coded scheme. “Large contingent of enemy forces moving in my position. Over.”

“Wabash One, Six. Understood. Wait one.” In her helmet, Ransom heard Lieutenant Colonel Peffers take the information to the regimental network. From there the regiment passed it to the division along with a direct video feed from her observation post. In the time it took for those messages to traffic, the two enemy regiments were now facing her cavalry troop at a distance of six thousand meters and were closing.

Ransom heard the commander-in-chief himself, General Higashiyama, reply, “Wabash Six, this is Typhoon Six. That’s a feint. I’m directing close air support to the area. We’ll pull them back in line.”

A private laser connection dinged. “Ransom? Did you hear that?” Peffers asked.

“I did, sir. I disagree.”

“Noted. Hunker down to prepare for close air support.”

Like I can do anything else.

Twenty seconds later, another orbital strike rained down on the valley. Choking clouds of dirt, smoke, and fire rose and obscured everything she could see. Even though the observation post camera was still on, the sensors could not see anything. All they could do was wait.

Ransom stared into a billowing cloud of dirt and debris from the orbital strike looking for any sign of movement. Something moved in the dust, but she couldn’t be sure. The dark shape moved again.

“Contact front! Contact front!”

Ransom glanced at her display and saw the square icons for first platoon flashing. In rapid succession, each of the four icons turned from green, meaning systems were nominal, to red, showing damage.

Ransom punched the transmit button. “Open fire. Open fire. Weapons free. Support first platoon.”

It was too late. First one, then a second, and then a third first platoon vehicle icon turned black, indicating the vehicle was dead. Only Red Three was still operational. A heartbeat later, that icon also turned black.

Ransom fought the bile rising in her throat. “Blue One, Black Six. Do you have eyes on first platoon?”

What’s left of them, that is.

“Negative, we can’t see a thing. All targets are obscured.”

“Understood, orient your tubes toward Red platoon and open fire. Turn your fratricide limiters off and open fire. That’s a direct order.”

Let the legal assholes chew on that if I make it through this mess.

“Roger, Black Six. Understood.”

Her remaining scout platoon opened fire and Ransom worked to direct her two tank platoons forward. If she was going to save her scouts, they’d have to directly engage. She was crossing the forward line of troops again and if she survived the next ten minutes, a court-martial was almost certain.

None of that mattered. The twenty-two troopers in her third scout platoon mattered, as did their loved ones on Earth.

“White One and Green One, move forward. Maintain line abreast and hold that line. We can’t support Blue One by fire from where we are. Turn on your thermal viewers and engage anything in front of you.”

She didn’t wait for an acknowledgment. Instead, she changed frequencies to the squadron’s frequency. “Wabash Six, this is Wabash One. Contact my position. Taking heavy fire and moving to engage.”

There was a hiss of static across the frequency and the transmission died in a burst of harsh noise. She attempted a direct laser connection, but there was too much debris in the air attenuating the signal.

“Vines?”

“Ma’am, we’re being jammed on all frequencies. Laser is relay only—I have our troop including Black Seven locked but that’s it. Otherwise, all I’ve got is super-low-frequency resonators to nearby vehicles.”

With a maximum range of about fifty meters. Shit.

As the two platoons moved forward, Ransom directed her crew in a similar fashion.

“Driver, move out. Hold position between second and fourth platoons. Gunner, index heat fire and adjust. You are weapons free on everything in front of you. Comms and Interface, monitor the field and find a connection to higher or else this is going to be a quick DIP.”

Her attempt at humor failed. No soldier, regardless of their branch of service or occupational specialty, ever wanted to die in place.

Ransom engaged a private laser communications channel. “Top, can you hear me?”

“I’ve got you. Move out. I’ll hang back and tell Division what’s going on.”

<<White and Green elements are reporting contact. Both platoons are taking heavy fire,>> the Interface reported.

Suddenly, Ransom felt the magtank rock from an impact somewhere on the left front of the vehicle.

<<Impact front. All systems nominal.>>

“You okay down there, Zeno?” she called over her one-on-one connection to the hull.

“Roger, ma’am. Still can’t see anything. I’m on thermals and my ears are ringing.”

“Understood, just keep us out of any ditches.”

“No guarantees, ma’am.” The young driver laughed.

Fellrath called, “Going to high rate. Multiple targets. There’s at least a battalion of heavy tanks in front of us. Can’t see past them yet.”

Ransom frowned. Lopez and his tank were more than fifty meters away now. There was no way to relay the information division. Their enemy feint was anything but—it was an attack.

“Guns hot,” she reported over the crew intercom. “Fire and adjust, Fellrath. You’re on your own.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Fellrath called. A half second later, the magtank’s railgun released another hypersonic round in the enemy’s direction with a thump. “Scouts are falling back. I can see third platoon.”

She leaned forward and looked through her extension of the gunner’s primary sight so she could see what Fellrath was looking at. He was right. The remaining Rippers from Third Platoon had turned and were accelerating toward friendly lines. Behind them, at least twenty enemy tanks were following in a simple line-abreast formation. While the Buzzers typically were no match for the human magtanks, they relied on suppressive fire to allow their infantry to close with the enemy. Buzzer infantry armed with antitank weapons did far more damage to human forces than their somewhat capable tanks could do. Yet behind the line of tanks it didn’t appear there was any infantry.

And then she saw them. But instead of a couple of regiments’ worth there seemed to only be a few hundred of the aliens.

A hole in the Buzzer line materialized and she hesitated for a heartbeat. And then another.

Hold the line, Ransom.

To hell with that.

“Gunner, get ready to cut me a wide path through that line. Comms, prepare to get up on your guns. We’re going through and hitting their infantry at close range. If you can get us CAS, get it. I don’t give a damn about danger close. You hear me?”

Fellrath didn’t reply. Her communications specialist looked at her incredulously.

“Yes, Vines. I want you to unbutton and get up on your machine guns. I’ll be up there, too. We’ll need every barrel we have once we cut through the armor.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Driver, move out in Gear Five. Stand on that pedal. Don’t stop until we’re in the middle of their infantry.”

The tank lurched forward on its repulsors. Gliding a meter off the ground, they rocketed toward the line at over thirty kilometers per hour. The magtank had a top speed of almost one hundred and ten, but she didn’t think they’d need that much.

“White and Green elements, follow me,” Ransom said into the radio.

<<Low frequency resonators successful. All vehicles auto-linking by SOP.>>

Even in the jamming field, everyone in the attack heard the orders. As they closed the distance to the line, Fellrath blasted two tanks to their immediate left and swung the gun tube violently to the right to dispatch a third.

They were through the line.

Simultaneous impacts on either side of the magtank rocked Ransom and the others hard enough that she saw stars after hitting her head on the gunner’s sight extension.

Motherf

<<Multiple impacts. Both sides. Battery compartment alpha, minor penetration. All systems nominal.>>

“Fellrath, give me all your coax. Save the tube for any vehicles you see. Up on your guns, Vines.”

Ransom activated and swung the commander’s hatch upward. She stood in the seat and brought the dual barrels of the .50 caliber machine gun to bear on the first of the infantry she could see amid the dust and haze. Fellrath opened up with both coaxially mounted cannons alongside the main gun. The rate of fire impressed her.

“Wish we had a beehive round, ma’am.” Fellrath said. The Armored Corps brass requested the round, most reminiscent of ancient canister rounds, several months earlier. EMF Intelligence said the effect on the enemy would prove negligible even though the armored commanders knew otherwise. It didn’t matter. They had other firepower to exert.

“Let’s go, Vines. Up on your gun.” The opposite hatch opened. Her comms specialist came up, grabbed the smaller machine gun controls and opened fire.

Small-arms rounds impacted the tank and rocked it as she fired on the prancing Buzzer infantry. Tanks to her left and right opened fire, but they took a heavy volume of it in return; several were destroyed. Ransom didn’t listen to the radio. Every single ounce of her focus was on training the machine guns and dispatching Buzzer infantry to save herself and her soldiers.

A series of chimes sounded in her headphones.

“We’ve got comms!” Vines yelped and dropped into the turret.

“Get your ass back up here!” Ransom roared. Vines popped up and looked at her, wide-eyed. “Get on your goddamned guns, Vines. They’re all around us!”

At that moment, a Buzzer rocketeer leapt to the front slope of the tank. Ransom swung her barrels toward it and cut it in half with a salvo of rounds. A volley of rounds from her left confirmed Vines had manned her weapon. Together, they worked to cut down the infantry.

“Black Six, Black Seven. On my way to your position. Open a hole. I’ve got reinforcements.”

Ransom looked to her left and right. Amongst the smoking, damaged vehicles of her tank platoons, she saw all of them were still functioning in one way or another.

“Guidons, spread the formation. I’ll go with White. Leave a hole in the middle,” Ransom called. The Buzzer infantry hesitated and fell back. She recognized their movement and its likely result.

“Vines. Get down there and get close air support on the infantry. They’re going to push more of it our way and try to get us to fall back. We will not let them. Danger close is authorized. We’re gonna hold the line and—”

A flash from her right side and—

WHAMM!

WHAAMM!

WHAAM! WHAAM!!

Ransom crumpled into the turret as she was trained to do. Her ass bounced off the seat and as she fell forward across Fellrath’s back, she snatched at handholds and caught herself. Vines did the same. There was a sensation of wet and cold on her face. Her helmet’s faceplate was shattered and most of the lower left half of the protective shell was gone. She touched her skin below the helmet edge and saw her fingertips stained with blood. Beyond them, the tank’s caution and warning system flashed yellow and red system icons.

Come on, baby. Hold together.

<<Multiple impacts. Forward repulsors damaged. Communication antennas have been severed. Vehicle is seventy percent combat effective.>>

You hold together, baby. Just a few more minutes.

Tugging off her helmet, Ransom scrambled into her seat and reached for the display. There was so much blood.

“You’re hit, ma’am!” Vines said. “Holy shit!”

The communications specialist scrambled over the autoloading mechanism of the main gun with a combat field dressing in her hands. Vines pressed the dressing to the side of Ransom’s face and neck and held it there.

“It’s pretty nasty, ma’am. Hold still.”

Ransom shook her head and pushed Vines away. “Get up on your guns! Come on!”

With one hand on her bandage as it worked to seal her wound, Ransom stood in the commander’s cupola and charged her weapons. The Buzzer infantry were fewer and she saw, and heard, the Fleet close air support dropping antipersonnel munitions on the Buzzers.

Vines tugged on her coveralls and handed Ransom a spare communications headset. She worked it over her head. Her face and neck hurt. Every movement was agony, but she depressed the transmit switch. “Guidons, Black Seven is on the way with reinforcements. Prepare to cease fire when friendlies are present. Acknowledge.”

Her remaining platoon leaders checked in, but she wasn’t really listening. She raked the Buzzer infantry with machine gun fire, her sole objective to put them all down.

Once and for all.

The enemy’s rate of fire increased. Ransom felt her tank shudder from multiple impacts. The Interface tried to keep up with damage reports, but it was no use. One particular jolt was hard enough it slammed her forward, toward the machine guns.

<<Hull penetration, forward quarter.>>

Ransom called, “Driver, report.”

<<Sergeant Zeno’s vital signs are negligible. He appears to be dead.>>

Goddamnit.

WHAMM!

<<Hull penetration, right side.>>

“Motherfucker! I’m hit! I’m hit!” Fellrath screamed.

Ransom couldn’t see him, nor could she stop firing to help him. Doing so would mean death and her options were limited. “Vines, see what you can do. I’ll stay up.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The main gun and its coax cannons fell silent. The adjacent machine gun on the auxiliary hatch was quiet. The Buzzers sensed the weak spot in her line and descended on her tank.

“Wabash One, this is Wabash Six. Standby for close air support. Danger close. Button up.”

Ransom refused. If she dropped into the turret now, the Buzzers would get past her and gain an advantage. Once behind her they could do serious damage.

“Interface? Status of adjacent platoons?”

<<Second platoon is thirty-six percent combat effective. Fourth platoon is thirty-four percent combat effective. Elements of third platoon are eleven percent combat effective and remain in the fight.>>

“I told them to withdraw.” She ran out of ammunition on one of the dual machine guns.

You know they’re not going anywhere. Just like you wouldn’t.

A blur of motion caught her eye. She recognized in a microsecond the promised close air support had arrived. Reflexively, she dropped into the turret, snatched the handle for the hatch, and slammed it closed over her. Nearby explosions rocked the tank violently from side to side. She heard a shower of debris and shrapnel raining against the outside surface of the armor. It sounded as if the bombs were falling in the seat next to her. Dozens more warning lights appeared on the tank’s system board.

Come on. Hold together for me, baby. One more time.

Thirty seconds later, the bombardment stopped. Ransom opened the hatch and rose to her machine guns as before, the entire valley obscured by dust and smoke. She looked at her ammunition stores, but there was nothing to load into the empty weapon. With one barrel and a few hundred rounds of ammunition remaining, she realized any subsequent attack would be her last.

“Fellrath? I need you back on the gun.”

There was no response. “Vines?”

“I’m trying, ma’am,” Vines replied. “He’s unconscious. Lost a lot of blood.”

“Release the guntube to the Interface. Master switch is above Fellrath’s primary sight. See it?”

Vines didn’t respond. <<I have control of the main gun. Do I have permission to fire?>>

“Interface, you have permission to fire and adjust. Vines? Get Fellrath stabilized. Give him a combat coma shot and get up to your guns.”

“Doing it now.”

Trying to find an identifiable target was impossible as she swept the guns over her field of fire without squeezing the trigger. She risked a look to her left and right. Many of the adjacent tanks were badly damaged; several appeared dead. Through the earphones tied to the outside microphones of the tank, Ransom heard the screaming buzz that gave the aliens their name. They were massing for an attack. She heard them so clearly that she knew they were close and there was a shit ton of them.

Not this time, motherfuckers.

Ransom squeezed the trigger and the now single-barreled machine gun roared to life. Taking her as an example, the adjacent tanks—at least those that could—did the same. With methodical precision, she walked the rounds through the smoke, hoping to take a few more of the Buzzers out before they swarmed. The main gun fired automatically at a target she couldn’t see. It didn’t matter now.

“Wabash One, Wabash Six. Cease fire. Cease fire.”

Ransom continued to fire.

On the private channel, First Sergeant Lopez chimed, “Six?”

“Not now, Top.”

“We’re coming! We’re right behind you, Vanessa. Cease fire and let us through.”

I hope there’s a hell of a lot of you.

Vanessa stopped firing but kept her eyes on the smoke-filled valley below. The frightened side of her expected the Buzzers to swarm up the terrain in a cloud and demolish everything around her. She did not safe her machine gun, nor did she clear it. Her thumbs rested on the trigger, waiting to open fire again. One heartbeat became two, and then three, and then a vehicle shot past her position, its guns blazing. She recognized the magtanks that belonged to the 53rd Armored Brigade. They were Division’s reserve element. As she watched, the brigade roared past, took up wedge-shaped assault positions, and plowed into the Buzzers.

More tanks came. Scout vehicles came. She was aware there were at least two ambulances and four maintenance vehicles gathering at her position. Soldiers were out of vehicles and crawling over her unit’s tanks. They pulled Zeno out of the hull alive. He was moving, but obviously in tremendous pain.

Thank God.

Vanessa turned her eyes skyward and saw a flurry of close air support aircraft approaching to attack the Buzzers. They were giving the aliens hell, and it made her smile. Vines appeared in the other hatch and handed her another set of bandages, which she pressed to her bloody face with shaking hands.

Vines glanced over Ransom’s shoulder and her eyes went wide. A lone tank approached her side and decelerated. Vanessa turned, expecting to see Lieutenant Colonel Peffers frowning at her.

Instead, the magtank’s antennas flew red flags bearing the four white stars of the Earth Maneuver Forces commander-in-chief. General Higashiyama stood in the commander’s cupola and stared at her.

This is where he ends my career for doing exactly what I should’ve done.

After a long moment, the general nodded. There was a hint of a smile on his grim face as he raised his right hand and saluted.

Maybe not.

Her left hand pressed against the bandages on her face, Ransom returned the salute.

“Well done!” he shouted over the din as his tank roared down the valley and into the fray.

Ransom closed her eyes and leaned against the machine gun mount. She patted the tank’s armor with her free hand and took a deep breath, and then another. Middleton’s star shone through a break in the battlefield smoke and warmed her skin.

For a moment, the pain subsided and the war drifted away. They’d held. Maybe it would be enough. When the medics came, they mistook her smile for the onset of shock. Vanessa Ransom simply knew better. This war had only just begun.


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Framed