Hossin: Loyalty Until Death (part two)

[Firefly]

The continuation of part one, which received too many comments to count. Thanks for your support.
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Major Baird thumbed his command uplink tool on. An overhead satellite polled all of the transceiver emitters on Hossin, and then color-coded each emitter. Most of Hossin was blue- meaning the New Conglomerate had the continent to itself�

� with the exception of Zotz. That base glowed a beautiful, joy-inspiring red on the map.

�Republic be praised, they�ve done it!� the major whooped. The remainder of the displaced Terran Republic Army joined him, some of them cheering, others chattering excitedly, some pressing for a look at his uplink, others drawing their own uplinks out to look at them. Major Baird hoisted his Cycler rifle into the air and pointed to Zotz. �Let�s go home, troopers!�

Falling into a routine born of years of rehearsing, the soldiers assembled and formed small squads, then raced on foot toward the Terran Republic facility. Many kept their weapons slung on their backs, while others of a more cautious nature carried their weapons in patrol-rest position. There was no sense in forgetting soldier training and dying within sight of a base.

Major Baird waited until he was safely inside the base�s communications radius. He switched his comlink to Guard Command and keyed the mike.

�Class Six to Zotz X-ray, over.�

Trooper Abnett came through clear as a bell, his voice preceded by an electronic beep that signaled the radio net carrying active encryption. �Six this is X-ray, go ahead over.�

�Roger, can you get me a long-distance continental channel? I want to broadcast to every secure Terran radio on Hossin.�

�Done and done, break� channel is one-up, how copy, over?�

Major Baird keyed the mike. �Roger out.� He then switched his comlink�s channel knob up one click. There was a burst of static as some outfit radio operator tried transmitting without enough power to reach far� most likely the operator was calling from behind a rock out in the field, pinned down by enemy weapons fire.

�All stations this net, all stations this net,� Baird began, giving time for the airwaves to clear. He paused and inhaled. �Be advised that Zotz Base is now under Terran ownership. All units are strongly urged to make their way to Zotz for a static defense. The NewCons will want the base back, and you know damn well you could use the walls. I say again, the Terran Republic has secured Zotz. We are awaiting reinforcements now. Class Six out.�

Baird looked at the members of his squad. Two of his members were from the Terran Republic�s Special Forces, but Baird couldn�t make out the battalion logo under the mud and dirt. Yet another was a forward observer scout from the Terran Republic Marine Corps. One of the Black Widows, a sergeant named Diaz, had also joined him. Rounding out the squad was a rough, bald infantry grunt from the Crimson Guard- the Guard was a company of fiercely-patriotic nationalists who, like the Black Widows, were an irregular unit. Meaning they were not organic to the Army, the Marines, or any other official military unit.

Supposedly, the Crimson Guard had led the spearhead of the counter-strike when the Day of Bloodshed occurred. When the New Conglomerate locked and coded a warpgate, sealing itself on a small island to build its home base, they had struck against the loyalists garrisoned there. The Crimson Guard led the doomed counterstrike from within the New Conglomerate home base, at first taking down enemies while they moved to a series of towers in the center of the island. The New Conglomerate had pounded the tower for six hours with tank fire and artillery before sending in a full battalion of heavy infantry. The NewCon traitors blasted the tower with megaphones the entire time, pleading for the Guard to surrender.

The Guard lost half of its numbers that day. No other outfit or military unit had that dubious distinction- as a result, the Crimson soldiers had earned the right to call themselves the toughest bastards in the Republic. It was through the efforts of an NC double agent that the remaining Guardsmen escaped the tower. The agent commandeered a Galaxy dropship and the Terran soldiers crowded aboard, some of the men dangling out of the doors and cargo bay. There were so many that the pilot had needed to make a second trip, and the startled NewCons had opened fire on two other Galaxies they thought were in league with the agent.

Baird eyed the Guardsman appreciatively. Everyone knew the Guard would finish the fight or be slaughtered trying. �How you holding up, trooper?� He immediately felt dumb for asking. Guardsmen were a rough lot, and he suspected part of their training was learning to mask exhaustion, fear, and weakness.

The trooper grunted. �Swell. Sir.�

Baird grinned, trying to elicit a smile from the soldier. �I�m Major Baird. You got a name?�

�Tank,� he replied simply. He slung his mini-chaingun and picked up the pace a little. For a mammoth of a man wearing reinforced armor and carrying a Cycler rifle in addition to his chaingun, the Guardsman was doing remarkably well.

�How fitting a name,� Baird said quietly. �Good to know you, Tank.�

* * *

Far to the northwest on a high mountain, the soil of Hossin was being pounded by the enormous shells of New Conglomerate Vanguard battle tanks. That same soil was littered with bullet casings and body parts, and soaked in the blood of dying or dead loyalists.

Colonel Vinzent, the commandant of the Hossin Jungle Warfare Training Center before it was captured by the traitorous New Conglomerate soldiers, was crouched behind an enormous outcropping of rocks that had, so far, deflected and absorbed many NC shells. He�d set up his field command post there- not more than fifty meters to the south was the line of skirmish- fifty yards and then down a sheer drop-off.

His riflemen had so far held that ridgeline, using the upper hand advantage of higher terrain. Despite being hammered by tank fire, the riflemen had killed and died, fought and bled. Medics and engineers rushed forward to drag wounded men back or to repair body armor with nano-repair kits. It was only a matter of time, though, before the secessionist traitors called in Reaver gunships and Liberator bombers. When they came, the remnants of the Republic forces would be blown off Hossin.

One of Vinzent�s adjutants looked up excitedly from a radio set and called, �Colonel Vinzent, sir, get on the Guard Command channel!�

Vinzent tapped on his wrist pad, where the mini-console was thoughtfully imbedded in the hard-shell armor piece. With a gloved hand, he fingered one of the preset buttons. His backpack-mounted radio immediately sparked to life, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Major Baird�s excited broadcast cut through the noise of battle. The message finished, and then cycled back via a recording loop code.

A broad smile creased the Terran Army colonel�s face for the first time in many months. Vinzent switched his radio back to the local broadcast channel. �This is Colonel Vinzent, all Terran units rally to me! Prepare to fall back to the ships!�

[Firefly]

Battle line by battle line, Republic soldiers retreated to the rear, their fallback covered by a furious fusillade from the remaining line units. As they tore through the ranks of anarchists trying to rally behind makeshift dirt berms, Colonel Vinzent waved the withdrawing soldiers toward a ring of Galaxy dropship transports waiting on the coastline. The officer had originally intended for them to serve as flying bombs, their pilots having volunteered to a man to smash their ships into the secessionist battle tanks and hope to escape the firestorm by bailing out. Now they had renewed purpose.

Vanguard tank shells howled overheard in response to the rain of gunfire. The massive shells sounded their deep arcing howl as they smashed into the ground, once more churning up dirt and chunks of human flesh like some angry tiller. Vinzent ducked as one shell slammed into the rock outcropping, spraying a pair of soldiers with iron slivers.

�Shut them down!� he ordered, barking his command to a squad of anti-armor troops huddling behind the burned-out wreck of a double-barreled Prowler tank. He turned to watch a brazen medic kneeling in the open, amid the firestorm, tending to the wounded men. With serene calm, the combat medic wrapped their wounds with field dressings, oblivious to the cannon fire that rained down around him.

On the front line, the anti-tank squad hefted their Decimator disposable rocket tubes and scurried forward to the edge of the ridge. It took the seasoned specialists only a moment to line up abreast of each other and call out targets. One of the men gave the command, and a fierce concussive wave of air roiled down the steep incline as the rocket motors fired and ripped into their targets.

�Reload!� shouted the gunnery commander. �Ready!�

The anti-armor weapon barrels came up, their second of three volleys prepared and aimed. The command was given again and the soldiers depressed their firing studs. Explosives-packed rockets lanced out and scythed through heavy steel armor overlaid with ceramic reactive tiles. In some places, the shriek of ruptured steel infused with the crunch of exploding munitions told of direct missile hits that had torn through the turret cabin and detonated inside the magazine. The resulting roar was deafening, and it usually took out a crowd of troops that were using the armor as protection from flying bullets.

�Reload!� came the order a third and final time. �Ready! Fire!�

The final salvo shredded the already-damaged targets, and the satisfying blast of superheated fuel and detonating ammo gave the Terrans a rallying cause. Their morale boosted, the missile troops discarded the spent missile tubes and picked up new, fresh three-shot loads.

The thick burbling of heavy energy-powered engines swept across the battlefield. Curious, Vinzent tore himself away from the transfixing scene of the medic working his magic. The officer scuttled forward to the battle line. He saw the oversized, boxy shapes of blue and gold-trimmed Sunderer heavy ground transports as they lined up to deliver fresh squads of soldiers.

A series of muffled staccato crumps followed close behind the gouts of flame that ripped the air open. The Sunderer guns, rapid-fire seventy-five millimeter explosive shells with a relatively flat-arced trajectory and moderate range, opened up the Terran lines. Half a dozen landed near Vinzent, too late reminding him of his folly. He was lifted bodily and tossed hard against the blackened hull of a destroyed tank, and the officer heard the audible snapping of several ribs. A fire-hot lance of pain shot up his spine and stabbed his brain. The colonel came to a few seconds later and gently shook the cobwebs away. As his vision returned to normal and the heady hangover-like sensation faded, he raced back up to the front and repeated his call for covering fire.

�Incoming enemy aircraft!� a disembodied voice shouted.

Shielding his eyes from the setting suns, Vinzent looked up and over the combat zone. There, coming out of the sun! He spied a wedge-shaped formation of Reaver gunships, which was the leading edge of a dozen Liberator bombers in box-shaped formations. Carpet bombing run, he quickly surmised.

�Fall back!� he roared. �Air defense gunners, get ready!� If they could knock a few aircraft out, or force them to pull out, the tattered remains of the expeditionary force might actually survive.

The entire line of red and black armored troops withdrew, leaving the forward edge of the battle tended by a skirmish line of small, computerized Spitfire turrets, which were safely anchored behind a vast field of well-placed mines.

Many of the troops slung their rifles and picked up their Striker anti-vehicular missile launchers. With a lock-on capability, the Striker would have been perfect had the Republic scientists not traded stopping power for speed and sophisticated guidance electronics. That rank of troops took a knee as anti-air MAX units locked down behind them and brought their twin double-barreled flak cannons to bear on the rapidly-approaching aircraft. A few Skyguard gun buggies filled in where they could fit.

Screaming out of the sky with the suns at their back, the Reavers tore into the fleeing troops with rockets blazing. It was hit or miss with Reaver rockets but when firing a massive salvo into a tightly-packed mass of panicked troops, it was mostly hit. The Reavers were answered by flak explosions and the warning beep of lock-on missile threat detectors. As men died on the ground, shrapnel filled the sky.

The lines were clear except for the hold-out force. Vinzent knew his men would gladly sacrifice their lives for the Empire, but only the desperate or the foolish would command that of their troops. He allowed a moment of surging pride for the hold-out line, then turned and ran back toward the waiting Galaxies.

�Lift off!� he ordered, bellowing over the din into his comlink. Even as the whine of energy-charged super turbines reached a banshee-like crescendo, Colonel Vinzent was shouting for the hold-outs to pack it up.

The Striker-wielding troops stood up and filtered through the line of MAXes, ducking under the backblast and recoil of those fearsome Burster cannons. The men inside the MAX suits continued firing until they�d exhausted their ammo, filling the air with a lethal screen of white-hot metal, backed up by the Skyguards, which did the same thing as four MAXes.

A Reaver exploded in mid-air, and the Liberator behind it erupted in a fiery blossom as its bombs became superheated. The resulting boom and cascading of metal and flames over the New Conglomerate battle lines provided significant distraction, and the MAXes and Skyguards raced back, intent on getting clear. As the Skyguards peeled away, the gunners in the rear turrets kept pouring on the fire. Another Reaver immolated itself as it zipped overhead in a vain attempt to speed through the fire. Another Liberator went down in flames, its crew trying futilely to eject. One of the men fell in a burning heap onto a damaged Sunderer, giving the NewCons a horror-filled pause.

Explosions rent the ground around the Terrans, and the air was filled with the screams of the dying and the cacophony of Galaxy transports lifting off, mixing with the screeching wail of bombs and rockets and explosions. As the survivors poured onto the few remaining mammoth hoverships, the soldiers in their armored exosuits climbed in right behind them. Meanwhile he Skyguard drivers tried finding space in the cargo bays.

By this time, the rush of falling bombs split the ground and the snap of exploding bomblets ripped apart more than a few unfortunate soldiers. Vinzent was again lifted off his feet and hurled toward the dropships by the concussive wave. A passing trooper lifted him up and they raced down the reverse slope of the hill.

One of the Skyguards exploded near the back ramp of a Galaxy, damaging the ship severely. Vinzent took a look at the damage, and waved the pilot on anyway. They could certainly die here, or they could at least die making a tactical withdrawal. The staccato hammering of the double-barreled Spitfire turrets broke the monotonous wave of explosions, and Vinzent spotted a wave of blue and gold suited NC troops rushing up the hill, advancing behind the falling bombs.

The remaining loyalists that were in the process of filing aboard the dropships turned and laid down suppressive fire, one by one turning and boarding the waiting ships with rapid urgency. As the last soldier climbed aboard, still firing out of the open passenger bay door, the NC soldiers encountered the mine field. Blue and gold bodies mixed with a sick shower of red mist and orange flames were thrown about like children�s� toys. The Galaxies lifted off, scrambling for full power while skillfully dodging incoming gunfire. The troops were slammed hard against their restraints as the pilot aimed the ship�s nose at the clouds and kicked on the afterburners. Behind each pilot sat a soldier manning a remote weapons station which controlled the tail-mounted multi-barreled rotary cannon. Those soldiers were firing quick, jagged bursts, vaporizing more than a few anarchists on the ground.

�We made it,� Vinzent sighed wearily, undoing his helmet chinstrap and reclining on the narrow bench of his passenger compartment.

[TheN00b]

Amazing job, man. I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really hope that there's more.