As the Vanguard’s engines hummed thickly in the background, Marines Trevor ‘Smitty’ Smith and George ‘Bray’ Brayford, Hraslveg Royal Marines Commando, sat side by side, their weapons tucked between their legs, butts to the floor. In front of them was Captain McAllister and Lieutenant Knuttson, HRMC, officer commanding and executive officer of Chatham Company. Next to the two was Sergeant Michael Orisan, the hard-built commander of 4 Troop.
The desert sand was a shade of black now. Looking to the back of the Vanguard, where the door gunner sat on the open ramp, Bray shivered at the thought of going into battle. It wasn’t like he hadn’t gone through combat before, but as Ghalzar IV was his very first assignment, he had never done a storming operation unlike most of the other Marines, who’d been used to boarding ships and taking beachheads. Smitty shared the same experience as Bray, with his closest experience in CQB the suppression of an enemy position 200 meters away. Through his idle thoughts, that navy pilot – Sophie – came into mind. Her beautiful blue eyes, her dark brown hair falling right into perfection. He sighed.
Corporal Kyrgiakos, the section leader, put a hand on Smitty’s back. “It’s alright, Smitty. It isn’t as bad as you think. Trust me, once your boots are on that fucking roof, you’ll forget everything and training steps in.”
“I’m just nervous, corporal.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Sergeant Orisan’s headset crackled. It came from the pilot. He signaled to Corporal Kyrgiakos. Two fingers lifted to compensate for his inaudible voice over the engines. “Two minutes!”
Kyrgiakos nodded. He continued the gesture to the man next to him, a lance corporal. It went on like a chain.
Smitty put his helmet on, where a monocular nightvision goggle had been attached. Bray took his on as well. Sitting right next to the door, he and Captain McAllister, who too was in full battle-rattle – helmet, vest, rifle, webbing, 3-day ruck, and boots – would be the first ones off the chopper and first boots on the ground.
For the last three minutes, they could hear guns – big guns – firing. The distinct sound of missiles launching and the thumping explosions on impact were also, heard. Then the whistling sound of AFU thrusters. Then more gunfire.
“Sounds like fun, eh corporal?” a Marine said from amongst the ones in the middle.
“Hold your mouth, Tomasson. Sounds like fun ‘til you get a big chunk of shrapnel in your head.”
Those who heard the joke laughed. It was good to have a few laughs before combat. Bray only smiled, looking into the distance. Not long after, they received small arms fire. The door gunner replied with a roaring burst of 7.62mm from his GPMG. BABABA! BABABA! BABABABABABA!
“Get some, you fockers!” the door gunner yelled.
“One minute, lads!” Orisan shouted.
“One minute!” yelled Kyrgiakos. On the queue, Smitty took up his GPMG from between his legs, and Bray took up his SA45A2.
“You ready, Bray?”
“I’m good, Smitty.” He said. “Listen, mate, don’t let them fockin’ get me, alright?”
“You watch my arse, too, mate.”
“Thirty seconds! On your foooockin feeet, lads!” Orisan said. He went on his feet. Captain McAllister crossed himself and picked himself up. The rest followed.
“It’s been good commanding you, boys! Now let’s show ‘em what we’re fockin’ made-of!” McAllister shouted.
The men cheered aggressively. Teeth clenched, weapons gripped tightly, the men of 4 Troop, Chatham Company, waited as the Vanguard circled the factory. The door gunner sprayed lead down the range, swearing profusely as he did. Smitty pulled down his night vision goggles. Slowly the Vanguard descended, going atop a large, four-storey building. The Vanguard pilot put its butt on the floor of the rooftop, and when it settled, Captain McAllister yelled. “Go! Go! Go! Securethefuckingperimeter!”
He ran off the Vanguard. Bray followed. Then Knuttson. Then Orisan. Then Kyrgiakos. Then everyone else. Organized into sections, they formed a shield around the ramp of the Vanguard. A rocket flew by, nearly hitting the Vanguard.
“Shit, that was close!” Smitty yelled.
The Marines on the ground opened fire, taking out what few guards that manned the top of the building. Sergeant Orisan was the first to put in a burst of shots into the chest of one of the Dominion soldiers. Those who could withdraw slid down a hatch that led to a ladder. Captain McAllister, rifle in one hand and grenade in the other, ran to the hatch. He opened it, fired a few shots down, and threw his grenade. He closed it. Boom.
On the radio, a multitude of voices channeled in. Chaotic. Among them were Lieutenant Knuttson’s confirmation of a complete objective. “Break-break, all eleme… (static), this is Charlie Zero One. We’ve cleared … rooftop. Proceeding … fourth floor
The door gunner gave an affirmative on the radio. The Vanguard lifted itself from the roof, and zoomed out of view as quickly as possible, the door gunner, whom Smitty was well-damned sure still swearing, firing at enemies on the ground as it disappeared from the sight. When they landed, gunfire was thick about them. It was chaotic. Tracer fire went here and there, and the Marines had to sit low.
The next Vanguard landed on the rooftop. Halfway through dropping its contents, a rocket flew by and struck it. The left engine was hit. The cockpit went haywire. The door gunner and the remaining Marines jumped off the craft, and the Vanguard lifted up from the rooftop, only to spin and crash into the factory. A huge fireball engulfed the crash site.
“Smitty! Get your arse over there and set up the GPMG! Bray, go with him!” Corporal Kyrgiakos yelled through the Personal Role Radio, which nearly every Marine had. “Don’t let them take down another one!”
“Corporal!” Smitty yelled. He hit Bray’s vested back with his palm and the two set off to the edge of the building facing the entire factory. He went on his chest. He pushed open the bipod of his GPMG and aimed it towards suspected enemy positions. Putting the GPMG’s butt on his shoulder, he aimed, and fired off bursts. BABABA! BABABA! BABABABABABA! BABABABABA!
Bray positioned himself next to Smitty, in a similar prone position. Bursts of machinegun fire and the cracks of rifle fire filled his ears.
The rest of the section then followed in. Proning and crouching, they identified enemy positions and concentrated their fire. Seeing an entrenched enemy machinegun nest– with sandbags and all that–one of the section’s grenadiers, Jonesy, a lance corporal, flapped up his sights and loaded his under-barrel grenade launcher. He fired. Pump! It went. The high explosive grenade landed quite far away, identified by an explosion. It wasn’t a good hit.
Kyrgiakos, his back hunched and low to avoid enemy fire, slammed Smitty’s back and pointed at the MG nest. “Concentrate fire on that MG nest, Smitty!”
“Roger, corporal!” he said. He complied by shifting his fire on the group of sandbags. The enemy machinegun team, seemingly holding back Devon Company on the east side of the compound, was forced into cover as Smitty suppressed them.
Jonesy loaded his grenade launcher again. He aimed again now. He squeezed the trigger. This time it hit, and a good one. The grenade landed behind the group of sandbags and ignited, the MG crew obliterated. Although not quite visible, Smitty was sure he saw the enemy machinegunner’s body being blown in half when the grenade landed, and not far away, in the dim shadows, was the bloodied upper part of his dead body, which had been cut from the stomach down, his guts dangling about.
“FOCKYEAH!” Jonesy yelled.
As 3 section focused on the enemy force below, the rest of Chatham Company, having successfully landed on the rooftop, proceeded into a door which led to a set of stairs. While the rest of 4 Troop kept an over watch on all four sides of the building, gunshots were heard from below. Then, shouts of pain.
There was a grenade explosion. Glass breaking. Cries of dying men.
“Seems like quite the brawl down there, eh?” Bray said.
“Fucking-A, mate.” Said Smitty, followed by a laugh. He didn’t know why he was laughing, but it was funny.
A Marine yelled then. “OY! A SECTION OF FOOTMOBILES INCOMING DOWN MAIN STREET.”
“FOCKIN BLAZE ‘EM LADS!” Kyrgiakos yelled.
Smitty opened fire. Steady, controlled bursts. The rest opened up as well. They got more than half the enemy force before they dispersed to cover. Sergeant Orisan joined 4 section quickly, sliding next to Kyrgiakos, rifle in hand.
“Situation, corporal?”
“Got two MG nests so far. Got a section coming down the street. It’s a bloody turkey shoot, sergeant.”
“Good job, Andy.” He said. ‘Andy’ was short for ‘Leandros’, the corporal’s given name.
“No problem, boss. KEEP UP THE FIRE, LADS! NO FOCKIN MERCY FOR THE BASTARDS!”
Orisan went back on his feet, checking onto the next section. Then, finally, he checked on Lieutenant Knuttson, who carried the large long-range radio on his back. From the looks of it, he was very, very satisfied. “Been a good morning so far.”
“Roger that, boss. What’s the situation from the rest?” Orisan said. He looked down his watch. It was 0058 Hours, 28th May.
“They’re pushing in and fast. We’re not going to be ahead of schedule, but it’ll suffice. Let’s hope the enemy AFUs are stopped before they can do anything.” Said Knuttson.
“Yep.” Orisan said. As far as he was concerned, 4 Section’s job was pretty much done. Still laying down fire onto the almost fully-suppressed enemy defenders, it was up to the rest of the Marines to do their job and finish the first stage of the operation. However, his relief was quickly ended when, from the distance, there seemed to be like a falling star.
“Sir, what in Mary’s bloody cunt is that?” Orisan asked.
“Fuck,” Knuttson said. He took up his binoculars. He put it over his eyes, zooming onto the falling star. It was large, and it was descending, fast. As he looked closer, he saw that it had the colors of the Arcturian Navy. It was corvette-sized, but it seemed like it had AFU hangar bays on its side. “That’s a…” he said, looking in awe and surprise.
“That’s an enemy ship.”
Enemy ships did not usually conduct atmospherical reentry unless it had to. It was against protocol, and was highly dangerous especially if done in a rush. However, desperate times required desperate measures, and ships like that could be used as mobile AFU launching points, which meant nothing but bad news for the Marines, or any infantry force in general. We’re fucked, Knuttson thought.
“Orisan, you got the anti-tank missiles, yeah?”
“We got a couple dropped off in boxes along with 2 Troop.”
“Unpack them. Those could be AFUs. I’m calling this in with brigade command.”
“Roger.” Orisan said. “Jonesy! Bray! Alley! Unload the Velites, NOW! We got company!”
***
ns 15.158.61.48da2
