GHALZAR IV, SATTELITE, STAHLVEN SYSTEM
The air was dry, and so was the soil, and so was the wind. The sandy, hot surface of Ghalzar IV, a mining colony outside the asteroid belt of the Stahlven system, was unbearable even without the war. Ghalzar IV had been targeted earlier on during the war, its rich titanium, plutonium, and uranium deposits being crucial to the war effort of both sides. Now Ghalzar IV was no longer only a mining colony. It still was, only that just a couple miles away from the large, deep-dug mines, people were actively shooting each other in the slowly-progressing Main Line of Resistance.
Trench assaults, attacks and counterattacks supported by armor, accompanied by swift air and artillery strikes were the norm of war on Ghalzar IV, but as both sides had equal firepower, the victor of the Battle for Ghalzar IV was hardly distinguishable. One moment a crucial hill could be taken by the Alliance and the next day it could fall again to the Dominion. Both sides suffered from the same menaces. Aside from the sneering heat, logistics were far in between and scarce. The supply lines in space were ripe pickings for privateers and raiders, and no one had an upper hand in that anyway. Not to mention planetside supply lines, which were subject to air raids by both aircraft and AFUs.
Sergeant Michael Orisan, Hrasvleg Royal Marines Commando, was in command of a recon troop within 126 Royal Marine Commando stationed on Ghalzar IV. Originally assigned on board ships or conduct high-speed raids storming enemy facilities, the current state of affairs had damned him and his unit to the barren wastes of Ghalzar IV. Along with that, the loss of the officer commanding the unit a week ago had elevated Orisan to the position of troop commander, and thanks to the current state of affairs, yet again, it seemed like no new officer would be sent in anytime close.
In his foxhole, loose camouflage net over it, he observed the enemy lines. He wore only his armor and a white t-shirt, as the heat would force him into dehydration had he worn anything else. His pale skin had turned a sun-kissed red, and his beard had grown to protect his face from the sand. He wore his beret over his head and a pair of headsets, connected wirelessly to a transmitter struck into one of the pouches strapped on his vest.
In his hands were the large and mighty Frazier General Purpose Machine-Gun. Belt-fed, heavy, and packing a hell of a punch, the Frazier GPMG was the optimal choice for machinegunners in the Alliance. The machinegun was somewhat fixed on a bipod struck on the woodwork above his foxhole. Out of boredom, he scanned the horizon for the enemy. Sandy wind blew into his face. He heard footsteps. It came from behind him.
“Sarge, Boss wants a word with you.” It was one of the Marines. Bare chested with a rag over his head, dogtags hanging down his neck, and eyes covered with shades, he carried a SA45 Assault Rifle, the standard-issue rifle of the Alliance Ground Forces. The SA45 was configured as a bulpup assault rifle designed to fire medium-caliber rounds. Dead-accurate for its range and reliable through any terrain, the SA45 was both loved and cherished by the Royal Marines.
“Where the hell you been, Smitty?”
“Taking a shit.”
“Right. I’m going to leave you alone to it, then.”
“No prob, sarge.”
Orisan took his own SA45, which was set against the wall, and picked himself up from the foxhole. He ran to the command post, which was only enterable after going through a network of trenches. Of course, as expected of the company command, Captain McAllister’s office was set behind closed doors and under a 'roof’ (albeit located below ground), paired with luxury air conditioning services and a decent bed. It isn’t that McAllister was a bad fellow. Captain Ellis McAllister from the highlands of New Albany, Hrasvleg, was among the finest combat officers a Marine could ask for. He could swear like a sergeant-major and sweet-talk like a public relations commandant. However, among his qualities were his aggressive, offensive tactics which was highly approved by his men. His skills, according to Orisan, had been put to waste as Marines were built for maneuver and shock warfare in comparison to the static lines the war in Ghalzar IV had come to be. The men were longing for a new assignment, a fast, dashing assignment and not another trench duty, being immobilized fodder for enemy artillery shells.
He knocked on the door three times. McAllister appeared on the other side, opening the door for him. Orisan was supposed to salute, but he didn’t. Saluting in the field exposed the officers to sniper fire. The loss of an officer in the field would cause confusion, chaos, and eventually a disorganized retreat.
McAllister was dressed in rugged khaki utilities, his para wings struck nicely upon his left chest, his sleeves rolled up far above the elbow. “Orisan. Glad you came here quickly.” He said. “Get inside. The lads are all gathered up.”
Taking his steps carefully inside the captain’s Spartan quarters, he saw all the troop leaders and officers from Chatham Company, 126 Royal Marines Commando. Three lieutenants, one second lieutenant, and himself. Lieutenant Errik Knutsson, the company executive officer, was among them, sitting down, a plastic water bottle in his hands. “Sergeant Orisan, good to see you here.”
“Take a seat, sergeant.” Said Captain McAllister. “Let’s get this over with.”
Orisan complied, and took his place next to Knuttson. Knuttson was tall and white, although like Orisan his skin was burned by the sun, so it appeared a shade of red. The two had been friends before, as Orisan served as Knuttson’s troop sergeant before being promoted to the XO billet. His replacement was killed in action not more than a week ago, much to Orisan’s regret.
When the room had been properly seated, McAllister, a man in his early 30s, began his briefing. He had himself a wooden twig he used as a pointer, and a moderate board where a map was struck. Lines had been drawn on the map. The letters C coy 126 RMC were one of the pieces drawn on the map, followed by a line that seemingly led to another secluded part of the desert. The thing was, that line led to another line, a thicker one. An airstrip.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.”
“Afternoon, sir.” The room replied in a synchronized manner, and in good spirits.
“I’ve got some good and bad news for you lads. What’s that, you ask?” he said. “As always, bad news first. We’re being reassigned to some other part in this damned desert and not going back up in space.” The men had disappointment in their faces when he said that.
“Oh, but no, it ain’t another fockin’ trench or garrison duty, no. And that’s where the good news is. Theater command seems to have recognized 126 Royal Marines Commando’s aptitude in conducting high-speed, high-precision nighttime assaults. We’ve located a weak point in the enemy lines. There is a small industrial complex to our southeast, a ruin, really, with zero value since we bombed it out a couple of weeks ago. Intelligence says that, due to its low strategic value, the complex is garrisoned by a company of conscripts. And you know what conscripts are like. They’re good for being the utmost ordinary.”
McAllister continued to explain the mission plan. As per usual the lieutenants and Orisan wrote down in their notebooks the 5Ws and H of the operation.
What: Capture and hold enemy industrial complex. Waypoint ‘Romulus’.
Where: Enemy Industrial Complex – Waypoint Romulus.
When: ??? but wihin the next several days.
Why: Strategic chokepoint. If captured quickly can prove to be an anchor to spearhead operations and break the stalemate. Creation of new MLR.
Who: 211 Ground Forces Attack Squadron, 102 Commando Helicopter Force, 126 Royal Marines Commando, along with supporting Ground Forces units i.e. elements from 35th Panzergrenadier Brigade of Stahlven XXI Corps.
How: Air strike led by 211 Ground Forces Attack Squadron (Gladiator Gunship) followed by insertion by 102 Royal Marines Commando Helicopter Force (Vanguard UH-7) onto designated landing zones within and outside the complex. Chatham and Devon Companies, 126 Royal Marines Commando, will assault the complex and hold until relief force arrives.
P.S. Code for being potentially overrun is ‘Broken Arrow’
McAllister ended his briefing as tidily as he had started it. “Now, any questions?”
No questions were addressed. His explanation was crisp, clear, and direct. Tactical details would be addressed several hours before the launch of the operation, and as that was the norm, none of the men asked any questions regarding tactics.
“Good. The next course of action is to pack your shit up because we’re moving out at 1500 Hours Zulu. Dismissed.” He said.
The room went on their feet, and one by one, notes in hand, they exited the captain’s quarters. Excitement and relief was written all over their faces. Finally some real action, Orisan thought.
***
THE TERRENTIUS
Ryck and Sophie woke up to the sound of a banging door, paired with the sound of the ship's alarms.
"Norican, get your arse out of there we're having a Code Red! To the hangar right now!"
He swore. He shook Sophie awake. He recognized it as being Jensen’s voice. It was true. The alarm was in full swing. As he slid himself into his jumpsuit, he could hear the grumbling steps of the scrambling crewmen. The yelling of petty officers to the more junior seamen, the thumping of the boots of the Marines.
When the two of them exited his quarters, the corridor was filled with running crewmen. They rushed to the hangar. As the crew of the Terrentius manned their battlestations, and the sirens roared, Lieutenant-Commander Arthur W. Harris’ voice was thick through the intercom. “All crewmembers of the Terrentius, we have encountered enemy vessels. Proceed to battle stations immediately. I say again, all crew to battle stations, this is not a drill!”
***
ns 15.158.61.48da2
