“First section, haul ass,” the call comes over the radio. “Watch the side alleys!”
Behind me, the second section has taken up position to cover our retreat. A bounding overwatch movement is always a leap of faith—you trust your squad mates not to shoot you by accident, and to keep the enemy from shooting you in the back while you’re running away. I raise my rifle, rake the alley with another burst for good measure, and get up from my crouch to beat a retreat. All around me, dozens of rifles are chattering their reports—ours high-pitched and hoarse, theirs low and slow, like hydraulic hammers. As we pull back from the contested intersection, the Chinese marines return our earlier favor—behind me, half a dozen grenades go off in the road, a chain of large and angry firecrackers.
“Tailpipe Five, this is Banshee Two-Five. I got line of sight, but you’re awfully close together down there.”
I dash into a doorway where a tall garbage recycler is offering some minimal shelter, and toggle into the TacAir channel. “Banshee Two-Five, hit that corner I’m designating, and walk your fire down the alley that goes north from there. Hurry up, they’re getting pissed down here.”
“Tailpipe Five, copy that. Hit the designated corner and work north from there. Starting our gun run now.”
The rounds from the drop ship’s autocannons smack into the intersection before I can hear the guns rattling in the distance. Large-caliber autocannon fire is shockingly sudden and violent when you’re only seventy yards from the spot where the shells hit. The building I just raked with rifle fire simply blows apart. Pieces of laminate rain down onto the surrounding buildings. Then Banshee Two-Five’s pilot shifts his fire as instructed, and the alley beyond turns into noise, fire, and smoke.
“Banshee Two-Five, that’s a bull’s-eye. We have bad guys swarming all over those alleys to the left of your TRP. Bring it down close.”
“Shifting fire. Y’all keep your heads low.”
With the SRA marines dodging cannon fire, our half-strength platoon disengages and leapfrogs back toward the center of town. Overhead, no more than a hundred feet above the deck, Banshee Two-Five closes in, cannons hammering out a steady stream of noise and death. The roar from the Wasp’s multibarreled chin turret mixes with the dull claps of the exploding shells. If there are any civvies hiding in the buildings around us, they are now in a very bad spot, but their plight is nobody’s concern right now—not ours, and not that of the Chinese marines that are supposed to be their defenders. All that matters right now is that only one group is going to walk off this rock in their own boots, and both teams are doing their level best to be it.
“Tailpipe Five, you have some hostiles advancing on you through the alleys on your left. I’ll make another pass, but it’s getting awfully tight down there.”
“Copy that, Two-Five,” I reply. “Do what you can. We’re hauling ass back to the admin center at Bravo Three. Anything to my east and west is hostile.”
Two-Five’s cannons bellow again, much closer than before. It sounds like our drop ship is almost directly overhead. This time, the cannon rounds rake a stretch of alley no more than twenty yards to my right, just on the other side of the squat, ugly building container I’m passing at a run. I hear the shouts and screams from the SRA marines and the rattling of their rifles as they return fire at the Wasp.
“Tailpipe Five, this is Hammer Seven-Six. We are overhead with air-to-ground. Got a use for us?”
In all the excitement, I haven’t checked my TacAir screen in a while. Hammer flight, our two-ship escort of Shrike attack craft, is circling high above the battle, far removed from the noise and chaos, but aware of our status through the integrated tactical network we all feed.
“Hammer Seven-Six, you bet. We have a company of infantry on our asses. Use Banshee Two-Five’s TRP, and drop all the antipersonnel stuff you have left on your racks. Danger close, you are cleared hot.”
“Tailpipe Five, copy that. Take over TRP from Banshee Two-Five, and clear the grid. Rolling in hot. Cover your ears, gentlemen.”
“Banshee Two-Five, break off CAS and return to station. Thanks for the assist.”
“Copy that,” Two-Five’s pilot replies. “Hauling ass.”