Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(4)
All over the SRA settlement, I hear gunfire, like a discordant martial symphony: the deep booms of our M-80s and SRA anti-Lanky rifles, the pop-whoosh of MARS rocket launchers, the thunderclaps of exploding grenades and rockets, all mixed in with the wailing of Lankies and the din from the cannons of the overhead drop ships. Every bit of aboveground infrastructure here in town is wrecked, and only some of the squat and sturdy settlement buildings are still standing amid the rubble. But there are no Lanky nerve-gas pods littering the ground here, no clusters of dead settlers anywhere. It’s like they’re fighting with their hands tied behind their backs. Whatever the reason, I’m perfectly happy with this change in our fortunes, however temporary it may be.
As the NAC troops on the ground spot and engage targets, contact icons pop up on my tactical display. I can’t see what the Russians are seeing because our tactical networks don’t talk to each other, but everything our own troops see and do gets transmitted to my bug suit’s computer and the control deck I’m carrying. The human troops are an enclave of blue icons, the Lankies a wide and irregular circle of orange symbols all around us, clustered in groups of three or four at the most.
The SRA base and town sit at the end of a rocky plateau. On one end of the town, there’s a gradual drop-off into a craggy valley. The other end of the town, where the SRA base and its military airfield sit, opens out onto the flat and wide plateau beyond. Out there, Lankies are milling about, some advancing in our direction, some going the other way, away from the fight. In every engagement I’ve had with them before now, they’ve shown more coordination and aggression than this group does. These seem slower, weaker, almost unsure. Even with all the troops on the ground, the Lankies on the plateau could probably overrun us if they all came our way at once. But they don’t, and I don’t intend to let them have enough breathing room to change their minds.
Close air support comes in a few minutes later, three flights of Shrikes loaded to design capacity with air-to-ground ordnance. They drop out of orbit and come rushing toward the LZ at full throttle, forming up into a six-abreast formation just a few dozen klicks from the target area. I fire up the comms suite and toggle into the TacAir channel.
“Hammer flight, this is Tailpipe One. You have a target-rich environment down here. The plateau directly to the north of the LZ is crawling with Lankies. Consider it a free-fire zone. All friendlies are south of the airstrip. Uploading target reference-point data. And mind the Russkie drop ships right above the deck.”
“Tailpipe One, Hammer One,” the pilot of the lead Shrike sends back. “Confirm everything north of the airstrip is clear to engage. ETA one minute.”
I send the confirmation codes and look over to Dmitry, who is busy working his own comms kit.
“Air support coming in—sixty seconds,” I shout at him. “Tell those drop ships to clear the airspace.”
Dmitry gives me a thumbs-up again without taking his eyes off the screen of his control deck. A few moments later, the Akulas circling above the settlement abandon their positions and scurry off to the west and east to get out of the line of fire.
The Shrikes announce their arrival in a spectacular display of long-range guided-munitions firepower. Two dozen missile trails streak in from the south and cross the sky above the SRA settlement in a flash. They descend onto the plateau beyond the town and explode in a short and violent cacophony that makes the rubble bounce even from a kilometer away. In the distance beyond the runway, plumes of dust and smoke rise into the clear sky. Ten seconds later, the Shrikes are overhead, their huge multibarreled assault cannons firing thousands of armor-piercing shells at targets I can’t see. I’ve never seen six of our Shrikes make a coordinated attack run together, and it’s nothing short of awe inspiring, the fist of a god coming down on a gathering of hapless sinners. The nearby SRA marines, caught up in the moment, actually cheer the Shrikes as they pass overhead and split up into pairs again once they are past the settlement. The moment is so surreal that I find myself grinning at the absurdity of it. A few weeks ago, cheering would have been the last thing on the minds of these Russian grunts at the sight of a six-abreast formation of the NAC Defense Corps’s premier ground-attack spacecraft. The world has gone topsy-turvy, and it’s strangely exhilarating.
Through the TacLink data connection, I see what the Shrikes see as they come back around for another gun run on the plateau. The orange icons for Lanky contacts pop up on my map as the Shrikes target the Lankies, and then blink out of existence as the antiarmor cannons and missiles from the Shrikes hit home. The sheer size of the Lankies works against them—they can’t hide from our attack craft, and they seem to have no way to shoot back. As big and strong as they are, bereft of their mother ship’s defensive umbrella they’re no match for spacecraft designed to take on armored vehicles and SRA strongholds.
Of course, they’re still more than a match for us mudlegs on the ground, who don’t have the benefit of an armored shell that can fly away at eight hundred knots when things get dicey.
“Tailpipe One, Hammer One. We’re cleaning the rest of them off that plateau. Be advised there’s a group of twenty coming your way from two-seven-zero degrees. We don’t have enough ordnance left on the racks to take them all on before they’re on top of you.”
“Hammer One, copy,” I send back. “Keep clear of that area for orbital delivery.”