Breach

#1
I needed to write a little military sci-fi in between the next London Nights update. Consider some of the silly short ranges in the tech books ignored. I'm posting the thing in multiple parts. Suggested listening is Panzer Battalion by Sabaton, Achtung Panzer by Raubtier, or Anti-Tank/Dead Armor by Bolt Thrower.

Breach

I make one final equipment check. Mine sensor? Check. Flamethrower? Check. Fuel line seal? Check. Pistol? Check. Grenades? Check. Spare power packs? Check. Mine-clearing bombs? Check. Harness? Check. One by one, everything was checked off. It was early in the morning, temperatures near freezing in the desert. I am very thankful for my suit, keeping warm. I check the chrono in my helmet's HUD. 0446 is the time, sixteen minutes before the assault begins. Breakfast is a quick affair of cold field rations, almost as cold as the air around me.

Today is the big day, the breakthrough against the Rebel positions. Marash is a desert world, a lot like Tatooine. They've dug in around the fuel refinery. We've got to be careful and avoid damaging it. That's the entire reason for this campaign, as the Marash provides much of the fuel used by the local Fleet presence. The big assault today is a big day for me, Corporal Gar Lansholm, combat engineer. We're going to be the first into the fight, clearing the way for the armor and infantry following us. Aside from mine clearing, we're going to lead the assault. Engineers tend to be heavily armed with specialized weapons like satchel charges and flamethrowers and other things suitable for storming an entrenched enemy.

I clamber onto the landspeeder transport. Like all the mechanized troopers here, we ride on top of our APC since its armor has this annoying tendency to burn when hit. It's a dinky little vehicle, nothing much more than a cheap armored box with a repeating blaster up top, or at least it is in its usual configuration. In this case, it's mounting an old-school recoilless rifle which is great for bunker busting with high-explosive squash head rounds.

I hear the screeching whine of ion engines. Here comes the Wild Weasel squadron of Z-95 Headhunters, the X-Wing's little brother. They've got a tough job, eliminating air defenses. Artillery bombardment would make the enemy flak too hard to identify, so they've got to go in these clear skies against ready air defenses. It's not an enviable task. TIEs are flying top cover to shoot down any intercepting aircraft. Being an interceptor isn't an enviable job either. The air defense motto is ôif it flies, it diesö so friendly fire is a pretty common occurrence. The sky is suddenly a lit up like a fireworks show. Corkscrewing missile trails wind across the sky as bright bolts stitch to attempt to claw the Headhunters from the sky. Every so often, is the krump of a concussion missile striking home. Three of them are shot down before they return from their sortie, undoubtedly out of munitions. It is now 0505.

Bright plasma-encased projectiles begin to rain down, kicking massive clouds of smoke. The old 25cm/23cm mass drivers on the AT-TEs we have do their job wonderfully. Their official retirement is a damn shame. Sure, six legs might be tougher to keep running than four, but the squat walker provides a heavy self-propelled artillery whose capability has not been replaced. When you use it for this and load up the troop compartment with extra ammo, it can bombard for hours on end. We have twelve of them with us. Screeching rockets fly. They aren't the most accurate, but nothing can match them in the amount of firepower quickly put on target. The scout sniper teams that moved into position last night are directing the fire. The Headhunters return alongside TIEs to wreak havoc. Red blasters and green lasers lance down like rain. Clawing blue and yellow meet them. Rebel air defenses were not sufficiently suppressed.

Then come the mortars. A mortar is a simple weapon, a smooth tube with a firing pin at the end. Rounds are dropped down the muzzle, hit the pin and fly in a high, arching trajectory to drop onto whatever you don't like. Easily portable and with their inherent advantages, they are most important form of artillery. The ramjet assisted rounds hit and start to put up a wall of thick, billowing grey smoke. That's our cue and the transport starts its bouncy journey to the front. A thick cloud of sands flies out from behind us, kicked up by the vehicle's passage. We aren't the only ones, three entire companies of engineers are dedicated to this. Normally, that would be a battalion, but engineers are organic units attached to battalions. Of course, we tend to end up in ad hoc formations all the time.

The transport stops and we hop off into the sand. You've got to land just right or else you sink in and get bogged down. That's why we practice. Doesn't quite have the same feel as actually doing it under fire, which I have done over this desert campaign.

Scanners in hand, we begin our advance three hundred meters from the smokescreen. The mortars are still nailing it with the smoke rounds. Each one of us can reliably sweep an area about two meters wide. So, the front we are clearing is about four and a half hundred meters wide, about a quarter of the length of the defenses. It's a good size for a concentrated breakthrough for our force, not so much for a larger one. We're also going hey diddle-diddle straight up the middle. Not my favorite choice, but the psychological factor if it succeeds is mildly worthwhile.

My sensor starts beeping; there's a mine nearby. I plant a small bomb and run back before remote detonating it. I begin to walk forward again. Nothing, no explosion. I always worry that charge won't be enough. It can only destroy mines buried up to two meters below ground depending on the soil. Some antitank mines and big improvised explosives, like a half dozen artillery shells daisy chained together big, are buried that deep.

Things settle into a routine of nearly crapping myself as mines are found and then clearing them until we reach the edge of the smokescreen. The return call was given. It's safe to go now. Of course, we now have about sixty meters to go, but that's why everyone else is there, to shoot the shit out of anyone trying to shoot us. The bolts start flying and we have to advance prone. Returning fire is not an option right now. My weapon wouldn't be able hit them anyway. It only reaches out about forty-five meters.

The gunships arrive, old Clone Wars vintage, but they do their job just fine. One goes down from a handheld missile, but they remain. Somehow, even as other engineers die around me, we manage to clear the field and tanks come in, infantry following. A shell slams into a repeating blaster nest and body parts are blown a good ten meters away. I go in first, the flamethrower being a trench sweeper. I can see the fear in their eyes as they see me come. They try to shoot me, but the blaster fire of my companions suppresses them. A bolt half-melts my shoulder plate. But now I am in range. With a swift and firm trigger pull, a jet of liquid hell sprays forth. Rebel scum burn.
 
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