Assault on Tauberg IV

 In the turbulent years of the 31st century, warfare is waged on an immense scale. The invasion of planets depends on well-coordinated orbital assaults, which are carried out without mercy. 

(Art by: Masuo Ryukow)

(Originally written for a pulp story contest, although I have edited it since then. It didn't win anything but I really enjoyed working on this.)

 

 

Corporal Myles Al-Fassi woke up long before the ship’s alarm sounded. After roughly six hours of sleep, the inclusive veteran was awoken by whispers in front of his room’s door. Officers, both from his platoon and from the ship’s crew, have been ordered for a rushed briefing in secret, right in the middle marine barracks 09. Myles knew this meant a change of plans, and that in a few hours from now, he would be flying down from orbit into the fiery battlefields of Tauberg IV.

After that thought began to linger in his groggy mind, he couldn’t force himself back into sleep. Soon enough, he will be ordered to leave the comfort of his bed, and will be eating nutrient bars among the smoldering ruins of a once proud city. Then, within an earthly hour or so, right before the naval crews wash down their AI-baked omelettes with freshly brewed Earthborn coffee, Myles already killed a man.

He was, of course, already used to the life of a marine. As a veteran of three planetary sieges, the script for this fourth battle was already written out in his head. He’ll fly in with his men, allow the army grunts to roll in, fight for a few city blocks, only to find a gigantic planetarist fleet above their heads. After that, a beautifully awful evacuation will commence, and if his unit is lucky enough, they’ll only lose about half their men. Tauberg IV will be lost, just like a hundred worlds before it.

Myles rolled left and right a few times, before he let out a frustrated sigh. Despite not growing up religious, he prayed for this war to end. The weary marine did not care how. He would let Earth’s oceans boil from a thousand warheads if it meant he could return home; back to the streets he grew up on.

But when would it really end? The Alliance of Free System, committed to a crusade of colonial independence, showed no signs of stopping. Their experienced fleets outwitted all who opposed them, as militias and terrorists devastated loyalist worlds. Meanwhile, whatever remained of the Earthly Federation has begun throwing everything they got into the war. For fifteen years, more than a trillion lives have been plagued by the war. Worst of all was the fact, that both sides are willing to fight for another fifteen years, if it meant total victory.

Just before the marine could let out another sigh from these thoughts, Sergeant Andrew Kopf stormed into his room. The shining light from the hallway’s lamps blinded Myles for a second, prompting his NCO to pat his shoulder. Outside, he could hear the rest of his squad being awoken by naval personnel. Soon after the corporal managed to get out of his bed, the ship’s alarm went off, preparing everyone onboard for the big task ahead.

On their way to the armory, Kopf calmly explained the situation to his soldiers. An Allied relief fleet had been detected on the other side of the system, urging the local commanders to begin the planetary assault sooner than planned. It didn’t take long until concerned whispers could be heard among the marines. Rumors of a rushed assault turned massacre on the planet Nov Svyat lowered their morale greatly. Flying down from orbit was bad enough already, but having impatient leaders brought uncertainty to an already complex operation.

Myles couldn’t care less. That troublesome “relief fleet” was in fact nothing more than a scouting party, sent in to examine the situation, and to establish communications with the blockaded planet. Sooner or later, a proper strike force will appear behind the Federalist warships, and the entire campaign would go down the drain. The corporal didn’t have the heart to tell the dreadful truth to his comrades however. They were too green to understand, as their only combat experience was with desperate militias on rogue space stations. If he told them the reality of the situation now, they would be too distracted when the dropships arrive at the LZ.

So the whispering continued, much to the annoyance of the battle-hardened corporal. However, once the squad arrived to the armory and met the rest of their unit, his spirit was lifted a bit. Myles’ platoon was a weird mix of void marines straight out of boot camp and survivors of too many battles. The closest the corporal had to a friend was Gunnery Sergeant Zachariah Gauvin, a tall, grey eyed man who was still a firm believer of Federalist ideas. The two had known each other since basic training, having been born on the same planet although on different continents. Myles was there when shrapnel from an orbital strike took out Zach’s left eye, and he was the only person who told him not to reenlist. But being an idealist, the poor bastard bought himself an artificial eye and came back into the fray. At first, this made him a fool in the eyes of the corporal, but seeing Zachariah put on his exoskeleton with a smile made Myles envy him a little. He would do anything to be as calm as Gunny Zach.

Emotions or not, the marines were putting on their grey jumpsuits and exoskeletons with food hanging out from their mouths. Myles slowly chewed on his pink, rubber like nutrient bar, trying to taste any hint of its strawberry flavor. At the same time, a robotic crewmember attached armor plates to his suit, while another one gathered most his equipment. Lastly, he linked up his LASTEK M00K prism rifle to his helmet. It was a hefty tool of war, utilizing a powerful and specialized crystal, as a way to outclass other types of infantry based energy weapons. Unlike its conventional laser based siblings, the beam of a prism weapon wasn't continuous. It was intended to hit hard and fast, as to disable the enemy with an unrelenting power. In case dismembering the enemy wasn’t enough, the weapon's lengthy, jaw like barrel could close down, which allowed the already amplified light to increase in power.

With Myles ready, he looked at the still struggling marines he had to serve with. For a moment he wondered if boot camp was as harsh on other planets as it was on his homeworld. He quickly redirected his attention however, as Second Lieutenant Dellon Prats began speaking on the platoon’s radio channel. With a calm voice, he swiftly reminded his soldiers about the importance of their mission, and wished them good luck. It seemed like a textbook deployment after all. Flying into the heart of the planetary capital and destroying any vital installations there was the reason why the void marines were created in the first place. The city’s shield system had been dealt with a few standard hours ago, but the sabotage team couldn’t eliminate the local Jupiter engine. Without that destroyed, the 41st Centurian Army Corps couldn’t teleport its forces around the capital.

Still, Prats sounded too calm. Even when he delivered a short but uplifting speech in the transport ship’s hangar bay, Myles felt as if the Lieutenant already signed his death warrant. The corporal glanced at his comrades once again, their faces obscured by the green visors of their helmets. He watched as they settled into seats inside an MV-67 “Sharkfang”, small VTOL machines, capable of traversing from the orbit of a nearby moon, to the blood-soaked ground of the battlefield. Kopf asked Myles if he was alright, and the corporal’s response was a simple nod. In reality, nothing was alright. Tauberg IV already claimed the lives of almost six million people in just three months, men and women callously thrown into a meat grinder out of desperation. And Myles couldn’t do anything but nod and follow orders, no matter how worthless they were.

As these heavy thoughts weighed on his tired mind, the hundred-meter-wide hangar bay depressurized. Slowly and silently, gigantic metal doors opened before the spacecraft Myles was seated in. The dropships now faced the scarred landmasses of Tauberg IV, brown from its autumn and from the dozens of days of ferocious fighting. Greenish-blue bolts fell upon the planet’s surface as the particle cannons of Federalist ships bombarded the world for several hours. With its shielding gone, the capital must have been in ruins by now.

Pilots conducted last-minute checks on their swift gunships, while gunners ensured that all armaments were online. Twelve All-Purpose Rockets and a 12.7mm rotary cannon were deemed to be sufficient firepower to protect the spacecraft’s cargo, no matter how hot the LZ might be. Fusion-powered engines roared silently in the vacuum, their dark blue rays of light illuminating the walls and machinery behind them. Meanwhile, the marines patiently awaited the activation of onboard artificial gravity. A young marine joked about the benefits of zero-g sex, successfully uplifting the mood of his comrades for a few precious minutes, but Myles did nothing but stare blankly ahead. He blinked slowly behind his visor, attempting to force a smile, but failed miserably. Some of the older marines in his platoon knew it well, that corporal Al-Fassi had lost his sense of humor two campaigns ago.

Finally, a green light began flashing inside the pilots’ helmets. The order has been issued, the assault was about to commence with perfect precision. Without any noise or effort, the gunships took off into the cold void. Flying approximately thirty thousand miles per second, the 82nd Eridanian Marine Division began its deployment above the southern hemisphere. As the first wave of the attack, forty spacecraft flew towards the north, following a path set out by strategic quantum computers. By flying south to north, their trajectory would allow the marine VTOLs to control their descent and to reduce the heat of atmospheric re-entry. In eight minutes, the gunships would be flying like aircraft, right above the city’s outskirts.

Without windows, only those in the cockpits could see the barrage of particle bolts hurtling towards Tauberg IV. With the shields down, the lives within the capital were now in the hands of the loyalist fleet. In under half an hour, all military targets in and around Kohlenstadt had been obliterated by the mighty Federalist warships. Anti-orbital cannons, hangars, armories, barracks and power nodes were vaporized without remorse. Following that, smaller ships commenced the destruction of less vital defenses. From 100 miles and upward, the space above the now burning city was clear.

Three minutes had passed since takeoff. The marines sat tightly, while the pilots performed their dangerous duties. As Myles’ gunship began dodging the destroy remnants of an Allied corvette, Kopf ordered his men to conduct a so called “Victor Check”. Each soldier checked on the one sitting in front of them, ensuring they had no issues with the inhumanely high speed they were traveling at. Sharkfangs were notorious for their low-quality onboard gravity, but that was a sacrifice the Department of Naval Affairs was willing to take. The heavily armored hull of the spacecraft was already filled to the brim with other systems, including a weak but reliable shield generator. But Myles knew what series of challenges he would face in this system, and the gunships weren’t part of them…

Six minutes had passed since takeoff. As expected, the first problems have begun upon entering the stratosphere. When the fleet of gunships were roughly thirty miles above ground, they entered the range of the enemy’s jammer systems on the ground. Communication between the Sharkfangs was now borderline impossible. Despite that, the transports began decelerating, using the powerful engines inside their wings. As the assault entered its seventh minute, the religious started praying, and the godless contemplated its validity. With the pull of the planet’s gravity becoming stronger than the artificial one, the marines felt a momentary sensation of weightlessness as blood shifted towards their heads. Time has come for the “Golf Check”, where once again, the passengers examined each other. All eight soldiers onboard were ready to roll.

Eight minutes had passed since take off. Just as planned, the gunships were now above the suburbs of Kohlenstadt. Clouds of chaff have appeared around the small fleet of spacecraft, designed to confuse the enemy’s surviving radar installations. But no matter how impeccable their timing was, the Allies always seemed to be one step ahead. Hidden in the thick and venerable forests around the capital was a concealed defense network, the existence of which was kept secret by the traitorous governor of the planet. Over a dozen prism cannons began to rise from isolated clearings, their closed, jaw-like barrels roughly the size of a van. With the help of built-in, semi-sentient AI, they targeted the arriving gunships, awaiting for the order to fire. Seconds after their activation, the order was shouted by an officer within the city. Bright rays of light fell upon many unlucky gunships in an instant, as if the sun itself was punishing the men and women inside with divine fury. Metal melted down, flesh charred and blood began to boil in the blink of an eye. Those unlucky enough to be hit in the wings of their spacecraft had the horrific chance to realize their doom.

The Federalist fleet’s retaliation was swift. Before the prism crystals of the enemy could cool down, particle rays have already transformed half of the forest into a series of small craters. Despite the rapid reaction, the Allied commanders were prepared to unleash everything they had against the attackers. Two-legged combat walkers were deployed on the rooftops of still-standing skyscrapers. Dubbed “Mandrills”, they stood proudly at a height of five meters, concealed among the sea of antennas, and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Originally intended to be highly mobile, they were now hunters within an urban jungle.

With two prism cannons for arms, a second barrage of bright orange light fell upon the now decimated flock of gunships. Sharkfang shielding was strong enough to deflect one or two underpowered shots, but fully charged attacks easily tore into the hulls of the spacecraft. The marines, whose vessels remained unharmed, knew nothing of the two laser barrages. Kopf, however, could hear the screams for help on the platoon radio, holding his rifle with a mixture of fury and discomfort. He dared not to tell his squad the grim reality of the situation, but as the gunships began firing missile salvos at their mechanized foes, it became clear to everyone that the city’s defense was anything but light. The Mandrills dispersed quickly upon hearing the dreadful sound of being locked onto by the enemy. Utilizing the small engines built into their armored backs, they flew away like a wake of vultures.

Nine minutes have passed since take off. Tension steadily rose inside every gunship. The impact of small arms fire was a grim indication that all of hell was about to break loose. Each of the remaining pilots began hovering above their designated landing zone, returning fire with their powerful cannons. Walls crumbled to dust from the storm of hot lead, and anyone caught in the crossfire became nothing more than mincemeat. Sergeant Kopf let out a frustrated grunt inside his helmet before he removed his harness and stood up. The greenhorns expected a grand heroic speech, one they had seen in cheap action movies back home, something those pesky recruiters would say. Instead, Kopf simply instructed everyone to stand up, rush to cover once outside, and to be ready to kill. As a veteran of four campaign, he no longer cared for heroism. Long, drunken conversations with Myles had made him reflect on the war. In the end, he realized, that getting his men back home was more important than any medal on his chest.

The Sharkfang’s landing gears made contact with the ground, which was scared by shrapnel and falling debris. Mere seconds later, the armored doors in the gunship’s back opened. All eight marines poured into the ruined streets of Kohlenstadt and for a moment, the coast seemed clear. It was then, that Lance Corporal Ryker Hoagland, the first marine on Tauberg IV took a hit to the chest. A storm of tracer rounds began to rain down on the landing zone, originating from nearby rooftops and windows. The marines still standing quickly rushed for cover, returning fire with their deadly weaponry. With their superior targeting systems, they made quick work on any visible targets, but it seemed like they were surrounded. To the north was a small park, their landing zone. Myles’s Sharkfang quickly began hovering in the air, unleashing the full might of its cannon without mercy. Meanwhile, the south was a straight road leading to what appeared to be a hospital.

The park’s greenery was quickly drowned in an avalanche of crumbling concrete, as the gunship’s high caliber gun drew closer to melting with each deadly burst. Some hostile troops managed to lock onto the spacecraft with shoulder-mounted missiles, but the Sharkfang’s automatic flare system and counter missile fire killed them within seconds. Buildings once built in the meta-classical style were now distant memories, while war cries from inside the cockpit signaled that the north was now secure.

To the south to the marines, the situation was still out of control. Despite liquidating dozens of hostiles, garrisons further away never ceased firing. Worst of all were the sniper teams somewhere far away, who fortunately only seemed to hit the marine’ armor plating. When the Sharkfang turned around to provide fire support, its gunner spotted a frightful sight. An armored personnel carrier rolled out of the hospital’s underground garage, its twin laser cannons steadily toward the gunship. With no other choice, the spacecraft disengaged, retreating into a safe corner within the park. The marines were now alone in the fight, forced to stay hidden from the APC’s super accurate laser beams. A forward mounted machine gun inside the already deadly vehicle began suppressing the soldiers even further, allowing Allied troops to advance towards the invaders.

Myles was replacing his now molten prism crystal, when sergeant Kopf told him of his plan. He ordered the veteran to lead a fire team of three marines throughout the city streets, hoping to flank their advancing foes. The corporal, not seeing any other option, simply nodded and regrouped with his men. Alongside another rifleman, Myles was accompanied by private Glade Cays, who was equipped with a small but powerful railgun. After finding a small street still untouched by rubble, the marines set out on their mission.

Even with his helmet on, Myles could hear the orchestra of a 31st century siege. Firefights were happening all over the once peaceful city, seemingly without stop. Thirty years ago, none of its denizens would have thought that one day, their homes would give cover against prism beams and mortar barrages. Strolling through a few alleyways, the corporal could see what the capital was like in its golden age. Clean, pristine, elegant with a touch of traditionalism. But once he spotted that accursed APC, his vision was drowned by a wasteland once more.

The two riflemen blasted any infantry around the vehicle, whose bulky Kevlar vests barely protected them from the scorching rays of the prism volleys. Getting closer, the corporal tossed an explosive grenade around a corner, fatally injuring anyone who could have caused more trouble. Corporal Cays readied his shoulder-mounted railgun, and without any second thoughts, he fired his weapon. The magnetically charged round easily pierced the weak shielding of the APC, and penetrated straight through its hull and the buildings besides it. With the major threat neutralized, the rest of the squad easily picked off anyone still on the streets, sending arms and legs flying everywhere.

Silence fell upon the freshly injured street. Only the thunderous roars of more friendly gunships could be heard, signaling the arrival of further reinforcements. Myles apprehended the surviving crew of the APC, but Kopf ordered their execution. The marines had no capabilities when it came to holding prisoners, so a painless blast to the face was deemed to be the most humane thing they could do. Standing over their burned-off faces, the corporal surveyed the streets and his squadmates.

Overall, the landing was botched, but not the worst he had seen. Lance Corporal Shenna Allred lost her fingers on her left hand due to an unexpectedly accurate grenade throw, and private Dathan O’Brian’s head was vaporized by the APC’s laser cannons. Soon enough, the squad met up with the surviving members of their platoon, and prepared to move out. Their advance to the Jupiter engine’s shielded bunker system was quickly halted however, as Allied artillery began shelling their sector. Hiding inside a basement, Myles watched with an expressionless gaze as even the last evidence for civilization was wiped off the map. The prepared garrisons and the existence of a surviving artillery unit suggested that not just the assault, but the orbital strikes were rushed as well. Fifteen minutes after the bombardment began, he finally saw particle rays landing somewhere far away and expected the attack to stop within minutes. But before that could have happened, a new directive was sent by the top brass.

The Göth-Schmidt Memorial Magtrain Station was once the bustling heart of Kohlenstadt. Magnetic trains would come and go at great speeds, transporting people and valuable cargo throughout the planet’s largest continent. It got its name from two prominent colonizer families, and its marble halls were one of the most prominent tourist attractions on the rather boring planet of Tauberg IV.

Now, it was nothing more than a scrapyard. A Federalist cruiser flattened its once remarkable architecture and sent any remaining trains flying into the air. Yesterday, when the assault on the city began, the remains were deemed too insignificant to be taken. But now, Myles was sitting in a foxhole, right in front of a destroyed cargo cart. High command managed to intercept vital intel from Allied channels about a supposed bunker system under the city, with one of its major entrance points being right under the railyard’s former offices. If this underground system’s existence was based on reality, it could have been an insane advantage for the defenders.

And so, some of the platoons had their priorities changed. Many marines loudly expressed their disdain for such an abrupt order, especially after spending just two hours around the station. Although the presence of ideologically fanatical but inexperienced militias was still significant, the trainyard was also defended by a properly equipped and trained unit from the Taubergian Planetary Guard. These men were dangerous, being led by talented officers, who once fought for the Federation. With them occupying the opposite side of no man’s land, the marines were always in danger.

Light mortar fire pounded the now blood soaked ground. Both sides were at a deadly stand-off, and sooner or later, the targeting reticles of the infantry always found their targets. The marines were hiding among the wreckage on the southern perimeter, only daring to shoot out of their hiding holes when the enemy began to feel too comfortable behind their defenses. Prism fire exchanges lit up the wrecks close by with brutal accuracy, as if some rays of sunlight managed to pierce through the now cloudy sky.

Still, the defenders were dug in well as much as they could be in such limited time. Walls of sandbags were placed where rubble and burnt steel didn’t suffice. Gun nests used fresh corpses as cover, hiding among the now hundreds who fell in the skirmish. The only thing that gave hope for the Allied troops, was the news of three entire divisions being redirected for the capital’s defense.

When it came to the marines, time was of the essence. More and more friendly forces were being sent from orbit, but not enough to hold the entire city. Even with the majority of their men and women making their way to the Jupiter engine, the entire operation was five hours behind schedule. Fierce fighting occurred on every street and every apartment, the brutal close quarters combat making orbital support harder than ever. Even where the once tall city was turned into plains, the newly discovered underground tunnels meant that hostile forces could move freely.

After Myles decapitated a militia member with a lucky shot, Zachariah managed to jump into an empty fighting position close by. The gunnery sergeant was a bearer of bad news. A Sharkfang, ordered to support Myles’ platoon was shot down by a sneaky Mandrill. Ever since the first wave entered Kohlenstadt’s airspace, those pesky walkers were causing trouble for the marines. Using hit-and-run tactics, they were destroying more gunships and armored vehicles than any other defenders. Worst of all, light tank support was still far away, as orbital bombardment made the roads hard to navigate, even for tracked vehicles.

There was only one option left. The marines, men and women of exceptional vigor and bravery, had no other choice but to win the day through brute force. The order was given just a minute after Myles learned of the news, and soon enough, smoke grenades were sent flying into the middle of no man’s land. Robotic troopers sent from orbit began their doomed march through the smoke cover, used as bait while the marines picked off any available targets. Using the thermal cameras built inside their helmets, the man-made fog was only good enough to confuse the surviving militia forces.

Meanwhile, the mortar duel only intensified. Still in his foxhole, Myles was giving covering fire to his squad before Kopf ordered him to charge as well. As the corporal began running to whatever meager cover there was ahead, his helmet’s audio receptors picked up a deadly whistle. Before his brain could comprehend the events, a smart bomb, sent by a Planetarist fighter, detonated. The shockwave quickly sent the marine flying forward, further into the bloodshed.

When he managed get back on his feet, he saw a form of hell not meant to be seen by man. Marines were crawling around in pain, disfigured and forever scarred by unimaginable heat. Vaguely human shaped figures strode to certain death while striking down foes conscripted just a few days prior. He could hear the impact the bullets on armor and flesh alike, the screams for help, and he could see the struggle of the enemy ahead. There were men over there, who grew up in this city, forced to watch their homes turned to ash and be mutilated.

Zachariah was the first one to reach what was once the station. After tossing a grenade into the nest of two young conscripts, he threw his rifle away and decided to aid the wounded. Seemingly without fear, he began bringing any injured marines to the remains of a brick wall, hoping that a corpsman would take care of them soon.

Myles, seeing that he only had to cross around three hundred meters on the battlefield, began to continue forward. But his body felt heavy, and his arms were now weak. The corporal could barely point his rifle at the enemy when suddenly he realized that his exoskeleton was now broken. As he dropped into a crater for cover, the good news came in on the platoon radio. Whatever remained of the unit was now neutralizing the last pockets of resistance on the surface, executing any remaining traitors without mercy.

Private Cays volunteered to help Myles get back to get his equipment repaired. The two began to make their way back to camp, all the while looking over the battle’s aftermath. With the adrenaline worn off, Cays finally saw what modern warfare was really like. All that carnage from the charge felt like it happened in another two hours, while in reality, it wasn’t longer than five minutes.

Of course, Myles was already used to such a scene. He didn’t want to tell the private that this was nothing more than a small skirmish, a part of a battle worse than any war their ancestors fought in. The corporal could already hear the recognizable noise of Mandrill servos approaching their position. With enough luck, the two marines will have the chance to get underground, far away from the hell on the surface and closer to a different kind of torment in the narrow tunnels of the city.

Neither of them would get the chance to regroup with the others, however. Out of nowhere, particle beams began to fall out of the sky once more, lighting up the distance with their powerful shots. Then, the lieutenant began to yell. The orbital strikes weren’t coming from the Federalist fleet above, but from enemy warships. Lead by an experienced crew, they broke through the friendly blockade, rushing towards the capital.

The two marines picked up the pace, but they weren’t fast enough. In a matter of seconds, an enemy cruiser fired one of her guns at the station’s remains, instantly vaporizing anyone still there. The shockwave sent Myles flying again, while the heat of it burned anything not protected by his armor. He flew dozens of meters, landing feet first on the remains of an asphalt road.

Corporal Myles woke up an hour later to the sight of a medical robot. Sedated, he was deemed “lucky” by a nearby doctor, being told that not everyone could survive an orbital strike with only two broken legs and several third degree burns. Private Cays, on the other hand was long gone. Shrapnel as big as a human head tore through his body, painting a crater with his insides, leaving Myles Al-Fassi as the last living member of his platoon.

But the sacrifices would not placate Tauberg IV. The siege would continue for two gruesome years, making it one of the most protracted conflicts in the history of mankind. The space above the planet was forever marked by millions of tons of space junk, and its cities forever scared by hopeless firefights. With its titanium mines destroyed in the campaign, the world was deemed strategically insignificant, due to being unable to supply the factories on Nordheim Prime. Federalist forces left the planet soon after, leaving another world in the clutches of the seperatists.