Into The Rift

Paid In Blood(49)

A familiar drone rolls across the mountains, signaling the imminent arrival of friendlies. It is shortly accompanied by a gale of wind billowing gently against my prone form. Though the urge to look away surfaces, I refrain from giving in to that passing curiosity.

Interjecting with a static buzz, the lead pilot's voice storms into the channel. "Desert Team, we're closing in on your grid, confirm our LZ is clear over."

"Confirmed, orbiting drones showing all clear, but watch for possible ground based attacks from the AO. We're registering hot movement over on the habitation prefabs, so watch your sensors," Robert offers after a brief interlude.

"Copy," the same Pilot acknowledges.

The Euralian forces ahead needs to be given full attention, strictly confining my visuals to the hostile sector ahead. The stalemate was tentative at best, and might be broken at any moment. I have to acknowledge that possibility, and prepare for it in any way I can.

"Listen up, the armory is secured. Desert Team's given us a window, so don't stop no matter what. Priority goes to wounded, make sure they're safe and accounted for inside."

The voice over the radio catches my attention, riling up a virulent surge of recognition. After brief consideration, I look to the right catching the approaching visage of the twin Valors. My visor registers the clean silhouettes of both rotor wings as they rapidly descend the last few metres, their engines roaring through the final approach.

Somewhere inside one of the Valors, James was still busy keeping the wounded together. It was an arduous task with little to no respite, I did not envy his role. This was his domain, his responsibility. I have mine.

Deciding the brief lapse is already pushing it, I swivel back to the front continuing to scan for targets of opportunity through the scope's magnified field of view.

I let out a deep breath, turning a blind eye to the scores of dead and dying Euralians ahead. The disturbing amount of bodies remaining after their botched assault is nothing short of unsettling. For my sake, I was better off ignoring them entirely.

Keeping a firm overwatch going, I trail across the habitation modules, searching for specks of movement amongst the many windows present. The flickering shadows within eluded my attempts to discern their nature, the night optics painting them as rough humanoid figures and nothing more.

Still I keep up the search, furrowed eyes set on a relentless pursuit for signs of a clear opening. Sporadic weapons fire rattles from the armory, setting a firm standard of retaliation and covering fire. For the moment, we have the initiative and we have to keep it on our side.

"Lieutenant Simmons!" A subdued voice calls out over the prevailing hum of rotors.

Pulling back from the scope, I cast a questioning glance at a soldier, catching onto the three strips on his right arm. "Sergeant?"

"It's Turner, from Second Squad," the soldier offers, tackling my unspoken question. "You've picked quite a spot," he exclaims kneeling at the right, referencing the battered terrain around me.

I cast out a short grunt. "Figured the Euralians didn't have the accuracy this far out. It's mostly spray and pray from their side. Lost a lot of troops doing it," I reply, angling my head towards the field of corpses ahead.

"How many?" He inquires, following my gaze.

I shrug my shoulders, placing equal emphasis on both the conversation and overwatch. "Low forties at least. Over fifty if we're counting the Banshees."

"Good start," he states after a short pause. "Most of my surviving men are battered, but ready to assist after they're done with our head count, plus casualties."