Summoning America

Chapter 198: Chauvert Ridge

Blackwood's eyes watered as another gust of smoke-laden wind hit him. Damn Gra Valkans and their punctuality. He blinked hard, refocusing on the horizon. Where were they?

There. Dark specks growing larger by the second. His stomach clenched. At least two dozen of the bastards this time.

"Corporal!" he snapped, not taking his eyes off the approaching bombers. "Sound the alarm."

Footsteps pounded away. Blackwood forced himself to take a deep breath. Third run today. At this rate, they'd be defending a bloody crater by nightfall.

The siren's wail set his teeth on edge. Time to get below. He turned towards the command bunker, legs heavy with each step. The urge to run clawed at him, but he quashed it. His men needed to see him calm. In control.

The first explosion nearly knocked him off his feet. He grabbed the bunker's doorframe, steadying himself. Hells, they were getting closer. One last glance over his shoulder. Flames blossomed across the ridge, spreading like a damned infection.

"Persistent buggers," he muttered, ducking into the bunker.

The relative quiet inside was almost worse than the chaos above. Stale air thick with tension. Lt. Marceau's face was ghostly in the dim emergency lighting.

"Status report," Blackwood barked, striding to the map table. Its surface was a mess of markers, half of them useless now. That last hit had taken out their fancy American radar. Blind as newborn kittens, they were.

"Sir," Marceau started, voice steady despite the shadows under his eyes. "Eastern sector's down to 30% strength. We've lost most of our anti-aircraft guns there."

Blackwood grunted. No surprise there. "Western sector?"

"Holding, sir, but—"

The bunker shook violently. Dust rained down, coating everything in a fine, chalky layer. Someone swore loudly.

"But not for long," Marceau finished grimly.

Blackwood nodded, mind racing. They needed more men, more guns, more of everything. And soon. He'd told command they could hold out for a week. Looking at the map now, that assessment felt like a bad joke.

Another explosion rocked the bunker. Blackwood barely noticed, his ears long since numbed to the constant barrage. The tremor felt weaker than the last. Either the Gra Valkans were running low on heavy ordnance, or they were conserving it. Neither boded well.

He leaned over the map, squinting at the markers that wouldn't stay still. His head pounded in rhythm with the distant booms. Some pencil-pusher at HQ had christened this place Chauvert Ridge. Felt more like a damned anvil, with his men caught between hammer and steel.

"Colonel?" Lieutenant Marceau's voice cut through the dull roar. The lad looked like he'd been dragged through a coal mine. "Eastern sector lost another two Archer emplacements."

Blackwood suppressed a grimace. Those Archer emplacements, while outdated, were still their best defense against low-flying aircraft. Without them, they'd be even more vulnerable to dive bombers and strafing runs. The handful of American-supplied MANPADs gave them some edge against lower-flying threats, but against the high-altitude bombers, they were damn near helpless. Their own 3-inch and 75mm AA guns couldn't reach that high, and even the MANPADs fell short. The GVE could now attack with impunity from above, while their dive bombers picked off any remaining defenses. Holding the ridge just went from tough to nearly impossible.

"Sir?" Marceau's voice pulled Blackwood from his grim calculations. The lieutenant's face was ashen, likely reaching the same conclusions.

"I know, Marceau," Blackwood said. "We're in a tight spot."