Tales from the Service: The Hidden Siroccos

2953-03-18 – Tales from the Service: The Hidden Siroccos 

As the quartet left their hilltop entrenchments, privates Nemes and Castellan hung back, discussing betting odds on whether the hike would amount to anything. Edward Isaakson tried not to pay them any mind, but Nemes still tried to get him in on their private betting pool. He demurred, less out of fear of drawing the Lieutenant’s ire, and more because he’d gotten this far in life without gambling, and this was no time to change that. 

Lieutenant Ferrera either didn’t notice his subordinates’ conversation, or didn’t care. He was focused on the terrain, guiding them along paths just below ridgelines and popping his head over the top occasionally to peer into the reverse valley. He seemed to have a good idea where he was going, and grew more and more agitated as they got closer to the spot. 

They had been walking for about an hour and a half when Ferrera waved the other three down, then crept forward on all fours to peer over yet another ridgeline. From the way he stiffened, Edward knew their quiet, uneventful patrol was at its end. He waved to the others to be quiet, then crawled forward to see what his superior was looking at. 

Sure enough, there were aircraft down in the next valley. He counted eight, all parked along the edges of a long meadow whose grassy turf was crushed down by the wakes and landing-skids of their arrival. He’d never seen a Sirocco from above, and the cockpit at the forward of the chevron-shaped lifting body seemed incongruously small. Obviously, there was little on top in terms of weaponry, only a small automated laser turret. Siroccos were ground-attack specialists, not fighters. The fan of lasers each could put out originated from gimbal mounts in the nose and below the wings. 

The other two FVDA troopers crept up behind Edward, and Nemes let out a low whistle. “Well that’s something you don’t see every day.” He whispered. “What’s the play, Lieutenant?” 

“Radio silence here on out.” Ferrera replied quietly. “They’ll be listening on every band for any sign they’ve been spotted. This is a desperate play, and those aircrew have got to know it.” 

“Why park them behind our lines?” Edward asked. He’d been wondering since they set out, and it seemed his superior had some idea. 

“Probably a decapitation strike.” The lieutenant waved for all three to retreat back behind the ridgetop. “Division or even corps HQ wouldn’t have any warning.” 

Edward tried to imagine the chaos that would reign on Mathelson if high-level headquarters simply stopped issuing commands and responding to comms, and shuddered. It might not spell disaster, but if the Incarnation was going to have any chance of reversing its fortunes on this world, that would be it. 

The four crept back a few dozen meters into the shelter of a copse of bent, wiry trees. Nemes and Castellan checked their carbines. Edward, who’d checked his at every brief halt all afternoon, took a swig from his canteen and nibbled a meal-bar, while Lieutenant Ferrera sat with his chin in his hands, scheming. 

“We’re going to bag those Siroccos.” Ferrera declared after a few minutes. “I think I know how. But we’ve got to do this carefully. If any of them get off the ground too early, we’re done for.” 

“Why can’t we just call in artillery?” Castellan asked. “The big guns would have that whole mess in pieces before any of them could get into the air.” 

Ferrera shook his head. “They’d start scrambling the moment we transmitted. By the time I had it explained to Regiment, they’d be gone. No, we need to hobble them before they know they’re spotted.” 

“Can we just get close enough to pick off the pilots, sir?” Edward asked, hefting his carbine. He was a decent shot, especially in single-shot mode; inside a hundred meters, he didn’t have any concerns about missing a man-sized target. 

“I didn’t see anyone walking around.” Ferrera shook his head. “They’re probably all still in their ships. And their cockpit canopies are armor-glass. Your carbine won’t punch through that even up close.” 

Edward nodded, settling back down. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. 

“No, the only way to get them before they get away is to get close enough to put a rocket into the intakes.” He pulled one of the cigar-sized infantry rocket out of a loop in his belt and held it up. “I counted twelve aircraft. We’ve got more than enough rockets.” 

Edward winced. True, he had five of the things in his pockets. Most FVDA troopers carried at least that many, except for the few who preferred heavier, much less adaptable grenades. Still, he didn’t want to get that close; Incarnation aircraft were studded with advanced sensors. “They’ll see us coming a long way off, Lieutenant.” 

“Most of their sensors point down.” Ferrera grinned. “They’re on the ground. Besides, the terrain’s on our side. There’s a streambed that goes most of the way down that’ll give us cover most of the way.” 

“This is the closest thing to suicide I’ve done all month.” Castellan grinned. “I’m with you, sir. Just promise me you’ll have your transmitter on deadman switch, so when we screw this up, Regiment knows it.” 

Ferrerra nodded. “A good point, Mr. Castellan.” He tapped a few controls on his wristcuff, then took the transmitter pack off the side of his backpack and set it down. “You three go look fora way we can get into that ravine without being spotted. I’ll be right behind you.” 

 

Though I mentioned the improvisation of our enemies, worlds like Mathelson where heavy weapons are in short supply also host some of the most innovative tactics and inhuman heroics in Confederated arms. In this instance, four FVDA troopers performed a feat of stealth and daring which would make most Marines blush – and though I am told medal awards are pending for their actions, in most cases, these heroics are unknown. 

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Tales from the Service: The Disappearing Siroccos

2953-03-18 – Tales from the Service: The Disappearing Siroccos 

Though the most well-covered fighting is happening here on the Seventh Fleet front, it should not be forgotten that Fifth Fleet, the Marines, and the FVDA have been consistently pushing the enemy back on the Coreward Frontier month after month, on dozens of lesser known worlds. 

The fighting in these places does not win headlines, but it is also relatively low in casualties; entire worlds are often won at the cost of a few dozen killed and one or two hundred wounded, with Incarnation forces retreating off planet after the strength of the liberating force is clear. Not all these conquests are so easy, however; on some worlds, like Mathelson, our foes inexplicably decide to dig their troops in and even reinforce them, despite being outnumbered three or even four to one. 

What they see in these worlds we may never know, but these battlefields are home to all manner of dangerous improvisations and tactics as a lesser force tries to hold a world against a vastly superior opponent. 

Edward Issakson held his breath as the formation of aircraft thundered overhead. He doubted they were clearing the ridge by more than a hundred meters, and their speed was such that the pebbles around his boots shook in the throaty roar, and he could feel the heat off the exhaust of their air-breathing engines. 

Fortunately, their speed also took them over the ridge and past the position as fast as they had approached. Slowly, Edward and his compatriots popped their helmeted heads up from the shallow entrenchments they’d dug between the rocks that crowned the little hill and looked at each other in silence. There was little reason for such a large raid to be dispatched to obliterate a single infantry company on a hilltop, but while it had been coming toward them, nobody in the unit had been sure what to think. 

Lieutenant Ferrera recovered first, flicking out his backpack’s long-range comms antenna. “HQ, 519th actual. We were just overflown by large formation of enemy ground attack craft. At least ten Sirroco units headed your way right on the deck.” As soon as he’d finished speaking, he tapped a control on his vest, and a speaker in the comms system crackled to life. 

A moment later, everyone on the hill could hear the answer. “Acknowledged, 519th.” A cool female voice replied. “We’ll take care of it.” 

“How, exactly?” Someone asked, perhaps not realizing it was said out loud. Headquarters for a F.V.D.A. regiment wasn’t supplied with the best air-deterrence systems at the best of times, but on a backwater world like Mathelson, even the regulation amount of heavy artillery rarely materialized. How the Incarnation force opposing them had amassed such a large concentration of air assets, when they’d barely been able to consistently sortie one or two Siroccos even over the most hard-pressed sections of the front. Had they really reserved so much firepower for this long, losing territory day after wearying day, reserving a force that could have stemmed the tide at any point? 

That was, of course, probably a question that a mere private in a forward infantry company would never know the answer to. Edward sighed and checked his rail carbine for the tenth time since sunrise. They weren’t anticipating any assaults today, but then, they hadn’t expected to see more aerial firepower overhead before noon than the entire corps usually saw in a week. If the enemy was going to mount a surprise assault, this was precisely how it would start. 

As there was no more news coming from higher up, the Lieutenant shut off his comms speaker and crept around to the various positions, chatting in low tones with the troopers at each post. The sensor units scattered along the forward hillside weren’t picking anything up besides the usual creeping movements of local fauna, so other than keeping their heads down, most of the company slowly relaxed their guard as the day grew hotter. 

After about an hour, Edward wondered why the Siroccos hadn’t come back yet. They had nothing on their hilltop which could impede the retreat even of damaged aircraft moving that fast, so there was no reason for them to take another route back to their base. Perhaps air defense around regimental headquarters had really knocked them all down? It seemed foolish to hope for such good fortune. 

Lieutenant Ferrera crawled to keep his head from appearing over the boulders as he crossed over into Edward’s foxhole. “Isaakson.” He nodded. 

After saluting and having his salute rapidly dismissed, Edward gestured behind their position. “What do you think happened to that air wing, Lieutenant?” 

Ferrera shrugged. “Comms chatter on the regimental net is pretty laid back. If I didn’t know any better I’d say they never found headquarters to hit it.” 

“How could that be?” Edward frowned. “A regimental headquarters is pretty visible from the air.” 

Ferrera shook his head. “If you don’t know precisely where it is, and you’re going low and fast, you might miss it behind a hill. No, them not finding HQ isn’t too strange, Private. What bothers me, is why send them at all, if you aren’t sure of the target? Which makes me wonder if HQ was the target at all.” 

“Wouldn’t there be some chatter if divisional or corps was hit?” 

“Sure. Even if those Siroccos pasted a forward unit somewhere on the front, every level up and down would be shrieking advisories. Which means they didn’t hit anything, not even to blow their stores on the way back out. We’d have heard if they all ran into an AA battery and got pasted themselves. So, where did they go?” 

Edward nodded slowly. “They put down somewhere. Siroccos are VTOL capable when they’re moving light, aren’t they?” 

The Lieutenant grinned. “What I’m thinking. Which is why you’re coming with me in half an hour for a quick rear area patrol. I’ve already talked to Nemes and Castellan.” 

Edward’s heart fell. Out walking in the open in the hottest part of the day was not what he considered a pleasant use of his time. “You think they didn’t go very far?” 

“There’s an off chance.” Ferrera arched one eyebrow, a sly glint in his eyes. “And if they did put down, they’re all but unguarded, aren’t they?”

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Tales from the Service: The Emissary’s Message

2954-03-11 – Tales from the Service: The Emissary’s Message 

The Kyaroh are a curious people, made hard by at least two generations of conflict with The Incarnation. If this account is accurate, I wonder whether the hard-hearted attitude toward death and the affection for remembrance and sacrifice which this account demonstrates is a part of their ways even in peacetime. 

The attitude which “Vasili” remarks on is, as far as I know from my own brief experience talking with Kyaroh, and idle comments in conversations with those of greater experience, is quite correctly portrayed. This gives some credence to the story, but again, I have no way to confirm it. 

Vasili M. was disappointed in how little of the vaunted redoubt he was allowed to see. The mixed group of towering Kyaroh and watchful hoverdrones which surrounded his group on all sides blocked their view down lit side-passages as they were marched down through a maze of broad, intersecting tunnels, most of them noticeably sloping down. 

Bel’itec, apparently unfazed by the silence with which his comrades had greeted him, walked serenely at Vasili’s side, while the Marines followed them close behind, their grim silence matching their hosts. Their carbines had been confiscated, but, Vasili had noticed, the xenos hadn’t searched beyond that; each Marine had been permitted to keep his sidearm and Nine, and of course Vasili’s boot gun remained in its tiny holster. Either the Kyaroh weren’t particularly concerned about such small weapons, or they simply hadn’t realized the group might have backup weapons. 

Vasili was inclined to think the former explanation more likely. The Kyaroh had scanned them using acoustic-sensing drones capable of seeing implants within their bodies, so these weapons were probably not secret. Most likely, this was some sort of test, but he couldn’t figure out what sort it was. 

As long as nearly a dozen Kyaroh surrounded them, of course, there was little a few pistols and knives could really do. No doubt there was another group of defenders either going ahead of them, or following behind, and unseen cameras probably tracked every move. 

The path they were led along seemed purpose-built to bewilder human senses, and Vasili soon lost all track of direction, except for a certainty that they were now very deep below the shattered streets. After fifteen minutes of silent march through so many gray passages, he began to imagine they were looping back and forth over the same ground over and over again, in an endless spiral through a mad anthill bored into the skin of this bruised world. 

At last, the Kyaroh leading turned abruptly into a brilliantly lit cross-passage, and the sudden blaze of artificial lights directly overhead stung Vasili’s eyes. This passage opened out into a huge open space, and the ceiling soared away above in a gigantic fluted dome. There were walls – structures – on both sides of the path, and in an irregular grid ahead, but Vasili still could see little beyond cold gray walls, hard-edged corners, and staring, porthole-like windows. His escorts seemed to cluster together to deny him a view of anything particularly interesting, though obviously there was no way they could be doing that on purpose. 

The leader turned aside into a narrow doorway shortly after entering the dome, and the group found themselves in a small, square room, lit by a single round electric light in the center of the ceiling. Most of the guards and drones remained outside, and the two who filed in after the humans took up station beside the door as it shut. 

The Kyaroh leader addressed Bel’itec in their rapid, growling language, and Bel’itec responded in turn with an extended, uninterrupted speech, his hands eerily remaining at his side the whole time. 

“What do you think is the problem?” Sergeant Ver nudged Vasili. “I thought Bel tipped them off that we were coming.” 

“It’s possible his message didn’t get through.” Vasili responded, voice low. “He’ll sort it out.” 

“He’d better.” Ver nodded, folding his arms in such a way as to put his right hand just above the grip of his Nine. 

After a few more barked questions, which Bel’itec answered only with single words, the pair of Kyaroh turned to Vasili. “The warden wishes to know our message for the leaders of this redoubt.” Bel’itec prompted. 

Vasili nodded. “I will summarize. But the detailed plans I carry are for your leader only.” 

He expected Bel to translate, but nothing of the sort was attempted. As the silence grew, Vasili cleared his throat and went on. “Force Seventy-Three intends a full-scale attack on the Incarnation flotilla defending this system. If orbit-space is mastered, Kyaroh infantry forces traveling with the fleet will be landed on this world to assault the garrison, and I bring proposed plans of campaign to liberate your world.” 

The warden’s cold, black eyes remained on Vasili for a long moment after he finished speaking. Vasili wondered how much the xeno understood; perhaps he was being fed a translation in an earpiece, or perhaps the summary was being viewed remotely by the redoubt’s commanders. 

After nearly half a minute, the Kyaroh spoke again. Bel’itec took it upon himself to translate. “The warden wishes to believe in this message of hope, but this world has been liberated by uprising once before, and the return of the oppressor proved worse than it was at first. He asks what guarantee of protection the Force of Seventy-Three will offer against this eventuality.” 

Vasili nodded. “I cannot predict how the war will progress after this world is freed, and neither can my superiors. I can only say that as long as Force Seventy-Three remains at large in this region, the enemy cannot devote enough ships to reconquest without exposing his own home-worlds to attack on the Sagittarius Gate axis. If your world is reconquered, it will hasten the downfall of the Incarnation, and your valiant sacrifice will be remembered by your people and by mine.” 

This, of course, was not the sort of message one might give to a human, but Vasili had sat long with Force 73’s ASWO and Naval Intelligence chief, and they’d coached him to lean into such grim blaze-of-glory language. This was, according to them, far more persuasive to a Kyaroh than it would be for those of his own species. 

The warden made no response, and again silence stretched in the room. Just as Vasili opened his mouth to ask Bel’itec what the matter was, though, the warden pressed his huge, dark hands together, and dipped his head, making a brief guttural remark.  

“The warden wishes to welcome you.” Bel’itec rumbled. “To Redoubt Kirznha's unconquered halls. If this hope should prove false, he hopes its name shall always be remembered among your kin.” 

Vasili nodded, and tried to mimic the pressed-hands gesture. “Your people’s valor thus far is already the talk of my people.” He was glad this was only a slight exaggeration, and one he could do smething to make even smaller. “And when we all have peace, it will be a matter for story and song.” 

The warden barked again, then turned to open a door in the wall behind him. 

“He finds your manners unexpected in one who is distant kin of the oppressor.” Bel’itec again translated. 

With a sigh of relief, Vasili gestured to his comrades, then led the way onward. 

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Tales from the Service: The Emissary’s Welcome

2954-03-04 – Tales from the Service: The Emissary’s Welcome 

Despite Bel’itec’s promises, the little group clambered through the bedlam of urban ruin for the rest of the day. The bluish-tinted local sun had already fallen behind the gap-toothed ruins before they halted again, in the shelter provided by the twisted, jagged shell of what had once been a metal-framed, glass dome.  

The air was eerily silent, without wind or the creaking and groaning even a whispering breeze might set off in such a wrecked place. Vasili M. didn’t dare to even break open a ration-bar, much less ask their guide for a status update, and his trio of Marine escorts were, as usual, grimly silent. 

“We are crossed the redoubt perimeter.” Bel’itec, seemingly ignorant of the hushed atmosphere, used his normal booming Kyaroh voice. Vasili wondered if his kind could even whisper; possibly not, since he’d never heard it. “We will be located shortly.” 

“Located?” One of the Marines, Sergeant Ver, lifted up his head. “What do you mean, located?” 

“Redoubt Kirznha is well defended by listening posts and sensor pickets, which I am not permitted to describe to your kind.” Bel’itec didn’t turn to look at the Marine. “We have been detected, and will be confronted momentarily.” 

“And what do you mean-” 

The big man didn’t get to finish his question. A series of rapid clicking sounds echoed through the broken dome, seeming to come from an object rapidly circling the group. All three Marines raised their weapons in a flash, but Bel’itec stood still, his lumpy hands pressed together in front of his body. “My kin are always watchful.” 

The clicks faded into silence, and at first, nothing happened. “Bel...” Vasili kept his voice low. “What precisely do you expect to happen?” 

“Once they are assured you are not our oppressors, we will be permitted to enter the Redoubt.” 

Of course, Vasili knew quite well, he was the same damned species as their “oppressors,” namely, the Incarnation garrison. “How can they tell?” 

Bel’itec turned his head a fraction toward Vasili. “You do not bear the electronic leash.” 

“The-” Vasili stopped short. “Right. No implants. How can they tell?” 

The Kyaroh did not answer, only inclined his head slightly, his dark eyes flickering to fix on something in the gloom behind Vasili. 

Slowly, Vasili turned around, and something flitted into the shadows just as he did. Whatever it was, it was small, inky black, and floating or flying without sound. “Sensor drones. I see. Probably looking for the EM scatter off implants, but what if they were turned off?” Incarnation personnel couldn’t turn their implants off, of course, but he wasn’t sure the Kyaroh knew that. Most of the Incarnation troops themselves didn’t seem to know it, after all, so trained were they to rely on the devices for coordination. 

“A solved problem.” Bel’itec turned toward the location of the skulking drone. “The oppressor has used specially implanted Kyaroh turncoats to infiltrate the redoubts before. But the implants cannot be hidden.” 

The clicking echoed through the area again, this time louder, and seeming to come from several places at once. The Marines put their backs together, and Ver gestured for Vasili to join them. 

Vasili, shaking his head at the Marines, stayed where he was. They were the only Confederated personnel on a whole occupied planet; if either the locals or the occupiers decided to kill them, a defensive last stand wouldn’t do any good. Besides, the sound had given him an idea. “Acoustic sensors.” Sound waves, at the right frequencies, could penetrate flesh and reflect off harder substances within; this was an archaic, but still occasionally used, sensing principle, usually found in medical devices. 

“If I understand your language correctly, yes.” Bel’itec nodded once. “Had we been found to be Incarnation slaves, we would already be dead.” 

Ver scowled at the Kyaroh. “So, what now?” 

“Now we will be greeted.” 

“By who?” 

As if to answer the Marine’s question, a heavy thump reverberated through the pavement at their feet, followed by the ominous sound of many heavy, methodical footsteps coming closer. 

As this account is currently unverifiable, I have little to comment on. Additionally, while I will acknowledge receipt of both questions and dubious accounts related to some sort of new weapon system tried out during Operation SLEDGEHAMMER, I will not be posting anything of note on this. I took some of the more credible versions of this story to my Naval Intelligence contact and she laughed so hard I was worried she broke something. No, there seems to be nothing to this. After all, if there had been, you would think the skirmish might have gone better for Seventh Fleet. 

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