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.