The Witching Hour. Dead of Night. Zero Dark Thirty. Humans had endless names for it. In ancient times they would huddle around their campfires, staring nervously into the dark while listening to the howls of the predators who called the night home. Time marched on, and while Man found ways to keep the night at bay, he never forgot. Night would always be the dread unknown, the realm where nightmares came to life, making it the ideal time to attack one’s enemies.
Stand-To was an idea born of necessity, the need to be ready in case of an enemy assault. Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, huddled into their warmest clothing, staring out into the gloom, it was a ritual that soldiers knew well. They counted the minutes as they slowly ticked by, waiting for the order to stand down. Maybe there’d be hot chow, or even the possibility of stealing a couple more hours of sleep; anything other than the quiet existential dread of staring into the dark, searching for assassins determined to sneak up behind you and slit your throat.
Cranking up her night vision as high as it would go, Rúna peered out towards the distant hills, searching for any sign of movement. This was always the worst part: the waiting. No matter how terrible the enemy one faced, apprehension conjured up demons a thousand times worse. Sometimes imagination was a warrior’s boon companion and savior, but Stand-To was not one of them. When the sun finally rose over the windswept ridge, they’d shrug off their terrors, laughing and joking with one another as they greeted yet another day.
It only took a single Stand-To to grasp why their distant ancestors had worshipped the sun.
Glancing over at Arthur, she saw the young private was struggling to stay awake. She nudged him with her elbow, his head snapping up as he startled. “Throw on some water,” she suggested. “It helps.”
“... yes, corporal,” he flushed, embarrassed to be caught napping. His hands shook as he pulled out his canteen and splashed some water onto his face. He spent a few moments rubbing it into his skin, before capping and replacing the container.
“It’s okay to be scared, you know,” she said, “just shows you’re not a fool. The only thing that matters is how you handle it.”
The private froze, staring at her. “You mean, you still get scared?” he said in surprise.
“Every time,” she admitted.
“But… the minefield! The fight with the Ixi! You sure didn’t look scared then!”
Rúna chuckled. “I sure hope I didn’t. I’ve got a rep to maintain.” Arthur goggled, leaving her to shrug in resignation. “Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. I’m an NCO, a leader, and that means setting an example. Being a role model. Think about it. If I’d started crying and freaking out when we got ambushed, would you have followed me anywhere?”
The private thought hard. “Probably not,” he confessed.
“Of course not,” she agreed. “You want a leader that’s steady in the clutch. Someone that can get you through the bad times.” She managed a smile. “Confidence and fear aren’t mutually exclusive; in fact, there’s an old adage about that.”
“There is?” Arthur asked, now fully alert.
“Yeah… ‘Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than you are’,” she grinned, before slapping him on the shoulder. “Sit tight, I gotta go check on Becca.” Slipping out of their shared position, she made her way through the trenches to the scout’s location. With Rivka down, that left them a man short, and instead of jamming all three of them into a single foxhole, she’d left her on her own. They needed the extra coverage, plus it was yet another test to see if she was ready to take on the team leader slot. It only took her a couple of minutes to arrive at her destination, coming to a halt as the phrase, “Who goes there?” was grunted at her.
“Corporal Aukes,” she answered.
There was a brief pause, and then, “Mirror”.
“Cabbage,” she answered, giving the countersign.
There was an almost palpable sigh of relief. “Come on up, Rúna,” she told her.
Moving up to join her, she plopped down into the foxhole. Becca rested her rifle against her hip, giving her a nod. “You doing okay by yourself?” she asked her.
She shrugged at the question. “I’m fine, though I don’t enjoy flying solo any more than anyone else.”
“Hopefully, we’ll get Rivka back soon,” she told her. “Until then, I’ll talk to Kai and see if we can rotate the duty.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Becca replied. “How’s the kid doing?”
“Nervous, but keeping it together,” Rúna explained. “I can’t stay, though. He’s too green to be left by himself for long.”
“Sure, I get it,” she nodded once more. “If I spot anything, I’ll holler on the squad freq.”
“You do that,” she agreed, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Gotta go,” she whispered, clambering back out the way she came, before making her way back to her own position. As she arrived, she paused, waiting for the challenge, but instead heard only silence. Scowling, she slowly crept forward, ghosting through the trench as she drew her dagger.
“... You’re dead,” Rúna hissed into Arthur’s ear, pressing her blade against his neck.
The private squeaked, too terrified to move. “‘Failure to challenge’, in case you’re wondering,” she explained, in more conversational tones, before taking the dagger away from his throat and re-sheathing it. “Explain yourself.”
“But I was watching the perimeter, corporal!” he protested, only to recognize his mistake too late.
“Were you now,” she practically cooed. “And what about your rear? Or your flanks?”
Bowing his head, he mumbled, “I’m sorry, corporal. It won’t happen again.”
“It damn well better not,” she snapped, “cause it’s not just your life you’re putting at risk, it’s everyone’s. One mistake is all it takes to wipe out the whole battalion.”
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Yes, corporal,” he whispered, still unable to look at her.
She jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “We follow procedure for a reason, private, and part of that is being aware of your surroundings at all times. Understood?”
“Understood, corporal,” he swallowed.
“Good, because if we need to have this conversation again,” she grumbled, as she started scanning the hillside again, “I will be very…”
Rúna froze and then cranked up the magnification. “... shit.” She clicked onto the squad radio frequency. “Kai, this is Aukes. We’ve got movement.”
The sergeant’s voice came back immediately. “Where?”
“I make it right at 083 degrees, top of the ridgeline,” she reported, as Arthur strained to see what she’d spotted. “Looks like they’re making their way through the defile.”
“Oh, God,” the private whispered, now spotting the same activity she had.
“I’m on the horn with the CP,” Kai informed her. “They want to draw them out first.”
The corporal winced at the news. “Copy,” she said quietly. “Do we have arty support?”
“Mortars, at least,” he reported, “they want to keep the big guns a surprise. Can you spot for the tubes?”
“Roger that,” she growled. “Just don’t leave me hanging.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “We’re passing the word up and down the line now. Their orders are to hold their fire until you bring the steel rain. Get ‘em out in the open and hit ‘em hard. Questions?”
“Don’t suppose Centurions, or Havoc air support are on the table?” she asked hopefully.
“Sorry, same deal as the arty. They’re keeping those in reserve for when our new friends get serious.”
“Understood,” answered. She wasn’t surprised, and it made good tactical sense, but when you were facing an alien horde you wanted everything you could throw at them at your fingertips.
“I’m handing you off to the gun bunnies,” he informed her. There was a pause, and then, “... stay safe, Rúna,” he said quietly.
“You too,” she answered, as the sergeant signed off. Turning to Arthur, she asked, “You get the update?”
“Yes, corporal,” he swallowed, his eyes still glued to the front. “Wait for the signal, then open fire.”
Scanning left and right, she could see additional units now filtering in through the hills, mentally upgrading the threat they were facing. Instead of a Probe where you sent a platoon or even a company to look for weak spots in the enemy line, this was shaping up to be a serious “Reconnaissance in Force”. Same idea, just with a lot more fighters, enough that if you found a weak point, you could immediately exploit it, calling for reinforcements and smashing your way through.
There were dozens of the enemy now coming towards them with more on the way, hundreds, at least. If she opened fire too soon, they’d simply melt back into the hills. Too late, and they’d be right on top of them. The idea was to discourage them without showing their hand, and if they could take some pieces permanently off the board, that’d be okay too.
As they drew closer she reached out to steady the young private beside her. Whoever was coming for them moved well, which eliminated the Zaitai. They were little more than rabble, common thugs and criminals handed weapons and promised whatever booty they could loot and pillage. Against untrained opponents they were devastating; against an outfit like the Valkyries they’d be dog meat… unless someone else kicked the door open first.
That left the Legion and the Ixi.
Judging by the silhouettes she was observing, her money was on the Legion. They recruited from worlds all across the Perseus Arm, and their training was top notch. It was difficult to be certain at this range, but it looked like she was seeing more than one species out there. If so, that eliminated the Ixi, whose levies they restricted solely to their own warrior race.
Either way, what was coming was going to get ugly.
“Damn it,” she muttered under breath, earning her a nervous look from Arthur. She raised an eyebrow at the private, before finally asking, “You follow the Terran sect?”
“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “Few Dharmists do.”
“Figures,” she allowed. “Well, if we get through this, you might want to rethink that.” He gaped at her while she took a bearing, deciding the enemy had finally gotten close enough, as she called up the mortars’ fire control section.
“Mystic 3-6, this is Dagger 1-1 Bravo, Fire mission, over.”
Their response came back immediately. “Dagger 1-1 Bravo, you are go for fire mission, over.”
“Roger, Mystic 3-6, I have plus one zero zero troops in the open, Grid one niner Romeo Foxtrot Juliet, coordinates three seven two eight four seven niner six,” she reported, while simultaneously sending them an overlay shot from her helmet’s display for confirmation.
“Copy, plus one zero zero troops in the open, Grid one niner Romeo Foxtrot Juliet, coordinates three seven two eight four seven niner six,” they repeated. “HE in effect, five rounds out.”
“... get ready,” she murmured, as Arthur clutched his grenade launcher.
“Shot, over,” the gun bunnies announced, informing them the first rounds were on the way.
“Shot, out,” she acknowledged, as she waited anxiously for the dance to begin. Seconds later a string of explosions detonated at the base of the ridge, behind the bulk of the enemy who reacted immediately, going to ground or racing forward.
“Fuck,” she swore as she quickly gauged the distance. “Mystic 3-6, drop four zero zero, over,” she informed them, sending them the correction. Indirect fire wasn’t an exact science, unfortunately, and usually required someone observing the enemy to guide the rounds in.
“Copy, Dagger 1-1 Bravo, drop four zero zero,” they responded, adjusting their guns. Seconds later they tried again. “Shot, over,” they reported.
Once again, she watched and waited until a second cluster of explosions dotted this landscape, and this time they were right where she wanted them. “Mystic 3-6, you are on target, fire for effect!” she howled as weapons fire began crackling up and down the line.
But the Legionnaires knew what was coming and reacted the only way they could. They could retreat behind the hills, but then their mission would be a failure. Remaining out in the open was suicide, and since there was no time to dig in, they only had one viable option left: charge forward and take their positions by force. The Legion returned fire, sporadically at first, but as they regrouped and concentrated their forces, they started hitting back hard.
“... bloody hell,” she whispered, as the mortar rounds detonated all across their front. They were doing damage to the enemy, all right, but they weren’t doing enough damage. The brass had wanted to catch them out in the open, only that meant letting them get closer to their positions than she would normally have liked, and it was all about to bite them in the ass. Rúna knew she had to stop them before they broke through the line, which left her with a single option… the call of last resort.
“Mystic 3-6, this is Dagger 1-1 Bravo,” she shouted into her mic, “Adjust fire, drop six zero zero, Final Protective Fire, Danger Close!” Grabbing Arthur by the harness she yanked him off his feet, hauling him to the bottom of their foxhole as they both hugged the dirt… while the mortar rounds started ripping their world to shreds.
Final Protective Fire was known as the “Oh, Shit!” option. When all your plans fell apart, when the enemy was closing in, you called for everything they could throw at your attackers and prayed with all your might not to get caught in the blast.
Concussions tore the breath from their lungs as the explosions smashed at their eardrums. Dirt and gravel rained down upon them while shrapnel screamed through the air, and through the wall of noise she could hear other screams, the shrieks and cries of torment and death and terror, both human and alien alike. With one command she had unleashed Hell, and demons now strode across the field to claim their due. Finally, as the sound of incoming fire slackened off, Rúna risked a quick glance, poking her head above ground.
The enemy was retreating, falling back and heading for the hills. They struggled to carry out their wounded, and left their dead behind, and as she looked up and down the line, she could see positions where they’d gotten too close.
Cracking open her canteen, she drank deep, suddenly parched as only a near brush of death could. Arthur slowly clawed his way up to a sitting position, his expression one of abject horror. “Are we dead?” he whispered, patting himself down, looking for holes.
“Not today,” she told him, rising to her feet and looking out over the battlefield, before sighing in relief.
“Not today.”