A Hymn Before Battle

23 Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V 1228 GMT February 25th, 2002 ad

“Sarge, you got any nine millimeter?” asked Trapp, taking a careful bead on a shotgun-toting Posleen slogging through the swamp. A massive forest giant had fallen and been consumed save for the root ball; in its lee the two human warriors crouched awaiting the centaurs.

“Sorry,” grunted Mosovich, tying a bandage on his upper arm with his teeth. The shotgun flechettes had come within a hair of taking his left arm off and had torn away the transceiver on his hip, but close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.

The MP-5 phuted and the Posleen point slumped into the purple muck. “Well, guess it’s time to get down to hand-to-hand.”

“I hope not, I’ve only got one. Here,” Jake said, tossing Trapp his .45. “It’s not much…” The .50 caliber ammunition was long gone, but it had been put to good use. The Five-O was the only weapon they had that could stop the God King’s saucers. After the first week the God Kings had discovered not to follow too close to the chase.

Trapp and Mosovich had left a trail of Posleen bodies in their wake. The two master killers had used every bit of resource they possessed over the past month as they fled the vengeful residents of Site B but it was starting to look like the last morning at the Alamo.

“Fuck it, it’s bullets,” the SEAL said philosophically. “Can you handle that Street Sweeper with one hand?”

“I can kinda use the left, and it’s only for steadying.” Jake studied the back trail for a moment and rested the shotgun on a gnarled root. He did a quick check to ensure the barrel was clear.

“I’ll pop the next one that comes through, then when they spread out we’ll move back. Got any demo left?”

“Only grenades,” said Trapp. “And I wanna keep ’em.”

“Fer what? Okay, get ready.” There was movement in the bushes across the open area.

“With what?” muttered Trapp, slinging the MP-5 and pulling out a set of concussion grenades. Although there was minimal shrapnel effect because of the mud, the liquid transmitted the shock wave with great effectiveness. “Oh, well.”

A group of five Posleen burst out of the concealing ferns and charged across the clearing. Mosovich’s fire tumbled four of them, but another small group charged out slightly to the side. Neither group fired back, content to close to steel range in the teeth of the fire. As Mosovich tracked on the new group, Trapp hurled his grenades. One landed perfectly in the midst of the second group but the second was a slice and fell out of effective range. Just as both detonated, one taking down the second group wholly, a platoon-sized band charged out of the side of the clearing.

Mosovich switched from carefully controlled blasts to continuous fire as the centaurs closed. Trapp flipped three more grenades but the handful of remaining Posleen closed to steel range in moments.

Trapp flipped around his MP-5 and expended his last three rounds on three head shots as the Posleen got absolutely too close for a SEAL to miss. He threw the now-useless weapon at a closing Posleen as he drew his combat knife. He had studied the physiology of the Posleen the pair had killed. The Posleen chest turned out to be well armored by bone so if it came to hand to hand he had planned on being behind them, but this time lady luck was all over playing favorites.

Mosovich’s shotgun locked back and he knew he was done. There were at least six Posleen still moving and he regretted giving up his .45 to Trapp. He drew his Gerber and stepped out from behind the root ball as the centaurs drew their own yard-long blades.

As the centaurs charged, Trapp grasped an out-thrust root and flipped himself into the muck. As the remaining Posleen closed with the injured sergeant major, a steel-filled hand swept out of the muck and disemboweled the trailer. A mud-covered figure erupted from the swamp and slithered across the back of the next Posleen before it could even buck, with a flash of steel faster than the eye could follow. As the nearly decapitated centaur slumped into the mud the group turned towards their slithering attacker but he had disappeared again into the bog.

As the leaderless Posleen milled, fumbling in the mud for the eel-like SEAL, Mosovich leapt on the back of another and quickly slit his throat. While not the match of the SEAL, he wanted to prove that he was no slouch with a knife.

At the same moment, ten yards from the huddle of fumbling Posleen, Trapp erupted once more from the water, his hand filled with Colt. He flicked the barrel downwards to clear it, adopted a two handed grip and fired three rapid shots for three kills. As he tracked to the fourth Posleen, a shotgun blast threw him backward in a welter of blood and intestines.

The .45 spun from the SEAL’s grasp and Mosovich knew he had only one chance. He launched himself in a shallow dive from the back of the deceased Posleen and followed the pistol into the muck.

The last two Posleen charged for the spot and began rummaging in the violet mucilage. One of them gurgled in delight as it snagged a combat harness and lifted the camouflage-clad survivor from the watery grave. Mosovich fought the grip like an eel, hooking his boot into its harness and bending like a contortionist to bring his arm around. The Posleen’s last surprised sight was of a .45- caliber bore.