disoriented and confused as they stepped out into the open. The head and chest of two Podies out in front exploded with loud wet cracks. A geyser of black blood spewed into the air as they went down. Further behind two small explosions flung Podies into the air. Priest’s artificial voice-synthesizer came over our Comm-link,
“Head-shot’s good.”
Then cougar reported, “Upper centre mass kill-shot confirmed, Sir.”
Acting as our snipers, Cougar and Priest hung from rope-harnesses attached to the rim of each of the two main stacks. Standing horizontally against the stacks, facing downward, they looked as if they were lying down in mid-air atop an invisible platform with their now modified Oicwv2 ‘modular’ assault rifles aimed down toward the main entrance past the pre-arranged fire-teams. The OICWv2 in its sniper configuration fired 50 caliber depleted uranium rounds that combined the penetrative power of a 50 caliber round with the impact of a frag-grenade. They both wore specially designed state of the art helmets that totally cover their faces and head. These helmets had HUD’s that were wirelessly connected to the scopes and gun-sights of their OICWv2’s. The use of these high-tech helmets increased the long range accuracy of the snipers by an expert calculated fifteen percent; making them devastatingly accurate at incredible distances. The only drawback was that the wearer was literally deaf and blind to his or her immediate surroundings. That and the fact that prolonged use, allegedly, increased the chances of cancerous brain-tumors in users automatically classified it an ‘expert’s tool.’
Colonel Bishop gave the order for the Fire-teams to open fire.
Before us a scene of utter insanity unfolded. Amidst the hail bullets and resounding cacophony of semi-automatic gun-fire the Podies silently fell by the dozen. But still they kept coming. Crawling and clawing past the bodies of their fallen with utter disregard. Pouring from the blasted entrance en masse the horde of Podies surged towards us unabated and un-deterred by the carnage we wreaked upon them.
I think it was at that point I realized what the Commander already had when he gave the order to start falling back to the second level: the Podies weren’t trying to get off the ship. They were trying to get at us!
The fire-teams began falling back. Reverse leap-frogging in the practiced fashion of ‘tapping-out’ and moving; we fired explosive rounds and tossed ‘frags’ into the crowd of on coming Podies.
Firing from opposing balconies Brody and Train were positioned strategically along the elevated walkways that ran the length of the inner perimeter of the ship’s open-air decks. Bullets flew mere inches above our heads as Brody and Train viciously ripped into the Podie front-lines with fire from their 269 Squad Assault Weapons (S.A.W.s). Still they kept advancing. For every one that went down three more would surge forward over their fallen comrade. This forced the retreating Fire-teams to have to pick and choose our shots more care-fully; considerably slowing the retreat of the fire-teams on both sides of the ship.
The Colonel gave the order to blow main supports that held the crescent shaped jogging track suspended over the main entrance. Nothing happened.
“Santos, Where’s my explosion?!” the Colonel yelled into the comm-link visibly annoyed at the non-event.
“Something is wrong, Colonel,” Santos returned, the usual husky Latin-timbre of his voice laced with un-easiness, “the remote detonators are not responding!”
“Fix it, Santos! Fix it- FAST!!”
“Y-yes, Sir Give me a minute…”
“All Fire-Teams HOLD THE LINE!!”
The Colonel’s order echoed across the deck, as every soldier repeated the command, halting the retreat in order focus their fire on the advancing Podie front-lines.
The seemingly endless onslaught of Podie-fodder sharply contrasted with the limited supply of our ammunition which was running out. Blade had just tossed me a fresh magazine when Santos came over the Comm,
“Madre de Dio!” Santos sweared. He need not have said another word. Among the members of team “alpha” it was a known fact that Santos in times of extreme stress would un-consciously lapse back into his native tongue. “Colonel, the detonators are screwed. The remote signals are being jammed! Get out of there!”
As Colonel let loose a barrage of profanity at Santos I could faintly hear Portly in the back-ground.
“Santos!” I yelled as the Colonel re-initiated the retreat of our firing line, “Give Portly your Comm!”
“Que?”
“Just do it!”
Just then Portly came over the Comm, “H-hello?”
“Portly, it’s Rabbit. What are you trying to say?”
The podies seem to be emitting some sort of field of concentrated static electricity similar to what we experienced in the lower decks of the ship. That’s what affecting the remote frequency of the detonators!”
“What? How’s that even possible?”
“Well the human brain works via electrical impulses. And the human body can generate more bioelectricity than a 120-volt battery of energy and over 25,000 BTUs in body heat alone. Who knows what kind augmentations lie within a Podie’s physiological make up?”
“Save biology lesson, Mr. Portland,” Colonel Bishop snapped. “If that’s the case why do we still have Comms?”
“That’s because Stevens and I boosted the signal frequency by converting it to an algorithmic burst data packet configuration and re-routing our Comms through the Thuraya satellite up-link transmitter located on the ship. That combined with our proximity to each other….”
“Could you do the same for remote charges?” Colonel Bishop interrupted dropping to one knee as he let loose with burst of gun-fire.
Portly hesitated for a moment then answered, “Possibly… we should be able to conve…”
“Yes or no,” the colonel shot back through gritted teeth.
“…convertthesignalbolean/mcgrenalgorithmre-routethesign…”
“Portly,” I yelled gunning down three podies stupid enough to run in single-file, “IN ENGLISH!”
“Y-yes,” he stammered hesitantly. “But I’ll need time,” he added quickly.
“I don’t mean to pressure you, Mr. Portland,” the Colonel’s voice was ice-cold, “but when we run out of ammo the bombs won’t matter anymore ‘cause we’ll all be dead…. Mr. Portland, We’re almost out of ammo.”
“Uh yeah,” Portly squeaked his voice cracking. “N-no pressure at all. I’ll get back to you.”
The Colonel looked around for a moment. Assessing the situation he spoke into the Comm,
“Cougar. Priest. From your angle you should have a visual of the charges set on the jogging track.”
“Affirmative, Chief. We have visual.”
“Then make it go boom, Cougar.”
Suddenly the sound of two loud distinctive cracks rose
