Arrows of Orion

Our hearts so stout have got us fame,
For soon 'tis known from whence we came;
Where'er we go they fear the name
Of Garryowen in glory!



Arrows of Orion

15th Day of Endyear, P.C. 22480
11 November 2022

This was really stupid. He didn't need to be right here, playing Forward Observer; he needed to be back in the TOC, running the Regiment, and allowing a real red-leg to be out here, playing hero. Then again, he apparently hadn't done a very good job of that, so the least he could do was try and cover the retreat of what was left. After asking the men and women under his command to risk everything on what turned out to be a fool's errand, he could hardly avoid doing the same.

He set his fieldglasses aside and took a moment to consult his map, verifying the coordinates before he called them in. It had, after all, been a while since he had done this, and it momentarily diverted his mind from the churning mass in the valley and what it meant. The act also served admirably to keep the bittersweet thoughts of his wife and children from breaking through. At last satisfied that he hadn't screwed this up, too, he reached for the radio lying in the dirt by his side.

"Uniform 39, this is Whiskey 77 Alpha," Kelly said into the handset. "Target is approximately four thousand Chirpers, in the open. Fire for effect, VT, UTM CK3397122631." It was a bit of a long shot, but Kelly was confident the artillery could make it.

"Uniform 39. Four thousand Chirpers in the open, fire for effect, VT, UTM CK3397122631," the operator in the Fire Direction Centre replied, repeating the fire request back. There was a few seconds' pause, then, "Shot, out."

"Shot, out," Kelly repeated, then started counting to himself.

"Shot, splash."

"Shot, splash," Kelly repeated again, just as the artillery arrived. He heard a series of muffled thumps as the shells split open in midair among clouds of greyish-white smoke, the sound reaching his ears a few seconds after the sight, scattering their submunitions across the advancing aliens. Each submunition, the size of a softball and packed with explosives and razor-sharp notched wire, exploded either on contact with the ground or at a pre-determined height above it. The result was a rapid series of crack-crack-crack sounds, like all the fireworks in the world going off at once, and the leading Chirper ranks disappeared in boiling clouds of black and grey. Three battalion volleys crashed into the aliens, the shrapnel tearing into their bodies, mixing blood and body parts with the churned earth of the valley.

"Uniform 39, Whiskey 77 Alpha. Adjust fire," Kelly said into the handset, his fieldglasses back up to his eyes even before the last volley fell. He already had his next target picked out. "Target is six thousand Chirpers under partial wooded cover, fire for effect, VT, UTM CK33969122628."

"Uniform 39. Six thousand Chirpers under partial wooded cover, fire for effect, VT, UTM CK33969122628," the FDC answered. "Shot, out."

"Shot, out." A part of Kelly's mind marveled at the coolness of the operator's voice. Of course, the FDC was twenty-five miles behind the rapidly disintegrating front line; that man could afford to be calm.

"Shot, splash."

"Shot, splash," Kelly said. Again, the artillery tore through the Chirpers, the hot, sharp pieces of metal augmented in their effect by jagged, shattered chunks of tree limbs and trunks. The aliens were mangled and torn, dying in their hundreds and thousands, but still they kept coming. Those in back trampled over the dead and dying in a single-minded desire to close with the human enemy, an ocean tide that would not be denied. Watching that writhing mass, Kelly knew beyond a doubt that he was going to die, and the only comfort he could take from that thought was the knowledge that the longer he delayed the Chirpers, the more time he bought for the survivors of this debacle to retreat and for the Army to reform a new line.

Some comfort, he snorted to himself. Pity I won't be there to see it.

Scanning with his glasses, he spotted another large group of aliens advancing out of an abandoned farm. "What a marvellous day for a killing," he mused out loud. "Uniform 39, Whiskey 77. Adjust fire. Five thousand Chirpers in the open, fire for effect, VT, UTM CK33973226626."

Shell after shell screamed out of the sky, tearing through the mass of aliens like a scythe. He could almost feel sorry for them, a race of beings that had mastered the heavens, but somehow missed the concept of indirect-fire weapons. Almost. If it hadn't been for all the death and destruction they'd caused, not just in the United States but all over the world. There had been six billion people and change in the world when the Chirpers arrived; no one knew exactly how many were left, but large areas of the globe had been depopulated by them.

It took him a moment to realize that the last volley had fallen. He scanned for the next target and saw the largest group of Chirpers yet, gathering on the far side of the valley where the Interstate crested a ridge. They were well back from where the other groups had been; Kelly checked his map, and decided to call it in anyway. This group looked like it was taking its time and spreading out to minimize its losses.

"Terrific. Smart Chirpers. Just what I needed," he grumbled. "Uniform 39, Whiskey 77. Adjust fire. Approximately fifteen thousand Chirpers in the open, fire for effect, VT, UTM CK338119225783."

"Uniform 39, negative, Whiskey 77. We can not fire that grid," came the reply. Kelly's heart sank, even though he had been half-expecting it.

"Uniform 39, Whiskey 77. I really need those final protective fires."

"Uniform 39, understood, but we just don't have the range." For the first time, Kelly heard a hint of emotion in the other voice, a sadness tinged with deep frustration.

"Shit." Kelly looked through his fieldglasses at the Chirpers. More and more of them were gathering, in such numbers that even if he brought them under artillery fire as soon as they came in range, he doubted it would stop them. Hell, he doubted he'd be able to adjust fire quickly enough to even irritate them.

"Uniform 39, Whiskey 77. Are there any other batteries in range of that grid?"

The reply took a few moments in coming. "Whiskey 77, Uniform 39. Negative on your last."

Kelly sighed. So, it was finally all over. Well, he thought grimly, everybody has to die some time. "Uniform 39, Whiskey 77. Understood," he said into the handset. "Might be time for you to start thinking about pulling out. There isn't a whole lot between you and the Chirpers, you know."

"Roger, Whiskey 77. I could say the same to you."

Kelly smiled mirthlessly, reaching for his carbine with his free hand. "Uniform 39, negative on that. I kind of like the scenery. I always wanted to retire to the country." He realized it was an empty gesture, but it was far too late for him to try and run now.

"Ah, roger that, Whiskey 77," the FDC operator replied, the calm voice nearly breaking. "We're kind of happy where we are, too."

"Uniform 39, Whiskey 77. It's been nice working with a professional. I'll call you for the last FPF when they're in range," Kelly said. "Been nice knowing you."

"Whisky 77, Uniform 39. Sorry, brother."

Kelly was about to drop the handset when a powerful carrier wave squealed over the radio, and a new voice broke into the net.

"Whiskey 77 Alpha, standby one. We can reach that TRP," a calm, cool female voice said. "Duck and cover, this is going to be Danger Close. Shot, out."

"Unidentified station this net, shot, out. Who is this?" Kelly asked, confused. Not that he was going to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he couldn't help wondering who his saviour was and just what the hell was danger close when the Corps guns were out of range.

"Shot, splash," the voice said, ignoring the question.

Kelly opened his mouth to respond, but never got the words out. The heavens were torn asunder by a shriek almost beyond hearing, the noise hammering his ears as the ground bucked and heaved beneath him like a living thing, tossing him into the air again and again. Streaks of living fire reached down out of the sky, starkly bright, the fingers of God raking languidly across the earth, leaving devastation in their wake. When the bolts finally stopped falling, everything that had been in the valley was gone, and the ground looked like a moonscape.

"Unidentified station this net . . . who . . . who the hell are you?" Kelly finally managed to stammer out. The air smelled like ozone, the smoke and dust churned up by the bombardment slowly beginning to drift away on the wind.

"Whiskey 77, this is TF-58. Nice to see you're still with us," the lilting female voice answered. "Do you require further orbital gunfire support?"

"Jesus . . . God . . . no," Kelly said. Nothing moved out where the Chirpers had been. There was nothing left to move.

"We will continue to monitor this net. Have a good one, Whiskey 77. TF-58, out."

Kelly looked skyward as the radio fell silent, dropping the handset to the ground. Unbidden, tears welled up from his eyes and began to slip down his dirt-streaked face. He was going to live; they were all going to live.

Pity the poor Chirpers. The Navy had finally come home.