Act 1: Rebirth

  “Every ending is an unmarked road to another beginning—walk forward and name it your own.”

  -Cassian Rehn, The Conqueror

  Above the scarlet expanse of Mars, Captain Jack Lockley’s storm pod rattled violently, battered by atmospheric winds and the relentless barrage of anti-aircraft fire. Fear coiled in his gut, but there was no turning back—the descent was beyond his control now. He was one among thousands, plummeting like a steel rain toward the war-torn surface below. Thousands of pods of the 2nd Marine Orbital Regiment had been fired from the Hammerhead into Vermillion below.

  Six months earlier, the Indomitus, under the command of Admiral Solomon, had sacrificed itself, smashing into the heart of the Federation blockade. The admiral and his crew had given their lives to carve a path forward, and now, Commander Baines of the Eleventh Fleet was in a brutal campaign to reclaim the lost city of Vermillion. The order had been given—Mars would be reclaimed, no matter the cost.

  Through the narrow viewport, Jack glimpsed the fireballs of his company's storm pods streaking through the sky alongside him. Lakota company, his men, battle-hardened marines, the finest warriors he had ever served with—descended into the inferno. Once again, he would lead them into battle against the Federation. But why? For the Emperor? For his brothers-in-arms? Jack no longer knew which cause kept him fighting, only that he had no choice but to press on.

  The mag-locks of the pod held his camouflaged exosuit tight against the steel frame, his pulse pounding in his ears. The pod jolted violently as it tore through the cloud layer, turbulence shaking him to the core. His comm crackled with the orchestrated chaos of war—the fleet above raining destruction on the retreating Federation Navy.

  The ground assault was left to them—the Marines, the Imperial Army, and the towering behemoths of the Emperor’s Praetorian Legions. Superhuman warriors, their bodies augmented and enhanced beyond natural limits, bred for war. They were the Emperor’s iron fist, an unstoppable force of destruction.

  "Warriors of the Empire," Commander Baines' voice thundered through every comm channel, cutting through the static and the chaos. "With this steel rain, we reclaim Mars. Fight with the honor that Cassian the Conqueror instilled in us when he forged the Core Worlds into an empire. Fight for the men and women beside you. Fight, so that one day, our children may reclaim the peace we have long forgotten."

  The thick gray clouds parted, and Jack caught his first glimpse of Vermillion. Once a city of breathtaking beauty, its towering architecture a testament to Martian ambition, it was now nothing more than a graveyard of shattered skyscrapers, smoldering ruins, and streets buried beneath layers of ash and debris. Fires burned unchecked across the crumbling skyline, casting an eerie glow against the ever-present red tint of the terraformed soil.

  The Second War against the Federation had been devastating for the Empire. The enemy had pushed deep into the Core Worlds, advancing as far as Venus before the Imperial Navy and its armies had finally managed to halt their momentum. It had taken everything the Empire had to drive them back to this point—the very edge of Imperial space.

  Jack’s drop pod rattled violently, buffeted by the turbulence of reentry. The force pressed against his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain steady. His thoughts drifted to his men. The fighting had been relentless, leaving them with little rest. They had barely finished the Venus campaign before they were loaded onto the Hammerhead alongside the Eleventh Fleet and sent straight to Mars. There had been no time to recover, no time to process.

  But there was no room for hesitation now.

  Jack had to trust that his men would execute the plan. Gunnery Sergeant Ripley and his officers would see to that.

  Closing his eyes, he focused on his breathing—slow, controlled. The air filtered through his exosuit, carrying the faint taste of synthetic oxygen. His pulse steadied. He opened a comm channel.

  "All platoons, this is Captain Lockley,” Jack said through his helmet’s comms. "Prepare to shed your pods and activate retro-thrusters in three... two... one..."

  On his mark, the outer shell of his storm pod detonated away, the reinforced plating peeling off in the upper atmosphere. A wall of wind slammed into him, nearly choking the breath from his lungs as his retro-thrusters engaged, slowing his descent just enough to keep him from becoming a smear on the Martian surface.

  No matter how many storm jumps he had made, the fear never faded. The cold grip of uncertainty always lingered—the thought that this might be the time his pod failed, that he might be sent hurtling into the ground, nothing more than a streak of blood and shattered bone.

  He forced the thought away.

  Below him, the streets of Vermillion rushed up to meet him. In the distance, he could already see the landing zone marked by Lakota Company in his helmets HUD. The last of his pod’s plating fell away, exposing the stabilizer pack on his back. His thrusters burned hotter, fighting gravity for every last second of controlled descent. He bent his knees, bracing himself.

  At the final moment, an ion spear—longer than he was tall—shot from the base of his pod and punched into the ground, anchoring him in place.

  Jack barely staggered on impact, knees buckling only slightly as his pod hit solid ground. The system had done its job, absorbing the worst of the force. Around him, the rest of Lakota Company landed in staggered formations, their own pods slamming into the streets of Vermillion.

  What had once been a thriving urban hub, a beacon of industry and commerce, was now a graveyard of twisted metal and crumbling concrete. Towering skyscrapers, once sleek and proud, had been reduced to skeletal ruins, their facades pockmarked with the scars of artillery and gunfire. Some still smoldered, fire licking at the broken windows, sending plumes of black smoke into the stormy sky.

  The streets were choked with debris—flipped vehicles rusting where they had fallen, remnants of shattered infrastructure buried beneath layers of dust and ash. The neon glow of old signs flickered weakly in the distance. Rivers of stagnant water and oil pooled in the potholes, reflecting the chaos in distorted hues. Off to his right a downed Steel Wing lay in a pile of scattered debris and fire. The Mother of Worlds would be rolling in her grave to see her terraformed creations in such a state.

  Gunfire rattled in the distance, echoing through the ravaged city like the drumbeats of an unending battle. Occasionally, the heavier thump of artillery or the mechanical roar of war machines punctuated the chaos, sending tremors through the already unstable structures. Somewhere down one of the rubble-strewn avenues, he could see flashes of light as tracer rounds cut through the murk.

  Jack’s company immediately began forming into battle formations, each platoon falling into position with practiced efficiency. Lakota Company was the spear tip of the battalion, tasked with punching through the enemy’s entrenched defenses to clear the way for the units following behind them. They had trained for this, fought in campaigns before—but nothing ever went as smoothly as the briefings suggested.

  Before Jack could issue orders, a machine gun roared to life, its rounds slamming into the wreckage around him. Instinct took over. He dived behind the thick hull of a downed Steel Wing, metal sparking and groaning under the relentless barrage.

  Chaos erupted.

  His marines scattered, shouting orders as they dove into cover, finding shelter in the wreckage, the debris-strewn streets, and the hollowed-out husks of buildings. The rattling gunfire of Lakota Company answered in kind, each platoon returning fire in bursts as their squads maneuvered into defensive positions.

  Gunnery Sergeant Ripley was already moving like a man possessed, barking orders over the gunfire. He weaved through the battlefield, dragging marines into better cover, directing fire teams, making quick calls without hesitation.

  Several of Jack’s men went down in a haze of bullets and blood, their cries lost in the cacophony of battle. Ripley was there within seconds, bellowing for corpsmen, waving them toward the wounded even as bullets whipped past him.

  The platoons had returned fire, but they were blind. The machine gun’s position was still unknown, and Jack could tell that his men were struggling to pin down the source.

  Gritting his teeth, he made a decision. He turned and climbed through the back hatch of the Steel Wing, pulling himself up through the twisted wreckage, desperate to get a vantage point. If they didn’t locate that gunner soon, Lakota Company would be cut down before they could even begin their push.

  Jack spotted the source—a machine gun firing from a nearby parking structure. The shadows concealed the gun and its operator, and no muzzle flash was visible, likely due to a flash suppressor. Jack could only see the machine gun position because of the light faintly reflected off the barrel of the medium machine gun.

  Jack moved swiftly to the back hatch where Ripley was directing the Marines. The men had filtered out, using debris as cover from the relentless machine gun fire. Jack observed that they were too bunched up, increasing their risk of being hit.

  We need to neutralize that machine gun, he thought.

  Nodding to Ripley, Jack dashed out of the hatch, keeping low. He moved about twenty yards before diving behind a pile of rubble where Lieutenant Aubrey, first platoon commander, was positioned.

  “Aubrey, get the grenadier to fire into the parking structure, bearing 131, third floor,” Jack commanded through his intercom, ensuring he didn’t need to shout. Aubrey quickly peeked over the rubble, identifying the machine gun before ducking back down. His marines were firing wildly at the parking structure, but none seemed to have pinpointed the exact location of the gunman, except for Jack.

  “Viscount!” Aubrey called, waving the grenadier over. Viscount, who had been taking a knee and firing towards the enemy, quickly moved to his platoon commander, laying beside him out of the line of fire. Aubrey grabbed Viscount by the head, directing his gaze towards the machine gun's position. “Destroy that, now!”

  Viscount nodded, positioning his grenade launcher. He adjusted his aim, taking into account the distance and angle. With a calculated precision, he fired a round into the parking structure. The grenade arced through the air, its trajectory true. Moments later, a loud explosion echoed, and the machine gun fire ceased.

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief, his focus shifting back to the immediate objective. “Ripley, get first platoon moving! Secure the building and prepare for isolation of surrounding structures. Second and third platoons, follow once the area is secure,” he ordered.

  Ripley nodded, rallying the men. “You heard the Captain! Move out!”

  “Good man,” Jack said, patting Viscount on the back before moving past him. He sprinted to the far side of the rubble and into a hollow building where second platoon and it’s squads had taken cover. The battlefield was eerily quiet, the distant sounds of fighting barely audible.

  That can't be the only forward element; where is everyone else? Jack scanned the surroundings but saw nothing. In the distance, he could see the bunker down the highway, cleverly camouflaged within a massive rubble pile. To the untrained eye, it was invisible, but surveillance had revealed firing positions within the debris and in the adjacent building. It was also suspected that the bunker might be connected to an underground transit system. The lack of enemy fire made Jack uneasy; something was off.

  Jack opened his comm link to the command net. “All platoons, maneuver to position. Second platoon, lay down a base of fire until first is in position.” He received acknowledgments from his platoon commanders, and the first squads began to move. The sound of boots crunching on rubble was ominously loud. Why are they letting us maneuver? The Federation was known for its heavy weaponry at medium to long distances. The Empire excelled in maneuver warfare, and the Federation knew this, often preemptively striking to prevent Imperial troops from getting within five hundred yards of their bunkers.

  Jack spotted Ripley carrying a wounded Marine over his shoulder, with a lance corporal trailing behind, dragging a limp body by the chest piece of his armor. “Two down, sir. One routine, the other critical,” Ripley reported, setting the wounded Marine down inside the building and calling for the corpsman. “I radioed up that we have a Steel Wing down, two dead pilots, one dead crew chief, one routine Marine, one critical.”

  First platoon was in position, and second and third platoons began to pull back slightly, readying themselves to move. Jack used his wrist monitor to pull up threat indicators, leveraging satellite technology to detect movement from exosuits not linked to the Imperial network. Though the Federation often blocked such detection, it was worth checking.

  “Why aren’t they shooting, Ripley?” Jack asked, turning to his company gunny, who was holding down the wounded Marine while the medic injected a stim into the man’s abdomen. The Marine groaned in pain, his body convulsing. Ripley tensed to keep him still and looked up at Jack. Jack could see the Marine’s vitals through his HUD.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “They always try to mitigate troops maneuvering towards them with heavy weapons. It’s been almost standard every time,” Jack said.

  “Sir, they would be foolish not to adapt. I can’t speak for the Army boys, but we Marines have gotten good at exploiting this tactic,” Ripley sighed, shaking his head. “They might be trying to lure us in, potentially setting up an ambush, letting us take the ground before we realize they’ve moved or are lying in wait elsewhere.”

  Jack thought for a moment. It was probable that the enemy, knowing they were outgunned, wanted to exploit every advantage. Jack couldn't let that happen. These weren't the simulations from battle school; in his combat experience, he knew the enemy to be as versed, if not more, in warfare. It was a chess game that could cost him his life, or worse, the lives of his Marines. He spotted a squad from his third paltoon through a hole in the wall to his left, climbing a rubble pile to reach their firing positions on the second story of a building.

  “Stay sharp, everyone. We might be walking into a trap. Keep communication lines open and be ready for anything,” Jack ordered, feeling the weight of leadership heavy on his shoulders. Every decision he made from this point on could mean life or death for his men.

  “Sir, I don’t want to ask a stupid question,” the mortars section leader said over the net. “But with no enemy fire, do you still want mortars on that target?”

  “Yes, but switch to softening procedures. Maneuverability isn’t a concern at the moment,” Jack replied. He stood up and moved to the far side of the building where he could see third platoon, who were nearly in position. “Gunners, ensure we maintain isolation on those firing positions.”

  “Copy, sir. It’s a bit challenging without them, you know, not firing at us,” came the response. Mortar rounds began landing every five seconds on the rubble pile where the bunker was hidden.

  “Search for targets, keep your heads on a swivel,” Jack ordered.

  As third platoon’s squads reached their positions, Jack saw Lieutenant Johnson, third platoon commander, briefly pop out of a window on the far side of the building and wave to signal that they were in position. Suddenly, everything happened at once. A single shot rang out, piercing Johnson’s head and causing him to slump half out of the window. Simultaneously, a bunker buster rocket struck the building, collapsing the entire foundation with half the platoon inside. The shock from the explosion was muffled by the wall Jack leaned against, but clouds of dust billowed through the window.

  “Three actual, do you copy?” Jack screamed over the net. “Anybody in third, respond!”

  The bunker erupted with gunfire. Machine guns roared, and the concussive blasts of a pulse cannon began targeting their position. First platoon immediately returned fire, and second platoon, without needing orders, moved to a more strategic location. Jack didn’t rebuke second for moving without his command, it was a good call from his platoon commander.

  Jack's mind raced as he processed the sudden chaos. He had to regain control of the situation quickly to prevent further casualties. The stakes were higher than ever, and the lives of his men depended on his leadership and rapid decision-making.

  “One actual, suppress that bunker! Second, cover our flanks and watch for additional threats!” Jack barked into the comms, his voice steady despite the turmoil around him. “Who is left in third platoon I need a comm check?”

  “3-3, Sergeant Tonti sir,” Came a reply over the net. “My squad was the only ones not in that building.”

  “Copy that 3-3,” Jack replied. “Pull back and form up with two actual.”

  “Wilco.”

  He glanced at Ripley, who was already coordinating with the medics to check for survivors in the rubble. The battle had just escalated, and Jack knew they had to adapt swiftly to survive this ambush.

  “Stay focused, everyone. We’re not out of this yet,” Jack said, his resolve hardening as he prepared to lead his men through the intensifying conflict.

  Another concussion from the pulse cannon struck the wall roughly fifteen feet from Jack, hurling debris and a shockwave towards him, knocking him violently onto his back. Sharp pain shot through Jack’s chest, and his ears rang painfully. As he lay there, looking up at the collapsed roof above him, his vision flickered and his body spasmed with agony. Faintly, he heard someone calling his name, but dizziness overwhelmed him. When he attempted to sit up, the world spun wildly. A second voice called out, and Jack turned his head slightly, catching sight of the doc’s boots before he blacked out, only to awaken moments later.

  “Armor integrity breached,” his helmet's voice echoed in his comm link, displaying a flashing red alert on his HUD, indicating damage to his chest piece.

  Suddenly, Ripley was kneeling beside him, shaking him to ensure he was conscious. “Sir, are you prime?” he shouted over the gunfire.

  Jack struggled to sit up, feeling a stabbing pain in his chest. He glanced down and saw blood seeping under his armor, staining the camouflage chest piece. “I’m okay,” he managed, gathering himself with Ripley’s support. His knees felt like jelly, but he ignored the pain coursing through his body.

  “One-Actual,” Jack called over the comm, coughing into his helmet. “The downed Steel Wing—send someone to check if the main missiles are operable and controllable from the turret.”

  “Wilco, sir!”

  “Second, any sign of third?” Jack and Ripley maneuvered cautiously back toward the front of the building, avoiding the new breach in the wall to avoid drawing fire. Despite feeling woozy, Jack focused on the task at hand.

  “Negative, sir. It looks like no one made it out,” came the response.

  Jack surveyed the battlefield, spotting multiple enemy firing positions with machine guns, but he couldn’t locate the pulse cannon from his vantage point. The mortars continued firing, but their rounds were ineffective, prompting Jack to order them to cease fire and conserve ammunition. Using his HUD, he pinpointed the bunker’s location via a laser range finder integrated into his helmet.

  A rocket launched from second’s position, aiming at one of the bunkers, but it had no apparent effect. “They’re well fortified,” Jack remarked, as stray bullets tore into the nearby wall, unnoticed by him and Ripley, who knew they were not under direct fire.

  “First, status on the missiles?” Jack inquired.

  “We’ve just brought them online, sir. Confirming target for the pulse cannon?” Aubrey replied.

  “Can you get a clear shot?” Jack asked urgently.

  “Yes.”

  "Copy, Second. As soon as that pulse cannon is disabled, advance to the forward building and establish isolation. First will leapfrog from your position to assault the bunker. First, ensure the missile shot hits its mark," Jack commanded urgently, aware of the critical nature of their next moves. He silently wished for more firepower, though calling in a 308 barrage from a cruiser in orbit would likely jeopardize their position.

  "Sir, ready to fire on your command," Aubrey affirmed.

  "Fire now!"

  "Fire, fire, fire!" On the third command, a resounding whoosh emanated from the dropship’s missile turret. A streak of fire and smoke shot forth faster than Jack could follow, striking an unseen target. Dark smoke billowed, and flames erupted from the impact.

  "Effects?" Jack inquired, tightening his grip on his rifle.

  "Effective, sir. Target destroyed!" Aubrey reported promptly. Without hesitation, Second squad's fire team sprinted across the battlefield toward the designated building. Jack swiftly followed, needing a clearer view of the bunker.

  Inside the building, the fire team executed a methodical clearance of each room, with Jack lending support where needed, though clearing was typically not a Captain's duty, with only five men in such a large structure the extra gun was needed. He maintained security on an uncleared doorway until reinforcements arrived to relieve him. "Ripley, when we advance on the bunker, take Doc and assist in searching for survivors," Jack directed.

  "Copy."

  Lieutenant Holden and second platoon had already positioned themselves strategically around the building, suppressing any remaining resistance from the bunker. Gunfire persisted, but it had significantly decreased. Jack ascended to the second floor to gain a better vantage point. The left side of the bunker lay in ruins, revealing an underground entrance.

  "One-actual, we're in position. You're clear to proceed," Holden confirmed over the comm.

  Jack activated his wrist monitor, bringing up a tactical display of friendly positions. First was already advancing in fire teams, navigating through the building en route to the bunker. However, none of the exosuits from Third were transmitting signals.

  Damn it, Jack cursed inwardly, his mind racing with the loss of half a platoon. No time for this. Get a hold of yourself.

  The bunker, now recovering from the earlier blast, intensified its defensive fire. Jack's machine gun section responded immediately, unleashing a controlled barrage from their four medium machine guns. The synchronized firing pattern, alternating eight-round bursts between pairs of guns, created a relentless stream of suppressive fire—known colloquially as "talking guns."

  Observing the effect, Jack saw the enemy troops inside the bunker ducking for cover as their exposed positions were inundated with bullets. This suppression provided crucial cover for Aubrey's first fire team as they advanced towards the trench line. Amidst the chaos, a Federation soldier in gray and black armor emerged from the rubble, retrieving a grenade from his magnetic strip on his chest piece.

  Instinct taking over, Jack swiftly aimed his rifle, focusing on the soldier's midsection to ensure a precise shot. Six rounds discharged from his weapon, their impact dropping the soldier before he could arm the grenade, sending him sprawling into the debris. Unperturbed, the advancing fire team lobbed their own grenades into the bunker's entrance—one into the exposed tunnel and another into a machine gun emplacement. The explosions reverberated as the team scaled the rubble mound and descended into the bunker.

  One Marine, however, fell wounded atop the rubble, writhing in pain. Inside the bunker, gunfire erupted along with shouts from federation troops. The subsequent team from the building rushed forward, grabbing the injured Marine by his armor and hauling him into the relative safety of the bunker. Jack descended to the first floor, preparing to join the next team as they prepared to breach the bunker's depths.

  Once the team moved out, Jack followed closely despite the mounting fatigue and worsening pain in his chest. Unbeknownst to him, his chest wound was bleeding more profusely, yet adrenaline and his combat augmenter in his armor dulled the pain.

  Entering the dark, musty underground access, Jack activated his night vision through his HUD, casting a blue wash over his visor that illuminated the surroundings. He positioned himself at the rear of the team, flanked by Marines stacking up on either side of the narrow hallway, weapons ready.

  Methodically, they cleared each corridor, room, and potential hiding spot, while reinforcements from other squads began pouring in through the same entrance. At times directing movements, at others leading the charge, Jack switched seamlessly between coordinating maneuvers and engaging in direct combat alongside his Marines. Whenever a comrade fell, Jack was there immediately, either providing medical aid or facilitating their evacuation to the corpsman.

  In the heat of the moment, Jack found himself at the forefront, focused solely on eliminating the enemy threat. He pivoted into a large communication room, executing a sharp turn to cover the far-left corner. There, he encountered a Federation soldier who struck him hard in the face and grappled him to the ground for control of Jack's rifle. Jack retaliated fiercely, headbutting the soldier repeatedly until the visor cracked, seizing the opportunity to wrest his rifle back. Jack roared in a mix of absolute terror and primal rage, tearing the mans helmet from his head. He used the butt stock of his rifle to deliver brutal blows to the soldier's head, driven by a primal urge to expel his fear and frustration. Blood spattered across Jack's armor as he relentlessly struck the now lifeless soldier.

  “Sir!” A Marine's voice broke through, shaking Jack from his intense focus. “SIR!” It was Holden, pulling Jack away from the grisly scene. “Sir, he’s dead.”

  Stepping back from the fallen soldier, Jack was gripped by a profound fear. He had never killed in such close combat before, and the visceral act shook him to his core. Gathering himself, Jack focused on the mission at hand. “Status on the bunker?” His voice trembled, but he forced himself to regain composure and his breath.

  “Cleaning up a few stragglers, but the bunker is secured,” Holden replied, avoiding Jack's gaze.

  Turning away, Jack keyed his commlink. “Warlord, this is Lakota Six.”

  “Go for Warlord.”

  “Sir, objective one is secured, but we've suffered heavy casualties and require immediate medical evac,” Jack reported, determined to evacuate Third Platoon despite the grim reality.

  “Sir, we're not seeing any survivors from Third over here,” Ripley interjected over their internal comm.

  Jack remained silent, acknowledging the truth they all faced. Gunfire in the distance was tapering off as Marines tended to the wounded and fortified their positions.

  “Copy, Lakota Six,” Warlord responded. “Steel Wings inbound to your position with relief, hold fast.”

  “Sir, can you crack this?” Holden stood on the far side of the comm room, repeatedly pressing a key on a holo terminal in an attempt to elicit a response.

  Jack approached Holden, recognizing the equipment as a communication repeater designed to extend the range of transmissions. Glancing at the main display, Jack immediately discerned it was an encrypted log. If cracked, it could potentially grant access to enemy communications. Retrieving his wrist monitor, Jack carefully extracted a corded plug and connected it to the repeater.

  “It’s a communication repeater,” Jack explained without looking up from his wrist monitor. Holden, now helmetless with sweat beading on his face and dark hair plastered to his forehead, listened intently. “We might be able to crack it using a standard encryption cracker. It's a long shot, but worth trying.”

  Holden shrugged, turning towards the door. “You handle the tech stuff, sir. I’m going to assist with the casualties.”

  Silent and focused, Jack connected his wrist monitor to the repeater and initiated the encryption cracking program. Removing his own helmet, he took in the musty air of the bunker. As adrenaline subsided, the pain in his chest returned, his exosuit stained with blood. Knowing he couldn't afford distraction until reinforcements arrived, Jack injected himself with a stimulant and applied hemostatic foam to seal the wounds temporarily.

  “Lakota Six this is Warlord,” his comm crackled to life.

  “Go for Six,” Jack responded.

  “Be advised, you’re facing a significant counterattack. Without artillery or orbital shields, your best defense is to hold from within the bunkers. We need you to maintain your position so the rest of the Battalion can land.”

  “What's the size of the enemy force?” Jack inquired, his wrist monitor emitting a beep as the encryption finally cracked. Surprised by the ease of access, Jack noted the Federation's potential oversight in their security protocols.

  “Battalion-sized element identified at this time.”

  Shit, Jack thought, realizing they didn't have enough time to fend off an element of that size while awaiting reinforcements. Opening his platoon net, Jack swiftly ordered his platoons to assume battle positions inside the bunker and prioritize retrieving any wounded.

  “Phister,” Jack called out to a young lance corporal, motioning him over. Jack unplugged the repeater from its connections, reattached his wrist monitor, and closed the encryption program. This repeater could provide a critical advantage in the fight; Jack believed this specific model might even enhance underground communications.

  Phister approached, visibly fatigued with a slouch in his shoulders. “I need you to guard this with your life. Stay off the main front. It's crucial the CO gets this, understood?”

  “No sir, I don't understand, but I'll follow your orders,” Phister replied, accepting the repeater and stuffing it into his exosuit pack.

  Jack donned his helmet and proceeded to inspect the defenses. Stepping through the door, an artillery shell exploded overhead, shaking the bunker and knocking Jack to his knees. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, and the ground trembled. Jack quickly regained his footing, urgency driving him to ensure everyone was positioned correctly.

  Another shell struck nearby as Jack rounded a corner, prompting his men in firing positions to return fire. Without counter battery, that artillery would decimate them. Gunfire reverberated through the bunker, mingling with commands shouted between squads.

  Ripley nearly stumbled down a staircase, clutching his abdomen where blood seeped through. “They got me, sir,” he groaned in pain. Jack knelt beside him, helping him up. “Sir, that artillery will wipe us out. Is the cruiser ready?”

  “I'll check,” Jack replied, retrieving his last stimulant from his pouch. “Take this. Where's Doc?”

  Ripley accepted the stimulant, clutching it tightly against his chest. “Doc’s dead, sir,” he said solemnly, his voice tinged with resignation. Jack made a mental note to follow up later; right now, he needed to focus on targeting that artillery.

  BOOM! Another shell slammed into the bunker, shaking its foundations. Jack swiftly opened the space net to contact the cruiser. “Godhammer, this is Lakota Six.”

  The cruiser's transmission crackled but remained intelligible. “Lakota Six, Godhammer here. We're ready for your request.”

  “We need a counter battery,” Jack replied urgently. “If your radars can detect the enemy cannons firing at us, we could use some hellfire on their position.”

  “Stand by, six. We're not picking up anything on our radars,” Godhammer responded after a tense pause.

  Jack clenched his fists in frustration and turned towards the machine gun position. If he could locate the target visually, he could designate it with his laser for the cruiser to target accurately. But before he could take another step, another shell crashed down, sending debris and dust cascading. The ceiling above Jack collapsed on top of him.

  The world went dark...