Day 12

 The Front

120° West, 84° South. North of the Whitmore Mountains.
Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica
December 16, 2085 1312 GMT
 
The battered hoverscout was a small glimmer speeding over the ice foothills of Antarctica's Whitmore Mountains. On her flank she bore the heraldry of the 15th Argentinean Light Armoured Cavalry Regiment. Inside the pilot watched his scopes as they in turn sought the enemy.

Two days ago, after months of hidden preparations, the Republic of Argentina had launched an armoured spearhead against the scattered border guard outposts of the Pan Pacific Alliance, a political coalition headed by Australia. The surprise assault had been a tremendous success with fast moving columns of antartic-modified GEVs breaking through and annihilating several Pan Pac units they'd caught isolated. Small bands of surviving Australian infantry were in a chaotic retreat, attempting to make it back to their rear-echelon artillery and regroup.

The pilot had been involved in some of that fighting. His mission had been to spot and reconnoiter for the main force behind him, but he'd had a full load of ammunition and he just couldn't resist the temptation. He'd gotten quite good at dashing in quickly, blowing them apart, and getting back out of range before the slow running figures in their powersuits could do anything to stop him with their little pop-guns. He'd left dozens of them dismembered and burning out on the ice.

Still, the fight hadn't gone all their way, and one group of Pan Pac survivors were giving almost as well as they got and blocking the Argentinians way westwards while they were at it. It was his job to pathfind someway either around them to their artillery, or someway for the 15th LACR to hit the bastards where they weren't expecting it. The rest would be up to the 2nd Armoured Squadron thirty miles behind him.

"Mountain crevice, coming up." the pilot thought to himself.

Antarctica had a surprising variety of terrain, nothing at all like the giant, flat sea of snow and ice he'd expected. Instead there was everything from sheer ice mountains to fissures and cliffs, to fields of snow dunes with jagged ice and wind-formed snowballs the size of an antique ground cars. It also switched from one type to the next with very little in the way of warning. Both sides were still trying to properly adapt their tactics to the alien terrain.

The pilot decided to play it safe. 2nd Squadron needed him alive and well to find the enemy for them. He slowed his one-man vehicle the better to go over ranks of ice formations in the pass that looked like waves on a flash frozen ocean.

In truth nothing he could have done would have changed the outcome of what happened next. The Pan Pac infantry were burried under the ice, effectively invisible to the thermal sensors of the LGEV. Thermal sensors which had been designed to operate best in warmer climates at any rate. The missile was dealt with by his scouts' ECM, but the hyper-velocity rounds from the railgun that followed didn't have any brains to befundel. The first rounds landed short and threw up chuncks of ice that fell behind the still moving LGEV, but the Pan Pac gunner corrected his aim and walked his shots into the rear of the small craft. The turbine engine blew apart under the impact of the heavy shells and the force of its own rotation. The fuel tanks remained mercifully intact but the results were spectacular all the same as the LGEV went cartwheeling over the frozen waves, smacking into one at an odd angle, bounding up in the air and finally came crashing down amid a rain of its own broken parts.

"Now that is one confirmed kill." said the gunner, "Looks like the Old Man guessed it right."

"Yeah." said his sergeant next to him, "Now lets get the hell out of here."
 

The Front
130° West, 82° South. West of the Swithinbank Station.
Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica
December 16, 2084 1331 GMT

Captain Thomas O'Grady peered west towards Swithinbank from within the confines of his battlesuit. The BPC let none of the cold outside through but Captain O'Grady still felt a deep chill in his guts. Swithinbank was one of the early-warning radar stations that protected Australia from missile attack. The Great Arc, the path sub-orbital missiles would have to follow on their way from Buenos Aires to XXXX, capital of the Pan Pacific Alliance, passed right over this spot, making it prime strategic real-estate. Two hours ago it had fallen to the Argentinian offensive.

"And there's nothing I can do about it."

He turned his attention to the image the machines projected on the inside of his enclosed command suit. It showed his command, or what's left of it, scattered on the plain of ice before him. Five plumes of grey-white smoke from the latest attack rose and diffused into the overcast sky. White camoflaged powersuits trudged along in scattered lines or clustered around their remaining supply vehicles recharging their on-board batteries. The surviving half of their light armor chewed up tracks in the white snow as they tried to be in as many places at once as possible. The only real trace of color was the light grey of the mountains to the south.

"Captain!"

O'Grady turned as another suit came up to him. It was his 2IC, (his second today), who was technically breaking SOP by standing too close to his commander in this day and age of area-effect weapons. O'Grady slid back his armored faceplate to reveal his unshaved features under a thick plate of armorglass. He had a suspicion the 2IC was breaking SOP because he didn't want what was coming next to go out over the comm-channels. Even if nobody was supposed to be able to listen in.

The sun was going down now, but then it never rose very far in Antartica even during those times when the continent wasn't shrouded in a six-months long night. It now cast a redish glow giving everything a blood-like aura. The machines normally filtered out this effect for him, but now with his naked eyes looking at the world around him, he had to squint to make out the face of his 2IC. Trey Alderson, if memory served.

"Well, we did better than we expected." Trey started out pleasantly enough. He was too young by half.

"True." O'Grady said as he tried to blank the memory of where the Argentinean GEVs had scythed down an entire platoon of his men. "If they'd gotten in among the supply trucks..." his whole command would be dead, dead, dead.

"We got three of their GEVs, but they got a light, and one of the Echidna's." continued the XO. That left them with just two of the precious long-ranged missile tanks to keep the enemy at bay.

O'Grady turned to look at the rising smoke columns and his spread out command once more and he made a decision. "Trey, keep the armor together from now on. There's not enough that we can spread them around anymore. The infantry will just have to try and hold while the armor moves to offer what help they can." and baring a miracle he'd just acknowledged that he couldn't save his people, that the best he could do was sacrifice some to save others and prolong the inevitable for the ever dwindling few. Maybe.

"Keep them moving towards Siple Dome, Trey. The Argies got cocky in that last attack. If they pause to regroup now, we just might be able to slip away. It is very important to make the most of this time." And please God, let us get there before the Argentinians.

"Sir, why not make for Elizabeth Station? It's closer."

"But it doesn't have any artillery we can shelter under. Elizabeth Station is gone, Lieutenant. There's nothing we can do for them."

"Yes sir." he said morosely, but he turned to obey.
 

The Front
120° West, 84° South. North of the Whitmore Mountains.
Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica
December 16, 2084 1335 GMT

"God, I'm alive."

That simple realization came as something of a shock to the pilot as his mind replayed memories of those final moments with the sky and ground bluring together with the violence of his tumble through space. The gel bladers that surrounded him and cushioned him during the maneuvers of combat and the armored cocoon around those had saved his life during the crash. Now he hung upside-down in what remained of his cockpit. Instinctively, he set about checking what still worked.

Not much was functional. Environmental support had died with the crash, which meant that it was about to get very, very cold in here. The radio was dead and so was Auxiliary Power. What juice he had left was whatever was still in the batteries. The whereabouts and condition of the emergency beacon was anybody's guess. It had been in the back where the pencil pushers claimed it was more likely to survive any eventuality. Now that was a laugh.

"Shit, I'm dead."

About the only things that did work were the external video and the ejection system. The comfort level drawn from this was somewhat diminished by the LGEV's having come to rest upside down on top of the cockpit's lid. The lid was crafted from a single piece of BPC armor - anything less would have compromised the hull's integrity. There were no explosive charges to break it into pieces as anything powerful enough to do that would kill the pilot inside. Instead, it was designed to blow off completely in an emergency. The designers had apparently not forseen this little eventuality.

His first instict was to sit tight and wait for rescue, just like it said in the survival manual, but he rejected that option almost immediately: Antarctica was wide and desolate, and his people didn't know where he was. It had been his job to tell them where to go, and it was already starting to get cold. But all was not lost, he still had one more radio up his sleeve, the one on the back of his ejection seat. The pilot reached back and pulled it to his lap only to hear feedback and static when he turned it on. He cursed himself as he realized the flaw in his plan. The BPC that formed his cockpit's armor had a layer of steel in it. That made it conductive, which meant he was currently on the inside of a Faraday cage. He would have to get the radio outside before it could broadcast in the clear.

He deflated the gel sacks and pulled the small toolkit from under the seat. In ten minutes he'd disconnected most of the firing bolts and in another two minutes he'd physically disabled the booster motor under his ejection seat. It wouldn't do to have that go off when he pulled the panic stick.

With that and a Santa Maria he reached up from where he was squating on the very armor plate he was planning to blow and pulled.

BLAM!

With a jolt he felt the cockpit lid released from the rest of the LGEV and he could see a crack of light through the smoke that now filled the cockpit. Cold air rushed in and the pilot writhed in agony as the sub-freezing air entered his lungs. Shock and panic washed through his mind as realization struck. "Oh my God, what have I done?" Antarctica's cold was brutal, beyond human enduring. The cold air seemed to burn like fire, it just sucked the warmth right out of him.  It was all he could do to struggle to open his suit and breath from the warmer air trapped against his body. He had to close his eyes to keep them from the freezing pain. Already his ears had gone numb. Near panic, he lashed out in a blind scramble for his harsh environment survival suit. The Army had provided these for their people just in case the need arose. But as if to further prove the aphorism behind the phrase military intelligence, the suits were too bulky to put on while still inside the cockpit. Nevermind, thought the pilot as the initial rush of panic subsided, I can still use it as a blanket. With his helmet and gloves on, and the suit tied around his neck by the sleeves, he curled into a ball and shuddered for warmth. Slowly, though the cold did anything but go away, his body managed to reach a level of equilibrium he found he could live with. After some time, he set about Phase Two of his escape.

Bracing himself to one side, he dug his hands under the lid. Heaving and grunting in the cold dark with his breath coming out as a frost, he managed to slide the lid just enough to make room for himself. Now it was time for Phase Three: chisel and dig your way out. It took him nearly an hour, the gloves just weren't intended for being shoved directly into the frigid snow and he had to stop every few minutes to warm them up again. Slowly they became less hands capable of fine manipulation and more like claws good only for digging. Still, he was helped by the crash of his vehicle whose impact had broken the ground into chunks and the explosive bolts which had shaken the lid loose from being stuck to the ice. Once he'd gotten past the layer of ice formed by residual heat and subsequent refreezing the going was relatively quick. Soon the pilot stood in the light of day and now he had to worry about dying because his hands could only fumble at the catches of his survival suit. His extremities were numb and he wondered if he'd ever truly feel warm ever again, but after what seemed an eternity he succeeded in getting the suit on and stood shivering on the ice somewhere in Antarctica. His first act was to pull out the ejection seat radio and hit the automatic transmit switch.

Now it was a matter of staying alive long enough for someone to find him. Already he could tell his suit wasn't going to be enough. Nobody could have made adequate provisions for the extreme cold he was experiencing, and he knew he was on his own for the time being. What he should have done was dig a wider hole so he could climb back in the cockpit with his suit on, pile snow to keep out the wind, and wait inside until they came for him. It's what he should have done, but patience is not the strong point of GEV-jockeys, heirs to the macho bravado traditions of fighter pilots now that aircraft have been swept from the skies by cheap smart missiles, railguns, and lasers. No, he was a scout and therefore he would scout. Besides, the exercise would help keep me warm. Grabbing his radio and his sidearm, just in case, the pilot headed for the top of the ridge.
 

The Front
130° West, 82° South. West of the Swithinbank Station.
Marie Byrd Land, Antarctica
December 16, 2084 1331 GMT

"Here they come again." said Captain O'Grady.

Sooner than he'd hoped, later than he'd feared, the Argentinian attack was more of a probe than a full assault. Four GEVs came by pairs in a pincer formation north and south. The southern pair were engaged by a lone squad of infantry that quickly dug in and returned fire praying that the light tanks and missile carriers of their armor reserve would arrive in time to save them. The lead GEV took them under fire from a mile out, lobing independently targeted smart-munitions from its' dorsal rack and adding accelerated slivers from its twin mounted snub-turret. The volume of fire was staggering and every squad member was dispatched in less than a minute with a machine like precision. The second Argentine GEV shot through the gap created by his wingman but immediately ran into trouble of its own. One of the remaining Pan Pac missile tanks ripple-fired its racks at extreme range and clusters of shape-charge warheads filled the air around it. Most of them missed, either decoyed or swept away by the GEV's point defense cluster, but one struck it from above penetrating the armor protecting one of the main lift fans. Magenta and orange flashed from under the GEV's skirts and fire shot high into the sky. The AI must have saved it because for a moment it seemed as if the GEV would crash and burn right there. But with a deft flip no human could have managed, the vehicle fell right-side up and came to a stop after pileing up a respectful amount of snow on its nose. The lead GEV moved to cover his wingman, threatening the missile tank still miles away. She had no infantry support at the moment and her commander knew he couldn't risk his tank for another few squads of infantry. The Argentinians had plenty of GEVs, his side had only his and the one other missile tank. So while more infantry squads rushed to close on the lamed Argentine vehicle, the missile tank was forced to hold its ground and watch.
 
To the north, the other pair of GEVs broke off their attack which had been going well enough to help their comrades to the south. In a deft parting shot, the lead GEV put a round neatly through the turret ring of one of the light tanks to his front. The hyper-velocity shell punched clean through the weaker armor and sent the 10 ton turret spinning into the sky. Secondary explosions proceeded to tear the vehicle apart and kill her entire crew, but the GEV leader didn't stay to watch. More infantry was cut down by his wingman as the two of them redlined their engines southwards.

The crippled GEV fought to restart its engine while the battle raged around it. The northern pair he knew was headed his way while his wingleader seemed to be having some problems engaging another squad of infantry. The Pan Pac forces were deploying a screen around the missile tank, daring the Argentine GEVs to attack it. More infantry made a try for the crippled GEV. One of the northern GEV pilots thought he saw an openning in the defensive screne of infantry and rushed to exploit it. But the Pan Pac soldiers deployed faster than he'd expected. They still died, cut down by his depleted uranium slugs that punched through their light armor to the vulnerable flesh underneath, but they kept him engaged long enough for the missile tank, who saw it's main chance, to swerve around an ice flow and launch its brood on a direct trajectory. It was a straight down-the-throat shot that left nothing worth mentioning of the GEV in question.
 
Soon the crippled GEV managed to get its engine going and the battle effectively ended as the Argentinians broke off to the east, nursing the wounded GEV between them.

"Dear God." was all O'Grady could say on seeing the scale of devastation.

"Sir." said Travis over the comm-net. "We're close enough to Siple Dome we can burn through the enemy's jamming. You're not going to believe this but we just raised headquarters!"

"Put me through. Now."
 
The transmition was audio only and full of static crackles and pops, but he'd never been happier to talk to a superior officer in his life.

"This is <fizz> -neral Simmons, Siple <pop> Base. <crackle crackle> signal weak. Enemy action <whiiiirrr>. Do you read?"

"This is Captain Thomas O'Grady, Outpost 9. Say again. This is Captain Thomas O'Grady, from Outpost 9. Come in Siple Dome Base."

"We read you Captain. <pop> Where are you?"

"40, 50 kilometers east of your position. We are under enemy attack. Can you assist us? What is your situation? Over."

"Ah ... Captain. We've had reports of enemy scouting to the southeast. Hover assets so far but nothing we can't handle. The artillery is waiting but infantry is a bit scarse on the ground over here. You say you're from Outpost 9? Outpost 9 was reported as overrun and destroyed."

"We were overrun and destroyed, we're the survivors along with some stragglers we've picked up along the way. What is the overall situation? Over."

"Fucked up Captain. The Argies hit us hard and there's been what seems a general collapse in our front. Mount Siple is holding out though."

That explained a lot. Like why they hadn't been hit with a full scale assault yet. Infantry caught out on the ice like they had should not have lasted this long against hovercraft like those GEVs. In spite of the similarities in name Mount Siple was nowheres near Siple Dome. Mount Siple was on the coast far to the north and represented a threat to Argentina's lines of supply if it held out. It was also another of the early warning stations like Swithinbank had been. Argentina had to invest the fortifications there or render her mobile assets impotent which meant his own small command came in lower on the enemy general's shit list. As O'Grady had suspected, the reasons for them still being alive had less to do with any tactical brilliance on his part than it did with the enemy's own problems. He had the sudden insight that the offensive was not going according to plan for the Argentines. They must be having problems supporting their units this far from their bases. There was only so many supplies they could have moved forwards in preparation before we'd have caught wind of the affair. Nobody had ever tried something like this and the Argentines weren't likely to pull it off without a hitch. The fog of war, he realized, was his best weapon right now.

"Captain, we've had scattered reports of events at Swithinbank. Can you confirm?"

"I'm sorry General. Swithinbank fell to the enemy at eleven hundred and thirty hours. We were there. There was nothing we could do. Colonel Crenshaw ordered the retreat and is missing, presumed dead. My command are the only survivors that I know of."

[To be continued...]