“Reaper 6, this is Kilo 0-5! You need to move your ass and get those fucking rockets up now!” An arrow sliced through the air a half inch in front of Moose’s nose, and he hunkered down further behind the small boulder that stood between him and the alien walls. All around him, Operators and Rangers huddled together in what little cover was available in the small field in front of the city gates. The amount of fire being directed at them was impressive; a constant barrage that filled the air and left no room to maneuver. Hundreds, if not thousands of arrows and crossbow bolts littered the field thick enough to cast the grass in shade.

“Kilo 0-5, Reaper 6. Negative, I say again, negative. We cannot advance until you suppress the enemy’s weapons. Over.” Reaper 6, the commander of the Ranger’s Heavy Weapons Platoon, sounded too at ease to Moose. The thought pissed him off; Reaper 6 was safe on the other side of the last bend in the road to the city, out of the line of fire from the aliens. For the hundredth time in five minutes, he wished they could have brought air support.

“We cannot suppress! The fucking shield is stopping our weapons! We need your fucking Gustavs to smash the barrier! Now get the fuck up here!” After a moment, Moose clicked the radio again, “Over.”

“Kilo 0-5, I say again, you need to supper-“ Moose swore and cut off the transmission. He grit his teeth as he glanced at the men around him; a dozen Operators and half of the Ranger Company’s First Platoon were pinned down by shit straight out of the middle ages. He glared at the bubble of pink that stood between his guys and the aliens. The bubble stopped their bullets cold, but let the aliens’ projectiles pass through cleanly.

A pained cry from behind him drew his attention back to a Ranger who had been injured while trying to get to cover. An arrow had hit him in the leg and nicked his femoral artery. A SEAL was wrist deep in his thigh trying to tie off the wound, and the poor soldier’s screams were echoing across the mountain.

If it weren’t so serious, Moose would have laughed at the absurdity; body armor strong enough to stop an AK round at near point blank range was useless against fucking bows.

“Fuck it,” Moose said to himself and clicked his radio, “Romeo 1-6, Kilo 0-5. Do your men have smoke?” Romeo 1-6 was First Platoon’s commander, and was among the closest to the wall.

“Roger Kilo 0-5.”

“Romeo 1-6, I need your guys to pop smoke now. I need a screen as thick as you can make it. Over.”

“Roger Kilo 0-5.” A sudden chorus of shouts passed through the field, followed by a dozen metal cylinders flying over and around cover. It took slightly less than a full minute for the smoke to form a solid curtain between the aliens and the soldiers. Moose craned his neck up to ensure the smoke was thick enough, and shouted over his cover.

“Lowball!” he yelled.

“Yo!” Lowball was behind another, slightly larger rock a half dozen paces away from his, but he couldn’t look at them without exposing himself and becoming a pincushion. Both Chainsaw and Clumsy were

“Get ready! On my mark we’re making a break for the rockets!”

Author's Notes:

First draft of Chapter 15. Originally Moose and Lowball were going to retrieve the Gustavs and take down the shield, but it seemed too '80's action hero' to me.