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SCL Chapter 52: Built to Fly, Prone to Explode
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 05:06:16 +0000 UTC“Before we launch the assault, we must eliminate several strongpoints atop these hills,” Augustus said, marking a red X over the bunker. “And by eliminate, I don’t just mean destroy—we should capture them.”
“Ideally, these bunkers and heavy weapons can be turned to our advantage,” he added, then paused. “Since we have transport ships, we can deploy troops directly onto the hills. That way, our crossfire positions atop the hills can suppress the Kel-Morian encampment in the valley below.”
“Next, the ground forces positioned at the front can advance into the compound under the cover of our airborne troops. That’s step one.” With a few deft gestures, Augustus shrank the hill in the projection and enlarged the entire layout of Containment Site 34.
Between the three hills stood a rectangular military camp surrounded by other facilities. A low protective barrier made of Presteel plating and electrified steel-wire fencing encircled the perimeter. The bunker and retractable auto-turrets embedded in the ground guarded all three entrances between the hills.
“We can see that apart from the hilltops and the entrances, the camps holding prisoners inside the compound are relatively under-defended,” Augustus noted. “So, we also have the option to break through from the center.”
“Step two: while the Kel-Morian forces are busy trying to retake the hills or break out, my squad will be air-dropped directly near the barracks. At the same time, the transport ships will deliver 500 electromagnetic rifles along with ammunition. Once we’ve released all the prisoners and armed them, the center of the internment camp will suddenly house a furious, fully armed army battalion.”
“How many soldiers are stationed in that camp, and how many of them have powered armor?” Augustus asked Hobbes.
“Judging by the number of barracks and the size of the water towers, the site can sustain no more than 600 people,” Hobbes replied. “There are already between 400 and 450 prisoners inside. So I estimate that there are around 200 Kel-Morian troops guarding the facility.”
“Most of the Kel-Morian soldiers in Containment Site 34 lack powered armor. The few who do wear it are equipped with crude knockoffs of CMC suits—flat-surfaced kinetic armor at best.”
“How many fighter craft and transports do we have available, ma’am?” Augustus asked again.
“Sixteen Avenger fighters and ten 2440 long-range bombers,” Hobbes answered. “Fort Howe has thirty-two transport ships, drawn from seventeen different units, with a total troop capacity of 2,000.”
She added, “Containment Site 34 has only a small landing pad—barely enough for a few aircraft to take off or land. In terms of aerial dominance, we have a decisive advantage. Fort Howe is the closest Marine base to the camp. With transport aircraft, the trip takes only thirty minutes. That’s why I’ve come to you for help.”
“This living hell has been hiding in plain sight, right under the nose of the Federal Army. It wasn’t until I escaped that the location of Containment Site 34 was finally exposed.”
“What about the rest of our reinforcements?” Augustus asked. “Don’t tell me you expect me to rescue over four hundred people with just a single squad.”
“A re-socialized troop battalion has already set out from Hobor Pass,” Hobbes said. “But we need soldiers who can think independently—and re-socialized soldiers lack the flexibility to pull off a mission like this.”
“Then that completes my plan,” Augustus said. “I’m calling it Operation Drop Zone.”
“It’s a solid tactical plan,” Warfield nodded in agreement. “But only on the condition that we first eliminate every anti-air emplacement—take out all the missile towers and flak cannons.”
“It’s a clever move, but it’s extremely risky. If a transport gets hit, that’s a fiery death for everyone on board.”
“This plan might yield tremendous success,” he added, “or it might turn into a complete nightmare. Augustus, your plans are always bold—borderline insane—but I like that.”
“We’re talking about a rescue operation here. This is supposed to be a job for agents or special forces,” Augustus said, spreading his hands. “But they handed it to a bunch of Marines.”
“If we were launching an assault on a fortified encampment built into rugged terrain, I’d have the artillery and bombers hammer the place for an entire day—but that’s just not an option here.”
...
Fort Howe Armory, July 30
Augustus’s platoon was in the process of switching into the new CMC-250/EX powered armor. Unlike a transitional model between the CMC-200 and 300, this prototype suit was designed to support a jetpack mounted on the back.
Once Augustus had compiled the 'Landing Operation' plan into a formal report and submitted it to the Northern Theater Command, which was overseeing the operation, the approved orders were promptly dispatched to Fort Howe Command Center.
The directive temporarily reorganized Augustus’s platoon into a special operations tactical unit capable of executing elite missions. During the operation, they would receive additional personnel and reinforcements.
With twelve days allocated for preparation, Augustus had ample time to secure as many benefits as possible for his unit.
The CMC-250/EX was initially intended to be a flight-capable powered suit, but it was clear the development efforts in that direction had failed. Even though the jetpack could launch both the armor and its wearer into the air, the success rate was as high—or as low—as the failure rate.
After the last brave test pilot died in a crash, the project stalled. Procyon Corporation eventually diverted its R&D budget to the Firebat armor instead.
This 'trimmed down' version of the CMC-250/EX featured a lower-powered jetpack that was easier to control. It could no longer send Marines soaring into the sky but did enhance their sprinting speed, jumping ability, and short-burst explosiveness.
The lead developer behind the project was none other than the Third Platoon’s armor technician, Hiram Feek, who was now standing in front of Augustus. Feek was just over 1.2 meters tall, and the Marines—towering in their powered armor—had to lower their heads considerably to speak with him.
“I’ll compile all of your feedback on the armor and report it to the conglomerate,” said Feek, tucking his notepad under one arm. He had a mop of unruly brown hair and a comically exaggerated handlebar mustache. Despite his appearance, he was a polite and well-mannered gentleman with a calm demeanor.
“If this thing could actually fly, that’d be amazing. Why didn’t you guys consider making the armor lighter—or just slapping a jetpack onto a standard combat suit?” Raynor said, swinging a fist in his new armor.
“Ah! That’s a great suggestion, Mr. Raynor. I’m noting that down,” Feek replied, nodding earnestly as he wrote.
“Any other suggestions?” he asked, glancing around.
“I’ll jot them all down.”
“I’ve got a question,” said Harnack, also clad in the latest suit.
“Go ahead,” said Feek, ready to write.
“Can I pee in this thing?” Harnack asked, grinning sheepishly. “I had too much beer this morning. I’ve never worn this suit before... will it, uh, leak?”
That got a laugh out of everyone, including Augustus. Harnack always had a knack for saying the most ridiculous things.
Feek paused with his pen midair, clearly taking the question seriously. “You don’t have to worry about that. The CMC-250/EX has sealed plating joints. It won’t leak.”
“All right, enough with the jokes,” Augustus said, glancing at the time on his helmet’s HUD. “Back to training, soldiers. It’s 14:00 now—we’ll finish up at 17:30.”
“Once you’re fully comfortable in those suits, we’ll start jump training.”
Under Augustus’s watchful eye, the squads of Third Platoon lined up and began filing out of the armory.
“Boss, Harnack wasn’t joking,” Josephine muttered as he passed by Augustus.
“Shut up. Of course I know,” Augustus growled. “Keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir.” Josephine gave a crooked salute.
Just as Augustus was about to exit the armory, his personal terminal buzzed. Warfield was calling.
“Head to the fortress detention center and bring out a soldier named Lisa Cassidy,” Warfield instructed.
“From now on, she’ll be your platoon’s combat medic.”
Augustus called out to Raynor, who was nearly out the door of the armory.
“Jim, you’re in charge of their training for now. That okay with you? Keep an eye on that hardhead Tychus.”
“You got it,” Raynor replied, full of energy.
Nodding in approval, Augustus stepped out of the armory and climbed into the assigned Foxhound command vehicle. As he drove, he muttered, “Couldn’t the Department of Military Affairs find anyone else?”
“What did she do? I don’t want to be picking up a criminal.”
“Stimulant addiction,” said Warfield over the comms. “Lisa Cassidy was once a Staff Sergeant, but her reliance on stims destroyed her career. She was disciplined three times for abusing adrenaline-based compounds. The Corps’ medics suspect she might also be hooked on crabs—a particularly nasty street drug.”
“That said, Lisa is undeniably an exceptional combat medic. She’s saved dozens of lives—dragged even more off the battlefield under fire.”
“She’s a mess,” Augustus muttered. “Warfield, you know my stance on drugs. They should be banned outright and eradicated from humanity.”
“They are illegal in the Terran Federation too,” Warfield replied. “But the Koprulu Sector has plenty of lawless zones. In war-torn regions, people always find ways to get what they want. Grey-market industries thrive in times of conflict.”
“There’s really no one else who can fill her role?” Augustus asked.
“If I had enough people, I wouldn’t be sending you to get her,” said Warfield flatly.
“Fine,” Augustus sighed. “But I’ll get her clean.”
