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SCL Chapter 36: Chain of Command
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 02:27:33 +0000 UTCAfter Augustus illuminated the dark corridor with the searchlight mounted on his Gauss rifle, Raynor and the others followed him down the corridor. Thanks to the night-vision mode of the HUD on their visors, combined with the beam of their spotlights, their visibility wasn’t impaired despite the darkness.
What they saw was unusual: six marines were standing motionless in the middle of the corridor. As Augustus and his squad entered, the marines said nothing—just turned to stare at them, soullessly, like husks.
“Mother of Mary,” Benjamin muttered. “We’ve got ourselves a bunch of deserters.”
“Maybe we should hide here too,” Josephine blurted out.
“Who’s your commanding officer?” Augustus studied the marines. He quickly noticed that none of them bore the wolf-head insignia of the 33rd Ground Assault Division on their shoulders or chest plates—a key visual difference he had previously noted between resocialized and regular troops.
Given the circumstances, Augustus began to understand: these were likely resocialized soldiers without a commanding officer. Without orders, they stood idle, like machines in standby mode.
“I’m Sergeant Augustus Mengsk. You can verify my identity through the ID search function on your internal armor interface.”
As he spoke, Augustus lowered his visor to let them see his face.
One of the marines stared at him for a few seconds, then raised his hand in a flawless regulation salute. Through the external speaker on his helmet, he finally said, “Reporting, sir. Our commanding officer was Second Lieutenant Jennard.”
“Where is Lieutenant Jennard now?” Augustus asked.
“He... he was killed in action,” the marine hesitated, as if the very notion defied some ingrained programming.
“In the absence of your commanding officer, shouldn’t resocialized soldiers follow the orders of the only remaining officer present?” Augustus asked calmly, coaxing the answer he wanted from the marine.
The marine hesitated, thinking it over for several seconds—so long that Harnack, standing behind Augustus, began grumbling impatiently.
“Yes, sir. Squad Two, Platoon Four, Company One, 312th Battalion, requesting your command!”
“Very good. Your name, rank, and position,” Augustus said with a smile.
“Reporting, sir! Answering the question: Lared, Private First Class,” the Marine snapped to attention.
“Private Lared, I order you to lead Second Squad and follow me. Be ready to obey my next command at any time.”
“Yes, sir!” the Marines responded in unison with a sharp salute.
“Let’s move.” Augustus waved his hand and led the stunned Raynor and the others out of the secure corridor.
Augustus’s squad continued advancing down the commercial street and quickly caught up to the two squads ahead. It wasn’t because Augustus was in a hurry to reach them—they had simply run into a barricade that completely blocked the street, halting their progress.
In typical Kel-Morian cobbled-together style, the barricade had been constructed from two double-decker buses, concrete blocks, and miscellaneous scrap. The abandoned materials and steel plates clogged the already narrow road completely.
The buses still had their headlights on and engines rumbling. Judging from the setup, the barricade had only been built in the few hours since the Federal Army entered Polk’s Pride’s urban district.
Roughly ten Kel-Morian soldiers were taking cover behind the barricade, firing at the Federal troops. Most of them were auxiliary labor militia with weak electromagnetic rifles—far inferior to the Federation’s E- and C-series coilguns. Still, a few Kel-Morian fighters were armed with grenade launchers and RPGs.
Augustus watched as a charging Marine was struck by a grenade—his entire lower leg blown off. He collapsed to the ground, screaming and writhing in agony. The two squads up front were pinned down by the suppressive fire, unable to advance. They left behind several corpses and one wounded soldier crying out for help as they fell back.
It was at that moment—about 600 meters from the barricade—that Augustus and his squad ran into the retreating units.
“Perfect timing,” one of the squad leaders said, clearly relieved. He pointed toward the barricade. “I’m Corporal Hope. Maybe we can take that position together.”
“I don’t think it’s worth more casualties,” Augustus replied, eyeing the barricade ahead. His armor’s rangefinder had already calculated the distance. “That defensive position is meaningless. The entire block is interconnected.”
“And if this road’s blocked, we can just take another—like A-219 to the left or A-221 on the right.”
Hope was briefly speechless.
“You’ve got a point,” he muttered after a pause. “But what about the Kel-Morians over there?”
Although he didn’t know Augustus personally, the corporal instinctively felt that this man would have an answer.
“Here’s my plan,” Augustus said. “You and your squad will stage a frontal feint while mine circles around and attacks from behind.”
“How exactly are we supposed to feint? We’ve already lost plenty of men,” Hope asked.
“You just need to show yourselves a few hundred meters away and keep firing to draw their attention,” Augustus explained. “Any more questions?”
Hope shrugged. “You’re the boss, sir.”
Since Federal Marine armor didn’t carry visible rank insignias, and because Augustus’s group included several resocialized soldiers—clearly more than a standard squad—his confident tone and commanding presence gave off the unmistakable air of an officer. Naturally, Hope assumed he was one.
“I’m no officer. Same as you—just a corporal,” Augustus replied.
Raynor, Harnack, and the others chuckled over the comms.
With that, Augustus led his squad and the resocialized troops into a nearby department store. They crossed the lobby and exited on the other side, emerging into A-221 Commercial Street.
Augustus still led from the front as he advanced with his squad.
As he moved, Augustus mentally counted the number of stores they passed, estimating the distance. According to the pedometer on his HUD display, he had already covered about 700 meters when he entered a fashion boutique on the left. He walked straight past the counter and the collapsed clothing racks, arriving at the shop’s front door facing A-220 Commercial Street.
From this position, looking back down A-220 from the direction they came, Augustus could now see the rear of the enemy barricade. Over a dozen Kel-Morian soldiers had their backs turned, fully focused on firing forward.
"Harnack, stay right behind me. Zander, get your grenades ready. Second fire team, switch to grenade launchers—use them to deal with the Kel-Morian Rippers," Augustus ordered. "Ryk, take out their commander. Lared, once I give the signal, you and your men charge."
“Understood?”
“Copy that,” came the replies over the channel.
“You got it, boss!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Move out!”
In just a few breaths, Augustus stepped through the boutique’s front door and into A-220 Commercial Street, with eighteen fully armed marines following closely behind.
At this point, Augustus was only a hundred meters from the Kel-Morian barricade. The sound of his powered boots striking the brick pavement stood out even amidst the rattling of electromagnetic gunfire—drawing immediate attention from the enemy.
Startled, the Kel-Morian troops whirled around and opened fire on Augustus’s squad—but they were already too late.
“Zander!” Augustus shouted.
With the aid of his powered armor’s servo system, Zander hurled two C-54 electromagnetic grenades toward the barricade, both landing about 80 meters away. The grenades exploded with a flash of bluish pulses, instantly blasting several Kel-Morian labor conscripts into the air. Blood and shredded flesh rained down on their comrades.
In the first volley of Gauss rifle fire from Augustus and his men, all the unarmored labor conscripts went down. Only two Rippers—wearing pitch-black powered armor—remained standing and returned fire. Bullets clanged off Augustus’s armor harmlessly, merely adding more scratches to its battle-worn surface.
Then came a thunderous boom. A grenade fired by Raynor struck one of the Rippers square in the gut. The explosion tore through the abdominal plate, shredding the steel armor. Molten, twisted metal seared and mangled the Ripper’s insides.
At nearly the same moment, sniper Ryk took the shot. His first bullet left a white streak on the remaining Ripper’s helmet, staggering him. The second shot from the naval marksman punched clean through the helmet, ending the Ripper’s life instantly.
One Kel-Morian conscript, both legs blown off by a grenade, lay screaming on the ground. Blood poured from the stumps, and he would bleed out in minutes.
Augustus stepped up to him, frowning at the soldier’s guttural howls and the burning hatred in his eyes. Then, without a word, he shot the man through the chest. A gaping, grisly hole opened in the soldier’s torso, and the screaming stopped abruptly.
The battle had ended in just a few short minutes—many of Augustus’s earlier tactical arrangements weren’t even needed.
Soon after, the corporal from before, Hope, arrived with his own troops to link up with Augustus.
