Mark “Coop” Cooper

Location: Unnamed Planet, Contested System, Unaligned Space

“Ammo. We need ammo!” the call came over the net as Coop laid down suppressive fire on a ridge. A couple Confed marines were getting uppity, so he showed them the error of their ways.

“Private . . .”

“On it chief!” the grunt working the faber was pulling double duty.

They didn’t have the men to spare to pull guys off the line to run ammo back and forth to the forward positions, and those guys were going through rounds like there was no tomorrow. Because there probably wasn’t going to be. So, not only was the PVT running the faber while Coop protected him, but he was making balls-to-the-walls runs all over the place to rearm the people who were keeping their perimeter from being overrun. There were some shitty jobs out there, but that had to be one of the shittiest.

Coop grimaced as the young man started mag-locking bandoliers of ammunition to his scales. Then, he started throwing stuff over his shoulders, and took two huge crates of power packs under his arms. By the time he was ready to roll, he looked like a walking ammo dump.

“LT, we need covering fire from zero to ninety, ammo run,” Coop sent the transmission.

“Roger,” the young officer’s voice was stressed, but at least he was confident Coop wasn’t trying to stab his company in the back.

Coop had access to all the old command net functions, he just wished he didn’t. It was a massive clusterfuck, and the Commonwealth grunts were only holding on with their fingertips. With the SGT down, Coop was the only legit heavy weapon system left beside some plasma-tipped slug throwers. Whether the LT knew it or not, this fight was getting closer and closer to done.

“We’ll either die or surrender; nothing in between,” Coop knew the score, and he tried not to think about anything else. Wandering thoughts would just kill him quicker.

“Send him,” the order came back, and the PVT didn’t wait. He took off like a rabbit spooked by a gun shot.

Coop watched him go, dropping artillery on some pre-established coordinates where Confed’s liked to poke their heads up from. He was already running low on the big artillery shells, but the faber didn’t have time to churn out anything but rounds for the grunts.

he wondered.

In olden times, barrels used to have to be changed out on machine guns and other weapons if they were used too much. That normally wasn’t a consideration with modern guns, because the material could survive orbital re-entry, and magnetic accelerators instead of chemical explosives cut down on the rough treatment of the metal. Still, throwing so many rounds in such a short time was going to tax even modern equipment’s structural integrity. Coop was still waiting for the first call that a barrel had blown. They had a small stockpile, but when the first one hit, he expected an avalanche of requests.

There was nearly a continuous rain of fire outbound from the small settlement. A fire-team of reserves was running around like chickens with their heads cut off to reinforce the perimeter at weak points, but aside from the ammo runner, that was the only movement. Everyone else was getting small in their hole, or shooting at the enemy. There was no third option.

Coop urged the PVT on as he ran through an exposed part between two buildings.

He made it, rounded the corner, and . . . crack poof! There was a sound like the universe itself crying in protest, followed by a poof of red mist from the corner the kid had just turned. Half a second later, what was left of a helmeted head hit the dirt.

Coop was really starting to like that kid.

“Sir, runner is down. I say again, runner is down,” every part of Coop’s training told him to go to the runner, but he had his orders.

If he left the faber, the enemy would take advantage and they’d be as good as dead.

“Got it. Second squad, send a member to the following rally point and grab the ammo,” the LT was on it.

“Roger,” Coop listened to the SGT’s response through the command net.

“Moving. It fifty meters to . . . ahh!” the fed cut out, and Coop toggled to medical status.

Another grunt was down; yellow, not black, so he was still alive. Judging by the readings, he wasn’t moving anywhere quick.

“Can anyone get to the ammo?” the LT yelled, his composure cracking.

“We’re pinned, sir!”

“I think I can . . . fuck . . . no I can’t.”

“Are you shitting me? I’m not getting out of my hole unless it’s to hitch a ride home.”

“Lock it up,” the NCOIC finally stepped on the chatter. “That’s a negative, sir. All forces are occupied and pinned down.”

“Chief?” the LT asked.

“I mean . . .” Coop let it hang there. Everyone knew the implications. “I can try my active cammo. Maybe they won’t see me leave my position, and I can get back before they notice.”

“I don’t care if you project a digital stripper flashing her titties to occupy their attention. I need ammo, now!” one of the SGT’s added his colorful commentary.

“I’m red.”

“Me too.”

“How about you all stop talking and bring me something to shoot!” rifle fire and the deep thud of heavy rounds impacting dirt followed the last transmission.

“Do it, Chief,” the LT gave a heavy sigh. They all knew how this would really turn out.

Coop didn’t rush right in to do it. That’s what the Confeds were looking for. He really wished they had some portable mortars. If they did, he could set them on auto-fire and convince the enemy he was still here. They’d figure out the shells were smaller, but it would buy him a minute. That’s all he needed. He repositioned, using the building as cover to obscure activating his cammo.

He’d told the engineers who built this bucket of bolts that the camouflage wasn’t good. He told them it was shit compared to the old MOUNTs. It didn’t translate motion well on this new model. There wasn’t enough power going to them, or the paint wasn’t polymorphic enough. He wasn’t an engineer; he didn’t know the terminology. All he knew was, in training, he could always tell when a MOUNT was on the move.

“Stupid, penny pinchers,” he grumbled as he activated the cammo, gave it a second, and moved to emerge from a different position. That would keep him from getting a next-gen slug in the brain. He was conscious the enemy MOUNTs were still out there, biding their time, and looking for a good opportunity to punch his clock.

He stayed low and sprinted out of cover. The ammo wasn’t that far, and he covered the space in a few seconds. He skidded around a turn between the buildings, full-on grabbed the PVT’s body with all the ammo still strapped to him, and threw up debris on his pivot. He didn’t run the whole way to the front lines. He got with about twenty meters, dug his heels in, and underhanded the body.

It was borderline desecrating a corpse, but no one gave a shit. They just wanted the ammo. It didn’t matter how it arrived. With the PVT’s body airborne, Coop pushed his actuators to the limit. He took the turn tight enough his clipped the nearest building. It slowed him down a half second, but the building got the raw end of that deal.

he closed in on the faber that was still spitting full magazines of ammo into a nearby crate.

He was only ten meters away when the round hit the Commonwealth’s most valuable piece of equipment on the battlefield. The shield didn’t do shit to stop the attack. It was a next-gen slug. Coop had used the same rounds to kill alien bosses back on earth, and their shielding was a hell of a lot better than the squad-level gear they were operating with.

The machine went up into a million pieces, and the explosion of the round passing through the equipment, and into the ground, put Coop on his ass. Not for too long. He crab-walked behind cover, and tried to get a back azimuth on where the round had come from. The data was sketchy, but he sent a parting gift anyway.

“Sir,” he gulped. “The faber is gone. Without my extra shielding it didn’t stand a . . .”

“I know,” the LT sounded very tired all of a sudden. “Weapons free, chief. Pick your targets, and act as a mobile reserve.”

The former reserve was already fully committed, and judging by the increase in fire, it wasn’t going to be moving anytime soon. The Confeds knew the faber was down, and were pushing to seize the initiative. They might just take it.

Coop scoped out the battlefield, looking for opportunity, when something caught his attention. “Mounts at ten o’clock high, coming down the mountainside!” he screamed, and sprinted off in that direction.

He counted at least two, but that was enough to cut their lines like it was a ticker-tape parade. If that happened, they were fucked. The fat lady would sing, and they’d be six feet under.

Coop ran to meet them head on. It was the only thing he could think of to do.