The objective wasn't impressive. It was a barren hill. Nothing grew upon it apart from grass. There was no structure built there, no trees aloft its top. As far as we knew, there was no significance to it in terms of beauty or resources. It wasn't strategically important. This was purely an assignment given to us by capricious masters who were trying to bend us into the shape they desired.

We approached it slowly and quietly, keeping the hill between us and the doorway to our ready room. The fireteam was spread out, twenty feet apart as we advanced. This was basic tactics. If we were spotted or there were mines in the area, then it was less likely we'd all die immediately that way.

There were no signs that the enemy was there, but there rarely were. That is, until the first shot was fired.

War breaks people. No one is the same after surviving a firefight, let along continued engagements. The knowledge that any moment might be your last changes you. Some become thrill seekers, addicted to the adrenaline rush gained in the heat of combat. They charge into engagements fearlessly, almost as if seeking death out. Others go the other way, sitting in a corner rocking back and forth slowly, unwilling to do anything in case it brings danger.

Personally, I see myself as a realist. I tell myself that if it happens, it happens. I arrogantly claim there is no way I'll go meekly into the night and instead, as 'Dylan Thomas' recommended, I plan to 'Rage hard, against the dying of the light.' However, in all honesty, it is far more likely that I'll die, not even hearing the bullet that killed me.

As the incline became steeper, Sarge held up a fist, and we waited while Robinson scouted ahead. An experienced hunter, the country boy moved far more silently than the rest of us, slipping soundlessly to the crest of the hill.

He peered over the edge, and then after a few long seconds, motioned for us to move up to his position.

The team crawled through the dirt for the last twenty feet on our hands and knees, rifles held in firing hands. Eventually, we reached the crest of the hill and peered over.

Below us was the rolling scrubland, which we'd seen on the tablet during Thomas's fatal excursion. There were no Orcs in sight, nothing out of the ordinary at all. Sarge passed a set of binoculars to me and my glasses clinked upon them as I pushed them up close. Using binoculars, when you were short-sighted, sucked royally. There was no way I was removing my spectacles during a mission, though, not when the enemy could emerge at any moment.

The magnified picture allowed me to inspect the scene in more detail. I could see the door to our ready room, from there, I followed tracks in the dirt until I came across the shattered remains of Thomas's body.

Replaying the prior engagement through my mind, the enemy rockets had come from the west. That was where I concentrated my search. Initially, all the terrain looked the same to me. Light sandy dirt broken only by sporadic clumps of grass or shrubs scattered every few feet.

Upon close examination, however, there were areas where the color of the dirt seemed slightly different. Each of these was devoid of plant life. It was probably just my imagination or a natural effect, but I nudged Robinson all the same.

I pointed to the area as I whispered. "Is there something odd about the dirt patches there?"

Robinson took the binoculars, "I'll glass it."

Minutes passed while I sat impatiently waiting for his assessment. He was a strange one, volatile socially. The man had the patience of a saint when given a task to do. As a soldier, he was fantastic. Fearless and efficient. As a human being, let's just say the jury is out and leave it at that.

"There are a lot of people dug in down there. I reckon. They've done a good job, but the subsoil is slightly lighter than topsoil." He finally indicated, passing the binoculars along to Westcott.

I waited for orders. Sarge had obviously heard him. After a few seconds, the old man shrugged slightly. "Robinson, you keep watch. You’re our best shot, but don’t fire unless I give the order. Our mission is to hold this hill, nothing else. We don't take risks, and we're not starting a firefight if we can avoid it. If one occurs, however, we will show those greenskins why Marines command respect wherever they go."

Then he moved back from the edge, "Westcott, give Robinson the glasses. You and Peters are with me; we're going to prepare some surprises for the Orcs."

Sarge walked a short distance from the hill's brow and then started distributing claymores from his backpack. "Deploy these across the area directly behind us, the trigger will be down by those rocks at the bottom of the hill. Westcott, you're doing the left, Peters you've got the right."

I took a half-dozen mines from the man. The M18 Claymore was easily recognizable with the words' Front Towards Enemy' embossed on its front. As mines went, I liked the Claymore. It was simple to deploy and carried only a small risk that you'd kill yourself doing so. We were setting the mines up to be remotely triggered, so they'd be inert until Sarge tripped the remote control. While inert, you could literally shoot the damn things and nothing would happen.

That was just as well; when a claymore exploded, it made a mess. A single Claymore in the right place was enough to devastate an infantry group. When detonated, an explosive charge showered the area in front of it with seven hundred metal balls. If you were caught in its kill zone, then you'd be reduced to red mist instantly. Even as much as two hundred and fifty meters away, you'd be lucky to escape serious injury.

By the time the mines had been placed, and the wires run down to the control position near the hill's base, it had gone mid-day. The clock was ticking down on our occupancy of the hill. The mission required us to hold the position for twenty-four hours. If things went to plan, we wouldn't need the mines, and the Orcs wouldn't even realize we were here. Perhaps the mission would be completed without a single shot being fired.

Robinson and I took the first watch. Dug in down there, the Orcs remained concealed. It was just a matter of waiting them out. That was just as boring as it sounds. Taking watch is an awful activity; you can't make any sound or concentrate on anything else. You just have to 'watch.' In actuality, it's impossible to concentrate for more than a short while. No matter how hard you try, your mind wanders, and you rely upon your subconscious to scream a warning if it detects any movement.

It's like driving a car. You know you should be concentrating when you're doing it. After all, your life depends upon doing it well. Despite that, nine times out of ten, you'll reach a destination and know in your heart of hearts that you don't actually remember most of the journey. Your autopilot took over while your mind wandered onto other things. You could have died during that time, and you'd probably never have even realized it was coming.

Eventually, Sarge and Westcott took their shift, relieving us. I settled down to read, attempting to shove what was happening on the plain below out of my mind. The minutes drifted by. Accumulating slowly into hours.

As time ticked down, it was harder to concentrate on my book. I found my attention frequently wavering away from the story and towards our situation. My nerves were frayed. The continued stress of not knowing if we'd soon be in a firefight preyed on me. Ten feet away, Robinson had found his own way to deal with the stress. He rested with eyes closed, his head resting on his helmet as if it was a feather pillow. I envied him, I had no idea how he could be so blase about our predicament.

"Get over here," Sarge hissed suddenly.

Instantly Robinson's eyes flicked open. Like a predator, he rose quickly and stalked silently to the brow of the hill.

Sarge had focused the binoculars on something in the distance. Peering in that direction, a flicker of movement caught my attention. A huge Orc had clambered out of the ground and was shaking dirt from its body. Squinting, I tried to make out details, but everything was just a blur to me at this range.

"What's going on," I whispered.

"One enemy combatant," Sarge replied in a monotone voice, concentrating on picking out the facts. "Looks to be wearing some sort of armored suit. Wait, there's more movement, another coming out."

The two little stick figures were comically small to me, like ants. I waited patiently for Sarge to give more details. Instead, he handed me the binoculars. "What do you make of this?" He enquired.

The magnification helped hugely. Instead of tiny images, it was now as if I stood no more than fifty feet away. On the plain below us, an argument was playing out.

A hulking greenskin in some sort of robotic suit stood opposite a short female. His lips curled back in anger and spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed at her. The suit looked crude and ill-fitting, lacking the lines and insignia I’d have expected upon military equipment. It’s arms looked more suited to a forklift than as a weapon of war.

The statuesque Orc woman looked unimpressed with his fury. She stood in the storm of his words, speaking calmly. Her face may have remained impassive, but her wild mane of long black hair whipped back and forth in the wind like a caged animal. Seeming to express her frustration.

Despite the two sharp tusks jutting out from her jaw, It was impossible for me not to notice the feral beauty in her appearance. This woman was no teenage boy's fantasy from a pulp fiction novel; her practical black leather clothing revealed little of her body and showed she was all business.

Her verbal opponent lost patience with their discussion, and a huge mechanical fist lashed out, backhanding her. When she rose back to her feet, bright green blood coated her mouth. She spat, clearing her mouth before moving back in front of the man.

There was no further discussion; mechanized fingers caught her around the throat and effortlessly lifted her from her feet. Her hands struggled against the metal fingers fruitlessly for several long seconds. Then, she stopped moving, and her limp body was thrown aside as the chieftain called the rest of his troops out of their hiding places.

Orcs burrowed out from their hiding places. A half dozen or so of them moved to stand near their leader as he spoke.

"Robinson, their leader. Can you make the shot?" Sarge asked, obviously reluctant to let the Orcs dictate the coming engagement.

Robinson didn't reply. He'd been sighting down the Arachnia Sniper Rifle the entire time. Depressing the trigger, he held it while the power meter on the guns side ticked up to full. Then his cheeks puffed out a gentle breath, and then he fired. A blue bolt of energy surged from the gun. It impacted the leader's torso knocking him to the floor. Blue lightning sparked across his metallic armor, slowly fading away.

He didn't move at first, and for a second, I thought that was it, he was dead. Then his hands twitched, and he pushed himself to his feet.

Robinson fired again. The beam caught the leader full in the chest, driving the Orc to his knees. He struggled for a second to keep his balance, then rose to his feet. He glared in our direction, and it was obvious that this time he had seen the shot fired.

"Mateni Kabeh!" He roared. A split second later, his men echoed that cry. My nanobots translated instantly, and I knew this meant 'Kill them all.'

Sarge was nonplussed, "Spread out wider. Start picking off the unarmored men first, they're moving faster. When I give the word we retreat past the claymores."

The garbled war cries of the incoming enemy could be heard even at this distance. The enemy force flowed forward across the open ground towards us, this was no orderly advance. They flowed in a ragged line, marching mechanically towards us. They weren't stupid and had fanned out over the area as they rushed us, but they were exposed and vulnerable.

We had the high ground, I told myself that we should be able to take them. Deep down, I knew that was false bravado. The confidence of their movements made me doubt our chances.

Sarge was calm in the face of their blood-curdling screams."Keep your heads down and remember we're Marines. No ugly greenskins are going to put us down!"

"Oorah!" Robinson and I shouted with gusto. I noticed Westcott hadn’t responded, the blood had drained from his face. He looked terrified.

"Can you make out details about the hardware they've got?" Sarge enquired of me, bringing me back to focus. Now was not the time to worry about the kids feelings.

"Not from this range, the report did say that Orcs only have limited technology through."

"Alright, nothing has changed then."

Robinson’s rifle fizzled beside me as he continued to fire upon the advancing Mechs. Sadly having little effect. "What I'd give for some precision-guided whoop-ass about now," Robinson commented as he lined up another shot. I nodded in agreement. An air-strike would have taken care of this situation quite neatly.

With a whoosh of noise, smoke rose from the back of the mechanized Orcs, and small rockets flew towards us. Icy fingers of fear snatched at my guts as I watched them rise into the sky.

"Keep your positions," Sarge commanded. If Westcott heard him, he didn't obey. His muscles strained as he sprinted away from the approaching Orcs.

He hadn't gone more than a few yards when the rockets landed, they missed us by thirty feet or more. The ground still shook through and shrapnel from its blast flew through the air like deadly hail. Robinson grunted as a piece embedded into his shoulder, and a firm clunk resounded next to my head as a piece dug into the ground firmly.

I heard a wheeze and turned. Westcott had collapsed to his knees behind me. He'd been standing when the rockets hit, and multiple pieces of shrapnel studded his body. Terrified eyes looked towards me as he fell to the floor, bleeding. I started to rise to help him, but Sarge spoke up.

"He's already dead, kid. It's time to look after the living."

I looked at Westcott. His chest was still rising and falling slowly. He was alive, but I knew it was only a matter of time now. I wasn't a surgeon, and we had enemies incoming. There was nothing I could do.