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The majority of the Elites were quite competent, however, and after some initial confusion, they went to work devising tactics intended to break the square. A gold-armored Elite led the effort. First, rather than allowing the riders to circle the humans in whatever direction they chose, he forced them into a counterclockwise rotation. Then, having reduced collisions by at least a third, the enemy officer chose the lowest pit, the one against which the fixed plasma cannons would be most effective, and drove at it time and time again. Marines were killed, the outgoing fire slackened, and one corner of the square became vulnerable.
Silva countered by sending a squad to reinforce the weak point, ordering his snipers to concentrate their fire on the gold Elite, and calling on the rocket jockeys to provide rotating fire. If the humans’ launchers had a weakness, it was the fact that they could only fire two rockets before being reloaded, which left at least five seconds between volleys. By alternating fire, and concentrating on the Ghosts closest to the hill, the Marine defenders were able to leverage the weapons’ effectiveness.
This strategy proved effective. Wrecked, burned, and mangled Ghosts formed a metal barricade, further protecting the humans from plasma fire, and interfering with new attacks.
Silva lifted his binoculars and surveyed the smoke-laced battle area. He offered a silent thanks to whatever deity watched over the infantry. Hadhe led the assault, Silva would have sent in air support first to pin the Helljumpers down—followed by Ghosts from the west. His opposite number had been trained differently, had too much confidence in his mechanized troops, or was just plain inexperienced.
Whatever the reason, the Banshees were thrown into the mix late, apparently as an afterthought. Silva’s rocket jockeys knocked two of the aircraft out of the air on the first pass, nailed another one on the second pass, and sent the fourth running south with smoke trailing from its failing engines.
Finally, with the gold Elite dead, and more than half of their number slaughtered, the remaining Elites withdrew. Some of the Ghosts remained untouched, but at least a dozen of the surviving ships carried extra riders, and most were riddled with bullet holes. Two, their engines destroyed, were towed off the field of battle.
This is why we need the butte,Silva thought as he surveyed the carnage,to avoid another victory like this one. Twenty-three Helljumpers were dead, six were critically injured, and ten had lesser wounds.
Static burped in his ear, and McKay’s voice crackled across the command freq.“Blue One to Red One, over.”
Silva swung toward the butte, raised his glasses, and saw smoke drift away from a point about halfway up the pillarlike formation. “This is Red One—go. Over.”
“I think we have their attention, sir.”
The Major grinned. It looked more like a grimace. “Roger that, Blue One. We put on a show for them, as well. Hang tight . . . help is on the way.”