bookrandom Chapter 922
Chapter 922
The sea breeze brought back the lingering smell of gunpowder from the past few days. The sun beat down relentlessly on the land that had just been trampled by countless pairs of high-top tactical boots.
"Look at this, it's much more comfortable than back in Normandy, isn't it?"
Lieutenant Colonel Johnson stood on the turret of a Sherman tank that was still running, even with his hands on his hips in a somewhat comfortable manner.
He kicked a piece of unburnt coconut shell with the heel of his boot, looking rather disgusted—it was now like a piece of charcoal.
Behind him lies a spectacular scene that can be described as industrial aesthetics.
Dozens of giant landing craft are opening their massive steel jaws, spitting countless trucks, jeeps, and soldiers onto the beach like sardines.
The engineers were laying the steel mesh used to build temporary runways heavily on the sand, making a series of reassuring clanging sounds.
Hundreds and thousands of green military tents have sprung up from the scorched earth like wild grass in spring. The black smoke from the generators and the aroma of bacon being fried in the makeshift canteen mingled together, making it hard to believe that this was a land where tens of thousands of lives had just been lost. Instead, it looked like a bustling carnival.
"Tell the lads to get to work quickly. I heard the Navy is sending us some frozen beer that was just flown in from Florida tonight."
The lieutenant colonel took a brand-new pair of sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on.
"Don't let me see anyone digging foxholes at that time."
“Sir, but that textbook says…” A young second lieutenant hesitated, still clutching the Army Field Manual in his hand, “that when setting up camp, you must establish three layers of defensive fortifications…”
"Feed that book to your boots, newbie."
The lieutenant colonel impatiently interrupted him, pointing behind him with his thumb to the endless array of carrier-based aircraft.
"Do you think anything could survive in this sky full of our planes and still manage to cross two miles of open ground to bite your ass?"
"He's on vacation, just with a gun."
But his "vacation" didn't last long.
Around noon, the radio at the forward outpost went off the rails.
"This is Hyena Outpost Number Two! Damn it! Who's firing sniper shots?!"
Then came a chaotic burst of gunfire, like beans popping.
A small guerrilla group of only a dozen or so people emerged from a still-smoking hole, like mad dogs.
They weren't even wearing shoes, they were barefoot, and they were holding those old rifles that were probably older than the soldiers' grandfathers. They fired a few shots at the trucks that were unloading cargo from hundreds of meters away.
They missed anyone, only shattering the windshield of a jeep, and a few bullets humiliatingly grazed the handle of a captain's hot coffee cup.
"damn it--!"
The captain slammed the half-empty cup to the ground, his face turning a deep purplish-red in an instant. In this place where even flies had been killed by bombs, this wasn't just a military strike; it was a public humiliation of the 1st Division!
"Grab them! Dead or alive! I'm going to skin them alive!"
Thus began a rather comical chase.
The 2nd Marine Battalion, like a bull with its rear end stabbed, charged forward with a ferocious intent to devour its opponent whole. It dispatched an entire company of soldiers to press the attack.
Several jeeps and half-tracks carrying machine guns kicked up clouds of yellow dust, like a yellowish-brown evil dragon crashing headlong into the edge of the still-smoking forest.
Under the overwhelming firepower, those dozen or so "wild dogs" simply couldn't hold on.
They ran faster than startled rabbits, occasionally looking back to throw a couple of stones or fire a shot in despair, only to be crushed by a hail of machine gun fire from behind, rolling in the mud, leaving behind a few tattered straw hats and two rifles whose bolts couldn't even be pulled back, crying and screaming as they burrowed deeper into the forest.
This kind of chase is so stress-relieving.
In the eyes of the Marines, this was the final chapter of their "cat and mouse" game. Watching those bastards who might have even killed their "Sword of Poseidon" brothers now running away like stray dogs, a gratifying sense of masochism quickly filled everyone's hearts.
"They're done for! They ran that way! That's a dead end!"
The captain leading the team was gesticulating wildly in his open jeep, his helmet long since flown off somewhere in the bumpy ride. "Don't fire! Conserve your ammunition! Run them over! I'm going to skin them alive!"
The wheels kicked up gravel.
The more you investigate, the deeper you go.
Before they knew it, the once open, scorched earth had disappeared, and the surrounding terrain began to become treacherous.
The steep rock walls on both sides looked like scars cleaved by a giant axe, blocking out the already poor sunlight.
The road, which could barely accommodate two trucks, quickly narrowed into a gravel path that could only allow three or four people to walk side by side.
The decoy team was just a few dozen meters ahead. They made a sharp turn, and behind that turn was a narrow pass blocked by several huge boulders.
"Ha! There's no way out now!"
The captain laughed loudly and slammed his fist on the car door.
All the vehicles braked suddenly, their tires screeching against the stone slabs, producing a burnt smell.
Hundreds of heavily armed soldiers jumped off the vehicle with agility and skill.
"Search them! Let's see if they can squeeze into that crevice in the rocks this time!"
The entire company quickly dispersed, aiming their guns at every possible hiding place. They slowly approached the dead-end alley around the corner.
The captain had even figured out how to write it in the report: should he say that they all resisted and were killed, or that they all kowtowed and surrendered?
however.
He froze when the first scout, carrying a Thompson submachine gun, turned the corner.
empty.
One second those people were crying and wailing, and the next second they seemed to have turned into a wisp of smoke and evaporated in this godforsaken place with only one entrance and exit.
"How could that be? Even if they knew how to dig a hole, they would still leave some soil behind, wouldn't they?"
The captain shoved the dazed soldier aside and strode in. He kicked at the rubble, cursing under his breath.
But he didn't continue cursing.
Because that strange, even nauseating, sense of tranquility suddenly descended upon him. It was as if someone had suddenly turned off a switch called "noise".
The valley was not as narrow as I had imagined.
After turning a nearly 90-degree turn around a huge rock formation, there was an unusually spacious platform.
Behind the platform are steep, knife-cut cliffs.
A few beams of sunlight pierced through the narrow crack directly above, shining like spotlights on the flat ground.
There are three shadows.
They weren't the mud-covered, trembling farmers he had imagined, clutching their machetes.
That shadow was too tall.
It doesn't look like a human.
The captain squinted, trying to see more clearly through the sweat that was trickling into his eyes from the edge of his helmet.
But then, he instinctively took a step back, his boot slipping on the stone with a "click".
The light dust subtly shifted.
Something slowly emerged from the shadows of the rocks and stood in the sunlight.
That wasn't anything he'd seen in any West Point textbooks.
There were no bright flags, no fancy badges or embellishments.
Those were three humanoid figures, each over two and a half meters tall, covered entirely in matte black metal... armor?
No, that word isn't even enough to describe that brutal beauty.
The metallic texture was strange; it was neither the rough rolled steel they usually used, nor the smooth stainless steel.
It looks very heavy, like a black hole that can swallow light.
It is not completely fitted to the human body, but has a breastplate with sharp angles like ancient Roman armor, a huge power backpack that looks like two engines hanging directly on the back, and thick black hydraulic transmission pipes that connect the joints of the limbs and move slightly as if breathing even when stationary.
The head is fully armored, without that so-called fragile bulletproof glass visor.
Instead, there is an inverted T-shaped sensor panel that is now completely dark and has no light.
They resemble three sculptures that have not yet been electrified, or three cold coffins from some alien civilization.
The visual impact doesn't come from how complex it is.
On the contrary, it is frighteningly simple. There are no unnecessary handles, rivets, or ventilation grilles on it.
This extreme level of industrial integration created a deep sense of physiological aversion in the American soldiers who were used to seeing their own Sherman tanks covered in scrap metal and sandbags.
It was like a savage who had just crawled out of a mud pit seeing an alien spaceship for the first time.
The captain stood there, stunned, even forgetting to reach for the pistol at his waist.
He opened his mouth, and a "gurgling" sound, similar to the friction of his Adam's apple, came from his throat.
The more than one hundred Marines behind him also stopped.
The more than one hundred rifles swayed erratically as the hurried footsteps came to a halt, their muzzles now hanging low, and no one remembered to raise them to aim.
Those eyes, which were once filled with murderous intent, are now filled with the same word—confusion.
What is this?
Was this prop pushed out of a haunted house at some Disney park?
Or is this some kind of new... oversized tin robot toy created by the Soviets?
The air was deathly silent for a few seconds.
Only one untimely fly buzzed between the helmet and the metal.
Then, a shrill voice broke the absurd standoff.
"Zi-"
It was on the shoulder of the black mecha in the very center that a thick, white, high-temperature, high-pressure steam suddenly spewed out.
It is accompanied by a distinctive heavy mechanical pressure relief sound when a hydraulic device is unlocked.
Then, "Buzz—"
On the inverted T-shaped panels of the three mechs.
At the same moment, three eerie red indicator lights, as pale as congealed blood, lit up, showing no emotion whatsoever.
"system……"
A metallic, electronic whisper, as if synthesized through countless loudspeakers, boomed like thunder in the narrow valley that resembled a coffin shop.
"...Online."