Preparations Before the Great Battle

Wilkins hauled over the crate stencilled "Sniper Rifle" and flipped open the lid, removing two ammo boxes which he magnetised to his front and back. The pair of boxes held sixty clips apiece!

Additionally, he fished out seven or eight infantry grenades and other peculiar gadgets which he affixed to his armour, the total load reaching the limits. His suit grew somewhat bloated.

Finally, he picked up his folded heavy sniper and cradled it lovingly.

As a sniper, he favoured physical rounds unlike those newfangled Johnnies with their flashy energy weapons. But a slight difference in equipage mattered little.

Their beam weapons may forgo clips, only needing three high-power cells. Though the poor sods still lugged about medical kits, intel devices, explosives and whatnot. Similar encumbrance overall.

Glancing back, the rest of the section had tooled up, leaning anxiously against the bulkheads, perspiring rivers as they awaited the Major's orders.

Roughly thirty minutes later, Major Ryan's voice sounded in all their headsets: "Tally ho lads! Section leaders, your designated defence points are the coordinates received. May the Queen grant you fortune this day!"

As his inspirational message ended, the hundred-odd transports vertically lifted off, hovering five metres up before pivoting in place. One by one they nosed into the dozen steep tunnels, bursting onto Krypton's blasted surface seconds later and immediately accelerating to 5 Mach, scattering every which way like debutantes from an unwelcome suitor.

Lacking portholes in the passenger compartment, no sights were visible. Buckled into their jumpseats, the violent rattling suggested a breakneck pace. Wilkins gripped his rifle tightly as if to calm his roiling guts.

Apprehension gripped them all, terror crushing their courage lest a blast sheer their craft to flaming bits. One shell could obliterate them all - a 100 millimetre energy volley would shred them instantly into metallic confetti.

Gut-wrenching minutes passed until the transport noticeably decelerated and descended. Almost concurrently, amber lights flashed brightly within the cramped cabin.

"Brace for landing lads!" Rex unfastened his crash webbing, standing smartly to pound the bulkhead.

With a hiss, the starboard side hatch slid open revealing a two-metre passage and ten-metre drop to smooth terrain suitable for a daring landing.

As interior lights shifted green, Rex leapt out without a second thought. His ruggedised suit effortlessly absorbed the momentum and he landed upright, quickly scanning about with rifle drawn.

His four squadmates had debarked behind as furious orbital weaponsfire crisscrossed the alien sky above in a lethal fireworks display.

"Tally ho lads, situation's gone pear shaped!" Rex suddenly bellowed. "Fetch supply caches and form up leftward on the ridge!"

Bewildered but trusting the veteran's instinct, they double-timed to five nearby pods concurrently dropped.

The sturdy battle armour effortlessly ignored the two hundred stone encumbrance, allowing them to hustle the supply crates at 70 kph pace.

Sprinting over the uneven terrain, Wilkins couldn't resist asking, "Sarge, what exactly did you mean by things being not quite cricket?"

"Have none of you noticed how sparse the aerial barrage seems?" Rex responded.

The squad paused, realisation dawning. Beyond the odd ground based laser and orbital ion cannon, enemy fire from above was frightfully scant.

Farlow pondered, "Umm, could our fleet have gained the upper hand, sir?"

Rex and Nova shouted him down, "Our meagre fifty frigates stationed planetside wouldn't stand a chance against a dedicated strike force!"

As the implications sank in, an uneasy silence descended. They redoubled their pace, ominous foreboding creeping into all their minds.

Their chosen ridge lay only 80 kilometres hence. At their hurtling speed it took a mere five minutes to arrive.

Rex instantly deployed his suit's radar and microdrones, mapping the terrain in 3D detail. After careful study he tagged five spots with their names and forwarded the intel to his HUDs.

"Dig in at your assigned defense points. Deep breaths now, and calm thyselves. We shall rotate rest periods and by God you will sleep, else fatigue will be the end of us."

"Yes sir!"

Wilkins sprinted for his redoubt, surveying the approaches. He carved firing pits and shelters amidst the boulders, finally regaining some poise as they took shape.

Glancing around, Wilkins could see no sign of the rest of the section in the terrain, only his radar and IFF system indicating his mates had taken cover nearby.

Somewhat reassured, he dragged the supply crate into a dugout and sat heavily, sudden pangs of hunger reminding him he'd missed lunch.

Rummaging within, he retrieved a high-calorie liquid combat ration which he squeezed into his mouth after twisting open his helm. One hand now freed, he unfolded his heavy sniper rifle, a 1.5 metre long beast firing 19mm rounds.

With his Longshot braced, nagging worries of an apocalyptic aerial bombardment had Wilkins' suit radar on max power as he eyed the stygian night sky intently.

Long minutes passed uneventfully until boredom set in. Cupping a cigarette to avoid detection, he took occasional drags whilst surveying his surroundings.

Hard to believe he'd been stationed on Krypton for over a year now - over ten combat tours and survival exercises across its striking crimson surface. Its abundance of two rare metals had drawn the avarice of the Cajeat Empire, prompting open war two years back.

Wilkins reflected on Earth's frenetic technological ascent over four centuries to the pinnacle of a Type II civilization, on the cusp of Type III status and mastery of infinite energy. Utilizing third-level energy blocks would ensure their ascendancy to Type III.

Meanwhile the fledgling Type III "Cajeats" led in biosciences but boasted only peer adversaries in weapons research, leaving the conflict evenly matched without clear supremacy.

After all, truly transcendent Type IV civilizations have reduced their reliance on fickle Kronite and Ubatium to mere civilian applications. Their vast energies make the immense costs of interstellar war untenable.

Wilkins sighed, reflecting on Earth's turmoil over resources mere centuries ago. Without mastery of compact fusion reactors, the last scraps of assets had sparked endless wars between the 100+ fractious states. The brink of annihilation had finally birthed the Terran Federation.

And now again, conflict stirred over mere minerals and metals. What outcome awaited this time?

It seemed advanced civilizations across the cosmos endlessly battled over resources, no matter the technological heights attained!

As Wilkins pondered this philosophically whilst finishing his smoke, Rex's yelled warning jolted him to action. "Eyes skyward lads!"

Tossing the butt aside and sealing his helm, Wilkins craned his neck. His display filters adjusted for comfortable viewing, quickly highlighting several rapidly descending objects.

As Nova screamed for caution, his threat analysis suite zoomed in on the fifty metre wide spheres. Pitted surfaces glowed from atmospheric friction, trailing hundreds of metres of plasma.

They were decelerating sharply - no mere meteors then!

Before he could issue orders, Nova concluded: "Those biological shells must be Cajeat insertion pods! The buggers are coming planetside for some up close and personal ultra-violence!"