Chapter 27: Counterattack and Response!

As Macarius had anticipated, following a brief midday respite, the Zeon forces swiftly adjusted their strategy, initiating intermittent harassing artillery fire and infantry infiltration.

"Bang!"

"Ah?"

With a sharp cry, an unfortunate sentry was struck in the helmet by a sniper. The yell wasn't due to pain, but rather his disbelief—he had only been on duty for two minutes before being sniped and forced to retire from the exercise. He found the outcome utterly heartbreaking.

"Stop yelling! Where's the enemy?" his comrade in the trench asked, carefully scanning the surroundings with a periscope.

"Ask me? I'm dead, you pig-headed fool! Find him yourself!" The sentry gave his companion the middle finger, stripped off his heavy gear and grenade pouches to hand them over, and then walked toward the nearby transport vehicle, helmet in hand. In truth, he hadn't seen the sniper either.

"I see him! Three o'clock!"

"Machine gun, fire!"

"Rat-tat-tat..."

Before long, the poorly concealed sniper was riddled with marking rounds from the M299 machine gun, turning him into a colorful mess. He, too, trudged off the field in defeat.

The Zeon forces had few snipers, and they weren't specialists; they were just cadets with decent marksmanship. Lacking patience and the ability to properly identify targets, they often fired at the first sign of movement. After several one-for-one exchanges, Garma was forced to call off the sniping efforts, shifting instead to sporadic mortar fire to harass the Federation troops.

Unlike their subpar sniping, the Zeon forces' use of artillery was genuinely troublesome for the Federation. Having already mapped out the defensive positions, the mortar fire was pinpoint accurate. The machine gunners who had revealed their positions during the sniping duels were now being pummeled into submission.

"Can’t we find a way to strike back?" John asked, growing anxious as his men were forced to retire one by one, covered in pink marking dye. If things continued this way, he wouldn't even have enough men left to man the trenches.

"Nothing I can do," replied the Red Dragon Team, who were also suffering under the bombardment. The top-down strikes from the 120mm mortars were devastating; the upper hull and turret armor of the Type 61 could not withstand them. Once hit in these areas, they were forced to retire to the sidelines. Furthermore, the shrapnel from the heavy mortars could damage critical components like the tracks—a fatal mistake for any tank. The Red Dragon Team was forced to constantly reposition to avoid being blown to bits.

"If we were on the plains of Earth, I could show you a tank-versus-mortar duel," Macarius said, shaking his head regretfully from inside his tank. "With satellite-guided munitions, I could even hit a three-pointer. But unfortunately, this is a space colony, and it's mountainous terrain."

"Even if I were more capable, I can't take out those mortars without violating the rules, unless you can get the directing staff to authorize an assault!"

"Then at least think of something!"

"Do you have approximate coordinates?"

"Right here!" John handed over a data tablet showing the estimated enemy artillery positions, calculated from the sound of the shots and the time of impact.

"Fine. The trajectory for the marking rounds is too flat to hit them directly, but I might be able to use smoke rounds to try something."

"Great! If you hit them, I'll take you to the best bar in Texas and introduce you to the hottest girl in town!"

"Hey, hey, our squad leader is a minor! I'm calling the military police!" Andrei was met with a chorus of middle fingers. This was the guy who smoked, drank, kept explicit magazines in his nightstand, and had even been scammed out of 500 Heits in an online romance while stationed at the academy. If anyone needed to be dragged off by the military police, it was him.

Back inside the tank, Macarius began adjusting the artillery elevation. Because the maximum angle wasn't enough, he had Yudin drive the vehicle onto a slope, forcibly propping up the barrel.

"Smoke round, load! Range, 9,800!"

The fire control system quickly calculated the crosswind and direction, followed by a beep signaling that the settings were locked in.

"Hit the mark!"

The main gun of the Type 61 roared, and a non-lethal practice smoke round soared into the air, tracing a graceful curve.

"Whiz!"

Garma, who was directing the mortar fire, thought he had misheard. How could he hear the whistle of an incoming shell? The next second, his expression changed, and he shouted into the radio: "Incoming! Take cover!"

The Zeon gunners dove in all directions. Though rushed, their solid training caused them to instinctively adopt the standard anti-artillery posture. Moments later, a plume of white smoke erupted less than sixty meters from the mortar position.

"A warning shot?" his adjutant asked, helping a mud-covered Garma to his feet.

"No, this is a counterattack!" Garma brushed the dirt from his hair. To protect him, his honor guard had shoved him face-first into the mud; his prized purple hair was now the color of sludge. "If not for the restrictions from the directing staff, that guy would have come out to finish us off!"

"The fact that they fired back means they're getting desperate. Cease fire!"

"Cease fire now, Lord Garma?"

"Yes. Reposition, then resume the bombardment!" Despite his disheveled state, Garma smiled. He had finally goaded the enemy into a moment of agitation; now, he could exploit it for a counterattack. "They are desperate, but they lack the equipment to effectively neutralize us. That's why we must keep firing. Aside from the ammunition reserved for the night, fire everything we have!"

Back at the Federation line, after Macarius fired, everyone stood up and craned their necks to peer into the distance, though they saw nothing. The Zeon shelling had stopped, much to the infantry's delight—if they weren't in the middle of an exercise, they would have rushed over to hoist the tank crew on their shoulders in celebration.

But shortly after, the Zeon forces responded with an even more intense bombardment, forcing everyone to cower and abandon their depth, huddled in the front line just to survive the shelling.

Even worse, Red Dragon Three took a hit. A 120mm mortar shell landed just to the front-left of the tank, and the directing staff ruled that the tracks had been damaged by shrapnel, necessitating immediate field repairs. The crew had no choice but to jump out, swing their heavy hammers, and replace the damaged track segments.

"It's alright," someone muttered. "At least they won't attack before dinner."