Days of Burning, Days of Wrath

by Tom Kratman

  Khan sighed, looked away, and then returned her gaze to the admiral’s face. She shook her head slowly, then said, “A day, say most of them. But a surprising number of the barbarians down below refuse to answer. Some have answered and said, ‘no.’ How did we sink so low that the ground-dwellers down below can just tell us, ‘no’?”

  I know the answer to that, thought Marguerite, and so do you.

  Khan, female, not normally the boldest among the Peace Fleet’s officers, still found it within her to ask, “What are we going to do now, High Admiral? The Taurans are gone as a power. The Federated States hate us beyond words. The Spanish-speakers will probably follow Balboa’s lead from now on.”

  “We still have the Zhong,” Wallenstein said, firmly, casting an adoring gaze at the Xingzhen. “As long as we have them then we are not without friends.”

  “I am with you, as always, baobei,” the empress assured the admiral.

  Marguerite nodded gratefully. Then, turning to Esmeralda she said, “Esma, honey, go find Commander Khan, husband, and tell him I’d like to be briefed on the security down below at his earliest convenience.”

  “Yes, High Admiral,” said the girl, standing and hurrying from the room.

  Condor One, Over the Mar Furioso

  A small string forward of the cockpit told Leon something of the wind direction and speed. It was quartering, from ahead, and not too bad. But, with every meter the Condor descended, the nature of the ground got a little more plain . . . and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like his options, either.

  Try to pick up a thermal? A quick glance around suggested not, and pretty strongly. Extrude and crank up the jet for another go-round? No, noisy and, frankly, we’re already too obvious. Another patch of ground. No, too low. So all I can reasonably do is  .  .  .

  “Hang the fuck on; this is going to suck Meg cock!”

  The glider touched down, Rather, it should have. Instead of touching down, however, Leon discovered that “solid ground” was, in fact, “tall grass.” The glider went past the heads of that and kept on sinking. Indeed, it sank deep enough to completely obscure any view of the ground. Then it hit bottom and bounced several feet in the air.

  It didn’t bounce up evenly, though. Instead, the portside wing came up a lot higher then the starboard one. That meant that, when they came down again, the starboard one hit the ground, first and hard. The Condor began a clockwise spin.

  “Shiiitttt!” screamed Cherensa and Leon, together, as the world spun around them. Leon had a vision of the starboard wing snapping off, and then they were back down in the grass, acting for all the world like a very large lawn mower, but spewing great swaths of grass in all directions, rather than through a chute.

  “Ffffuuuckckck!!!” Leon screamed, as the Condor bounced up again, this time letting the port wing down. It sheered off, too, leaving them wingless but at least killing their spin . . . in one direction.

  “Ohjesuschrist!” Cherensa managed to pray—it was clearly a form of prayer—as the glider’s tail hit ground and broke off about a meter from the end. All things considered this would have been a non-event, except that the main body was descending as the remains of the tail bounced upward. When that main body hit it was nearly nose on.

  Fortunately, the manner of building the things, thick foam over carbon fiber and resin, allowed the nose to absorb the impact. The glider hung in that position, almost vertical, as if deciding which way to fall. It finally did fall, and backward, so that its belly ended up more or less on the ground with the canopy facing roughly skyward.

  After several long moments of silence, Leon asked, “T-t-t-Tribune, i-i-is there an-an-an-ny ru-ru-rule against ha-ha-having-

  ing-ing hav-ing having . . . having a fucking drink?”

  “None that comes to mind, Leon. Just one though; just one.”

  Two and Three had a somewhat easier time of it, Two coming in uneventfully and Three careening into a hidden ditch before coming to a complete stop. Leon was still choking down his one permitted drink as he raced for Three, Cherensa double-timing for Two.

  It was the pilot of Three, Moya, who first voiced the common reason for jubilation. “They didn’t blast us out of the sky. Right up until we landed I was sure we were all dead men. But . . .”

  “Yeah, I didn’t let myself think about it,” said Leon. Despite—or because of—the one drink, his voice was steady now. “Come on now, out we go. Cut some camouflage for the Condor then follow my trail to One. Give me the extra pack; I’ll carry it.”

  Moya’s passenger, Carrasco, undid his restraining harness and leaned down. When he straightened up again, he had a pack frame to which were strapped a number of the components of a demolition kit, to include a very large shaped charge. Leon took it, pulled the straps over his shoulders, and began to trot away.

  Both Moya and Carrasco then unloaded their packs and personal weapons, a suppressed submachine gun for the former and a suppressed sniper rifle in Hush fifty-one for the latter. Within a few minutes they had cut enough brush and grass to cover their glider from casual observation. Then, the pair of them headed in the direction Leon had followed. By the plan, their extra equipment would be there but Leon and Cherensa would be forward, reconnoitering the target.

  “Nothing,” said the tribune, looking through his field glasses at what appeared to be the entrance. “No sign of life. Well, no sign of recent life anyway. And not even a fence around it.”

  “You figure it’s automated?” Leon asked. “Maybe no fence because it’s mined?”

  “Mined? That’s not how I’d bet it, no. Why not? Because mines especially have to be fenced. As for manned or automated, my gut tells me the latter, but we’re going to treat is as the former.

  “Go get the others. I want the M-26 machine gun, the demo kit, the flame thrower, the sniper rifle, the Pound submachine gun, and two F-26s. Also the radio.”

  “Roger,” said Leon, who them snaked backward on his belly until he was out of sight of the white—and that’s a little strange, too; why white?—domed tower. It wasn’t much of a tower, either, at about five meters across and maybe eight high.

  Leaving the M-26 light machine gun and the sniper rifle in overwatch from his previous observation point, Cherensa and the remaining three men, one bearing the demo and another the flamethrower, crawled on their bellies through the grass, long and wild, that grew in the flatland between their observation post and the UEPF tower. Leon trailed a little, partly for carrying the pack frame loaded with demolitions and partly because he couldn’t help himself, every minute or so, from probing the ground ahead of himself with a stick he’d cut and sharpened.

  About halfway to the UEPF’s position, they came upon a small stream, running low and with tall grass to either side. Thought Cherensa, while waiting for the glider pilot, If this goes where it looks like it does, it will get us close to rush range for the entrance. And then fucking Leon can stop probing for the mines that aren’t there.

  Two minutes after the tribune and two of his men reached the stream, Leon showed up, looking apologetic. Before he could say a word about being slow, Cherensa hushed him and explained the new plan. Then, without another word, crouching low, the men began to splash their way—splashing at little as possible, actually—up the foot-deep stream. Finally, they came to a one vehicle − width bridge, from which a trail led directly to the tower, to the left, and off somewhere into the interior, to their right.

  “Shaped charge ready?” asked Cherensa of Leon.

  Leon was already taking off the pack. He leaned it against the stream’s steep bank, then knelt down in the water to undo the straps holding the shaped charge on. It was a twenty-kilogram version, with what someone on Old Earth, centuries prior, might have called “Octogen.” Explosives are ordinarily fairly cheap for the work they do, but the twenty kilos in this shaped charge had cost the Republic on the order of fifteen hundred legionary drachma. That was about eight times a private’s monthly screw.

  Th
ere was also a covered ring around the diameter of the shaped charge, fixed with the best adhesive the legions could find. Leon slung his rifle across his back, checked that the two fuse igniters, their fuses, and the nonelectric blasting caps were all in place, removed the cover of the ring, and announced, “Ready.”

  Cherensa spared a glance for each man. “On three,” he said, then began counting, “One . . . two . . . three; Leon and Moya, go, boys, go!”

  Like gazelles, the men fairly erupted from cover. Legs churning, each expecting to be mowed down like weeds by the presumed defenders. Thus, each was totally shocked to reach the door to the tower unharmed.

  They’d rehearsed this part a thousand times over the previous several years. While Moya scanned left, right, and left again, Leon did a quick check, visual and by touch, of the door. Clean and smooth enough for our purposes.

  The Cazador threw all his weight and strength against the shaped charge, obliterating the weak seal over the adhesive, thus spreading it out and squashing it between wall and charge. He held the charge in place for the full minute recommended.

  “Get ready, Moya,” he said with more nonchalance than he felt. Reaching down he pulled first one igniter, then the other. He was rewarded with two bubbling fuses, one of which ruptured to let smoke escape.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

  Huffing and puffing, both men raced back to the stream, and rather faster than they’d raced up to the tower. Moya almost overshot it, but Cherensa reached up to snag an arm and spin him into cover. The wait while they hugged the bank nearest the tower was short, and then Khawaam!

  “Wait! Wait!” Cherensa reminded them. “Let the debris fall.”

  After a slow count of ten, by which time Leon had the pack frame with the rest of the demo back on his back, Cherensa ordered, “Let’s go!”

  All four jogged forward in a shallow V. Leon went to the door and began to affix to it a large charge of plastic explosive, but flat this time, rather than shaped. Cherensa watched over him as he made his preparations. Meanwhile, Carrasco shone a light into the hole made by the shaped charge and determined that it had, indeed, gone completely through the wall. Dropping the light, he put the nozzle of the flamethrower into the ragged hole, braced himself against the long, slow, but hard recoil, hit the electric priming trigger, and fired. He gave everything the flamethrower’s two tanks had to the tower, and only regretted he didn’t have four more tanks, just to make sure.

  From inside came a horrible heartrending screaming, as if from dozens of damned souls. Some of it came through the hole and around the nozzle, but more of the sound seemed to come through the very walls of the tower.

  “Poor bastards,” Carrasco muttered, with Moya nodding silent agreement.

  Fortunately, the screaming from inside died quickly, presumably from lack of oxygen.

  About the time Carrasco’s tanks were exhausted, Leon gave the thumbs-up. Cherensa looked around, to determine Moya’s and Carrasco’s locations, then told Leon, “Blast it.”

  “Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!”

  The tribune waited for the two fuses to begin to bubble. Then, grabbing Leon by his pack frame, he physically pulled him away from the door and around the tower until they were safe from, at least, direct blast. The whole time Leon counted down, “Fifteen thousand . . . fourteen thousand . . . twelve thousand . . . two thousand . . . one . . .”

  Khawaam!

  That rocked them all.

  “Come on! Form up! Monocles down. IR flashlights on.”

  Running to flatten themselves against the tower wall to either side of the blasted door, Cherensa took point on the right, and Moya on the left, with Leon and Carrasco behind them. Reaching up to his harness, the tribune pulled off a fragmentation grenade and flicked off the safety clip. He held it up for Moya to see, but Moya already had one out.

  “On four,” the tribune mouthed, holding the grenade to chest level with his left hand and putting a finger through the ring from his right. “One,” he and Moya both pulled their rings. “Two,” they let the spoon fly off so the striker could impact on the cap to start the fuse. “Three,” they waited to let the fuse burn down slightly. “Four,” both grenades went flying through the smashed door and into the room beyond.

  Whawham!

  Then Cherensa and Moya, crouching low, burst into the room, screaming and firing like maniacs, with Leon and Carrasco standing tall and doing the same until . . .

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Cherensa had to practically scream to be heard after the beating all their eardrums had just taken. Looking around he said, wonderingly, “Moonbats; just fucking antaniae.” The antaniae were winged, genetically engineered, septic-mouthed reptiles, left by the Noahs who had seeded the planet, and hated by every intelligent being on Terra Nova.

  Through their monocles, in the scene illuminated by the flashlights, the foursome saw hundreds of burnt, blasted, shot antaniae . . . and nothing else. If any of the creatures were still alive, they gave no sign, not even their characteristic cry of “mnnbt . . . mnnbt . . . mnnbt.”

  “What the . . . ? Carrasco, Moya, find the door down and clear. Leon, follow me.”

  All that led up was a ladder that reached to a simple square opening. Cherensa again pulled a grenade from his harness, flipped off the safety clip, and pulled the ring. This time he didn’t count aloud, no real point to it. Instead, releasing the spoon, he mentally counted off to three, then tossed the grenade overhand to sail through the opening and past into the dome. A muffled wham followed and then echoed from the walls. At the ladder, Leon bent and cupped his hands together. Cherensa slung his weapon into the crook of his arm, grabbed the ladder, and put his right foot into Leon’s cupped hands. The junior stood and lifted, even as the senior pulled with both hands and explosively straightened his leg. The result wasn’t so much a lifting as a launching, with the tribune disappearing into the dome almost in an instant. A long flourish of automatic fire followed, then devolved into single shots. As Leon hurried up the ladder, he heard more muffled shots and explosions from below.

  What he saw, though, at the top of the ladder, was stunning. Beyond some number of dead and dying antaniae, there were two cranks, large, though looking hand powered. In the middle, on a kind of crude stand, was a large pipe. Yes, it may have looked like a weapon at a distance, but it was only a pipe. A smaller crank on the stand may have been connected to the pipe; Leon couldn’t be sure without closer examination.

  “Fake,” Cherensa judged. “The whole goddamned thing is fake. This is not high-tech defense against the Federated States missiles; this is a fucking bluff.”

  As if to prove the point, the tribune went to the smaller of the wheels and began to turn. Slowly, with much squealing and creaking, a straight crack appeared in the dome’s face. The more Cherensa turned, the wider the crack grew, until eventually it was about a half a meter open at the bottom. That let in enough light to see a piece of glass, a lens of sorts, in the end of what was still, after all, only a pipe.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here. We need to report to the ALTA.”

  Barco de La Legion ALTA

  (Armada Legionario Transporte de Assalto), Mar Furioso

  The Ic, or intelligence officer for the missions, said, “Two were fake, two were real, but only one seemed to be powered and capable of working. The other had obviously not been maintained in a long time; it was loaded with antaniae.”

  “How do we know the one they said was working was actually working?” Legate Terry Johnson asked.

  “The team said, ‘It looks like it would work; it had power; and it was manned with seven Earthpigs, five of them among the recently deceased and the other two insisting it was real.’”

  Johnson shrugged an eloquent maybe.

  “That doesn’t really help us that much, does it?” asked Hamilcar Carrera.

  “No, we still have to blast all the towers. But, then again, we always intended to do so, the same as we’re going to blas
t everything that remotely resembles a military installation. Unless the fakes were a trap and they’ve got hidden defenses we might not be able to deal with . . .”

  Ham thought furiously. It wasn’t like Johnson to hesitate or equivocate. But he had a point, even if he wasn’t stating it. If they lost here, ultimately the war, the important war, was lost as well. I’m glad this is his job, though, not mine.

  The operations officer for the mission, currently down below with the landing troops, was David Cano. He was married to Alena, the beautiful, green-eyed “witch,” so called.

  Alena the Witch then spoke up. “No. That’s not what’s going on.”

  Johnson directed her an inquisitive glance.

  “If they had better defenses, they’d almost certainly not have bothered with weaker ones like those domes that ring the island and have had both the Federated States and everyone else, including us, bamboozled since the Great Global War.”

  “But what if they have them hidden, rising from the ground, maybe?” Johnson asked.

  “No,” she insisted. “The defenses of Atlantis Base were never meant to defeat an attack so much as deter one. If they’d intended to defeat an attack all those towers would have been capable, manned, and ready. On the other hand, when you want to deter, you put it all on the line. Even—no, especially—if it’s a bluff.”

  “She’s right, Legate Johnson,” said Hamilcar. “But you know what? Even if she’s not right, I know my old man. He wants this done. This must be done. At any cost. Now will you do it?”

  Johnson nodded, solemnly. Then he repeated, “It must be done.”

  “Captain, are the rockets unmasked?”

  “Yes, sir, unmasked but still under the tarp. Shall I have the tarp pulled back?”

  “Do it. And bring her around to fire.”