by John Ringo
“No, sir,” said Mike after a moment’s thought. Wiznowski just shook his head.
“Okay,” the captain nodded his head in agreement. “And we’re not going to discuss training. But let me ask you a hypothetical question. If the company was to have a company party, and you were ‘directing’ it, would you have to be there? In person?” asked the commander with a leading tone.
Mike frowned more deeply in puzzlement then his eyes widened. He flashed a look at the Virtual Reality glasses on the table then started to say something. He thought about it for a moment then realized why the crafty old company commander had brought an NCO to the discussion.
“Hey, Wiz, you guys got any of these?” he asked, holding up the Milspecs.
Wiznowski’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Yeah,” he whispered with a slight smile. Then he grinned. “Yeah!”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, quickly standing up and placing his hands on his hips. “I’m sure you have a lot of catching up to do.” He smiled beatifically at them, the image of bonhomie. “However, although I will permit Sergeant Wiznowski to visit with you briefly, since you are old friends, I hope that you will remain circumspect about your conversations. Don’t ask, don’t tell, doncha know.” He winked, turned and whisked out of the cramped cabin.
18
Washington, DC Sol III
1424 EDT November 12th, 2002 ad
The group of military officers and civilians around the conference table stood up as the President entered the Situation Room. Since Tchpth never seemed to sit, but always bounced on their stumpy spider legs, it was difficult to tell whether the ten-limbed pseudo-arthropod was rendering proper respect to the leader of Earth’s only remaining superpower. On the other hand, it was a senior philosopher-scientist among a race of superscientists and could be permitted a certain amount of indiscretion. It was now being indiscreet by dancing on the black glass table.
“Tchpth Tctchpah,” aspirated the President, rather well everyone thought, “thank you for coming. You wanted to address us about our projected nuclear, biological and chemical policy for the upcoming conflict.” He took his seat and waved for everyone else to join him.
The senior Tchpth waited for the group of advisors and military personnel to take their seats; the group included all the senior members of the National Security Council as well as the High Commander and his primary staff. Their various aides lined the walls, human tape recorders for the event. Once the expected rustling died down the Tchpth made an exaggerated bob and waggled his eyestalks at the President.
“Yes, Senior Leader of this Archaic Group of Vicious Omnivores. And I thank you for the limited forum.” At the form of address, everyone surreptitiously looked at the President. The light blue Tchpth used an AID for translation, just as everyone in the room. Whether the series of insults were overtranslation by the AID or a realistic translation of an intentional insult was unclear. The President decided to take it like a man and everyone else took their lead from him.
“Specifically, I wished to address your biological and chemical doctrine.” The arthropoid danced sideways as a hologram formed.
“Your present doctrine is for a reestablishment of a biological and chemical warfare assault department, a group of chemical and biological weapons experts who work on weapons to be used offensively against the Posleen.” The hologram started to show unedited scenes of chemical weapons tests: goats shivering and vomiting under the effect of Sarin, and movie footage from the First World War of soldiers coughing out their lungs from mustard gas.
“While the Tchpth are philosophically opposed to conflict in any form, I understand the logic. Effective use of chemical or biological agents would be a significant force multiplier and you need a force multiplier given the difficulties you will encounter fighting the Posleen.” The hologram shifted to scenes of Posleen incursions. Tchpth towers tumbled under the hammer of Posleen heavy weapons and charnel pits of slaughtered Indowy were buried by heavy earth movers.
“Unfortunately, that does not give the Posleen sufficient credit. To build a frame of reference for you backward alien vicious omnivores: are you aware, O High Leader of the Unenlightened, that if your cook were to mistake me for a terrestrial crab and boil me for your dinner, you would die were you to eat me?” The hologram shifted through scenes of various environments. More worlds than the group could count flickered in front of their eyes, from worlds of oxygen and water, through heavy hydrogen giants to scenes that might have been from a different dimension.
“That had been mentioned,” answered the President, smiling at what he had decided was an overly accurate translation by the AID, and reeling from the impact of the images. “Something about incompatible body chemistries.”
“Correct. Amazing, even the ill-mannered can learn. There are billions upon billions of worlds, none of the biologies perfectly compatible. However, the Posleen can dine on either of us with positive relish. Upon the denizens of any oxygen-water world they have invaded.”
“You just did a pun in English, by the way. Yes, that… dichotomy had come to the attention of some of my science advisors,” the President said, making a note. “Do you know why?”
“Not specifically. You realize that we have never had a Posleen corpse to examine?” The hologram shifted to a diagram of a human body, data streaming by in a cascade, then Darhel, Tchpth, Indowy, Himmit.
“Don’t worry, we’ll fix that problem, doc,” chimed in the Vice Commander, the former Marine Commandant, to the accompaniment of grim chuckles. The comment relieved some of the tension occasioned by the less than diplomatic translations and imagery. Even the President smiled momentarily. General McCloy, the new High Commander, looked momentarily thoughtful and turned to whisper to his aide.
“Yes, I’m sure you vicious omnivores will do an excellent job. However, until then, we can only speculate.” An image of a Posleen began to rotate in the hologram. The hologram exploded, showing areas known and unknown. The data scrolling down the rim was mostly question marks.
“The Posleen show every symptom of being genetically manipulated, so that is part of the answer. The full answer waits on available corpses, which your senior violent carnivore has so graciously offered for our sacrifice.” The philosopher-scientist seemed totally unaware of the consternation his translation was causing in his audience. Still unable to determine if it was simply a matter of over-precise translation or intentional irony, the group vacillated between anger and laughter. The secretary of defense was holding his hand over his mouth while the secretary of state had simply buttoned down a poker face. The national security advisor had his head down, face hidden behind his hand, as he made furious notes. Occasionally his body shook as if he were coughing.
“There is, however, one bit of data specific to the subject. We, too, have weapons of mass destruction. We also have even more stringent regulations about their use. However, in at least one instance, desperation caused a population to attempt biological and chemical warfare against the Posleen. Despite the aid of renegade Tchpth, none of their solutions had the slightest effect.” At that pronouncement most of the senior officials sat back in their chairs.
The High Commander traded a look with the SECDEF that combined uncertainty with resignation. The Tchpth had apparently penetrated the whole Weapons of Mass Destruction program. Although the weapons were outlawed by both the Federation and numerous pre-Contact treaties, the old designs and notes had already been dusted off and lab work started. Most of the production would be simplicity itself for any competent chemical firm, of which the United States had legions. The assumption of being able to use WMD — weapons of mass destruction like gas, nukes or biologicals — was central to the entire war plan. Without them, without chemicals particularly, most of the plans to date were out the window.
“I find that hard to believe,” said General Harmon, Ground Forces Chief of Staff. “I mean, surely VX would have some effect.”
“Actually, General, your VX gas would
not even affect me; I could fill this room with it and walk out unscathed. Your vicious and disgusting mustard gas would make me quite ill at lethal concentrations, but nerve gases would be completely ineffective. Despite my oft-noted resemblance to a cockroach or a crab you are much more closely related to your order crustacea or arthropoda than I.” The Tchpth bobbed up and down, its eyestalks waving in agitation. It briefly flushed turquoise.
“Your scientists and military commanders are well ahead of you,” he continued, gesturing at the hologram. Scenes of personnel in full coverage and lab coats were interspersed with more scenes of a variety of terrestrial species choking, shaking and dying. The scenes were obviously recent, as ultramodern computers littered the area. There were even some Galactic devices, notable by the sinuous grace of Indowy manufacture. At the first scene the High Commander’s face went paper white.
“They are already prepared for the first sample of Posleen tissues to experiment on and develop effective gases. However, the problem still remains: excellent and far superior Tchpth philosopher/scientists have failed in that very endeavor, with far greater technology and experience than humans. The Posleen are simply designed to be catastrophically resistant to all possible agents; I feel it would be a waste of your time as well as being immoral. And just plain wrong. The Ldd!ttnt! would not approve.” The king-crab-sized arthropoid suddenly spun in place twice, bouncing up and down as it did so. “So say the Ldd!ttnt!”
“Very well, Tchpth Tctchpah,” said the President, with a glance at the senior officers. “I understand your position and respect it. I also believe you. We will experiment, fully and openly, with chemical and biological agents when specimens become available, but if there is no initial success we will discontinue our efforts in favor of more lucrative opportunities. And more moral ones. Good enough?”
“Yes, O Munificent and Gorged Leader of the Unenlightened and I thank you for your time. For a ruthless carnivore you are not too unintelligent.”
19
Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V
0529 GMT February 12th, 2002 ad
“Well,” said Sergeant Major Mosovich after he read the e-mail from Special Operations Command, “I thought this mission was going too easy.”
The team sat around the tiny table in the Himmit ship’s lounge drinking hot liquids and waiting for the shower. The team had been on Barwhon for nearly a year, resupplied twice by the Himmit, and it showed. The initial quick in and out had been expanded and expanded again until the hard, hand-chosen warriors of yore became a group of near automatons. Gone were the jokes, the kidding, the asides. Every member of the team had lost weight, become pared down to the point that each looked anorexic. The constant cold and damp, and the anxiety of the penetrations were dragging down even the hardest members of the team. Tempers were frayed. Mosovich thought about that as he read the flimsy Rigas had handed him.
Not even the Galactics could drive a message through the maelstrom of hyperspace, so ships would carry burst packets of electronic mail from warp point to warp point. At most of the major warp nexi, deep space satellites would receive the compressed bursts of data, sort them and store them for transfer. As other ships happened by, the bursts of mail would be routed to those going in the right direction. Finally the mail would reach its destination, slowly or fast depending on the vagaries of the intervening ships. In the case of this missive, it had been burst transmitted to a dedicated Himmit ship shuttling between the nearest surviving beacon and the Barwhon system. The Himmit courier picked up data bursts like it from Earth and returned the team’s data. That way whether the team survived or not the data would make it back to Earth. Rigas had received the most recent transmission shortly before the team made it back from Objective 24, a fully functioning Posleen city.
Mosovich thought about it for a moment more as Mueller stepped out of the shower stall.
“Next!”
“Hold it, Richards. Park it.” With a frown Richards sat back down again in the uncomfortable chair. It had to be bad news, every time they received orders the situation just got worse.
“Okay, first the brass is muchem happy with the take from the entire mission. We’re really here to confirm Galactic intelligence and to see if there’s anything other carnivores can figure out about the Posleen that the Galactics can’t. But they’ve also come up with another tasking. We need to get a Posleen, dead or alive, to be returned to Earth for study. They actually say a group of Posleen.”
“Oh, joy!” exclaimed Ersin. “How the hell are we supposed to collect Posleen covertly? What the fuck happened to a reconnaissance? For that matter, what the fuck happened to a recall order?”
“This clearly states that a snatch is now the primary mission, reconnaissance is secondary,” said Mosovich. It was just another wonderful example of how Washington considered special operations troops expendable. He was beginning to wonder if the brass had decided to just leave them on this ball until they rotted. And if he was thinking it, he knew the others were. So far they had not been detected and had not lost anyone. That was bound to change.
“Who’s the signature?” asked Mueller, toweling his head.
“General Baird, COS-JSOC — Chief of Staff, Joint Special Operations Command — he’s apparently filling in for General Taylor,” answered Mosovich, glancing at the bottom of the flimsy. Tung held out his hand and Mosovich passed it over. After a moment’s perusal Tung handed it back expressionlessly.
“Baird’s Air Force. See any para-jumpers doing this shit?” snorted Trapp.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Mosovich, “it’s an order. Fortunately they don’t say how to do it, or what kind of Posleen. Himmit Rigas?” he asked in a raised voice.
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” the Himmit responded from the intercom.
“Can the backup ship land here?” asked Mosovich. There was plenty of room in the clearing.
“They could but they won’t. They are here purely for support and would not experience this particular event for all the stories in the Galaxy,” responded the Himmit.
“Okay, the rest of the mission is off. We are going to perform our snatch and get the hell out of Dodge. Himmit, how many Tchpth can we cram in this tub, and can we cross shift after the first transfer point? For that matter will Hiberzine work on a Tchpth?”
“I see your objective, but your orders do not mention Tchpth. I read them.”
“Fuck my orders,” snapped the pissed off NCO. He was as tired as the rest of the team and even more unhappy about the orders. He personally thought those orders were a death warrant. “We’re supposed to collect Posleen; do you see room for adult Posleen? I don’t. So we collect nestlings. And since the nestlings are right there by the Tchpth…”
“We pull out as many Tchpth as we can,” finished Ersin.
“Right.”
“Tactically wrong. Morally right. Can we do it?” asked Tung. His midnight face was as still as stone. With nearly as much experience as Mosovich, he was just as aware of the impossibility of their current orders.
“Getting back’s gonna be a stone bitch,” said Trapp. “They’re gonna be all over our ass.” He pulled out his Bushmaster and started sharpening it.
“Lambs to the slaughter,” murmured Ellsworthy, taking a quick buff at a nail.
“Lotta damn lambs,” pointed out Mueller, “with a lot of damn weapons.”
“So, we gotta get in and out without being noticed,” said Richards, shrugging his shoulders.
“Diversion,” stated Tung.
“Oh, now I know why you brought me!” laughed Mueller, “I’m supposed to die heroically planting the explosives! I saw the movie. Now, it was a good movie, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure I want the part.”
“Nail the God Kings,” said Richards.
“That would be me,” smiled Ellsworthy, dreamily. She held her hand out at arm’s length and examined what was left of her nails. “Damn, I wish there was a nail shop on this ball.” She buffed another rough edge.
/> “Mine the far approach, and the buildings,” stated Tung with a shake of his head at the marine. Ellsworthy seemed to spend most of her time on another plane, but it only seemed to make her more effective when it dropped in the pot. “Come in in the dark, set the charges, hit them from the flank at BMNT.” — Before Morning Nautical Twilight — “Most of the team pulls out the nestlings and the Tchpth while a group draws the Posleen on a wild goose chase.”
“We don’t know that they don’t have vehicles other than the God Kings’ capable of negotiating this muck,” Mosovich pointed out. “Mostly good, but we need to avoid being chased at all. If we are chased, then we split off a team to lead them away. Let me work this over. Tung, Ersin, my cabin. The rest of you get a shower and some rest, I’m going to commune with higher and come up with an op-order.”
* * *
Sandra Ellsworthy was in her element. Wrapped in rags of burlap, she nestled into the lower branches of a Griffin tree and plotted targets. As the first faint purple light of Barwhon dawn began to shade the horizon, it degraded the light enhancements built into her scope. However, since the Posleen had a higher body temperature than humans, and far higher than the semi-isothermal Tchpth, the thermal imagery enhancements picked them out like beacons against the cooler backdrop.
There had been changes since the team was last here. There were now seven complete pyramids, each surrounded by several pens. The causeway on the west side had been completed and the bunkers to either side, nearly a kilometer from Ellsworthy’s hide, were complete. On the north and south sides trees were being cleared and it looked like a drainage project was under way. Fortunately clearing had not started on the west side, where the team waited, but the unexpected open area had slowed the diversion team’s entry and would make its retreat less survivable. There were also nearly twice as many Posleen moving around as there had been at the time of the first recon. If anything went wrong with the snatch it looked like it would be a short, sharp shower of shit.
