Gust Front lota-2

by John Ringo

  “And as we take more of these lands from the thresh,” said Kenallai, joining the conversation, “the amount will grow. At this rate we’ll be the richest Kessentai in seven systems. You are going to need a castellaine soon.”

  Kenallurial flared his nostrils in agreement. His previous service as a scoutmaster had granted him a bare minimum of range. A small farm, a bit of land for hunting and a minor factory. All of them were managed through a proxy castellaine. There had been no need for the expense of one of his own with such meager resources.

  The results from the last three days’ work was not a minor fortune but a major one. With the income from the miles of arable land, several industrial areas and four chemical processing plants he could retire. The choice was retire or refit. Ardan’aath, for example, had the most heavily armed oolt’os in the host. He had been involved in five conquests and his only interest was the Path. That being the case, he poured his riches into outfitting his oolt’ondar and eson’antais. The result was that he took fewer casualties and was able to take more land; paying for better refitting. His entire oolt was now armed with three-millimeter railguns and the oolt of his “subordinates” were nearly as heavily armed.

  Kenallurial’s plan had always been to retire from the Path so that he could start a long-term genetic modification program. But he had not expected it to be so soon.

  “This is amazing,” he murmured, his mind awash in plans for the future. He had already begun collecting prize genetic samples from the smartest of the normals. His plan was to design a complete line of superior normals, standard Posleen nearly as intelligent and independent as God Kings. The line could fill in that fuzzy gap in labor caused by the shortage of Kenstain, the cowardly “castellaines” who were used to manage the absentee estates of the Kessentai battlemasters. The income from that prize would be enormous. Especially if his newly acquired skill in cybernetic repair transferred to even a fraction of the offspring.

  The income would be enough to equip a dozen eson’antai, to go forth and conquer other worlds. And they would owe him for the equipment, as he had owed Kenallai. That debt was settled before the landing, so he was clear.

  “And the greatest prize lies ahead!” Ardan’aath boomed. His crest fluffed once again, finally standing straight up in excitement.

  “As long as it is not as bad as the ‘prize’ to the south,” said Kenallurial, gloomily. But quietly also.

  Kenallai rattled his crest in response.

  * * *

  Colonel Abrahamson led the way up the dirt ramp. The jaunty yellow scarf around his throat was dark with soot and oil, stained with human and Posleen blood. He strode with determination, but the set of his shoulders spoke of overriding fatigue.

  The trailing General Keeton paused for a moment, causing a backup in the gaggle that followed him, and stamped the soft earth. The ramp, and the rest of the wall of earth along the interior side of the Richmond floodwall, was loose and uncompacted, barely useable for foot traffic. The first serious flood would wash it away but it had served its purpose and served it well.

  General Keeton shook his head at the thought of all this effort disappearing in the first hard rain and continued up the slope. At the top of the ramp he looked at the wall and shook his head again. It looked chewed. The top of the smoking concrete and rebar was missing chunks and wedges, some of them leading down to the uncompacted fill. The bodies of the Sixtieth Infantry Division dead and wounded had already been removed, but the dark staining of the soil and gouges of melted soil were eloquent testimony to the casualties the division had suffered. As were the flickering fuel fires and smoking armored vehicles along the support road.

  Survivors of the brigade in this, the hardest hit sector, were moving around performing all the usual after-battle chores. Ammunition parties were coming up from the trucks at the base of the wall and technicians were moving down the wall repairing or replacing manjacks. All of the soldiers staggered about like drunks, but the progress was steady.

  The general walked over to stand by the cavalry officer, who had moved to the wall and now stood quietly looking out over the valley beyond. As far as the eye could see there was a carpet of dead Posleen and smashed saucers. The general leaned over and looked down. Sure enough, there was the ramp of Posleen dead he had been told about. The mass of centaurs ran for at least a hundred yards here near the Fourteenth Street gates. How many bodies were in that pile alone was impossible to calculate. Most of them had been pounded into paste by their fellows in a vain effort to surmount the fateful obstacles envisioned by John Keene.

  “ ‘They just came at us in the same old way,’ ” he quoted quietly. The morning was quiet, with the exception of the distant boom of artillery targeting concentrations of the shattered enemy.

  “Hmm,” murmured Colonel Abrahamson in slight demurral. “The third wave was a little different. They were finally starting to use some sense, or there were more God Kings using sense than in the other attacks. They hit us while we were still headed out to them.”

  “That was when you lost your track?” asked the general.

  “Yeah. Got a little hairy there for a bit.” They had slowed the Posleen by calling for a full artillery concentration on his own position. He would go to his grave remembering the sound of One-Five-Five shrapnel pinging off his tank like steel rain while the vehicle took hit after hit from hypervelocity missiles. Why none of the missiles had penetrated the main crew compartment would remain a mystery. But he had lost his driver, six other tanks and a dozen troopers in the counterambush. The remaining Posleen had still chased them back to the Wall. That wave nearly overran the defenses, when a half million blood-mad Posleen crowded into the killing zone, taking the hammer of the guns on the chance that some of them could surmount the Wall or the obstacles along the sides. The final straw was when nearly two hundred God Kings had sailed over the Wall all along its length.

  Snipers from the skyscrapers had shot through the flying roadways above the defenses or from the far side of the James while the defenders hammered the assaulting saucers. The casualties had been fierce as plasma cannon played along the berm and hypervelocity missiles slammed into the ammunition and fuel bowsers cached behind the defenses.

  But in the end even that was not enough. The human defenders soaked up the charging God Kings, taking the casualties and dishing them out, supporting the fire from across the river. And the God Kings had died, one by one and in bunches. As had the forlorn normals in the pocket. And in the end the survivors stumbling out of that hell of death were less than one battalion. A paltry few hundreds of the half million that had entered the valley of death.

  Keeton was of two minds how to respond. He almost sallied the Seventy-Fifth Armored to drive into them one more time and lure some back. On the other hand, the defenses were in sorry shape and the Posleen seemed to be headed back north.

  Better to chase them in good time, with prepared units. For all he believed in Bedford Forrest’s aphorism about “keepin’ up the skeer,” he also knew that facing the enemy in prepared positions was one thing; chasing them back up I-95 and U.S. 1 was another. The Eleventh MI was nearly on site. Let them go out in the open and play tag with the Posleen. That was what combat suits were designed for. He would husband his forces instead. It looked like being a long war.

  “They’re still trying to flank us,” said Colonel Abrahamson, apparently reading his mind. “They still might.”

  “Maybe,” agreed the general. “They’ve still got the numbers for it. And I’ll worry about that if it looks like they’re coming back in a serious way. And then I’ll send somebody out to poke them in the snout.”

  “Somebody else, I hope,” the colonel said, dryly.

  “Somebody else,” the general agreed.

  “Good,” said the exhausted officer. “It’s about time somebody else had some fun.”

  CHAPTER 61

  Rabun County, GA, United States of America, Sol III

  0612 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad<
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  “Gee, isn’t this fun?” snorted Papa O’Neal.

  The Tennessee Volunteers had thus far failed to live up to their name. The landing was small, only a single lander. That meant no more than six hundred Posleen, probably closer to four hundred. But the force had gone one way and run into the unVolunteers. Then it had recoiled the other way and run into the Rabun Gap defenses. Now it was milling around more or less at the head of O’Neal’s Hollow. And the first trace of entering scouts had appeared on the sensors.

  “That was how you knew,” said “Raphael” quietly, watching the sensors.

  “Yeah. You guys made a signature like a rocket.” Papa O’Neal chuckled.

  “Hmm.” The special action team leader nodded. “My fellows are confused by your granddaughter. They don’t know what to make of her.”

  “Well,” said O’Neal, dryly, “it’s more what she makes of them.”

  * * *

  “You ever use one of these?” Cally asked the black-masked commando, gesturing at the General Electric mini-gun. Since she would be handling the demo, putting one of the commandos on the 7.62mm Gatling freed Grandpa up to handle overall actions.

  At his negative head shake she touched a control. “That arms it,” she said as the barrel advanced with a whine. “Butterfly triggers just like a Ma-Deuce, but the safety is on the side.” She pointed to the appropriate button then released it. “Other than that it works just like a hose. Fires eight thousand rounds a minute. Looks sort of like a laser going downrange. Just walk the fire onto the enemy.” She stood on tiptoes to look out the slot of the bunker but declined to fire. The Posleen weren’t in sight yet and they still might just go away.

  The commando nodded and stepped forward. He carefully put the safety back on and advanced the barrels again. A single round flew out and dropped into an open blue plastic fifty-five-gallon drum.

  “Keeps you from getting awash in brass,” said Cally, gesturing to the huge box of ammunition under the weapon. “It’ll only catch ’em on a narrow traverse, but it helps.”

  The commando nodded again and looked out the slit.

  Cally tapped her foot a few times and rotated her shoulders to relieve the chafing of the armor. It was a lot more comfortable when it was dry. “You sure don’t talk much.”

  The mask turned towards her and brown eyes regarded blue. He cleared his throat. “We kin talk,” was all he said.

  The accent was faint, but completely different from the team leader’s. Cally nodded and put that and a few other facts together. “Can I ask you one thing?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Can I see your left hand?”

  The head of the commando tilted slightly to the side but then he pulled the thin black Nomex glove off his hand. He held it up for a brief inspection, rotating it so that she could get a good look and then waggling his fingers. He obviously thought it a silly question. He put the glove back on.

  Cally glanced at the hand and smiled. When he was done with his little pantomime she looked him straight in the eye and made the Sign of the Cross.

  As the commando’s eyes flew wide she smiled again, turned and left the bunker without a word.

  * * *

  “Oh, this is truly good!” snarled Monsignor O’Reilly, reading the missive on his Palm Pilot.

  The message was written in Attic Greek, encrypted half a dozen ways, and used code phrases. The message was, nonetheless, clear.

  “What?” asked Paul, looking up from the card game he was engaged in with the Indowy. The Himmit stealth ship was in two hundred feet of water in Hudson Bay. And the Indowy had explained that it would stay there until the majority of the Posleen were destroyed and clear areas declared. Himmit would risk much on occasion, but they believed that discretion was better than valor.

  “Our team is trapped at the O’Neal farm!” he snarled.

  “Calmly, Nathan, calmly,” soothed the Indowy. “The O’Neals are an inventive clan. The team will be well taken care of.”

  “Bit of a turnabout for the books.” Paul smiled, taking a card off the stack on the table. He grimaced. “Your move.” The cards were difficult to read in the odd blue-green light. This Himmit ship, unlike some, had never been converted for human use.

  The table was too low and the bench he sat on was designed to be used by lying on a hairy belly. The air was thin, the gravity too heavy and the lighting set to Himmit norm, which meant that it was mainly in shades of violet invisible to human eyes. The result was an odd blue-green that made everything look as if it was under deep water. There were odd sounds at the edge of hearing; the Himmit communicated in hypercompressed squeaks that were barely in the human audible range. There were strange chemical smells and occasional odd slurping noises. All together it was one of the most uncomfortable environments the widely traveled des Jardins had experienced.

  Aelool looked to the Monsignor, who finally gave a resigned gesture. “It is not as if there haven’t been breaches before,” the little alien said.

  “Hmm,” said the Monsignor, irritably. “But there are reporters swarming nearly as thick as the Posleen. There are already reports that there is a well-defended farm near the landing. And the local commander says that the reason they haven’t attacked Posleen yet is to see how the farm fairs. He says he’s afraid of hitting the farm with friendly-fire, but it sounds more like he trusts the O’Neals to take care of the attack. One old man and a young girl up against a Posleen company?!”

  Paul smiled sardonically. “Well, they are Irish, no?”

  Nathan’s eyelids dropped, giving him a sleepy look and he stared at des Jardins’s back. “This is a small ship, Paul, and the lighting is really getting on my nerves. Don’t push it.”

  * * *

  “We gotta push it, sir,” said Captain O’Neal, looking into the Virtual infinity of data. He was in a trance of data assimilation as graphs and maps cascaded past. The data included snippets of live video from the front lines, where reporters were finally encountering the enemy firsthand.

  In many cases the locations of advancing Posleen had to be assumed. Here a company not responding, there a transmission suddenly cut off. But the picture was firming up. The battalion was still well short of the District while the Posleen were well into Fairfax County and nearly over the border into Arlington. They had spread up to the Potomac on the north side and were moving rapidly down the Beltway towards the crossing to the east of Arlington.

  The movement was unconscious, but it was creating a pocket in the Arlington area. All the survivors were being pushed towards the downtown D.C. bridges, just as General Horner had anticipated.

  “Agreed, Captain,” responded the acting battalion commander. “Any more suggestions?”

  “No, sir. Not at this time.” The movement of the canisters was as fast as the AIDs could handle the information load. Not only did each suit have to be controlled, but the overall load had to be balanced among all the suits. The current speed of an average of eighty miles per hour was the fastest they could do. The alternative, exiting the containers and running, would be even slower. The maximum sustainable speed for suits was about forty miles per hour, if the roads were open.

  The roads, however, were packed with military units and refugees. First Army was finally getting its combat power concentrated, with units flooding into the area of the Potomac from all over the northeast. Like the units of Ninth and Tenth Corps, most of the forces were undertrained and their equipment was in pitiful shape. But with any luck they would be fighting from fixed positions.

  Mike glanced at the exterior view and his eyes narrowed. Somebody had had a rush of sense, and the lead units were mostly artillery. By the time they were in contact, there would be a mass of artillery available. Command and control, however, was spotty.

  “But I’ll figure something out. I’ll get back to you soon, sir.”

  “Okay, Captain. We need a good plan if this is going to succeed.”

  “Roger, sir. Shelly,” he continued, l
ooking back at the feeds. “What are you getting from D.C.?”

  “It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast, sir,” responded the AID.

  Mike smiled. The device had been getting more and more attuned to human interaction, even starting to use some slang.

  “There’s a mishmash of units,” she continued. “Some of them are ordered there, like the engineers that are rigging the bridges and the One-Oh-Fifth I-D. But most of them are from Ninth and Tenth Corps.”

  “Any sign of leadership?”

  “There are small units that are coherent. But nothing over a company.”

  “Hmm. Bring up an appropriate scenario. Assume the Posleen take a bridge intact.” If the Posleen did not take a bridge, the battalion could wait for Eighth Corps to get its act together, then cross the river at leisure to sting the Posleen. It was only if one of D.C.’s bridges fell that time would be critical.

  “Is there a scenario in the can for this?” Mike thought there was, but there were so many developed “games” scenarios it was impossible to keep track.

  “Bridge over the River Die,” responded the AID. “On the basis of probable Posleen numbers at contact and probable friendly support I would recommend responses for difficulty level six.”

  “Yeah,” whispered the officer, reading the scenario as it scrolled down the left of his heads-up view. He remembered it now. He had gamed it at least three times. It wasn’t one of his favorites, but it had some interesting surprises. The similarities to the current situation were remarkable. Even the buildings were similar; the writer of the scenario had clearly envisioned Washington as a target. That was not in the description and Mike had never noticed the similarities. But it was obvious now. “Who wrote it?”

  “A teenager in Fredericksburg. Thomas Sunday, Junior.”

  “Oh. Damn.” Fredericksburg was, of course, gone. What a waste of a good mind. The writer had obviously had a good grasp of suit tactics. Losing him this early in the game sucked. “Shit happens. Shelly, can this one. Set it to level eight. Now, what are we missing for an eighth-level response?”