When the Devil Dances

by John Ringo

  However . . . these Posleen were acting like humans. They seemed to be thinking about the possible actions of their quarry and reacting in a reasonable manner. Which meant that they would be expecting the team to either cross the bridges or the lakes heading more or less directly towards the lines. They might or might not know that the latter would be virtually impossible.

  If they could break through the lines to the west, then break contact, two very big ifs, they could make their way towards the lines around Tray Mountain. That was a wilderness area and the roads were few and far between, making it much better from their perspective.

  But getting there would be a long damned walk with, apparently, damned little support. The artillery, though, what there was of it, would be able to cover them the whole way. The important point would be to make sure they didn't get spotted by where the artillery was firing.

  He chuckled silently. This was almost as bad as fighting humans.

  * * *

  "There is a reason that fighting humans is so hard," Orostan mused. "They apparently have been warring amongst themselves, and surviving at it, for their entire history. Their legion of dirty tricks comes from those millennia of experience. We Posleen, on the other hand, have either fought those with no experience of war, or fought the ornaldath. And the ornaldath has always lasted for such a short period of time, and been so chaotic, that little can be learned."

  "With humans, every day is ornaldath," Cholosta'an muttered bitterly. "They . . . cheat."

  "Yes," Orostan admitted in an amused tone. "But it is not ornaldath. They do not use the greatest weapons, much. Tulo'stenaloor's . . . 'intelligence' people have learned that they have a great reluctance to use those that are not chemical, those that use fusion and antimatter for their propellants. So it is not, by any stretch of the imagination, ornaldath. Except when you corner them. And then, sometimes, they use those weapons. Rarely."

  "They are not cornered now?" Cholosta'an asked. "They are only a bit of one continent. The ones that are to the north have no materials to fight with and other than this remnant it is all tribes scattered in the mountains. Except for this remnant, they are broken. Isn't that the point of gathering this host?"

  "Don't count the humans out until the last one is dead and you have hacked its body to bits and eaten it," the oolt'ondai cautioned. "Many of them got off the planet before we landed and those 'scattered tribes' are still strong enough to be a challenge in many areas. We have taken the bulk of the planet for our lands, and the bulk of the human population for our feed, but their fleet rebuilds and rebuilds seemingly endlessly. And these humans, these 'trapped abat' are no joke. Every day they find new ways to confound us."

  As if on cue the sky began to scream.

  * * *

  "Splash out," Mosovich said, listening to the firecracker rattle of ICM landing in the distance. The team had moved down the mountainside, using every bit of concealment, until it was within two hundred yards of Oakey Mountain Road. The biggest worry were the God Kings scattered among the normals. It was hard, in the heavy foliage, to spot the occasional passing saucer, but whenever one came in view the team went to ground and held their breath in anticipation. But, so far, so good.

  Now, with the firing behind them, if the Posleen stayed true to their current form they should hurry towards the bridge in anticipation of the team's movements.

  And that did appear to be happening. The normals in view, almost immediately after the artillery began to land, began to stream to the north. With any luck in a few more minutes there would be enough of a reduction the team could consider trying the road.

  They were on a ridgeline perpendicular to the road, bedded down in a thick stand of white pine saplings. At the point they would be crossing the road it went through a small saddle and there was a hilltop on the far side. There had been a house or small farm to the right of the saddle in bygone days, but now all there was, was another weed-covered field and the overgrown right-of-way. The open area was small, as well, no more than fifty meters including the torn up grassy track that had been Oakey Mountain Road.

  On the far side of the hill that was their objective the ground fell off down a steep slope to the Soque River. Although that would normally be a tough crossing, the area was densely grown and there was small chance the horselike Posleen could keep up with the team in there. They would have to cross Highway 197, but unless the Posleen were patrolling everywhere, any movement over there should be slight. And, again, the ground should be overgrown enough to permit them to slip past any patrols.

  From the crossing of the Soque they would swing west of Batesville. If they weren't spotted on their crossing, corps would maintain harassing fire on the Posleen in regular spots near the Talullah. With luck, it would be some time before the Posleen commander discovered that they had slipped out of the trap. By that time they should be well outside the main search area.

  If. With luck.

  In a remarkably short time the masses of Posleen that had been in the area were gone. The road was empty and still in the pre-dawn night.

  "Time to move out," Mosovich whispered. Steep slope again. Time to slide.

  * * *

  "Well, at least it is falling on others," Cholosta'an observed. The tenar's sensors were set to replicate the activity on the far side of the mountain.

  The town of Seed had often been described as not much more than a stop sign; it really it wasn't even that. The "main" road was Oakey Mountain, a two lane winding bit of nothingness going from nowhere to nowhere in the hills. And there wasn't even a stop sign on it, let alone a convenience store. The other road was Gap Road, a macadam track going over the mountains to Lake Seed.

  And it was less now. Where before there had been a few houses now there were only weedy fields, scrub and the occasional shallow crater that indicated a home with a "Scorched Earth" home defense system.

  Currently the fields were covered with the oolt'ondar of Orostan and the many additional newcomer oolt attached to it. This force had been primarily responsible for patrolling Low Gap Road. Orostan had ordered in road construction materials and the track over the mountains was in the process of being graded for the first time since the initial invasion. But most of his force was now consolidated at Seed in case the humans broke in another direction. As opposed to the forces over by the lake that were closing in, presumably closing in, on the human team. And it was clear that these latter were getting hammered.

  "Yes," Orostan said. "And Lardola is being conservative. Most of the loss has been among the new forces. And especially among those marked as the least favorable."

  "I'm glad I wasn't marked as 'unfavorable,' " the younger Kessentai commented sourly.

  "No, you weren't," the oolt'ondai agreed. "Or you'd probably be in there getting turned into thresh." His communicator chimed and he touched one of the glowing dots, receiving the call.

  "Orostan, this is Tulo. The humans appear to have tricked us; they are attempting to break to the west. Again, they are preparing to cross the road on the western side. The patrols over there have scattered and headed for the firing. Cut the humans off if you can get there in time, pursue them if not." A holo map blossomed over the older Kessentai's tenar showing the relative position of the human team and the Posleen force.

  "Understood," the oolt'ondai said. "I will do that immediately."

  "And," the distant commander added with a hiss of humor, "I take it I don't have to suggest that you use caution."

  "Agreed," the oolt'ondai answered.

  "I will take my oolt immediately, Oolt'ondai," Cholosta'an said, starting to swing his tenar to the north.

  "Softly, Kessentai," Orostan said, flapping his crest in negation. "I did mention that you were not considered entirely expendable, right?" The oolt'ondai ran his finger down the readouts until he grunted in satisfaction. "Oldoman," he said into his communicator. There was a moment's pause, which evoked a snarl, but the communicator finally lit.

  "What?" came a harsh
answer.

  "The humans have been seen trying to make it across the road. Go north and cut them off; I will follow with the rest of the force."

  "I go!" came the reply. "Enough of this waiting in the dark!"

  "An expendable one?" Cholosta'an asked.

  "Eminently," Orostan agreed. "His oolt'os are on their last legs from hunger, not because he does not have the credits to afford it, but because he expects them to find food on their own. Terrible equipment, not a decent gene line in the group. Damned few usable skills and all replaceable. He's not worth the air he and his oolt breathe." For a group called 'The People of the Ships' it was the ultimate insult.

  "And will we follow with the rest of the force?"

  "Oh, definitely," Orostan said, sending orders to his key subcommanders. "But carefully and slowly, the least worthy scouts out to the front. It is not worth losing a thousand oolt'os to catch one small group of humans, no matter how dangerous."

  * * *

  "I don't see that it's worth this expenditure to cover one group of lurps," the corps artillery commander complained.

  It was inevitable that everyone would want to get their two cents in just as soon as they woke up. And with the corps commander fulminating in the pre-dawn hours the word had quickly woken his staff. Who had descended in full fury on one lonely major.

  Who didn't have an ounce of back-up.

  "I don't see that it's worth the expenditure to keep you fed, Colonel." Major Ryan was tired and getting just a bit cranky. And trying to follow the battle around Seed while surrounded by chateau generals was getting on his nerves.

  "Enough of that," General Bernard said. He was a big, florid commander who filled his BDU uniform like a bass drum. This also described the occasional military genius in history, but unfortunately that particular description, "military genius," did not extend to General Bernard. He had been the Virginia National Guard commander prior to the invasion, what is called the Adjutant General. Upon the Federalization of all forces he had retained command of the 29th Infantry Division up until the debacle that was generally called the Battle of Spottsylvania County. During the first landing individual units of the division had fought bravely and occasionally brilliantly. But the general had been shown to be completely out of his depth and when he ordered his division artillery, against standing orders, to initiate contact with the Posleen, it had contributed, markedly, to the ensuing massacres of the 9th and 10th Corps.

  However, his political skills had stood him in good stead in the following war of blame-calling and finger-pointing. Certain prominent generals had gone down in flames, the President at the center of the controversy had, of course, died, but a few others, both deserving and undeserving of blame, had managed to survive. In Bernard's case he had even prospered, pointing out that the general that ordered his relief was shortly thereafter soundly defeated by the Posleen. The fact that General Simosin was also the victim of a very deliberate and subtle hacking of his control net was missed in the debate. Indeed, the fact that the battle took place at the time and in the way that it did being at least partially the fault of General Bernard and his single rash and stupid order was missed in the debate. Thus he was reinstated and even, eventually, promoted. However, everyone who was "in the know" was aware that as a field commander he was incompetent at best and dangerous at worst. Thus his posting to the relatively low priority Rabun Gap Defense Zone. This was not a guy you were going to trust at Chattanooga or Roanoke or Harrisburg.

  General Bernard was also aware of this thin ice. And thus he did not immediately hop to the defense of his artillery commander. "One of the things we are here to decide is how much support they need. And I released the FPF batteries."

  "We probably won't need final protective fire right away, sir," Colonel Jorgensen said. "They seem to be expending most of their attention on these lurps. But if they follow them all the way back to the lines, assuming they make it, then we might have problems."

  "The indications so far are that this group is sitting on its hands," Colonel McDonald pointed out. The corps intelligence officer was well aware that those were, technically, "his" lurps out there. What was even more important was that if he lost them it was unlikely he'd get a new set with the same capabilities any time soon. He had some "home grown" teams, but they didn't have the experience or the equipment of the long-service Special Operations types that had been transferred to Fleet Strike. Which would mean local patrols with standard equipment. Including regular radios. And since the Posleen seemed to be learning to track in on radios pretty quick, that would mean teams with not much in the way of communications ability.

  So for a variety of reasons, not excepting the milk of human kindness and the interests of one soldier looking out for another, he didn't intend to let these two jerks hang Mosovich out on a limb.

  "We have plenty of movement in the sensor areas," McDonald noted. "They're getting ready to move out of the sensor coverage. But even if they do we can get good fire on the approaching forces. It's only ammo; bullets not bodies, remember?"

  "It's only ammo to you, George," Colonel Jorgensen said. "But it's my boys and girls feeding the guns. It's my cost for replacing tubes. I've got to explain the trunion damage and, for that matter, the ammunition expenditure. And we've got a globe sitting out there, planning who knows what. What happens when they come swarming at the wall? Where do we get the ammunition then?"

  "Colonel, I've seen your ammo dumps," Major Ryan said. "You've got enough ammo on hand for five days of continuous fire, especially with all the units we lost to Tenth Army. Five . . . days. Trust me, those defenses will not last five days if the Posleen come at us in force. Five hours will be about right. So you've got plenty of ammo on hand in that case."

  "I think we'll give a better accounting of ourselves than that," Bernard said. The wear and tear on the artillery would just mean he got new tubes sooner and this damned major would undoubtedly make some sort of a report of his "fighting spirit." "But we do have a sufficiency on hand. Fire them up, Red. Take every call for fire, fire on every sensor target. Major Ryan has been on this from both ends; let him handle the interface and you give him all the support he asks for."

  "Thank you, sir," Ryan said. "I have been on their end and I do know what it's like." He paused for a moment. "And I'll admit this is way beyond my level, but I think you need to call Army and ask for your arty back, sir. I'll double that through COE if you like. Those Posties aren't acting right."

  "I concur on that analysis, sir," Colonel McDonald said. "Just watching them on the sensors you can see they are staying way more coordinated. Look at this group over by Seed. Or the one that has been pinning down Low Gap Bridge and the 441 Bridge. Usually when you get shooting the Posties swarm towards the fighting. These guys are sitting the fighting out, holding key terrain. That, sir, in my professional estimation is a nightmare."

  General Bernard paused and rubbed his almost totally bald head. That was a horse of a different color. He'd protested having the artillery pulled away when it occurred. If he called Army now and complained about nebulous reports of a Posleen globe force that was acting "funny" then nothing happened it could be the final nail in his professional coffin. The Army still had institutional memory all the way back to the Civil War of officers who were too quick to take counsel of their fears.

  "Colonel, I want a full intelligence analysis," he answered. "Get a good count, or a good estimate. Detail all the ways they have been acting strangely and what the possible increase in combat effectiveness is from that. If it looks like a significantly increased threat, I'll take that to Army. I'll take it to CONARC if I have to. But I need more than 'these Posties are acting funny.' "

  "I wish we had a Mike Force," McDonald said softly. "I hate just leaving the lurps to their own devices."

  "I've heard about Mosovich before," Ryan said, tugging at his forelock. "He's not a guy to go down easy."

  * * *

  "I'm really getting too old for this shit," Mosovi
ch growled as they darted across the road.

  "Not that again," Mueller gasped. He'd given up trying to support one end of the Barrett and was carrying it on his own, along with his own weapons, equipment and ammunition, leaving the heavy ammunition pack to Nichols. Making it down the steep slope to the road had been . . . interesting. "You just got a rejuv; you're under warranty for another century."

  " 'It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage,' " Jake answered. This field was thankfully untorn and he led the team across it at a lope towards the woodline. "I'm just getting really tired of trying to make it to woodlines before somebody starts shooting at me."

  "Try flying on the outside of a saucer into the middle of a Posleen swarm," Nichols gasped, sweat pouring down his face.

  "Well, it looks like we cheated death again," Mueller answered, as they made it into the woods. This area, however, was a fairly open decidous slope, leaf covered but with little undergrowth. They were open to being spotted until they made it halfway up the hill where there was a large thicket of rhododendron. The slope was reasonably gentle and Nichols took the Barrett back.

  "Thanks, man," Nichols said in an embarrassed tone. "This is the first time in my life somebody's had to hump some of my gear."

  Mueller just nodded. He and Nichols were of similar build, heavy, stocky bodies with a lot of muscle on a heavy-boned frame. But he overtopped Nichols by almost eight inches. "Don't sweat it," Mueller said and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, shit."