Yellow Eyes lota-8

by John Ringo

  Yellow Eyes

  ( Legacy of the Aldenata - 8 )

  John Ringo

  Tom Kratman

  The Posleen are coming and the models all say the same thing: Without the Panama Canal, the US is doomed to starvation and defeat. Despite being overstretched preparing to defend the US, the military sends everything it has left: A handful of advanced Armored Combat Suits, rejuvenated veterans from the many decades that Panama was a virtual colony and three antiquated warships. Other than that, the Panamanians are on their own. Replete with detailed imagery of the landscape, characters and politics that have made the jungle-infested peninsula a Shangri-La for so many over the years, Yellow Eyes is a hard-hitting look at facing a swarming alien horde with not much more than wits and guts. Fortunately, the Panamanians, and the many veterans that think of it as a second home, have plenty of both.

  Yellow Eyes

  (Ojos Amarillos: La Defensa de Panama)

  by John Ringo and Tom Kratman

  Dedication

  For the owners, operators and ladies of the Ancon Inn (Panama City) and el Moro (Colon).

  Thank you. Let’s do it again some time.

  And, as always:

  For Captain Tamara Long, USAF

  Born: 12 May 1979

  Died: 23 March 2003, Afghanistan

  You fly with the angels now.

  Yellow Eyes

  You are going to have the fever,

  Yellow eyes!

  In about ten days from now

  Iron bands will clamp your brow;

  Your tongue resemble curdled cream,

  A rusty streak the centre seam;

  Your mouth will taste of untold things

  With claws and horns and fins and wings;

  Your head will weigh a ton or more,

  And forty gales within it roar!

  In about ten days from now

  You will feebly wonder how

  All your bones can break in twain

  And so quickly knit again!

  You will feel a score of Jaels

  In your temples driving nails!

  You will wonder if you’re shot

  Through the liver-case, or what!

  You will wonder if such heat

  Isn’t Hades — and repeat!

  Then you’ll sweat until, at length,

  You — won’t — have — a — kitten’s — strength!

  In about ten days from now

  Make to health a parting bow;

  For you’re going to have the fever,

  Yellow eyes!

  — James Stanley Gilbert,

  “Panama Patchwork,” 1909

  Prologue

  From where he stood in the back of the crowded assembly hall, Guanamarioch saw the gold-strapped Rememberer ascend the rostrum. The chattering of the massed Kessentai ceased as the cleric — the Rememberers were as near to a clergy as the Posleen had — rapped his skilled claw, twice, on the stone podium. Except for age and scarring, the Remember was — like Guanamarioch — an average looking Posleen, a crocodilian centauroid with yellow skin and eyes, standing about fifteen hands high, with rows of sharp ivory teeth and having a feathered crest (not dissimilar to a Sioux Indian war bonnet) that it could erect when it wished.

  “Let us remember,” the cleric called, laying its crest low in respect for the ceremony.

  All the hundreds of Kessentai crossed their arms over their massive chests, looked upward, toward the apex of the pyramid, itself clad inside and out with a heavy layer of pure gold, and chanted together, “We remember. We remember.”

  The Rememberer held out one claw into which an underling placed a loosely rolled scroll. This was unrolled onto the stone podium, the underling placing “keeper stones,” elaborately carved paperweights, on the corners to hold the scroll in place.

  “From the Scroll of Flight and Settlement,” the Rememberer announced.

  “We remember,” echoed the Kessentai, once again.

  The pyramidal assembly hall shook with the nearby impact of a rival clan’s hypervelocity missile, or HVM. Guanamarioch, young as he was, could barely restrain himself from leaving the hall and going forth with his underlings to do battle. The eager, enraged trembling and murmuring of the others told him they all felt much as he did.

  The Rememberer calmed the hall with a sweeping glance. He was one of the eldest among them, a Kessentai turned Kenstain who, in his younger days, had been among the foremost warriors of the clan. None of the youngsters present wanted to find shame in the eyes of this old hero. They settled and quieted down.

  “Verse Five: the new home,” the Rememberer continued.

  Once again, the group chorused, “We remember.”

  “And the People, fleeing their destroyed home on the new ships, came upon a new world, rich and teeming with life. And the ships were tired, and nearly out of fuel. And the leader of the People, called Rongasintas the Philosopher, led the people to a barren part of the land, that was uninhabited. And there they tried to settle and grow food.

  “But the People had little food, and the inhabitants would not share, demanding, ‘Go forth from us. This is our world, not yours. Return once again to the darkness whence you came.’ And the heart of Rongasintas was heavy.

  “Yet the People cried out, saying, ‘Lord, feed us, for we hunger.’ And Rongasintas answered, ‘Eat of the pre-sentient young.’

  “And, weeping, the People ate of their children, but it was not enough. Once again they cried out, ‘Lord, feed us, for we hunger.’ ”

  “We hunger,” repeated the assembly.

  Nodding his great crocodilian head with infinite dignity, the Rememberer continued, “And the Lord Rongasintas the Philosopher answered, ‘Choose one in twenty from among the normals, and eat of these.’ Weeping still, the People chose from among their number one in twenty, that the host might live and not perish. And for a little time the People did not hunger. Yet, still, did they weep, for it was not yet the way of the People to eat of their own.

  “At length, the Lord of the People went to the inhabitants of the place and begged, ‘We have done what we can. We have eaten of our own. Give us sustenance, that our people not perish.’ And the inhabitants of the place heaped scorn upon Rongasintas, saying, ‘Leave this place or eat of yourselves until there are none of you left. It is all the same to us.’

  “And the Lord and Philosopher went to a high place to meditate and upon his return he announced, ‘The Aldenat’ made us as we are; we had no choice in the matter. They raised us from the lowly animals and gave us sentience. They left us with the need to reproduce. They gave us of medicine and knowledge, that we did not die young. Under their rule, the People prospered and grew. All praise was to the Aldenat’.”

  “And we gave praise to the Aldenat’, ” chanted the assembly, in response.

  The Rememberer continued, “And Rongasintas told the People, ‘We must live. To live we must eat. Go forth then, and eat of the inhabitants of this place. As was all praise, upon the Aldenat’ be all the blame.’ ”

  As one, the massed Kessentai echoed, and their echo made the stone walls of the great Hall of Remembrance shudder, “Upon them be the blame.”

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Like a rich armor, worn in heat of day,

  that scalds with safety.

  — Shakespeare, Henry IV

  Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V

  It was a cold, blue-green swamp under a violet sky. Lieutenant Connors had seen some swamps in his day; after all, he’d spent a number of years at the original “Camp Swampy,” Fort Stewart, Georgia.

  “Nothing like this shit, though,” he muttered, as he struggled for a balance between conserving power for his Armored
Combat Suit, and not sinking waist deep in the muck. Not sinking continued to win the toss as he reduced mass on his suit and applied power to forward thrusters to keep going even when the ground slid away in a lumpy slurry beneath him. His feet still sank ankle deep in the crud below.

  The ACS encasing Connors was Galactic-built, but to human-drawn specifications. Despite this, and despite being symmetrically bipedal — two arms, two legs — and having a largish lump right where the head should be, the thing did not look too terribly human. In fact, it looked completely inhuman. For one thing, the suit had colored itself a dull blue-green to match the vegetation of the swamp. For another, it lacked obvious eyes and ears, while having a number of weapons stations sprouting from it.

  The jury was still out on the camouflage. Other schemes had been tried. The blue-green mottled pattern on Connors’ suit had worked as well as any of them, and not one whit better. The Posleen’s yellow eyes were just different, different in their structure and different in what they saw.

  Inside his suit, the lieutenant shrugged, unseen by any but the artificial intelligence device that ran the suit for him. He didn’t know what camouflage would work (neither did the AID) and just followed the latest guidance from higher on the subject.

  Around him, likewise mottled in the blue-green pattern and likewise struggling for an acceptable compromise between longevity and speed, Second Platoon, Company B-1st of the 508th Mobile Infantry (ACS), was spread out in a very sharp and narrow “V” to either side of a churned-muck trail.

  Ordinarily, on Earth, the trail would have been superfluous as a means of control and orientation. The Global Positioning System was capable of telling a soldier, or a group of them, exactly where they were all the time. On Barwhon, however, there was no GPS. Moreover, while the suits were capable of inertial reckoning on their own, by and large the enemy Posleen were not. Thus, the Posleen followed the trail and, thus, the MI were led to battle them along it.

  Besides, the trail was the shortest distance to an American light infantry company cut off some miles ahead on the wrong side of a river ford, their backs to the stream and no good way to cross back under fire.

  Connors, like the men of Second Platoon, moved forward under radio listening silence. They could hear the commands of higher, when higher deigned to speak. They could also hear the heartbreakingly precise reports and orders emanating to and from one Captain Robert Thomas, commanding the company trapped at the ford. They’d been hearing them for hours.

  The MI troopers had heard, “Zulu Four Three, this is Papa One Six. Adjust fire, over.” They’d heard, “Echo Two Two this is Papa One Six. I’ve got a dozen men down I have to get dusted off.” They’d eavesdropped on, “Captain Roberts, we can’t fuckin’ hold ’em… AIIII!”

  Connors heard Echo Two Two, which the key on his display told him was the brigade’s medical company, come back in the person of some breaking-voiced radioman, and say, “We’re sorry, Papa. God, we’re sorry. But we can’t get through for your dust-off. We tried.”

  Things got worse from there.

  “Echo Three Five, this is Papa One Six. We are under heavy attack. Estimate regimental strength or better. We need reinforcements, over.”

  A Posleen regiment massed two or three thousand of the aliens. A light infantry company at full strength with the normal attachments was one twelfth that size… or less. In this case, the personnel replacement situation being what it was, the trapped company was less. Much less.

  That’s a good man up there, Connors thought, in consideration of the incredibly calm tone of a man, Roberts, who knew that he and all his men were on the lunch menu. Too damned good to let get eaten.

  Then came the really bad news. “Papa One Six, this is Echo Three Five, actual;” — the brigade commander — “situation understood. The Second of the 198th was ambushed during movement to reinforce you. We have at least another regiment…”

  Things really got shitty then, though the first Connors knew of it was when the point man for the company column shouted, “Ambush!” a half a second before the air began to swarm with railgun fleshettes and the mucky ground to erupt steaming geysers with the impact of alien missiles and plasma cannon.

  The problem with killing the stupid Posleen, Connors thought as he lay in the muck, is that the rest of them get much, much smarter.

  The air above was alive with fire. Most of this was light railgun fire, one millimeter fleshettes most unlikely to penetrate the armor of a suit. Enough was three millimeter, though, to be worrisome. That was heavy enough to actually penetrate, sometimes, if it hit just right. It had penetrated several men of the company, in fact.

  Worse than either were the plasma cannon and hypervelocity missiles, or HVMs, the aliens carried. These could penetrate armor as if it were cheesecloth, turning the men inside incandescent.

  Worse still were the tenar, the alien leaders’ flying sleds. These not only mounted larger and more powerful versions of the plasma cannon and HVMs, they had more ammunition, physical or energy, and much better tracking systems. They also had enough elevation on them that, at ambush range, they could fire down, completely skipping any cover the MI troopers might have hastily thrown up. Nor did the jungle trees, however thick, so much as slow the incoming fire. Instead, they splintered or burst into flame at the passing. Sometimes they did both. In any case, the air around Connors resembled some Hollywood idea of Hell, all flame and smoke and destruction, unimaginable chaos and confusion.

  The only good thing you could say about the situation was that the Posleen apparently had few tenar. Otherwise, there was no explanation for the company’s continued survival.

  Connors traded shots with the Posleen, round for round. That wasn’t really his job though. On the other hand, trying to do a lieutenant’s job was rough, once things heated up.

  “Call for fire, Lieutenant Connors?” suggested his AID.

  “Do it,” he answered, while cursing himself, I should have thought of that first. “And show me platoon status.”

  The AID used a laser in the suit’s helmet to paint a chart directly on Connors’ retina. He’d started movement with thirty-seven men. It pained him to see seven of those men marked in black, dead or so badly wounded that they were out of the fight. Under the circumstances, they were almost certainly dead.

  He keyed his attention on one particular marker on the chart. “Show me detail on Staff Sergeant Duncan.”

  Instantly, that chart was replaced with another showing vital statistics and a record summary for one of Connors’ squad leaders. He didn’t need the record summary; he knew his men. The statistics were something else again.

  Shit, Duncan’s on overload.

  It took an experienced eye to see it. The first clue was the soldier’s silhouette projected by the AID. Duncan should have been prone or at least behind some kind of cover. He wasn’t; he had taken one knee and was trading shots with the Posleen, burst for burst. That was all well and good against normals; they were usually lightly armed. But doesn’t the idiot see the goddamned HVMs coming in?

  It got worse on closer examination. Adrenaline was up, but that was normal. The brain activity was skewed though.

  “AID, query. Analyze record: Staff Sergeant Robert Duncan. Correlate for ‘combat fatigue’ also known sometimes as ‘nervous hysteria.’ ”

  AIDs thought very quickly, if not generally creatively.

  “Duncan is overdue for a breakdown, Lieutenant,” the AID answered. “He has forty-four days continuous combat — without rest — now. He has over three hundred days in total. He’s stopped eating and has less than four hours sleep in the last ninety-six. Loss of important comrades over the past eighteen months approaches one hundred percent. He hasn’t been laid lately, either.”

  “Fuck… Duncan, get down, goddamn it,” Connors ordered. The silhouette painted on his eye didn’t budge.

  “Incoming,” the AID announced, tonelessly. The splash of friendly artillery fire began to play on the aliens surroun
ding the company. “I am adjusting.”

  With the help of the artillery, that ambush was beaten off. It made no difference. The Posleen were swarming between the company and its objective. They were swarming in much greater than mere regimental strength. Much.

  Duncan was a problem. He couldn’t be left behind; there were still thousands of Posleen that would have overcome and eaten him on his own. Connors had had to relieve the man and place his Alpha Team leader in charge of the squad. Worse, all you could get out of the sergeant were unconnected words of one syllable.

  And I can’t leave anyone behind to guard him. I can’t even autoprogram the suit to take him back to base; he’d be dogmeat on his own.

  At least the sergeant could follow simple orders: up, down, forward, back, shoot, cease fire. Connors kept him close by during the long, bloody grueling fight to reach the ford. They reached it too late, of course. Captain Roberts’ radio had long since gone silent before the first B Company trooper splashed into the stream.

  By that time, Connors found himself the sole officer remaining in the company. That was all right; the company was down to not much more than platoon strength anyway.

  Connors heard his platoon sergeant — no, now he’s the first sergeant, isn’t he? — shout, “Duncan, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  Looking behind, the lieutenant saw his damaged sergeant beginning to trot back to the rear, cradling a body in his arms. Some friendly hovercraft were skimming the greasy-looking water of the swamp as they moved to reinforce the ford.

  “It’s okay, Sergeant… First Sergeant. Let him go,” Connors said, wearily. “It’s safe back there, now. See to the perimeter, Top.”

  Leaving the NCO to his work Connors sat down on the mound the Posleen had created apparently to honor the spirit and body of the late Captain Roberts. He began to compose a letter to his wife, back home on Earth.