by John Ringo
* * *
Frederick watched the coprsmen approach unhappily. As each of the troopers in the compartment were given their injections they relaxed so much as to appear dead and their faces flushed. With tongues bulging out slightly and their eyes open they looked not so much dead but as if they were sleeping nosferatu, the original vampire legend of the living dead.
“One little shot and you’ll wake up refreshed and ready for battle,” the corpsman repeated as he gave Aderholder his shot. They were saying that with everyone, as if that was going to make people feel better.
“Just go ahead,” Frederick said, cutting off the mantra. “I’m not afraid.”
“That makes you unique in this ship in my experience,” the medic said.
But Frederick didn’t hear as his body settled into stillness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Damn, those are pretty things,” Adams said, watching the video.
They weren’t sure where the file had come from, just that the Himmit had obtained it. It was Hedren plasma mortars, which were going to be one of their major bugaboos. The mortars had at least the range of the 120s and there were bound to be mortar to mortar counter-battery duels.
The rounds were green fire drifting across the firmament. Despite it being broad daylight they could be tracked by eye, seemingly moving in slow motion. Then they dropped and dropped finally bursting in a hemisphere of green fire that torched everything in its zone. The vegetation, which had a faint purple sheen like that of Barwhon, burst into fire in a circle beyond the explosion.
“Very pretty,” Sergeant Moreland said. “Gist, think you could figure the counter fire trajectory?”
“Not sure, Sergeant,” the senior gunnery computer said. “I’d need a bit more data on scale. Off-hand, I’d say they were firing from two thousand meters. If that’s accurate, I could more or less determine their position. Give me any sort of compass or sight and I could do it for sure.”
“Which is the one of their many weaknesses,” Moreland said. “You can see the damned things. You don’t have to use a fucking computer and radar to figure out where they are. There arty works the same way, only from further away. Incoming is going to be Mark-One eyeyball time. Our shit is, comparatively, invisible. Keren, what is the most effective round we have for troops in the open?”
“Variable time or prox, Sergeant,” Keren replied automatically.
“Why?” Moreland asked.
“It throws out a wider dispersion of shrapnel,” Keren said. “More footprint equals more casualties.”
“This system has no shrapnel,” Moreland said. “If you’re not directly in that rather narrow footprint, or real close, you’re golden. Now, it’s a pretty serious footprint if it hits in our perimeter and anything in the footprint is, literally, crispy fried. But it’s a narrow footprint compared to shrapnel. Twenty five meters versus fifty. That matters.”
“It’s got one benefit,” Sergeant Richards said. “It’s like napalm. It’s very fucking scary.”
“Keren, you scared of this system?” Moreland asked.
“Very, sergeant,” Keren said.
“You gonna run if we’re taking fire?”
“Nope. Didn’t run at The Mall. Ain’t gonna run from no plasma artillery.”
“Scary don’t win wars.”
* * *
The rounds were small. Normally, mortar rounds were rather long and tapered with fins on the end and charges arrayed around the fins. The exception that Keren recalled was 4.2 inch mortars which used rifled barrels for spin stabilization.
These looked sort of like 4.2 with fins and a weird circular foot. They weren’t much longer than a 4.2. But they had nearly twice the range. And you could pack nearly twice as many into the track as 120s. On the other hand, if the ammo racks took a hit, the blow-out panels had better work or everyone in the track was going to be a crispy critter.
“Ready on the right? The right is ready. Ready on the left? The left is ready. Commence firing three rounds, contact, slow, tube mount.”
The mortar could be fired from either the tube or the breach. For automatic fire there was a reload mount that hooked to the breach. Currently it was stored and they were doing it the old fashioned way, dropping the rounds down the snout of the barrel.
The mortar had a weird sound to it. There was a super-sonic crack but it was muted. And over it was a sort of ZIIIP! and whine as the electro-drive shoved the round back up the tube. It sure as hell wasn’t the crashing explosion Keren was used to.
The effect downrange, though, removed any question he had about the mortar’s utility. The rounds were landing all around the decrepit bulldozer that was the target. Direct hits were ripping pieces off the construction equipment, which was rare to see with normal rounds.
The whole company had gathered for the first mortar live fire and Keren was glad it had gone well. Lay-in and targeting had used the computer adjustment system so it was about ten times as fast as normal. Altogether the system worked really well. He figured the CO brought the rest of the company to see that, yeah, mortars had their place.
“Cease fire,” Sergeant Moreland ordered. “Ensure clear on all weapons.”
“Okay, troops, this is why you’re really here,” Cutprice boomed from the range tower. “I’ve been pretty interested in the anti-artillery system these things boast. I want to see how they do against our mortars. I’ve obtained permission for the elimination of one standard AFV from inventory… ”
Keren stared in amazement as two brand-new tracks approached from the woodline. As he watched a figure jumped out of the lead track and hustled to the rear one. Unless he was much mistaken, it was the First Sergeant.
“Mortars, mount your automatic thingies,” Cutprice said. “Target the remaining track. Start with slow fire, Sergeant. On command, prepare to go to maximum.”
* * *
“This is gonna be interesting,” Cristman said, setting the gun for automatic adjustment.
“Tell me about it,” Adams said, locking the breach magazine system into place.
“Two gun, up,” Keren said over the communicator.
“Mortar section up, prepare for automated adjustment.”
The gun moved slightly to the side and the nose hunted upwards.
“Guns on target, closed.”
“All guns, fire three rounds, slow fire, manual, on command.”
“Three rounds, roger,” Keren said. “On command. Wait for it.”
“Fire one,” Moreland said.
“Fire!”
Adams dropped a round down the chute and took the next from Griffis.
“Fire two.”
“Fire.”
Clang, WHEET, crack.
“Fire Three. Cease fire.”
“They’re still in flight,” Keren said, popping his head up.
He was prepared to see the rounds drop on or near the track. Instead, there were lines of blue fire like bent lasers reaching upwards and twelve blossoms of fire from high overhead. The nearest they’d gotten, by his eyeball, is maybe a thousand feet above ground level. At that height, what you were going to get was a gentle patter of metal you had to brush out of your hair. A big chunk might hurt a bit. If you weren’t wearing a helmet. And it wasn’t going to fall near the target.
“Well, that is actually a surprise,” Cutprice boomed. “But I suppose if the Posleen could shoot down hyper velocity missiles, we should be able to shoot down some nice slow mortars. Mortars, I want you to fire nine rounds each just as fast as you possibly can. Let’s see if we can overwhelm the system.”
“Two Gun. Fire for effect, nine rounds, contact. On command… ”
“Two gun up.”
“Fire.”
This time all they could do was service the gun as fast as they could. Cristman took the right while Adams had the left, Griffis handing rounds to Cristman and Keren porting for Adams. The system, much like a WWII Bofors gun, permitted continuous feeding of the rounds and fired very nearly as f
ast. Without the heat generated by an explosive charge, the barrel could take rounds faster than they could be loaded. In no more than fifteen seconds the last round was away and they popped up to see what they’d wrought. Unfortunately, while the system cried out for a large capacity, exchangeable magazine, such a magazine would be too heavy to load.
The M576 mortar round had a small dollop of antimatter at its center and a bunch of notched wire surrounding it. With a casualty causing radius of fifty meters in contact setting, sixty on proximity, the explosion on direct contact could cut through light armor like paper.
And the puffs of smoke were getting closer. The sheer volume of fire was overloading the single anti-artillery system on the track. With 36 rounds headed its way, the system was having to hunt across the sky and the puffs came lower and lower until one finally impacted on the rear deck. The explosion was heavy enough to damage the anti-artillery gun and two of the next three rounds hit across the track, turning it into a mangled piece of very expensive metal.
“So we see the good news and the bad,” Cutprice said to the subdued company. As with any company of infantry, the mortarmen had been rooting for the artillery and the gun bunnies had been rooting for the anti-artillery system. Both groups had reasons to be happy and chastized. “The good news is that the system works. The better news is that, en masse, it will probably work even better. The bad news is that even mortars can overcome it if there’s enough incoming. The answer, gentlemen, is to make sure that all your M84 track-commander guns remain up, that commanders relinquish control to automatic at any incoming and that we maintain enough coverage that we can interlock fires. The system should also work against incoming anti-armor rockets. Keep it on auto unless you have an important target, commanders. Mortars, keep up your exercise. And keep in mind that the Hedren have a similar system.”
* * *
“Echo Two Seven, target troops in the open, grid six-five-eight-two by four-two-zero-four!”
“Mortar section, hip-shoot east!” Lieutenant Todd shouted over the communicator.
The six tracks of the Bravo Company, First Battalion, Fourteenth Regiment (Separate) had been cranking at full speed on ground-effect down the trace of former Missouri Highway Eight heading for their next firing position. The trace was covered by small saplings, mostly poplar with an admixture of beech and pine. But the armored mortar carriers snapped those in a welter of flying sticks and leaves that had the front of the otherwise invisible mortar carrier covered in a green froth.
At the command Oppenheimer spun up the tracks and slammed the vehicle to the ground, causing a screech of complaint from the drive-train and a rooster-tail of flying soil and pulverized vegetation.
“Watch the fucking tracks!” Keren shouted as the driver slid the vehicle sideways, its mortar compartment oriented to the east.
“Aligned!” was all Oppenheimer said.
Keren hit the disconnect on this safety-harness, a necessity when going at nearly seventy miles an hour, and dropped his command chair into the belly of the track.
Before he could even get out of his seat, though, Adams and Griffis had slammed open the splinter-cover over the mortar. With a grunt the gun was lifted on its automated support pod and locked into place. Cristman hit the auto-align button and waited.
“Fucking Three Gun… ” Adams muttered. “COME ON, THREE GUN!”
“Section up,” Sergeant Moreland said as Three Gun finally got its gun into action and its automated alignment system online.
In the past, to get artillery or mortars to go where you wanted it to go, it was necessary to carefully align the guns using techniques very similar to surveying. The guns would be set up on a very straight line then further aligned using a series of highly calibrated sights. It took a long time and it was a pain in the ass.
The auto-alignment system, by contrast, used laser transmitters and receptors to determine where each gun was in relationship to each other and where they were in relationship to the world. Using that information the gunnery computer could give each gun a correction necessary to get it to go where the enemy was rather than, say, on top of friendly forces or the vast areas that had neither.
Coupled with the automatic gunnery system of the mortars, what had once been a five to ten minute process even with a ‘hip-shoot’ now took about twenty seconds for a good crew. Or ninety for three gun.
“Three rounds, prox, fire for effect,” the FDC ordered.
“Three rounds prox,” Keren repeated, reaching into the ammo box on his side of the carrier. “Fire for effect.”
He tossed a round to Adams who slammed it into the tube then another then another. All three of the rounds were out before any of the other guns had started to fire.
“Cease fire,” Sergeant Moreland ordered. “I want all four gun captains at my track. Now.”
* * *
“Keren,” Moreland said. “Very impressive. You were first gun up and, by a long shot, the first to fire. Care to tell me how you got prox, which is not the default setting, outbound about a half a second after the order?”
“Two ammo compartments on the carrier, sergeant,” Keren said, shrugging. “Port side is all contact. Starboard side we’ve got the flares, smoke and a small amount of standard set to prox and delay. That way we don’t have to dick around with setting it if we get a hip-shoot.”
“Port,” Sergeant West said. The four gun squad leader was a tall, rangy brunette from West Virginia. “That’s the left as you’re facing forwards. So… Griffis jumps over there to get the round and hands it across the tube?”
“Oh, hell no,” Keren said, shaking his head. “I pull the round and Adams shifts sides to hang. And, sorry Sergeant Moreland, I don’t go yelling ‘Hang it’ and ‘Fire’ unless we’re on timed fire. He just hangs the son-of-a-bitch and fires it as fast as we can get them out the tube. Hipshoots are about speed.”
“And thus we find why he was the artillery coordinator for the Ten Thousand,” Sergeant Moreland said. “Stall, you wanna tell me why it took you nearly a minute and a half to get up?”
“No excuse, sergeant,” the third squad leader said. Short, black haired and hefty for a juv, Wendell Stall was from the Cleveland, Tennessee Urb and had fought most of the war in the 32nd Tennessee “Volunteers” in the battles around Chattanooga. The Volunteers fought the whole war in fixed mounts with fairly constant targets and he was having a hard time adjusting to maneuver warfare.
“That isn’t an answer,” Moreland said. “We’ll discuss this later. News from company is that we well and truly smoked the hilltop. We’re staying here and may have another fire mission coming up. Get back to your tracks.”
* * *
“Hedren would have taken out most of the mortar fire,” Captain Cox said. The observer sent in from Corps shook his head. “Your mortars need to fire together to overwhelm it.”
“Hipshoot,” Cutprice said looking through his sight. “Get the metal on the target as fast as possible.”
The company had been in road-march condition when it hit this defensive point on the ridges east of Huzzah creek. The first intimation had been a flight of anti-armor missiles, all of which had been “graded” as destroyed. Given that they were actual rockets, just not anti-armor ones, and that the anti-missile system took them all down, the observer would have had a hard time grading it otherwise.
Bravo company was following Missouri Eight with Alpha well behind it and Charlie flanking them well to the north. The battalion was, notionally, screening an advance of the entire regiment heading towards an objective to the east. But it was a movement to contact. And they had contact. They just had to find out how much.
The Huzzah was a very minor creek, not much of an obstacle, but the ridges long its length were something else. There were only a few places the tracks could maneuver on them. He glanced at his map and then over his shoulder.
“Launch a UAV,” he said to his RTO. “Order Second Platoon to maneuver to the road north of here. Cross the Huzza
h there and try to push in on the flank. Stay mounted; we’re in a hurry. Mortars are to begin full speed bombardment of the target.”
* * *
“Fire for effect, mix prox and delay, thirty rounds, on command.”
“Opie, set the delay rounds,” Keren said, sliding to the rear of the compartment and starting to pull out rounds. The standard rounds came set for contact. By dialing the rounds slightly one way or the other they could be configured for delay, which exploded a fraction of a second after it hit something, or proximity which exploded two meters above the ground.
Something was troubling him and it suddenly hit him as he was setting the third round.
“Sergeant Moreland,” he said quietly over his comm. It was set to the command channel so that only other squad leaders and the platoon command group, Moreland and Lt. Todd would hear him.
“Counterbattery.”
* * *
Lt. Edison McIntosh wished he had Lt. Todd’s position. But he also knew that the mortar platoon commander had about ten times his experience. Todd had been a platoon leader before McIntosh’ father was born and had fought all the way through the Posleen War rising to the rank of Major.
However, the former Major had only fought the Posleen. And McIntosh had been carefully instructed by his boss on one thing that the Lieutenant probably didn’t count on.
As he was reaching into the sachel by his side, though, the lieutenant keyed his comm.
“All tracks! INCOMING! Displace five hundred meters west! NOW! NOW! NOW!”
Fuck. The notional Hedren counter-battery wasn’t due for another thirty seconds.
