Into the Looking Glass votsb-1

by John Ringo

  There was a very long pause that was ended by the secretary of defense clearing his throat.

  “Dr. Weaver, what sort of magnitude are we discussing here?”

  “Six hundred megatons,” Bill said, looking at the device in his lap.

  There was another long pause.

  “Dr. Weaver,” the national security advisor said, in a voice that was high and strange, “I’m reminded of an expression from the Vietnam War. Something about destroying a world to save it.”

  “We’re doomed anyway, ma’am,” Bill replied, his voice firm now. “The Adar have had this capability for some time, how long I don’t know, but long enough to use it on their own gate. They haven’t. The question is: why?”

  “Why?” the President asked in a firm tone.

  “Because they’re not desperate, Mr. President,” Bill answered. “I guess the question is, how desperate are we?”

  There was another pause.

  “Mr. Secretary?” the President said.

  “Sir?”

  “Transfer all available forces to open the Oakdale gate,” the president said. “Doctor Weaver.”

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Try very hard to set it off on the other side of the gate. And may God grant us victory on this day.”

  * * *

  The F-15 never even returned to Orlando. Instead, taking a snaking course that followed relatively safe lanes around the area the Titcher interdicted, it flared out and landed at Louisville International, the closest airport with runways long enough. A Blackhawk, a special operations variant he noticed, was waiting just outside the gates to the airport and as soon as Bill was in and strapped down, in one of the crew-chief seats that had a great view out the Plexiglas window, it took off. The flight started low and got lower the closer they got to the alien incursion.

  Bill thought that riding in an F-15 was wild, and it was, but even though the Blackhawk was going a fraction of the speed of the fighter, the fact that it was doing so, towards the end, actually below the treetops added a certain degree of frisson to the experience. So did jerking up to avoid power lines and then back down, quickly, to avoid fire from the hills to the east.

  It was right at 130 miles, straight-line, from Louisville International to the Oakdale gate. Even in a Blackhawk it took over an hour to make the flight, twisting and turning at the very edge of the experienced chief warrant officer five’s capability. Towards the end the chopper cut south and, keeping a ridgeline between itself and the gate, actually passed the gate to the Army assembly point in Jackson.

  Naturally, Bill thought, the most assaultable gate would be just about the least accessible. The road network in the area was, to say the least, primitive. To get the bulk of the combat forces to the region required going down Highway 402 out of Lexington and through Winchester, to Highway 15. Highway 402 was a multilane highway, limited access for most of its length, and it had been taken out of civilian service to move the vast fleet of tanks and fighting vehicles that were headed for the gate. Highway 15, on the other hand, was a two lane, twisting, road that snaked through the hills in the area, hills which were just starting to leave the rolling bluegrass and edge up into the Appalachians. Highway 402 was a logjam of low-boy trailers trying to turn onto 15, which was worse.

  Many of the soldiers being sent to try to retake the gate were Ohio national guardsmen who were, for reasons unexplained, being removed from defending their own homes and driven to the wilds of Kentucky. They were, to say the least, less than thrilled. Others were coming up from Tennessee, again National Guard with a leavening of air assault troops from the 101st at Fort Campbell. They took the Daniel Boone Highway, a limited access toll road that, again, had been placed in military service, and then turned north on the same Highway 15.

  What the more astute soldiers noticed was the distinct lack of support vehicles. Missing from the logjam were the fuel, food and ammunition trucks they were used to seeing accompanying their formations. They had been given a basic load of ammunition and food at an assembly point in Louisville and their tanks were full. But there were no apparent plans for resupply. What that told those astute soldiers was far more grim than the fact that they were being taken away from their homes and families.

  Furthermore, the assembly area in Jackson was a nightmare. The small town of a bare 2500 souls was more of an elaborate crossroads on two minor highways. It was the county seat of Breathitt County and, notably, its largest town. In an area with barely a square acre of flat land; it occupied a section of large, relatively flat, and therefore flood prone, shoreline along the North Kentucky River.

  “As a spot to assemble a battalion of tanks, much less a short division,” Brigadier General Rand McKeen said, dryly, “it leaves a lot to be desired.”

  Low-boy trailers could be heard in the background, snorting around turns and backing and filling, trying to find places to drop all the tanks and fighting vehicles they carried. The town, even before the heavy reinforcements had arrived, had been largely abandoned and tanks now parked in yards, alleyways and streets, trying to ensure that they knew where their higher control was and, more importantly, which way the enemy might come from.

  Even defining “higher” was difficult. The units were drawn from four different divisions, two brigades from Kentucky National Guard, one brigade from Ohio, one from Tennessee and a battalion of light infantry from the 101st. General McKeen, assistant division commander of the 101st, had been placed in overall command.

  “And you’re not an armor officer,” Command Master Chief Miller noted. “Sir.”

  “Nope,” McKeen said, smiling faintly. He was a tall, rawboned man with a lantern jaw, wearing his helmet very straight with the chinstrap neatly fastened. He also was weighted down with an infantryman’s combat harness, loaded with magazines, and carried an M-4 rifle. “I’m not. But I suddenly got dumped with four brigades of National Guard armor and a direction of the President to take and hold one hilltop with them. So I guess that’s what I’m going to have to do.”

  “Certainly you have enough forces,” Bill said.

  “Well… yes and no,” McKeen replied. “The Mreee and Nitch, if that’s who those spiders are, don’t seem to be fighting all that hard. The local National Guard commander had positions along all the ridgelines around the boson. Some of them got pushed out and the Mreee took the town of Oakdale, pushed down the valley and took Athol and pushed over the nearest ridge towards Warcreek. But the local National Guard forces held them up in every direction, despite the Mreee having more forces and those damned rayguns of theirs. The rayguns don’t appear to track in on infantry. And that’s what I meant by ‘yes and no.’ If I go barrel assing down 52 with all these Abrams and Bradleys, we’re going to get blown to hell, Doctor. Frankly, it would have been much better to just send the whole 101st. But we’re spread in penny packets on other missions. So here I sit, a light infantry specialist with a classic light infantry mission and a whole passel of mechanized infantry on my hands.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Bill asked.

  “Take the gate,” the general replied, smiling faintly again. “As to how I’m going to take it, Doctor Weaver, that’s for me to know. As I understand it, my mission is to get you and your SEAL team up to the gate. And the very least, you have to be alive. That is what I intend to do. How is up to me. The when is, according to my orders, up to you.”

  Bill looked at his watch and shook his head.

  “The… device we need to insert will not be ready for nine more hours,” the physicist said. “Can we hold on that long?”

  “As long as the Titcher don’t reinforce their ‘allies,’ ” the general replied. “In fact, I’d appreciate at least that long to get this amazing cluster… stuff fixed. Normally this sort of movement would take days, for exactly the reason that you see on the roads. As it is, we’re doing the best we can with the time we’ve got. Ten hours would be preferable.”

  “The device won’t be ready for nine ho
urs,” Bill repeated. “Thereafter… well, would you like to be sitting on a nuclear hand grenade that already had the pin pulled and was just being kept from blowing up by holding down the little lever thingy?”

  “Spoon,” the general said, his face going blank. “Is that what this thing is?”

  “Worse,” Miller said, his face grim. “Much, much, much worse.”

  “The best scenario is that we get it up to the gate, through the gate and blow it on the other side,” Dr. Weaver said, blowing out as he said it. “Then the gates all shut down and we all go have a beer.”

  “Miller time,” the SEAL said, one cheek jerking up in a rictus of a smile. Weaver had explained exactly what Sanson and the rest of the platoon were guarding.

  “Next best scenario, and it’s a real serious drop, is that we get it close to the gate, this is not close enough, and it blows up,” Bill said.

  “How serious a drop?” the general asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Bill replied.

  “Really,” Miller said. “I wish he hadn’t told me.”

  “That bad?” the general said, lightly. “I wish he hadn’t told me, too. If you get it close to the gate and can’t get it through, then what?”

  “I’ll blow it,” Bill replied. “It will destabilize this fractal track. It might even blowback along the fractal. I’m not sure what that will do to the Adar, or to us, if it happens, but it’s going to do worse to the Titcher. This is about more than America, more than any personal needs, wants and desires, more than the needs of the human race, this is about the future of multiple races. If the Titcher get out on this planet, with that runaway boson generator Ray Chen created, there’s no stopping them. If we’re lucky, there will be survivors in nuke boats at sea and places like Cheyenne Mountain.”

  “And the worse case is you never get near the gate,” the general said, licking his lips. He hadn’t realized it would be that bad. After twenty-five years of service in uniform he was used to taking risks with his life and the lives of the soldiers he commanded. But this was risking the fate of all humanity.

  “Yes, sir,” Miller replied. “That would really and truly suck.”

  “Well, for the first time today, I understand my orders,” the general said. He gave the physicist a half salute and walked back to the lawyer’s office that he had taken over as a command center.

  “You think it’s gonna work?” Miller asked.

  “It’d take a miracle.”

  * * *

  “The gate is at the head of this narrow ravine that branches off of the main Clover Branch valley,” the S-3 of what was being called Joint Task Force Oakdale said, pointing at the map. The major was normally the S-3 of the 37th Armored Brigade Ohio National Guard. As a full-time reservist he was decently capable of arranging the operations of his brigade, whether it be summer training, training schedules for the battalions scattered throughout Ohio or peacekeeping in Bosnia, Iraq or Afghanistan.

  Planning a desperate assault on a mountaintop in Kentucky for four brigades and a battalion of regular soldiers was a different ballgame.

  “The Mreee hold most of the Twin Creek Valley as well as Keen Fork and Bear Fork, but are being held up on ridges on three sides by units of the Kentucky National Guard.”

  There was an “ooowah!” from the back of the crowded tent and the S-3 smiled thinly.

  “Part of this is probably because the Mreee seem willing to stand on their gains. But a continual trickle of reinforcements has been coming through the gate, both Mreee and Nitch. It is believed when they have sufficient force they intend to assault, probably in the direction of Jackson. Most of the reinforcements have been moving up the Twin Creek Valley to assemble opposite the defenses near Elkatawa.”

  He turned back to the map and frowned.

  “The assault on the bridge will be along four axes. The majority of the 35th Brigade will move into positions opposite the Chenowee build-up and prepare for a direct frontal assault up Highway 52. In the meantime, 1st Battalion 149th Infantry with supporting units from 2nd Battalion 123rd Armor, will move up to the vicinity of Lawson where they will prepare for an assault over the ridges along the axis of Warcreek-Filmore Road. Once established on the ridges they will advance along the axis of Keen Fork. There is an unnamed road running along the creek that junctions with Warcreek-Filmore at the ridgeline. It is anticipated that the majority of this advance will be dismounted as the named roads are the only ones that will be functional for mechanized systems. Thirty-fifth Brigade, less one battalion, will move as soon as possible to the vicinity of Copebranch. When they are in position, they will move down to strike the enemy positions near Athol. This has to be the first assault made. The intention is to force the enemy to redeploy troops to repel it before the other two brigades engage.

  “Second Battalion, Third Brigade of the One-Oh-One will be moved up to the vicinity of Elkatawa. They will then dismount and move up onto the ridgelines currently held by 2nd Battalion, 149th Infantry of the Kentucky National Guard. Their objective will be to move, hopefully undetected, along the ridgelines to the vicinity of 541, then stage a dismounted assault upon the gate under cover of the mounted and dismounted assaults from the other directions. Your northern border will be the general axis of Warcreek to the Warcreek-Filmore Road with southern border the ridges overlooking Highway 52. But movement is to be along the ridges. Kentucky National Guard patrols have found what may be a clear lane, nearly to the gate opening. The Second Battalion will be accompanied by units of SEAL Team Five and Dr. Weaver, who will be carrying the gate closure device.”

  “So, what you’re saying,” the brigade commander of the 1st Brigade said, “is that we’re on the nature of a great big diversion.”

  “Yes,” General McKeen said, looking over his shoulder. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, sir,” the colonel replied, grinning. “We’ll just be as diverting as hell.”

  “If you can take the gate, any of you, do it,” the general said. “Push for it like hell. But the 101st battalion is, hopefully, the key. They’ve got more experience moving dismounted and they can move through the hills better than your troops probably can. The Mreee seem to be just tacking down the ridgelines, concentrating on forming their forces in the valley. We’re going to use that to butt-fuck them. Once Dr. Weaver and the SEALs insert the device, the gates close. At that point, it’s all over but the mopping up. Not just here, everywhere. Ohio, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, from Florida to Saskatchewan. It’s all up to us. And we’re going to do the job. Any questions?”

  There were none. The S-3 turned over the briefing to the Assistant S-3 who ran through the movement lanes, phaselines and other nitpicky details of the attack. He studiously ignored the portion on artillery support; there was none for the simple reason that it didn’t work. He also ignored resupply and postassault consolidation. This was an all or nothing attack. There would be no resupply and if it failed there would be no need for reconsolidation.

  Bill tuned that out as he tried to quiet his own fears. He had written down the instructions on how to set the bomb, but if the artass had made a mistake it was going to be a lousy time to find out right in front of the gate. So far it had only been Mreee and Nitch on this gate, but that didn’t mean that the Titcher might not show up at any time. They were racing against a series of deadlines, some of them unknown and unknowable. He glanced at his watch again. Five hours.

  Finally the briefing was over and the various officers filed out of the large tent, some of them joking halfheartedly. They all knew that they were going into a gauntlet from which most of their forces, their soldiers, their children, would not return.

  “Dr. Weaver?” a lieutenant colonel said as they were leaving. “Lieutenant Colonel John Forsythe, I’m the battalion commander from the One-Oh-One. You’re with me.” He was a tall officer with a clean-cut look and a square jaw. He looked like Hollywood’s idea of an airborne battalion commander.

  “We’ll meet you at the ass
embly area, sir,” Miller interjected. “We’ve got some special materials we need to assemble and we have our own transportation. It was in the movement supplement.”

  “All right,” the colonel said, nonplussed. “Be there on time.”

  “We’re the timing, Colonel,” Bill said. “The whole thing starts when we’re ready.” He glanced at his watch. “Five hours.”

  “Understood,” the colonel said, clearly not understanding. “Just be there.”

  “We will, sir,” Miller replied. “With bells on.”

  * * *

  As it turned out it took just over four hours until all the units were in position and Colonel Forsythe found out what the “special materials” were.

  “What the fuck, pardon my French, is that?” the colonel asked, looking up at the kneeling mecha suit.

  After the first Wyverns had worked out so successfully, Bill had convinced Columbia to fast track construction of the Mark II. The Mark II had a bit more fluidity, less of a tendency to disco at just the wrong moment and the stylish face had been removed. The whole upper half had, in fact, been significantly lowered and the armor had been modified into reflective glacis ridges. The suits were also camouflage covered and, in the case of the nine that the SEALs were now suiting up in, covered further in a special camouflage netting that would break up their outlines.

  “It’s a Mark Two Wyvern armored combat mecha,” Bill responded. He was now wearing the skin-tight black coveralls that were necessary to properly “fit” the Wyvern and he ran his hands over the suit proprietarily. “The Mark Twos are armored about like a Bradley and can carry some serious firepower. They also are going to be better armor for the ardune.”

  “The what?” the colonel asked.

  “The gate closing device,” Bill replied, glancing at the light violet box. It had been carefully placed on the back of the truck that had carried the Wyvern to their assembly area and his eyes, and those of most of the SEALs, were never far from it. The blue charging bar on the top now within a smidgeon of reading full. Bill’s Wyvern had been hastily modified with a metal box to carry it and he had carefully ensured that the Wyvern finger systems were dexterous enough to key the arming system. He hadn’t had the guts to actually key the full sequence, though. “The SEALs and I will let you carry the assault up to the gate but if you get bogged, we’re going to go through on rock and roll. The ardune will be placed on the other side of the gate, and it will be triggered, one way or another.”