Hell's Faire

by John Ringo

  "You can't do that, Major," Horner said furiously.

  "I can and I will. In three hours we'll be down to throwing rocks. I've thrown rocks at the Posleen in my time, but never as a primary assault method. As far as my scouts can tell, there is no practical end to the Posleen forces. If we can recover the cache, a big if, and if you can find some fire support, a big if, we can retake the Gap. And with the materials we'll have we'll be able to hold for another, oh, twelve hours or so. At our current kill ratio we'll be able to kill approximately six million Posleen before we become combat ineffective and get overrun. Which I think would be enough even for you."

  "If you can't recover the cache, because the Posleen pour over the position, or if you can't retake the pass, the whole eastern seaboard will be turned."

  "Yep, so you'd better go find us some more fire support, hadn't you, General?"

  "Major O'Neal has disconnected," the AID informed him.

  Horner just nodded, smiling broadly. The headquarters had gotten remarkably quiet during the conversation, which had been fully audible, and now it kept quiet, since everyone knew exactly what that expression meant.

  "Colonel Nix," Horner called.

  "Yes, sir." The man was slight, bespectacled and balding since he still hadn't hit the age that had been specified for rejuvenation. His uniform was somewhat rumpled and he had a pen sticking out of the corner of one pocket while all his blouse pockets bulged with materials. Anyone looking at him would have pegged him immediately as a geek. And they would have been right except solely for the "degree" of geekiness. Colonel Nix wasn't just a geek, he was an ubergeek.

  His official title was "Special Assistant to the CONARC for Information Security." He had been the first to determine that the Tenth Corps had been hacked, how it had occurred and what to do to correct it. Since then Horner had ensured he was always at arms reach and on more than one occasion Nix had either foiled additional hacking attacks or detected them before they became a threat. Horner's abilities stopped at being able to compose a document and he both trusted and liked his ubergeek.

  "Tell me why you think the AID net has been compromised," Horner said, smiling and without looking away from the wall.

  "As I said, sir, there were some indications going all the way back to the battles with the Eleventh ACS division in Nebraska that the Posleen were either omniscient or reading the Eleventh's mail," the colonel replied. "The Darhel guarantee that the AID communications are unbreakable, and as far as I know no human group has broken them. But they also guaranteed that we would be materially supported. They've made a lot of guarantees that didn't stand up. I have no hard data, sir. It's more a gut call than anything, sir, but . . ."

  "O'Neal's forces were apparently ambushed on landing," Horner replied. "They specifically targeted the supply shuttles."

  "Pretty nice datum, sir," the colonel said with a frown as he looked at the device around the general's wrist. "Uh, sir . . ."

  "I'm aware of the fact that they're probably aware of the fact, Colonel," the general replied with a frown. That meant he found the point humorous. "That they know that we know that they know."

  "Yes, sir."

  "It probably won't work to reduce emissions, but we'll do that. Get rid of this thing," he continued, handing over the device. "Put it in a safe someplace far away and get me a telephone. I need to make some phone calls."'

  "What are we going to do about the ACS, sir?" Nix asked. Everyone had heard the conversation.

  "We're not going to discuss what we're going to do about the ACS in front of an AID," Horner said with a tight, angry smile. "That's the first thing we're going to do for the ACS."

  "Yes, sir." Nix paused. "Is there a second thing?"

  "Call the SheVa."

  * * *

  "Rise and shine, Pruitt."

  Pruitt had been new to SheVa guns when the crew had taken over SheVa Nine, but he had quickly noted one defect in the design. While the crew quarters were more than adequate, nearly sybaritic compared to the conditions of "grunt" infantry or regular tankers, they were located half way across the turret. That meant a mad dash down a thirty-meter hallway and climbing two sets of ladders before anyone could be at their positions. While that wasn't a big deal most of the time, in the sort of conditions they had just been through, two days of hard fighting, with Posleen ships appearing at any time, it was a recipe for disaster.

  And it wasn't like he could rack out in his chair. For whatever reason, the U.S. Ground Forces hadn't considered the rudimentary capability of reclining the chairs. He had heard rumors that some people had switched them out, but he'd had neither the time nor the inclination. He had a better idea.

  Stopping by one of the numerous "military supply" stores that popped up around every base had actually been difficult; Ground Force was in a real rush to get the SheVa back in commission. But he had managed and picked up a few items he thought might be of use. One of which he was currently using.

  Pruitt rolled over in the survival hammock and groaned. "Go 'way."

  "Come on, Pruitt." Indy jabbed him hard in the ribs. "Posleen landers on the horizon."

  It was as if she had hit him with a cattle prod; Pruitt was out of the sack and halfway up the single set of stairs between him and the command center before he even noticed that he was up. Or the laughter behind him.

  "I was joking sleepyhead," Indy laughed. "But we do have to get going."

  "What now?" he looked at his watch and shook his head muzzily. "Six hours? Are the repairs done yet?"

  "Not all of them, but that's not going to matter if we don't get going."

  "Why?"

  "Let's just say that it sucks to be ACS."

  * * *

  "Okay, General Keeton woke me up, too." Major Mitchell looked as if he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. In fact, he'd gotten nearly three hours. However, on top of two days continuous combat ops, that was like saying none at all. All it had done was make him logier.

  The meeting to discuss an operations plan for the SheVa's side of the counterattack was taking place in the command center; it was one of the only places large enough, there were projection screens for laying out the plan, and it had enough chairs and ledges for everyone to sit.

  Besides the SheVa crew there was Captain Chan, her senior NCO and Mr. Kilzer. All but Kilzer looked half asleep. He, on the other hand, was bouncing around like a ferret on a sugar high.

  Mitchell yawned and gestured at the projected map. "The ACS got chewed up on landing and they're running short on power. In a couple of hours they are going to have to pull out of the Gap and get a resupply. After that they're going to have to retake the Gap, put the plug back in the bottle.

  "To retake the Gap, they need nukes. Guess who has the only nukes within five hundred miles?"

  Reeves raised his hand. "Major, even if there weren't Posleen in the way . . ."

  "There are an estimated one point two million . . ."

  The normally taciturn driver gulped and nodded his head. "Yes, sir, but even if there weren't we couldn't drive that far in, what?"

  "We have to be to Franklin in . . ." He glanced at his watch. "Six and a half hours."

  "Im-possible," Pruitt snapped. "It took us . . . what . . . ? Nearly a day to get from Franklin to here." After a moment he appended: "Sir."

  "Nonetheless . . ." Mitchell gave a thin smile to the group in the command center. "Has anyone ever heard the traditional punishment for a good job?"

  "Fine, sir," Indy said. "The difficult we do immediately. Thanks to Mr. Kilzer," she nodded at the designer who gave her a short, choppy nod back, " . . . and the brigade we're nearly repaired and significantly rearmed. But the impossible takes time. We have to get across either the Rocky Knob Gap or Betty—God help us if it's Betty—to get to the fighting. And we can't exactly zip up and down those slopes."

  "Well, I understand you have some experience at skiing them," the designer said with a grin.

  "Puh-leeze," Pruitt snapped. "You weren't
there or you wouldn't laugh. And, sir, there is the minor matter of one point two million Posleen."

  "We still have full nuclear release," Major Mitchell said solemnly. "And we've been given extra reloads."

  "Fine, we can hit concentrations that are not in contact with human forces, sir," Pruitt said reasonably. "What about the ones that are?" He gestured at the map where a line of blue and red met halfway to Rocky Knob Gap. "We can't exactly nuke those Posleen."

  "No, but we can assault them," Kilzer interrupted.

  "Oh, yeah, now there's a good idea!"

  "No, seriously. That was the point of the upgrade. You have more frontal armor, now, than an M-1A4; from the front you're practically invulnerable to plasma cannon fire and will even shrug off most HVM hits . . ."

  " 'Practically'?" Indy interrupted. " 'Most'?"

  "In addition there's the squirt-gun," the designer continued. "That should give you at least ten percent more likelihood of survival . . ."

  " 'Practically'?" Pruitt said, goggle-eyed.

  "Oh, quit being a baby," Paul said. "You're the most heavily armored thing on earth; act that way!"

  Mitchell grabbed Pruitt's collar as he lunged out of the chair but the civilian apparently had no idea what he had said. "Mr. Kilzer, we've just wracked up more kills on this retreat than any SheVa in-toto, much less in a single engagement. So if one of us is 'being a baby' it is probably for good reason."

  "I'm not saying going in there with guns blazing," Paul argued. "Although . . ."

  "No," Indy snapped.

  "Okay, okay, but what we'll do is provide fire support to the division already in contact, neutralize the forces moving through Rocky Knob Gap and then move forward in bounds with the division. If we get shot up too badly to move, they've got most of the brigade forming in ground mobile units and they'll come up behind you to repair."

  "And Rocky Knob?"

  "I was doing some mapping while you were asleep," the civilian said, bring up a three-D schematic of the mountains in the area. "You can't cross Rocky Knob; we need the road for movement of the support and combat forces . . ."

  "We refer to them all as 'crunchies,' " Pruitt interjected.

  "Heh, heh. Okay, we need the road for the crunchies. You'll have to cross Betty Gap again."

  "No," Reeves said, standing up. "I'll quit first. I'll desert!"

  "It won't be like the last time," Paul said. "I've got a few ideas that will help and I'll iron them out on the way."

  "I'm not going up there," Pruitt said. "I'm not going SheVa skiing again."

  "I'll work it out," Paul said, sharply. "I'm good at figuring out answers to problems. I do that, you shoot Posleen ships. Or maybe you figure out the answers and we switch; I'm a pretty good gunner when it comes to it. And we can't use Rocky Knob."

  "Any other ideas how we're going to get to Franklin in time?" Mitchell looked around the room at the glum faces then shook his head. "I'll get with General Keeton so we can coordinate with the crunchies down the road. Are there any other comments, questions or concerns?"

  "Just one," Pruitt said, suspiciously. "I think Mr. Kilzer has a pronoun problem. He keeps saying 'we.' "

  "Oh, I'm going with you," Paul said. "All these systems are totally experimental. If anything goes wrong I want to be here to fix it."

  "Oh, hell."

  CHAPTER SIX

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

  1200 EDT Monday September 28, 2009 AD

  Tommy looked up from his ammunition readouts as the major slid over the side of the Reapers' fighting position.

  The Reaper position was about a hundred meters behind the primary defense line, not far from the battalion headquarters hole. Like the battalion position, the Reapers had just shoveled out an area about six meters across. In their case there were two different levels, with the shallower being at the rear.

  The Reapers, if they had any ammunition, could engage with a variety of heavy weapons. They had 75mm automortars for indirect fire and heavy flechette cannons for close-in work, both of these besides their anti-lander systems.

  Unfortunately, in the last nine hours they had shot through every bit of ammo they carried in, gone out and scrounged up most of the additional packs and shot all of them off. They had moved forward to the line twice to support with flechettes, engaged additional landers and fired off mortars until the position was mostly protected by empty ammo boxes.

  But at this point, they were pretty much flat. Tommy had about two dozen magazines left, but they weren't compatible with any of the Reaper systems and two dozen mags weren't going to stop the Posleen. That was not a particularly comfortable thought as he watched not only his own ammo but the rest of the battalion's going down like a waterfall.

  "Lieutenant," Mike said as he slid into the mud in the bottom of the hole. The light rain had dropped off but it had lasted long enough to saturate everything in sight and fill all the holes with a few inches of slippery orange clay, the infamous "Georgia red clay" for which the region was unjustly famous. One of the areas that the battalion's energy was flowing away to was simply keeping the suits from sinking into the bog.

  "Major," Tommy replied. If O'Neal wanted to go with monosyllables, fine by him.

  "You been watching the battalion's readouts?" the commander asked.

  "Ayup," the lieutenant replied.

  "There is one possible way we can continue the mission. Sort of."

  "And that would be, sir?"

  "You're sounding rather cynical, Lieutenant," the major said.

  It was impossible to get anything like body language through the suits, but Tommy would swear O'Neal was amused.

  "Well, sir, I like killing Posleen. Not having them kill me because I'm out of ammo. That sort of situation always annoys me."

  "Good news then; you and your troops are in position to save the day."

  "Ah, great. Sir. Does this involve killing Posleen?"

  "Possibly. But mostly it involves being pack mules. Your team has been using standard ammo, so you're at the top of the power levels in the battalion. And you're out of ammo. So I'm sending you to go pick up some. And some power."

  Tommy raised his hands palms upward. "They also serve who simply fetch ammo. Are they sending in resupply birds?"

  "No, but, coincidentally, there's a rather large cache of ACS materials nearby."

  "Ah."

  "One that's off the books. So until we started discussing it the Posleen shouldn't have known about it."

  Tommy worked his face inside the gel in lieu of shaking his head. "Off the books?"

  "Well, I'd have preferred that nobody find out, but if it's a choice of facing a court of inquiry for putting a cache at your family farm or having my battalion wiped out, I know which way I'll hop."

  "Oh."

  "More good news. Sort of. Your girlfriend is at the farm with a mixed group of civilians and military personnel. You can enlist her as a pack mule."

  Tommy's jaw worked inside the armor and he counted to ten. "You want me to bring Wendy up here!? What in the hell is she doing anywhere near this shit?"

  "The same thing my daughter is, surviving," O'Neal said with a smile in his voice.

  "Your daughter?"

  "She apparently survived the nuke that killed my father," Mike answered and gestured to the northwest. "They're about six miles that way. That's where I grew up."

  "Oh, holy shit, sir. I'm . . ."

  "Don't worry about it," Mike said, waving a hand. "Let's just say that we both have good reason to hold this position. And to survive doing so." He paused for a moment then gestured helplessly. "But . . . even if we can retake the pass after we pull out, we're probably not going to walk out. Or, hell, even be carried out . . ."

  "They're sending the SheVa, sir. . . ."

  "Yeah. One SheVa, about a million Posleen. I'm sorry, but, no offense, I wouldn't even expect the Ten Thousand to make it. Much less one unsupported SheVa. The point is . . . when you see my daughter .
. . Just tell her I love her. Okay?"

  "Okay, sir." Tommy started to reply then stopped at a raised hand.

  "I've given your AID all the information it needs about the cache and the link-up point," O'Neal continued. "We're critically short on time so I want you to pull out right away, even before the rest of the battalion. Despite the time issue, you should take some R and R time when you meet up with the group. And your lady-friend." O'Neal waved vaguely again then tapped the knee of the lieutenant's suit. "Take what you can while you can get it, Tommy. There's only so much that God gives us in life." With that he rolled back out of the hole and crawled towards the battalion position.

  * * *

  "Boss, there's a little problem here." Sergeant Major Ernie Pappas still preferred the term "Gunny." He'd retired as a Marine Gunnery Sergeant long before aliens were anything more than science fiction. But as one of the early rejuvs he had been either training or in the frontlines since the first landings. And he knew a screwed up tactical situation when he saw one.

  "Sure is," O'Neal replied. "Pulling out is going to be a stone cold bitch."

  The battalion was laying down a continuous curtain of fire but the Posleen seemed to be limitless. They had slowed down in their advance, and all the forces to the north had pulled out, but they still were in continuous contact. When the battalion pulled out, it had basically two choices. It could pull out fast, above ground, or it could dig backwards. But in neither case could it maintain fire. And some of the suits, despite refills, were reaching red zone on power again.

  "We're going to get chewed up when we exit," he continued. "Shit happens."

  "We're not just going to get chewed up," the Gunny said. "We're going to get hammered."

  "What if they pursue us?" Stewart asked. "I have to take their side, here."

  "We'll go up Black Rock Mountain," O'Neal said. "They're going to find pursuit tough."

  "They're hearing all of this, you know," Duncan interjected.

  "Yeah, but I don't think their attacks can coordinate this fast," Mike said. "Otherwise they'd be all over us. We've been hit hard, what, five or six times? If whoever was running the show over there could hit us hard now, he would."