Hell's Faire

by John Ringo

  "Open fire!"

  CHAPTER TEN

  Axes flash, broadswords swing,

  Shining armour's piercing ring

  Horses run with polished shield,

  Fight Those Bastards till They Yield

  Midnight mare and blood red roan,

  Fight to Keep this Land Your Own

  Sound the horn and call the cry,

  How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

  Follow orders as you're told,

  Make Their Yellow Blood Run Cold

  Fight until you die or drop,

  A Force Like Ours is Hard to Stop

  Close your mind to stress and pain,

  Fight till You're No Longer Sane

  Let not one damn cur pass by,

  How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

  —Heather Alexander

  "March of Cambreath"

  Green's Creek, NC, United States of America, Sol III

  1648 EDT Monday September 28, 2009 AD

  "Lord it's nice to shoot light stuff again." Specialist Cindy Glenn was a female, like her commander. Unlike her commander, she did not consider anything about the Army to be a career, especially not in this job.

  The basic theory of the MetalStorm system was conceived shortly before First Contact. The idea was simplicity in itself, like most interesting inventions. Instead of putting bullets in a complicated feeding system, load them all into the barrel, one stacked on top of another, with the propellant packed in between. Detonated electronically the device produced an awesome amount of firepower as literally hundreds of bullets spewed out of the barrel in bare seconds; one device had shown a theoretical rate of one million rounds per minute.

  It was the "theoretical" part that was the sticking point. Since the barrel was also the bullet supply, "reloading" involved replacing the entire barrel. Furthermore, the "bullet to weight" ratio of the system was just astronomical; it could never be considered a reasonable system for infantrymen who were always overloaded anyway.

  But it had certain benefits. After the coming of the Posleen, MetalStorm was used widely as an "area denial" system, laying down masses of bullets that could best be described as a "rain of lead." When stopping Posleen wave assaults, more was always better when it came to firepower. And there wasn't much "more" than MetalStorm.

  It was also used for some specialty systems, one of which was the "MetalStorm Anti-Lander Enhanced Firepower Armor Combination." The weapons system consisted of an Abrams tank chassis with a twelve-barrel MetalStorm pack mounted on top. The caliber of the barrels was 105mm and each had one hundred rounds of anti-armor discarding sabot loaded into it. At the touch of a button the system could spew out twelve hundred rounds in under a minute. It was hoped that this storm of depleted uranium, the same type and caliber of round that had originally been designed for the Abrams to defeat Soviet armor, would be capable of penetrating and destroying the Posleen landers that often played havoc on defenses. Unfortunately, it did not quite live up to its design potential.

  The designers had been trying to get everyone to call it "Malefic" but they failed miserably. The system was malefic, but only to its crew. The Abrams had been designed with the 105 round in mind. And it had successfully upgraded to the 120mm round, a significant increase in firepower that it nonetheless managed smoothly. However, firing twelve hundred 105mm anti-armor discarding sabot rounds in less than a minute turned out to be . . . one of the few situations where "more power" was not necessarily the best thing. Crews normally screamed as they fired. Many crew members deserted or deliberately maimed themselves to avoid duty in MetalStorm tracks. Because when those twelve barrels began spewing depleted uranium, the sixty-ton tanks would shake like an out-of-balance blender. Broken bones were commonplace as the crews were slammed from side to side in the vehicles. Most of them likened it to being rolled in a barrel of gravel.

  Despite the firepower, however, Malefic turned out to be unsuited to its primary role. The armor on Posleen landers was thick, the ships were large and they did not, unfortunately, approach on the ground. While the MetalStorm tracks could get penetration at short ranges, say down to fifteen hundred meters or so, they seemed unable to do any significant damage at anything other than point-blank range. And at that range, attempting to kill a lander was suicidal.

  However, the military had designed the weapons at enormous cost and even fielded a few companies of them. So rather than simply take the turrets off and use the chassis for replacement parts, the powers-that-be decided to use them at the few things they were good at. Notably, area denial.

  However, to do that required different weapons systems. The 105mm "twelve-pack" was poorly suited to killing vast numbers of Posleen. The rounds overkilled rather excessively but there were, for a MetalStorm system, relatively few of them.

  But since the MetalStorm system replaced not just the ammunition in firing, but the barrel as well, there was no reason that the track was locked in to using 105mm. And a similar pack, even larger, was designed and fielded in 40mm.

  The design used the basic 40mm grenade, the same projectile as was found in the venerable Mk-19 Mod 4. It fired a "bullet"-shaped projectile with a three-thousand-meter range that was just under a pound and a half of wrapped explosives and wire. On contact the projectile exploded, sending out a hail of notched wire that killed or injured anything in a five-meter radius.

  Each of the MetalStorm "40 Packs" contained twenty thousand projectiles.

  Instead of twelve barrels there were one hundred, ten across and ten down in a square block of metal that actually weighed more than the "heavy" pack. And instead of one hundred rounds packed into each barrel, there were two hundred.

  A mass of Posleen were visible trying to push through the gap against the heavy fire of the human infantry. They were getting slaughtered, to the point that the following ranks were having to scramble over the bodies of the slain, but they were still inching down the road.

  That was about to stop.

  Glenn laid her targeting reticle on the front of the column and opened fire.

  What spewed from the rectangular packet on a U-shaped mount on the tank looked like nothing so much as a continuous vomit of fire. One in five rounds was a tracer and with the rounds hammering out at such a high rate the tracers were not only continuous but overlapping. It was a wall of fire a meter and a half wide which, when it touched anything, exploded.

  The Posleen touched by the wall of flame literally disappeared as dozens of rounds hit each individual centaur. As soon as it was clear the advance had stopped, Glenn started to walk the rounds up the road, toggling the gun from side to side to ensure she got all of the oncoming horde. It was less like a weapon than some flaming broom, that both killed the Posleen and ripped them into nothing larger than hand-sized chunks until what was left behind looked as if some angry god had put it through a meat-grinder.

  Unfortunately, even two hundred thousand rounds could be expended in a short period of time. Which was why after only four seconds Turret One fell silent. After a moment Glenn hit the eject button and the massive steel firing pod was ejected backwards to lie on top of the SheVa.

  "I'm out, ma'am," the gunner said, flipping on the reload winch. "I'll be up shortly, though."

  Chan had seen the effect of the 40 packs often enough, but never in such a concentrated location and it took her a moment to react. "That's fine. Not a problem. Turret Two?"

  "Two."

  "Continue engagement. Three, when two goes dry . . ."

  "Three, gotcha."

  Chan flipped off of the company frequency and down to the SheVa intercom. "Major Mitchell, we're going to be out of targets soon."

  * * *

  Mitchell shook his head at the blood bath on the roadway. The road-cuts to either side of the narrow gap were splashed with yellow nearly to their tops. And you didn't often see that.

  "When the opening is clear arc your fire over the ridgeline. We don't have much maneuvering room here; the crunchies are in the w
ay."

  "Understand, sir. I'd like to get us up on the next ridgeline. My map says it opens up on the other side. I think we could do good works up there."

  Mitchell chuckled and nodded his head, unseen. "Concur, and we're probably in trouble for running over the church. I'll get on the horn to the division and see if they can clear out a few of their crunchies."

  "Yes, sir." There was a pause. "We're shot out on turrets one through six and twelve. The others don't have the angularity."

  "How long to reload?" Mitchell asked, turning his head sideways as the tech rep waved one arm in his direction.

  "About another three minutes, sir," Chan said awkwardly. "We fire this stuff off way faster than we reload."

  "Hold on a second," Mitchell replied, cutting the intercom audio and furrowing his brow at Kilzer's gestures. "Yes?"

  "Rotate the turret," Kilzer said.

  "She did," Mitchell replied acidly then stopped. "Oh. Jesus."

  "Don't worry about it," Kilzer said, waving his hand. "I've been thinking about this stuff longer than you have."

  "So, boss, you want I should rotate the turret?" Pruitt said with a chuckle.

  "Major Chan," Mitchell said, keying the intercom again. "We're going to rotate the turret to bring the rest of your guns into action."

  There was another pause and he smiled. "If you're pounding your head on the TC controls, it's okay. So am I."

  "Thank you, sir," Chan called back as Pruitt keyed the controls.

  * * *

  "Hold it there, Pruitt," Chan said, flipping to the company frequency. "Number Five, you're up. Everybody watch where the previous turret has fired," she continued as the blast of fire arched over the nearby ridgeline. "I want to try to saturate the area on the other side of the ridge."

  She nodded as the SheVa turret began to rotate. Pruitt apparently could feel the MetalStorm fire even in the heavily armored control room and had rotated automatically when five had finished its shot. And he did it again when six was done. So she could quit worrying about it.

  Time to find something else to worry about.

  She popped her head out of the TC's hatch and watched as Glenn manipulated the loader. There were four packs, three 40s and a 105, connected to the SheVa's top directly behind the turret. The loader was a multi-angularity forklift that connected to special points on the bottom of the packs. Once it was connected, which was the most ticklish part, all that Glenn had to do was hit the "Load Sequence" button and the multi-ton pack was lifted through three dimensions and carefully dropped into the gun-cradle. Once in place the gun system inserted the pintle and trunnions making the whole system ready to fire.

  Simple. So simple that they'd be reloaded before Nine's turn to fire came up. And so would Nine. The question was whether to continue the fire-mission.

  There were packs stashed in the interior. But to get to those would require the crane and someone, Pruitt probably, who was qualified to operate it. Which meant an hour or so to replace all her ready-packs. Which meant she really didn't want to shoot off all her reloads blind.

  "Colonel Mitchell," she said, switching back over to intercom. "I recommend we give them one stonk from here and then either move forward to the ridgeline or begin our movement towards Franklin."

  * * *

  Mitchell was regretting releasing Kitteket. The specialist had been dumped on them by accident during the retreat, but having someone to handle all the communications had turned out to useful. SheVas, by and large, did not do a lot of communicating. They mostly stayed in place or were moved by careful coordination of the local force commanders, who "owned" the SheVas as attachments. Operations orders, movement orders and communications were laid out days in advance. Otherwise they tended to run over such unimportant obstacles as front-lines, headquarters or, in one particularly unpleasant accident, the entire logistics "tail" of divisions. There was a reason that SheVa crewmen referred to everything other than SheVas, including "lesser" armor, as "crunchies."

  But the battle for the Tennessee Valley had been a wild scramble and, as far as Mitchell knew, he was an independent command under Army headquarters. Which meant that he wasn't in the decision loop of the local division. Furthermore, the entire battle both in retreat and advance had been, of necessity, much more fluid than most battles that involved something the size of the Great Pyramids. And then there were the MetalStorms.

  All of that meant far more communication load than was normal for a SheVa commander.

  Which was Mitchell's problem at the moment.

  "Wait one, Vickie," he said, switching back to another frequency. "Whiskey Five Echo Six-Four, this is SheVa Nine, over."

  "SheVa Nine, you are not authorized on this net."

  "Great, Echo Six-Four. I'm glad you have such great commo security. The point is that we're about to make a movement forward and unless we can coordinate it, we'll run over about two companies of your troops, over." He was on the division command net and he knew he was supposed to be on a support net, probably a dedicated one. That was how they usually ran SheVas. But he didn't have a correct frequency. All he had was a hastily scribbled note that said "Local Division" and a frequency.

  Welcome to the Real and the Nasty, boys.

  "SheVa Nine, authenticate Victor Foxtrot."

  "Look, first of all the damned net is compromised in case you hadn't been told. Including the current SOI. Second of all, I don't have your SOI. So, I'm sorry, I can't authenticate. Look, we're this great big metal thing on a ridge near Green's Creek. If you look closely, we have 'U.S. Defense Force SheVa Nine' on our side and we have a great big picture of a mini-lop rabbit on the front. And we're getting ready to roll over one of your battalions. So can we quit the commo games?!"

  "SheVa Nine, this is Grizzly Six, over." The voice was gruff with a slight accent. It fit the name.

  "Grizzly Six, this is SheVa Nine, over." Six meant a commander. Hopefully the commander of the unit they were about to run over so that maybe the crunchies would get out of the way.

  "You're right, the SOI is compromised. But that doesn't mean you're you. Rotate your turret back and forth."

  "Hang one, Grizzly, we're completing a stonk." Mitchell unkeyed the radio and looked over at Pruitt. "Pruitt, where we at?"

  "That was eight. We're done. Vickie wants to hold onto her ready ammo."

  "Okay, rotate the turret back and forth a bit. And don't you ever call her Vickie around me again."

  "Will do, boss," the gunner replied, with a shrug. He tapped the controls back and forth. "What was that in aid of?"

  "No idea," the commander replied. "But at least we're talking to the locals again." He keyed the microphone and took a breath. "Grizzly Six, have complied."

  "Roger, welcome to the net," the commander said. "It will take me at least ten minutes to get those troops prepared to move. Where do you want to go?"

  "There's a saddle on the ridge, directly across from the Savannah Baptist Church. UTM looks to be . . . North 391111 East 293868."

  Mitchell no longer considered the odd nature of reply. Grid coordinates worked off of imaginary "lines" on maps and depending on the number of digits used, the accuracy of the location got higher and higher. At eight digits the accuracy of the location was less than a meter. So what he had just done was give a location that was accurate to the millimeter. For a "tank" that was a hundred meters wide.

  Often he got asked about it. Normally in the military, when someone was just reading a map, they would use, at most, six digits for a location coordinate. So when he gave locations in twelve digit coordinates, it occasioned comment. His answer was fairly simple: The location tracker in the SheVa guns read out in twelve-digit coordinates.

  He didn't know why it did; maybe he ought to ask Kilzer. But it gave twelve numbers. When faced with the numbers, he had one of two choices. He could figure out how to round them off to a six-digit coordinate, which would be normal, or he could just read them off the screen. Rounding them off wasn't hard, it jus
t took a few seconds, was prone to error and distracted you, often in the middle of a fire-fight. Abstract thought in combat was a good way to end up a hole in the ground and so was taking a few seconds on a nonessential task. So he just read the damned things off the screen.

  "Understood, SheVa," the commander replied after a moment. "I'll call you when the movement is approved, do not make the movement until I call."

  "Roger, be aware that it is my intention after firing from that position to move backwards and then do a movement out of this zone of control. I prefer not to discuss that over open channels. Please advise the appropriate people. Over."

  "Concur. After your fire, we'll do lunch."

  "Roger, Grizzly."

  "Grizzly Six, out."

  "Whew," Mitchell said. "Anybody know if that was the battalion commander or what?"

  "The unit in this area is the 147th Infantry Division," Kilzer replied not looking up from where he was doodling in his notebook. "Its logo is a grizzly bear."

  "Oh, shit," Mitchell moaned. "That was the division commander?"

  * * *

  Arkady Simosin was learning about second chances.

  Not many corps commanders that lost eighty percent of their corps got a second chance. Most of them never commanded so much as a mess-kit repair company. So he supposed he should be happy.

  After First Washington he had been relieved and demoted to colonel. The only reason he hadn't been kicked out of the Army entirely was that the board of inquiry noted that the hacking of his corps artillery system had been impossible to anticipate or prevent and that there was a critical shortage of officers trained in modern techniques. So he found himself a colonel, again, working in the Third Army Group J-3 office of Plans and Training.

  In time he had even stood for brigadier, again. Three times. The first two had been blackballs; one or more members of the flag officer promotion board had felt him unacceptable as a general officer. The third time, though, he had been passed. In the old days you only had one pass at flag rank, but with the war continuing and even generals occasionally becoming Posleen fodder, the rules had been loosened. Slightly.