by John Ringo
"Where are you?" she snapped.
"About four hundred meters behind the SheVa, ma'am," the platoon leader said calmly. In the background she could hear the snarl of a Gatling gun. "It's a pretty exciting place to be at the moment."
She popped up through the TC hatch and looked around. "We're coming up behind you, about a klick back and catching up," she said then paused. "Be advised there's a Posleen group to your left rear." She grabbed the pintle-mounted Gatling gun and sent a stream of fire into the mass as she keyed the intercom. "Gunner! Target ten o'clock!"
* * *
Otinanderal couldn't decide where to turn. The humans, who normally fought like abat, were everywhere. His oolt had poured fire into the massive human tank but it was as if they were scratching the sides of an oolt'pos. Now the human tanks were flying forward all around him and he couldn't decide where to target his fire. But when one of them started firing at him it was pretty plain.
* * *
"For what we are about to receive . . ." Glennis muttered as she hit the seat switch and dropped into the belly of the tank. The vehicle shuddered and the temperature jumped noticeably as a plasma round glanced off the front glacis plate. A moment later an HVM round ripped her hatch cover away into the night and filled the interior with reflected searing white light and heat. But by then the gunner had slewed the main gun on target and opened up with main and coaxial.
The Abrams Main Battle Tank was originally designed for the sole purpose of killing other tanks, almost assuredly Soviet and ex-Soviet designs. It had advanced composite armor, a quick-firing, stabilized 120mm main gun, sophisticated targeting systems, nuclear, biological and chemical protection and an amazing turn of speed supplied by its Lycomings jet-turbine engine. Furthermore, on battlefields across the globe, it had proven itself the finest machine in the world for that task, able to both out-fight and outmaneuver any other tank on the planet, seventy plus tons of fast-rolling incredibly deadly meanness. But with the coming of the Posleen, changes in design were inevitable; the Posleen didn't really have anything worth hitting with a 120mm depleted uranium dart. Or, if they did, it was too large to care about being scratched by an Abrams.
However, the base tank was the finest piece of war machinery ever designed and it seemed a shame to simply throw all that engineering away. At first, when they turned out to be highly vulnerable to plasma and even 3mm railgun fire, the tanks seemed doomed. But technology came to their aid in the form of new, and lighter, armor materials. The M-1A4's turret and primary frontal armor was a layer of battle-steel, room-temperature superconductor, nano-tube composite and synthetic sapphire threading. The combination meant that frontally it could shed off the fire of anything but a direct and unlucky HVM hit.
From the side it was not so well armored but if the Posleen were on your flank you were screwing up anyway.
To reduce the possibility of being flanked, and to deal with the main problem of the Posleen, the fact that there were just way too many of them, the gunnery of the tanks was modified. On either side of the turret "add-on" weapons were installed. These were 25mm cannons like the main gun of a Bradley, but where a Bradley had one gun the Abrams were mounted with first two, one on either side, then four and finally eight. The .50 caliber TC gun was replaced with a 7.62 Gatling gun capable of hurling 8000 rounds a minute and the "coaxial" 7.62 machine gun mounted alongside the main gun was switched out for another. Even excepting their main gun, the "A4" Abrams could hurl an amazing mass of lead.
The main gun, however, remained a problem. It seemed a shame to pull the weapon, since it was about as good as it got from a cannon perspective. Finally, it was decided to leave the cannon in place and simply change the ammo mix. The ammo bin still carried a few "silver bullets" for old time's sake, but the majority of the rounds stored in an A4 were canister.
Unlike the complex depleted uranium or High Explosive Anti-Tank rounds, canister was simplicity in itself; in effect it was a giant shotgun shell. Each round held 2000 flechettes packed in ahead of a powerful firing charge.
As Glennis' seat hit the bottom of its elevation and another plasma round glanced off the armored front plate, the gunner laid his reticle on the company of Posleen, toggled his joystick to "All" and hit the firing button.
The Abrams didn't fire quite as many rounds, or as quickly, as the MetalStorm but the effect was similar. There was a blast of what looked like liquid fire and then the Posleen company started to come apart. The fire had only put one round of canister downrange but it had taken out the center third of the company by itself and as the gunner swept the tank's "secondary" weapons from side to side the rest ceased to exist.
"And that's what we call balling the jack," the gunner muttered as the loader slammed in another round of canister. The entire engagement had taken less than four seconds.
"Good job," LeBlanc said, keying her microphone. "SheVa Nine, this is Captain LeBlanc. We're closing on your six. What's your situation?"
* * *
Mitchell grimaced and looked over at Indy's panels; half the systems were yellow and there were an increasing number of red lights. "Well, we were getting the shit shot out of us, but other than that . . ." He looked around and realized that fire had started to fall off. "Is it just me or . . . ?"
"Major, I personally don't believe it, but it looks like we're clearing this valley," the battalion commander replied with a grin that could be heard over the radio.
Mitchell looked at his monitors and snorted. The largest remaining group of Posleen were those around the humans, which he intentionally had not engaged. And it was less than a company. Other than those, and a few leakers in the side valleys, the way was totally cleared. He snorted again and then began to laugh hysterically.
"Major?" Reeves called. They were alone in the compartment but Mitchell had shut off his radio and was rolling around in his chair laughing as if he couldn't stop. "Sir?!"
"Oh!" The major gasped, getting some control over his laughter. "Oh! Oh, shit. Sorry, Reeves. Shit!"
"What's so funny, sir?" the driver yelled. "I mean, we still have to get those guys out of there!"
"I know," Mitchell said, wiping his eyes. "Oh. It's just what went through my mind. I was looking around and all I could think . . ." He started laughing again until he was heaving.
"What?"
"I was just thinking: 'Ka-CLICK!' "
* * *
Simosin's driver had clearly taken him at his word. Either that or the boy was just insane. They hit the slope for Deere Creek so fast the Bradley was momentarily airborne and then slammed into the far slope.
The general pulled himself upright and waved at the TC. "Tell him he doesn't have to go that fast!" he shouted, pulling himself around to look out one of the vision blocks. There wasn't much that could be seen that way so he waved at the TC again and forced him out of his hatch.
When the general finally got up where he could see, it took him a moment to get his bearings. For just a second he was afraid that they had gotten out ahead of the SheVa or that the division was just gone. But he quickly noted the light fire going on to either side and the somewhat heavier fire, including the occasional blossom of a plasma gun, at the end of the valley. The problem to either side was the lack of fire. And the reason for the lack of fire was a lack of targets; the Bradley was lurching over a carpet of centauroid corpses.
He gestured for the TC to give up his crewman's helmet and plugged it into the intercom. "Son, don't worry about getting shot. Forget the SheVa for a second and get me up on a hill. I've got to get a look around."
The Bradley obediently made a hard left and headed up the nearest slope. There was a house at the top, or had been—it was a shattered shell now—and the Bradley driver added insult to injury tearing up the driveway and into the yard. But it was a hell of a view.
Simosin had snuck up to the fighting positions during the battle and had seen the valley rippling with Posleen. What it was filled with now was . . . bodies. Human and Posleen,
but mainly Posleen. Here and there a fighting vehicle smoked, but looking at the results by the light of the fires and the moon, he was convinced that they had charged across the entire valley at the cost of maybe a half a battalion of troops. And they had been taking that every few hours during the defense.
"Holy Mary Mother of God," he muttered. "Holy . . ." He looked down at the TC and shook his head. "Get a squad out on security, get the RTO to contact headquarters and get me a relay to General Horner. Tell them to pass on that we've taken Savannah and are preparing to continue the advance."
* * *
Angela shuddered as the giant tank rolled up the hill towards them. Other tanks, much smaller, were spreading out to either side and there were other vehicles underneath it.
The Posleen that had been guarding them weren't firing; they seemed as shocked by the situation as the human captives. The hundreds of thousands of Posleen in the valley were just gone, with the last few survivors being hunted down ruthlessly. And now the tanks were driving up their hill and surrounding their position.
The giant tank, it must be one of the SheVa guns she had seen on TV, ground up to within a few dozen yards of the Posleen and then just stopped. It sat there for what seemed like forever and then a door opened in the base, flooding white light down onto the ground. An elevator dropped out of the door and all the way to the ground then opened and a single human stepped out. He was wearing a trenchcoat and sunglasses and had a plasma rifle cradled in his arms, muzzle down.
He put a hand in his pocket and walked up the slope, looking around at the humans and Posleen as a massive spotlight turned on at the top of the SheVa. The spotlight swung around for a moment and then bathed the group in white light, flooding out the sight of the massed tanks. But in the darkness the sound of opening doors, squeaking turrets and pounding feet made it clear what was going on.
The single human walked up to the group and looked around until he spotted the God King on his saucer. He walked over to the alien, looked him up and down and then said one word:
"Leave."
Angela looked at the leader of their tormentors and wondered what would happen. If it came to fighting, she was going to hit the ground and hope for the best. She suspected that there were riflemen out there, now, but in a fight if one of the tanks opened fire it would be all over for the humans.
She wasn't sure if the Posleen could understand English or not. She'd heard that some could. But they never spoke it, just gestured. Usually for a person to put their head down to be cut off.
Now the God King looked down at the human and slowly fluttered his crest. He had to know more or less what was being demanded of it. And what the penalty would be for refusal.
Finally he raised his crest to its full height, lifted his plasma cannon, slowly, and turned his saucer around. In seconds, all the Posleen had faded into the night.
Angela looked up at the giant tank, the SheVa, and wondered for a moment why there was a picture of a rabbit on the front. Then she passed out.
* * *
Mitchell lowered the stairs of the personnel door and waved a hand in the general direction of his head at General Simosin. The general, who was sitting on the troop ramp of a Bradley, just grunted and went back to spooning down MRE beef stew. He had taken off his helmet and LBE and all of it was piled on the tail of the track.
"I just talked to Keeton," the general said after another bite. He wiped up a bit on hisll, n then wiped it off his hands onto his filthy BDUs. "He kept trying to get me to say that I was back at Green's Creek. Especially when I told him my lead element was reporting from halfway to Rocky Knob."
"I'm beginning to wish I still was, sir," the colonel replied, looking up at the SheVa. It didn't look too bad from the back, but he knew the sides looked like Swiss cheese. "There's going to be one hell of a bill for this repair."
"Oh, don't be that way," the general grunted. "You're the hero of the piece. Do you know how rare it is to recover Posleen captives? If it wasn't for me controlling the traffic, and, of course, the Posleen still being all over the place, why we'd be crawling with reporters."
"Ah, fame." Mitchell snorted and then sat down on the perforated metal stairs. They dug into his butt, but since he ached from head to toe it wasn't really noticeable. "That and a few billion credits will get this SheVa running again. We're not exactly dead in the water, General, but we're going to need some repairs before we're fully combat effective again. Among other things we lost the main power bus for the MetalStorms right at the end. And we need more MetalStorm packs; I don't know if there are any more around."
"Yep." Simosin glanced up at the wall of metal and then shrugged. "Your repair battalion's got priority of movement and there's a full battalion of MetalStorm supply trucks headed down the road from Asheville. I'll tell the division to map out a spot down valley for you guys to do your repairs. You're still planning on going over Green's Pass?"
"It's easier to access on both sides, sir," Mitchell said with a nod and a yawn.
"You're going to be swinging in the breeze over in the Tennessee Valley," the general noted. "I've got all I can handle pushing up this way. And I can't move behind you to support you, not with a whole division. You do too much damage to the roads."
"Breaks of the game, sir," the colonel replied. "We can't get across Rocky Knob, not and leave anything you can use as a road. And even going up to Betty will tear things up. More than they are, that is."
"Hmm." Simosin looked around and smiled as an Abrams pulled to a stop beside his Bradley. "I think this is about the right cue."
Mitchell watched Captain LeBlanc hoist herself out of the turret and chuckled. "Big tank, little lady. I think there's something Freudian there."
"I know why you're thinking of Freud," the general replied with a snort. "And I think it's Freudian. I was thinking 'big gun, little lady.' "
"You sent for me, General?" the captain said, saluting. After the general returned the salute she nodded at Mitchell. "Colonel."
"Captain," Mitchell replied soberly. "I'd like to thank you for all your support. We wouldn't be here without your unit."
"True," she said immodestly. "But it wasn't just my battalion or we both would be dead. I remember reading somewhere, Keegan or On Killing, I don't recall which, that the purpose of tanks is not, as it is generally believed, to break the lines by shock, but to get themselves so entrapped by the enemy that it triggers in the infantry a 'rescue' reaction. 'Oh, look, those stupid tankers are way the hell over there and if we don't go get them they're going to get kilt.' I thought about that, from both sides, while we were riding to Balaclava."
Mitchell found himself giggling again and got it under control quickly. "There is probably some truth to that, Captain. 'Onward, onward rode the six hundred . . .' "
"Major," the general corrected. He reached into his cargo pocket and rummaged around until he found a pair of major's leaves. "Before you know it you'll have enough rank to actually be in command, Major."
"But I'll still be MI," the major said, pinning on first one leaf and then the other. "And a female. Two strikes against commanding an infantry battalion."
"That, my dear, is why there are waivers," the general said loftily. "There will be orders and awards to go along with that later—I've told both the corps commander and General Keeton about your performance on this drive—but for now we're not done. What was your damage?"
"I'm down about twenty percent," the commander replied, abruptly sitting down on the ground. "But body count doesn't cover all of that and I'm missing at least one company commander. Some of them might still be mixed in with other units but I think a few did the bug-out boogie."
"If so the MPs will round them up." Simosin pulled out a notebook and made a notation. "I'm going to give you two companies from the Second Brigade; one of 'em's a mech team, the other is motorized. They were in the lead for the first assault and have done some reconsolidation since then so at least they're not green. Consolidate what you have got
into three companies. That will make you overstrength in each, but I'm sure that will take care of itself."
"Yes, sir," LeBlanc replied. "What then?"
"Get refueled and rearmed," he continued with a sigh. "That may take some doing; my inherited staff has not yet grasped the basic concepts of maneuver warfare such as forward deploying logistics elements . . ." He looked at her face quizzically. "Why the smile?"
"Ah, well," she laughed. "Refuel and rearm will not be that much of a problem, General. I sent one of my NCOs out to find our supply trucks. And he did."
"Your fuel trucks?" the general asked.
"Close enough. Somebody's. Might as well be mine. And when he pointed out that he had two fully armed Bradleys, with crews, and all they had were some dinky fifty calibers, they got amenable to reason. Alpha and HHC are all refueled and rearmed and the rest of the unit is pulling maintenance."
The general shook his head and sighed again. "Maybe I should make you my chief of staff. No, forget I said that, I don't want to explain to General Keeton why other divisions are out of fuel and supplies."
"Speaking of other divisions," Mitchell said, "isn't this about the time that somebody else is supposed to pass through while you reconsolidate?"
"It would be, if there was anyone else to pass through." Simosin grimaced. "There's a division coming down from Knoxville but it's green and short a brigade. I'll probably get it, in which case I'm going to mix it in by battalions and use them carefully. So it's just us."
He looked over at LeBlanc and smiled grimly. "Which was why my operations officer thought I was nuts to send my main mechanized unit off on detached duty."
"Oh?" the major queried then looked up at the SheVa. "I don't think so!"
"Major LeBlanc, you and your reinforced battalion are detached to duty in support of SheVa Nine as it makes a flanking maneuver through the Tennessee Valley," the general said formally.
"Oh, shit," the major said, shaking her head. "We're fucked."
