Gust Front

by John Ringo

  "Oh," Mike said ruefully. "You'll find them. Or, usually, vice versa. But for regular forces to survive them you have to dig in. Do you understand that?"

  "No," said Harry. "But I'll accept it."

  Mike took a pull on a panatela and wondered how to explain. "Okay, here's the best explanation I can give. You're going to fight somebody. You've got a one-shot pistol. They turn up with fifty buddies armed with machine guns. What do you do?"

  "Oh," said Harry. He scratched his head for a second. "I guess you shoot the son of a bitch who called you there."

  "True," agreed Mike. "But if you do it from behind a wall you might be able to reload and kill some more, right? Hell, you might be able to survive."

  "Okay," agreed John, taking a pull on a lemon-dashed rum. "I'll buy that."

  "So, the way to fight is from prepared positions. It's a lot like World War I that way. But you've either gotta have enough men to man a huge front or you've gotta guess where the Posleen are coming. And this is realizing that they can drop out of the sky, anywhere, at any time."

  "Gooks used to have little antiaircraft batteries all over the damned place," said Honest John with a belch. "Why don't we?" The tone was bitter.

  Mike raised an eyebrow but answered the question. "Technology. The 'gooks' got antiaircraft batteries from the Russians. The Russians had scads of gear lying around and lots of production facilities. We're having to teach the Galactics not only what to build but how to mass-produce stuff. Even then what we're really doing is a sort of super cottage industry. So, we don't have many weapons that can hurt the landers."

  "So we have to hit them on the ground," Cally interjected, suddenly popping up to snatch a conch fritter. "Until they give mom a real ship and we get some more Class Nine Grav Cannons we're shit out of luck." She popped the tender piece of giant whelk into her mouth and trotted back to the arcane games being played in the corner.

  "And you're saying if we hit 'em on the ground, we're screwed," said Honest John. He grinned ferally. "I bet there are ways to hurt 'em that don't involve tactics we gave up after Belleau Wood." He took another pull on the rum and pulled out a joint. "You oughta be able to sneak into the rear area."

  "And do what?" asked Mike, curious. Honest John had always been happy to talk about fishing or the sea and he had debated a few military subjects, but this was the first time he had evinced any real knowledge or background. It was like he had dropped a mask or thrown off a cloak and said "Ah, hah!"

  "Ambush convoys? Destroy supply depots? Call in artillery strikes? Kidnap cadre?"

  Mike shook his head. "There's a fairly robust long-range reconnaissance section on Barwhon. But they don't really strike, they give warning where strikes are going to occur. The Posleen don't have much in the way of convoys, not yet anyway, and they don't have supply depots besides their ships. And those are pretty heavily defended." Mike paused and thought about the question.

  "The way that the horses partition stuff, most of their good artillery targets end up being beyond artillery range. Which is why a couple of universities are working on longer-range artillery." Mike shook his head again and puffed on the cigar. "And the Posleen don't care if a 'town' gets wiped out by a special op group. They don't pull forces back from the front to look for the group. They use local forces. So it is generally a net loss. Just ask the combined ops team that we sent to Barwhon before the expeditionary force."

  "So we just, what did you call it, 'hunker down and take our licks'?" asked Karen, softly.

  "I'm afraid so," said Sharon in reply. "The Fleet is building. I don't know if it could go faster; maybe it could, maybe it couldn't. Once we have a real fleet we'll be safe. But until then we have to fight them on the ground."

  "We've tried mobile warfare," said Mike, taking a sip of his beer. "The French tried it a couple of times on Barwhon. It was not successful." He grimaced.

  "Well, that was the French," said Harry.

  Mike snorted. "Don't let General Crenaus hear you say that. They also ate our lunch on Diess, but that was when they had already 'broken the square.' So it's not a fair comparison. But an M-1 is a tin can to their weapons. So I don't see being able to fight them in open field."

  "Well," snorted John, drunkenly, "they don't do islands."

  "No, they don't," Mike agreed.

  "So we blow the Seven Mile Bridge and we're golden," continued John, taking a big hit on the joint.

  "And that will be that," said Karen quietly. "We'll be cut off."

  "It's already bad enough," said Harry. "Since the clinic in Marathon shut down we've lost two people who should have lived. Tom Robins died from appendicitis and Janey Weaver died of scarlet fever. God help us if there's something like a measles epidemic."

  "If there's an epidemic the government will help," said Karen.

  Mike took a pull of his beer to make sure his face was covered but John was not so diplomatic. "The government?" he laughed. "What government? The one that saddled you guys with the Cuban Mafia in the first place? Or the one that made Florida Power fix their lines? How about the one that is setting the prices so low nobody can make a dime to set aside then, if you do, taxes the shit out of it?"

  Harry held up his hands to forestall further argument. "No, no more!" he intoned. "For tonight, we have power, no one is sick, the leeches have been taken off our backs and there is plenty to eat. Let's worry about which bridges to burn tomorrow."

  John nodded his head. "Yeah, man. You're right." He looked at Karen and smiled lopsidedly. "Sorry, gal. Don' mind me. I'm drunk."

  "And stoned." She laughed, picking up the smoldering joint and taking a hit herself. "Damn," she said, coughing, "no wonder you're stoned."

  John laughed in return and hoisted the glass of rum. "Only the best! Cuba doesn't only make fine cigars!"

  "Speaking of which," said Mike, happy to change the subject, "what do you want for a couple of cases of cigars and rum?"

  John thought about it for a minute and shook his head. "I know better than to dicker when I've got a load on," he laughed. "But what the hell. How much of that white lightning you got?"

  "Two cases of liquor, white lightning and muscadine brandy in liter bottles. I've got a couple of cases of beer as well. Then there's some smoked and tinned wild boar and venison. I've got a five-gallon can of gas. I can give you the gas but I want the can back or an empty."

  Honest John nodded. "Well, I think I can give up a box of panatelas for that," he said.

  Mike's normal frown turned up in a smile. "Now I know why they call you 'Honest John.' "

  "Mike," said Sharon, smiling sweetly, "let me do the dickering."

  "Uh, oh," said John, setting down the joint. "I don't like the sound of that."

  "Did I mention I spent six months as a procurement officer?" she asked, cracking her knuckles and leaning forward. "Now, I've got to wonder if the local authorities are fully aware of your cargoes . . ."

  CHAPTER 28

  No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III

  0832 EDT October 5th, 2004 ad

  Mike carefully set the last case of hand-rolled Imperials on the stack. The cigars were in twine-wrapped bundles of fifty, a gross of bundles to the case. The stack of cigar cases and rum barrels made an awkward fit in the back of the SUV.

  Honest John rubbed his face and grimaced. "Christ, I knew I shouldn't dicker when I was drunk."

  "And never play poker with her, either," Mike opined. "She'll clean your clock."

  "She already did," the trader bemoaned.

  "Oh, fiddlesticks," Karen said. "You know how that wine-jerked venison will go over in Havana. Not to mention that muscadine brandy. You're going to make a killing."

  The trader just snorted but then smiled. "It's been a good visit, guys," he said to Mike and Sharon. "You guys keep safe. Don't bunch up."

  Mike turned from where he was securing the empty gas can and frowned at the trader. "What rank did you say you were?" he asked.

  "A third class pett
y officer," John answered. He smiled faintly and patted the pockets of his floral shirt until he found a panatela and a match. He flicked the match with his thumb and lit the panatela. "Why?"

  " 'Don't bunch up' is not a Navy saying," Mike answered.

  "Musta heard it somewheres," was the trader's answer.

  "Uh-huh," Mike answered. "And didn't you say they just sent you a recall notice?"

  " 'Bout two weeks ago," John agreed, warily. "Why?"

  "Oh," said Mike, smiling. "Just wondering. Most of the notices went out last year. I can only think of one group that got recalled in the last few months."

  "What are you two talking about?" asked Sharon, frowning.

  "Nothing," said Mike, closing the back of the Tahoe.

  "Guys," said Harry, giving Sharon a hug. "You take care, ya hear?"

  "We will," said Sharon.

  "Keep in touch," said Karen, smiling. "Herman will want to hear about all your big adventures."

  "Okay," said Cally, giving the woman a hug. "I'll make sure to write him."

  "Well," said John. "I'm not into soppy good-byes and I've got a tide to catch." He hugged Sharon and Cally and waved at Mike. "Tell that big ugly bastard Kidd that Poison said 'Hey.' "

  "I will," said Mike with a smile.

  "And tell Taylor he can kiss my fat, white ass."

  "Okay," said Mike with a snort.

  "Keep your feet and knees together, snake," he finished and walked towards the dock. He started to yell for his two missing crewmen but after the first wince thought better of it and just hopped in the dinghy, untied and started rowing towards the harbor opening.

  As he was clearing the opening the two half-clad worthies, trailed by two swearing females, charged out of one of the abandoned bungalows and down the shore towards the retreating rowboat.

  "What were those women saying, mom?" asked Cally, ingenuously.

  "I think it was 'See you later honey,' " Sharon answered, pushing her towards the back seat.

  "Oh," said Cally. " 'Cause, you know, it sounded a lot like, 'What about our money?' "

  Mike laughed and shook Harry's hand. "Thanks for having us."

  "Anytime," Harry answered. "On the house."

  Mike nodded and smiled, then got in the Tahoe. He turned to Sharon and shrugged. "Ready for a long damn drive?"

  "Sure. And this time let's bypass my parents."

  "Works for me. Actually, if we go by way of Mayport, you can probably catch a shuttle from there. Then Cally and I will drive back to Dad's. I can catch a shuttle out of Atlanta or Greenville."

  "Okay," she answered with a sad smile. "And one last night?"

  "Yeah," he answered. "One last night. Until the next time."

  Sharon nodded. Of course there would be a next time. It had taken the highest possible command authority to pry them both loose for this time. And they were both going to be in the thick of combat. But, of course there would be a next time. Mike put the Tahoe in gear and they drove out of the parking lot, down the shell-paved path, wrapped each in mirror thoughts.

  CHAPTER 29

  Geosynchronous Orbit, Sol III

  1444 EDT October 9th, 2004 ad

  "Join the Fleet and see the Universe, eh Takagi?" mused Lieutenant Mike Stinson for the umpteenth time as he looked out the clear plastron of his fighter canopy at the swirling stars.

  "Yes, my friend. For once the recruiters didn't lie."

  Captain Takao Takagi was the number-one-rated fighter pilot in the Japanese Self-Defense Force when he leaped at the opportunity to transfer to Fleet Strike Fighter Force. He knew the objective realities of the situation, that without dreadnoughts to break up the Posleen battleglobes the fighters could only peck ineffectually at the surface, that the Posleen space-based weapons would probably sweep the limited number of fighters available out of the heavens. He recognized that his chances of ever seeing the snow-capped mountains of Honshu again were slim to none. But he also understood the ancient mantra of the Japanese warrior, the words that every Japanese soldier, airman or sailor carries in his inner heart: Duty is heavier than mountains, death is lighter than a feather.

  Someone must stand between Earth and the Posleen landings. Until the heavy Fleet forces were ready, that meant a rag-tag band of converted Federation frigates and the space fighters as they came off the assembly line. If it was his day to die, when the Posleen came, then so be it, as long as he could take an offering with him to the ancestors.

  And the view didn't hurt.

  Working in two fighter Combat Space Patrol teams, the first three fighter squadrons maintained a close Earth patrol. Since the first few scouting Posleen could be expected any day, it was hoped that the CSPs could intercept the Posleen as they exited from hyperspace and began their movement to Earth.

  There were two forms of hyperspatial transport known: "ley-line" transport and "quantum tunneling."

  The Federation, without exception until recently, used "line" transport. A quirk of quantum theory first proposed by humans in the 1950s turned out to be true. Along the path from star to star was a "valley" or "line" that permitted easy entry into the alternative dimensions of hyperspace. These valleys permitted ships to travel at high "relative" speeds, far exceeding the speed of light. Although it was possible to "quantum tunnel" outside the valleys, it was slower and more power intensive.

  The problem from a military perspective with the "valleys" was that the openings were both a known location and they were relatively distant from the inner planets. Therefore, it took hours or sometimes even days for a ship to travel from the habitable world to the "valley entrance." Nor were the entrances necessarily near each other or near planets. So most of a long hyperspatial trip involved movement in star systems from one valley to the next. Furthermore, the approach of a ship in the "valley" set up a harmonic that was detectable outside the "hyperspace dimension," but ships in the valley were blind to the outside. Although the Posleen did not, currently, set up space ambushes, the possibility existed. And that made Fleet dislike "ley-line" hyperspace intensely.

  The Posleen, however, used an alternative method. Disdaining the "valley" method they used "quantum tunneling." Quantum tunneling had numerous items to its advantage. It permitted "small" jumps within star systems. It permitted the ships to come out relatively close to their target, be it a planet or some other location. And it was practically undetectable.

  However, "tunneling" had two countervailing problems. First, it was slow and energy intensive, compared to the "valley" method. The trip from Diess to Earth took six months using the "valley" method; most of the time spent in systems going from valley to valley. Using the "tunneling" method it took almost a year and seven times as much energy. Second, the "exit" phase was highly random. Ships come out of hyperspace on a random course and at low velocities. But it was the preferred method of the Posleen. Indeed, the species seemed unaware of the "lines" between star systems.

  Because of the vagaries of "tunneling," and the low relative velocity of the ships exiting it, if the first few ships were individual Battle Dodecahedrons or Command Dodecahedrons, the combination of fighters for immediate reaction and frigates to pound with marginally heavier weapons might keep some of the pre-landings from happening. At least, that was the hope.

  In the meantime, what it meant for the pilots of the First, Ninth, and Fifty-Fifth Interplanetary Fighter Squadrons was an up-close and personal view of the world spread out before them. The patrol positions were just beyond geosynchronous orbit—close enough to intercept the Posleen but far enough out to avoid the junk belt surrounding the planet—and the swirling blue globe constantly caught the eye. As Takao rotated his fighter to take in the view again, the terminator was just starting to cross the Atlantic. The pair's current patrol was just ahead of it—maintaining a near geosynchronous orbit—and he could clearly see the American coastline coming up. After the series of cold fronts that had lashed them for the past two weeks it looked like they were having some extraordinary early
fall weather.

  He had spent some time at Andrews Air Force Base, cross training with the American F-15 wings before anyone had heard the word "Posleen" and he imagined that quite a few people were heading to the mountains or the beaches this weekend. His next leave was several months off, but he might take it there instead of . . .

  * * *

  "Come on, Sally!" shouted Big Tom Sunday as his daughter stepped up to the plate, "keep your eye on the ball!"

  The booming voice caused more than one head to turn and Little Tom at his side grinned sheepishly as he saw Wendy Cummings look their way. She gave a slight, disinterested smile and looked back across the diamond. There Ted Kendall was surrounded by a bevy of young ladies like her, sentenced by their parents to watch a Saturday afternoon elementary school softball game.

  Tommy followed her eyes and quickly turned back to watching the game. At a moment like this the shadow of his father seemed to overpower him like a rising flood, just as irresistible and as elemental. His father had been a football star, his father had been chased by the girls, his father never had to worry about what to do on a Saturday night. His father was a butthead.

  Little Tom pulled his glasses off and wiped them on his shirt. There was a moment's sting in his eyes that he put down to the strong north wind and he took a surreptitious swipe as he redonned them. Just the wind. He need not bother being surreptitious, another check had Wendy halfway around the diamond, headed in the other direction.

  * * *

  Wendy walked slowly and carefully towards the crowd around Ted Kendall. Until the week before he had seemed welded at the hip to Morgen Bredell, the two the undisputed class king and queen as a classic double whammy: head cheerleader and lead quarterback. Since their spectacular breakup during study hall, the competition for both had become heavy. Morgen had latched onto Ted's number one rival for big man on campus, the school's lead fullback, Wally Parr, but Ted had seemed totally uninterested in female companionship.