Only for a while, though.
“So how does the data support your fabber theory?” he asked her as they cuddled together and got ready to sleep. For some reason, talking shop just after making love made her feel at home.
“They’ve been using a standard anti-shield warhead. Nothing fancy, a plasma sub-munition designed to fit any number of artillery shells in the 80-150mm range. The standard explosive detonates and triggers a breaching graviton charge, weakening or piercing the force field, and then the secondary charge unleashes a plasma jet. The second discharge is about sixty millimeters wide and five hundred meters long.”
“Nasty stuff. If they’d used them at the ambush, they would have wiped out Task Force Able, instead of just killing half of it.”
“The thing is, they did use them at the ambush. I reviewed those records as well. About fifty shells. Most of them missed. Several of the rest malfunctioned; about half of the ones that scored a hit.”
“That’s a damn high failure rate.”
“My guess is, the components were put together by hand. Even with modular designs, the locals didn’t have the tools to ensure the proper tolerances. The saboteur in charge couldn’t exactly run detailed quality control checks, either.”
“So the only reason we didn’t lose everybody at the spaceport was lousy quality control?”
“Call it luck. No matter how good you are, if it turns bad you’re screwed.”
He nodded. “I know. It’s fucking frustrating.”
“You telling me? I’m a control freak. The very idea makes me break out in hives.”
“Let me check. I don’t feel any hives here. What about under here?” His hands roamed beneath the covers.
She laughed. “No groping during intelligence briefings, please.”
“Sorry. Continue.”
“Their quality control remained lousy for their heavy artillery. Data crunching indicates they’ve fired about three hundred augmented shells at us; a fragment of a percent of the total, which is a whopping twenty thousand shells a day, give or take.”
“Jesus. I hadn’t bothered to check the totals.”
“Could be worse. A truly sustained rate of fire would be more like a hundred thousand shells a day.”
“I knew they’ve been stockpiling ordnance for a while, but they can’t keep that up. Can they?”
“They have several munition factories working nonstop, plus they’re buying more stuff from other countries, trading some of the electronics they’ve been getting from us. We’re not quite dealing with the entire industrialized might of the planet, but certainly a goodly percentage of it. It’s going to bankrupt Kirosha – probably already has – but I guess they’re hoping their Lhan Arkh allies will bail them out.”
“That’s the kind of stuff that keeps me awake at night.”
“Anyways, of those three hundred high-tech shells, about a hundred and twenty malfunctioned; their sound signature is distinct enough even when they fizzle, so we were able to pick them out. Things changed three days ago. The number of duplex rounds dropped considerably – about a dozen per day, down from twenty, thirty per day – but their reliability went up.”
“To what?”
“A hundred percent, just about.”
“And that’s how you know they’ve got a fabber.”
“Only way their warheads could have gotten so good all of a sudden. They’ve used up the hand-made ones and are switching to the good stuff.”
“So they got a fabber. That means they need a team of operators.”
Heather nodded. Fabbers could crank out ordinary items automatically, but high tech devices weren’t just produced; they were created. A sapient being had to link with the machine and think certain components into existence, including the gravitonic circuitry that was the backbone of Starfarer civilization. The whole thing smacked of magic, although pre-Contact scientists had seen glimmers of it in such things as the ‘observer effect.’ High-tech industry couldn’t be fully automated; instead, you needed a significant percentage of your population working in the industrial sector. The fabbers in the Enclave needed the efforts of over two hundred people, split over three shifts, cranking out advanced munitions, nano-meds and other vital items.
“Without imps, training Kirosha operators to use a fabber, even for a specific component like a duplex warhead, is going to take at least two, three weeks. Say eighteen days, which coincides with the new shells beginning to show up.”
“Which means they started production a few days ago,” he said.
“That’d be my guess.”
“We didn’t leave any feedstock behind, so their fabber’s only got whatever was in its storage bins at the time.”
“Yes. That’s the only bit of good news.”
“So assuming it was fully loaded, at worst it could produce what, another two hundred warheads? Two hundred and fifty?”
“Worst case, two hundred and sixty-five,” she said. “That was a pretty good guess.”
“I’ve learned more about fabbers than I ever wanted to. I can recite production rates by heart, without using my imp. Maybe I’ll switch my MOS to 0401 after this is over and become a Logistics officer. Counting beans and bullets has got to be easier than spending them.”
“Yeah, I bet that’s just where you’ll end up.”
Fromm chuckled before getting back to business. “Let’s bottom-line this.” He paused for a second while he queried his imp. “Even two hundred and fifty shells aren’t enough to take us out, not if they keep wasting them on long-range artillery with a CEP measured in hundreds of meters. Almost half their rounds end up landing somewhere outside our force field perimeter.”
“And they should know that.”
“Which means...?”
“They could be stockpiling them for a big assault. Or they might have switched production to something worse than shield-piercing ammunition.”
“Either way, it’s going to be bad.”
She nodded.
“And if they salvaged a fabber from the spaceport, it might not be only thing they got.”
Year 163 AFC, D Plus Twenty-three
A battery of anti-tank guns fired at the same time and at the same target, a cargo truck three hundred yards away.
The four shells detonated against an invisible barrier before they struck their target. When the explosions dissipated, the truck stood unharmed.
“We have stolen their magic!” he shouted triumphantly before the echoes of the guns had faded away.
“Not magic,” Grand Marshall Seeu said, his impassive demeanor unchanged despite the joy he must be feeling. “Technology, no different than gunpowder or the internal combustion engine, except in the fine details.”
“You are of course correct, Grand Marshall,” the magistrate admitted.
They turned towards their honored ally, who politely lowered his hood even further to spare them the discomfort of looking at his stomach-turning features.
“You have done us a great service, Most Esteemed Guest,” Eereen said.
“It was easy enough,” the alien said. “I was able to disarm some of the explosive charges the enemy left behind. Putting together a power supply took some work, but the fabber did most of that, once we had enough operators to use it. You now have an area force field generator that is somewhat smaller, but otherwise as good as the ones protecting the enemy’s buildings. It will create a protective sphere with a radius of a hundred meters, protecting all inside from high-velocity, high-energy impacts. The generator is portable but heavy. You should be able to mount it on a vehicle of some sort.”
“How long will the shield last? It is powered by… what? Electricity? Diesel?”
“Something like that. Its power source will last for several days of combat operations, based on the firepower available to the enemy. Their weapons will be able to open temporary breaches, however; your men will take losses, although they will be a fraction of what they would suffer otherwise. I recommend you warn the
m beforehand.”
“My men will do their duty. But what if the enemy hits the generator, or its power source?” the Grand Marshall asked.
“They are protected by a smaller force field. The chances that any weapon they have will be able to breach both fields at the same time is negligible.”
“Very well. Using this weapon wisely will take some thought. For one, we must shift the use of the special piercing munitions from heavy artillery to tank and mobile gun rounds. Our indirect artillery is too inaccurate; we are squandering those precious shells without inflicting decisive damage on the enemy. I understand today’s heavy usage is necessary.” A general attack had been launched to help disguise their test, which their ally claimed could be detected unless the special artillery shells were used to confuse the enemy sensors. “But after today, we must cease their use and save them for a decisive attack.”
“That is not a bad idea,” the alien said, which was high praise for him.
“We will prepare as heavy a blow as possible. When we are ready, we will strike with every ounce of our strength.”
Out in the distance, cannon roared.
“Unless our spoiling attack carries the day, of course,” the Grand Marshall said. “We did allocate fifty enhanced rounds to it, after all.”
He did not sound terribly hopeful. Eereen could not blame him.
* * *
“They just don’t learn,” Russell muttered as he took down a Ruddy right on the edge of the area force field. He’d been the last survivor of yet another ET wave attack. Spear carriers, mostly, but with enough rocket teams mixed in to make things interesting, not to mention a lot of heavy artillery liberally sprinkled with duplex rounds. It was getting downright interesting.
The Ruddies always tried to hit the lines with an ongoing mass of attackers, but the mortars had thinned out the ones coming behind the latest wave and more of the little bastards were taking cover instead of running forward, resulting in lulls in the attacks. Maybe they were learning. The really brave bastards were probably dead by now.
Something went off somewhere behind the line. Something big.
“Whetef?” Gonzo shouted over the roaring explosion.
Russell tapped into the sensors and saw a massive fireball rising next to the Oval Embassy. His breath caught in his throat when the flames twisted into a funnel-cloud shape that was sucked down, out of sight. A moment later, a second flash-and-bang shook the ground beneath him with earthquake force. The visual feed wavered for a second; when he could see through the sensors again, there was a big hole in the ground where much of the ET compound had stood. Only a gluon reaction could produce that sort of effect.
“Fuck. They hit a power plant. Half the Oval embassy’s gone.”
“So’s their force field,” Gonzaga said. “We’re gonna get flanked.”
“Worry about this sector, shithead,” Russell growled. More Ruddies were coming, as if the explosion had been some sort of signal instead of a colossal dose of bad luck. “The skipper’ll let us know if we need to pull back.”
He fired short bursts at the charging figures. All solids; they’d stopped issuing Iwo plasma rounds for a couple of days, and he missed their stopping power. Some Ruddies got hit two or three times and kept coming, dead on their feet but lasting long enough to throw grenades or fire rockets.
Gonzaga swept the front with a series of short bursts, and his plasma grenades stopped the charge cold, or rather, hot. Bits of cooked Ruddy were the only things that came out of the inferno the team gunner created. All along the line, the civvie volunteers kept up a steady fire with their low-tech Ruddy guns. The attackers were dropping like flies, but they kept moving forward; the sight of dozens of shells going off inside Embassy Row were drawing them in.
Russell reloaded and hoped like hell their flank didn’t get turned.
* * *
“Steady! Steady now, hold your fire and let our people through!” Elder Thalman shouted, his voice hoarse from all the yelling. The Kirosha volunteers didn’t have implants or comm devices like Timothy’s, so every order had to be spoken out loud. Timothy hadn’t paid much attention to history class, but he was sure this was primitive even in pre-Contact days, like something out of one of the World Wars, when Napoleon and Hitler had slugged it out in the Crimea, or something like that. He’d have to Woogle it when he had time.
Not now, though. He watched as the survivors from the first trench line streamed through the dug-in communication trenches between the lines. Elder Thalman was right; no sense risking hitting their own people. The enemy was still out of sight, slowed by concertina wire and a series of Claymore mines; the directional explosives detonated all along the outer trench and tore apart the first Kirosha to reach the fortifications. More would soon follow, however. The only good news was that the enemy had stopped shelling their position now that their infantry had reached the trenches. Now all they had to worry about was being shot or stabbed.
We’re all going to die.
Despair is a sin. Perhaps he and the rest of his company would die, but if the line didn’t hold, the Kirosha would murder everyone. He looked around; his people, men and women both, looked determined enough. Scared, yes, but also angry.
Shapes began to emerge from the smoke. “Fire!”
Timothy followed his own order, feeling the now-familiar kick of the Kirosha rifle against his shoulder as he shot. His portable device painted targets for him, and he blazed away at them, smoke and chaos making it hard to tell if he hit anybody. Men stumbled and fell as they climbed out of the first trench line. The ones who attempted to follow the fleeing defenders through the communication tunnels found they’d been collapsed or filled with anti-personnel mines that made that route more dangerous than clambering out into the open.
Two Vehelian heavy lasers swept the killing ground, and dozens, hundreds of Kirosha were sliced into two or more pieces, some of which continued to flail about. Timothy fought off a surge of nausea and kept firing until his gun was empty. He reached for his bandolier, discovered that he’d already used a spare magazine despite having no memory of it, reached for the next one, and reloaded. By the time he was ready, the enemy was much closer. A few of them had rifles and were shooting back. Someone grunted in disbelief before beginning to wail in agony; the sound was loud even compared to the staccato cracks of gunfire. The screaming went on and on, the sound driving shivers of terror down Timothy’s spine.
Please shut up. Shut up and die, Timothy thought as he shot a Kirosha in the gut just before the alien could throw a grenade into the trench. He ducked down just before the explosive went off, sending dirt and debris raining down on everyone. A few moments later, the screaming ceased; Timothy felt grateful and terribly guilty at the same time.
“Die, sibling-fornicators!” one of Timothy’s soldiers shouted as he fired three-round bursts as quickly as he could pull the trigger, mostly spraying bullets up into the air. A thrown axe came out of nowhere; it split the young Kirosha’s skull open and sent his limp body sliding down onto the ground. The enemy was at the wire, twenty yards away, those few who hadn’t been cut down by lasers, explosives or bullets. Timothy rose up and shot at them, noticing a series of explosions over the first trench line. The Marine mortars, he thought, their fire cutting off the lead attackers from reinforcements. A few moments later, more men joined his volunteers in the trenches: men and women in Navy uniforms and body armor, wielding Iwo rifles and at least two ALS-43s. The Kirosha facing them were slaughtered.
“Come on!” a woman with a Lieutenant Commander rank icon shouted through her implants. “The force field is back! Retake that trench!”
The spacers followed her. An implant command from the officer flattened the concertina wire blocking their way, leaving only the corpses of the enemy as an obstacle. And enemy fire. A rocket-propelled grenade struck a Navy man; his shields held but his body was flung back and he hit the rear edge of the trench with bone-crushing force. He didn’t get back up.
&n
bsp; “Forward!” Timothy ordered his own people, and scrambled out into the open. All the Kirosha volunteers still on their feet followed his lead, screeching in a mix or terror and fury, and for a moment Timothy felt himself transported to a higher state of being, part of an entity made of multiple individuals with a single, overwhelming purpose.
A moment later he was back in a world of impossibly loud noises and revolting smells and sights, but he kept going, pausing only to fire three times into the body of a Kirosha who’d reared up and stabbed a spacer in the leg. The warrior jerked around as the bullets punched through him and finally fell still. Timothy exhaled as he took aim and shot him one final time in the head.
“Thank you, brah,” the spacer said as he struggled to stand up. Timothy helped him up, and the Navy guy felt the spot where the spear had hit him. “Didn’t go through the fabric, but man, am I going to feel it in the morning.”
“Glad you’re okay,” Timothy said, and kept going. Several of his people had gotten ahead of him already, and his place was in front of them.
There wasn’t a lot of fighting left by the time he got there. Most of the Kirosha at the first trench line had been massacred by mortar fire, as had any vehicles that had tried to follow them. More indirect fire swept the area ahead; it looked as if all the mortars in the compound were concentrating their fire there.
Timothy jumped into the trench. He landed on a torn up corpse; there were too many bodies to do otherwise. He stepped on the yielding, disgusting surface as he reached a firing position. Some distance off to his right, he spied Jonah; his companion’s left arm was wrapped in blood-sodden bandages: grenade fragments, perhaps. He looked pale, sickly and much younger than normal, like a child playing soldier in a much too-realistic game.
He waved at him. Jonah spotted him and waved back. A second later, his expression went suddenly slack; blood and brains exploded out of the side of his head and Timothy’s companion collapsed limply onto the corpse-strewn trench.
Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1) Page 29
