by John Ringo
The scouts were difficult for Mike to see. By order of the battalion commander the armor had been spray painted a mottled brown to match the landscape. However, when Mike dialed his sensors to wavelengths visible to the Posleen, the chemicals in the off-the-shelf paint caused it to fluoresce under the energetic output of Diess’ F-2 primary. He slugged this sensor adjustment to some of the other observers just as the Posleen returned fire.
Since the scouts had waited until the Posleen were under five hundred meters to engage, since they stood out like light bulbs in a dark room under UV-C, since they bounded completely into the open instead of firing from cover and since there were four thousand Posleen in the front rank firing at thirty targets it was a miracle of armor design that only nine scouts were killed in the first volley. The rest were thrown bodily backwards by the sheer mass of hypervelocity flechettes and flipped head over heels into the gully.
The fire thus suppressed, the Posleen rushed forward, as fast as lions for that short sprint, and were within two hundred meters before unconcerted fire resumed. At that range, despite full output from the few remaining functional scouts, the fire was beaten down and the position overrun in seconds.
Farther up the valley, Charlie company began long rifle and machine gun fire from over a thousand meters. Suit grenades and company 100mm mortars started to fall on the Posleen mass. The grenades and mortars would open wide holes like rainfall in a pond then the press of other Posleen would close over the fallen and the whole mass would press on. The lines of silver fire would drive two or three deep into the mass, but the pressure of the whole horde drove the horde forward against the fans of fire and spread it out to flank the extended company line. As the fire was redirected to engage the flankers it reduced the overall fire pressure and the horde drove forward at a swifter pace over windrows of its own dead. But the Posleen firmly believed in “waste not want not”; these bodies disappeared as the following ranks dismembered and processed them, rations for today and days to come.
Without a pause or waver the indefatigable enemy trotted towards the beleaguered company. Occasionally a mortar or grenade would, by chance, kill a God King. The mass around him would falter, momentarily, in its advance, then, as the individual normals of the fief shifted allegiance to other local God Kings, it would drive forward again.
Eventually the reduced mass, originally about three hundred thousand individuals, reached a range where their inaccurate fire began to affect the company. According to plan the company began to leapfrog back by platoon sections, two platoons maintaining cover fire as one withdrew. At this point another problem arose.
First, as a platoon stopped firing to withdraw, the retreat and reduced fire pressure caused the remaining mass to rush forward; the sight of the retreating platoon created a chase reaction in the normals and Posleen had apparently never heard of taking cover from fire. Second, the stop and bound nature of the maneuver was slow and difficult to coordinate. The combination caused 3rd platoon to be overrun in the second withdrawal as it made an out of position halt trying to cover 1st platoon.
At this point the original plan, a Cannae-like envelopment, went straight out the old air lock and Alpha and Bravo were ordered to leave their positions on the ridge, get down in the valley and prepare a defense for Charlie to pass through. Battalion weapons company was ordered to ascend the ridge and get plunging fire with their terawatt lasers.
A bright rear-rank God King, noticing the struggling troopers dragging the bulky lasers up the ridge slope, had his fief take the group under mass fire, destroying the battalion laser platoon. When Captain Wright of Alpha company was killed, the momentary confusion let a group of pursuing Posleen slip through with Charlie company. The flanking fire from this group, about two hundred and a God King, destroyed the Alpha second platoon and the whole Posleen mass poured through the breach, rolling up the battalion from its center. The centaurs poured over the troopers, stripping them out of their refractory suits and butchering them for a celebratory barbecue. Their hoots and cries of victory could be clearly heard on the ridge.
“Well,” said General Houseman, on the observer channel, “that was… words fail me.”
“A really quick way to lose a billion credits, sir?” Mike quipped.
“The worst defeat since Cumberland College versus Georgia Tech?” asked his chief of staff, General Bridges.
“Huh?” said two or three voices, General Houseman’s among them.
“222 to 0, Tech,” said the Rambling Wreck.
“Clear VR,” they heard Lieutenant Colonel Youngman say on the command channel.
The visions of drifting uranium residue, smoke, dust and feasting Posleen cleared to reveal a large cargo bay scattered with fully intact combat suits in various states of immobility.
“AID, cut Lieutenant Colonel Youngman and Major Norton into this channel,” ordered General Houseman. “Colonel Youngman, Major Norton, listen up. I want first reports on the G-3’s desk at 1200 hours tomorrow. Hot wash on the exercise will be at 1630. Okay, you got your asses kicked, but you’re improving. We’ll do it again day after tomorrow, urban scenario. Get to work. Clear circuit.
“Christ,” he continued on the local circuit, “I hope they’re doing better on Barwhon.”
23
Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V
1228 GMT February 25th, 2002 ad
“Sarge, you got any nine millimeter?” asked Trapp, taking a careful bead on a shotgun-toting Posleen slogging through the swamp. A massive forest giant had fallen and been consumed save for the root ball; in its lee the two human warriors crouched awaiting the centaurs.
“Sorry,” grunted Mosovich, tying a bandage on his upper arm with his teeth. The shotgun flechettes had come within a hair of taking his left arm off and had torn away the transceiver on his hip, but close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.
The MP-5 phuted and the Posleen point slumped into the purple muck. “Well, guess it’s time to get down to hand-to-hand.”
“I hope not, I’ve only got one. Here,” Jake said, tossing Trapp his .45. “It’s not much…” The .50 caliber ammunition was long gone, but it had been put to good use. The Five-O was the only weapon they had that could stop the God King’s saucers. After the first week the God Kings had discovered not to follow too close to the chase.
Trapp and Mosovich had left a trail of Posleen bodies in their wake. The two master killers had used every bit of resource they possessed over the past month as they fled the vengeful residents of Site B but it was starting to look like the last morning at the Alamo.
“Fuck it, it’s bullets,” the SEAL said philosophically. “Can you handle that Street Sweeper with one hand?”
“I can kinda use the left, and it’s only for steadying.” Jake studied the back trail for a moment and rested the shotgun on a gnarled root. He did a quick check to ensure the barrel was clear.
“I’ll pop the next one that comes through, then when they spread out we’ll move back. Got any demo left?”
“Only grenades,” said Trapp. “And I wanna keep ’em.”
“Fer what? Okay, get ready.” There was movement in the bushes across the open area.
“With what?” muttered Trapp, slinging the MP-5 and pulling out a set of concussion grenades. Although there was minimal shrapnel effect because of the mud, the liquid transmitted the shock wave with great effectiveness. “Oh, well.”
A group of five Posleen burst out of the concealing ferns and charged across the clearing. Mosovich’s fire tumbled four of them, but another small group charged out slightly to the side. Neither group fired back, content to close to steel range in the teeth of the fire. As Mosovich tracked on the new group, Trapp hurled his grenades. One landed perfectly in the midst of the second group but the second was a slice and fell out of effective range. Just as both detonated, one taking down the second group wholly, a platoon-sized band charged out of the side of the clearing.
Mosovich switched from carefully controlled bl
asts to continuous fire as the centaurs closed. Trapp flipped three more grenades but the handful of remaining Posleen closed to steel range in moments.
Trapp flipped around his MP-5 and expended his last three rounds on three head shots as the Posleen got absolutely too close for a SEAL to miss. He threw the now-useless weapon at a closing Posleen as he drew his combat knife. He had studied the physiology of the Posleen the pair had killed. The Posleen chest turned out to be well armored by bone so if it came to hand to hand he had planned on being behind them, but this time lady luck was all over playing favorites.
Mosovich’s shotgun locked back and he knew he was done. There were at least six Posleen still moving and he regretted giving up his .45 to Trapp. He drew his Gerber and stepped out from behind the root ball as the centaurs drew their own yard-long blades.
As the centaurs charged, Trapp grasped an out-thrust root and flipped himself into the muck. As the remaining Posleen closed with the injured sergeant major, a steel-filled hand swept out of the muck and disemboweled the trailer. A mud-covered figure erupted from the swamp and slithered across the back of the next Posleen before it could even buck, with a flash of steel faster than the eye could follow. As the nearly decapitated centaur slumped into the mud the group turned towards their slithering attacker but he had disappeared again into the bog.
As the leaderless Posleen milled, fumbling in the mud for the eel-like SEAL, Mosovich leapt on the back of another and quickly slit his throat. While not the match of the SEAL, he wanted to prove that he was no slouch with a knife.
At the same moment, ten yards from the huddle of fumbling Posleen, Trapp erupted once more from the water, his hand filled with Colt. He flicked the barrel downwards to clear it, adopted a two handed grip and fired three rapid shots for three kills. As he tracked to the fourth Posleen, a shotgun blast threw him backward in a welter of blood and intestines.
The .45 spun from the SEAL’s grasp and Mosovich knew he had only one chance. He launched himself in a shallow dive from the back of the deceased Posleen and followed the pistol into the muck.
The last two Posleen charged for the spot and began rummaging in the violet mucilage. One of them gurgled in delight as it snagged a combat harness and lifted the camouflage-clad survivor from the watery grave. Mosovich fought the grip like an eel, hooking his boot into its harness and bending like a contortionist to bring his arm around. The Posleen’s last surprised sight was of a .45- caliber bore.
24
Orbit, Diess IV
2125 GMT May 15th, 2002 ad
The final conference on whether the ACS battalion would be deployed as planned was a hurried meeting on D-Day minus 1. Most units were already down and moving to their jump-off point, so the mood was somber as the meeting was drawing to a close. The small room had been hastily fitted with a rickety easel and a table large enough for all the people who thought they should have a say in deployment.
The battalion staff had put on a dog and pony show complete with a staff officer in armor. Mike knew to the minute the time the officer had in the suit and recognized various subtle signs of poor assimilation. Despite that fact, the suit and various multimedia demonstrations of the weaponry available to the ACS were effective arguments.
Mike was the last person giving a presentation and he concluded solemnly. He had listened carefully to the other presentations and he felt he knew where the decision was going to go. Despite the briefings that he had given to a vast number of audiences, he knew it all came down to this group. And they were simply not paying attention. Aides and officers scurried in and out of the room constantly, bringing information, carrying away orders. The meeting members were distracted and all and sundry had made up their minds in advance. It made him feel like Cassandra.
“Although the battalion currently meets the minimum eighty percent standards for operational deployment, high readiness and training in some areas, such as the noted performance levels among junior NCOs and officers, mask critical failures in other areas. The lack of comprehension of the technology by senior battalion officers and NCOs with the concomitant weakness in communications and control, leads to a situation ripe for point failure.
“Considering this from either a testing viability or a mission success viewpoint, the Design Team representative cannot recommend deployment at this time. Senior officers require a minimum of one hundred fifty more hours of tactical exercises without troops before they may be considered prepared. Thank you.” He dropped the laser pointer into the sleeve of his silks, walked over to his spot and sat down. Since he was the Design Team representative, he at least had a spot at the table.
“Okay,” said General Houseman, “let’s be straight. Recommendations, deploy or don’t deploy? I am accepting input from G-3, the Chief of Staff and the Design Team representative.” Excluding the battalion representatives was a deliberate slap in the face to the airborne colonel. The battalion commander knew that if the battalion was not deployed his career was finished. “General Stafford, G-3 says go?”
“Yes, sir,” said the lanky general, tapping the table with his fingers. “I take the lieutenant’s point about the communications and coordination problems but, no offense, Lieutenant, he sees everything from the uncluttered viewpoint of a junior officer. Those sims are awfully realistic, real enough to create a ‘fog of war.’ In those situations, communications and coordination difficulties occur. Lieutenants, by and large, expect things to be straightforward; they’re not. I think they’re ready, let’s let them off the leash.”
“Okay, General Bridges?”
“It is a difficult decision,” stated the fussy little Chief of Staff, “I think that with the way we intend to employ them, the respective units are going to receive heavy casualties irregardless of their preparedness level. However, it is my opinion that the suits and the communications package will act as a combat multiplier and we need the concomitant capabilities. These cities are a difficult tactical problem and the suits can maneuver in terrain closed to effective use by other combat systems. I recommend implementation despite patently insufficient preparation.” At that description, the battalion commander and operations officer winced.
“Lieutenant O’Neal?”
“I agree that the suits will act as a combat multiplier, but I disagree strongly with the ‘fog of war’ argument. My favorite relevant quote is from a battalion commander in Desert Storm, ‘Heroes happen because somebody made a mistake.’ I think if we deploy the battalion, we’re going to have a lot of heroes. The senior battalion command and staff are using the communications and intelligence systems exactly backward of how they are designed and complaining because they don’t work right.
“The communications were designed to allow ease of communication, but the commander and S-3 are immuring themselves behind layers of underlings and this is causing a communication snag.” He totally ignored the fact that the officers in question were present.
“Twice in sims this snag caused a critical failure because the people who were managing the whole picture and knew what to do were unable to effectively communicate that need. Furthermore, the battalion command and staff have systematically stripped the company commanders of any authority to react without direct orders. Were one or the other not the case, the battalion might have a chance. As it is there is none.
“They have trained like they are going to fight and it will happen in combat. Lieutenant Colonel Youngman and Major Norton are approaching this from a ‘light infantry’ direction but have left out every good light infantry technique and kept every outmoded one. If you deploy the battalion in its current condition it will be Little Big Horn all over again. I strongly urge you to hold them to training.” By the time he was done the battalion commander was white-faced with rage and the operations officer was spluttering.
“Well Lieutenant O’Neal,” said General Houseman, with a quelling glance at the furious field officers who had been forced to listen to the scathing diatribe, “it’s two generals in favor to one
lieutenant against. I’m going to have to go with the more experienced officers, but it is my decision. They’re getting deployed, Lieutenant.” He did not look particularly happy with his decision. Unfortunately, it was a situation where he agreed with the lieutenant on abstract. While the battalion showed an over eighty percent readiness, the unit had yet to survive a single simulated engagement. The hash of cavalry and infantry tactics that worked for O’Neal and that were specified in the ACS doctrine seemed to massively confuse most of the battalion command and staff. It was not a happy prospect.
“It is, of course, your decision, sir.” From the look on the lieutenant’s face the general suspected he was reading his mind. “Actually, sir, I doubt you could have gotten away with holding them back. Given the cost of fielding them and that they did make minimum specs, Congress would have you for lunch if you didn’t deploy them.” He shrugged the resignation of soldiers throughout history who were pawns to the political process.
“Lieutenant, if I thought we were going to lose the battalion I’d hold them in training despite all the bureaucrats in Washington.”
After the drab interior of the colony ship and the megascraper’s plain exterior, Mike was unprepared for the lavish decoration of the interiors. Despite the fact that the room was utilitarian, possibly the Indowy equivalent of a machine shop, the walls, floors and ceiling were covered with intricate paintings, friezes and bas reliefs. All of the corridors he had traveled and the rooms he had poked his head into were equally baroque. The Indowy love of craftsmanship apparently extended to interior decoration. Unlike similar decorations by humans, there were no scenes or portraits. All the decorations were intricate abstract curves and geometrics. Despite their alien nature they were pleasing to the human eye and surprisingly similar to patterns on Celtic brooches.