by John Ringo
"Shelly, how solid is this information?" Mike asked hoarsely.
"Resetting image," Shelly said. "Red is eyewitness reports or video or Posleen transmissions, shading to blue for maximum estimate of expanse."
Modified that way, the O'Neal farm was only a light violet; it was possible that Cally and Papa O'Neal were still alive.
"Shelly, try to raise somebody at the farm and keep an ear out for intelligence as to their condition," Mike said. "So, what do you want me to do?"
"The Gap has to be plugged . . ." Horner said.
"Oh, blow that!" Mike exclaimed angrily. After all the years of fighting it took him barely a second to imagine the broad outline of the proposed mission. And it was not survivable. "You're joking, right!"
"No, I'm not joking," Horner said coldly. "We still have Banshees, not enough to loft a full battalion but . . ."
"But we're not a full battalion," Mike snarled. "God dammit, Jack, my middle name may be Leonidas, but it doesn't mean I want to die like him! And the damned Spartans died because they got surrounded; we'd already be surrounded. And just how the hell are we supposed to fight our way into the Gap? How? There are, what, fourteen or fifteen million Posleen waiting to move through? Where in the fuck are we supposed to land?"
"I need the Gap plugged," Horner said inexorably. "I need it plugged for seventy-two hours."
"Un-fucking-believable," Mike said. "Are you listening to yourself? I've got three hundred and twenty effectives! We couldn't carry in enough ammo for three days! And there's no way you're going to be able to get anyone to us in three days! Not in the teeth of the Posleen!"
"I'm moving the Ten Thousand, they'll be backstopped by the best artillery I can find," Horner said. "They'll take positions and wait for the Posleen to come to them then hammer them with artillery. With you in the Gap, the Posleen won't be able to push through any more; they'll only have to take care of the ones that are already through."
"And the ones in the landers," Mike said. "Remember? They're using airmobile, your words."
"SheVa guns," Horner said. "There's one surviving in the valley; it's got some technical problems, but it will get up. I just need the Gap plugged. And you're going to plug it for me."
"Like hell we are," Mike said. "Nobody will be able to. I'd need a damned brigade of ACS, which we don't have, and continuous shuttles of ammo and power."
"Look, Major, every minute that we spend arguing, sixteen or seventeen hundred Posleen go through the Gap. I'm sending the Banshees to your location. Get your battalion moving."
"Look, General, get the wax out of your ears!" Mike shouted. "We're Not Going. The fucking shuttles wouldn't make it to the ground! We'd need a cold LZ! And we'll need spare shuttles for supplies! And we would last about four hours! We are not going! Period!"
"God damn you, Mike!" Horner shouted back. "I am not going to lose the entire eastern seaboard because you don't want to lose your fucking battalion! You will take and hold the Gap to the last man or so help me God I will have you court-martialled and shot if it is the last thing I do!"
"Fuck you, Jack! You should have thought of that before you let them put Bernard in charge of the GAP! You got me into this fucking mess! You put me in that plasteel fucking coffin, that I've been trapped in for the last nine years, you took away my family, you took away my wife! And the only thing I have LEFT is this fucking battalion and you are not going to piss that away too, you murdering BASTARD!"
The door practically left its hinges as Gunny Pappas stepped through. "Sir, what in the hell is going on? They can hear you down in the damned barracks."
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, GUNNY!" O'Neal screamed. He grasped the heavy wooden desk, raised it over his head and slammed it into the window behind him. When it didn't fit he let out a shriek of fury and slammed it into the wall repeatedly until the hole was large enough. Then the desk flew through with a bellow.
It was a full-bore rage, as controllable as a hurricane and nearly as destructive. There was nothing between the world and O'Neal's blind anger at reality; if he could have twisted a button and turned off the universe he would have. Instead, he took it out on his office and the battalion headquarters building. In seconds the few scraps of mementoes on the walls had followed the desk. He threw everything in the room through the hole then started widening it by punching the walls.
The headquarters was a simple wood frame structure; the interior walls were gyp-rock and the outer was a layer of pressboard covered by vinyl siding. Despite being only five foot four, Michael O'Neal, Jr. could bench press four hundred pounds and each punch slammed through all three layers as if they were tissue; two by fours shattered with no more than two blows. His knuckles were bleeding within a few punches, but he no more noticed than he noticed the fact that portions of the ceiling were buckling; the pain felt good in his universe of rage. The worst part of the rage, beyond losing his father and his daughters and his life, was that he knew in the end that the battalion would go. And the only thing in his mind besides the rage was that evil plotting bastard at the back of his brain, that little thinking bastard that was already figuring out the mission even as every other fiber of his being was denying that they would ever commit suicide in such a clear and stupid fashion.
Finally the rage spent itself fully; there was no emotion left to feel. His office now had a new door, one big enough to fit a car through, and a circle of interested and worried onlookers. He ignored them and strode through the debris path to where the AID still showed a picture of Horner floating in the air.
"Nukes," O'Neal rasped. "We'll go. But only if that entire area is slagged to the ground. I'll have my staff work up a fire plan. You will fire it. If the President balks, tell her it is an order of a Fleet officer and she is under treaty to follow military orders of Fleet officers. You will follow our fire plan, and stand by for on-going nuclear support. We will prepare for the mission. We will board the Banshees. We will fly south. If we don't get the nukes, you can kiss my fat, hairy ass before we will go near the Gap. And if at any point I feel that we are receiving insufficient support, I will withdraw on my cognizance alone. Call me when you have nuke release and only when you have nuke release, and it had better be open release. Shelly, end transmission."
"Yes, sir," she said, cutting off Horner.
"Shelly, I don't ever want to talk to that bastard directly ever again," Mike rasped. "When he sends nuke release, just tell me."
He looked around at the group that had gathered. Most of them were enlisted from Bravo Company—Pappas must have been telling the truth about hearing him at the Barracks—the rest were officers and NCOs from battalion.
"Okay, boys," he rasped, looking around at the group. "Let's all go get kil't."
* * *
It had been nearly thirty minutes since the last sound of activity around the Wall. There was sound down in the valley, but it was the sound of thousands of feet and the occasional crack of a railgun or plasma cannon, drifting up the hills on the light wind.
"Damn," Cally whispered as the first Posleen came into sight at the notch. "I don't think there is a corps anymore, Granpa."
"Yeah," O'Neal said. "But that's not the worst," he continued, pointing at the tenaral floating up into sight over the eastern edge of the holler. "That's worse."
Cally looked out the firing slit to the west and tapped his arm. "No, that's worse."
Papa O'Neal flinched at the shadow that was looming over the farm; the Lamprey was heading west from the Gap at about four thousand feet above ground level. As he watched, a beam of silver stabbed downward into the valley and there was a secondary explosion from the direction of the artillery park.
"Are we gonna get shot by that if we fire at them?" Cally asked nervously as the first mine went off. "I don't like that idea at all."
"Neither do I," Papa O'Neal said. "Okay, Plan B is activated."
"Run like hell?" Cally asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Or at least as far as the mine; it is reinforced
for a nuke; we'll hole up there for a while until the first wave should be past, then we'll head up into the woods."
"Let's go," Cally said, turning around and pressing in the plywood on the back of the bunker. It pushed inward slightly then popped out on hinges revealing a heavy steel door set well into the hill. She undogged the hatch and stepped through. "You are coming right?"
"Yeah," Papa O'Neal said, "keep the door open, I've got to set all these command mines on a timer. And rig the final destruct sequence; the hell if these bastards are gonna have my house."
"Well, move it," Cally said nervously. "I don't want to go crawling around these hills on my own."
"Be there in a minute," Papa O'Neal said. "Get moving."
CHAPTER 27
If drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
—Rudyard Kipling
"Recessional" (1897)
Near Dillard, GA, United States, Sol III
1427 EDT Saturday September 26, 2009 ad
Major Mitchell looked at the warrant officer as she popped up through the hatch. "Can we start firing yet?" he asked.
The major was a rejuv and, long ago as a newbie officer, had trained to fight the Soviets in Fulda Gap. After his initial shock at this attack he came to the conclusion that this situation wasn't all that different. The "tanks" were larger and one side was flying, but, really, the numerical disparity was about right; there were forty or so landers and only one of them. Perfect.
The technique for fighting forces like this was trained into his bone: shoot and scoot. In boxing it was called "stick and move"; fire off a good, well-aimed blow then move away so that the counter-punch missed. Of course, having friends around in war was good, so the Army also called it "shoot, move and communicate." And Major Mitchell had trained for it most of his adult life. He could jab, he could uppercut and he had the footwork. It was gonna be easy.
Riiight.
The only good news was that they had trained as hard as he could manage over the last few months. The team had been put together even before the SheVa was completed and began working in the simulators and fixed systems at Fort Knox, trying to get a feel for their actions and reactions in a fight. The initial assault had caught him, had caught all of them, off-balance. But he remembered somebody once telling him that surprise was a condition in the mind of a commander. All you had to do was push it aside and play the cards you were dealt.
Now that he was in the groove it was time to do what he had trained for almost his whole life. It was an odd moment, he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
"Yes, sir," Indy said, sliding into her seat and buckling in. "I've taken off the lockout; the lidar should be able to rotate and the guns move."
"I hate this mechanical monstrosity," Pruitt bitched, coming up through the hatch and dogging it down. "We need a bigger engineering crew. Or Riff."
"Engineering?"
"Go," Indy said. "Everything's green."
"Driver?"
"Up," Reeves said. "We are ready to roll."
"Gunner?"
"Up," Pruitt said, sliding into his own chair and slapping on the straps. "Bun-Bun is in the green and ready to kick Posleen."
Mitchell rotated his shoulders and flipped his commander's screens live. "Blow the camo, and let's see what we're in for."
* * *
"Tulo'stenaloor, this defensive area is reduced and the humans are in flight," Orostan said. "The support companies have moved up and are gathering what thresh and weapons are salvageable from the pass."
This latter was another innovation. Usually individual Kessentai would have their forces scavenge as they moved. Tulo'stenaloor had put a stop to that; no matter how efficiently a unit did it, it tended to slow them down. Units moving through the Gap had to move steadily, not stop to loot. So special units under cosslain and Kenstain had been detailed to clean up the battlefield.
"The movement through the Pass is going well. We're going to move out to our secondary objectives."
"Agreed," Tulo'stenaloor said over the circuit. "It has gone very well."
"Losing most of the tenaral and two ships surely is not 'very well,' " Orostan protested.
Tulo'stenaloor flapped his crest in humor. "I always forget; you've never fought humans before. This was easy; fear what is up the valley. The metal threshkreen will be here soon, of that I'm sure. And other humans will do things to torment you as you proceed. Ignore it; stick to the mission and don't get bogged down by resistance."
"I will keep that in mind," Orostan said, gesturing to his communications monitor to give the orders to move up valley. "Nonetheless, we shall prevail."
"Oh, yes," Tulo'stenaloor said. "We shall. Nothing can stop us now."
* * *
"I get six landers up, sir," Pruitt called. "Five Lampreys, one C-Dec. I don't know where the rest are." This would be his first "warshot." He had fired the fixed simulator at Roanoke, where the impact area was all of eastern Virginia. But he'd been told it was different with actual penetrators and in the SheVas; the mobile guns, for all their immense size, were much more susceptible to the shock of firing.
"Probably on the ground," Major Mitchell said, tapping his screen and highlighting the appropriate unit. "Hit this one and this one," he said, flipping them so they highlighted. "Then we get the hell out of Dodge."
"Yes, sir," Pruitt said, laying the gun on a C-Dec almost directly over the former Mountain City. He was nervous on several levels. They were about to make themselves a gigantic target and the death of SheVa Fourteen had been far too noticeable to think that they were invulnerable. And keeping them alive was going to be about hitting these damned maneuvering ships, not the easiest thing in the world. And then there was firing his first warshot. So, as he waited about a half a second until the C-Dec outlined in green his mouth was dry and his palms were sweating. But he was doing his drill and going to by God let them know that Bun-Bun had arrived. "TARGET!"
"Confirm!"
"ON THE WAAAAAAAAAY!" the gunner called and squeezed the trigger. The result felt like being inside a massive bell that had just been hit by a giant. The command center was heavily sound-proofed, but the result of firing wasn't so much "sound" as a vast presence that rang through their bodies, shook the massive structure of the tank like a house made of straw and vibrated every surface. It was the most overwhelming, frightening and invigorating feeling he had ever experienced; like he truly was controlling Shiva, the God of Destruction.
"Target!" Major Mitchell called as the lander stopped in midair and dropped like a stone; that was going to make a nice monument once it cooled in a few years. He laid his aiming reticle on the Lamprey over the western valley. "Second target!"
"TARGET!"
"Confirm!"
"ON THE WAAAY!"
* * *
Cally ducked into the tunnel and headed back. The tunnel was cut out of the heart of the mountain behind the O'Neal household. When the first Michael O'Neal had settled these hills, he had been just another fortune seeker in the gold rush. He quickly determined two things; that he could make more money selling moonshine to the other miners than by mining himself, and that having a bolt hole to escape from the revenue agents was a good thing.
Subsequent generations had taken the lessons of the first Michael O'Neal to heart and the bolt hole had, from time to time, been expanded, improved and restocked. The tunnel ran back to a mineshaft that was the center of the complex. Another tunnel ran back to the house, connected through the basement, and three other tunnels ran off to various exits; when Papa O'Neal had complained about no bolt hole he had been speaking from experience.
The mineshaft was reconstructed during the Cold War as a true nuclear bomb shelter, with heavy steel replacing the original wooden supports.
It was capable of withstanding a near strike by a nuclear weapon and had been stocked, and restocked as necessary over the years, for three years of almost completely autonomous survival.
Cally opened the inner door to the mineshaft and looked back. "Hurry up, Gramps!" she shouted.
"Done," he called. "Coming . . ." and the world went white.
* * *
"SON OF A BITCH!" Pruitt shouted as all the viewscreens went black then flickered back on. "What in the hell?!"
The western valley of the Gap had a towering mushroom cloud over it and fires had started in every direction. The devastation area was wider than that from the SheVa explosion and there were no landers visible at all.
"Catastrophic kill!" Major Mitchell said. "Yeeeha! Get us the hell out of here, Schmoo!"
"What in the hell caused it, sir?" Pruitt asked as the shockwave hit. "Whoa big fella!"
"Posleen ships use antimatter as an energy source," Indy said. "You probably managed to penetrate their fuel magazine. I've seen the schematics for them; they're hard to hit and even harder to penetrate. Congratulations. But we've lost some systems from the EMP. Nothing major; most of our stuff is hardened and the EMP really wasn't all that high."
"A couple more of those and we won't have to worry about any landers," Pruitt said, patting his control panel. "Good Bun-Bun, good rabbit. EAT ANTIMATTER, Posleen-Boy!"
* * *
Orostan raised his crest to full height and screamed as the shockwave rocked his C-Dec. "WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?!"
"There must have been two of them," Cholosta'an said with a resigned flap of his own crest. "I'm glad we were landed."
"ESSTUUUUUU!" the enraged oolt'ondai yelled.
"There was no report, Oolt'ondai," the Kessentai snarled. "Nothing. It must have just moved into position! I don't know why it waited until then to fire. It is fortunate that we were not all in flight."