When the Devil Dances

by John Ringo

  "Captain Chan, you with us?" Mitchell called.

  "Oh, yeah," the MetalStorm commander answered. "Did you guys fire yet?"

  "Sir," Kittekut said, "the force in the pass is getting cut up. I've lost contact with Major Anderson, but all but one of the transmitters from the tracks has cut out and the last word I got was that there were still Posleen in the pass. Some of the militia scouts say they see columns of smoke and what look like secondary explosions in the area."

  "Oh," Colonel Mitchell said. "Keep trying to raise them. And try to get ahold of the force on the Asheville side; maybe they can clear it."

  "Yes, sir. A few of the militia scouts are headed over to see what they can do."

  "Good," Mitchell said, not adding for what it's worth. "Anybody seen Indy? Or know what the damage report is?"

  "We're dead in the water is the answer, sir," the warrant officer replied, coming up through the engineering hatch. Her face was covered in soot, but she appeared uninjured. "We've got full track severance on the right side and probably some major damage to the drive train; there's a huge hole in the side of the gun where a drive wheel used to be. I think we might have taken a hit on one of the firing support struts as well. But it looks like we kept all the motors this time."

  "Oh," Major Mitchell said again. "This is such a good time."

  "So, what you're saying," Pruitt said with a manic grin, "is that we're dead in the water, we're surrounded and the only combat forces around, the guys who would normally be holding off the million or so Posleen coming up the valley at us, are getting wiped out trying to clear the Posleen in the pass?"

  "Pretty much sums it up," Major Mitchell said with a nod.

  "By Jove, I think he's got it," Kitteket agreed.

  "Nice recap there, Torg," Reeves said.

  "Just trying to be clear, here," Pruitt answered. "Why do the words 'we're fucked' resonate through my head?"

  * * *

  Sergeant Buckley considered his situation carefully as he looked to the front. Now that things were a bit less chaotic it was obvious that there wasn't a lot of fire coming from the overpass. He counted maybe three missile launchers, a pair of heavy plasma guns and some, not many, railguns. There didn't seem to be any shotguns at all.

  Which meant that the pass was held by one of the Posleen "heavy" companies. That meant experienced God Kings and veteran troops.

  Better and better.

  He looked around, but all there was in view were the two privates with him and burning tracks. There was a blackened body hanging out of the one they had unloaded from and another was in sight in the middle of the road. That one was near torn in half and Buckley recognized the sure sign of a close encounter of the worst kind with a plasma round. He'd finally figured out what had kept him and the other two alive; the tank the Brad had been following had started to blow smoke right after the first plasma fire came in. That had given them just enough concealment that the Posleen hadn't fired up the Brad for a few seconds. Which meant that if those dumb-fucks in the Brad had followed him out right away, rather than stopping to debate it, they might still be alive.

  The price of cowardice was just getting unacceptably high.

  "You guys see anybody else?" he asked.

  "No," one of the privates replied. "But I heard firing off to the right earlier."

  "Hey!" he yelled. "Somebody out there!"

  "Over here!" a voice replied. "Who's that?"

  "Sergeant Buckley!" the sergeant replied, knowing it wouldn't mean a thing.

  "You seen Major Anderson?"

  "No! Anybody with you?"

  "No!"

  "You got a radio?"

  "Yes!"

  "Hot diggity," Buckley said quietly. "Stay the fuck down! You may be the only thing that keeps us alive! Anybody else out there?!"

  He listened for a moment, but all he heard were moans behind him somewhere, the crackle of ammunition cooking off in the vehicles and the whistle of wind in the pass.

  "That's it?" one of the privates asked. "Just us?"

  "Looks like it," Buckley replied. "Could be worse."

  "How?!"

  "We could be in the ACS. Hey! RTO! You got anybody on that radio?"

  "No!"

  "You got the frequency Major Anderson was using?"

  "Yes!"

  "Switch to it!" He looked around at the two privates with him and at the drainage ditch. It led to within twenty yards of the overpass, but then it rapidly shallowed out. The three of them could probably low-crawl to within a few yards of the Posleen positions. He hadn't gotten a good look at them yet, but it looked like the Posleen had blown a trench across the road, under the overpass. Which was way more smarts than he wanted to see out of the horses.

  The Posleen basically had stopped firing, there was only the occasional round going overhead. He wasn't sure if it was intended to keep their heads down, but it had the effect. Really, though, now that he got a look at the situation, they might be able to pull it out. All it would take was a little luck.

  He thought about that for a moment then whispered: "Good luck. All it will take is a little good luck."

  * * *

  "Sir, I've got contact with a survivor up in the pass," Kitteket said. "There's not many of them left, this guy says he only knows of four including himself."

  "Well, that's just ducky," the colonel said.

  "He says the sergeant up there wants some artillery support. He wants an . . . 'individual tube adjustment.' That's one I haven't heard before."

  "Put him through." Mitchell waited until he could hear the carrier frequency then replied. "Infantry, this is SheVa Nine. How do you want that artillery?"

  "This is Lima Seven Nine," the RTO replied. "Sergeant Buckley says he wants an individual tube adjustment, right in front of the Posleen positions. Get this, the horses are dug in under the bridge and half the bridge is still up. The overhead's not getting near 'em. You got that, over?"

  "Roger," Mitchell called. "We'll give you the frequency for the artillery and monitor; the only thing we've got to throw would kill you quicker than the Posleen."

  "That's a big ten four, good buddy," the RTO replied. "We don't want any nukes, clear?"

  "Got that. Do you have a count on the Posleen?"

  "Negative, we're taking some heavy fire and having to keep our head down. But it doesn't look like many. A few railguns and some plasma cannons sure did for the tracks, though. They're all gone."

  "Understood. I'm sending you back to the commo officer, she'll put you in touch with the artillery. Write when you get work."

  "Roger, out here."

  He waited until Kitteket turned over the frequency to the distant RTO and then gestured for everyone to turn to the center.

  "Okay, Kitteket, we've got contact with one or two infantry in the Gap, the artillery and a few of the militia. Anyone else?"

  "Not so far, sir," she answered. "I don't have frequencies for the units on the far side of the Gap and everyone else is out of range. I . . ." She stopped and shook her head. "I've got an idea, but I'm not sure it will work."

  "What is it?"

  "The nuclear control system," she said. "It's a two way system that . . ."

  "Bounces off of the ionization tracks of meteors," Mitchell said. "But it's only for sending code groups."

  "Yes, sir," the specialist replied. "And you can only send three text characters at a time. But it can send any set of text characters; you could type out the dictionary, slowly."

  "Do it," Mitchell said. "Get us the frequencies for the unit on the far side; we need them to clear the pass. Either that or we'll have to leave it up to the militia."

  "Somehow, I don't think assaulting passes is their forte," Kitteket said.

  CHAPTER 40

  Near Balsam Gap, NC, United States, Sol III

  2017 EDT Sunday September 27, 2009 ad

  Thomas Redman was one pissed Injun.

  It wasn't bad enough that the war had forced the shut-down of the casi
no that had been his place of employment for over fourteen years. It wasn't bad enough that his younger brother had been killed on fucking Barwhon by these Posleen sons-of-bitches. Now they'd went and overrun Dillsboro where his "certified Indian Made Posleen Scalpers" store had been.

  Well, admittedly, that damn SheVa gun had run it over first, but it wasn't like they had much of a choice.

  Whoever had wiped out his store, it was the fault of them Posleen and they was, by God, gonna pay. His family had been in continuous residence in these mountains since they'd run the Creeks out about the time when Columbus was conniving Isabella out of her jewels. And he wasn't going to be the last Redman to screw the white man out of money in them.

  Up to this moment his resistance to the Posleen had consisted of telling the babe in the SheVa gun where they were. When they'd first gotten word the Posleen were coming up the pass he'd sent the wife—he only called her "squaw" when he wanted to get her really mad—up the road towards Knoxville. Then he'd gotten out his militia radio, his four wheeler and his rifle and headed up onto the ridges.

  Now, though, it was looking touch and go. He hadn't been able to see much of what was happening in the Gap, but the columns of smoke made most of it pretty obvious. He knew a spot where he could get a bead on the Posleen. But that was going to involve a technical violation of the laws of man.

  In the rush to enact legislation at the beginning of the crisis, one of the big debates was over formation of militias. Finally the Congress had passed laws that effectively repealed most of the anti-weapons regulations that had grown up, substituting a series of laws to "regulate the several militias." One of the laws had to do with militia boundaries, in that no member of a militia "formed in one territorial area should pass for militia purposes into another territorial area without the clear wishes of the government of the second territorial area." What they meant was that if a group of, say, Virginia militiamen were practicing, they shouldn't go into Maryland.

  Unfortunately, the bureaucrats of the Bureau of Indian Affairs correctly interpreted that to mean that there would have to be a "Reservation" militia and the militia of the rest of North Carolina. And, technically, the only area that one Thomas Redman, sergeant in good standing of the North Carolina Cherokee Tribal Milita, could make war on the Posleen in was reservation territory. And he was just about to clear the reservation line.

  A series of not particularly funny John Wayne movie jokes went through his head as the four wheeler crested the last bit of rock and rumbled onto the Blue Ridge Parkway headed to cut the Posleen off at the pass.

  "Y'all better WATCH out!" he yelled to the night. "This Redman is off the reservation!"

  * * *

  "Sir, I'm in contact with Eastern Command," Kitteket said, tapping rapidly for a moment then stopping.

  "And what's the word?" the colonel asked.

  "I'm still giving them our situation, sir," she continued, tapping again. "I have to set up the words three letters at a time, then wait for them to transmit then set up the next set of three letters. It's a real pain."

  "We'll get that fixed in the next upgrade," Pruitt said, scrolling his tactical map around. "Assuming we're here for the next upgrade." Things were not looking so hot.

  "Okay, what about the Posleen around Dillsboro?" Mitchell asked.

  "That's looking pretty bad. They're having some trouble with the torn up road and about half of them headed up 441, but the rest are headed this way. There's also a huge buildup across the river. The scouts can't get a good estimate on the numbers in there, or they don't want to believe their math. Either way, it's a lot."

  "ETA?" Pruitt asked.

  "About an hour, the way Posleen travel," Kitteket said. "I'm telling Eastern that, too."

  "Oh, the hell with this," Mitchell cursed. "No more Mister Nice-Bunny. There is no reason we should have to worry about getting overrun with Posleen. Pruitt, we've got three more rounds of area denial, right?"

  "Yes, sir," the gunner said. He tapped a control and the turret began to track smoothly to the rear. "And there ain't no humans to worry about back there. Up on three one-hundred kiloton nukes, at your command . . . Sir!"

  "Kitteket, find out where the main concentrations are and an estimate of where the leading forces will be in . . . oh, ten minutes," Mitchell said. "And find out why it seems we're the only ones fighting for this pass!"

  * * *

  The Blue Ridge Parkway is one of those American icons, like Route 66 or the Appalachian Trail. It runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge, which is really a series of smaller mountain ranges, from the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina to the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia. Along the way it passes through some of the prettiest, and most rugged, country in Eastern North America. Running, as it does, along the spine of various ridges, it is not easily accessed. Nor is it usually the quickest way to get from Point A to Point B.

  But it was as good as it got for Thomas.

  He'd gotten up on the parkway near Woodfin Creek, using a little known track that connected to the old parkway, and then up the hill onto the new one, and now was closing in on the Gap. But his target wasn't actually in the Gap. From what the babe in the SheVa was saying, half the overpass was up. While it sounded sort of fun to climb out on it and fire down on the horses, it made more sense for him to get where he could fire under the overpass. There was a ridge running out from the parkway, the one that made the last bend in 23 necessary, that could be accessed from the road. From the end of it, if he could find a good hide, he thought he would be able to fire right under the bridge and take some of the pressure off the troops caught in the Gap.

  He noticed the tops of trees gone as he rounded a curve then slowed down when he saw some of them in the road. Towards the end of the curve the parkway was littered with them and many of them were already beginning to wither and yellow from intense heat.

  All things considered, it was good that those harbingers were present because as he rounded the curve, still doing nearly twenty miles per hour, he slammed into the first of thousands of fallen poplars blocking the road.

  "Oh, shit!"

  * * *

  "Sir, I've got a message from Eastern Command," Kittekut said. "More good news."

  "Go ahead," Colonel Mitchell said, pointing to a spot on the map for Pruitt.

  "There's a reason we're the only ones fighting for the pass, sir: Our nuke caused a rockslide on the road up to the pass on the Asheville side. The brigade that was supposed to be up there by now is blocked off. They're clearing the road, but it will take at least another hour. There's some light infantry trying to climb past it, but they're going to be a while too."

  "Fine," Mitchell replied, tapping in his secondary release codes. "Tell them we're just about to clear the Scott Creek Valley of Posleen."

  Pruitt finished setting the firing commands and turned to look at the SheVa commander. "All three rounds, sir?"

  "You were perhaps saving them for a more festive occasion, Pruitt?" the colonel asked. "All three rounds. One on the crossroads, one on the head of the Posleen and one on the mass backed up on the other side of the river. If that doesn't slow them down, nothing will."

  "Yes, sir," the gunner said, keying in the last command and hitting the firing sequence.

  * * *

  Between them, the BIA and the United States Congress may have come up with some really silly regulations, one of which Thomas was now limpingly in violation of, but they did spring for the militia's equipment. Especially once it was pointed out that with the casino closed "for the duration," the Nation didn't have much in the way of income. And, being a government agency, they didn't stint. Which was why he used to have a nice, camoflage painted Honda ATV.

  But he'd survived the wreck and so had his rifle in its case, and his binoculars and his ammunition. So he was ahead of the game. Sort of. Getting to the ridge where he could fire down on the Posleen was going to be tougher than he'd expected; that nuke had really torn the place up.

&n
bsp; The whole area around the intersection was a tangled mass of fallen timber. It looked like some of the pictures from Mount St. Helens. He'd done a paper on that disaster back when he was in the eighth grade and he still remembered the pictures of the elk picking their way through the fallen trees. Well, now he knew how they felt: pissed.

  He pulled his right leg over another log and swore. He'd wrenched his knee in the wreck and clambering over this pile of twisted sticks wasn't helping one bit. Especially in this nearly pitch black dark; the sun was fully down and the moon was running in and out among the clouds. But he was pretty sure he knew where he was: the gully down below should be one of the headwaters of Scotts Creek and that meant the ridge he was on should overlook the intersection.

  Just down from the ridge, along what one of the sniper instructors had termed the "military crest," there was a line where some of the trees had stayed up, sheltered from the blast. It wasn't exactly a "path," but it was better than what he'd been crossing and it gave him a chance to angle up the ridge out of sight of the Posleen.

  Finally, finally he limped up to the top of the ridge and got down on his stomach. The blast had dropped many of the trees more or less parallel to each other and for a change it was the direction he was going. So he was able to belly up through the gaps in between until he could see first the overpass, then the Posleen positions under it.

  He also could see the burning tracks on the road; the infantry guys had really gotten the shit kicked out of them from the looks of it. But he could see two of them low-crawling towards the Posleen position.

  Time to give them some covering fire.

  * * *

  The last time Joe Buckley could remember low-crawling was the last time he took an EIB test. That would have been in the dawn of man when the only thing he had to worry about was breaking his leg on a jump or wrecking his bike or getting into a fight over some fat chick on Bragg Boulevard.

  Man, those were the days. No Posleen. No skyscrapers falling on you. No ships exploding. Just the occasional pissed-off sergeant and watching Pinky and the Brain while waiting for afternoon formation. It just didn't get any better.