by John Ringo
“Jesus,” the local said, putting the pickup in gear and backing out of the driveway.
“Great,” the chief said. “They’ve got antiair capability. What next? Antitank? Organic tanks?”
“That room you were in,” Weaver said. “It looked like a giant organism, right? So it’s conceivable that they could grow something as large as a tank.”
“That won’t be good,” Miller noted.
“No,” Weaver said with a chuckle.
“Where are they, then?” Sanson asked.
“Probably the same place ours are,” Weaver replied in a distracted tone. “Not near the gate. Okay, they form a gate. And maybe they’re getting ready for an invasion. But that room was more or less empty, right?”
“Right,” Miller replied.
“So… the mosquito thing that got your SEAL was something like a sentry, maybe an antibody. It was designed just to defend the hole and maybe send out an alarm. Although I’d guess getting a couple of satchel charges in the gut probably sent enough of an alarm through that thing anyway.”
“Ouch,” Miller said. “You’re saying we caused this?”
“No,” Weaver replied. “But you might have sped up their timetable. So they’re throwing everything they have nearby into the gate. And, presumably, their real heavies aren’t right there. Or, maybe, they haven’t even produced them yet but will soon. Or are producing them now and they’ll be here momentarily.”
“We’d better block the gate pretty quick, then,” the local noted, putting the truck in gear.
“Oh, yeah,” Weaver said as his phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and turned it on distractedly. “William Weaver.”
“Doctor Weaver, this is the NSA. SOCOM reports they’ve lost contact with their SEAL team, the National Guard is out of contact with their company and the last news chopper to get into the area was shot down by something. I presume you’ve moved out of the area? I wasn’t sure if you’d be there to answer, frankly.”
“No, I’m still in the area,” Weaver replied as the pickup took a corner on two wheels. “We’re going to try to block the gate with a bulldozer. And I don’t know what happened to Lieutenant Glasser but the last two members of the team are with me in the pickup truck.”
“Pickup truck?”
“Some of the locals have rendered assistance,” Weaver said. “I’d make a redneck joke but I are one. Anyway, they’ve got the monsters pushed back to the gate and we’re going to try to close it, or at least block it, with one of the bulldozers that was clearing the area. But we’ve been discussing it and we think there are probably heavier monsters that haven’t arrived yet. I think you need to get some really heavy forces down here.”
“We will,” the NSA answered. “There’s a battalion on the way from Benning at the moment but they can’t be there until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Well, in that case I suggest that you get whatever you can get here as fast as possible,” Weaver said. “these guys seem to mean business. And so far I think we’ve only seen their equivalent of infantry. I don’t want to think about what might be on the way. I’d say, ma’am, that it’s a race to see who can…” he paused. He’d heard the term before. Oh, yeah. “who can get here the fustest with the mostest.”
There was a pause and he could almost see the NSA nod. “I see. I’ll point that out, with underlining, to the Pentagon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Weaver said as the pickup braked to a stop by the bulldozer. “I’ve got to go now. Talk to you later. Bye.”
“You know,” Weaver said to the air. “This is almost as exciting as defending a scientific paper.”
“You’re joking,” the chief replied, climbing out of the truck and scanning for monsters. There was one of the dogs on the bulldozer and he shot it off but that seemed to be the only one in the area.
“Sort of,” Weaver said. “But you’d be surprised how brutal it can get.” He hefted the shotgun and felt in his pocket for the remaining rounds. The pistol, on safe as he’d been shown, was shoved in the front of his pants, his last magazine shoved in his back pocket. “And they don’t let you shoot people who are attacking you for no reason.”
The four of them clambered on the bulldozer and the local got it started. It lurched into motion and headed right for the gate.
“I’m gonna pull it up to the side and pivot it,” the local said. “That’s gonna be the bad time; nobody will be able to fire because we’ll be in the way.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can,” Miller said. He had grabbed the Tyrannosaur and had his M-4 slung over his back. “Sanson, take the dogs, I’ll handle the thorns, Doc, you handle anything that gets on the dozer.”
The local picked up the dozer blade as one of the thorn-throwers that had just exited the gate fired at them. Most of the thorns were caught by the blade but a few pinged onto the canopy over the driver’s seat.
Miller leaned against the support of the canopy and fired the Tyrannosaur, the recoil almost knocking him off his feet.
“Yowza!” he yelled, working the bolt and then rotating his shoulder.
“Got a kick, don’t it?” the local said.
Sanson was picking off dogs on either side and Doc realized he should be watching for threats, not watching the chief. He looked around and, sure enough, one of the dogs had managed to jump up on the back of the dozer. He gave it a mouthful of buckshot which, if it didn’t kill it, certainly knocked it off the dozer. Another was trying to get past the spinning treads on his side and he shot it in the back. It lost the use of its back legs but still tried to crawl forward.
Just then the local pivoted the dozer, incidentally crushing the wounded dog monster, and lowered the blade slightly, lining it up with the hole. There was a mound of injured and dead monsters by the gate and the dozer pushed them back into the hole along with a thorn-thrower that had just come through. The mound shrank as it was pushed back and then the dozer blades, which were wider than the opening, reached the gate. And stopped.
All four of them were thrown forward as the bulldozer lurched to a halt. The local geared down, but the treads just spun in place.
“Damn,” Miller said. “That’s weird.”
“Very,” Weaver admitted. He hadn’t been certain what would happen since the blade was wider than the opening but if he had been willing to make a guess is was that the dozer would have gone forward as if the gate didn’t exist, leaving the gate in the middle of the dozer. However, it appeared that the gate had a very real physical presence. It was, however, at least partially blocked. As he watched, though, a dog monster crawled out from under the blade, only to be shot by Sanson.
“Lower the blade a little,” the chief said.
The local lowered it to the ground, leaving the top half of the gate open. A thorn-thrower clambered over the obstacle but was hit by fire from three separate machine guns and fell back into the gate.
“Let’s dig a berm,” Sanson said. “Push dirt up to cover it completely.”
“They’d just dig through it,” Miller said. “No, leave it this way. We’ll realign the machine guns to cover it. I’m sure they’ll figure out a way through but it will do for now.”
The four of them clambered off the dozer and headed for the lines at a weary trot. They were halfway there when an explosion behind them threw them off their feet.
Weaver rolled onto his back and looked towards the gate where the smoking bulldozer still lay, half its blade blown off.
“I thought they’d think of something,” Miller said, angrily. “But not that fast!”
“Come on!” Weaver shouted, springing to his feet and hurrying back to the hole they had occupied at the first attack. Behind them there was another explosion and then another.
He jumped into the hole, realized that he’d left his shotgun behind, and started to go back for it just as the smoking bulldozer shuddered and was shoved out of the way.
What came through the hole was impossible, a beast about the size of a rhinocero
s, covered in scaly plates and strong enough, apparently, to move a D-9 by shoving with six stumpy legs. It let out a high-pitched bellow that shook the ground, then turned its head and launched a ball of green lightning from between two horns. The lightning seemed to float through the air but it must have been going fast because at almost the same instant it was fired it hit the trench line and exploded, blowing one of the machine gun posts into the air.
“Holy fucking shit,” Sanson muttered, pumping rounds into the thing. Or at least at it; they were sparking on its plate and clearly not penetrating.
“Well, now we know what their tanks look like,” the chief said. He still had the Tyrannosaur and was aiming at the thing but not firing. “Come on, you bastard,” he muttered.
The monster fired another ball of lightning and one of the houses behind them exploded in fire. Then it stopped and roared again.
As it did the chief fired one round.
Weaver had thought the world had exploded when the first round had been fired by the creature but he now had a new perspective. The air turned white and he found himself flung through the air by a tremendous force like a giant, ungentle, hand. He didn’t even notice when he slammed into the back of the hole. He knew he passed out but it couldn’t have been for long because the rumble from the explosion was still resounding when he shook his head and opened his eyes. For a moment he thought he was blind but realized that it was just an afterimage of the explosion; everything looked milky-white. He felt something liquid on his face and reached up. His nose and ears were both bleeding.
Sanson was lying in the bottom of the hole, unmoving. He was breathing but out cold. The local was in the bottom next to him, his head tilted at an odd and clearly unsurvivable angle. The chief was lying next to him up against the side of the hole, and sat up with what appeared to be a groan. That was when Weaver realized that all he could hear was a ringing in his ears.
He sat up and looked at the gate. There was a large crater in front of it. The bulldozer was over on its side. And there was nothing coming through.
The chief was looking at him and saying something. Weaver realized he could hear it, if barely. He was asking if he was okay.
“No,” he said, shaking his head and pointing at his ears. “I can’t hear!” He suddenly noticed that he had the world’s worst headache.
The chief nodded and pointed at his own, mouthing “Neither can I.” He opened the bolt of the Tyrannosaur, wearily pulled some rounds out of his fatigues and thumbed them into the action. Then he shot the bolt forward, leaned back, closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly spent beyond human endurance, clutching the gun to his chest. After a moment he set his jaw, leaned forward and pointed the gun at the gate. He looked over his shoulder at Weaver and reached into his pocket. What he held out was a large goldish coin. He pointed to one side. It had a human figure on it and the motto: “The only easy day was yesterday.”
Doctor Weaver looked at the SEAL, who was also bleeding from the nose and ears but clearly prepared to do battle, shook his own head and passed out.
CHAPTER FIVE
“First report on Gate 417,” Collective 15379 emitted.
“Go.”
“Initial reports favorable. Group of ten level one ground combat units sent on survey. Encountered minor resistance.”
“On immediate entry?”
“Yes. Or shortly thereafter. One GCU sustained terminal injuries, recovered and recycled. Two sophonts recovered, one terminal, one critical. Both terminated and examined.” It sent a blip of biological information on the late Edderbrooks. “Initial invasion packet was started but before it completed gestation there was a magnitude 249 explosion at the gate and five farside combat units, estimated level one to three, entered the gate area. Sentries engaged and one reported full engagement. Slight variations from initial survey of sophonts.” Another blip of data, this one defining Howse’ protective suit as an extruded armor. “A response packet was sent through consisting of level one and two ground combat units. Level one units were repulsed by a heavy force of farside ground combat units designated one to four. Level two units pushed back first wave but were stopped and repulsed by a reinforcing wave of level two to four units; farside units manually blocked the gate. A group of level six units had arrived by then and reopened the gate. Initial entry appeared successful but first level six unit was destroyed, method unknown, which backblast severely damaged two more level six units, still recoverable. With only two level six units functional and all level one and two units terminated in the immediate gate area the attack was called off while more level six units are gestated. Colonization packet is gestated and only awaits successful opening of the gate.”
“Heavy defense,” Collective 47 noted. “Weapon type?”
“Chemical propellant and explosive. No plasma or quark weapons detected.”
“I have sent a message to all nearby collectives and those with localized gate ability to forward all available level three though seven ground combat units and to begin a ten percent increase in gestation of all combat systems. When you have an overwhelming force available, strike. That will require at least seven cycles.”
“I understand and comply.”
“And send an emissary unit.”
“An emissary?”
“Let us see how gullible they are.”
* * *
“Dr. Weaver?” a voice said.
Bill opened his eyes a crack and then closed them against the light. It was moments like this that he dreaded. So far, it seemed okay. He felt sheets and the brief glimpse he had seen overhead indicated a hospital. So did the smell.
“Dr. Weaver?” the voice repeated. It was a woman. Nurse or doctor? Have to open the eyes again to check.
A large breasted redhead wearing one of those vaguely comical multicolored smocks that nurses seemed to be enamored of was standing by the bed with a cup of water.
“Before you ask, you’re in Shands Hospital in Gainesville, Florida,” the nurse said, holding a straw up to his mouth.
Bill took a sip, clearing what felt like a mound of plaster out of his mouth, and grunted.
“Bathroom?”
“How about a bedpan?” She smiled.
“No,” he said, sitting up and wincing at the headache. “I can move.” He checked his extremities to ensure that this was, in fact, the case. All working. All weak as hell but that would pass. He’d been in the body and fender shop before. “I can walk.”
“You’re not supposed to,” the nurse said, firmly, pushing him back.
He slid his hand onto her thumb and exerted just enough pressure to prove that it could hurt. “I can walk. I’m going to walk. All I need is for you to help me with the IV cart.”
She looked at him sternly, then shook her head and helped him to the bathroom. By the time he made it back to the bed he wondered if it had been a good idea; he was weaker than he’d thought.
“The gate?” he asked. He wasn’t too sure exactly where Gainesville was from Eustis but if they’d lost the gate he didn’t want to be close.
“Nothing else has come through,” the nurse said, helping him into bed and settling the sheets to her satisfaction. “It’s been all over the news. There’s more National Guard and some Regular Army and Marines around it, now.”
“There were some SEALs with me,” Weaver said. He had a clear view of Sanson lying in the bottom of the hole.
“They’re both here,” the nurse said. “The younger one is still unconscious, not a coma, he’ll be okay. The older one is already out of bed, against doctor’s orders, and swearing at anyone who tries to get him back in. Now you just lie down and rest. A doctor will be here to see you soon.”
After she had left Weaver elevated the bed — lying down hurt more than sitting up — and turned on the TV. He didn’t have to flip through many channels; everything but the Discovery Channel and Disney were running all news all the time.
“We’re reporting live from Eustis, Florida, where units o
f the Third Infantry Division, the same units that captured Baghdad, are just beginning to arrive. Bob Tolson is embedded with Bravo Company, First Battalion Ninety-Third Infantry, over to you, Bob.” The voiceover was from New York or Washington but the video was from a news helicopter. There were green Army bulldozers and some yellow civilian ones digging big holes and a shot of a whole line of tractor trailer cars loaded with tanks and APCs. Bill thought about the flaming debris falling from the sky and wondered at the balls it took to fly a helicopter in the area for no other reason than getting some nice stock footage.
“Peter, you should be able to see the activity around me,” the local reporter said. “From the air it probably looks like chaos but I’m told it’s a well orchestrated drill. I’m talking with Captain Shane Gries who is the commander of Bravo Company. Shane, thanks for taking a moment to talk to us.”
“No problem, Bob.” The video had cut back to the ground and now showed a youngish man with a square jaw, his helmet fastened and looking very neat.
“What do you think our chances are?” the reporter asked.
“Well, Bob, the enemy clearly has some very good firepower,” the company commander responded. “But its action plan is going to have to be very simple, there is only one avenue of attack available. And if light infantry, which is what it faced before, could hold it and push it back, well, my boys will turn it into dog meat with their Bradleys and Abrams.”
“By light infantry you’re talking about the local militia?” the reporter asked. “What they’re calling ‘The Charge of the Redneck Brigade?’ ”
“Bob, I’m not about to dis those locals,” the captain said, shaking his head. “They retook the gate and took plenty of casualties doing it. They’re fine Americans and patriots and, truth be told, they probably shoot better than most of my boys. Some of them are still hanging around and as long as they want to, they can stay.”