by John Ringo
The evidence for this process was gleaned mostly from overhead imagery observing the digging process and what went into and out of the caverns. The process was probably going on on Barwhon as well, although there was no way to get overhead on that planet. On Diess, which the humans had mostly retaken, the Posleen had not dug in their facilities. But the entire arable area of the planet was covered in megalopoli so they had just occupied the Indowy megascrapers. Digging them out of them had been interesting.
Most of the Earth though was in Posleen hands and thousands, millions, of the manufacturing facilities were scattered across the planet at this point. When it came time to reclaim the world, digging the centaurs out of the holes would be tough. On the other hand, it was expected that most of the factories could be put back in commission so Earth was looking at a whole new world of productivity. Usually, though, such facilities were in well-settled areas outside the war zone and Clarkesville was inside the artillery envelope. So seeing them digging in like that was unusual.
And so was the column of Posleen pouring into the dugout.
“That’s not a factory, then,” he muttered, working a big wad of jerky into his cheek. He wondered just what those sneaky yellow bastards thought they were doing. The Posleen under certain conditions dug like gophers; they apparently had very good mining technology, along the lines of the Galactics’ ionic miners. But they generally left their normals on the surface farming, strip mining and gathering.
Then he saw what was following the column into the cavern and nearly choked to death.
* * *
Ryan looked over at the fire control officer and tapped his monitor. “Send a sensor round in the next volley.”
As the day had progressed more and more people had gotten in on the act but, by and large, that had been good. Controlling this many artillery batteries, and their care and feeding or at least resupply of rounds, was no job for a single engineer major. Among other things, dozens of intelligence specialists had gotten into the act, massaging every bit of data collected for hard evidence of the Posleen’s intentions.
So far the information was ambiguous. There was no question that the Posleen seemed to be acting in a more “logical” fashion than they usually did. But that didn’t mean they were a greater threat. With the exception of the EMP grenade, there had been no new weapons. And while there were some improved tactics, they had not notably improved as shown by their chase of Mosovich.
It had been quite a while since the sergeant major’s last call for fire and they had been desultorily pounding the hilltop, with only one battery now, for the last two hours. But there had been lulls like it throughout the day and it was, judging from past experience, just about time for another call.
“Sensor round inbound, sir,” the lieutenant said, shunting the data to his monitor.
The round was based on a standard 155 millimeter round. But instead of explosive it carried more dangerous weapons: a camera and a radio.
As the round left the distant artillery gun, a shroud fell away and the camera was uncased. Using an internal gyroscope it compensated the sensor mount against the spin of the round and kept the camera pointed at the indicated target, which in this case was the ground.
The camera was only a sophisticated visual light system; transmitting systems such as millimeter wave radar were engaged by every God King and lander in sight. But the visual light system was able to pick out the shapes of Posleen and Posleen devices from the background clutter, sending the data back to the intelligence center in narrowly directed, short, encrypted bursts.
Despite the short, directed transmissions, the Posleen were able to detect and destroy the rounds most of the time in flight and they did so in this case, catching the round as it passed over Lake Burton, but leaving all its non-transmitting brethren, who only carried high explosives and lethal shrapnel, alive.
Ryan shook his head in bafflement. None of the humans could understand why the Posleen were so damned effective at destroying anything that maneuvered or transmitted, but left “ordinary” artillery alone. He checked the FireFinder radar, which actively worked with the gun targeting systems to ensure accuracy, and, sure enough, the rest of the rounds went on their way to the target.
The picture that had come back from the round was interesting enough. The artillery had reached over fourteen thousand feet in its parabolic arc, and the “visual footprint” had stretched from Dahlonega to Lake Hartwell. There were red traces of Posleen throughout the area, but the majority of them were concentrated around Clarkesville and Lynch Mountain. In other areas the centaurs were scattered. Clarkesville was still obscured because of the angle of flight of the round and the resolution on the Posleen around Lynch Moutain wasn’t all that great.
“Get the intel guys to massage this as much as they can,” Ryan said, scrolling his view around the snapshot of the battle and zooming in on the area around Mosovich. “In the next volleys I want you to have them set the sensor rounds so that they don’t go active until they are a few seconds out. That way we may not have as wide a field of view, but we’ll at least be able to see what we’re hitting. Or not hitting. It’s pretty clear that the Posleen are beyond our current fire point.”
“Should I adjust fire, sir?” the lieutenant at the artillery control station asked.
“No,” Ryan answered. “When Mosovich wants it, he’ll call for it.” Ryan pulled up a topographic map of the area, zoomed the resolution and then laid on recent overhead. After scratching his chin for a second he grunted. “But take everything that’s not tasked and put it right… there,” he continued, pointing to the saddle with a feral grin. “It’s the only place there’s a path the Posleen could use.”
“Do you think that the sergeant major is up on the mountain?” the lieutenant asked, scanning his own system for a trace of the NCO. “I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Oh, he’s there, somewhere,” Ryan answered. “What I don’t know, is where in the hell he thinks he’s going.”
CHAPTER 13
Rochester, NY, United States, Sol III
1925 EDT Monday September 14, 2009 ad
Major John Mansfield crouched low, hiding in the shadows of the roof of the trailer. He could hear the crunch of gravel as his target approached and this time there would be no way to escape. He’d been tracking him for the last four days and tonight would be the time of reckoning. Preparing to spring he pulled his legs under him and clutched the sheaf of paperwork attached to a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other; being adjutant for the Ten Thousand was no picnic.
As the official personnel officer for eleven thousand eight hundred and forty-three soldiers, officer and enlisted, all of whom were about as safe as Bengal Tigers, his was not always the funnest job. But the worst part was trying to pin the colonel down long enough to do his paperwork.
It had become something of a game. Cutprice would set up an obstacle course, human and often physical, between himself and his adjutant. Mansfield would try to pass it to get the colonel to take his paperwork in hand. Once a human being put something, anything, in the colonel’s hand, he was very concientious about completing it. But forget putting it in an “In” box.
But this time Mansfield had him dead to rights. The colonel had become a little too complacent, a little too regular in his schedule. And Mansfield had used all the tricks. A dummy was occupying his bed so no one would know he was stalking the night. No one had seen him crossing the compound so none of the troops would give him away this time. And a female trooper who really needed the colonel to sign a waiver so she could be promoted out of zone, a waiver that had been approved by her company commander, the sergeant major and the adjutant, had spent the evening plying the colonel with Bushmills. With any luck his defenses would be low enough that Mansfield would surprise him for once.
He crouched lower and leaned to the side, peering around the sign announcing that this simple single-wide trailer was the residence of the commander of the Ten Thousand. He glimpsed
a shadow and consulted his watch. Yes, it was precisely the time the colonel should be showing up. He readied the pen and prepared to spring as a voice spoke over his shoulder.
“You lookin’ for me, Mansfield?”
Major Mansfield stood up and looked at the figure that was now standing on the stoop of the porch. Now that it was in the light it was clear that the figure was both shorter and darker than the colonel. And wore the wrong rank.
“Sergeant Major Wacleva, I am, frankly, shocked that you would stoop so low as to assist this juvenile delinquent over my shoulder in his avoidance of duty!”
“Ah, don’t take it personal, Major,” the young looking sergeant major responded in a gravelly voice. “It is the age-old dichotomy of the warrior and the beancounter!”
“Since when did you get cleared for words like ‘dichotomy’?” the adjutant asked with a laugh.
“Since the colonel spent half the night getting plastered with Brockdorf,” Wacleva responded sourly. He pulled out a pack of Pall Malls and tapped out a cancer stick.
“Yeah,” Cutprice said with a laugh. “Did you know she was a philosophy major before she enlisted?”
“Yes, I do, Colonel,” Mansfield answered testily, finally turning around to look at the officer. “Which is why she’s one of the very few people I know who can read the Posleen mind. And did you know she needed your signature to get her promotion to E-6?”
“Why the hell do you think I’m standing on a roof in the freezing cold?” Cutprice asked. He took the pen out of the S-1’s hand. “Which one is it?”
“Oh, no, you’re not getting away that easily,” Mansfield answered. “Among other things there’s a real strange one in here. I think we might need to send a squad down to North Carolina to spring one of our officers.”
“Who’s in North Carolina?” Cutprice asked, stepping lightly off the roof and landing on sprung knees. “Goddamn it’s nice to be young again.”
“No shit,” the major responded, landing next to him. “I think the last time I could be assured of doing that and not killing myself was in ’73.”
“With all due respect, sirs, yer both wimps,” the sergeant major growled. “Try being old before ’73. I couldn’t do that when I was datin’ yer mothers.”
Cutprice chuckled and reached for the sheaf of papers. “Gimme the 3420, I promise I’ll do the rest.”
Mansfield and the sergeant major followed the colonel into the trailer and Mansfield extracted a sheet of paper from the pile as the sergeant major went to the sideboard. “One 3420, complete and ready to sign,” Mansfield said.
“Hmm.” The colonel read it carefully. The game went both ways; Mansfield had twice inserted orders transferring himself to a command slot so the colonel was now careful to read the documents he signed. “This looks kosher,” he said, scrawling a signature.
“So is this,” Mansfield said. “There are two documents here. One is from Captain Elgars and the other is from her original shrink.”
“Elgars doesn’t ring a bell,” Cutprice said, picking up the printout of an e-mail.
“And it shouldn’t, she’s never been ‘with’ us, so to speak,” Mansfield said. “She was at the Monument, the sniper who is the reason it has a brand-new aluminum top.”
“Hang on a bit,” the sergeant major rasped. “Redhead, broken arm. What’s she doing as a captain?”
“Just about everybody that was there got battlefield commissions,” Mansfield pointed out. “Unless they specifically turned them down,” he added with a “hrum, hrum.”
“Well, I didn’t turn it down, it’s just a reserve commission and I’m acting in my regular rank,” the sergeant major said with a grin. “That way when I retire I get major’s pay and in the meantime nobody can make me a fuckin’ adjutant.”
“Elgars was in a coma so she wasn’t in a position to turn down a promotion to first lieutenant,” Mansfield continued. “And she got promoted in her zone automatically, since she was officially on the roll as patient status.”
“That’s the silliest fucking thing I ever heard,” the sergeant major said, pouring himself a drink and setting the bottle on the table. Then he paused. “Naw, I take that back. I’ve heard sillier stuff. But it’s close.”
Cutprice glanced at the two letters. He had come up from the ranks himself and he was a little short on college education, but he was a fast and accurate reader. The letter from the psych was the normal bureaucratic gobbledygook. The patient was refusing “treatment” and acting manifestly crazy. The shrink tried to cloak that with words she thought the colonel probably hadn’t heard, but in that the psychologist was wrong; the colonel had heard them before from shrinks talking about him. The letter from the captain was a bit different. Straightforward, spelling wasn’t too great, but that was normal for enlisteds which was what she really was. She wanted to see another shrink, her original one was treating her like she was nuts. Yada, yada. Huh?
“She says she’s got two people’s memories?” Cutprice asked.
“Apparently so, sir,” Mansfield replied.
“No wonder her shrink thinks she’s nuts,” the colonel mused. “She says she thinks the Crabs did it to her.”
“Her treatment was experimental, sir,” Mansfield noted. “It… sort of hangs together. And she doesn’t want to discontinue treatment, she just wants to continue with a psychologist that doesn’t think she’s nuts.”
“Sure, if you’re willing to believe she’s not,” Cutprice said.
“We’ve got a lot of people who are a few bricks short of a load,” Wacleva pointed out. “Look at Olson, I mean, nobody is sane if they go around wearing a God King crest all the time.”
“Well, sure, but…” Cutprice paused. The captain had apparently been a pretty good shooter and she might be a good addition. He read the postscript and frowned. “She says she knows Keren and it got forwarded by Sergeant Sunday. Both of those are recommendations in my book. Better than any fucking shrink’s.”
“That is one of the reasons I’m here, sir,” Mansfield noted. “I talked to Keren and he really went off. He didn’t know she was out of her coma and he wants to go see her. Now. He really had good things to say about her. ‘Greatest shooter on Earth. Natural leader. Crazy as a bedbug…’ ”
“But I can’t afford to send him to North Carolina just to straighten this out.” Cutprice picked up the bottle of bourbon and poured himself a drink. “I’ll tell him that myself and why. Next suggestion.”
“Nichols,” said the S-1. “He’s not an officer, but I cross-checked the records for any of the Ten Grand who have been in contact with her and they both went through the 33rd sniper course before the Fredericksburg drop. In the same class no less. He transferred to the LRRPs and he’s stationed down in Georgia or North Carolina, in that corps zone. If you send him orders to go see her, he could stop by and talk. Get an idea if she’s nuts or what. But he’ll need written orders; they won’t let the riff-raff in the Sub-Urbs.”
“Nichols?” the sergeant major replied dubiously. “He’s a decent troop, but for one thing he’s not Six Hundred and she is and the other thing is he’s… just a troop. Nothing against Nichols, but he’s just a spear-carrier.”
“Well, the other suggestion is that I know his teamleader,” Mansfield said. “And Jake Mosovich ain’t just a spear-carrier. If I ask Jake very nicely, he’ll probably even do it.”
“I know Mosovich too,” Cutprice said with a chuckle. “Tell ’im if he doesn’t, I’ve got pictures from an SOA convention he doesn’t want to see the light of day. And video from a certain AUSA convention elevator. Okay, send Nichols and ask Jake to backstop. Tell Nichols you just want him to stop by and say ‘Hi,’ but tell Mosovich the real reason they’re there. It’s pointless to add, but tell him to handle it as he sees fit and ask him for an after-action report. Also, put him in touch with Keren. If she’s not crazy, according to Mosovich, I’ll tell her psych to take a running jump at a rolling donut. If she is nuts, and unusable nuts, I want
her off the rolls. She’ll always be Six Hundred, but I don’t want her messing up the rolls of the Ten Thousand. Clear?”
“As a bell,” Mansfield said with an evil grin. “I’m sure that Mosovich could use a little authorized ‘comp’ time away from his daily rut. He’s probably getting bored at this point.”
* * *
Mosovich swallowed the last of the jerky and washed it down with a swig of water from his Camelbak just as there was a “crack” and a puff of smoke from the saddle.
The device he dropped on the trail had started life as a scatterable mine. The devices were packed into artillery rounds and fired into battlefields to “scatter” and create a problem for the enemy to deal with.
The Posleen response to minefields was to drive normals across them. It was an effective method of clearing and, from the Posleen’s point of view, very efficient since they would scavenge the bodies for weapons and equipment then butcher the dead for rations.
Therefore, generally the humans didn’t use scatterable mines. While “every little bit helped” in killing Posleen, by and large minefields were pretty inefficient. There were, generally, and with the exception of Bouncing Barbies, better uses for artillery.
Scatterable mines themselves, however, were a different story. In bygone days the sergeant major probably would have stopped to set a claymore. While that might have been more effective, it also took more time. Or, if he was in a real hurry, he would drop a “toe-popper,” a small mine that would detonate if stepped on. But toe poppers were, at best, wounding. And, unless you dug a small hole and hid it, which took time, they were also easy to spot.