by John Ringo
They all realized that they were just avoiding the thought of what they were about to do. The light of plasma and HVM fire could be seen sparkling all along the ridgeline and it was clear that, despite the fire of the MetalStorms and a hurricane of artillery, the Posleen were heavily massed on the other side of the slope. As soon as they crested the ridge, they would be the biggest target in sight.
"Sir, I can't get us hull down on this one," Reeves said. "The slope's wrong."
"Do what you can," Mitchell replied.
Reeves nodded his head and gunned the giant platform up the side of the ridge. As he did he could see the infantry pulling out of the defensive positions along the top. Some of them had trenches connecting them but mostly they were just foxholes and the defenders had to crawl out into fire to retreat. Some of them weren't making it. And it was apparent that the Posleen were now firing from close range.
"This is going to be tricky," Mitchell muttered as the first MetalStorm opened up on the ridgeline. There was the usual storm of fire, but in this case most of it was clearing the ridgeline and dropping into the dead ground on the far side. "Crap, I was afraid of that."
Because of their height, the 40mm rounds had about a four-thousand-meter range. And they would arm within fifty meters. But the guns could only depress a few degrees below the horizon. Therefore the SheVa had a large zone around it in which the guns could not engage, depending on the MetalStorm and the angle at which the SheVa was at, that could range anywhere from five hundred to a thousand meters.
The problem in taking the ridge was, therefore, two-fold. They would be a target to every Posleen in sight. But even worse, the ones that were close would have a free shot.
"Colonel, this is Chan." The MetalStorm commander had the toneless voice of the well trained who were in a very bad situation. "I can't get the close ones and we can see them coming up the hill. The valley is . . . Look, sir, we're talking Twenty-Third Psalm here. This is definitely the Valley of the Shadow of Death."
"Don't worry," Kilzer muttered as the top of the SheVa crested the hill and the first plasma and HVM rounds began to ring on the armor. "Got it covered. For Bun-Bun is the baddest motherfucker in the valley."
"What?" Pruitt asked. For the first time he felt completely useless. His only job was managing the main gun, and there was nothing he could fire at in these circumstances.
"Let them get in close," the tech rep said. "I can't do anything out at range, but in close we're covered."
Finally the main gun, and the visual systems associated with it, crested the top of the hill and the view on the other side became apparent. And the comparative frenzy on the MetalStorm channels made sense.
The artillery had shifted to create a curtain barrage all along the front. The sun had begun to set behind the mountains to the west and the purple flashes of variable-time artillery were a continuous ripple along the base of the ridge. But in the dying light the valley seemed to heave and ripple, as if covered in cockroaches. After a moment it was apparent that what it was covered in, from slope-edge to slope-edge, was Posleen. Thousands of them, tens, hundreds of thousands of them, all pressing forward to try to force their way over the ridges and through the Gap. And an increasing number of them were firing at the SheVa.
As Mitchell watched another swath of destruction was cut by the MetalStorms. But as fast as the Posleen were cut down, the gaps were filled by the pressure from behind. And he could see the surviving centaurs picking up scraps of meat from their deceased fellows, and heavy weapons that had survived, and either storing them on their backs or passing them to the rear.
"We're not killing them, we're just filling their larder," he muttered.
Another storm of fire came in and more of it was striking from the side, passing through the relatively light metal along the edge of the turret. Time to rethink and regroup.
"Major Chan, maintain maximum sustainable fire on all targets in view," he said. "Reeves, back us off the ridge. We need to get most of the hull and turret somewhere along here where the MetalStorms have an angle of direct fire but the rest of the gun is down."
"I'll try," the driver said, putting the tank in reverse with a glance at the map. "But I don't see a good spot."
"Well, keep loo—" Mitchell flinched as a massive boom echoed through the gun. "What the hell?"
"Posties close!" Pruitt called as more bangs and booms echoed through the hull. "Left side front. A full company. I don't know where they came from."
"Back us up, Reeve!"
"Hang on, Colonel," Kilzer said, touching a button. Another boom, much more massive than the first, shook the hull. "Problem solved."
"Holy shit!" Pruitt said, looking at the monitor. Mostly what could be seen was dust. But what was visible of the Posleen company looked like someone had pounded it with a giant meat mallet. "What in the hell was that?"
"Claymore," Kilzer replied. "There's two on the front, two on the back and three on each side. It's got six shots."
"Cool."
"That's still not going to keep us alive down there," Mitchell replied.
"Sir, I've got an idea," Reeves said, stopping the tank and spinning it in place.
"Ouch," Pruitt said with a laugh. "Did it hurt?"
"Fuck you, Pru," the driver, who was not noted for his intelligence, replied. He locked one track then threw the other into full drive, spinning up a roostertail of dirt and rocking the seven-thousand-ton gun sideways down the hill.
"Ah, I know what you're doing," Kilzer said with a grin. "Watch it, though. You can get yourself stuck as hell."
"Okay, I'll bite," Mitchell said in a bemused voice. "What are you doing?"
"He's trying to dig in a fighting position," Kilzer explained for the driver, who was repositioning the tank. "Dig out the upper side of the position by spinning the track in place."
And it appeared to be working. The friable stone of the hillside was shattering under the weight and power of the SheVa's tracks and with each spin the upper side of the SheVa sank lower. After a moment Reeves spun the monstrous vehicle in place and moved some of the dirt over to create a wider spot, then went back to work.
"Colonel, this is Chan," the MetalStorm commander called. "We've got another group of leakers coming in along the eastern edge of the ridge. The infantry has reconsolidated on the far hill and is engaging them at long range, but they seem to be planning on closing with us. And they're under my angle of fire."
"Let them close," Mitchell replied. "Mr. Kilzer will be waiting for them."
"Yes, sir," the major replied in a puzzled tone.
"I'll explain later," Mitchell said. "How's it looking from your angle?"
"Smelly," the major replied. "Glenn just threw up all over the compartment."
"How's the angle of fire," Mitchell replied with a grimace. Being on top of the SheVa when it went through these gyrations would not be fun.
"Well if Reeves is looking for an excuse to stop putting us through this, I'll give him one. We can see to fire and most of the turret is hull-down."
"Okay, Reeves, get a good position and hold it," the colonel said. "Major Chan, concentrate fire on the zone from directly in front of us to the road. We want to keep them off of us but also open up a situation where the infantry can stage a breakout." They still had monitors where they could see the valley and he shook his head. "Although I think that we might be being optimistic about that one."
"What do you want me to do?" Pruitt asked.
"Get up to the crane and start hauling out MetalStorm packs," Mitchell replied. "I think we're going to need them."
"I'm going to go survey the damage we took from those hits," Indy said, unsnapping and standing up to follow the gunner. "I didn't like the feel of that last engagement."
"Don't go out and kick the tracks," Mitchell said. "I don't know when we're going to move."
He went back to watching the monitors and after a few minutes nodded his head. The antimatter "area denial" rounds they had fired up the
road had to have wiped out a good collection of what would be reinforcements for the forces in the valley. And the combination of artillery, which was now shifting out into the main mass, and the MetalStorm fire was now opening up patches of ground. The Posleen looked unlimited, but they weren't. And the heavy firepower that was now pounding the valley was whittling them away. And doing so rather fast, all things considered. He glanced at his watch and realized that it had been less than fifteen minutes since they had left the hilltop opposite; it seemed like hours. Somewhere to the south, the ACS was getting ready to retake the Gap. Somewhere near Knoxville a true hell-weapon was about to fire. But there was only one and for the ACS to survive, and the plug in the Gap to be maintained, it was necessary to clear out this plug of Posleen and drive on with the mission. Fifteen minutes was starting to sound like a long time.
"Ask me for anything but time."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the "Black Tyrone,"
And his was a Company, seventy strong,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.
There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath
Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,
And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal
The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil.
But ever a blight on their labours lay,
And ever their quarry would vanish away,
Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:
And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.
—Rudyard Kipling
"The Ballad of Boh Da Thone"
Clarkesville, GA, United States of America, Sol III
1905 EDT Monday September 28, 2009 AD
Tulo'stenaloor glanced at his sensors then tugged at his earring; he had better things to do than learn skills that others had.
"How much time do we have?"
"Not much," Goloswin replied thoughtfully. "They are preparing to fire."
The estanaar looked at the bloody read oval on the schematic and sighed. He had spent years learning to understand maps and now he wished he hadn't. He could well imagine the results of this hell-weapon.
"And the radiation?"
"Bad," the technician admitted. "The zone that will be hit directly by the weapon will extend up the valley almost to the town of Dillard. The primary isotope will be carbon 13, which has a high ionization rate and will induce thermal damage on uptake. My model estimates twenty percent casualties for oolt passing through the zone in the first hour with about a one percent decrease per hour thereafter. Humans, of course, are relatively fragile; unprotected humans will not be able to enter the zone for at least ten days." He fluttered his crest and snapped his mouth in humor. "It's actually a very . . . what is that human term? It is a very elegant weapon in its way. The power is frightful, of course, but it also denies territory for some time. However, the ground is fully cleared in a month or two, at least sufficient for life. Elegant."
"Horrible," Tulo'stenaloor replied. He turned to his operations officer with a snarl. "Pull all estanaral forces out that can be withdrawn; send only the local forces into this madness. Begin working on a plan to control the movement after the attack; we have been hitting these humans in waves which gives them time to recover. Use the estanaral forces to put gaps between blocks of the locals so that we hit the humans in a continuous stream."
The operations officer nodded and tapped at the controls on his sensor unit. "Most of the estanaral were prepared for an exploitation attack, so they are back from the area where the weapon will hit. Should I stop the flow for a while? We're actually getting low on local units."
"No," Tulo'stenaloor said after a moment. "We won't know exactly where the weapon hits until it does. Some of them will survive. It is enough." He flapped his crest again and keyed his communicator. "Orostan."
* * *
Orostan looked up the hill at the gap and snarled as his communicator lit up. "Yes, estanaar."
"The humans are going to fire a hell-weapon into the Gap." Tulo'stenaloor gave him a brief précis of the situation and then waited.
Orostan flapped his crest in agitation and snarled. "How many of my reinforcements am I going to lose?"
"About half," the warleader admitted.
"Too much," the forward leader muttered. "That hellish SheVa gun has been reinforced, strengthened and given many weapons instead of just the one. It has taken a position near Savannah valley and is eating oolt as if they were abat."
"The idea was to stop it," Tulo'stenaloor noted. "Not have it stop you."
"I'm trying," Orostan snapped. "I have teams waiting for it to come through the pass. I think it is vulnerable on the flanks. When it comes through we will destroy its wheels and tracks. That will stop it. Short of where it can fire at the pass. But you were supposed to take and hold the pass, estanaar. And with the resistance that I am facing from these hell-spit humans, may the demons eat their souls, I need more forces."
"I'm working on it," Tulo'stenaloor said. "But the situation, as the humans say, truly sucks."
* * *
"This really sucks," Cally whispered. "I'm way too young to die."
She had managed to break contact with the Posleen but they had stayed on her trail like bloodhounds. Now they were spread out on either side of her hide, beating up the hill. She had thought she could lie low and avoid them but it seemed no such luck.
"Papa wouldn't have gotten trapped this way," she muttered, checking her rounds. Out of grenades, two magazines left, one partially empty. One full magazine in the well. Posleen to the right so if she tried to sneak out they would have her there. Ditto on the left. Solid wall up behind her. What was that old saw? "There I was, this is no shit . . . Was I afraid, sure, I was afraid one of them would get away."
She just wished they would go away.
There was a rustle in the bushes below and she lined up on where a Posleen would be bound and determined to come in view. "Well, time to get one more," she sighed, snuggling her cheek into the stock. As the yellow-brown snout nosed around the bushes she took up trigger slack. It was the God King.
Even if she couldn't destroy all the Posleen in the world, she could destroy this one.
* * *
The team leader paused and raised one fist, sinking into a crouch. Ahead of them through the trees there was a shot from a rifle and a crackle of railgun fire with the occasional thump of a plasma rifle.
Major Alejandro Levi had been a Cyberpunk for more years than he cared to remember. He had been recruited right out of high school, something about being a Westinghouse Scholarship Finalist and the quarterback of the football team. And over the . . . okay decades would be the best way to put it, he'd been in a lot of hairy missions. But wandering around in the middle of a nuclear battlefield scattered with Posleen, potentially hostile humans and potentially hostile "others," pretty much took the cake.
He looked to his rear then to his side and stepped to the left. Suddenly, he reached out with his left hand and sank it into what appeared to be naked air.
"What do we have here?" he whispered, getting a grip with the other hand as a Himmit shifted camouflage and wrapped three of its hands onto his body. "Spying on us, were you?"
"Spying for you," the Himmit whistled in passable English. The creature was almost man-sized but lighter than humans and resembled nothing so much as a symmetric frog. It had four "arms" set at opposite ends of its body and a sensory cluster near the center of the body. On each side of the sensory cluster it had a pair of eyes. It appeared as if you could split it down the middle and easily have two "half Himmit."
Alejandro had it by the cranial cavity, at the center of the delicate sensory area; a twitch of the human's strong hands would crush his primary sensors, a possibly fatal wound. "You're here for the same reas
on I am!"
"How do I know that?" the Cyber said, loosening his grip lightly.
"You're here to retrieve Cally O'Neal and Michael O'Neal, Senior," the alien replied. "And you're late."
"The traffic was terrible," Alejandro replied, dryly. "Where are they?"
"Michael O'Neal, Senior, was caught in the pressure wave fromisedander detonation and sustained mortal injuries. Cally O'Neal is the one doing the firing right now. She has been in a running battle with a group of Posleen. I believe she is now trapped."
"O'Neal's dead?" the team leader asked, shaking his head.
"Dead is such a definitive term," the Himmit replied. "He is in my craft at the moment. I do not know his current state of reality."
"Wha . . . never mind," Alejandro said, shaking his head. If he asked an open-ended question the Himmit would go on all day. He was lucky this hadn't taken longer; the Himmit was clearly out of sorts to be this abrupt. Maybe it was having fingers jabbed into the Himmit equivalent of a nose. "How many Posleen?"
"Less than when she started; she is a remarkable sub-human," the Himmit said. "She initiated the ambush with—"
"How many and where?" Levi asked, tightening the pressure ever so slightly.
"Fourteen, seventy-five meters," the Himmit replied, pointing. "Spread out. She is in cover up the slope, but if she moves . . ."
"God King?"
"There is one Kessentai, plasma rifle, using portable sensors. He is not using them very effectively; he appears used to having his guns aimed for him."
The Cyber straightened and made a series of gestures indicating that the team should spread out, prepare to engage the enemy and turn off all electronic devices. The last was a pain, but the God King's sensors could pick up the slightest emission, even background.
He watched as the team seemed to appear from nowhere, a bit of leaf mold, the bark of a tree, a bush. The Cyberpunks had trained in the days before the war against the Posleen to enter enemy territory and corrupt battlefield systems that could not be "hacked" from a distance. They were trained to be ghosts, shadows, on the battlefield.