Posleen FanFic

by Leigh Kimmel

  Major Weaver and the 1-149 Armor's job was to poke the Posleen in the nose to get their attention (which Tom conceded, was much easier done than said), and then to make a hasty withdrawal up towards the Anvil. As the Posleen followed, they would be serviced first by the First Brigade, 40th Infantry Division, Mechanized, who currently sat on the high ground in engineer built bunkers and firing positions along both sides of the Throat.

  Any Posleen who wandered up towards the Hammer was entitled to the services of the First Brigade, similarly emplaced.

  But because the bulk of the forces were arrayed around the Anvil, that is where the Posleen needed to be. For that reason, the C-Forty Niners would need to make their withdrawal under fire, because anything else would risk causing the Posleen force to lose interest, and not make it to the Anvil, where the 41st Infantry Division, in its entirety, was to be found.

  In engineer constructed devensive positions, on the high ground.

  All told there were about nine thousand "Shooters" arrayed around the hills, along with several thousand manjack emplacements, several tens of thousands of anti-personelle mines, and the odd civilian refugee who had brought their own weapons to the party.

  All told, it came out to about a 20:1 ratio of horses to shooters. Tom did the math, and decided it was going to be close.

  * * *

  The view down over phase line Copper was unnerving. The horses, still at over five miles distance, looked like nothing more than Amazonian army ants as they flowed northwards across the grass cow pastures. Even through the binoculars, Tom was having difficulty making out individual Posleen, however the odd God-King on his Flying Saucer stood out like a metallic leaf against the sickly yellow background created by the mass of normals.

  Almost continuous artillery fire landed amongst the massed invaders, but they flowed over, around and through the momentary interruptions like a lake around rain drops.

  "Entertain a question, Sir?"

  "Sure," Tom replied, without dropping the binoculars.

  "You told that gunner from Bravo company to estimate the range to the saucer out at Cobalt. You didn't let him use the laser range finder. Why?"

  Tom didn't answer for a moment. "I dunno. Those things are supposed to have an excellent sensor suite. I know that our passive devices, like the thermal sights, don't register on them except as just a power source. But I don't know how they'd react if you bounced a laser off of them. They might consider that a hostile act and react immediately." Tom shrugged, finally bringing the binoculars down to look at Beatty. "Didn't want to risk starting the furball early."

  Private Beatty nodded his understanding, and went back to staring down range through the hum-vee's windscreen.

  "That's the second time you've done that."

  "Done what, Sir."

  "Commented about something I said, but I don't remember you being there when I said it."

  "Oh, that. I think your AID likes you. It broadcasts everything you say to this radio, here," the driver said, pointing over his shoulder at one of the PRC receivers behind his back. "Has done, ever since you took down Birch."

  "AID?"

  "Yes, Major Weaver?"

  "Is that true?"

  "I don't broadcast everything, Sir."

  "Thanks ... I think." Tom brought the binocs back up and looked at the mass of horses. "AID, battalion push, please."

  "Enabled, Sir."

  "Thank you--AID, what's the battalion callsign today?"

  "Romeo One Victor, Sir. You are officially Seven-Three and your driver is 'echo'."

  "Thanks. Victor-Victor-Victor! This is Victor six-six. Remember. Half your ammo loadouts, then disengage and retreat to the throat. No resupply this side of 'game over, dude.' ... Victor, this is Victor six-six. Engage, out. AID! Roll the thunder."

  And with that, the Five hundred men and women of Task Force Copper engaged 200,000 Posleen with their direct fire weapons. All the while, two divisions worth of artillery rained fire upon the invaders' heads.

  Tom sighed. "Okay, Beatty, take us to the first line of the Throat. We'll probably need to be standing there to catch the retreating units and make sure their guns are pointed in the right direction."

  Fifteen very long and very loud minutes later, vehicles started pulling off the line and retreating back from Copper into the Throat. The first vehicles to arrive were guided into the first line at the mouth of the draw, once those positions were filled the follow on units were guided up the right hand draw to the positions there.

  Eventually, no more vehicles left Copper, as the only vehicles left on Copper were burning cheerfully.

  As the horses came up over the top of the berm that marked the phase line, they were engaged by the line at the mouth, again with one half their remaining ammo. This had the correct effect, and the wave of horses turned eastwards.

  The 120mm smoothbore loaded with a sabot round is just as effective as a .50 caliber sniper rifle ... and has a range that is four times longer. By the time the Posleen wave crested the berm, most of the God-Kings from the mass were no longer living, or had gotten down off their saucers having found them to be bullet magnets.

  A lot of the horses in the mass were, by this time, effectively feral, un-bonded to God-Kings because their God-King had been killed. That didn't stop them from following the mass towards the fire coming from between the two hilltops.

  As the mass turned, the line at the mouth backed out of their positions and fled up the Throat, bypassing the second line.

  As the horses entered the mouth, the second line got their attention and then also fled up the Throat.

  And the artillery continued to pound them as the horses turned to follow.

  "Will you look at that," said Tom from his position with the second line as they fell back. Edward Beatty, currently serving as the Battalion Commander's hum-vee driver was a bit unhappy about being the only unarmored vehicle amongst the two platoons' worth of tanks and infantry AFVs.

  He did not 'look at that'. "Busy drivin', Sir. What else should I be looking at?"

  "They bought it. Private? Do not hesitate to outrun the tank line. I'm beginning to feel a bit exposed here ..."

  "Yes, Sir!" he said, jamming the accelerator to the floor.

  "AID, what do we have left?"

  "Twenty four tanks, eighteen AFV. Ammo supplies read about 25% across the board, Major."

  "Ok. Battalion push ... Victor this is Victor six-six. Get behind the dam and back on line. Use up every last bit of ammo you have, than head for the flood basin egress points. Do not dawdle, and don't wait for stragglers. Six-six, out."

  "How many you think will make it, Sir?" asked Beatty, concentrating hard on the gravel road they were following.

  Tom, eyes closed, didn't reply.

  * * *

  "AID, what do we have left?"

  "Six tanks, twelve AFV, Major. Ammo supplies read 0% across the board."

  Tom opened his eyes as they sped across the flood plain. The wave of invaders were still several hundred meters short of the dam, but they were being hammered by the artillery, the bunkered manjacks, and 2d Brigade. Tom hoped that it would keep them beat back enough to allow the remains of his task force to get "around the corners" and to the egress points.

  The egress points started out as zigzag tunnels, just wide enough for a human. Survivors would abandon their vehicles and run for it on foot.

  Also slowing down the horses was the problem treacherous footing, of trying to run over the top of 50,000 of your dead fellows. And where there wasn't a dead centaur, the ground was six inch deep slick mud made up of two parts dust and one part Posleen blood.

  The hum-vee pulled up at one of the corners and waited, watching as the remaining vehicles bolted for the exits. Along the dam were a score of burning vehicles. Any wounded who had made it out of the tanks and AFVs alive had either made it to one of the retreating AFVs, or hadn't bothered. He could still see at least ten people, prone and firing from the reverse slope of the
dam.

  "Idiots," Tom said, over the thundering drone of combat.

  "Maybe not, Sir," replied his driver. Beatty pointed off to one side, to where an AFV stood, exit ramp down, even with the infantrymen, below the level of the dam, but not moving. "I saw that Bradley move. I think they are picking up the stragglers."

  "I thought it was a maintenance casualty," Tom said.

  Just then the line of infantry scrabbled backwards, almost as one, and dropped back down the flood plain, and it was clear that they were, in fact, all wounded to some extent or other. They flooded into the AFV, and once inside it took off like a rabbit as its ramp came back up. It headed for the nearest corner.

  Tom was watching where the fire from the surrounding hillsides was concentrated, using it to judge where the front of the Posleen wave was. "I don't ..."

  Horses began cresting the dam, using the same access ramps that the human vehicles had used earlier. The fleeing AFV's bushmaster was pointed over the back deck, and it opened fire as soon as there were targets. Horses exploded backwards as they caught 25mm explosive rounds, knocking follow ons back also.

  Unfortunately, one of the invaders not so blessed happened to be carrying a 3mm railgun, and that horse turned to fire at the fleeing AFV. One of the incoming rounds hit the Bradley and tumbled it, end over end, where it came to a halt and then suffered secondary explosions.

  "Idiot," said Tom.

  "Hang on, Sir!" said Beatty, as he floored the accelerator and the hum-vee zipped backwards. As soon as they had the basalt wall between them and the Posleen, he spun the wheel and bolted off towards the clearly marked exit point.

  * * *

  Later, Tom sat in the canteen, in his grimy, sweat soaked uniform, listlessly eating a bowl of soup. In the distant background, he could hear the thunder of combat as the Posleen came onto the anvil and were hammered into paste. In a distant corner of the room, Beatty sat staring disinterestedly at his own meal.

  Tom sat, wondering why they had all had to die. They had been that close to safety.

  There was a disturbance at the doorway and Tom looked up with dead, read-rimmed eyes to see Colonel Binghamton come in, followed closely by a Lieutenant Colonel who looked vaguely familiar. Also in the group was a very, very angry looking CSM Timpton.

  The brigade commander looked around the room, and then, seeing Tom, headed in his direction. "Good afternoon, Major Weaver. May we bother you for a moment?"

  "Certainly, Sir," Tom said, pushing his half-eaten soup away and standing to acknowledge the man. As the group sat, Tom nodded at the Sergeant Major, seeing him for the first time since leaving the Modesto barracks.

  Timpton nodded in return, however did not lose the angry, burning glare that he leveled at no one in particular.

  "I don't believe you've met my new S3, Lieutenant Colonel Feckette," said the colonel, introducing the third man.

  Tom froze, then turned to look at the man directly. At the name, Tom remembered who he was. Years of mental meanderings about 'what I'd do if...' played back over his mind. And he grinned evilly. "Holy, Ape Fucking Shit, Sir. It's good to see you again. And how's the family?"

  Timpton froze, and then burst out laughing as LTC Feckette turned red in anger in turn. "Do we know each other, Major?"

  "Well, shit, Sir! I guess you don't recognize me, it's been, what, fourteen years? I took my wife's name when we married, which is probably it. You might remember me as First Lieutenant Tomas Paulson, Sir," said Tom, standing and offering his hand to shake.

  The light colonel snapped a look at Timpton, who was still failing to control his mirth at Tom's reaction, realizing it for what it was.

  "And still an L-T-C, I see," Tom said to Feckette, looking at his pristine, pressed BDU uniform, internally suppressed anger making him careless. "Shit, well, don't worry, Sir. The promotion opportunity for combat vets around here just went through the roof, you know. Christ, I started out this mess as an E5, just yesterday I was a Master Sergeant. You should make Colonel in no time. Sir."

  Every time Tom put stress on a word, it was a calculated insult. Tom's own belief in God was based on "Don't bother me, and I won't bother You", but he really detested anyone who waved their beliefs in your face and then used it to justify their own actions.

  Tom turned back to the Colonel. "S3, Sir? What happened to Lieutenant Colonel Jubal?"

  Colonel Binghamton frowned, looking back and forth between the evilly grinning Tom, and CSM Timpton, and the apoplectic Feckette. "Lieutenant Colonel Kochan was killed in an auto accident last night. Colonel Jubal's my new XO. Am I missing something here?"

  "Long story, Sir," replied Tom. "What can I do for you Sir? You obviously came down here personally to find me."

  "The horses are figuring out that to head up to the Anvil is to die. So they've started looking elsewhere. We need you to go out and kick the anthill again."

  Tom looked hard at the Colonel, then nodded. "Okay, Sir. Can do. What have I got to work with?"

  "We've reconstituted two companies worth of the 1-149 Armor. Your still the battalion CO ... which reminds me." The colonel reached into a pocket and pulled out silver oak leaves and tossed them onto the table. "Battalion Sixes are Lieutenant Colonels. General Dekalli is the authority for this, but I suggested it." As the rank insignia hit the table in front of Tom, Timpton collapsed into helpless laughter, his anger totally dissolved.

  Tom looked over at Feckette. "See?" he said.

  * * *

  Thirty one tanks sat in rows, turbine engines idling over waiting for the word to move out. The tanks hadn't been the problem, tracking down enough qualified crewman had. Many of the vehicles had three person crews, the loader position being taken over by the gunner, and the tank commander firing the weapons from the TC position.

  Of the ninety nine men and women in the vehicles, exactly two had been in the 1-149th two days previously. Both had worked in the S3 shop, one as the NCOIC, the other as one of the hum-vee drivers.

  Tom was looking over the maps one last time. The Posleen force had backed off from the Mouth and were in the process of consolidating or reorganizing, or whatever it was that the horses did.

  The ones out there hadn't been routed, they had been the ones with the God-Kings who were smart enough not to enter the draw in the first place.

  Tom's job was to take his two companies down through the Hammer, poke the remaining Posleen in the nose, and then retreat back up the hill. He was to lead the enemy up the Hammer, because the ammunition was critical on the Throat and Anvil sides, and because the manjacks on the Hammer side were still available.

  Posleen plasma cannon could take out the manjack bunkers, and so the bunkers on the other side had been reduced to blasted and scorched rubble during the fighting.Tom's job was to take thirty one tanks out into the jaws of over sixty thousand remaining Posleen invaders, and kick them in the tonsils. These were the smart ones, and poking them in the nose might not be enough.

  "Victor, this is Victor six-six ..." Tom started to say, but then saw a hum-vee come rushing up.

  A figure hopped out of the still moving vehicle and ran up to the tank. Without permission, he hopped up onto the front fender, moved over to the loader's position and told the woman there to get into the gunner's seat.

  "What are you doing here, Timpton?" asked Tom, not in the mood for games.

  Timpton didn't say anything, just moved into the loaders position and put the spare CVC over his head and ears. "Good evening, Sir. Permission to ride along?"

  "Get out of here, Toby."

  "Sorry, Sir? There must be something wrong with this helmet. The intercom doesn't seem to be receiving. Daylight's burnin' Sir. Don't you think we should be out of here?"

  Tom frowned at the sergeant major. "Remind me to kick your ass when we get back. Victor, this is Victor six-six, wedge by company, Alpha, then Bravo. Move out!" Tom waited while Alpha company pulled out of the bivouac, moved on line and then vee'd out into an echelon. "Driver, move out," he sa
id over the intercom. "Pull in behind the Alpha point vehicle ... Stay back about three tank lengths."

  Behind them, Bravo pulled out and formed up.

  Normally, a maneuver like this by a scratch built unit could expect to go to hell in a hand basket in a hurry. Coordination of this nature would require weeks of practice before a unit showed any sign of coherency. Practice, or GPS computers and route finding software built into the engine speed and steering controls.

  Tom found that he liked the new navigation software that the drivers had to work with. It made ARTEPs a breeze with the purely mechanical stuff, and let the teams concentrate on the important stuff like gunnery practice.

  As the two wedges passed out of the Hammer into the Mouth, heading due West, the tanks' thermal sights started picking up hotspots. "Victor, this is Vic-six-six. Alpha, echelon left. Bravo echelon right. I will be the point. Battalion fire! Whatever's loaded! Whatever's moving! At my command!"

  "You call that a fire command, Sir?" asked Beatty from the driver's compartment over the intercom, laughing hysterically.

  "Sabot up!" announced Timpton, as he loaded the round and pushed the safety forward into the armed position.

  "Sabot indexed!" replied the gunner. "Saucer Identified!"

  "Fire!"

  "Target!" announced the gunner a moment later, as a distant tenar disintegrated and then exploded with the actinic glare of an antimatter containment failure.

  "Gunner, six rounds Beehive, Troops!" yelled Tom over the intercom, over the ripping sounds of the coax quad-pod bushmasters.

  Tom popped his head out of the turret momentarily and looked around, counting burning tracks as return fire picked off members of the thundering herd. Thirty seconds later, the gunner announced "Rounds complete! Gunner! Co-ax! Troops!" and opened back up with the quad-pod.

  "Victor, Vic-six-six! About FACE! Forward MARCH! Quick time MARCH!"

  Eighteen tanks spun around in narrow bends, their turrets remaining pointed in the direction of the enemy thanks to their four layer stabilization equipment. Two others, who'd had their antennae shot away, continued towards the enemy for several seconds longer until their crews noticed that they were now alone. By that time, the Posleen sensors had noticed them. Neither succeeded in making their turns before they exploded under the concentrated HVM and plasma cannon fire.