The Road to Damascus (bolo)

by John Ringo

  I am far taller than the site’s largest buildings, but the entire site is built on a high promontory, so that the ground on which the buildings sit is actually higher than my turret. The access roads are sufficiently wide to accommodate my warhull, but I have little desire to rush straight in. There are high berms scattered throughout the compound, which I cannot probe, even with ground-penetrating radar, as they are too thick. I cannot tell where any of the mobile Hellbores are now located. This is not good. I slow forward speed and halt near a police command car.

  I recognize the officer in charge. He is the police lieutenant who ordered the mass arrest of the Hancock family, setting off a cause-and-effect chain of events that has culminated in the seizure of this compound. He now wears a captain’s insignia, clear indication that his superiors were pleased with the way in which he conducted the Hancock case. Yuri Lokkis, who appeared supremely self-confident in the news footage surrounding the Hancock arrests, does not appear to be quite so self-confident tonight. Perhaps it is only that he is face-to-face with me that has triggered the copious sweat and fine tremors in most of his voluntary muscle groups. Every single man in his command is in roughly the same physical condition.

  Why did Kafari Khrustinova display so little fear, by comparison, the first time she encountered me on the field of battle? Will I ever understand humans. I do my best to reassure the uniformed officer staring slack-jawed at my warhull.

  “Captain Lokkis, Unit SOL-0045 reporting as directed by President La Roux. I will require infantry support to ensure minimal loss of equipment currently in rebel hands.”

  He stares, wet-lipped and vacant-eyed, from one gun system to another, apparently incapable of rational speech. I try again.

  “Captain Lokkis, are you the officer in charge of this operation?”

  “Huh?”

  It is a response, at least. Unhelpful, but better than total silence. Did Captain Lokkis attend the same school as Phil Fabrizio? I make a note to cross-reference dossiers once the business at hand is concluded.

  “Are you the officer in charge?”

  “Uh… Yeah. Oh, yeah. Yes, I am. I’m in charge.”

  “I will require infantry support to ensure minimal damage to captured equipment or myself.”

  “Infantry support? Whaddaya mean?”

  “I have been charged with the task of regaining possession of expensive military equipment with minimal damage, as the treasury is not capable of sustaining replacement costs for mobile Hellbore units. By extension, the government is incapable of sustaining repair costs for any significant damage done to me. Given terrain conditions and the use of security berms, I cannot see the interior of the compound adequately to detect the location of those guns. Without infantry support to check terrain in advance, I am at serious risk of crippling injury. That would defeat the purpose of my presence on Jefferson, which is to provide long-term defense of this world. I therefore require infantry support in this operation.”

  “Whatcha want me to do about it? I ain’t no soldier, machine. I’m a cop. I got an award for throwin’ that pack of murderers in jail, but I ain’t no soldier. Whatever it is you want, it’s your problem, not mine.”

  I surmise that Captain Lokkis is not sufficiently acquainted with the interior of his training manuals to comprehend what “infantry support” means. Yet again, I revise my phrasing.

  “I need people on foot to go into the compound first and see what’s there.”

  “Whoeeeee! You ain’t askin’ much, are you? So’s I hear tell, folks in hell want icewater, too. Don’t mean they get it. We got no ‘infantry.’ And even if we did, which we don’t, I wouldn’t send ’em in there, anyway. Did you see what those bastards did to the plane and the tank? Ain’t no way my people are goin’ in there.” He jabs a dirty finger in the direction of the bluff overlooking his command post, such as it is, and says, “You wanna see what’s in there? Fine. You go take a look. That’s what they pay you for, ain’t it?”

  I consider correcting his misapprehension about a Bolo’s terms of service, which include nothing resembling a soldier’s pay. Jefferson is obliged to provide repair parts and a technician, but that is the extent of the government’s contractual remuneration for my services. I decide that any attempt at clarification would only cloud the issue further.

  I make yet another attempt to obtain what I need. “There are three infantry units listed on active duty status in this sector. Contact their commanders and request an immediate scramble of combat infantry troops to this location.”

  Captain Lokkis’ jaw juts out in an unpleasant fashion. “You ain’t got much brains, do you? I said we didn’t have infantry. Those ‘units’ were disbanded, musta’ been about two years back, or more.”

  “Disbanded?” I am so startled by this news, I request further clarification. “Please explain. These units are listed as active.”

  “Oh, they can be filled if they hafta, from reserves. But just b’tween you, me, an’ the fencepost, those infantry units were ‘politically destabilizing and financially draining.’ ” The last five words are clearly a direct quotation, they are so unlike Captain Lokkis’ routine diction.

  “If these units are still kept on the active list but have been disbanded, what happened to the funds required to support them?” I am thinking, urgently, about the long-term implications for my primary mission.

  “Oh, they divvied up the money.”

  “How?”

  He just stares vacantly into my external visual sensors. “I dunno how. Why’s that any a’ your business?”

  I do not bother to answer, as he is clearly incapable of understanding the serious consequences of misappropriated military funds. I begin searching the governmental datanet via wireless interface and discover financial transactions that divide the money saved by disbanding the infantry divisions into two main categories: increasing the politically essential subsistence allowance and funding the federal police combat forces known as Op-Squads. I face combat and must put my reliance for repairs upon an illiterate mechanic and a government that is lying to the public about how it spends tax money. Since I cannot gain infantry support and Captain Lokkis has refused to assist, I consult the president. “Unit SOL-0045, requesting infantry support.”

  “Infantry support?” Sar Gremian asks, sounding irritated. “Why? Dammit, never mind why. Request denied.”

  “I require authorization—”

  “I know, I fucking well know! Tell him he can’t have any soldiers.”

  The president says, “You can’t have any soldiers. Just do what he says.”

  The president has clearly authorized Sar Gremian to give me commands. This will at least save time.

  “Understood. I will conduct this exercise operating independently.” I break transmission and address Captain Lokkis. “Please clear your vehicles from my approach vector.”

  “What?”

  “Move your cars. Unless you want me to crush them.”

  Lokkis issues rapid orders to move the ground- and aircars blocking my path. I move forward at a cautious pace, launching an aerial drone. It arcs up to an elevation of twenty meters and is promptly shot down by rebel missile fire from the compound. I lock onto the missile’s trajectory and fire mortars, but am unable to determine whether the rounds strike their intended target.

  Approaching from the northern face of the bluff is a tac-tically disadvantageous maneuver. I reverse course and loop the long way around, reapproaching from the south. My warhull is tall enough that my uppermost turret sensors provide a partial view into the compound. Internal berms block my view in seven tactically important locations.

  I am down to three drones in my warhull and only four available in depot as replacements. I launch a drone at full speed, hoping to gain altitude before the enemy can react. It streaks to a height of eleven point nine meters and is shot down by missile fire. I launch mortars blind, having gained nothing but a view of the top of the nearest berm. I cannot tell if my mortar shells stru
ck their intended target.

  I pause to study the terrain I can see. The southern perimeter fence is down along a thirty-meter stretch to either side of what had been a security check-point gate. Tank traps block the road in a checkerboard pattern. The berms beyond create an even more difficult access route, forcing an invader to weave in deep zigzag patterns to reach the main compound. My treads are, of course, capable of crushing the tank traps flat and I can climb or even plow through the berms, if necessary. The problem is my inability to see what lies on the other side.

  I launch a second drone, sending it skimming forward less than one meter above the ground. It weaves its way through the tank traps, then hugs the outside of the first berm, mere centimeters above the slope. It pops up over the crest—

  —and rifle fire takes it down. It falls to the ground, shattered like a clay pigeon. I still have not seen beyond the berm. Neither speed nor subterfuge has worked. Brute force, perhaps?

  I launch a massive mortar barrage, targeting the hidden terrain behind the berms, and launch my next-to-last drone. It streaks skyward amidst an unholy rain of artillery shells. I catch a fleeting glimpse of foot soldiers scrambling behind the first berm…

  Hyper-v missiles scream into the thick of my incoming shells. One of them kills the drone. I am nearly out of drones. And completely out of patience. Yet I cannot fire blind. Not if I am to avoid damage to the equipment in this compound. And I dare not risk the last drone to such pinpoint-accurate rebel fire. Without infantry to search for enemy emplacements and with no aerial drones, I am acutely vulnerable to ambush. There are no power emissions from any of the Hellbores to lock onto, which is immensely frustrating. But I have no choice.

  I push forward, grinding across the downed fence and gate. I am approaching the first set of tank traps when a sudden power emission blossoms. A Hellbore snout appears dead ahead. It fires and runs, virtually in the same instant. I take a direct, point-blank hit, at virtual muzzle contact. My screens bleed. Raw energy pours across my warhull. The shot breaches my defensive screen for zero point zero-two seconds. I return fire with a massive mortar barrage. Explosions slam into the far side of the berm, even as the enemy’s power signature vanishes like steam.

  Another Hellbore pops into view, firing from defilade in a stunningly fast double pulse before skipping behind a berm. The double blows strike my screens at a seventy-degree angle. The second blast slices through the screen and blows track linkages in a five-meter slash.

  I am injured!

  I rage. I pulse my forward Hellbore. The thirty-centimeter blast slams into the berm, which ceases to exist. I have a nanosecond view of a human female approximately fifteen years old as I fire again. The command cab vanishes, melted into slag and radioactive vapor. The forward two-thirds of her misappropriated Hellbore also melts. I lock onto another sudden power emission. I fire through the berm again, in a one-two punch that turns a second mobile Hellbore and its driver into a cloud of dissociated atoms.

  Multiple power signatures erupt. I track and lock on. Then hesitate, momentarily confused. The emssions skip oddly. I lock on, then lose the lock as the emission vanishes. The engines appear to teleport from one spot to another. The rebel commander may be firing up then killing the engines in a shifting pattern, so that the guns only appear to be moving. He may be playing shuffleboard with the gun systems. It is a clever ploy. I know a momentary thrill of satisfaction at facing an enemy worthy of the designation.

  I attack them all. Mortars arc over the tops of the berms, targeting every power emission on the bluff. A mobile Hellbore rushes into the open, firing in a hit-and-run slash across my prow. I return fire. A plasma fireball rises high into the night sky, incinerating the field gun and its driver. Other drivers dash for the western access road. I roar forward, euphoric. Battle Reflex Mode brings my full consciousness online. My reflexes hum. My synapses sing. I come alive, rushing toward the enemy in fulfillment of my purpose. I track, target, fire, vaporizing berms and buildings with Hellbore salvos to reach the mobile guns behind them. Smoke boils. Fireballs expand like supernovas. I exult in the destruction of a clever and deadly enemy.

  Hypervelocity missiles streak towards my prow and forward turret in a coordinated barrage from multiple locations. Antitank octocellulose bombs bounce and roll into my path, fused and shoved out of trucks by desperate rebel soldiers. My infinite repeaters blaze, swatting down eighty-six percent of the inbound missiles and ninety-three percent of the octocellulose mines. The remaining missiles detonate against my prow and forward turret. I bleed ablative armor scales. The octocellulose mines explode virtually underfoot. More track linkages blow apart on all three tread systems.

  I rage. I target every power emission for a radius of a thousand meters. Mortars, missiles, infinite repeaters, and chain guns bark and snarl. Death flies outward from my warhull. I destroy. Exultation sweeps through my personality gestalt center. I am alive. I have a purpose. I live that noble purpose. I defend this world from the threat of terrorist insurrection. I fulfill my destiny on the field of battle. I destroy all traces of the Enemy.

  I come to a halt in the center of a zone of desolation. Barran Bluff arsenal no longer exists. Everything within a radius of one thousand meters is a blackened, smouldering ruin. Buildings are broken, radioactive shells. Ninety percent of the internal berms have been breached or destroyed in totality. I have destroyed seven mobile ten-centimeter Hellbore field guns, six trucks loaded with heavy munitions, three-hundred hyper-v missiles, and seventeen octocellulose bombs.

  My track linkages are ragged, with gaping holes that will seriously compromise track integrity without Sector-grade repairs. Heat shimmers in a haze from my gun barrels and the smoking wreckage around me. Radioactive wind sweeps fallout toward civilian installations in Gersham and Haggertown.

  Belatedly, I recall Sar Gremian’s advisement on the fiscal burden of replacing equipment destroyed in this engagement. My personality gestalt circuitry sputters, attempting to reconcile the programmed-in elation of a battlefield victory of this magnitude — over a surprisingly sophisticated insurrection team — with the knowledge that I have destroyed a concentration of expensive equipment and war-grade materiel, against explicit instructions. Surely it is better to destroy high-tech weaponry than it is to allow that weaponry to fall into enemy hands?

  I contact the president.

  “Unit SOL-0045, requesting permission to file VSR.”

  Video shows me Avelaine La Roux, who has taken on the look of a stunned rabbit. “What?” she asks, vacuously.

  “Request permission to file VSR.”

  Sar Gremian’s voice, originating from a point out of camera range, says, “Say yes, dammit. Just say yes.”

  “Yes. Permission granted. Whatever.”

  “I have destroyed seven 10cm Hellbore field guns, six military trucks, and an estimated ninety-eight point three percent of the infrastructure at Barran Bluff Depot—”

  “What?”

  Sar Gremian steps into the picture, literally. His face is livid. “You did what?”

  “Rebel forces used Hellbores to destroy a robot-tank, an airship with its entire crew, and seventy-three federal troopers. They then used Hellbores, hypervelocity missiles, and octocellulose bombs in antitank mines to inflict serious damage to me. There was no choice but to destroy this equipment and those operating it. This is the heaviest damage I have sustained in combat since the Deng invasion sixteen years ago.”

  “Jeezus H — do you realize you just blew up half a billion credits’ worth of infrastructure?” He runs a distracted hand across his skin-covered head, as though intending to pull long-vanished hair up by the roots. “Jeezus, half a billion credits… At least you contained the bastards.”

  “The insurrection has not been contained.”

  Sar Gremian’s narrow face blanches white, transforming the deep facial scarring into a sea of blotches against a pale background. His question emerges as a whisper.

  “What do you mean, ‘not co
ntained’?”

  “I was ordered not to fire until reaching visual range. In the time it took me to reach the depot, federal troops completely failed to halt the departure of heavily laden trucks carrying an estimated seventy percent of the depot’s arsenal. Nearly two hundred enemy soldiers loaded and carried away one hundred twelve hypervelocity missiles, sixteen cases of octocellulose mines totaling one thousand six hundred explosive munitions casings, two thousand rifle-launched antitank rockets, eight hundred heavy rifles, and seventeen thousand rounds of ammunition.”

  I can hear the president in the background, making sounds I have come to associate with gibbering terror.

  “And where,” Sar Gremian asks in a grating tone, “are they now?”

  “The trucks have been driven into the canyons of the Southern Damisi. It may be possible to trail them based on power emissions and chemical residues, but the on-board map in my geological database confirms that I cannot easily pursue. The canyons are too narrow. My warhull will not fit. Not without serious rearrangement of the rockfaces, which will result in multiple tons of debris, which will block passageways too narrow already. The rebels could not have chosen a better location from which to stage raids.

  “Of more serious concern, the inventory of artillery at Barran Bluff Depot lists ten mobile Hellbore field guns, with 10cm bores. I have destroyed seven. There is no evidence of the remaining three in the rubble. I infer that rebel leaders were successful in stealing three mobile weapons platforms capable of inflicting mobility kills on a Bolo. The octocellulose antitank mines also stolen are capable of mobility kills on a Bolo, as well, particularly if used with intelligent placement and in batches detonated in tandem. Their forces suffered heavy casualties, but inflicted serious casualties, as well, and were able to retreat successfully with the majority of what they meant to obtain. The damage inflicted on government forces and equipment, including myself, is serious. I have lost armor and sustained substantial tread damage which will require repairs for me to be field-worthy.”