Tactics of Delay, Pt. 34. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

The suspense was killing. Having dug in on the hilltops and patrolled for several kilometres in front of those positions, with a couple of light patrol actions and some small casualties on both sides, the Unfriendlies were sitting tight. Dona had taken her first casualties. It was a night-time skirmish, about twenty-five of the enemy sneaking up through the hills to one of her positions.

Eight wounded, only one really seriously. The enemy had lost three dead for sure. They had the bodies to prove it. The trooper in question, a young woman named Dani, was expected to fully recover, given time and proper care. She’d taken a round right through the femur and also the femoral artery. Prompt first aid had prevented her from bleeding out. With bone and slug-splinters all over the place, a complicated wound to treat.

Another trooper, a big guy called Hamilton, had carried her out on his back. He’d be getting a medal and bit of a bonus for that one. She wasn’t exactly small, either, just a statistically-average woman of twenty-two. One thousand, seven hundred metres going by the map, uphill and down. All in all, a pretty good guy to have around—one or two previous minor disciplinary actions could be forgiven, perhaps forever, under such circumstances. That was one guy she would like to speak to—to really say certain things, good things, right to his face. Look the man in the eye and just say it. Putting the name and her recommendation in the report was sometimes the best one could do. Higher command would do the right thing, she was sure of that.

Surely they knew the value of a hero.

The enemy had done some good work, to evade detection and to surprise her people, who must have also fucked up on some level. But the enemy had their space-blankets, which could be used as ponchos. The plastic was highly reflective of heat, and they must have used some pretty good cover. Sticking to the tighter slots and gorges going up the hill, they could be very quiet if they were prepared to take their time.

There was the next column forming up in Deneb City, and then there was the reinforced forward column, somewhat depleted by casualties and the need to man their own defenses. The artillery took so many people and then there would be the engineers, digging away like beavers or whatever.

The town of Roussef lay just fifteen kilometres from the junction, and could easily be dominated by the artillery. Cheap to buy and even cheaper to feed, this was now emplaced on Hill 114-A overlooking Highway 17.

While the enemy forces were well within range of the Confederation artillery, so far they’d only been subjected to minor harassing fire. Return fire had been vigorous but inaccurate. Surely they must have a satellite up there. Such stonks were timed to the point when the enemy drones were furthest away. Mortars, up close and forwards, fired perhaps three rounds before being moved, (after or during, depending on how accurate the enemy return fire was). The artillery, further back, fired half a dozen at most, all in quick succession and one gun at a time.

With good drone coverage, it seemed the enemy was operating their drones from farther forwards. They had been doing daily passes over Roussef and Ryanville, morning, noon and night. There really wasn’t much there to see, with every Confederation trooper, weapon and vehicle under good cover, and perhaps that was confusing enough in itself. All of those other trenches, and some major excavations in the case of tank-traps, would be clearly visible. They’d had time to build a few decoys, bogus tanks and other armoured vehicles. These were scattered about the southeastern fringes, where the main road came in, and the town centre of Ryanville.

As soon as the Unfriendlies took Roussef, they’d know all about it. They wouldn’t be so easily fooled next time. Ryanville was presently out of range of the enemy missile batteries in Deneb City, which might well be moved forwards at almost any minute.

Surely McMurdo wasn’t expecting her to attack the city in any significant force. If the Confederation was going to reinforce, surely they wouldn’t land at Deneb City.

One never knew, of course.

“Colonel.”

“Yes?”

“The column in Deneb City appears ready to move. Shall we activate Mongoose One?”

“Yes, but I want you to wait until they get to Gossua, or thereabouts.” It would be wise to see if they had drone or helicopter cover, as they must be expecting any number of ambushes or simple sniping, military and civilian, along the way.

The column was too big to be an attempt to draw fire.

With more tanks, armoured and supporting vehicles than they’d yet seen, it was possible this column would be in position at Hill 114-A or thereabouts in twelve hours, twenty-four at most.

That was if they were taking their time. Hopefully things weren’t quite that bleak, but all the Confederation stay-behind parties could do was to pick a few of them off and slow them down a little. Try and stay out of their way—make them build another bridge. There were still plenty of them left. The ones built by Unfriendly engineers weren’t even being guarded. McMurdo was smart enough to see how pointless that would be. Even now, there was nothing as small a patrol on the road. Now that they knew the civvies were getting involved, and how could they not know?

If the teams could be selective about it and hit the really juicy targets, tanks, helos and drones, or engineering equipment; that would be the best that could be hoped for.

One way or another, another big push was imminent.

With the weather still good but a system on the board to the northwest promising a change for the worse, it couldn’t happen soon enough.

More bait, always more bait in this type of operation.

That’s what it said in the book, and after all, she was the one that had written it.

***

“Colonel! Call from General McMurdo.”

“Put him on. Audio only.”

“Er, roger that, Colonel.”

“Ah, Colonel Graham. So nice to speak to you again—is there something wrong with the picture?” This sounded like an aside to someone on his end.

She could see him clearly enough, cheeks shining from a recent shave. As usual, the uniform was immaculate. Her own was getting a little crusty in the armpits, and chafing somewhat on the tailbone as the plastic netting of the crotch-liner tended to be abrasive.

“I’m so sorry, General. It’s just that you’ve caught me off duty and I am, ah, rather in a state of undress.”

There were choking noises as some of her people caught on. Harvey had coffee or something coming out of his nose and he was busily trying to wipe it up from the hard-board in front of him.

Someone killed the microphone.

“Honestly, Colonel. You might have warned us.”

“Sorry. Pure impulse—put me back up. And keep quiet, please.”

“Hello? Hello?” McMurdo’s tone was almost comical, and her own people were desperately trying not to split their sides open.

“Ah, sorry, General. Honestly. It’s just that I really wasn’t expecting, er, a proper gentlemen to call at this late hour.” Hopefully the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “So, what can we do you for?”

“Ah. Business as usual. I see. It’s just that there is no retreat, no escape, and I am still in a position to offer you the most favourable terms.”

“Oh, you’re not quite ready to give up yet, General.”

There were nods and grins from the command centre staff.

The General gave a self-deprecating little laugh.

“God. What I wouldn’t give to have you among my wives. You’re quite splendid, really.”

“Well, that’s very kind, General McMurdo. I’m not completely naked, as I am sure you can imagine.”

“Er.”

Slightly breathily, she went on to describe the scene.

If only she had the right kind of music.

“I’m just sitting here in my undies, General, not that there’s anything really special about that. A bit of cellulite, a bit of a belly these days. A bit thick in the thighs. Rubenesque, more than anything. I’ve got my feet up in some tacky old bedroom slippers. Just watching a little television and having a glass of wine. Old-lady underwear, as you can well imagine at my age—built for comfort, rather than speed, as the saying goes.”

Harvey, some of the others were grinning from ear-to-ear.

Lieutenant-Colonel Dona Graham was giving him the gears, and as long as the idiot was still on the line, why not? She sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him anything he didn’t already know about the tactical situation. Which he really ought to have figured, on some level.

“Er. Ah—Colonel Graham. If we could be serious for a moment.”

“So. How do you like the weather, lately?”

He laughed—he laughed.

And he was right about one thing.

“Colonel Graham. I am of course aware of the British intervention at Norway, however, it was all for naught in the end. Sea-power without air—or space power, is doomed.”

Those innocent blue eyes stared into the screen. Was that a hint of pink around the cheekbones?

“And with that, I will let you go.”

He must have been dying for a chance to hang up on her—

“General McMurdo.”

“Yes—”

“It was a very fine idea, but it just didn’t work.” A line she’d stolen from an old documentary.

Norway.

Obviously.

All it proved was that someone over there really had been reading her book. She didn’t quite know whether to be pleased, but this was just one more attempt at intimidation. She motioned to the trooper and the signal was cut.

Sooner or later, McMurdo must get it.

Get over it, Bud.

***

A total of three major enemy columns had congregated on or about Hill 114-A. They’d taken some losses. They were now dropping patrols at some recent ambush points, mostly up and down Highway 17, complete with their own vehicles. These patrols weren’t very big, ten to twelve people at most.

The Unfriendlies weren’t risking much, neither were they gaining much. The psychological imperatives being what they were. These were troops of a higher calibre than the run-of-the-mill, conscript infantry. They must be—they had to be.

These patrols were scouring the woods and the hills more thoroughly, still not finding much, although one Puma had been discovered. Whether it was luck or what, no one could say. Having observed the action through the machine’s own cameras, the stay-behind party had promptly hit their remote destruct button, taking out the vehicle and an estimated three Unfriendlies. Two more troop-kills, one more seriously wounded, according to the system.

One little factor deleted from the boards. The team was evading west and ultimately south, through thicket, swamp and stream. The Unfriendlies were tracking them, or at least trying to—with no choice but to leave their own vehicles and someone to guard them at the roadside or at the end of whatever track they had followed.

The enemy was only prepared to go so far. Abandoning the vehicles, or splitting their numbers and roaming off into the wilderness wasn’t much of an option. Not in the face of professional troops. The enemy was at least giving the appearance of pursuit. Dona doubted they’d last an hour, an hour and a half up in there…

Her people had every chance of getting away.

“What in the hell are we watching?” She was tired, they all were, but this was surreal.

Her headache was gone, and that was good.

“The band. I have it on some pretty good authority, uh, Colonel, that the band are beautiful people—”

A ripple of laughter went through the command centre.

It was true—

The Unfriendlies had a marching band, tall black bearskin shakos on their heads and plaid kilts swirling in the breeze. They were forming up on the far side of yonder hill. They had billowing white sleeves, tight black waistcoats, stockings and garters and buckles on their shoes.

The skirling of the pipes commenced.

***

It was enough to make one’s hair stand up in sympathy.

No one would send a band without an attack being imminent—and it was.

“You know what’s interesting, ColoneL?”

“No, what’s interesting, Paul?”

“Those enemy ships are still just sitting there.” At the bottom of a pretty big gravity-well.

“Ah.” She nodded, sitting in the hot-seat as Harvey was off on other duties. “But that’s obvious. They still expect to win. They still, fully expect to be transporting a few hundred prisoners and most of their forces, even the bulk of their equipment, off-planet. Very, very soon now—”

The ships themselves were a most valuable resource, and they were just sitting there, worth their collective weight in kryptonium almost by the day. Those ships would be badly needed elsewhere.

Even without Confederation troops and their Barkers and other weapons in the vicinity, they were very vulnerable. A civilian could take out a ship, assuming they had the nerve and any kind of a time-bomb. All it took was access, and the Unfriendlies needed repairs and maintenance.

Someone would have access—

Someone always did.

All it took was nerve.

Not taking them out was also in the plan, not until later in one of several end-games that had been considered. Gaming things out was an essential part of planning, and there were foreseeable circumstances where those ships could still come into play. They were still bargaining chips of a sort—reverse bargaining chips at this point.

Taking them out would make the Unfriendlies just a little too desperate.

The time for that would be later—

If the enemy began preparing for take-off, for whatever reason, that would be a different story.

They were looking at a couple of battalions at least, as the Unfriendlies rose from their hilltop entrenchments and began filtering down the near side, through the trees, with small groups peeling off left and right, and with other groups, parallel to the road, filing along in squads and platoons.

Further ahead, along the road mostly, smoke rounds began dropping in as they gave themselves some cover, and the Confederation some warning. Always a trade-off.

Everything in war is a trade-off.

There were a total of four Joshuas, the survivor from the previous engagement having been attached to the new bunch. There was a squadron of three still in reserve, up on their transporters. 

The tanks were hunkered down in the ditches, on the brow of the hill, a pair of tanks on each side of the notch where the road went through. So far, they hadn’t moved or fired a shot. The band was still on the far side, marching in place and playing their martial music. Ludicrous, on so many levels.

The top of the next ridge lit up with exploding shells.

Confederation troops and weapons were holding fire. The enemy was nowhere near close enough or exposed enough yet, and a bare three hundred metres out onto the level, there was another meandering creek, a narrow, gleaming ribbon of open water winding up the middle of a morass a hundred metres wide.

Surely they weren’t planning on swimming that, not with swamp on either side of it, and therefore the bridge had been conveniently left in place. It had been scouted by the enemy, and, since there were no charges to find, they had decided it was safe.

And it was—although carefully registered by global positioning with every weapon and by every trooper within firing range. They watched dim silhouettes moving through thick smoke. This camera and this point had been carefully noted. There were paint marks on the road to prove it.

The cameras were nice and close, the blaze-orange paint was phosphorescent and slightly radioactive, and the smoke was only a minor impediment.

“Okay. Battery. A, B, C and D. Open up with the howitzers…” Paul was speaking quietly into his microphone, as Harvey came in with a plastic tray of fresh coffees for all.

Sticking to solid ground, the first enemy troopers had made it to the road where they went to ground again and the numbers built.

They were ready for the rush. Following their orders and their sergeants and corporals and lieutenants, they were soon getting up again…

It was all very heroic, with individual troopers taking their chances. They were bursting out of the brush and sprinting towards the bridge amidst all of those erupting explosions and shell-splinters. Several sprawled headlong, sliding and then stopping…dead.

She waved Harvey over. She was too excited to just sit there and watch.

“Here. I’ll take that.”

“Uh—ah.”

“It’s okay, Harvey. Take a load off.”

Settling in reluctantly, he tore his eyes from the sight of the colonel going about the room, distributing a double-double here, a black with sugar there, or a green tea, or a snack-sized bottle of orange juice, or whatever the person had ordered.

The colonel and that magnificent ass of hers—but enough.

That was what the blacksuit was invented for, at least in his opinion.

He’d gotten back just in the nick of time. He had a pocket full of change for various people, but they could worry about all of that later.

The Unfriendlies were just coming down off of their hills and heading for the junction, and after that lay Roussef.

Shit.

They had no idea of what they were getting into.

They were in for one hell of a ride—one hell of a ride.

A big bowl of popcorn might go real good right about now—that and some beer, maybe.

His black with one sugar would have to do. That and a sticky-bun.

Someone detonated the first of the big slurry-mines and the cameras shook in sympathy.

Yum, yum.

(End of part thirty-four.)

Previous Episodes.

Part One.

Part Two.

Part Three.

Part Four.

Part Five.

Part Six.

Part Seven.

Part Eight.

Part Nine.

Part Ten.

Part Eleven.

Part Twelve.

Part Thirteen.

Part Fourteen.

Part Fifteen.

Part Sixteen.

Part Seventeen.

Part Eighteen.

Part Nineteen.

Part Twenty.

Part Twenty-One.

Part Twenty-Two.

Part Twenty-Three.

Part Twenty-Four.

Part Twenty-Five

Part Twenty-Six.

Part Twenty-Seven.

Part Twenty-Eight

Part Twenty-Nine

Part Thirty.

Part Thirty-One.

Part Thirty-Two.

Part Thirty-Three.

Images.

Image One. Collection of Louis Shalako.

Image Two. Confederation Public Communications Office.

Image Three. CPCO.

Image Four. CPCO.

Image Five. CPCO.

Image Six. Collection of Louis Shalako.

Image Seven. Amadalvarez.

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