Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Tactics of Delay, Pt. 35. Louis Shalako.

 

 Louis Shalako




This particular valley was wider than most.
Down out of the hills, the ground was flatter. This section, being nice and easy to reach from the road, this close to town, had been logged over early in the initial colonization period. This was regrowth, a different kind of forest with smaller trees. The boles, less than a foot across at the base, were tall enough, but also a lot closer together. When the ground got low enough, the real muck began. There were cameras watching, and sure enough, the enemy held up, the people up front at least, realizing what they were getting into.
“Okay. Open up with the mortars.”
The tubes, scattered all over in ones and twos, barked and then the rounds were sailing in with their characteristic whine. Enemy counter-battery fire was still inaccurate…
There was a small cavalcade of Unfriendly vehicles, light armour and scout machines, going up the road. The futility of the thing stung her in some way—but what in the hell else were the poor bastards supposed to do? What the fuck else am I supposed to do? For Christ sakes. There was only one road, only one bridge, only one creek. Only a thousand more such rivers, hills and valleys in between here and there.
“Drone Three, inbound. We are coming in hot and we have targets on the board.”
“Roger that, Drone Three.” The young girl was intent on her screen as Dona came up behind her, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Colonel?”
“Put me on.”
The girl nodded and hit a button for the mic.
“Hi, Trooper.”
“Hey, Colonel.”
“Are we having fun yet?”
“Oh, you betcha.” The grin was there in his tone, although Trooper Noya’s face wasn’t onscreen, that bit of data being not particularly important to the action.
He might be able to see her, though. Then again, he might not—
The bombs, rockets and missiles hanging on Drone Three were of far more importance.
At such short range, he could carry a maximum load and still have time to hang around for a while.
“Activate Mongoose Two.” The person in charge fired three rockets and then put it on standby while awaiting results.
That little column of enemy vehicles was just coming up to the paint marks put there on the road for the very purpose.
The cameras didn’t lie. The flight time had been carefully calculated.
It must have been close. The view from that camera or that set of cameras was shaken, then obscured by dust and smoke and yes, now the tell-tale orangey-black flames and smoke.
“Some kind of hit or hits there, Colonel.”
“Very well. Let the smoke clear. We’re not in a hurry. The enemy is. Watch the board, there are any number of other possibilities—” That was the problem, wasn’t it.
No one could watch everything at once and she had to let them go—she had to trust the people under her command to do the jobs assigned to them, to do them well, and not fuck it up right when they needed something the most.
Her voice rose.
“Don’t be afraid to look at the big board, ladies and gentlemen, but pay attention to your own stations.”
“What about the tanks, Colonel?”
“Yeah. Try a shot at the tanks. Pick one, and use one rocket. Take your time and do the math. Don’t just blanket the area. We only have so many of those things to go around. The odds are, they’ll either pull them back, or start them moving.”
Those tanks were sitting up there for a reason.
“What about the bridge?” Arthur Li, nineteen years old, hailing from Arcturus Five, was in touch with the artillery.
“Give it a few minutes. Let a few more of them get across.” For the moment, they were shelling the woods and the road further back.
***

With a momentary lull in the action as the Unfriendlies consolidated their hard-won gains, a couple of empty hilltops and a bridge, (there were a few boobies up there, but not too many), she’d taken a quiet moment in her office, just down the promenade from the Command Centre. All one could really say was that her key had fit the lock. Which was oddly reassuring. She’d barely been in there since day one at Ryanville, (was that yesterday, or was it the day before?) and it was an interesting feeling. This one must have belonged to someone pretty high up in the company. The mall manager maybe. The silence was impressive.
As expected, there came a knock at the door. Punctual, a good trait.
“Mr. Higgins.”
“Colonel Graham. What an honour to meet you.” The words were clipped, the pronunciation precise.
She shut the door.
“Please. Have a seat. It’s been a long day—” She took the big one behind the desk. “You were successful.”
“Ah, yes, Colonel. Our boy is safe in the arms of the medical officer.”
“What sort of shape was he in?”
“Cold, wet, tired, and hungry. And, I would say, scared shitless for about the last three days. The emotional release of his rescue was considerable.” He’d cried much of the way home, according to Mister Higgins.
Dona held up a buff envelope, unsealed, bulging with cash, all of it in small bills as no one around there would, or possibly even could, cash a hundred.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Trust me. This kid is worth his weight in gold.” Truth was, they’d get his parole and then sell him back at a markup, and, depending on who he was, maybe even at a very good price. “Anyways, you saved his life, uh, maybe, and your conscience is clear.”
The Denebi hadn’t eaten him, tortured him or roasted him to death over a slow fire. That was always something. It sounded like they had been fascinated by him, as much as anything else.
They’d never seen an Unfriendly before.
He tipped his head, speaking carefully, listening carefully, and savouring the cognac so thoughtfully provided by an ever-helpful Lieutenant Wheeler.
Her own people had been reporting that the average storekeeper made change multiple times a day in this insulated little economy, and rarely did they find it necessary to give out a hundred-credit bill in exchange. They absolutely hated breaking them. This required a trip to the bank, the good, old-fashioned kind with people and wickets and proper ID required.
Money wasn’t so much tight as scarce as hen’s teeth.
This was especially true of the real homesteaders, scattered all over Hell’s half-acre.
As the saying went.
Identification was one thing a lot of people really didn’t have on Deneb. Social problems were few and the need for control small—all of those wide-open spaces, all of that work to be done, and all of that money, or at least a living, to be made. People were at a premium. If you were here, you were a citizen. A birth certificate cost thirty-five Denebian dollars, and that held its own kind of logic.
It was good to talk to someone who wasn’t a soldier once in a while—
Another personal revelation.
This economy was very much a cash and carry economy—personal credit of the handshake and a firm nod kind, and with regular people figuring out their accounts on the back of an envelope.
He was eyeing something on the desk.
“Oh. Sorry.” Dona lifted the lacquered lid, the box beautifully-made, and pulled out a cigar for the man.
“Thank you. Wonderful—” He held it up horizontally between the upper lip and the bottom of the nose, whiskers rasping slightly with the contact. “Yes—very nice.”
His eyes met hers. He smiled, revealing even, white teeth.
“Haven’t seen one of them in years.”
Reaching in, she gave him a handful. All of this would be going on the Confederation’s tab anyways. No real concern of hers.
Selecting one for herself, she snipped the end off and handed over the cutter to Mister Higgins. A pipe smoker going by the initial impression, (everyone had a personal smell, and he’d been out in the bush for a day or two), he fished in a pocket for a box of wooden matches.
Acrid smoke arose.
 “I will be speaking to him myself, of course, but I was wondering if there was anything in particular that he might have told you? I would also like to know more about the natives. Where did they grab him? And what were their intentions, bearing in mind they have attacked the Unfriendlies, at least the ones that we know of. Their war party, possibly parties, we think they’re still in the vicinity.” With that, she puffed a bit of blue smoke.
“Oh, yes. Yes, they are.” He smiled, eyes alight with inner thoughts. “Ha. He wandered off, looking to relieve himself in the woods. They grabbed him at a vulnerable moment. It was dark, it was night-time. He barely made a squawk or so they said—too terrified, I suppose.”
A smiled flashed across his features.
“…can’t say as I blame him.” There was a short pause— “Still had a bit of poop in his pants, when I got to him.”
“Ha.” Deadpan delivery, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
Mister Higgins smiled.
This was more than enough to get started on, and the gentleman’s mouth opened to speak.
“You’ll like this. Silikoth was in town. I was lucky enough to see him going down the street. Having contacted one of the few Denebi that I know personally, word quickly reached the elders. The runners can easily do eighty or a hundred kilometres a day, you know, taking it in shifts, in a system not unlike the old Roman posts. The village, more of an encampment really, is only about fifty kilometres by road from Roussef. It’s only a few kilometres off the road. They probably knew within forty or forty-five minutes. They didn’t answer the radio, probably because of the switch from transmit to receive. They don’t even know what a switch is. Ah. I’ve been studying them ever since I came here. I’d been to the village many times before. They were happy to speak to me, and readily gave him up for the small crate of coins provided. They don’t usually spend them. They do everything but spend them. They spend bills, which they consider a great joke on us because they are so, ah, essentially useless to the culture. They like gold because it’s easy to work and it doesn’t corrode. Other than that, they don’t really understand its monetary value. The higher-status girls have some very pretty necklaces made of coins, part of their dowry, and the men make arrowheads and other tools out of our more mundane coinage. Because of the metal, you understand. Some of the work is extraordinary. I support myself in part here by curating and in some ways even mentoring young native artists. We sell the artifacts off-world and return over seventy-five percent of the revenue to the community. It’s quite a fitting end to a long and distinguished career as a soldier myself. It’s quite good to give something back. I feel very good about it. Anyhow. Back to our story—what do you want to know.”
“Background is good.”
“Hmn. I was only a lad when I first came here. I was with the predecessor to the Confederation, ah, the Dominium.” Higgins had been a sallow-cheeked lad, to hear him tell it.
He’d put on a little weight since then. He was wearing curious green khakis, with a sort of cummerbund-like beltline, with no obvious fastenings or means of support around thick hips and visible but manageable tummy. He had a pension, lived alone, and had a couple of hands to run the eland ranch for him. It was more of a hobby, really.
He’d been enjoying a very quiet life.
He sighed, taking another puff.
“Wonderful. Anyways, back to your questions.”
It would appear that the gentleman was just warming up. Starved for conversation, maybe.
Just another sad old man, the clock ticking down on the story of his life.
Not too many people around there to listen, sometimes.


***

Her private office had its uses.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” They were having a senior staff meeting, away from the eyes and the ears of the Command Centre.
There were, however, one or two promising juniors present.
Dona wondered what Noya might have thought of all of this or what he might have contributed, but he was too valuable on Drone Three. The more so as he’d just taken out one of the Joshuas with an anti-tank missile. It was another one of his attacks out of the sun, nose down by eleven degrees and the ‘do-not-exceed’ speed-limit of the aircraft just an ironic note inscribed on a virtual metal tag on the dashboard.
“Our big question. Does the enemy have a satellite up there or do they not? It sure doesn’t seem like it, and yet they do get the odd hit. When they located the Denebi war party. It is only an assumption that it was their drone that spotted them. When they drive straight into an ambush—what would they do differently, if they knew all about it in advance? Drive straight into it—seriously? Yet it’s awfully difficult to spot anything in this terrain, or to do anything different, even with a satellite, one perhaps not quite as good as ours. There is, after all, only the one road. Maybe it’s the ground end that’s the problem. The individual trooper has nowhere near the tech that our people do. Maybe they do know all about it—they did stop, reverse and pull back behind a hill crest in that first Walzbruch ambush.”
There. It was out there—and she found herself exhaling heavily, almost in a kind of relief. But this was the sort of thing that really preyed on the mind. She was also very tired.
“Yeah, it’s a tough question.” Harvey. “Even if they do have a satellite, it simply might not be capable of picking up the really small targets in the really fine detail. In the infrared, how would we tell the difference between a Puma, for example, and any one of a hundred different makes and models of civilian vehicle. We know it’s a Puma because we put it there, we have the IFF to prove it. There’s not much to choose between them, datawise, sometimes.”
Paul was shaking his head.
“But if they have one up there, and if it’s any good, why not use it?”
Dona was nodding.
“That’s exactly my point. Even if they know everything there is to know, they still have that imperative of time. There’s no question of waiting us out. Not with winter coming and the strategic situation elsewhere. There’s no real chance of a long siege. We simply don’t have the numbers. A battle of attrition is precisely what we are trying to avoid. They don’t need sophisticated strategy. All they have to do is to keep coming on and inevitably, they will swamp us. Another thing. We could take out their ships, all of them, with a few well-placed rounds from Mongoose One.”
“Right.” Vicky Chan followed up. “But—that means upping the ante, which we’re not ready to do quite yet. It simply isn’t necessary, right now, and therefore it isn’t the proper time.”
The enemy, counting missiles fired, would spend a lot of time wondering where and when the next ones would arrive. Or even if there were any more missiles at all. It was a poker game, one played with human lives. The key to the game was to keep them guessing. If one must lose, try not to lose by too much—
A young woman named Rafferty held up a hand.
“Are you saying that McMurdo isn’t quite ready to up the ante?”
“Not before he has to. Right, ah, Colonel?”
“Yes. If he has it, he will use it. But just to drive up a highway with a markedly superior force. The point is, he can take a few casualties for the sole purpose of keeping us in the dark. He’s not afraid to spend money, to shed blood, and to lose people. Not if it achieves his purpose. He’s told us more than once that he has ten times our number. We’ve seen nothing to contradict that. And yes, we do look for such verification. Why in the hell would he ever tell us the truth? We’re not that dumb, and neither is he. My point is, I don’t want us to become too complacent regarding that satellite. Our people are using cover as best they can, as they were trained to do. Our vehicles, with their radar-absorbent materials and stealthy design, all of that only goes so far. This is no time to get sloppy. Don’t let them do it, okay? In today’s morning bulletin, I will put something in there about the satellite and, ah, the old ‘eyes in the sky’ sort of thing. Hopefully, that will be sufficient.”
Harvey and Rafferty nodded, looking at each other. Confederation troops certainly had the training. They were getting plenty of experience out there as well. The vehicles were good, but they couldn’t be that good.
“So, we must still assume that they’re up there.” Harvey looked thoughtful. “In which case, how big is it, and where, roughly should that be, if it was more or less similar in size, power and capability as our own?” It would have to be a limited volume of space to begin with.
“That’s a very good question, Harvey. You have some thoughts on the subject. Would you like a crack at it? I mean, if it’s up there?” Even if they could just confirm it.
That would be extremely helpful.
He grinned from ear to ear.
“Sure.” His eyes strayed to the girl. “Can I have some, ah, help with that? And I’ll need a bit of bandwidth on our bird….some box time.” He was referring to the Mark Seventeen and the ground hardware, crunching a lot of big numbers real fast.
Dona looked at Lieutenant Wheeler.
“I think that can be arranged. It’s a relatively small battle here, and we have all kinds of reserve system capacity.” A couple of work-stations and a chair and a table or two would be enough.
“Very well. Meeting adjourned. Those on duty, off you go. The rest of you, get some rest. We’re going to need it in the next day or two.”

(End of part thirty-five.)

Previous Episodes.


Images.

Image One. Confederation Public Communications Office.
Image Two. CPCO.
Image Three. Submitted Photo.
Image Four. Mk. 17 satellite pic.
Image Five. CPCO.
Image Seven. The cover of the book, soon to be released.

Louis Shalako has many fine books and stories available from Smashwords. Please take a minute and have a look.

His latest novel, Tactics of Delay, is complete. As the reader can see, it’s now formatted differently from regular web format. He’s read the damned thing from end-to-end five times so far and will probably do it again while completing the serialization. He sure hopes the readers enjoy it, but that book will be available in ebook, 4 x 7” and 5 x 8” paperback well in time for Christmas.


Thank you for reading.







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