Louis Shalako
An automated ambush is basically one big booby trap. A
modern ambush was a smart ambush.
The culvert under the road, at the bottom of a very
steep hill, had been filled with explosives, quickly improvised with the help
of local civilian engineers. Used in open-pit mining in preference to more
expensive, imported explosives, it was a simple mixture made from diesel fuel
and fertilizer, rich in nitrates and then trucked to their destination in
plastic drums of different sizes. Normally used as a slurry, poured into holes
drilled vertically into solid rock, this ensured that a package would fit its
horizontal hole, one real big one or two or three smaller ones as the situation
called for. The blasting caps or det-cord to set it off was the big thing, but
they had plenty of that on hand…all those open-pit mines being rather helpful
in the present situation.
At its simplest, a good car battery and some wire
would set it off.
It was a simple situation. The shareholders wouldn’t
like to lose their entire investment and the companies were cooperating. They
were also keeping track of every little thing. Their bills would no doubt be
rendered—ninety days, same as cash, as the saying went. They probably
understood that the Confederation and the Denebians themselves would pay up a
little more gladly than the Unfriendlies, having faced some opposition, would
ever be likely to do. As good corporate citizens themselves, most of the firms
had already committed to paying or absorbing a share of their own losses…there
had some very good public relations there, on both sides of the equation, and
her people had worked it out on the spot with little direction from her. All of
their employees were Denebians, at least at the lower levels of management and
virtually all of the production workers. There were even a few natives on the
payroll or so it said in the file—
There were remote machine-gun posts on one side of the
hill, their human monitors under cover on the other. All they had to do was to
sit and watch their scopes. The weapons, mounted on electric turntable mounts,
were set to rake the road and the opposite hillside and ditches as soon as the
big bomb went off. Low-set and heavy, staked down to the dirt, they were stable
enough on their shock-absorbers, gimbals and gyro set-up.
There were glue-mines, anti-personnel mines, anti-tank
mines at points where the far hillside was open, which would be fairly inviting
to people under fire and looking for quick cover.
The Confederation firing positions were also covered
by cameras. The positions were mined and booby-trapped. There were other
weapons, including a couple of small automatic mortars firing smoke bombs. Any
troops attempting to scale the hill to get at them would face quite the
gauntlet of active and passive weapons.
Dona and anyone who had a minute watched in
fascination as the enemy column, after a few kilometres of not finding
resistance, came rolling over the top of the far hill in pretty good order.
They were well spaced, but it was a big hill and with
people throttling back and touching the brakes instinctively, they were already
bunching up. It wasn’t so much lack of discipline as lack of experience. Some
of them would have literally ten or twelve hours of training time in a vehicle,
rather than the hundreds of hours of training of the typical Confederation
soldier.
By now, their dedicated crews would be getting tired, and there was no
one qualified to relieve them.
This time some care had been taken in positioning a
couple of disposable cameras right at the bottom of the valley.
Trooper Marley with Force H was charged with
monitoring the view and firing the mine. He waited until a solitary scout
machine, a hundred metres out in front, had safely passed over, and then the
first big armoured car.
The second armoured car was fifty metres back and
coming on strong.
It was like the valley floor exploded right underneath
the vehicle, another of the Samsons.
The sound was turned down, but it must have been
thunderous. People watched with open mouths as the armoured car spun, end over
end, spilling wheels and tires. The low turret came off and what looked like
dark grey rag dolls were flung in all directions. Perhaps it was nothing more
than the imagination.
The huge pall of smoke hung there, and from somewhere
off in the background, came the stutter of light machine guns and the pop of
the first mortars going off. Self-loading, they each had a clip of three
rounds, programmed to fire at short and erratic intervals. This was to give the
impression there were live troops up there on the hilltop, trying to hit as
many targets as possible before beating yet another hasty retreat.
The Unfriendlies halted all along the line. Those in a
position to do so backed up, reversing on the far hill or scurried to make
three-point turns on the narrow road. They were quickly lost to sight due to
tall trees and the twisting road. They had their own smoke-screen going now. Sure
enough, another big bang up in there under the trees.
Someone was having a bad day. Black smoke began to
rise. Another vehicle destroyed, although some would often be salvageable by a
good repair unit.
The anonymous grey uniforms abandoned the big six-by
trucks, running up the slopes, left and right. They were going into the trees
or simply diving into the ditch, which, at this time of year, would be cold,
wet, muddy and uncomfortable at best. There would be the native leeches, active
down to three or four degrees Celsius in there, and other pests. If they had
looked at the map, they would have seen no good side-roads for quite some
distance. It was all hills, rock, swamp and trees.
She had another live ambush, a small one involving two
snipers and another big mine, on the very next hill. That was barely a half a
kilometre away. After that, the road was mined intermittently. Culverts had
been taken out for the next five kilometres and then another live ambush…her
people were knocking tall trees down all over the place, felling them across
the road. She was desperately trying to be unpredictable.
The next three culverts would be blown, small,
meandering streams through the valleys, with plenty of black spruce and water,
water, water…boggy meadows, small ponds and long, meandering strips of muskeg
all over the place.
There were limits to how close Dona could let the
Unfriendlies get, with Confederation troops fighting a rearguard action all the
way up from Walzbruch. She still had the bulk of her force in Roussef, and she
could only hold them there for so long before heading to Ryanville.
If the enemy had divided their forces, so had she. She
had some concerns about bringing them all back together again, but this was the
plan. At this stage of the game, she had no option except to proceed. In some
ways, McMurdo was being smart by not committing any more force than he had to.
Dona tore her eyes from that scene, quickly punching
up a good view from the first Highway 3 ambush.
There was more to the reverse-slope ambush of
course—there were two sides to every hill, and she would have to stop them for
some considerable time in order to get her people safely out of the Walzbruch
operation.
***
They were just a few kilometres out of Walzbruch.
A careful examination of the ground was crucial when
laying any trap. A deadfall trap for big game would be laid on the widest, most
heavily-used trail. Wire-noose traps were a lot easier to make, and would be
scattered all along small game trails, rabbit and guinea-pigs and the like.
The goal was the same, only the size of the prey was
different.
The Unfriendlies, under fire, not unexpectedly, had
little choice but to get off the road or be destroyed.
Just coming over the top of a hill when the first
mortar round and the first anti-tank rocket struck, the troops in the trucks
behind the hill had dismounted, scurrying like ants up the reverse slope, under
cover as much as possible. Their small four-bys roared up the hill, looking for
cover and firing positions for the machine guns. At that point, they had run
smack into a line of anti-tank and anti-personnel mines. The mortars had
switched targets as well as loads. For vehicles, it was armour-piercing.
With smart-rounds coming down from a high angle, the
thin or non-existent armour on top was not much protection and a hit would be
fatal for the vehicle and all concerned. For unprotected troops, it was high
explosive with shrapnel mixed with a few incendiaries for sheer terror. There
was plenty of forest, and a big fire would be good, although conditions had
been a bit damp.
With their high angle of flight, rounds were dropping
in just on the other side of the crest where the enemy would be concentrated—or
concentrating. Things happened very quickly under such circumstances and it
took time for people to react properly. At some point, the enemy might decide
it was just better to sit in the trucks! Better yet, to get underneath them,
but there was only so much room, and not much protection anyways. The thoughts
of a couple of big tanks of diesel right over one’s head would be a bit of a
deterrent.
The enemy drone, damaged to an unknown extent by a
proximity burst of their 20-mm anti-air defense, had lumbered off to the
southwest, trailing vapour if not actual smoke and fire…hopefully that weapon
would be recovered. Dona was prepared to sacrifice one or two for Highway 17
and maybe one each for Highways Two and Three. She only had a dozen to begin
with.
Small parties of Confederation troops were evading on
foot, plunging down through the bush on the back of their hill. Wading through
swamp, climbing over deadfall trees, thrashing about in the brush, the pictures
were nerve-wracking enough. They were blind down in there, and their backs
would feel very exposed climbing up the far side. Compared to the air
temperature, the muck might actually be a little warmer.
For this and a million other reasons, trust in one’s fellow
soldiers, trust in the plan, was
paramount.
In that country, there was just no way for troops on
foot to ever traverse a kilometre and a half in anything less than half an
hour, with luck a bit less. Not quietly, anyways—during which time they would
feel very vulnerable. With such precipitous crags, going downhill in a hurry
was dangerous, and climbing the far side would slow them down considerably.
The other thing was to avoid unnecessary casualties
from injuries caused by slips and falls, broken and twisted ankles and the
like. Accidental shootings were not exactly unheard-of.
They had their personal
arms, small day-packs and other equipment on their backs, and for that reason,
it was difficult to hurry in such terrain.
To run, to thrash and splash about in brush and swamp
was to draw unwelcome attention.
Sooner or later, another enemy drone had to
appear—knocking one down was a real feat and those guys would be seeing a pretty nice bonus.
The sound of firing breaking out above and ahead, in
response to fire from behind—the Unfriendlies having taken the ambush point by
now, must have been pretty terrifying for those who had never been under fire
before. The point was that they really were under
it, as troops and weapons on opposing hilltops engaged each other at extreme
range. The sounds of their mines and booby-traps going off would have been
small consolation. If nothing else, it indicated the enemy’s progress.
She could sympathize, to some extent.
Who couldn’t.
The road between the two hills was mined, the culvert
was out, and they had an automatic machine gun, two mortars and other light
anti-tank weapons to cover the next stage of their retreat. Dona was being very
sparing of the resources, reluctant to give up anything that she might need
later. Just one example, the machine gun had one box of ammo—after that it
would go silent, probably lost to the Confederation for good.
If the Unfriendlies caught up to the Confederation
troops, they were going to be very angry indeed.
In the meantime, the enemy had been held up for a good
hour, an hour and a half so far. It appeared the junior enemy officers, the
NCOs, were playing it strictly by the book. No one could blame them for that.
She could almost see them, standing about the command vehicles, studying their
maps and thrashing it out…the commander, on the radio to Deneb City for
confirmation.
The firefight with Ambush Two, Highway Two, was just
warming up.
Dona had to break away and see what was up down south.
Blind to the external world, she almost jumped out of
her skin at the touch on her shoulder.
She flipped up the goggs.
It was Captain Aaron.
“Colonel? You’re relieved…” Paul was looking tired,
but he’d just had a nap and she had to give up the hot-seat at some point,
whether she liked it or not. “I can skim the logs if you want to go off.”
At some point, she needed a minute to herself—to eat,
to sleep, to shut down all the thoughts for a while. There was this burning
sensation just where the gut met the gullet.
“Okay, okay—just give me another minute.”
***
There hadn’t been any more missile attacks. After a
quick inspection of Command Centre Two, where pretty much all the equipment was
set up and ready to go, she took her pet red truck home, if that was the proper
word.
Her head swam a little, the blood pulsing in her ears,
upon getting out of the truck in front of Number Nine. She’d phoned ahead, and
with a bit of luck, her lunch or dinner or whatever would be along…too tired to
care, on some whim she’d ordered the veal parmigiana, which was said to be very
good. With their well-known potted cheese, bread sticks and a salad, it would
be more than enough the way her guts had been lately. If she got half of it
down, she’d consider herself lucky.
A few units down, a door opened and a male figure came
out, wearing autumn woodland camouflage and with a small utility bag and an
assault rifle slung over his shoulder.
Looking up, his eyes met hers. With a start of
recognition, she saw that it was Trooper Noya.
There was a magazine in there, and hopefully the weapon
was on safety.
He was unshaven, there were discoloured bags under his
eyes and hard lines around the mouth, but he was upright and clearly heading
back on shift.
He grinned from ear to ear, gave her a quick
left-handed wave and then mounted a bicycle that was way too small for him. No
telling where he got that, probably stolen from the workshop they were using.
The other thing was that the local people had been very helpful in so many
ways, contributing everything from flowers and fruit baskets, frozen meat,
fresh vegetables, winter hats, hand-knitted socks and mitts from local service
clubs. They had thrown the doors open and invited her troops into the front
room, in some cases.
There would be some broken hearts and maybe a few
unexpected babies, before all of this was over. She bit back a sour grin,
shaking her head.
With the front wheel momentarily wobbling, and the
rifle obviously an unfamiliar load, he set off across the parking lot without a
backward glance. She was amused to see him stop, not quite falling off, and
shift the strap to go over his head. This kept the weapon higher up and the
butt didn’t hit one in the calf when pedaling. Only then did he look back,
looking a bit sheepish, and she gave him a smile and a nod before turning away.
If there really was an enemy satellite up there,
sooner or later, local traffic patterns would be revealed. This particular
motor hotel, the Knotty Pine, would be an especially juicy target if they had
any idea of where she was.
Dona was too tired to care at this point, but it very
much felt like it was time to move on. It was an old and familiar feeling, a
kind of hollow in the pit of the stomach. It was funny how quickly even the
most anonymous room became a person’s home. Back home—back home she must have become
very set in her ways. It would all still be there when she got back. The plants
would be watered and her cats looked after. The cats, at least, would miss her.
She sighed with the guilt of leaving them, but she
sure as hell couldn’t bring them along. That would be the worst kind of
stupidity. Stupidity, now, stupidity was one of the few things she truly
despised.
There was this delusion that nothing could get at you,
when you were at home—dangerous thinking.
But first, a bath and some sleep. Standing there, she
looked around. She could clear her personal belongings in three minutes. Hell,
maybe a minute or less, if it came right down to it. Trooper Noya seemed to be
doing well.
He’d taken to it like a duck takes to water.
She still wondered about that one, from time to time.
It was true that people signed on with the Organization for all sorts of
reasons and in all kinds of circumstances. Sometimes it was pure idealism.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes?”
“Room
service!”
And thank Christ for that—and maybe she’d have a cold
beer too.
The thing was to tip them very well.
(End of part twenty-one.)
Previous Episodes.
Images.
Image One. Collection the Author.
Image Two. Confederation Public Communications Office.
Image Three. CPCO.
Image Four. CPCO.
Image Five. Collection of author Louis Shalako
Image Six. Box Mortar in Infantry Transport Vehicle. CPCO.
Image Seven. Roussef Daily News.
Image Eight. Denebola-Seven Defense Force.
Louis Shalako has books and stories available fromiTunes. Some are free at any given time. Please take a moment to rate or review
these products.
Thank you for reading.
