Tactics of Delay, Pt. 41. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

The battle was in its final phases.

There were three more really big hills to be taken before the town of Ryanville sort of began, although there were a few homes and businesses along that stretch of Highway 17. Those people had all been evacuated.

There were continuous obstacles. There were numerous trees down across the road, and wire barriers made up of fencing, baling wire, spools of cable requisitioned from local building suppliers, and anything else that could be scrounged.

There were anti-tank and anti-personnel mines, all along the road. Every small bridge and culvert had been blown. The largest bridge, spanning another switchback of the Ryan River, had been left intact due to the time and expense of rebuilding it. This was for the sake of the inhabitants, who would be left holding the bag, long after this pissy little war was over.

There was little doubt that it would soon be over.

The bulk of the enemy was just six kilometres from the edge of town although their scouts and reconnaissance units were probing ahead.

Each ridge was defended, a mix of warm-bodied troops and automated systems. Her howitzers had been withdrawn to the extremities of the lakeshore road, with eastern and western detachments now working at their maximum effective range in this terrain. With all the cameras and sensors out there, they were still finding, and hitting, plenty of targets. The enemy had no such luxury.

The hilltop passive defenses relied heavily on glue-mines, anti-personnel explosive mines, light machine guns, all monitored by cameras. Her people had their holes, their weapons and their escape drills. There was the occasional anti-tank mine, buried in the road.

To prevent outflanking maneuvers, these defenses extended along favourable ground, to left and right of the road, a kilometre in the case of the first hill, a kilometre and a half on the second hill, and a good two kilometres running along the top of the third ridge. Any side-roads, connected or not, had been mined and booby-trapped. Bunkers and foxholes, any place a curious Unfriendly soldier might enter looking for plunder, food, booze, souvenirs, had been thoughtfully boobied. It had to be borne in mind that the civilians would eventually be coming home, and so their homes and businesses had been left alone. Every booby had been carefully mapped by the Confederation troops and this would be turned over to civil authorities. What that also meant, was that there was stuff there in private homes and businesses to find, and having had a good meal or a few drinks at some civilian’s expense, the enemy troopers would be sure to go looking for more.

Bait, always more bait.

They would find the juiciest bait in positions prepared by her troops, places where the civvies would hopefully avoid, assuming they were capable of listening to a simple instruction.

Stay the fuck out of our abandoned holes…

Stay away from our abandoned vehicles, weapons, or any other thing that strikes you as new or unusual in your environment.

Anything that wasn’t there when you left.

The last few kilometres were going to cost the Unfriendlies dearly, and in the end, all to no avail.

***

“Battery A.” This was located at extreme range at the eastern end of Lake Ryan.

“Go ahead, Command Centre.”

“Your orders are to use up all ammunition stocks, assuming hard targets can be found.” As of this moment, the stars were out and the satellite feed was good, but there was a big block of heavy cloud on the horizon.

You could pull back the curtains and see it out the window, by this point.

“Roger that.” This was all in the written plan and no argument there.

“If you can hold out until dark, abandon your positions. Use the boats. Rendezvous at the position of Command Four. Make sure you have tow-ropes and plenty of fuel. All troops will wear flotation devices, emergency beacons, and survival suits. Boats go in convoy. Acknowledge.”

“Roger that, Colonel. We’ll be fine, thank you.”

“Thank you, over and out.”

Battery B, out at the other end of town, already had their instructions. Their boats were anchored in small coves, heavily camouflaged against drone detection and with the civilian crews standing patiently by.

Now within three kilometres of Ryanville and Command Centre Three, the Unfriendlies would undoubtedly be taking the town within the next few hours and it was time to get her people out.

Every vehicle, every weapon, every weapons-pit and foxhole were to be mined and booby-trapped.

The enemy was bleeding, and they would continue to bleed.

As for Command Centre Three, the mother of all booby-traps, fifty kilos of the finest military-grade explosive that money could buy, wonderfully concealed. Three metres below her feet in other words. It would be timed to go off a few hours after occupation. Much of the more sensitive equipment had already been removed and she was working with a skeleton staff. Still, enemy intelligence officers would be combing through the place, searching for any scrap of information they could get regarding her plans. Her strength in weapons, vehicles and personnel, her state of mind. All of the remaining equipment would just be sitting there…

Irresistible.

For this phase of the battle, heavier vehicles and weapons were expendable, although a number of Pumas, Panthers and Hellions, of which there were still a few left, had been carefully hidden.

It wasn’t the most imaginative dispersal, with a Panther under a mound of straw in a horse-barn here, and a Hellion in a three-metre deep hole dug in the ground and with a big steel plate and some dirt overhead there.

Statistically, at least some of them would evade detection.

Then there was the whole question of bugs—miniature, robotic, and autonomous. Programmed to observe, to report, and ultimately, to kill.

A measly two grams of the proper explosive in the right place would kill a man.

Or a general.

This would be something the Unfriendlies hadn’t ever seen before.

(End of part forty-one.)

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.

Part Thirty-Four.

Part Thirty-Five.

Part Thirty-Seven.

PartThirty-Eight.

Part Thirty-Nine.
Part Forty.

Images.

Image One. Confederation Public Communications Office.

Image Two. CPCO.

Image Three. CPCO.

Image Four. Captured image.

Image Five. The cover of the completed novel.

Louis Shalako’s full novel, Tactics of Delay, is now available from Amazon and other fine retailers. Please take a moment to rate or review this book.

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Tactics of Delay, Pt. 40. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

With the Unfriendly artillery in their new position, the Confederation drone base had been pulled back. They were now operating from a paved street in a new subdivision, one that had never really taken off and there were only about a dozen houses on what had to be a hundred hectares.

There were light standards, but none of the old-fashioned overhead wires that were sometimes a feature of less-developed worlds. Most of the trees had been taken out to make way for construction.

The biggest hazard would be for a drone to go off the road in a crosswind, in which case they would hit utility service-boxes, a light pole or even just a big stake sticking up out of the ground.

There were weeds, mounds of earth, even abandoned vehicles.

Further back, there were the occasional foundations, the ground floor topped off with plywood sheathing and yet the house it was meant for had never been completed.

Some kind of story there no doubt, but with the hills sloping steeply down to Lake Ryan, and a fairly busy little town strung out along one main road, there weren’t too many other places to put it. All the empty streets meant dispersal was at least possible, and with good separation of elements, including their small operations centre. This had ended up in someone’s two-car garage, the home’s occupants having been compensated and moved, along with a half a dozen cats, to a basement apartment in the middle of town.

There was a municipal airport, a grass strip no less. But that seemed a little too obvious a target, and in fact it was time to do something with their little rag-bag of helos and private aircraft.

Most of them were capable of automatic flight. They still had a few satchel-charges left. Hang a few cameras on there and they would be effective enough.

There were all kinds of Unfriendlies just up the road.

Then there was the question of the weather. It was getting colder, and the breeze was picking up, which it normally didn’t do at night around here. That’s what the local meteorologist, more of a serious hobbyist than any real paid position, was telling them. She had no reason to doubt her, it was basically what her own people were saying as well.

Her spoiling attack had done its job, and the Unfriendlies had taken a good hour, an hour and a half to regroup. 

While they probably couldn’t be stopped with the weapons and forces available, all of her assault troops had withdrawn successfully, with only a couple of minor wounds to show for it. They had a couple of prisoners for interrogation, practically a formality at this point. The enemy would be operating in daylight very soon, as morning was just an hour off.

The storm-front was seventy kilometres away and closing.

The way the thermometer was dropping, there might even be snow.

***

Operation Dynamic had been in full swing for a week.

Having commandeered the entire local fishing fleet, large yachts and all of the available tugs and work barges, a small cruise boat, tonnes of grain, tinned foods, even refrigerated truckloads of frozen meat had been ferried a hundred and thirty kilometres down the lake. Two of the drones had been taken aboard as well, leaving just one for intermittent cover over Ryanville. Lake Ryan had an outlet via the Deneb River to the southwest. Her few engineering troops had found a beach with sloping flat rock shelves going down deep into the water. They were using heavy wooden planks and steel bridging equipment for ramps. They were building a supply dump. This was up fifty metres from the water. They had small tractors, four-bys, some six-bys, rows of portable generators, and prefabricated sheds and barns to erect.

Commandeered might be too strong a word. She’d spread a big bundle of cash around and then, after explaining that bit of the plan to the civilian captains, had phrased it as a request. If they wanted to back out, all they had to do was to return the money and no questions would be asked.

In front of their friends, neighbours and competitors, with their homes about to be invaded, not a one had spoken up.

That was a lot of money around here, another factor. All Interstellar Gold Coin, negotiable anywhere. She was sure they’d bury it in the fucking backyard when they had a minute—

They had a tent city up the lake, Command Centre Four all set up, and the latrines had been dug.

There were some small fuel dumps, ammo-dumps, well-spaced and separated from the shacks and even tents in some cases. Machinery, a generator for example, or weapons-caches didn’t need much heat. Rather, it was a case of keeping the weather off of them. They were knocking down trees and building a dock in deeper water. Some of the yachts were being armed with light weapons and sensors, proper communications and the like. Mostly wood and fibreglass, their upper-works were being cut down or stripped of radar-reflecting hardware. Painted matte-black, dazzle-striped in charcoal, they might do all right, at least in terms of patrolling and observation by night.

They’d brought in three of the howitzers in the rather vain hope that the Unfriendlies would attempt a landing, or even an overland attack from around the eastern end of the lake.

This camp would be well out of the present range of enemy rockets, artillery, but unfortunately not the drones…

Too bad about that, but with trenches and bunkers all over the place, a raid or two might have to be endured. On the plus side, the weather was worsening. With Sky-Cats on hilltops and even sitting under the trees right along the shoreline, the enemy would be risking valuable assets as there was a clear view of some miles out over the lake. A helo attack from behind the hills overlooking the camp had also been taken into consideration by placing a couple of low-level radars up there.

On their estimated time-line, with the Unfriendly speed of travel on the map, there simply wasn’t enough slack to take the stuff any further. Someone had already named it Donaville.

And this, this was the end-game. Everything was now on the table, her plan finally revealed to the naked eye. Resistance at all costs.

“All right, Colonel. I’m off.” Captain Aaron would take charge up there, activate Command Four, and keep people busy.

 All personal kit was in the bag, the weapon slung, pistol on the belt and a couple of rocket-grenades bulging in the side pockets. Paul very much looked the part, with a dark blue bandanna around the neck the only personal touch.

He grinned, eyes meeting hers, eyes glittering in some sort of self-appreciation, and she smiled back.

They still barely knew one another.

He had two hundred and fifty people and their personal bags all lined up, waiting to board six of the larger fishing boats. The sooner he left, the sooner he could send the boats back.

“Thank you. Good luck—and we’ll be seeing you in a few hours, unless I miss my guess.”

“Roger that, Colonel.”

Stepping back, he gave her a formal salute.

Turning, he was gone.

The rest of her troops would be sufficient to hold Ryanville for another day, and the stay-behind parties had their own orders. They had their own time-lines, their own supplies, and their own targets.

This was the nitty-gritty.

***

By sucking the enemy forwards, ever forwards, by putting out bait, always more bait, and then by selectively blowing this bridge here, now, and this bridge here, later, and by activating this automated defense there, and that other defense over there, later again, they had strung the enemy out.

The enemy was losing trucks, tanks, Samsons and people at an ever-increasing rate.

Still eight or nine kilometres out from the first commercial strip, composed mainly of motor hotels, truck stops and all-night coffee houses. This in a town of a few thousand people, but it was also one that helped feed the whole planet. One where land was cheap and plentiful. The Unfriendly forces had been broken up, delayed, and stopped in place. They had upwards of twelve hundred troops on that road, where Dona and the Confederation had less than a hundred to oppose them.

All Hellions, all but a few of the Panthers and Pumas, were on automatic mode. Their crews could still monitor and maneuver them, this all by fibre, in some cases hundreds of metres from the actual vehicle. As positions were overrun, Pumas and Panthers, any number of borrowed pickup trucks, loaded with Dona’s people, raced down to the docks. They were zigzagging through the narrow and gravelly side-streets, thankfully heavily-treed, dodging the resultant artillery fire as the drones tried to pick them up for the big guns. Driven right onto the barges, the tugs, engines hot, took them off up the lake…

It was all very slick.

They’d lost one Panther and five people by one such hit. So far, they’d been lucky, very, very lucky.

Half a dozen other casualties. One person missing and unaccounted for—that one might be a simple com-unit failure as they weren’t getting a return when pinged. This proved nothing either way. Trooper Singh might very well have taken a direct hit from a heavy shell. None of his mates had seen him in a while.

Enemy artillery fire was falling intermittently on the target hills and defiles out on the road. Still nothing on Ryanville town centre itself. Not yet, but it would probably happen.

With their off-kilter, eccentric orbits, both moons had come up, and the enemy was stalled at the one big hill before the last long, sloping plunge down across the face of the escarpment. When they got around to attempting it, her remaining howitzers were going to have a field day. The Barker teams in the town were quite looking forward to it. Fire a shot or two, make it count and then get the hell out. The bounty for a Samson was five hundred credits. A four-by, a hundred and fifty.

When the main column came down, their cameras would see it. Two hundred shot-holes, fired by an independent tactical observation computer, would bring down a significant portion of the cliff. Luckily for the locals, relying on trade and commerce for their livelihoods, there was another way out of town. It was a little tight and a little steep, but it would suffice. The town would still live. Most of the houses and buildings were quite far away from the escarpment.

Bonus time.

It was zero degrees Celsius, and the sky had cleared, cold, hard and clean, the stars unforgiving in their solitude.

The storm was roughly fifty kilometres out and closing fast.

(End of part forty.)

 

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.

Part Thirty-Four.

Part Thirty-Five.

Part Thirty-Seven.

PartThirty-Eight.

Part Thirty-Nine.

Images.

Image One. Confederation Public Communications Office.

Image Two. Ryanville Chamber of Commerce.

Image Three. Ryanville Chamber of Commerce.

Image Four. CPCO.

Image Five. The cover of the book version of this story.

Image Six. Fred.

Poor old Louis Shalako has all kinds of books and stories available from Kobo, for all the good that it has done him. Incidentally, how stupid do you have to be to have no share buttons on a bookselling website.

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