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her assault troops had withdrawn successfully, with only a couple of minor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.
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.
Sorry, that wasn’t really a question, was it.
(Although you are certainly welcome to hang out to the
end and read it for free in serial form. – ed.)
Thank you for reading.
