"Oh, joy!" exclaimed Ersin. "How the hell are we supposed to collect Posleen covertly? What the fuck happened to a reconnaissance? For that matter, what the fuck happened to a recall order?"
"This clearly states that a snatch is now the primary mission, reconnaissance is secondary," said Mosovich. It was just another wonderful example of how Washington considered special operations troops expendable. He was beginning to wonder if the brass had decided to just leave them on this ball until they rotted. And if he was thinking it, he knew the others were. So far they had not been detected and had not lost anyone. That was bound to change.
"Who's the signature?" asked Mueller, toweling his head.
"General Baird, COS-JSOC—Chief of Staff, Joint Special Operations Command—he's apparently filling in for General Taylor," answered Mosovich, glancing at the bottom of the flimsy. Tung held out his hand and Mosovich passed it over. After a moment's perusal Tung handed it back expressionlessly.
"Baird's Air Force. See any para-jumpers doing this shit?" snorted Trapp.
"Doesn't matter," said Mosovich, "it's an order. Fortunately they don't say how to do it, or what kind of Posleen. Himmit Rigas?" he asked in a raised voice.
"Yes, Sergeant Major," the Himmit responded from the intercom.
"Can the backup ship land here?" asked Mosovich. There was plenty of room in the clearing.
"They could but they won't. They are here purely for support and would not experience this particular event for all the stories in the Galaxy," responded the Himmit.
"Okay, the rest of the mission is off. We are going to perform our snatch and get the hell out of Dodge. Himmit, how many Tchpth can we cram in this tub, and can we cross shift after the first transfer point? For that matter will Hiberzine work on a Tchpth?"
"I see your objective, but your orders do not mention Tchpth. I read them."
"Fuck my orders," snapped the pissed off NCO. He was as tired as the rest of the team and even more unhappy about the orders. He personally thought those orders were a death warrant. "We're supposed to collect Posleen; do you see room for adult Posleen? I don't. So we collect nestlings. And since the nestlings are right there by the Tchpth . . ."
"We pull out as many Tchpth as we can," finished Ersin.
"Right."
"Tactically wrong. Morally right. Can we do it?" asked Tung. His midnight face was as still as stone. With nearly as much experience as Mosovich, he was just as aware of the impossibility of their current orders.
"Getting back's gonna be a stone bitch," said Trapp. "They're gonna be all over our ass." He pulled out his Bushmaster and started sharpening it.
"Lambs to the slaughter," murmured Ellsworthy, taking a quick buff at a nail.
"Lotta damn lambs," pointed out Mueller, "with a lot of damn weapons."
"So, we gotta get in and out without being noticed," said Richards, shrugging his shoulders.
"Diversion," stated Tung.
"Oh, now I know why you brought me!" laughed Mueller, "I'm supposed to die heroically planting the explosives! I saw the movie. Now, it was a good movie, don't get me wrong, but I'm not sure I want the part."
"Nail the God Kings," said Richards.
"That would be me," smiled Ellsworthy, dreamily. She held her hand out at arm's length and examined what was left of her nails. "Damn, I wish there was a nail shop on this ball." She buffed another rough edge.
"Mine the far approach, and the buildings," stated Tung with a shake of his head at the marine. Ellsworthy seemed to spend most of her time on another plane, but it only seemed to make her more effective when it dropped in the pot. "Come in in the dark, set the charges, hit them from the flank at BMNT."—Before Morning Nautical Twilight—"Most of the team pulls out the nestlings and the Tchpth while a group draws the Posleen on a wild goose chase."
"We don't know that they don't have vehicles other than the God Kings' capable of negotiating this muck," Mosovich pointed out. "Mostly good, but we need to avoid being chased at all. If we are chased, then we split off a team to lead them away. Let me work this over. Tung, Ersin, my cabin. The rest of you get a shower and some rest, I'm going to commune with higher and come up with an op-order."
* * *
Sandra Ellsworthy was in her element. Wrapped in rags of burlap, she nestled into the lower branches of a Griffin tree and plotted targets. As the first faint purple light of Barwhon dawn began to shade the horizon, it degraded the light enhancements built into her scope. However, since the Posleen had a higher body temperature than humans, and far higher than the semi-isothermal Tchpth, the thermal imagery enhancements picked them out like beacons against the cooler backdrop.
There had been changes since the team was last here. There were now seven complete pyramids, each surrounded by several pens. The causeway on the west side had been completed and the bunkers to either side, nearly a kilometer from Ellsworthy's hide, were complete. On the north and south sides trees were being cleared and it looked like a drainage project was under way. Fortunately clearing had not started on the west side, where the team waited, but the unexpected open area had slowed the diversion team's entry and would make its retreat less survivable. There were also nearly twice as many Posleen moving around as there had been at the time of the first recon. If anything went wrong with the snatch it looked like it would be a short, sharp shower of shit.
"Deese leettle pig went to market," she whispered, targeting the Posleen sentry most likely to engage the diversion force first. Her task was to slow the pursuit without lowering the effectiveness of the diversion and without revealing her position. The nursery rhymes, set to a reggae beat, were a mnemonic to remember the order of fire. She had eleven rounds before reload and every round was plotted. "You know deese leettle piggy stayed home," the first guard's backup, "deese leettle piggy had roast beef," a superior normal bent over its 3mm, "an deese leettle piggy had none," its companion. The Posleen never seemed to be alone; they always moved in groups of two or more. "An deese leettle piggy went . . . " a Posleen crouched by the entrance to one of the now-completed pyramids near the nestling pens. About then she expected the God Kings to start making their appearance. She figured on taking out at least two of the seven to ten before reloading.
"Game," the demo team was pulling back.
"Set," as Trapp reached contact position. She was glad it was him and not her. The quick little bastard was a master, whatever his technical ranking.
"Match," she whispered taking up slack on the trigger.
"Initiate," growled Master Sergeant Tung.
She had barely seen Mueller and Ersin as they moved around the compound. Now their handiwork was evident. The two half-formed bunkers at the causeway were devoured in actinic silver fire as the C-9 atomic catalyst explosive did its job. Simultaneously the further line of bunkers was devoured in flames. Jets of plasma gouted from the palace on top of the farthest pyramid as a small antimatter charge detonated. Posleen began to pour from the huts like hornets from a hive as Ellsworthy serviced her targets and explosions continued to rock the compound.
One little piggy did indeed go to market and one went home. With each shot the fifty caliber slammed into her shoulder like the kick of a horse, nearly unseating her from her perch in the tree. But when the two-ounce rounds punched through the Posleen's centauroid chests the horse-sized creatures were hurled sideways, plate-sized exit holes and fountains of yellow ichor marking their end. Just as she reloaded, right on time, the first God King rushed into view, harness half slung. The leader caste was as easy meat as the rest and went up to the great smorgasbord in the sky, flattened across the deceased guard at its door.