«We're under contract to produce something called caltrops for the mountain defenses,» he croaked. «I don't even know what they are. One of our foremen told me you might want to buy a few.»
«Neither did I,» said the civilian engineer. The junior engineer was waving his hands around as if to try to suggest that maybe killing a civilian would not be a good idea.
«How many can we get?» asked Ersin, his smile turning feral.
«He brought some dump trucks with him,» offered the engineer.
«Can you let go now?» Tolert croaked. «Please?»
* * *
The Posleen scout company trotted in good order down the broad highway. Their God King followed them pensively despite the rearing buildings of the great prize plain before him. His was the fifth company from the oolt'ondar to be in the lead. Between the ambushes of the tenar and the ballistic weapons of the thresh the horde had lost oolt after oolt. He was determined to last longer than the rest.
To avoid the ambushes that had plagued his fellows, he had a scout well out in the lead of his oolt. The oolt'os was a superior individual, it could nearly talk. The Kessentai's sole eson'antai had been born from their coupling and he trusted the oolt'os to respond effectively to mildly complex problems. If any of the oolt'os would spot a problem, it would be that one.
So he froze his tenar then slid to the side when the point let out a surprised cry. However, the cry was not one of fear or anger and the point almost immediately turned and ran towards him.
In the oolt'os's hand was a strange device. A metal stake, dirt dribbling to the ground unnoticed, topped with a symbol. The metal of the symbol looked like . . . but it couldn't be . . .
The God King let out a cry like that of his scout and practically snatched the golden trinket from its hand. He patted the excited semimoron on the back and gave it bits of thresh from his own hand in approval.
A trailing scoutmaster slid his tenar forward, wondering what the excitement was about.
The God King held the implement overhead. «Pure heavy metal,» he crowed, waving it back and forth.
«No,» shouted the newcomer his crest standing straight up in excitement. «Is there more?»
«Let us find out,» he cried and waved to his oolt. «Forward, find more! Follow the road!»
* * *
«They're at the first Babe,» said Mosovich, adjusting the sixty-power spotting scope. He smiled faintly at the silent pantomime in the distance. «It looks like they took it hook, line and sinker.»
«We ought to fire 'em up,» said Ersin sourly, leaning back on the head of the hotel-room bed. From the suite in the Marriott they had a clear view of the advancing host. He took a bite out of the dehydrated peaches from his MRE and wrinkled his face like a rat. «That's what cannon-cockers are for.» He stopped talking as the absorbent fruit removed all the moisture from his mouth.
«Suck 'em in, General,» said John Keene to the air. «Don't shoot till you see the yellow of their eyes.» With the defenses completed, he found himself flapping around at loose ends. After considering his options he decided that the best place to be would be with the SF team. Among other things they were the only people in Richmond he knew weren't gunning for him. They also made fair bodyguards.
He now lay on his back on the floor, nursing the first beer he'd had in two days. He took another sip of the astringent brew and smacked his lips. «Let 'em get in the sack.»
«Yeah,» said Mueller, assembling a sandwich on the table. He carefully laid out a sliver of ham, layered it with lettuce, then another layer of ham, lettuce, pastrami . . . «We want as many of 'em as possible to reach Schockoe Bottom.»
«Fine,» snorted Ersin cynically. «Be complicated. All that complicated means is more to go wrong.»
«It looks good so far,» said Keene, defensively. He sat up and drained the bottle to the dregs. «They're going for it,» he finished with a belch and tossed the bottle in the wastecan.
«That they are,» agreed Mosovich. «But I don't believe they're going to get to Schockoe without anybody firing. That'd take more discipline than this Army's got.»
* * *
«Come to papa,» whispered Specialist Fourth-Class Jim Turner, snuggling the .50 caliber sniper rifle into his shoulder. For once he was able to use the tripod that came with the beast and he now waited impatiently for the signal to fire.
The interstate highway was marked at regular intervals by survey stakes with colored ribbons attached to them. With the time they had to prepare, each company was detailed with specific areas of fire and those were then broken down to the point where every rifleman, grenadier and sniper had a specific area to concentrate on. The snipers were given larger fields of fire to work with, but even then the section of interstate that was «his» was only two hundred yards long and a hundred deep. There were currently three God Kings, his particular target, in his box. He had already decided to take the rearmost one first and work his way forward. That one was moving faster than the main force, coming up through the host with his normals trailing. As soon as the signal came, he was history.
Jim was of two minds about whether everyone could hold fire until the signal. The order was to stay out of sight but ready and not watch the approach of the enemy. Most of the troops had been ordered to sit on the floor, their manjacks safed, and wait for the order. How many of them were doing that he didn't know. He wasn't. And then there were the fifteen or twenty thousand manjacks set up to cover the whole of the interstate and Schockoe Bottom. The only reason none of them had fired yet was that all the ones the Posleen had come across were on safe. Sooner or later they were going to cross the laser of one that was overlooked. The odds of everybody getting the word and getting it right were slim.
On the other hand, virtually everybody had also gotten the word that the Posleen reacted violently to fire. If they didn't wait for the signal and somebody fired on their own, the whole host would target that single individual. So, when somebody did screw it up, it'd be Darwin Awards time. And the NCOs and officers were supposed to be . . .
«Turner, Goddamnit!» said Sergeant Dougherty from the doorway.
«I'm just watching, Sergeant,» he answered reasonably. Dougherty was a hard case. She ought to have gone Fleet Strike with the way she ran around all the time like a spike was stuck up her ass. On the other hand, she was fair and, more to the point, right. He wasn't supposed to be where he was. «I'm not gonna fire.» Nonetheless he stepped away from the rifle.
«I don't give a shit, get on the floor like everybody else! We've been taking magazines away for less than that!»
«Yes, ma'am.»
«You ought to know better. If you can't handle the responsibility of being a sniper, we can find somebody who can! An' don't call me ma'am,» snapped the short, heavy-set, dishwater blonde in summary. «I work for a living.»
Her back straight and face set in a disapproving frown she stepped back into the hallway to continue her circuit of positions. Time to go find some more ass to chew.
* * *
Inevitably everyone didn't get the word.
«How is the road to the east?» asked Artulosten. The returning scoutmaster looked grumpy. Many of his oolt'os were limping and all looked miserable.
«Horrible,» snapped Arstenoss. «There is nothing out there, the buildings burned, the roads destroyed or scattered with these.» He held up a caltrop. «I've half my oolt injured, many of them made to thresh by these damn things.»
The battlemaster took the offending item and looked at it curiously. It was a small bit of metal. He understood its purpose, to present a small knife turned upwards. «How could these kill an oolt'os?»