«Oh,» said Harry. He scratched his head for a second. «I guess you shoot the son of a bitch who called you there.»
«True,» agreed Mike. «But if you do it from behind a wall you might be able to reload and kill some more, right? Hell, you might be able to survive.»
«Okay,» agreed John, taking a pull on a lemon-dashed rum. «I'll buy that.»
«So, the way to fight is from prepared positions. It's a lot like World War I that way. But you've either gotta have enough men to man a huge front or you've gotta guess where the Posleen are coming. And this is realizing that they can drop out of the sky, anywhere, at any time.»
«Gooks used to have little antiaircraft batteries all over the damned place,» said Honest John with a belch. «Why don't we?» The tone was bitter.
Mike raised an eyebrow but answered the question. «Technology. The 'gooks' got antiaircraft batteries from the Russians. The Russians had scads of gear lying around and lots of production facilities. We're having to teach the Galactics not only what to build but how to mass-produce stuff. Even then what we're really doing is a sort of super cottage industry. So, we don't have many weapons that can hurt the landers.»
«So we have to hit them on the ground,» Cally interjected, suddenly popping up to snatch a conch fritter. «Until they give mom a real ship and we get some more Class Nine Grav Cannons we're shit out of luck.» She popped the tender piece of giant whelk into her mouth and trotted back to the arcane games being played in the corner.
«And you're saying if we hit 'em on the ground, we're screwed,» said Honest John. He grinned ferally. «I bet there are ways to hurt 'em that don't involve tactics we gave up after Belleau Wood.» He took another pull on the rum and pulled out a joint. «You oughta be able to sneak into the rear area.»
«And do what?» asked Mike, curious. Honest John had always been happy to talk about fishing or the sea and he had debated a few military subjects, but this was the first time he had evinced any real knowledge or background. It was like he had dropped a mask or thrown off a cloak and said «Ah, hah!»
«Ambush convoys? Destroy supply depots? Call in artillery strikes? Kidnap cadre?»
Mike shook his head. «There's a fairly robust long-range reconnaissance section on Barwhon. But they don't really strike, they give warning where strikes are going to occur. The Posleen don't have much in the way of convoys, not yet anyway, and they don't have supply depots besides their ships. And those are pretty heavily defended.» Mike paused and thought about the question.
«The way that the horses partition stuff, most of their good artillery targets end up being beyond artillery range. Which is why a couple of universities are working on longer-range artillery.» Mike shook his head again and puffed on the cigar. «And the Posleen don't care if a 'town' gets wiped out by a special op group. They don't pull forces back from the front to look for the group. They use local forces. So it is generally a net loss. Just ask the combined ops team that we sent to Barwhon before the expeditionary force.»
«So we just, what did you call it, 'hunker down and take our licks'?» asked Karen, softly.
«I'm afraid so,» said Sharon in reply. «The Fleet is building. I don't know if it could go faster; maybe it could, maybe it couldn't. Once we have a real fleet we'll be safe. But until then we have to fight them on the ground.»
«We've tried mobile warfare,» said Mike, taking a sip of his beer. «The French tried it a couple of times on Barwhon. It was not successful.» He grimaced.
«Well, that was the French,» said Harry.
Mike snorted. «Don't let General Crenaus hear you say that. They also ate our lunch on Diess, but that was when they had already 'broken the square.' So it's not a fair comparison. But an M-1 is a tin can to their weapons. So I don't see being able to fight them in open field.»
«Well,» snorted John, drunkenly, «they don't do islands.»
«No, they don't,» Mike agreed.
«So we blow the Seven Mile Bridge and we're golden,» continued John, taking a big hit on the joint.
«And that will be that,» said Karen quietly. «We'll be cut off.»
«It's already bad enough,» said Harry. «Since the clinic in Marathon shut down we've lost two people who should have lived. Tom Robins died from appendicitis and Janey Weaver died of scarlet fever. God help us if there's something like a measles epidemic.»
«If there's an epidemic the government will help,» said Karen.
Mike took a pull of his beer to make sure his face was covered but John was not so diplomatic. «The government?» he laughed. «What government? The one that saddled you guys with the Cuban Mafia in the first place? Or the one that made Florida Power fix their lines? How about the one that is setting the prices so low nobody can make a dime to set aside then, if you do, taxes the shit out of it?»
Harry held up his hands to forestall further argument. «No, no more!» he intoned. «For tonight, we have power, no one is sick, the leeches have been taken off our backs and there is plenty to eat. Let's worry about which bridges to burn tomorrow.»
John nodded his head. «Yeah, man. You're right.» He looked at Karen and smiled lopsidedly. «Sorry, gal. Don' mind me. I'm drunk.»
«And stoned.» She laughed, picking up the smoldering joint and taking a hit herself. «Damn,» she said, coughing, «no wonder you're stoned.»
John laughed in return and hoisted the glass of rum. «Only the best! Cuba doesn't only make fine cigars!»
«Speaking of which,» said Mike, happy to change the subject, «what do you want for a couple of cases of cigars and rum?»
John thought about it for a minute and shook his head. «I know better than to dicker when I've got a load on,» he laughed. «But what the hell. How much of that white lightning you got?»
«Two cases of liquor, white lightning and muscadine brandy in liter bottles. I've got a couple of cases of beer as well. Then there's some smoked and tinned wild boar and venison. I've got a five-gallon can of gas. I can give you the gas but I want the can back or an empty.»
Honest John nodded. «Well, I think I can give up a box of panatelas for that,» he said.
Mike's normal frown turned up in a smile. «Now I know why they call you 'Honest John.' «
«Mike,» said Sharon, smiling sweetly, «let me do the dickering.»
«Uh, oh,» said John, setting down the joint. «I don't like the sound of that.»
«Did I mention I spent six months as a procurement officer?» she asked, cracking her knuckles and leaning forward. «Now, I've got to wonder if the local authorities are fully aware of your cargoes . . .»
CHAPTER 28
No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III
0832 EDT October 5th, 2004 ad
Mike carefully set the last case of hand-rolled Imperials on the stack. The cigars were in twine-wrapped bundles of fifty, a gross of bundles to the case. The stack of cigar cases and rum barrels made an awkward fit in the back of the SUV.
Honest John rubbed his face and grimaced. «Christ, I knew I shouldn't dicker when I was drunk.»
«And never play poker with her, either,» Mike opined. «She'll clean your clock.»
«She already did,» the trader bemoaned.
«Oh, fiddlesticks,» Karen said. «You know how that wine-jerked venison will go over in Havana. Not to mention that muscadine brandy. You're going to make a killing.»
The trader just snorted but then smiled. «It's been a good visit, guys,» he said to Mike and Sharon. «You guys keep safe. Don't bunch up.»
Mike turned from where he was securing the empty gas can and frowned at the trader. «What rank did you say you were?» he asked.
«A third class petty officer,» John answered. He smiled faintly and patted the pockets of his floral shirt until he found a panatela and a match. He flicked the match with his thumb and lit the panatela. «Why?»