"Hey!" he yelled. "Somebody out there!"
"Over here!" a voice replied. "Who's that?"
"Sergeant Buckley!" the sergeant replied, knowing it wouldn't mean a thing.
"You seen Major Anderson?"
"No! Anybody with you?"
"No!"
"You got a radio?"
"Yes!"
"Hot diggity," Buckley said quietly. "Stay the fuck down! You may be the only thing that keeps us alive! Anybody else out there?!"
He listened for a moment, but all he heard were moans behind him somewhere, the crackle of ammunition cooking off in the vehicles and the whistle of wind in the pass.
"That's it?" one of the privates asked. "Just us?"
"Looks like it," Buckley replied. "Could be worse."
"How?!"
"We could be in the ACS. Hey! RTO! You got anybody on that radio?"
"No!"
"You got the frequency Major Anderson was using?"
"Yes!"
"Switch to it!" He looked around at the two privates with him and at the drainage ditch. It led to within twenty yards of the overpass, but then it rapidly shallowed out. The three of them could probably low-crawl to within a few yards of the Posleen positions. He hadn't gotten a good look at them yet, but it looked like the Posleen had blown a trench across the road, under the overpass. Which was way more smarts than he wanted to see out of the horses.
The Posleen basically had stopped firing, there was only the occasional round going overhead. He wasn't sure if it was intended to keep their heads down, but it had the effect. Really, though, now that he got a look at the situation, they might be able to pull it out. All it would take was a little luck.
He thought about that for a moment then whispered: "Good luck. All it will take is a little good luck."
* * *
"Sir, I've got contact with a survivor up in the pass," Kittekut said. "There's not many of them left, this guy says he only knows of four including himself."
"Well, that's just ducky," the colonel said.
"He says the sergeant up there wants some artillery support. He wants an . . . 'individual tube adjustment.' That's one I haven't heard before."
"Put him through." Mitchell waited until he could hear the carrier frequency then replied. "Infantry, this is SheVa Nine. How do you want that artillery?"
"This is Lima Seven Nine," the RTO replied. "Sergeant Buckley says he wants an individual tube adjustment, right in front of the Posleen positions. Get this, the horses are dugin under the bridge and half the bridge is still up. The overhead's not getting near 'em. You got that, over?"
"Roger," Mitchell called. "We'll give you the frequency for the artillery and monitor; the only thing we've got to throw would kill you quicker than the Posleen."
"That's a big ten four, good buddy," the RTO replied. "We don't want any nukes, clear?"
"Got that. Do you have a count on the Posleen?"
"Negative, we're taking some heavy fire and having to keep our head down. But it doesn't look like many. A few railguns and some plasma cannons sure did for the tracks, though. They're all gone."
"Understood. I'm sending you back to the commo officer, she'll put you in touch with the artillery. Write when you get work."
"Roger, out here."
He waited until Kittekut turned over the frequency to the distant RTO and then gestured for everyone to turn to the center.
"Okay, Kittekut, we've got contact with one or two infantry in the Gap, the artillery and a few of the militia. Anyone else?"
"Not so far, sir," she answered. "I don't have frequencies for the units on the far side of the Gap and everyone else is out of range. I . . ." She stopped and shook her head. "I've got an idea, but I'm not sure it will work."
"What is it?"
"The nuclear control system," she said. "It's a two way system that . . ."
"Bounces off of the ionization tracks of meteors," Mitchell said. "But it's only for sending code groups."
"Yes, sir," the specialist replied. "And you can only send three text characters at a time. But it can send any set of text characters; you could type out the dictionary, slowly."
"Do it," Mitchell said. "Get us the frequencies for the unit on the far side; we need them to clear the pass. Either that or we'll have to leave it up to the militia."
"Somehow, I don't think assaulting passes is their forte," Kittekut said.
CHAPTER 40
Near Balsam Gap, NC, United States, Sol III
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Thomas Redman was one pissed Injun.
It wasn't bad enough that the war had forced the shut-down of the casino that had been his place of employment for over fourteen years. It wasn't bad enough that his younger brother had been killed on fucking Barwhon by these Posleen sons-of-bitches. Now they'd went and overrun Dillsboro where his "certified Indian Made Posleen Scalpers" store had been.
Well, admittedly, that damn SheVa gun had run it over first, but it wasn't like they had much of a choice.
Whoever had wiped out his store, it was the fault of them Posleen and they was, by God, gonna pay. His family had been in continuous residence in these mountains since they'd run the Creeks out about the time when Columbus was conniving Isabella out of her jewels. And he wasn't going to be the last Redman to screw the white man out of money in them.
Up to this moment his resistance to the Posleen had consisted of telling the babe in the SheVa gun where they were. When they'd first gotten word the Posleen were coming up the pass he'd sent the wife—he only called her "squaw" when he wanted to get her really mad—up the road towards Knoxville. Then he'd gotten out his militia radio, his four wheeler and his rifle and headed up onto the ridges.
Now, though, it was looking touch and go. He hadn't been able to see much of what was happening in the Gap, but the columns of smoke made most of it pretty obvious. He knew a spot where he could get a bead on the Posleen. But that was going to involve a technical violation of the laws of man.
In the rush to enact legislation at the beginning of the crisis, one of the big debates was over formation of militias. Finally the Congress had passed laws that effectively repealed most of the anti-weapons regulations that had grown up, substituting a series of laws to "regulate the several militias." One of the laws had to do with militia boundaries, in that no member of a militia "formed in one territorial area should pass for militia purposes into another territorial area without the clear wishes of the government of the second territorial area." What they meant was that if a group of, say, Virginia militiamen were practicing, they shouldn't go into Maryland.
Unfortunately, the bureaucrats of the Bureau of Indian Affairs correctly interpreted that to mean that there would have to be a "Reservation" militia and the militia of the rest of North Carolina. And, technically, the only area that one Thomas Redman, sergeant in good standing of the North Carolina Cherokee Tribal Militia, could make war on the Posleen in was reservation territory. And he was just about to clear the reservation line.
A series of not particularly funny John Wayne movie jokes went through his head as the four wheeler crested the last bit of rock and rumbled onto the Blue Ridge Parkway headed to cut the Posleen off at the pass.
"Y'all better WATCH out!" he yelled to the night. "This Redman is off the reservation!"
* * *
"Sir, I'm in contact with Eastern Command," Kittekut said, tapping rapidly for a moment then stopping.