* * *
Jake dialed up the magnification on the night vision system and sighed. "Sir, we are surrounded by Posleen. Our position is southeast of Lake Seed and the Posleen have apparently figured this out and are patrolling all the surrounding roads. Our objective was an overlook of Clarkesville, but at this point that is impossible. If we can cut our way out alive we'll be lucky. Are you with me, sir?"
* * *
Ryan shivered and remembered the mingled shame and relief when his own platoon was permitted to leave the Occoquan defense. He knew, only too well, how Mosovich was feeling at the moment. Or maybe not: in Ryan's case he had always had the option of retreating.
He glanced at the artillery availability board and blanched. The sergeant major was not going to like what he was about to tell him; it was likely that he wouldn't believe it either.
"Sergeant Major, I've got some really shitty news. The fighting up north has had CONARC calling for available artillery from all over. We've lost both additional heavy artillery regiments in the area, the additional special arty we were supposed to get was diverted to Chattanooga and Asheville and half our corps arty is gone. We don't have any of the heavy, special guns at all, except one SheVa and they don't have any useful ammunition. And you're out of range for anything else except one five-five. And half the one five-five is tasked to emergency protective fire. I can't get that released without the corps commander's permission."
Ryan could hear the sergeant major swearing softly over the open circuit and something about it made the memory click. "Sergeant Major Mosovich? From Richmond?"
There was silence over the circuit for a moment. "Yeah, that's me. Why do you know about that, sir?"
Ryan stroked his mustache. He had grown it as an affectation back when he thought he was a little too young to suddenly be a captain. Then, after a while, he noticed that people tended to avoid looking him in the eye. Oh, not the combat types, but around corps headquarters you didn't run into many of them. But for the rest . . . they tended to look away. Some of them said he didn't look like he was still in his twenties.
But he kept the mustache.
"I know Mr. Keene. Pretty well." He'd studied under Keene's tutelage in Chattanooga during the rebuild and they had become more than acquaintances; Keene was one of the ones who could look the young major in the eye. And Keene had some good stories about Richmond. Better than Ryan's, which mostly ended "and then we ran away again" or "and then he died."
"Better than Barwhon, Sergeant Major," Ryan added, realizing now, how he could get the NCO to work with him. If they worked together rather than at cross-purposes, which would just happen if Mosovich assumed he was dealing with an arm-chair commando, they could, maybe, get the LRRP team out.
"Better than Barwhon but not as good as Occoquan," the major added. "I had the Missouri on my side there." Ryan paused again and clicked icons, reconfiguring data. "You now have everything I have the authority to release, Sergeant Major. I'm going to send a runner over to the corps commander with the request that he release the fast reaction forces, all but one batt. Some of these guys are probably asleep, so it will take waking them up. But in just a bit you'll have the better part of two brigades of artillery at your beck and call."
* * *
Mosovich smiled as his AID showed all the available artillery in the corps transferring to his control, but he suppressed his chuckle. "So that was you, sir. Yeah, I wish the Mo was in range. Or any of the railguns. But what we've got will have to do."
* * *
Ryan pointed at the nearest senior NCO and towards the corps commander's quarters. The headquarters was on a hillock in the middle of the Gap and had once housed the Rabun School. Now the dormitories were officers' quarters and the headmaster's home was the corps commander's quarters. Generally, the commander did not prefer to be disturbed in the middle of the night, but one look at the major was enough to send the staff sergeant scampering. And he wasn't going to return unless he had the release of the artillery.
"I'll see if I can scrounge up anything else. Can you think of anything?"
"Just one, sir," Mosovich added. "It might make sense to wake up Major Steverich in S-2. These guys are not acting like normal Posleen. Way too controlled, way too . . . something. They seem to be anticipating us in a way I don't like one bit. Like they're anticipating everything we do."
"Or reading the mail?" Ryan asked. "You're secure, right?" He checked the notation on the communicator. "Right."
"Yes, sir," Mosovich answered. "We're using the laser system, I'm not even trusting ultra-wide band. But we've been losing sensors. That's why we're out here; because we've lost all our sensors on this side of the mountain. What have they been doing with them?"
* * *
Tulo'stenaloor looked over the shoulder of the God King and reined in his impatience. Goloswin had been almost impossible to find, and even harder to dig out of his comfortable rut on Doradan. From the point of view of the young hotheads that made up the majority of the Host, Kessentai like Goloswin were not much more than Kenstain. They may have fought well enough to get a few small possessions, a square of property and a factory or two. But then they quit, leaving the fighting to their betters. And they had odd . . . hobbies was not a Posleen word, but it fit.
In the case of Goloswin the hobby was . . . devices. He seemed to understand the Alldn't equipment better than its long dead Alldn't and Posleen designers. He could improve, another human word, "tweak" came to mind, a tenar so that it was faster, smoother and the sensors interacted even better with the guns. His sensor suites were a thing of legend and many well-to-do Kessentai waited years for one of his systems to be built and eventually catch up with them.
And one of them cost more in trade credits than a basic oolt, fully equipped.
But the technician's real love was new discoveries, new devices to tinker with, such as the sensor box floating in the stasis field.
"These humans, so endlessly inventive." The God King sighed. "Look. Not just a communicator, not just a relay and not just a sensor, but all three rolled into one. Crude in places; I think that some of these components undoubtedly came from something else. But quite, quite inventive."
"And now a defense device," Tulo'stenaloor pointed out. "The last one that we tried to take down blew up when it was moved." The loss of an oolt'os and a Kessentai who was supervising was not worth commenting on.
"I need a sample of one of those," Goloswin said. "I have an oolt'os who will probably be able to take one down successfully."
"After this little problem is rectified," Tulo'stenaloor said. "They are dependent for untraceable communication on these things. I would like to remove that link if I could."
"Oh, it's not untraceable," Goloswin pointed out. He slid his talons through some glowing dots in the air and a new holofield opened and configured. It was a rough map of the region and Tulo'stenaloor realized that the "bright" areas were where the human sensors could see. And he realized immediately what he was looking at.
"You're in the sensor net?" he breathed.
"Oh, yes," Goloswin agreed. "Trivial exercise, quite trivial. The nice part is this." He highlighted a field and four purple icons sprang to life on a ridgeline. "There are your pests. Now go take care of them and get me a sample of the new sensors. I look forward to examining this 'boobytrap.' And the next human you talk to, please ask it what a 'booby' is before you eat it."
* * *
Mosovich looked at the map and got a sick feeling in his stomach. The fact was that, no matter how much artillery fire they got, they were in a box. There were only three places where crossing the Talullah River would be a reasonable proposition. As Mueller had pointed out, if they had SCUBA gear they could have crossed any of the lakes at any point. But without the gear they would be four obvious targets, out on the flat nowhere and open to fire from any passing patrol. And the crossing would not be quick. Even if they could "drownproof" Sister Mary and drag her across on a float. But otherwise it was a matter of choosing the bridges; crossing the streams would be nearly impossible and—between having to rig ropes to keep from being swept away and making their way across—sure to take too long as well.