“She’s been like that for the last half hour,” the captain of the Salem said, off-screen. “My turrets are locked and I’ve had to go to pure manual steering with my AZIPODs. In fact, I’ve had to go to manual operation for everything and I’m just not crewed for that.”
“I’m going to order Salem back to port,” Graybeal said.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” McNair answered. “Here, Texas can guard her from a space attack and I can guard her from a low attack. Sent back to base, she’d be on her own for hours.”
“Jeff’s right, Admiral. Only thing is…”
“Yes? Spit it out!” the admiral ordered.
“Well, Admiral… twice we’ve had to abort firing cycles that had you and Des Moines as targets. Something is trying to control this ship and use it on behalf of the enemy. Sally, herself, seems to be fighting it but you can see what the result of that has been.”
“Shit!” cursed Graybeal and McNair, together.
Interlude
Take just under four hundred normals and cosslain. Put them in the charge of one Kessentai whose genetic skill set includes nothing having to do with agriculture. Place them on approximately eight hundred hectares of land. Add advice from a Kenstain who actually likes being a dirt farmer. Sprinkle liberally with rain and baste with sun…
“But we’ll have to wait a bit, Guano, before the first shoots come up.”
“And what do we eat in the interim, Ziramoth? The thresh, including the nonsentient ones, are all fled.”
The Kenstain laughed and, twisting around, produced a bamboolike stalk from his saddlebags. One end of this he placed under the armpit for that arm that was only a stump, then skinned the remainder with a small monomolecular blade. The skinned result, wet and glistening, he handed over to the God King.
Suspiciously, Guanamarioch sniffed at the offering. It looked way too much like wood to be appealing. He said as much.
“Certainly there’s quite a lot of cellulose in the make up. But try it anyway,” Ziramoth answered.
The Kessentai bit off a few inches and chewed, his jaws chomping a few times before his eyes widened in surprise.
“What is this stuff, Zira? It’s good.”
“The locals call it sugar cane. There’s enough growing hereabouts to do us until our own crops are in.”
Guanamarioch didn’t answer, his mouth being too occupied in masticating the satisfyingly chewy, sweet cane.
Sugar cane would only carry one so far. Of game, sadly, there was none. Moreover, all the thresh called “humans” in the area, and their agricultural animals, had been rendered and eaten within a few days of arrival. There remained fish, fairly abundantly, in the streams and ponds. Guanamarioch could see the little bastards, glaring up at him and taunting him from beneath the waves and eddies.
He lunged at one with his claws… and missed. Then he looked around frantically for another, saw one and lunged at it… and missed. On the third attempt he missed as well, but also missed his footing on the slippery underwater stones and went under with a great flailing splash.
As Guanamarioch arose from the water, sputtering and choking, from the moss-covered bank Ziramoth began to snicker. The snickering rose until it became a full-fledged, ivory-fang-flashing Posleen laugh.
Guanamarioch opened his jaws to snap at the Kenstain, but stopped in midsnap, joining Ziramoth, ruefully.
“That will never do, lordling. Come here onto the bank and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
When the God King was standing next to the Kenstain, Ziramoth motioned for the two of them to lie down. Then he picked up a long pole, from which dangled a string and a small hook. From his saddlebags the Kenstain pulled out a small container. He drew from this a thin, claw-length writhing thing. For a moment, Guanamarioch wondered if this thing was good to eat. His surprise was total when he saw Ziramoth thread the little creature onto the hook and toss them both into the stream.
“We have to stay low so the water creatures won’t see us and will come close enough to smell the bait.”
“And?”
“Well, milord, under fragrant bait is a hooked fish.”
Chapter 16
The orders from Snyder had been, “Find the Panamanian Tenth Mechanized Infantry Regiment, a Colonel Suarez commanding. Attach yourself to Suarez. Assist as able.” A marker had appeared in Connor’s suit-generated map showing the presumed location of the 10th Regiment Command Post.
It had actually been damned difficult to find Suarez. By the time Connors reached the location he’d been given the command post had moved on. Some Panamanian support troops, a maintenance company, was there in its place. They hadn’t known where the CP had gone, except that it had gone generally west.
Connors and B Company followed the road at the double time. Rather, they paralleled it because the road itself was a nightmarish mish-mash of confused and tangled units.
“Hey, sir,” the first sergeant had called. “Weren’t you a tanker once upon a time? Does this shit look right to you?”
“I was, Top,” Connors answered, “and no, it doesn’t look right. It looks like a recipe for disaster.” Connors took the effort to read bumper numbers as he ran past the mess. In twelve vehicles he noted eleven different units represented.
Bad. Very damned bad.
The company pressed on to the west. Surprisingly, the confusion grew less the closer to the front they got. Soon, Connors was seeing only bumper numbers marked for the 10th Infantry, the very mechanized regiment he was seeking. He ran over to a likely looking armored personnel carrier and asked, his suit translating to Spanish for him, “Where can I find Colonel Suarez?”
“I’m Suarez,” answered a neat and fierce looking, for all that his face seemed twenty years old, dark-skinned Panamanian.
“Sir. Captain Connors, B Company, First of the Five-O-Eighth Mobile Infantry.” Almost Connors used the old gag line, “And we’re here to help you.”
Suarez frowned. With the idiot orders emanating from division, the absolute goat fuck he knew was behind him on the road, and the general confusion, he wasn’t sure what use he had for a company of the gringo self-propelled suits.
“What am I supposed to do with you, Captain?” he asked. “No one told me you were coming. I’m not equipped to give you any support you might need. And frankly, everything is so goddamned fucked up I don’t see you doing much besides adding to the confusion. No offense,” he added.
“Sir,” Connors began patiently to explain, for he had grown used to people who didn’t understand the suits and so rejected them, “my company has more practical direct firepower than your entire division. All my men can speak Spanish through the suits’ translational capabilities. And we don’t need any support: no fuel, no food, no parts, no mechanics. We don’t even need to take up any road space.”