“No lie?” Suarez asked, one lifted eyebrow showing the skepticism he felt.
“No lie, sir. Just tell me what you need done and we’ll do it. Within reason, of course.”
“Of course,” Suarez echoed, trying to think what use he might make of these gringo — no, galactic, he supposed — wonders.
“I’m torn,” Suarez muttered, “between having you go back and unfuck the mess to the rear and having you go forward and clear out a group of the aliens that is holding up my advance. Have you got a map?”
Connors’ AID projected a 3-D map of the area in midair.
Suarez’s eyebrow dropped as he leaned back from the projected map in startlement. When he recovered his composure he said, “Hmmm… I wish I could tell you where all my units are. Damned radios are not working quite right.” Suarez’s eyes widened again as unit icons began to appear on the projected map.
Suarez couldn’t resist saying, “Cooollll,” as he jumped down from the APC and stood in front of the map. “I’ve got three problems. One is the cluster fuck to the rear. As I said, I’d use your people to help straighten it out… except that if you have the fire power you claim, it would be a waste.” Unless, of course, you used that firepower to shoot my division commander.
“My second problem is communications. I might use you for that later, if you’re willing, but for now I’d rather use you for problem number three, which is this river crossing, here,” Suarez’s finger touched a spot on the projected map.
“There are enemy on the other side. While I could force it, it would cost me some armor. This, in itself, would be acceptable except that the armor would then block the ford. Can you clear the far side for me, then sweep down and clear the bridge south of the crossing?”
“We can,” Connors answered after a moment’s thought. “Can you loan us some artillery support?”
Suarez’s face grew, if possible, fiercer still. “The artillery is my number one communications problem, Captain. I can sometimes get my line battalion commanders. I have not heard a peep from the gunners in hours. I’ve got my sergeant major out looking for them now.”
“Okay, sir. I understand. We’ve got some indirect fire capability of our own, but the ammunition for that is limited, and I doubt you’ve got anything we could use in lieu.”
Boot, don’t spatter, echoed in Connors’ mind as he set his troops up for the assault. The biggest single thing I’ve got going is that the Posleen probably don’t know we’re here and likely don’t have much of a clue of what we are capable.
“AID, map.”
Okay… into the river and move upstream to the crossing point… send one platoon. The other two demonstrate on this side. A five-second barrage by weapons and then the platoon in the water charges.
Oughta work. Connors issued the orders and the platoons fanned out, one of them — the first — diving into the water and moving upstream. The fire from the high ground opposite was weak and scattered, really not enough to worry about.
When he judged the time right, Connors ordered Weapons Platoon to fire. The high ground erupted in smoke and flame as several hundred 60mm shells landed atop it. The First Platoon, feeling the vibrations in the water broke out and charged due west.
The First Platoon leader swept across the objective quickly, then reported, “Captain, there’s one, repeat one, cosslain here with a three millimeter railgun. And he’s deader than chivalry. Nothing else.”
That was worrisome but Connors could not quite put his finger on why. He tried to report it to Suarez and found he couldn’t get through to the colonel’s Earth-tech radio. Instead he sent a messenger and proceeded to follow the plan, sweeping south along the river’s west bank to seize the bridge that Suarez really needed.
There was little resistance on the way or even at the bridge. Connors sent another messenger to advise Suarez that the way west was open.
“The trick,” Binastarion said to Riinistarka, hovering next to his father on his own tenar, “is to convince the threshkreen that we are as confused as they seem to be. That requires that obvious objectives and key terrain be given up without a fight, but that delayed counterattacks to retake them be put in at a time that is most inconvenient to us. And with significant losses to the threshkreen. Only in this way will they not suspect a trap. The technique is called, ‘Odiferous bait,’ my son.”
“Father,” the junior Kessentai said, “I don’t understand. When you told us the tale of Stinghal, he left no such guards and didn’t throw away any of the people in fruitless counterattacks.”
“Those were different circumstances, my son. There, in the city of Joolon, the enemy provided his own reason to believe the city was ready to fall, Stinghal merely added to the illusion. Here, on the other hand, the enemy threshkreen have not been in a position to really hurt us. We must provide the illusion and that illusion must seem very real indeed. Thus, I throw away thousands of the people in these fruitless attacks, to convince the enemy.”
“I… see, my father,” Riinistarka agreed, though in fact the junior Kessentai did not see.
Will I never acquire the skills my father and our people need?
Suarez was screaming into the radio when his track reached the bridge where Connors met him. The gringo captain didn’t know at whom the colonel was shrieking, but took it as a good sign that the radios were working at all.
In frustration, Suarez threw the radio’s microphone down, and raised his eyes to Heaven, shouting a curse. The curse had no name to it, but Connors guessed that it was directed toward higher levels, rather than lower.
The MI captain trotted over and removed his helmet. Suarez seemed fascinated by the silvery gray goop that slid away from the gringo’s face before collecting on his chin and sending a tendril down into the helmet. His eyes followed the tendril as it disappeared into the greater mass, leaving Connors’ face clean.
“That creeps out everyone who sees it for the first time,” Connors admitted, with the suit still translating.
“Umm… yes, it would,” Suarez answered in English, the first time he had shown faculty with the language.
“Your radios are working again?” Connors asked.
“Yes. Even the fucking artillery is up.” Suarez’s voice indicated pure suspicion at his suddenly granted ability to talk to his subordinates; that, and a considerable disgust at suddenly having to listen to his superior, Cortez.
He continued, “There was nothing but static or a few disconnected phrases and then, in an instant, poof, I was in commo with everyone. I almost wish I were not, especially with my idiot division commander.”
Tracks continued to roar by, heading westward, as the Panamanian and the gringo MI captain spoke. The stink of diesel filled the air as the heavy vehicles ground the highway — never too great to begin with — into dust and grit. Both Connors and Suarez coughed as a particularly concentrated whiff of the crud assailed them.
That track passed and in the sound vacuum left Connors observed, “Well, as long as you have commo with everybody, you’re probably best off keeping us close to you and using us as a powerful reserve.”