“Demons of shit and fire,” he whispered, “but I hate these humans.”
Using the communication device on his tenar, he ordered his God Kings to fall back as well. There would be no stopping this rout until the normals had exhausted themselves, and that would not happen for hours. No sense in wasting his few intelligent and well armed followers on what was, for now, a hopeless endeavor.
Tomorrow. We’ll try again tomorrow.
To the north, Preiss made a call back to his TOC, at Chiriqui Grande. The troops were landing in mass now, trucks rolling from the landing craft one after another. The S-4, his logistics officer, was organizing the regimental trucks to begin moving the troops forward tonight. By morning, so he was told, the regimental artillery, a battery of 105 millimeter guns, would be in position to support all the way to Hill 2213 and a few kilometers past.
Someone, that old woman Herrera had mentioned, so Preiss supposed, was still holding the pass, it seemed. The steadily streaming refugees confirmed this. Preiss could only be impressed. He pictured in his mind some tough ancient crone, bent over and walking with the aid of a cane. She must be one tough old bird, to be hanging on this long, with scrapings and cast offs. I hope we can get there by tomorrow.
In the dark tropical night Digna passed off control of the mortars to her two groups of sentinels on either side of the pass. She’d have given her newly reborn virginity in a heartbeat for some of the light amplifying or thermal sights the gringos had in such abundance. But, though the Norteamericanos had been fairly generous to Panama, most of what had been gifted had gone to the regulars, not little bands of militia like hers. In her illicit trading she had almost, but not quite, managed to secure a brace of the larger night vision devices for her battery.
I should have met those black market bastards’ price, she fumed silently.
A freight train racket rattled by overhead, followed by a hollow pop. The pop was followed in turn by a fluting sound as the casing of a mortar illumination round slid off of a shell and rotated down to the ground. A few seconds later it impacted with an audible thud. At about the same time the illumination shell’s parachute deployed and the flare lit upon a scene of utter frightfulness, massed ranks of Posleen moving into an assault position. They filled the landscape as far as the eye, aided by aerial flare, could see.
A plaintive voice came from her radio. “Mamita, there’s a sea of them out there, just forming up in rectangles and going to sleep on their feet. Can’t I please use some HE on them?”
Digna thought about that. Does it make a bit of difference if we kill some now? Does it matter if we cost them some sleep or make them move a bit? Somehow, I think not. Better things to use the shells on. Better times to use them. Like tomorrow, at first light, just before they move into the attack.
Into her radio she answered, firmly, “No. We’ll hit them in the morning. Just use the illumination rounds — and use them sparingly — to keep track of where they are for the mortars. At an hour before first light” — she had never quite gotten around to explaining the concept of Beginning of Morning Navigable Twilight to her girls and boys so “an hour before first light” would have to do — “we’ll hit them where they’re assembled. It ought to buy us some more time and kill a fairly large number of the swine.”
“Si, Abuela,” the young man on the other end answered. “I’m sending coordinates to Edilze as I identify them.”
“Good man, Grandson. Your abuela is proud of you. Let me know if they begin to stir.”
“Mamita, it’s time,” the boy announced, handing a cup of steaming coffee to Digna as she sat abruptly upright. She looked around, guiltily, before fixing her eyes on her great-grandson’s dim face. Nothing untoward. Good. At least I didn’t make any noise. Either that, or the boy’s too polite to let me know he knows. Damn these hormones, anyway.
She took the coffee, sipped at it, then rubbed some of the caked crud from her eyes. She looked around at her surroundings. Still darker than three feet up a well digger’s ass at midnight. Also good.
Digna consulted her watch, an incongruous dainty, gold thing; a gift from her husband on their fiftieth anniversary. She’d been dreaming of her wedding night when the boy had roused her…
No time for that now.
“Radio,” she ordered, and the boy passed over the handset.
“Edilze, this is Abuela, over.”
“Here, Abuela,” the radio came back, instantly. Yes, Edilze is one of the good ones.
“Ammunition status, over?” Digna asked.
“Sixty-two rounds illumination; six hundred thirty-seven rounds high explosive.”
“Firing status, over?”
“I’ve preplanned thirty-three targets plus almost continuous illumination until the sun rises,” the granddaughter answered. “Three of the targets are the center of the pass and two hundred meters north and south of it.”
“Good, wait, over. Group one, group two, Abuela, over.”
“Here, Mamita,” “Aqui, Abuela,” came the answers.
“Rouse your people, then stand by to adjust fires. Abuela, out.”
Digna stood and looked left and right. There was movement there, to both sides, as her people roused themselves from slumber and resumed their defensive positions. She passed the word by runner to either side to stand to and be ready.
When she was certain her people were as ready as they would be she rekeyed the radio microphone and ordered, “Edilze, Abuela. Commence firing.”
Preiss jerked awake as the still jungle air was rent by repeated explosions. He’d had no idea that there was a mortar position nearby when he’d ordered his driver to pull over the night before. Now there could be no doubt of it as the muzzle flash of multiple firing mortars lit the area like a strobe light.
“What the fuck? Rodriguez,” he ordered his driver, “go over to that gun position and find out what’s happening.”
The driver “yessirred” and took off at a lope, rifle carried loosely in his left hand.
Preiss then called the truck column by radio and asked their position. Under his flashlight, he saw on the map that they were no more than three kilometers behind him.
“Wake their asses up and get them moving,” he ordered. “Now. I’ll meet them on the road.”
He called for his S-2, or Intelligence Officer. “Where are the scouts?”
“Boss, they’re about two kilometers short of the summit. I held them up after sundown, rather then send them into a firefight with mixed Posleen and friendlies.”
Preiss chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment.
“I’m not sure you did right, but I’m not sure you did wrong. In any case, get ’em moving again. What’s their ETA at the pass?”
“Three hours… maybe four,” the S-2 returned. “The jungle’s a bitch up that way.”
“Push them,” Preiss insisted.
“Roger.”
The driver, Rodriguez, returned. Breathlessly he said, “Sir, there’s eight heavy mortars there in a large pasture. Woman in charge — handsome woman, sir, you oughta see — says they’re doing a ‘countapddepp.’ Sir, what’s a ‘countapddepp’?”
Preiss mentally translated — “counter-preparation” — and answered, “A damned smart move, sometimes.”