Much to my personal disappointment, and to your wondering if I had let this project go by the wayside, it has been five months since an update. I assure you this was not due in any way to giving up, but life happening. Work in my industry has been unusually busy (especially for this time of year), I've had two major mechanical fights with my car that took a lot of time and newly invented swears to fix (I'd rather fight an Assassination Bot with a tire iron at this point), I've done a lot of travelling as well, and so on it goes. There is more material coming in the next few weeks, but for now I'd like to get at least SOMETHING to...not paper, to pixels. Hopefully my pen has not gotten as rusty as my car's rear trailing arms, and you'll let me know down below. And without further rambling...where were we?
. . .
The Head had received the thick-paper box at his home at day's end. A pair of Couriers, each with one end of the box under his arm, delivered with no fanfare or instruction; except to go with Syrinx' Blessings and have a pleasant evening. Thanking and dismissing them, The Head took the box to his kitchen. On the table he carefully emptied the contents, spreading them out to better look at what he was working with. In his preliminary shorthand notes he wrote:
- Sum of pieces weighs 8.5 Units, est.
- Several types of solid cellulose, porous and fibrous material
( ? ), ( ? ), ( ? ) Non-native material?
- Wires consist of braided, smaller wires. Very high tensile
- Numerous electrical components. Unidentifiable. Silicon-based. Smashed or shattered.
- Various metallic components. No clear or obvious function or purpose.
§ Form of iron-based alloy?
- One intact Knob/Button/Indicator/Dial? Several others, broken. All with markings around base.
- Markings in language that could be Terran (English?) or Liberas?
§ Will have to borrow reference guide from Archives again.
- Need to schedule Materials Laboratory time.
§ Determine base materials, elements, and properties!
Before he had begun, The Head had turned on the Temple Radio on his kitchen counter. His idea was its calming and soothing tones, composed and broadcast by a special department of The Temple, would help give him focus. Instead, for the first time, he noticed its playlist of sustained tone clusters and slight harmonic variations was making it impossible to concentrate. Normally, he'd be using this evening time for meditation and winding down from the stress of his day, with help from the Temple Radio; or reading one of his many books. So, he had never worked on a project and had the Temple Radio playing at the same time.
"Annoying." The Head flipped the ON/OFF button (the only other control being the volume knob) and went back to work. Pen in hand, he studied each and every single piece, meticulously looking for and noting unique characteristics or clues to its function, purpose, or place in the pile. A blink later and his alarm startled him. It was time for bed.
"Already? Impossible." A glance at the wall clock told him indeed several hours had passed. Loathe as he was, he packed everything up back into the box, notes and all. He stowed it in the small space between the wall and his bedroom door. It wasn't the best place, but it was out of easy sight. Why he felt the need to hide the box at all never occurred to him.
. . .
Both sides of Centre and Clearfied Counties were busy through all Saturday night and into Sunday morning. Naota had approached Johnny, Mike, Josh, and Jeff with a notebook filled with sketches and a head bursting with ideas. Ever since, the group had sequestered themselves to a corner of the shop. They made a terrible mess with scrap lumber, reams of cardboard, stencil cutting knives, spray paint cans, and dark, mischievous snickering at each other. Across the county at Port Matilda, police watched Dark River contractors offload barrels of chemicals, rolling the 55-gallon drums into the station's forensics laboratory. Caleb Kauffman supervised this process, personally gutting the laboratory and reshaping it to his own taste and purpose. In an unusual fury of aggressiveness, Caleb then barred any and all from entering the room. Once he bolted the doors behind him, no one could get in, and he had not come back out. There he had remained, not even emerging for sleep, food, cigarettes, or relieve himself. When questioned, The Man stated simply 'I have faith in Mister Kauffman's endeavors' and that was the end of discussion.
By end of Sunday, both parties had finished their tasks. Jeff and Naota took Naota's idea on the road with two up-armored trucks from Solomon's Mine as escorts, returning well past dark. Meanwhile, Caleb emerged from his self-imposed isolation. With a set of ruined clothes and an apron both chemically stained, he tilted up his twin-filter NBC rated gas mask and lit a cigarette.
"Ahhhh…that's better."
"How goes it?" The Man beckoned to Caleb from a sitting area down the hall. As Caleb approached, The Man checked the time on his pocketwatch. "We are scheduled to begin in four hours. Will you be ready by then?"
"I'm ready now." Caleb took half a cigarette's length worth of pull and blew out a plume of smoke. "Want to see?"
"I admit I am curious."
"A'ight. C'mon in." Caleb flicked his cigarette butt into one of the sitting area's potted plants and led The Man to the lab. Before entering, both donned gas masks. Inside was filled with the din of industrial fans pulling explosive and toxic fumes out to the scrubbers and purifiers before venting it outside, the bubbling of cooking chemicals, and the mechanical stamping of an automated pill press. Finished capsules were deposited into a rapidly filling bucket. "Whaddyah think?"
"You set all this up yourself?" The Man was impressed with such rapid response on such short notice.
"I've had a bit of practice. Gets kinda reflexive after a while." Caleb walked The Man through the process. First was taking Ephedra alata, gathered on Dark River's excursions in North Africa, isolating and extracting Ephedrine, then reducing it with red phosphorous and iodine, and finally grinding it to powder and encapsulating it in a plain, white, hardened shell. "A bit complicated to learn, more so to do it correctly, and hardest of all: safely without turning yourself into a chemically preserved mummy, or blowing yourself up. But if idiots can do this with two liter bottles in a back alley, then anyone can."
"Will it do as I asked?" The Man inspected one of the fresh pills between his thumb and forefinger; holding it up to a light. "I'm a fair, but strict, taskmaster Mister Kauffman. No deviations, no dabbling, nothing exotic or experimental."
"Yeah, it'll do exactly as I described. Warrior in a Pill. Remember? I think your Marines might want a crack at it too, see if it's to their liking."
"Best not get too ahead of yourself. But I do remember; and will keep remembering. If this gives the advantage you claim it will, then you'll have all the time and resources to innovate at your leisure." The Man dropped the pill into the bucket. He then stared out from his gas mask's face shield, and even though it was blackened against harsh radiation or the flare of chemical burns, Caleb still felt his innermost thoughts were being sifted through. "I have been warned by your brothers about your nature. Resist your urges, or lack of, for just a while and you'll reap the reward of delayed gratification. If you cannot do this, know that The Red Star has no use for grifters or the listless."
"Right." Caleb sweated under his mask, hoping The Man had not seen or perceived the barrel of ergot alkaloid derivatives in the corner; the beginnings of his own pet project. "It'll be time soon Sir, and I have to finish up. Will you excuse me?"
"Of course." The Man took his leave and headed for the airlock. "One last thing."
"Yes?"
"Flush that vat of vileness." He pointed to the barrel of ergot alkaloid derivatives. "It does nothing but bring foolish dreams, empty thoughts, and the illusion of intelligent insight. We shall have no business with any such nonsense."
. . .
Only the bravest citizens of Port Matilda (of those foolish or stubborn enough to remain) dared to peek out their windows in the inky darkness of Monday morning, that Fifth of September. Deep sleeps were interrupted by the turning over of diesel engines and the creaking of caterpillar tracks. Police and Contractor forces, the Contractors freshly deputized, organized themselves into their battle groups and stood ready beside their vehicles. As they passed the quartermasters and armorers to receive their rations for the day and ammunition, a new addition was added to their kit: a single, white pill. Told it was an anti-anxiety pill to calm nerves, each officer did as ordered and popped it immediately without further thought. Finally assembled, the new Sheriff Wilson gave a brisk briefing over the general radio channel.
"Good morning, Officers and Deputies." Sheriff Wilson's address crackled over the airwaves and directly into his audience's ears. "I'll make this fast, speeches aren't my thing. Last week we weathered a setback, but more so, were given a blatant slap in the face. The very people we counted as fellow citizens, neighbors and friends, turned on us; rejecting our legitimacy and authority. This will not be allowed to stand, and should fill every one of you with righteous indignation. So in turn, responding in the only terms our former friends seem to understand, today we will be taking complete control of Philipsburg, Osceola Mills, Black Moshannon Forest, and obliterating anyone that defies us in this undertaking. With the Blessing of Syrinx, by The Priest's Will, this insurrection shall be done in by our capable hands. Mount up."
. . .
In a second verse similar to the first, the I.P.A. company tapped for deployment had assembled before an improvised stage on the Carson's property. Joining Solomon's company of an impressive 700 men was a 100 man detachment of I.I.B. A group of 400 miners would head north around Chester Hill, Philipsburg, Hawk Run, and Munson. The balance of 300 would spread along the forests between Chester Hill and Osceola Mills, and then Osceola Mills proper. The result was a defensive line shaped like a fishhook, with the main hook around Philipsburg, and the eyelet for the line around Osceola Mills, and the line of pickets for the shaft in the middle. The trailing end of the eyelet was atop a hill overlooking where Moshannon Creek, Bear Run, and Coal Run converge, and one of the three roads into Osceola Mills. And on this hill at the very end of the line, would sit the 100 I.I.B.; the beginning, or end, of a defensive line fifteen miles long.
. . .
As Naota and I readied to send everyone off as we had with Pike, Voyze, and King, we were approached by Solomon. He had just finished leading a Mass of Last Rites. This was a tradition his men did every time their shift descended into the Earth for another eight hours of darkness and danger; beseeching God for his protection from harm, or failing that, a place in his Halls in Heaven. Solomon handed me a slip of paper and asked a small favor.
"I'm sure you already had a song picked out, and I'll understand if that's what you'd rather play for us."
"We don't have anything against requests, just as long as we actually know how to play it."
"Then I hope you know this one. It's one I think my men will enjoy…and it's also one of my sons' favorite bands. They have the band's posters all over their rooms."
"Mister Solomon, it would be our pleasure." Naota agreed this was a winner after reading the note. "Tommy wants to say a quick word, then we'll play everyone out."
"Bless you young men. Thank you."
. . .
"Good morning gentlemen, Mister Solomon, and Commander Amarao!"
"Good morning, Tommy!" Eight hundred and change answered back.
"A week ago, Pike, Voyze, King, and all their men bravely did their part; and threw back the police outside Philipsburg on Route Three-Two-Two. Today the police and their mercenary hires are taking another crack at us. Now it is your turn to show what Free Men fighting for a cause, rather than a paycheck, are capable of; your ingenuity, your bravery, your tenacity."
"And our Jackassery!" One shouted out, drawing laughs as they thought about what they had waiting for the police and newcomer mercenaries.
"Indeed, Mister Shehan, and your twisted, strange senses of humor." Tommy acknowledged. "But before we go, I won't rehash the plans you have trained day and night for this past week. Instead, I will give you a reminder; I know you don't need me giving reasons to fight or hype you up. Remember this is a falling action battle, a fighting retreat. None of us are proper soldiers, so no one is expected to fight a full-blown siege. I don't expect anyone to one-man Rambo this, to hold off an entire company by themselves. You practiced your assignments, practiced your maneuvers, made backup plans of backup plans, and there is no reason to let those efforts go to waste. What I do expect, and hold full faith you will, is to do your jobs as seamlessly above the ground as you do within it. Now, one last order of business before we go. Mister Solomon has requested a song played for you. Jeff, Naota, send us off."
. . .
I looked out to a sea of determined, steadfast faces. They were going to fight a battle they would deliberately lose. They knew they would have to watch their towns by occupied by strangers and people that hated them, and wanted them dead. And most incredible of all, they were trusting us that this was the best course of action, that we would one day deliver their homes back to them. They deserved better than what I could give, but I would give my all.
. . .
Music began with the stereo's crash of cymbals, then the thudding of drums, followed by thumping bass, and Naota's opening rift rending an opening in the dark morning clouds to bring out a blinding ray of light as Jeff cleared his throat…
*The Dawn of Time breaks, see the Sun, rise to the Sky!
The Wheel of Time begins to turn…
But then we heard it, a divine voice out of nowhere!
Spoke to our hearts and showed The Way!
O, Mighty Lord, we have come to your hall!
Do Glatem Live, Creator of All!
Open your heart, and you will find a way…
Paradise calling, and enter you may! FALLING DOWN!
Now your soul returns to Paradise! One, Two!
Double-Seven, Thirty-Four!
The song proved a well-known hit, with seven hundred throats chanting 'FALLING DOWN!' and 'Double-Seven, Thirty-Four' at each prompting, eventually joining together as a swelling choir. Together their voices cascaded across the mountaintops in brotherly proclamations.
The Wheel kept turning, ages came…Time passed us by…
We lived in perfect harmony…
But then it happened, our ranks decreased rapidly…
But now it's time for our return!
Even though they didn't know the lyrics, or have any connection to these Terran men, the I.I.B. couldn't resist the infectious mood. Their spirits stirred seeing the enraptured throng, singing, stamping and shouting, their ears were hooked by Jeff's throaty baritone bellows and Naota's wailing guitar. Such that even these hardened and disciplined space-faring troops bobbed their heads, tapped their feet, and surrendered their rigid composure to wide open smiles.
Once we were numerous, but that's long ago…
We are no more Double-Seven, Three-Four…
We last two united, and two became one!
One hundred eleven, they perished in flames! FALLING DOWN!
Now your soul returns to Paradise! One, Two!
Double-Seven, Thirty-Four!
Naota stepped forward, shivering everyone's spines as he played. The Flying-V was perfectly in sync with its player, sensing the gravity of that morning and strained its components to ensure even their enemies heard its sounds miles away as the song built to its final crescendo.
Almighty Lord, we have come to your hall!
Do Glatem Live, Creator of All!
Open your heart, and you will find a way!
Paradise calling, and enter you may! FALLING DOWN!
Now your soul returns to Paradise! One, Two!
Double-Seven, Thirty-Four! FALLING DOWN!
Now your soul returns to Paradise! One, Two!
Double-Seven, Thirty, Fooouuurrrr…!*
. . .
"Hey guys, you gotta see this." The MRAP's roof gunner urged everyone in Patrolman Hynen's vehicle to look out their view-ports. His battle-group, one of dozens splitting up, was headed west along Black Moshannon Road, and into North Philipsburg to clear the Elementary School, Geisinger Hospital, the High School, and finally occupy the YMCA building. Hynen lifted the armor plate over his view-port and saw a brand-new sign, the size of a panel van, freshly installed alongside the road that read:
We missed you last time;
But don't worry, our aim is improving!
"They must think they're funny." One of the troopers sneered. "Clever even."
"It got you to open your yappy mouth."
"There's another one!" This one had taken over a roadside billboard and offered:
STACK'EM's FUNERAL HOME
Pine Box Special!
Buy ONE, Get TEN FREE!
Ask about our Police and Mercenary Discounts!
"Okay, that's kinda fucked up." Another trooper was visibly shaken. "What the fuck's going on with these signs?"
"They're just trying to get us rattled, calm down." Hynen said as yet another sign rolled into view.
If you can read this sign…
You have The Big Gay
"What…what the…hell?" Hynen wondered aloud as they passed this latest sign, then thought to himself. 'That sounds like something someone Jeff Carson's age would have thought up…I wonder what happened to him?'
. . .
"Charlie-Actual, Charlie-1-1."
"Go ahead, 1-1." The lead vehicle, one of the D.R.S. RG-31's, called to their commander's MRAP; a State Patrol lieutenant.
"We have another one of those goofy signs. This one's blocking the road. Want us to go around it?"
"Negative. We'll have to check it out, and move it." The lieutenant groaned, seeing shades of the Route 322 Ambush. "All Charlie vics, all stop, all stop. Obstruction in the road, watch for ambush. 1-1, go forward and check it out; and make it fast. We've got a timetable to keep."
"Roger, Actual." The six man squad dismounted and advanced. The sign was made of 1" x 12" planks, 4" x 4" posts, and hold in place with sandbags on the middle of the road; between Sandy Ridge and Osceola Mills. The wood was painted stark white, and lettered in bold, black block print:
WARNING:
YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A FREE COUNTRY
THIS FREE COUNTRY IS OCCUPIED BY FREE MEN
FREE MEN ARE HEAVILY ARMED
TYRANTS AND TRAITORS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT
PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!
"Subtle, eh?" One of the contractors asked.
"As a grenade in a compost pile." His Sergeant answered. "Check it, carefully, for wires; rest of you, give me a three-sixty."
"Checking now…" Two contractors slowly circled the sign, looking for anything odd. "Looks good so far, nothing yet."
"1-1, send updates."
"Actual, nothing yet; looks clear. Will send all-clear once we've moved everything. Stand by."
. . .
Half a mile up the road, a pair of Solomon's miners watched the Police and Contractor column halt to inspect the sign.
"Are your connections good?" One asked the other as they peered from behind their fallen tree trunk cover.
"Double-triple-checked as always." Between these two men was a combined twenty years of blasting and explosive experience. This time, they were lacking their usually nigh limitless supply of materials, so they and their team had improvised. To the left of the column, up the near-cliff hillside, was a row of ten near-buried 55-gallon oil drums. They were buried into the hill on their sides, their sealed lids sticking out just an inch, but covered by a dusting of dirt, sticks and leaves to hide them from easy discovery. Tightly secured between the bottom of the barrels and the back of the horizontal holes was a packet of explosives, all wired in parallel to a single detonation cord that wound back to an outdated, but not obsolete, 10-Cap Blasting Machine. The second man opened the safety cap, inserted the T-Handle key, and strained his eyes to watch for the opportune moment. "Ready."
"Wait for it…" The contractors threw off the sandbags, and slid, then tipped the sign into the ditch. The job done, they turned to board their vehicle. As soon as their backs were turned, the older miner gave the order. "Wait for it…now."
With the twist of a key, an electric charge surged along the hillside, following the detcord around and under trees, and into the five pound explosive packets at the backs of the barrels. The buried barrels helped channel the explosions, propelling five hundred and fifty gallons of a most odious mixture made of: gasoline, kerosene, motor oil, roofing tar, lime, soap flakes and soap powder, magnesium filings in the bottom of the barrel to ensure reliable ignition, and heaps of dissolved Styrofoam. This slurry was blown into a soggy carpet fifty yards deep and one hundred yards long, and immediately caught fire with dark orange flames in a rising inferno giving off black, tarry smoke. The first three vehicles were blanketed in the foul-colored, sticky paste that didn't liquefy and flow as it burned, but rather stuck to everything it touched; roasting the vehicle passengers in their seats. The exposed squad, coated from head to toe in the stuff, shrieked and flailed in terrified and confused agony, quickly succumbing and collapsing onto a melting road; as their fellows watched in helpless horror. Meanwhile, the two miners had begun their two mile long dead-run sprint back to Osceola Mills and the safety of friendly lines. After a 100 yard dash, they were already over the ridge line and out of reach from kinetic retaliation once the police and contractors shook off their shock and began attempting to battle with the flames.
. . .
Opposite the defensive line, the northernmost column was stuck on the wrong side of the Munson Grate Bridge. They had driven through quiet little Munson unchallenged, and the first two vehicles began crossing the Red Moshannon Creek. In front and above them, just across the Grate Bridge, was a railroad bridge they would have to pass under. This railroad bridge was an anachronism from when the pavement had been a wagon road, and was built so low, the local school bus more often than not got stuck under it if the driver took the gap at too high a speed.
As the nose of the lead Bearcat entered under the railroad bridge, there arose a terrible grinding noise and a shower of sparks as the last uncut beam holding up several tons of steel train rails, stone embankment, foot thick railroad ties, and truck loads of dirt, was blown asunder, thus dropping the railroad bridge and all its glory onto the Bearcat's roof; burying it and its passengers from stem to stern. Then, to add further complications, the D.R. and Police discovered what else the detachment of Solomon's men sent to Munson had been doing all night. They had hollowed out the earthen embankments under both sides of the bridge's anchor points; such that only gravity was holding the bridge and its anchor walls in place. Two small explosive charges blew these walls into the creek, dropping the Grate Bridge and MRAP on it ten feet straight down into five feet of rust-orange water. As a final fare-thee-well, the concealed M1895 Digger gun crew made themselves known, two hundred yards downstream with a pre-sighted all-belt long burst of sweeping automatic fire up and down the remaining vehicles; sending their dismounts behind or under their vehicles for cover. Before they could take return fire, the Digger crew hoisted the pallet their gun and tripod were sitting on into a waiting and running truck, and scampered off for Hawk Run. There they would link up with their fellows, and set up for yet another ambush.
. . .
To the south, the twin of the convoy that had entered Munson, was pursuing its own path by snaking along Coaldale Road; and was approaching Barlow Hollow. Before the hollow, the road is cut deep into the hillside of what used to be a strip coal mine. To the left of the road is a sheer wall of rock. To the right, a staggering steep hill down to Red Moshannon Creek and a swamp of overflow. Sensing this would be a prime spot for an ambush, the Convoy Commander ordered the lead vehicle to dismount someone and have them peek around the corner. This was done and resulted in an all clear. Still suspicious, the commander bade the lead vehicle take the blind turn with utmost caution. The lead MRAP approached, and was relieved to see a still empty road ahead. Then, the crew's horizon began to rotate. Solomon's men had carved a cavity from the far side of the blind turn, underneath the road. The only way the convoy could have known it was there would be to: stop, dismount, walk through the blind turn, climb down the hill, then walk back alongside the hill, and only then see the massive hole. The diggers had framed up the hole with 1" x 4" posts and flake wood, and put in a false roadbed with more flake wood panels and a layer of dirt. This disguised roadbed had been adjusted by hand to make it look authentic and driven on. While this stick frame and flake wood floor would hold a few men and even a foot of dirt, there was no crossing it with a 16-ton, six wheeled armored truck. The hole was ten feet long, deep, and the width of the road, but as the MRAP careened out of control, it took much of the hole's walls with it, and began sliding, then rolling down the hill. It landed with a splash and splatter in the swamp's hip deep sludge, sunk in on its side. Dazed, dizzy, battered, and scrambled as your morning eggs, the crew and passengers tumbled out the hatches. They began yelling up the hill for someone to throw down a rope, or at least stop standing there, gawking with their thumbs up their ass.
A mile away the crew of an M1 57mm Anti-Tank Gun readied to fire. They had taken the gun off its wheeled carriage and put it into a Dahl designed tracked and armored vehicle affair, but for today speed was of the essence. Instead the gun was mounted on the back of a flatbed truck with a double-tube hydraulic recoil system backed with thick rubber bump stops and a set of cushioning recoil springs from a repurposed tractor trailer suspension. The crew knew they would be able to get off two shots at most before their enemy spotted their muzzle blast, the dust cloud it kicked up, and started ventilating them and their truck. As such, they had the keys in the ignition, the Loader standing with a Naota Nandaba built HEAT round at ready, and everyone else buckled into their seats. The Gunner sighted on the rear vehicle of the column, incrementally moving the telescopic sight's cross hairs to the proper hold on an ACV-15.
"Ready when you are." The truck's Driver was getting nervous.
"I know…I'm just making this shot count…" The Gunner rested his hand on the plunger trigger, made a last, minuscule bump on the traverse and took a deep breath. "Okay. Here we go. Ears."
With the smack of a plunger trigger, the first HEAT round left the gun just shy of 3,000 feet per second; drifting slightly right and down from an unseen second crosswind. Instead of hitting the ACV-15 dead center, the round punched through the lower hull below the Gunner's turret basket and 25mm autocannon: right into a collection of ready 25mm cannon rounds. Then the HEAT shell's inner explosive core detonated. A pillar of flame blew the turret and its gun off the vehicle, sending up a blowtorch fire ten feet high as the on board extinguishers failed to subdue the overwhelming inferno. One of the passenger's last moments were spent managing to get the back hatch open, dying in the doorway as a column of propellant black smoke roiled out.
Back a mile west, the M1 auto ejected its spent shell against a deflection plate, dropping it into a catch bin for later reloading. The Loader threw the second HEAT shell into the waiting gun and the breech locked tight on its own.
"READY!"
"Start the truck!" The Gunner ordered, already laid onto his second target: the second vehicle from the front, an M939 truck filled with Dark River contractors. Just before the truck's keys turned, the engine's vibration would throw off the gun's aim, the Gunner palmed the plunger trigger. PAK-THOOOOMMM! The M1 sent its second shell into the joint between the truck's cab and cargo bed. The two halves were blasted apart, the human cargo launched skyward, and the contents of its fuel tanks scattered and set ablaze. As soon as the shell cleared the gun's muzzle, the Driver started the engine, dropped the shifting lever to second, and stood on the gas. He needn't have scratched off so fast. The police and contractors were too preoccupied with screaming wounded, a burning truck, and cooking off 25mm rounds to take shots at a fleeing flatbed. And as the convoy's luck would have it, the M1 and its crew would be in Hawk Run, set up and concealed, waiting to greet the convoy once again.
. . .
Reports coming in told a tale of a countryside riddled with traps, pitfalls, landmines, trees and power poles dropped across roads, the terror of flame fougasse, and most troubling: claims of being successfully fired on by shooting and scooting anti-tank guns and cannons. But this hardly rattled any nerves in the command tent back in Port Matilda. Dark River had not brought along their engineering units and equipment only to fortify the town and police station. Armored bulldozers, mine-clearers, front-end loaders and recovery vehicles had been following the columns from safe distances. Now they moved up to pull back damaged vehicles, or shove them off the road, fix thrown or blown tracks, put out fires, deploy temporary folding bridges, or dig out buried Bearcats. Delayed, but hardly defeated, the columns pushed through and sloughed onward; a noose of armored steel slowly closing around the twin cities.
This did not mean progress continued uncontested. Every narrow valley, hairpin or switchback turn, invited pre-sighted automatic gunfire. At any given moment, from positions just aside the defilade of a mountain, snipers with everything from scoped 0.30-30 lever guns to 0.50BMG Barrett's, would take their shot and melt back into the forest. And any open ground with more than half a mile of unobstructed view was a gallery for AT guns. But in spite of all this, as the morning gave way to late afternoon, the advances continued.
. . .
It was around three in the afternoon, and Naota was roasting on the roof of Osceola Mills Columbia Fire House. His, and Shifty's to his left, line of sight was focused on one of two bridges into town across Red Moshannon Creek; 200 yards to the southeast. Scattered in three main defensive arcs of fortified hard-points were 300 men of Solomon's Mines. Radio snippets painted a panorama of probing advances all up and down their front. This gave no indication as to where the main hammer blow would fall. And as his luck would have it, the Police and Contractor forces reached Osceola Mills first.
They heard them before they saw them. The picket lines gave welcoming bursts before breaking contact and sprinting across the main bridges, or shimmying over rope bridges they'd cut as soon as they were across. Tracers followed the pickets as they retreated, hurrying with their wounded. As the last man rushed by, there arose from beyond the trees the rumbling of diesel engines and clanking of tracks on pavement. Suddenly, Naota's AK-47 on its rest of sandbags, and even the Flying-V secured on his back, felt woefully inadequate. Shifty on the other hand, held no such pessimism.
"You sure on that range, Boss Man?" Shifty adjusted his glasses behind the scope of his Weatherby Mark V Deluxe and its 0.460 Weatherby Magnum rounds; enough to bring a charging Cape Buffalo to a dead stop with a single shot. Naota could see the angle of Shifty's confidence with such a rifle. "Two hundred yards even to the bridge, right?"
"I'm sure." He picked up his *brand new* laser rangefinder. Well, it was new to him anyhow. It had come his way from the equipment belt of a State Patrol marksman who…who wouldn't be needing it anymore. Mike had given Naota the rangefinder and he tried not to think any farther back in its history than that. "And now I'm double sure. Two hundred yards, even."
"I'll hold you to it." Shifty resettled his rifle, twisting it on the sandbags and letting it rest, then twisting again and letting it rest, so that it would be perfectly positioned for a first shot. "Wanna call Tommy and let him know we've taken contact?"
"Y'ea'p, that'd be a good idea." He reached up to his shoulder for his mic. "Sierra-Actual, Sierra-Actual, this's Oscar-Hotel."
"Go ahead Hotel." Tommy's background was filled with sporadic 'popcorn' gunfire. "What's the word?"
"South-East pickets have made contact and pulled back." Around the corner, four hundred yards down the road, swung into view the hulk of an MRAP. "Our MLR will be getting hit in less than one mike."
"Understood, Oscar-Hotel. Oscar-Hotel, and all Oscar-Mike stations, send contact reports as relevant. Make 'em holler!"
"Hey, Nao'…wanna make this interesting?" Shifty asked as the lead MRAP was joined by four of its fellows, and a gaggle of RG-31's, M939's, and a Ratel-60.
"More interesting than it already is?" The roaring and clanking grew louder and a thin tremor rippled up to their rooftop perch. "I've had enough excitement for two lifetimes, thank you!"
"No! No, no, no…just, y'know, a wager; a bet." Shifty thumbed off his rifle's safety. "Ten bucks says I can stop this truck with one shot."
"Why am I doing this?" Naota wondered aloud. "You've got a bolt gun…and they have bulletproof glass. Easiest ten bucks ever…you're on." The MRAP was at two-fifty yards.
"Shake on it." Shifty reached his left hand up and over his rifle. Naota reached under the trigger of his and they managed a handshake. "Cool. Now… Watch…This…" Shifty let his glasses slide down his nose, looking through his scope unaided with wide-open grey eyes, staring down the approaching MRAP like it was a territorial beast on some far-flung and forsaken planet. Naota flipped his rifle's safety lever down and readied to fire by trying to settle his heart to a reasonable pounding; at least enough it wouldn't throw off his aim too much. And then, as its front wheels hit the invisible line at 200 yard mark on the bridge, Shifty fired one concussive, teeth-rattling shot.
In all fairness, the Police and Contractor vehicle crews had not sallied forth unprepared. Not after the hard lessons learned a week back at Ambush Route 322. The windows of their vehicles were now Level 6 rated, able to take multiple hits of 0.30-06 Black Tipped Armor Piercing. But against a 0.460 Weatherby Magnum striking with 7,000 Joules, there was little the ballistic glass could do except try to slow the bullet down somewhat. Unfortunately for the driver and his skull's structural integrity, the glass wasn't able to accomplish this sufficiently. Astonished, Naota watched an MRAP with a spider-webbed windshield jerk off course, then lazily drift into the bridge's superstructure and come to an abrupt, clanging-crunching, stop.
"And that…" Shifty worked the bolt up, back, forward and down, catching the ejected brass and putting it in a pocket for later reloading. "Is ten bucks easy. Pay up."
"I…well, that's…as incredible as that was…" The bridge now blocked, dark blue, and black and tan uniforms were appearing on the bridge deck itself. "A shot through bulletproof glass on a moving vehicle, with a moving target inside it…I haven't got the money on me."
"Best get to work then." Shifty tut-tut-tutted and returned to his rifle's scope. "Start earning some money, or you'll owe me."
"Wonderful…that's just what I need on top of everything else: debt." As he pressed his cheek to the stock and eye to the sights, the demolition squad hidden in the upper floor of Grizzly's Bar, dropped the bridge. Two MRAPs and a dozen and a half troopers took an unplanned swim as shaped charges sliced in twain the central supports and superstructure, breaking the bridge in half and dumping its contents into the river. Now everyone with a line of sight opened fire, including the Digger crew set up on the sidewalk outside Brother's Pizza. They had been having themselves a late lunch, but dropped their plates to put fire downrange.
Even with an ideal shooting rest and position (prone, from a distance, behind cover, and with a solid, steady rest) Natoa found his first experience of truly giving fire, rather than taking fire, a jarring and nerve destroying affair. Despite properly held and rested, locked in and on semi-auto, it felt like his AK was trying to recoil itself out of his hands and into pieces. Each shot shook trembling arms that felt composed of jelly, he could hardly control his breathing to hold a steady bead on any target smaller than the barn broadside of an MRAP, and even with his earplugs in and headset on, three dozen plus AK's and scores more other guns, a chattering M1895 Digger, the thuds of a 0.460 beside him, and the Bumblebee of Death whiz of missed shots over and next to his head…set his ears and mind ringing with Sunday's Bells. And with what felt like two bumps of the trigger, his gun decided to stop working.
'What, what the fuck?!' If he had not panicked yet, he certainly was now. 'It's not firing?! No, no, nononononono, what's wrong?! Is it broke, is it hit? Jammed?! Am I hit?! Oh fuck, oh shit, what do I do?! Oh shit, oh fuck, what do…?' Somehow muscle memory worked his hands into the movements needed to remove the AK's magazine and put the top end of it in front of his face. Empty. 'Oh. Right. Yeah. Out of ammo. Needs new magazine. Right. Heh-heh. Whoops. I knew that…' He stuffed the empty magazine into his dump pouch, then drew, rocked 'n' locked a new one in, fought hard for and found the bolt handle, charged a new round, and resumed firing. All the while he hoped and prayed to anyone or anything listening, that no one had noticed his moment of heart-stopping, pants-shitting, terror.
. . .
A mile to Naota's west sat the 100 man detachment of I.I.B. agents, their H&K G3A3 rifles (now the standard issue for the branch instead of the inefficient menagerie of arms used four years before), and a blasting machine wired to a daisy chain of explosives squirreled away in the recesses of the culvert bridge over Coal Run. So far, all they had done was listen to the ongoing battle over their radio, the new back and forth firing in Osceola Mills, and fought off their impending boredom. And this suited Commander Amarao just fine.
"Anything out there, Sir?" One of his troops asked. Amarao was surveying the countryside through his binoculars; for the tenth time within the hour.
"No. Not yet…" Annoyed as he was being stuck on Earth, it was the first time in many a while he had nothing else to do but admire the scenery. It was a pristine day, an early September late summer. The lazy afternoon sun bathed the lush mountainsides in its glory, warm summer breezes flipped leaves at their fullest and wafted streaking, high-altitude clouds across an endless, soaring sky as blue as a certain Castran girl's eyes. Amarao concluded in characteristic I.I.B. understatement it wasn't a half bad view. "But that's always liable to change. Do you have the game on, what's the score?"
"It sounds like we're winning; in the locals strange idea of winning. They have withdrawn completely from Munson and Hawk Run." The radio operator consulted his short hand notes. "Osceola Mills you can hear from here, and those two explosions were the two bridges being blown on the south side of town. There have been contacts outside North Philipsburg, and sightings of vehicles on the Bigler Highway; that's the Three-Two-Two. And…that's it. The rest is all quiet or nothing worthy of note."
"Then everything is going to plan, so far." A metallic gleam on his peripheral caught his gaze. An RG-31 rounded the corner a mile down the road, followed by an MRAP. Nothing serious. Then came a pair of Ratel-60's. Still hardly anything to raise your eyebrows at. Immediately following was a pack of Bearcats, and then the first sighting that day of an Eland Mark 7 and its unmistakable 90mm low-velocity howitzer; and on and on came an unending parade of vehicles packed with contractors and police. This had the real possibility of becoming a serious matter. "Gentlemen! To your posts."
"Commander, the blasting machine's ready." One of the team's demolition experts reported in, handing over the device. Meanwhile, blue uniformed space troopers put down their shovels, jumped into shallow trenches, and readied their rifles.
"All appears in order." Amarao gave the final inspection of the machine and its connection terminals. He would have preferred their own remote detonation devices and precision explosives, not this outdated antique, but they were going to war with what they had and were expected to make the best of it. New technology or older, I.I.B. protocol dictated commanders always review anything and everything explosives related, and were held responsible for any failures to detonate; and collateral damage. Satisfied, he handed it back. "Stay in cover and be ready to detonate."
"Aye, Sir."
"Hold your fire, everyone pick a target but hold your fire!" Amarao checked his lines, found them in order, then found the long-range radio. "Break-Break-Break. Sierra-Actual, Sierra-Actual. This is Oscar-India, sending traffic."
"Roger, India. Go ahead."
"Oscar-India about to make contact. Massive enemy force approaching from west. Break. Multiple support vehicles and an assault gun, correction, two assault guns. No anti-armor on hand. Advise, over."
"Understood, India. Deter and delay, at least ten mikes. Oscar-Mike-One is folding, give them time to re-position. You'll then withdraw to Oscar-Mike-Three. Acknowledge?"
"India reads clear. Will send contact reports as warranted. India out."
"Commander, thirty seconds!" The sapper was watching the RG-31 approach the culvert bridge. He inserted the trigger key into the blasting machine.
"Hold fire until the charges go, then open up." Amarao took his position and steadied his G3's fore end against a tree's roots. He followed the turret of the first MRAP with his sights; twisting the knob sight to the 400 meter setting. The RG-31 cautiously approached the bridge, skittish from other explosions and traps earlier in the day. Its front wheels mounted the bridgehead, it rolled forward, almost square over the culvert and…nothing?
"Petty Officer?!" Amarao demanded to know why the vehicle wasn't cartwheeling in the air with the remnants of the bridge. "What is the holdup?!"
"The det' chord has been severed; I think." Another inspection of the blasting machine demonstrated it was wired properly and was generating a proper charge. "How, I don't know."
. . .
Ignorant of the finer points of local flora and fauna, the I.I.B. had unwittingly lain their explosive's detonation chord above the den of a muskrat clan. Perturbed by the tramping of the I.I.B. and annoyed with the black and yellow chord draped on their riverfront porch, the muskrats had gnawed their way through the chord. At the approach of revving engines the muskrats fled, swimming with the current. They were of the mind that they would return home when the neighborhood wasn't so rowdy.
. . .
Amarao knew he couldn't let this convoy, with more and more still vehicles arriving by the moment, pass his position unchallenged. Left to proceed, they would make his hilltop an island, surrounded on all sides; to say nothing of overrunning the Osceola Mills defenders and slaughtering them before they could retreat to their next line. And now, the outdated tech they'd been issued wasn't working. Only one thing left to do.
"OPEN FIRE!" Dozens of H&K G3's and a quartet of H&K 21's gave the convoy a rippling broadside. On one hand, they did succeed in stopping the vehicles before any had crossed the bridge, and made the RG-31 pull back. On the other, they had incurred the wrath of retaliatory fire. The stubby snouts of Ratel-60's and Eland Mark 7's turned towards the hill and began lobbing high-explosive shells. Set with contact fuses, many burst against tree trunks. This sent down showers of wooden splinters as well as metal ones, then the upper half of the tree, branches, trunk spears and all, would come raining down. I.I.B. were being buried under a leafy canopy, shattered trees, and heaps of dirt from the 90mm shells. Amarao knew this position, with his light equipment and relatively limited numbers, was untenable. They would have to leave, and soon; but there was still that bridge.
"Sapper!" He yelled for the demolition squad, who were still trying to get a detonation. "Take your team and…" Amarao was cut short as an Eland's 90mm landed directly in the sapper team's position. The proximity of the explosion took the remnants of Amarao's hearing, so he watched in ringing silence the five bodies flail mid-air with broken limbs; the blasting machine bouncing downhill. As they landed with agonizing thuds, his ears returned, first at half speed and volume, faster and slightly louder, then all at once the world rushed back. And it came with a spurring to action. After sending the medics to save what they could of the sapper team, he left his foxhole.
"Lieutenant Mark!" He scooted on his stomach, elbows and knees to one of his platoon commanders.
"Afternoon, Sir. How goes it?" Lieutenant Mark shifted to accommodate his commander. "Quite a stand-up fight this." A shell landed nearby, covering them with several inches of dirt. "Well, for Terrans anyway."
"Quite, indeed." Amarao was inclined to agree as more shells whistled overhead. "I reckon we've done our diligence in staying, this position's untenable. You'll be covering our initial pull-out, and then we will leapfrog in alternating one hundred meter bounds. I'll pass the order on to Lieutenant Beam, and his platoon will start their retreat. In the meantime, I need your grenadiers, and five additional men."
"Aye, Sir! Petty Officers Ros and Mjod! Your squads heed the commander!" Amarao scrambled on his stomach again to Lieutenant Beam, restated his orders, and then directed the two squads he'd requested.
"Grenadiers, give me three banks of smoke: one hundred, three hundred, and one in their faces!" The Grenadiers began firing smoke shells, creating billowing walls of white, red, and green. "The rest of you, follow me!"
"Aye-aye, Sir!" Down the hill the six ran at breakneck speed. Amarao only slowed for a moment, snatching up the blasting machine. As he ran, he used his knife to sever the detonation chord, and then jammed the machine into his pistol belt. While the smoke did obscure them from view, it did not stop bullets. Tracers popped out and zipped by with the Buzz of Murder Bees, 60mm shells whirled around their heads, and 90mm's arced high above. One of the five in this squad took a 0.50 caliber round square to his chest, his armor doing nothing but keeping his torso and innards mostly contained. He went down without protest, his last gasps spent in soft, lush green field grass, staring up at a pristine sky. Not told or ordered to stop, the squad continued following Amarao.
"Gotta be a break or cut here somewhere…somewhere…somewhere…" Relying on the edge of his vision and blind luck to keep his feet, Amarao followed the yellow and black cable closer and close to the bridge. He picked up the cord, letting it slide over his hand as he ran. Finally, right at the very edge of the river and its cavernous ditch, the line's end popped up into his hand.
'Looks like…it was chewed on? No time for that now…SHIT!' Out of the smoke came a squad of men in black and khaki on a cautious approach. Amarao swung his rifle to his shoulder, putting the sight on the first man, fired, and missed. The round passed the man over his head, just off the mark. It was close enough that he hit the pavement and considered how lucky he had been that Amarao had left his sights on the 400 meter setting; a mistake that would not get made twice. A moment later, the contractor peered above the bridge's wall for a peek, and the top half of his head was taken off by a shot from Amarao's, properly adjusted, G3.
"I'm going down to reconnect the charges, keep me covered!" Amarao took the cable and jumped into the chest deep, shockingly frigid water. The crimp connector he opened with his knife, while standing in now neck deep water under the bridge; looking up at the web of chords and explosive packets above. He took the end of the chord that ran up the hill, put his knife in his teeth, and installed and crimped into place the chord. The knife then went back into its sheath, and he crawled back up the riverbank. Soaked and shivering he rejoined the squad to find another casualty.
"Sir, Provin's down!" The Petty Officer had suffered his right arm's severing by shrapnel, just below the shoulder. One of his squad mates had put a C.A.L. (Cauterize, Arm or Leg) on the remnants of the limb; a bowl shaped device that fitted over a grievously wounded stump, and when its button was pressed, heated to an extreme temperature, fusing to and over the wound and burning most of it shut. They were excruciatingly painful to use and often put their patients into shock, but it had saved countless I.I.B. lives. "And the smoke is beginning to clear up!"
"Throw any and all you have, and we're falling back!" Everyone tossed their own smoke canisters, quickly adding a layer of visual concealment. You're better shots than me, shoot and keep us covered and I'll help move Provin!" Shooting their way back up the hill, they only stopped to recover the body of Petty Officer Dansk.
"Commander, Lieutenant Mark reporting." The voice sounded in his headset's ears. Helping P.O. Provin along, Amarao hailed back. "Second Platoon is withdrawn and ready to provide covering fire. First is ready to pull back. Where are you?! The smoke is too thick!"
"Two hundred shy. Begin your pull back."Amarao gave permission for 1st to withdraw. "I've got some cover fire of my own." He passed P.O. Provin off to the others and bade them to continue with 1st. He then found a sizable boulder and stowed himself behind it; pulling the detonation chord with him.
"Red is, positive… black is, negative… tightly, tightly wind… only one more chance…" He cut open the line, wiring the proper colors to their terminals and screwed the caps down tight. He peeked as high as he dared, incoming fire thicker now as his troops outgoing temporarily slackened. With the smoke clearing just enough, he could see the bridge…and no vehicles had yet to cross! Moment of Truth, to learn if he had done everything right.
"Here goes a wasted run and two good men…" Amarao fitted the key, pressed down hard, and quickly turned. Half a second later his and his men's efforts were rewarded with a shattering CRAC-K-BOOOOOOMMMMMmmm… and everything within fifty yards of the bridge ceased to be. The explosion broke the battle's flow into an awed, stunned silence. For a moment only the explosion's echoes could be heard bouncing off the mountains. Amarao couldn't stick around to fully admire the crater. He immediately took off, pulling and winding up the leftover cable as he went; waste not, want not. Caught up with his platoons as 2nd began pulling back to the next line, he radioed with an update.
"Sierra-Actual, Oscar-India sending contact report."
"Sock it to me."
"Have engaged and delayed main enemy force. Bridge at Coal Run is blown. India is withdrawing to Oscar-Mike-Three, minor casualties."
"Acknowledged India; excellent work." Tommy responded. "However, that was not the main attack. Say again: NOT main attack. Papa-Bravo stations are getting hammered up here; holding for now. Break." There was a pause where Tommy considered his options. "India, stand by to receive re-tasking."
"India ready."
"India, rally all Oscar-Mike call signs under your command, and retreat to Base. We'll be meeting you there. I'm trusting you with Oscar-Mike. Good luck."
"The race to Base is on. India understands, we're moving. Over and out." Amarao flipped channels back to his local net. "Gentlemen, your talents are finally being recognized. We're now responsible for everyone in Oscar-Mike. We have three hundred souls depending on us to lead them, so let's move out double-quick! Follow me!"
"Aye, Commander!"
. . .
*7734 - Sabaton
In listening to music for this tale, I stumbled on Sabaton and had a "Where has this been all my life?" moment. Anyone who says history is boring, and metal is for knuckle-draggers, is talking out of their... something besides their mouth.
That said, this chapter felt like it was a balanced mix: little bit of this, little bit of that. The Head is beginning his work on Commander Alter's pet project, Caleb Kauffman actually being productive means nothing good is being done, Naota's first time behind a trigger instead of a spotting scope, and a showcase of the I.I.B. pressed into service to perform a role they were never trained for; and pulling it off in spite of the odds. Going back and re-watching the OG FLCL, it felt like Amarao wasn't given a fair shake, and is leagues more competent than he was portrayed; perhaps personal bias and the madness of the situation didn't help either. And it has been four years hence, so I feel he's definitely matured as a field commander; and a person.
All that said, I have a good start on the next chapter (golly-gee, BC75, where have we heard *THAT* before?) and will have it out by the end the month. If I don't, feel free to shame me and bury my inbox. Thank you all again so very much, and I will be, seeing?, you all again very soon.