John Ringo: Von Neumann’s War

“Roger,” Lasing called. “Slewing. We have the group targeted.”

“Initiate lase,” General Riggs said.

There were a few probes between the laser and the presumed “anti-laser” group. They didn’t really pose much of a problem except for creating small clouds of gaseous metal. But as soon as the lasers hit the first probe, the modified group began to move, dropping down to the deck and accelerating towards Weeden Mountain.

They also began jinking in and out of the shadow of the remaining buildings, flying down roads not much off the ground. There were enough buildings, and enough rubble from buildings, that the group was able to an extent to avoid the lasers. For that matter, it was hard to tell, but it appeared that some of the laser-killers might have taken brief hits and kept going. And they weren’t the only group headed for the mountain. It seemed as if the lasers were the signal for most of the probes to drop what they were doing and head for the Arsenal.

“That got their attention,” General Riggs said. “Where’d the killer group go?”

“Disappeared into the mass,” J-3 responded.

“We’re trying to pick them up again,” Lasing called.

“Negative,” General Riggs replied. “Open up full lasing across the area. Engage at will.”

“Roger.”

“There they are,” Shane called as the killer probes exited a corporate park and started crossing the “no-man’s land” that had been established around the perimeter of the Arsenal. Among other things, the “no-man’s land” was the first line of anti-probe mines. But those mines depended on the probes pulling the metal out of them to function. And the “killer bots” weren’t interested in metal, just lasers.

The inner edge of the no-man’s land was also where the lasing stopped. Once the probes crossed it, and more than half made it across since the lasers were targeting the whole sky, they were under the fire basket of the lasers. The only thing between them and the lasers were the few troops on the mountain and the platoon around the laser site.

“Vampire, vampire,” Shane called on the platoon net. “Approximately four hundred bots with unknown weapon approaching from the northeast, coming in low. Top, shift to heavy on the northeast.”

“Sir,” the EWO officer said over the channel to the general, “we can initiate IBot at any time.”

“Hold it,” Riggs said, nodding. “If we can stop them from getting the lasers and let more of them come into the basket I’d prefer it. I don’t want them outside the basket and passing on that we’re spoofing them.”

“Roger.”

“Start broadcasting.”

Weeden Mountain had long been known to the general Arsenal public as “Antenna Hill.” It had a vast array of antennas on it used for everything from cell phones to satellite uplinks. And the probes liked radio.

On command, every single antenna started broadcasting. And those few probes that were still eating Huntsville dropped what they were doing and headed for the redoubt.

Private First Class Jason Soldiers had lived with his name his whole life. But despite his name, he had enlisted in the 82nd Airborne at the ripe age of eighteen. One of the few books he had ever read, and enjoyed, was called Starship Troopers . In it he ran across a point that really resonated with him. The main character had just joined the military in that book and, much to his chagrin, had ended up as a simple infantryman. He had told this to the one NCO he had met, the recruiting NCO, and gotten a very odd, to him, reaction. The recruiting NCO, a former infantryman missing a couple of limbs, had told him that “the infantry’s the only really important arm. Everybody else supports us . Because we’re where the rubber meets the road.”

That was what he’d told the recruiter when he signed up. He wanted to be where the rubber meets the road.

At the moment, though, he really wished he’d gone in for radar technician or computer repair. He’d gotten the word that there was a group of bots headed for the lasers. And they had orders to take them out.

The only problem being that it seemed like every single one was headed for his bunker. There seemed to be a million of them and they were coming in very low, very fast, and very very hard.

There seemed to be only one thing to do, so he toggled off the safety on the M-240R, picked a point in space over the bots and pulled the trigger.

The remaining problem of the M-240R, after it was cooled, was ammunition. The best choice would have been the ramjet rounds demonstrated by Dr. Reynolds and Alan Davis. However, producing enough of them in any reasonable time had proved to be impossible. Instead, a modified sabot round was the best that could be created. Since the probes ate metal as it flew towards them, the new round consisted of a plastic outer “shoe,” or sabot, with an inner ceramic round. As the round left the machine gun, the plastic sabot fell away, leaving the ceramic round to do the damage, however the relatively low-density ceramic round tended to tumble beyond about four hundred yards and lost velocity rapidly.

The probes, on the other hand, had a momentum of their own. And the ceramic rounds, while lightweight, could still shatter the metal facing of the probes in tests.

Against the killer probes, however, things did not go as well as planned. Soldiers watched in disbelief as the rounds sparked and crashed into the probes, but seemed to have little or no effect. A few of the probes lost control and slammed into the mountainside in a shower of sparks. But the majority, even when they were struck by the ceramic rounds, continued on as if nothing had happened.

Soldiers stopped firing and spun around, pressing a button he had been told not to use under any circumstances. It was the button that put him through directly to the brigade commander in the bunker.

“This is Soldiers, Bunker One-Niner-Five. Sir, the killer probes are armored , repeat armored . Ceramic rounds have no effect, repeat no effect.”

“Move it!” Cady yelled, redeploying the platoon so that most of them were on the northeast side. “Shag ass !”

“ Sergeant Major!”

Cady looked up in surprise as the voice of the major boomed out of the sky and then realized there must be a PA system on the laser bunker.

“ Platoon! The killer bots are armored, repeat armored. Try to hit them on the underside and see if that works .”

“Oh, this just gets better and better,” Jones said, taking a knee and hefting his rifle. The platoon had been armed with the latest version of the sergeant major’s “super-gun.” Thanks to Alan, Lurch and a local paintball company, the gun was capable of firing more powerful rounds, faster.

“Time to cue the music, sir,” Cady muttered. As he did the speakers began to crackle with the sound of thunder and lightning.

“What are you doing, Major?” the general asked quietly.

“I hope you don’t mind, sir,” Shane said, gulping. “It’s something we would do in Iraq when we knew we were in the deep. Motivational material, sir. Just a song one of the troops liked and we picked it up as a unit thing.”

“ ‘Citadel’ by Crüxshadows,” the general said, smiling faintly. “You do think we’re in the deep.”

“ I see a citadel alone ,” Shane replied. “ Clinging brave, defying fate . Not sure there’s a better description. Sir, permission to speak to Lasing?”

“Do it. Out here.”