John Ringo: When the Devil Dances

There were two problems with making it to that rubble, though.

The first was the artillery. The rounds were falling dead on target — they actually seemed to be digging holes in the concrete of the road — but they were also falling just a few meters from the route he would have to take to reach shelter. If he had a radio, he would have them switch to smoke. But he didn’t and the RTO was way too far behind him to yell to. Even if yelling wouldn’t give away his position, which it would.

He had heard that it was possible to move within a yard or two of artillery like this, if it was falling “away” from you, which this was. There was a solid “thump” of concussion from each shell, but what killed you with artillery was the shrapnel. Most of that was being thrown towards the Posleen positions. Technically, very little of it should be coming back towards where he was going to be crossing.

Technically. Very little.

The second problem, assuming that the artillery didn’t get him, was that there was no cover or concealment between his current position and the next block. None. It was flat, level ground, stripped of any vegetation that might once have been there, directly in sight of the Posleen position and less than twenty meters away.

He could try to run it. Just get up and dart across. The problem with that was that Posleen tended to react much better to something like that than humans; it would be the equivalent of trying to dodge past a professional skeet shooter. They were sticking their heads up, bobbing up and down, even with the artillery. He’d have the chance of a snowball in hell of making it across.

The only other alternative was to try to sneak past.

The lighting was… confused. There was the sudden flair of the artillery, the moon scudding in and out among the clouds, but other than that not much. A few fires that had probably been started by the artillery gave a bit of flickering light, but none of them were nearby.

Posleen had good night vision, but not perfect. And they were taking fire from the ridge; their attention would be centered there.

All in all, it was worth a shot. But best to prepare.

He reached into his butt-pack and pulled out something he hadn’t used in a long time.

Thomas rolled over a log and started to crawl back up to the top of the ridge. He’d heard about the Posleen reaction to snipers, but that was the first time he’d experienced it. He’d also heard that they didn’t react if other people were firing or if artillery was falling. Well, artillery was falling so he was pretty whipped how they had spotted him.

It didn’t really matter. He had been pushed back by the recoil of the Barrett so most of the fire had gone over his head. He’d been hit in the face by a splinter, but that was just going to add another scar. No big deal.

He carefully nudged the rifle back over the edge and lifted himself to where he could look down into the target-zone again.

The one soldier had gotten up to the beginnings of the rubble pile from the bridge and was sitting up with his back to the Posleen doing… something. Thomas zoomed in and switched to light intensifier, but he still couldn’t figure out what was going on. The guy seemed to be mixing something in his hand.

Figuring it wasn’t worth worrying about, the Cherokee lined up another shot. One down, fourteen to go. Forget about the God Kings, just take ’em out one by one.

He lined up the first target just as the sky behind him lit up like God’s Own Flashbulb.

Buckley used his knife to shave some of the rock-hard camouflage paint into his cupped palm. The stick of issue paint that he had been carrying since who knows when had dried to the consistency of coal. That was annoying, especially since he figured his only chance of making it was if he coated every inch of skin so nothing showed. If nothing was reflecting, he might be able to inch his way across the gap. Especially if he timed the start for the next shot from the sniper. While they were concentrating on the ridge, he could crawl out and, hopefully, if he moved slow enough, not set off their internal alarms.

If he just could get this camouflage paint mixed with a drop of bug-juice, that would permit him to camo up and maybe make it across alive. It was worth a shot. Of course, a distraction would help, but nothing else came to mind.

For just a moment, the light was so bright he could see through his hands, except where the camouflage paint was resting in the palm of the left one. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter, the after-image was burned into his retina. He knew he was going to be effectively blind for at least five or ten minutes, but that didn’t matter either. All that mattered was that so were the Posleen.

He dropped the tube of paint and the dust in his hands and snatched up his rifle. Grabbing the corner of the concrete block he heaved himself to his feet and darted across the opening between the two bits of rubble.

He expected at any moment to hear the crackle of a railgun or the brief belch of a plasma gun before turning into a carbon statue. But they never came. Instead, a moment after his foot told him he had reached the concrete block, his nose told him that it had reached the piece of steel sticking out of it.

Stifling a scream, Buckley fell behind the concealing concrete, clutching his bleeding nose and waiting for his vision to return.

“I’m beginning to agree with you, Pruitt,” Colonel Mitchell snarled. “It’s times like these that I wish we had some decent armor and direct fire weapons.”

“Well, we have a direct fire weapon, sir…” the gunner said.

“One that wasn’t a national disaster every time we fired it, son,” the colonel replied. It had taken the militia scouts a few minutes to reset their radios, but it looked like the back of the Posleen advance was well and truly broken. It had been at a terrible cost, though.

Both Dillsboro and Sylva, even the bits that hadn’t been destroyed by the passing SheVa, were gone. God only knew what damage had been done to the bridge, the bridge that Eastern had specifically wanted to stay up. They’d targeted the closest nuke so that the full “ground zero” effect would not encompass the bridge, but that didn’t mean it was still tank-worthy. It would take someone like Major Ryan to certify it before they could push much over it.

On the other hand.

“Whenever the guys from the other side do get through, it will just be mopping up,” Pruitt said.

“Mopping up Posleen is manpower intensive, Pruitt,” Warrant Indy said. “Major Anderson was just going to ‘mop up’ a few Posleen after a nuke strike.”

“Time to find a better way,” Captain Chan chimed in. “I’ve got a great view up here, but I’m about ready to get back to fighting. We need to figure out how to get these turrets in action.”

“Maybe after the repair batt gets here,” Indy said. “ If they ever get here.”

“Let’s just hope they get here before the remaining Posleen do,” Reeves pointed out.

“What Posleen?” Mitchell chuckled. “I doubt there are four hundred alive between here and Savannah. I, personally, am going to go take a nap. Wake me up if anything happens.”