John Ringo - When the Devil Dances

“Indeed,” Orostan said with a snap of his muzzle. “Better to weed out those like him, better for the force, better for the race. If he survives he will just grab the first useless piece of territory he comes to.”

“Instead of getting a cut of everything,” Cholosta’an said. “But even your ‘political units,’ even my unit will eventually have to brave the Gap. And we will not do so unscathed.”

“Oh, if we were far enough back we would,” Orostan disagreed. “But I, for one, have no interest in walking up the pass.

“I’m too old to ride tenar everywhere like you young nestlings,” he continued, as the first oolt’poslenar drifted over and dropped to the ground, light as a feather. “Nope, no Gap and no tenar for us; we’re riding in style.”

Shari yawned as she looked out the window of the Humvee. Franklin was coming up and when they got to the Urb it would be back to the daily grind. But, she recalled with a smile, not for long.

“So you’re really going to move up there?” Wendy asked. “What the hell am I going to do?”

She pulled at the leather pants she’d picked up at the O’Neals’, trying to get a better fit. Papa O’Neal had been more than kind and insisted on outfitting the kids. So when she found the pants while digging in the back of a closet, and clearly liked them, he had also insisted on her wearing them. And when Papa O’Neal insisted, people listened. Only later did she find out they were the late Sharon O’Neal’s. She had to admit that the lady must have been in shape; she’d had to roll the cuffs up and was still having trouble getting the… ahem, stretched out. Sharon O’Neal must have had legs like a giraffe and a butt the size of an ant.

“I thought you were moving out to live with Tommy,” Shari answered. “And, yeah, I think I’ll take him up on it. He’s a very nice man, a very gentle one for being so… dangerous. And God knows growing up on that farm will be better for the kids than in the Urb.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, even if I’m sad for me,” Wendy said. “And we’ll just have to see with Tommy. He just made staff sergeant so I should be eligible to move to enlisted housing. It’s on Fort Knox and the joke is it’s guarded tighter than the gold. I can live with that; I’m tired of being in a target.”

“That is the base of the Ten Thousand, right?” Elgars said. She was perched on Mueller’s lap on the front seat and she gently rotated his snoring face — he had passed out almost immediately on boarding the truck — away from hers. “So that is where I would go if Colonel Cutprice accepts me ‘back’?”

“Yeah,” Mosovich said. “And I’m going to recommend that.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” she said quietly. “I’d like to get back to a unit. I feel a real need to get back to grips. Maybe because it’s the only thing I know.” She looked out the window to the east and shook her head. “What in the hell is that? And where did it come from?”

Mosovich looked where she was pointing and nodded. “I guess Eastern Command decided that we needed some backup.”

The SheVa gun was just setting into place, to the east of Dillard. To the north, paralleling the highway and occasionally touching on it, was a smashed track of its movement.

“That’s a SheVa gun,” Mosovich said. “An anti-lander gun. There’s another one down by corps headquarters, but you didn’t notice it since it was camouflaged.”

As he said that, green and brown foaming liquid began to pour out of inconspicuous ports along the side of the base. The foam quickly hardened creating a mound that built up along the base of the gun system.

A large tractor trailer, with what looked like two brass missiles on the back, backed up to the rear of the SheVa gun and tilted one of the “missiles” upwards, sliding it into a port on the rear of the gun.

“That looks like the biggest… bullet in creation,” Shari said.

“That’s more or less what it is,” Mueller answered. “They fire full rounds, not projectiles, bullets, with propellant bags or something. They’re the biggest cartridges ever made and the most complicated; among other things the system uses a plasma enhancer that requires resistors to be threaded through the propellant. They’re not just stuffed with cordite or something.”

“In an hour it will look like a big, green and brown mound,” Mosovich said. “Then when landers come over the horizon, it just drives out and engages; the foam flakes off relatively easily. And it’s a hell of a lot easier to set up than that much camouflage netting.”

“What does it fire?” Elgars asked, still staring at the slowly disappearing monstrosity.

“A sixteen-inch discarding sabot with a nuclear round at the center,” Wendy said with a smile in her voice. “When you care enough to send the very best…”

“Antimatter, actually,” Mosovich said. “Much cleaner than even the cleanest nuke. It’s a bit of overkill for the Lampreys; the penetrators generally tear them up pretty good. But it’s necessary for the C-Decs, the command ships. They’re bigger and have more internal armoring. I hear when they hit a lander’s containment system it’s pretty spectacular.”

“Why’s it here?” Shari asked nervously. “This corps already had one, right? I thought they were pretty rare.”

“They are,” Mosovich said thoughtfully. “Like I said, I guess Eastern Command decided we needed some backup.”

“So, is something about to go wrong?” Shari asked.

“I hate these things,” Sergeant Buckley said. “There’s a billion things to go wrong.”

Sergeant Joseph Buckley had been fighting the Posleen almost since the beginning of the war. He had been in the first, experimental, ACS unit in the fighting in Diess. After Diess, he had been medically evacuated as a psychological casualty; after being caught in a fuel-air explosion, being stuck under a half a kilometer of rubble, having your hand blown off trying to cut your way out, getting swept away in a nuclear blast front and having half a space cruiser land on you, driving you back under a half kilometer of rubble, anyone could tend to go around the bend.

But desperate times called for desperate measures and in time even Joe Buckley was found fit for duty. As long as it wasn’t too stressful and had nothing to do with combat suits. It was his only insistence, and he was firm about it to the point of court-martial, that he would not have to put on a suit. The series of events on Diess had given him a permanent psychosis about combat suits and all peripheral equipment. In fact, he had come to the conclusion that the whole problem with the war was an emphasis on high technology over the tried and true.

“I tell you,” he said, ripping the plastic cover off of the recalcitrant M134 7.62 Gatling gun. “What we need up here is…”

“… water-cooled Browning machine guns,” said Corporal Wright. “I know, I know.”

“You think I’m joking,” he said, pulling out the jammed round and snarling at it. “This would never happen with a Browning. That’s the problem, everybody wants more firepower.”

The fighting position was on the second tier of the Wall, overlooking Highway 441. Clayton was out of sight around the edge of the mountain, but they had gotten warnings from the Black Mountain observation post that there was a Posleen swarm on the way up the road. So getting Gun Position B-146 back in operation was a priority.

The Wall was a mass of firing and observation ports. Beside the Gatling ports, there were regular heavy weapons, designed for engaging tenar, and rifle ports for the soldiers, whose main job was feeding the guns, to get in the occasional shot if they so desired. But, really, it was the Gatling guns, and the artillery hammering down from above, that did most of the damage.