Bolos: Honor of the Regiment Part 16

The aide nodded. "I have already seen to it, General."

General Cartier had paid no attention to the interplay going on around him. Instead he lifted a brow meaningfully at the vid-link and his Operations officer. Lambert interpreted the gesture correctly and shook his head despondently. "Gentlemen, we must contact the Bayerische for their peace terms," his announcement brought silence upon the gathering. "I shall inform the Emperor."

"We have destroyed over forty percent of their air craft!" Scratche growled triumphantly to his admiral.

"D'ya hear that, Pierce? Forty percent already!" the Admiral barked exultantly to his Flag Captain.

Captain Sir Creve Pierce looked up from his battle console and managed an acknowledging nod. "Most credible, milord."

Admiral Baron Rastle Speare glanced sharply at his Admiralty-appointed Captain, wondering vaguely whether the Captain had tendered him insult, and decided to ignore it in favor of his good fortune. The Captain, Scratche noted to himself, could be dealt with later.

Pierce turned to the Midshipman of the watch. "Is the second wave prepared?"

"It is, Captain," the young midshipman replied. His eyes did not meet the Captain's.

Pierce growled deep in his throat, "And?"

"There is some concern about casualties among the first wave and-"

"What, are they not Jyncji, did they not die honorably?" Speare rasped.

"Indeed, milord," Pierce agreed. "But our group sent to destroy their communications satellites are overdue and have not reported. If they are counted as lost-"

"Our probes mentioned no problems with the comsats."

"They were too close to the planet itself to get good surveillance, milord."

"Bah! Someone forget to call back in the heat of victory, so? Shall we let that spoil ours?"

"But if it were not so, milord-"

"Send the second wave!" Admiral Speare roared. "Send them, now, Pierce!"

"Aye aye, milord," Pierce responded. He turned to the midshipman, "Note in the log, if you would, that in the twenty-second moment of the engagement, milord Admiral has ordered the second wave to the a.s.sault."

"Aye, sir," the midshipman responded hesitantly. He was puzzled--his Captain had specifically instructed him on a very routine affair. "The second wave is engaged."

"Thirty moments to bacterial seeding," the Special Weapons Officer added.

"The Barb is on orbit?" Speare growled.

"Aye, Admiral," the Special Weapons Officer responded. "Coming up on the terminator in ten moments."

"Terminator?" Speare muttered to himself.

"I think he means the horizon, Admiral," Scratche elucidated.

"I know that, d.a.m.n ye!" Milord responded with rightful irritation and not a little pleasure at having drawn blood on his small ploy. The midshipman started, bristles flaring but quickly brought himself under control.

"I beg your pardon, milord," Scratche replied with a sigh, "I meant that as a hypothesis-was I right?"

"Captain, see to it that this Midshipman of mine gets remedial drill in orbital nomenclature," the Admiral barked, basking in the additional pleasure of having absorbed the Captain into his small game.

"I shall instruct your Flag Lieutenant, milord," Pierce responded unflappably, "clearly he has been remiss."

Speare hid a snarl with a dismissive wave of his hat. Drat the p.r.i.c.kly old beast, he swore to himself.

A lieutenant with a worried look pa.s.sed a dispatch to the Captain. Pierce read it hastily. "Milord, it grieves me to report that our first wave casualties have reached thirty-five percent. Shall we call off the attack?"

"Call off the attack?" Speare barked. "Never!" His yell turned the heads of all on the bridge. "We still have a strike force and the second wave is committed. We shall succeed."

Pierce looked worried. "Milord, our orders were to withdraw if-"

"I know the orders, Captain!" Speare returned hotly, bristling visibly. "My Lords of the Admiralty sent me to carry them out! The attack continues."

"Aye, milord," Pierce responded steadily. He glanced at the dispatch officer, "Keep milord abreast of further developments, Spyke."

Lieutenant Spyke glanced once at his Captain, once at his Admiral, and nodded deeply. "I shall be expedient in my duties, milord."

"Bah!" Speare muttered. "We need not the duties of such carrion." He scratched a claw against his chair. "Victory! I can smell it."

Safe under the sea, the Bolo informed Rheinhardt, "The aliens have committed their second wave. Telemetry indicates larger, slower vessels--probably heavy a.s.sault craft or bombers."

"Bombers." Rheinhardt declared. "They've knocked out our fighters, now they'll go for command and control centers. When will they launch their bacteriant?"

"I believe that they must be reasonably sure that they have succeeded in their mission before that."

"That'll be too late! Why not destroy it in orbit?"

"I am not sure I can identify it," the Bolo replied. "There are five ships which could be the bacteriological vessel, indeed all five might be so equipped."

"And you can't destroy five, I take it," Rheinhardt concluded.

"The probabilities are low that I shall manage more than one exo-atmospheric shot."

"Dispersion, attenuation and atmospheric ionization," Rheinhardt said, listing the factors that reduce a coherent beam's effectiveness.

"Precisely." The Bolo paused, then added, "The enemy has engaged both headquarters units. They are achieving remarkable results."

"d.a.m.n!" Rheinhardt swore, his self-control breaking. "Get us ash.o.r.e as quick as you can! We must get that bacteriant."

"The odds are against a satisfactory final resolution, even if I were successful in identifying the bacteriological ship," the Bolo admitted. "Their forces are superior to the combined human forces." A pause. "We will be ash.o.r.e in two minutes." A map display centered in Rheinhardt's view, tracing their course from sea to sh.o.r.e to metropolis.

"Nouparis." Rheinhardt muttered to himself. "Plot a direct route to the Noufrench HQ."

"That would be inadvisable," the Bolo responded, "as it would telegraph to the enemy both our location and the location of the Noufrench HQ. Besides, telemetry indicates that the Noufrench HQ is only 40% functional. Command and control of Noufrench forces has been lost."

The color drained out of Colonel Rheinhardt's face. "I see," he said softly, mourning the pa.s.sage of honorable adversaries. "However, I still want you to plot a course for the HQ site. We should be able to establish communications with them."

"My a.n.a.lysis indicates a 80% chance that both human forces have now realized their mistake and are about to forge a common alliance against the alien threat," the Bolo informed him. "I conjecture that they shall start coordinated actions within the hour."

"No! They must not do that!"

"We have lost contact with HQ," Ballard, the comm tech, informed General Lambert. "I have contact from Deuxieme Corps, from III Brigade of XX Armored, from the Second Tactical Air Wing and from Troisieme Corps' Artillery. They are all requesting orders."

"Very well, a.s.semble a staff-" Lambert broke off, his military training faltering in the light of reality. Surrounding him were worried computer programmers, software engineers and technicians. No warriors. They would do. He had already used them as an ad hoc staff. Before the odds got so bad. He fought down a grim look, working his face into an untroubled expression. In less than two hours the proud Armee du Noufrance had been reduced to this. The air force had been more than decimated, artillery had been obliterated, supply scattered to the winds. Lambert took a deep, calming sigh. The air was stale with worry and fear. A beaten smell.

"a.s.semble a staff of personnel," he began again. He held up a hand and ticked off a finger for each section, "We need an intelligence section which will collect our current intelligence; a personnel section to coordinate replacements; a supply section to obtain a picture of our current supply situation and attempt to re-establish supply lines; I will establish the operations section."

He pointed a finger at one of the technicians he had come to rely on. "Gasconde, I want you to establish our communications capabilities. I need to know every way we can communicate with any of our units or those of the enemy's."

The technician nodded and hurried off. Lambert took in the expectant faces surrounding him and resumed the mantel of a military leader. He smiled.

"Very well, gentlemen, we have suffered a setback but we are French! We shall persevere, n'est-ce pas?" He turned to the man he had appointed for Intelligence, "And DuPont, as soon as you can, try to get some idea of where the enemy got these weapons!" To himself he muttered, "I've never seen their like!"

A technician ran up to him. "Sir, sir! The enemy is on the line!"

Lambert turned to face him. "Where? Who?"

Before the technician could react, another rushed in, "A Bolo! There's a Bolo at Headquarters!"

Before Lambert could respond, a third runner reported, "The enemy are attacking the Bolo!"

Lambert absorbed that last statement slowly. "Any enemy of my enemy is my friend," he told the group with a growing sense of elation. "Get the Bayerische commander on the line, we must talk war!"

"Just shoot back at the d.a.m.ned things!" Rheinhardt swore at the Bolo as they lumbered around the wreck of the Noufrench mobile headquarters. "The Frenchies'll get the message when they see us take out a few of these d.a.m.ned bombers!"

"My anti-aircraft guns are not able to elevate as required--got one!--I must wait until a craft makes the mistake of getting at the right elevation--another!--before I can take action."

"Alright, stop for now," Rheinhardt ordered. "I don't want the aliens to figure out your dilemma."

"If only I could traverse," the Bolo responded in a grieved tone. "These things are so slow I should be able to get all of them. They are swarming for another attack, what shall I do?"

"Processors again?"

"The A Processor is wavering," the Bolo admitted. "I antic.i.p.ate its failure in some few minutes. Then I shall be capable of self-action again. However, power packs are depreciating 10% faster than antic.i.p.ated."

"Hmm," Rheinhardt absorbed that bit of news with mixed feelings. "Very well, head towards the nearest anti-aircraft emplacements. Maybe we can decoy these bombers into range."

"Or get the anti-aircraft units destroyed," the Bolo remarked but it turned to carry out the order.

"Don't move close enough to endanger those AA boys." Rheinhardt amended his order. "And see if you can raise the French HQ."

"Affirmative."

"Admiral," Midshipman Scratche approached Admiral Baron Rastle Speare with a dispatch. The Admiral took the dispatch while the midshipman recited its contents. "A report from intelligence, milord, indicating that some of the enemy have begun communications with each other in an attempt to present a unified force against us."

"Excellent!"

"Milord?" The midshipman was confused.

"When they coordinate their actions together, we will have fewer command and control elements to destroy," Captain Pierce explained to the young officer.

"It means we are winning!" the Admiral crowed.

"It also means that they will be a tougher opponent, milord," Captain Pierce reminded him. "Their actions will be coordinated against us, not disjointed and sometimes against themselves."

The Admiral snorted his contempt of this position. "We are beating them, Captain. Order the Barb deployed."

Captain Pierce's eyes widened. He licked his lips, "Milord, the enemy still have a Bolo! Already it has destroyed several of our a.s.sault craft!"

"We shall take care of it presently, Captain," the Admiral replied with lidded eyes.

"What of the comsat force? We have not heard from them in hours, milord."

"Do you fear this Bolo so much?" the Admiral sneered, nuzzle ruffled.

"If it gets the Barb-"

"It will not, Captain," the Admiral rasped, teeth bared. "Have the a.s.sault craft concentrate on the Bolo until it is destroyed. Then we will launch the Barb."

"Aye, milord."

"They are concentrating against the Bolo, which has taken a position four kilometers north of HQ," the technician told General Lambert.

"We copy, tell your boys we're dispatching twelve friendlies to engage," a guttural Bayerische voice said, having overheard the conversation.

"Our fighters will be approaching from the south so be on the lookout," a French voice added.

"Our rule is simple--if it looks strange, shoot it down," the Bayerischer replied. "You got anything up there that looks weird?"

Lambert moved away from the conversation and over to the hastily revised plotting board. "Satellite communications returned to us shortly after the Bolo came ash.o.r.e," a technician informed him. "We now have positive contacts of five large alien ships and a swarm of smaller craft."

Lambert absorbed this with a nod. "Any luck getting through to the Bolo?"

"No, monsieur. We are still trying via satellite relay, however it appears some of its communications antennae were destroyed when . . ." The technician could not complete the sentence.