North of the farm, Strong thought he saw explosions at the source of the original mortar attack. Something was firing in that direction, too!
Then the camera chopper took a hit, and the picture swung round and round, descending into the fire storm that stretched along the roadway. The view went dark. Strong's carefully planned presentation was rapidly degenerating into chaos. Alvarez was shouting over other voices, demanding the reserves that still hung along Old 7O directly south of Manhattan. And he could hear Crick working to divert portions of his air cover to the fight that was developing.
It wasn't till much later that Strong made sense of the conversation that passed between the northerners just then:
"Kiki, how could you!" Swensen slumped over the holomap, shaking his head in despair (shame?).
Brierson eyed the displays with no visible emotion. "What she did is certainly legal, Al."
"Sure it is. And immoral as hell. Poor Jake Schwartz. Poor Jake."
The view of the battle scene reappeared. The picture was almost the same perspective as before, but grainier and faintly wavering -probably from a camera aboard some recon craft far south of the fighting. The holomap flickered as major updates came in. The locals had been thorough and successful. There were no effective New Mexican forces within five kilometers of the original flareup. The force dug in to the farmland was firing rockets southward, taking an increasing toll of the armored reinforcements that were moving north from Old 70.
"Crick here, Mr. President." The general's voice was bris. professional. Any recriminations with Intelligence would come later. "The enemy is localized, but incredibly well dug in. If he's isolated, we might be able to bypass him, but neither Alvarez nor I want something like that left on our flank We're going to soften him up, then move our armor right i on top."
Strong nodded to himself. In any case, they had to take this strong point just to find out what the enemy really had. In the air over the holomap, dozens of lights moved toward the enemy fortress. Some flew free ballistic arcs, while others stuck close to the ground, out of the enemy's direct fire. Across the table, the holo lit the northerners' faces: Swensen's even more pale that: before, Brierson's dark and stolid. There was a faint stench of sweat in the air now, barely perceptible against the stronger smells of metal and fresh plastic.
Damn. Those three had been surprised by the ambush -but Strong was sure that they understood what was behind the attack, and whence the next such would come. Given time and Special Service drugs, he could have the answers. He leaned across the table and addressed the MSP officer. "So. You aren't entirely bluff: But unless you have many more such traps, you won't do more than slow us up - and kill a lot of people on both sides."
Swensen was about to answer, then looked at Brierson and was silent. The black seemed to be deliberating just what or how much to say; finally, he shrugged. "I won't lie to you. The attack had nothing to do with MSP forces."
"Some other gang then?"
"No. You just happened to run into a farmer who defends his property."
"Bull." Ed Strong had spent his time in the military - in combat along the Colorado. He knew how to read the intelligence displays and manage tactics. But he also knew what it was like to be on the ground where the reality was bullets and shrapnel. He knew what it took to set up a defense like the one they had just seen. "Mr. Brierson, you're telling me one man could afford to buy the sort of equipment we saw and to dig it in so deep that even now we don't have a clear picture of his set-up? You're telling me that one man could afford an MHD source for those lasers?"
"Sure. That family has probably been working at this for years, spending every spare gAu on the project, building the system up little by little. Even so," he sighed, "they should be out of rockets and juice soon. You could lay off."
The rain of rocket-borne and artillery high explosives was beginning to fall upon the target. Flashes and color sparkled across the screen, more an abstract pattern than a landscape now. There was no human life, no equipment visible. The bombers were standing off and lobbing their cargo in. Until the enemy's defenses were broken, any other course was needless waste. After a couple minutes, the airborne debris obscured all but the largest detonations. Napalm flared within, and the whole cloud glowed beautiful yellow. For a few seconds, the enemy lasers still flashed, spectacular and ineffective in all the dirt. Even after the lasers died, the holomap showed isolated missiles emerging from the target area to hunt for the bombers. Then even those stopped coming.
Still the barrage continued, raising the darkness and light high over the Kansas fields. There was no sound from this display, but the thudthudding of the attack came barely muffled through the hull of the C&C van -they were, after all, less than seven thousand meters from the scene. It was mildly surprising that the enemy had not tried to take them out. Perhaps Brierson was more important - and more knowledgeable-than he admitted.
Minutes passed, and they all - President and gangsters alike -watched the barrage end and the wind push the haze away from the devastation that modern war can make. North and east, fires spread through the fields. The tanks - and final, physical possession of the disputed territory - were only minutes away.
The destruction was not uniform. New Mexican fire had focused on the projectors and rocket launchers - and there the ground was pulverized, ripped first by proximity-fused high explosives, then by digger bombs and napalm. As they watched, recon craft swooped low over the landscape, their multiscanners searching for any enemy weapons that might be held in reserve. When the tanks and personnel carriers arrived, a more thorough search would be made on foot.
Finally, Strong returned to Brierson's fantastic claim. "And you say it's just coincidence that this one farmer who spends all his money on weapons happens to be on our line of march."
"Coincidence and a little help from... General van Steen."
President Martinez raised his eyes from the displays at his end. His voice was level, but Strong recognized the tension there. "Mr., uh, Brierson. just how many of these miniforts are there?"
The other sat back. His words might have seemed insolent, but there was no sarcasm in his voice. "I have no idea, Mr. Martinez. As long as they don't bother our customers, they are of no interest to MSP Many aren't as well hidden as Schwartz, but you can't count on that. As long as you stay off their property, most of them won't touch you."
"You're saying that if we detect and avoid them, they are no threat to our plans?"
"Yes."
The main screen showed the tank forces now. They were a few hundred of meters from the burning fields. The viewpoint rotated and Strong saw that Crick had not stinted: at least one hundred tanks -most of the reserve force - were advancing on a five thousand meter front. Following were even more personnel carriers. Tactical air support was heavy. Any fire from the ground ahead would be met by immediate destruction. The camera rotated back to show the desolation they were moving into. Strong doubted that anything living, much less anything hostile, still existed in that moonscape.
The President didn't seem interested in the display. All his attention was on the northerner. "So we can avoid these stationary gunmen till we find it convenient to deal with them. You are a great puzzle, Mr. Brierson. You claim strengths and weaknesses for your people that are equally incredible. And I get the feeling you don't really expect us to believe you, but that somehow you believe everything you're saying."
"You're very perceptive. I've thought of trying to bluff you. In fact, I did try earlier today. From the looks of your equipment," He waved his hand at the Command and Control consoles, a faintly mocking smile on his face, "we might even be able to bluff you back where you belong. This once.