“No edas’antai, they do not.”
“Your analysis?”
“I believe we have landed on their homeworld,” the young leader caste answered.
“Then we have truly placed our esonal in the grat’s nest,” said the brigade commander.
“We shall sweep them aside like abat,” said Ardan’aath, confidently blowing out a snort that scattered sputum across the grass of the road verge. “What are a few thresh?”
“Ask Aarnadaha,” commented Kenallai grimly. “Well, our scouts are pressing forward from the south. Soon we will have them between us, Sammadar and the remainder of Aarnadaha’s forces.” He looked at the schematic of the Posleen closing in on the defenseless city. The three-dimensional image showed the flecks of located enemy and the relative locations of the Posleen forces. But the image was not a map; there were no symbols for road, buildings or terrain. Like ants, the Posleen depended on the paths of scouts for finding their way around. The best that they could do was vague images garnered during the landing phase that noted built-up areas and heavy defenses. Usually, unless a God King and his sensors were sitting on it, it was unknown land.
“We shall crush them beneath our talons and move on to the greater prize to the north. This is a sideline. Send forces up the greater highway behind the oolt of Aarnadaha,” Kenallai continued. “We can thereby lay claim to the fiefs he would have taken. There is great booty to be had there.”
“My scouts report that they are about to contact organized forces,” noted one of the oolt’ondai.
“Then let us move forward to observe these thresh. And hope that they are not threshkreen.”
“Best hope they are not metal threshkreen,” muttered Kenallurial, reviewing the data from the world humans called Diess, quietly so that Ardan’aath would not take notice. But Kenallai fluffed his crest in agreement.
“Is this gonna work, Sarge?” asked Lieutenant Kevin Ray, prepping a remaining claymore.
“Well, that depends on what you mean by work, sir,” retorted Staff Sergeant Arthur Van Tri. His Eurasian features creased in a grin at the lieutenant who had reported to the unit only the week before. “If you mean save our lives, no. If you mean kill a whole piss-pot full of Posleen, oh yeah.”
The group of mixed engineers and civilians huddled in exhaustion on the ground floor of the Fredericksburg Assembly of God Church. A hole had been knocked high up on the wall, through which Staff Sergeant Tri, perched on a ladder, could look from time to time.
“I just hope they don’t realize that fence posts usually have fences attached to them,” he continued, peering into the darkness through a night-vision scope.
“I just hope they don’t realize that fence posts don’t usually have bombs attached to their tops,” chuckled one of the civilians, playing with his blisters. “I don’t give a shit, as long as you engineers get the bunker ready in time.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Sunday,” said Lieutenant Ray. “We’ll get it done. First we dig ’em, then we die in ’em, right Sergeant Tri?”
“That’s the Seabees, sir,” the sergeant sighed.
“Shouldn’t we pull back, Sergeant?” continued the lieutenant, unrepentant. “We could set up another ambush.” He flourished the claymore. The clacker was set to one side, already hooked up to a detonator.
“Except for that we’re about out of demo, sir. We really should have used it on the ambush.”
“Hey, Sergeant, it’s like in the old days. Always save a round for yourself!”
“Echo 39, this is Tango 39, over.”
Sergeant Tri picked up the handset of the radio. The PRC-77 was an antique, but it could still do the job. “Tango 39, this is Echo 39, over.”
“Echo 39, we are about to initiate. Posrep Lafayette and Old Greenwich, over.”
“Roger, Tango 39, understand Posrep Lafayette and Old Greenwich, over. Still negative activity at this site.”
“Roger, Echo 39. Well, this is Tango 39, saying nice knowing you yah old chink.”
Sergeant Tri swallowed as his eyes misted. “Copy that Tango 39. See ya in hell, Hillbilly. This is Echo 39 out.”
Sergeant Tri wiped his eyes and peeked out through the opening again.
“Looks like I spoke too soon,” he said. “Might as well get your weapons ready.” Behind him the mixed force gathered up their rifles and started to move towards other slits cut in the wall.
Coming down the road, just as he had been told they would, was a phalanx of trotting centaurs. Their crocodilian heads swayed from side to side as they scanned the nighttime air, scenting for prey and resources. Well back from the front ranks a God King, notable by his larger form and crested head, rode in his saucer-car.
Sergeant Tri was no slouch with an Advanced Infantry Weapon, but there were a couple of serious shooters among the civilians who were headed up to the roof to take care of the God Kings, along with instructions on when not to fire.
Although the Posleen targeting systems could pick out a sniper no matter how well they were hidden, they got overwhelmed in a general melee, so smart snipers waited until forces were fully involved before firing. Sergeant Tri did not actually expect that to be a problem with the first or even second God King because the human force had just spent a productive hour preparing a fiery welcome.
The Jeff Davis Highway ran practically straight as an arrow from where it met with Interstate 95 south of town until it crossed the Rappahanock River north of town. From Walker Grant Middle School to the church was mostly empty fields. The road that had been virtually unadorned was now lined with oak fence posts.
Although a bush-hog was going to be useless to the city defenses, the posthole digger attachment that one of the civilians brought along was just the thing from Sergeant Tri’s point of view. While the battalion was actually low on mines, as opposed to plain explosives, there turned out to be a simple remedy. On the way out of town they stopped by Fredericksburg Hardware.
There, not only were their top shooters able to pick up a few choice boxes of rounds, the rest of them were able to load the back of a pickup truck with cases of nails and duct tape.
Wonderful stuff, duct tape. A quick flick of the wrist and a small charge of Composition Four was bound to a box of one hundred nails. Another flick of the wrist and the package was attached to the top of a fence post, a tree, a sign, rope, mailbox, car door, or virtually any other structure. Although most authorities called for the tenpenny nail in a situation like this, Sergeant Tri found them lacking in imagination. While tacking nails will do the job, roofing nails, the kind for putting down roofing tack, with a wide flat top that tended to land point up, that was his favorite. That way, even if the nail failed to hit a Posleen, it was going to be a real pain to the next one to step on it.
“Is this going to slow them down?” asked Big Tom Sunday, gesturing in the general direction of the advancing Posleen. Tri was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt; he was the guy who thought of the posthole digger.
“Nope.”
“Then why the hell did we do all this?” Big Tom asked without heat.
“It’s not intended to slow these guys down, Mr. Sunday,” said Tri, politely, not taking his eyes from the advancing enemy. “It’s intended to kill them.”
“Oh. And the ones that follow?”
“Well, it’ll take them a little more time stepping over and around the piles of bodies.”
Big Tom Sunday smiled and headed for the ladder.
Anarlaralta, Scoutmaster of the Po’oslena’ar swiveled his head from side to side as he moved his tenar in a random pattern, tiny touches of his talons slipping it from side to side. He had been warned that other groups were taking tremendous casualties but — with the exception of dwellings seeming to spontaneously combust — he had met with little resistance. A few of the thresh had shown fight, but they were rapidly dispatched. A few had even been captured. It was easier to have them transport themselves to the slaughter than to slaughter and carry them. They showed no fight; most seemed to be nestlings. All of that being the case, he was at a loss to explain the bad feeling in his gut. Perhaps he had not yet adjusted to the new thresh.