“We could sure use one of them Mujs and a vee-bed right now.” The speaker was a veteran of the Battle of Hit and well remembered the effects of explosive-packed pick-up trucks driven into the center of a mass of Baldricks. The U.S. Army didn’t like to admit it but the suicide bomb-trucks might well have been the factor that had turned the tide in that particular battle. The way the Leopard Beast kept shrugging off the storm of fire being aimed at it suggested they would be needed to turn the tide again. Then, the soldier got his wish for the ground around the beats erupted into a rolling thunder of explosions. The four A-45s had streaked overhead, each releasing four fin-retarded Mark 82 bombs. Sixteen five hundred pounders, even when delivered with less-than-optimal accuracy, were something that the Leopard Beast found distinctly terrifying.
To the watching troops, the fact that the beast was seriously hurt at last was thankfully apparent. Great areas of its flanks were now torn open, dripping silver blood as it staggered from the blast of the bombs. They saw it stagger again as red lines flashed across the battlefield, an Abrams tank had appeared and was firing sabot rounds at the Beast. That was all the tank crew had, high explosive, HEAT and HEAD rounds were completely unavailable, their supplies limited and the forces in Hell having top priority for any that were around. The crew were firing what they had, carefully, precisely, deadly accurately. They’d picked one of the faces of the Beast and were pumping round after round into it. The repeated impacts were having their effect, the chosen face was quickly losing its identity as the long bolts of depleted uranium crushed its features.
The Leopard Beast was being hurt and it know it. It slumped back on its hindquarters, waving its paws in front of its grotesquely misshapen head, trying to fend off the bolts that kept slamming into it. The posture was achingly reminiscent of a kitten playing with a ball of wool but the sight didn’t decrease the volume of fire that was still being poured into it. The tank ceased fire, its partly-loaded magazine empty but its place was taken by the first of the AH-64s. This one had been loaded with some time-expired Hellfire missiles that had been found at the back of a supply dump. Two of the eight failed to fire completely, one exploded shortly after launch, lashing the front of the helicopter with fragments while two more failed to guide and went off into the darkness to land somewhere kilometers away. The three remaining missiles scored direct hits on the Beast and it went down.
Even so, the battered and bullet-peppered Leopard Beast was still alive. It had no taste to continue this fight anymore, all it wanted was out, an end, away from the humans who wished its death so devoutly. Racked with pain from its injuries, it dragged itself along the ground, its mind forming the image of the portal that would take it to the sanctuary it needed so desperately. The problem was that generating the portal needed its concentration and the beast’s limited intellect wasn’t capable of both forming its portal and absorbing the shattering pain of its injuries. Dimly, its mind registered more crashes and the searing pain of shaped charges burning their way into its body. Slowly, reluctantly, the Leopard Beast gave up the battle to survive.
Scrubland, Outside The Defense Perimeter, Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
Warhol rubbed his eyes. They were gritty, he could feel the residues of burned powder under the lids and he wondered just how many rounds he’d fired into the Beast the night before. Ahead of him, the troops were lining up to be pictured beside the massive body that was stretched out on the ground. Just how much did that damned thing weigh he thought as the crew of a Bradley were pictured with their vehicle beside one of its paws. Could a thing like that actually exist? And if it did, what else was there in Heaven waiting to descend on Earth. The Leopard Beast had taken most of the resources of Fort Bragg to kill and it had come precious close to breaking in and destroying the scientific resources of the DIMO(N) center here.
“Impressive isn’t it.” Beside him, Doctor Crosby was also looking at the corpse of the Beast.
“It’s just big, that’s all. We can kill them, just a matter of learning how.” Warhol’s mind had trouble forming the words.
“I hope so. I think we’ll see more of them in due course.”
Chapter Nineteen
Chong Sadao, Thailand
“Where the hell have you been? My people have been cut to pieces up here because you broke your word.” Captain Momrajong was almost spitting with sheer rage. The fact he was speaking to a Senior Colonel, a rank equivalent to a one-star General in most other armies didn’t really register. “We were promised, promised, that if there was an invasion we’d be relieved by regular troops within 12 hours. That was two days ago.”
Senior Colonel Thawat bit back the response that would have left nothing of the captain but a pair of smoking boots and nodded apologetically instead. At one level, a rebuke would have been pointless, the Tahan Phran belonged to a different chain of command than the regular Army. They weren’t even funded by the Ministry of Defense, the Home Affairs Ministry carried the cost of the militia units. At another level, Thawat knew the captain was right. The lightly-armed militia weren’t intended to confront regular armies, they were supposed to protect their villages against minor incursions and guarantee security along roads. In most areas of the country that meant looking after tourists. The Tahan Phran had no heavy weapons, no night vision equipment and their body armor was locally-made Level Two. That wouldn’t stop a reasonably powerful pistol round.
“I understand your anger Captain, but we’re here now. In regimental strength. My men are relieving yours all along this area of front. The people responsible for this screw-up have been relieved. We can’t change what went wrong, we can only make sure it doesn’t happen again and go on from here.”
“That’s fine for you to say. I had some of my wounded die because they didn’t get the casualty evacuation we were promised. Are you going to tell their families why they died?”
“No, my commander will and she will do so personally.” Thawat’s voice was drowned out by a red-and-gray camouflaged V-22 sweeping in and hovering overhead. He watched while the aircraft changed, its engine nacelles swinging up so that its appearance changed from a transport aircraft to a helicopter. Then it dropped in to land, the downbeat from its rotors causing the men to bend down. “As to casualty evacuation, get your wounded and the Osprey will take them straight to the hospitals in Kanchanaburi. How many men have you fit for duty? Out of how many?”
“I have twenty rangers left. My original platoon was twenty-five but I’ve absorbed two other units that were too badly chewed up to stay independent. We’ve taken forty dead and fifteen wounded, at least five of my dead would have made it if you’d kept your word.”
All right, you’ve made your point, now drop it. We can’t bring them back. Despite his irritation, Thawat kept the thought to himself, then corrected himself. Well, actually we can, for a short while anyway. Hell and the Second Life had changed a lot of ways of thinking and human speech habits were slow to catch up.
“Now, Captain, I want you to show me where the Myanmarese troops are and in what strength. Then we can go about making them pay for the lives of your people.”
Momrajong exhaled, his breath shaking slightly as the pent-up anger slowly faded. “The Myanmar troops are moving along here.” He got out his map and his finger started to trace out the Myanmarese positions. “They came south of the Si Nakharin Lake. Most of their forces are here, our estimate is divisional strength. Say 20,000 men at most. They are light infantry, they have mortars and machine guns but not much else. This,” his finger traced eastwards, “is their primary axis of advance.”