“Is there some way to gather the information from them?” the older Kessentai mused. “Or some way to feed it in?”
“Both,” Staraquon said with a bark of humor. “But shouldn’t we wait on that for when the attack takes place? I want these humans to suspect nothing until then.”
“Agreed,” Tulo’stenaloor said. “Very well, do what you need to, you may even draw on the Kessentai force if you think it can be kept secret. But find this recon team and kill it.”
Jake took another look through the binoculars and scratched his chin in thought. The Tallulah River drained the northeast Georgia mountains, joined by numerous smaller tributaries until it became a substantial stream. At that point, however, humans had taken a hand and the river was repeatedly used for hydroelectric power generation. Currently he was observing the bit of it that flowed out of the Lake Burton Dam and, in very short order, became Lake Seed. Between the two lakes was a short stretch that, according to the map and their intel report, was supposed to be fordable. Only about thirty meters from side to side and knee deep at worst. What was even better about this point for a crossing was that there were steep, heavily wooded slopes on either side of the river. All the team would have to do was move down through the woods, pass through a blessedly small open area, cross the river and move back into the sheltering woods.
Unfortunately, the intel reports neglected to take into account the sumptuous rains of the previous few months and the power plant on the dam.
The plant was old, possibly as much as a century passed since its construction, the large multi-pane windows and antique lights scattered around made that clear. The generators inside would probably be signed by Thomas Edison himself, but the plant still functioned and it was evident that the Posleen were using it to supplement their fusion plants.
Which, by itself, was no skin off of Jake Mosovich’s nose. But the problem was the generation had raised the level of the river to nearly chest height and the power of it would make any white-water kayaker happy. But the objective was on the far side. Which created a number of unpalatable options. They could turn around and cross Lake Burton on the north end. But if they did that it would make more sense to extract to behind the lines, drive around to the Highway 76 defenses and start all over again.
Alternatively, they could move closer to Toccoa and make a crossing. The problem with that was that the most dangerous point of the insertion would take place practically on the target. A landing zone for a globe was commonly almost ten miles in radius. It would be expected that landers were at least as far out as Toccoa although telemetry had indicated this landing was remarkably tight. Whichever was the case, crossing further down would be much more dangerous. If anything went wrong on the crossing, they might find upwards of four million Posleen chasing their asses. And while Jake had developed a fond affection for Posleen stupidity, he had also gained a strong appreciation for their tenacity and speed. There was no way they would survive a globe-force on their ass.
That left one option.
“The bridge is up,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” Mueller said. “And by that you are suggesting what?”
He and Mueller had been together a long time. Along with Sergeant Major Ersin they were the only survivors of the first, disastrous human encounter with the Posleen on Barwhon when a hand-picked team of the best the U.S. Special Operations Command had to offer was sent out to learn about this amazing and unlikely reported extraterrestrial threat.
All went relatively well until the small team was ordered to retrieve some live Posleen for study. It was then that the team learned, to its cost, about the efficiency of God King sensors and how very fast the “dumb” Posleen could react to a direct and recognizable threat. He had completed the mission, but at the cost of six legends in the SpecOps community. And he had never again underestimated the Posleen.
But there was a difference between underestimation and necessary risk.
“I don’t see a choice,” Mosovich pointed out. “And there’s not much traffic. We’ve seen, what? One group cross it in the last few hours? We move down to right on top of it, make sure there aren’t any bad guys around and then sneak across. What’s so tough?”
“Getting killed is what’s so tough,” Nichols interjected. “What happens if a God King wanders by? I guarantee you that if we’re ‘on top’ of the bridge, their sensors are going to scream, even if we don’t get spotted by sentries on the dam!”
“What sentries?” Mosovich said. “Posleen don’t post sentries. They never do.”
“They never send out patrols, either,” Mueller pointed out. “And it sure as hell looks like that’s what’s going on here. How many of these damn groups have we seen, just milling around. Usually they’re constructing something or farming or working. These guys are acting like… soldiers.”
“You spooked?” Mosovich asked seriously. Mueller had been at the Posleen killing business as long as the sergeant major; it made sense to listen to his hunches.
“Yeah,” Mueller answered. “Something ain’t right. Why land a globe out here in the middle of nowhere? Why’re all these guys doin’ what look like patrols? For that matter, how many times have you seen one of these dams generating?”
“And then there’s why we’re here,” Sister Mary added quietly.
Much of the intelligence that humans gathered on the Posleen was from one of three sources: the sensor net scattered through the woods, high-intensity telescopes scattered across the face of the moon and special scatterable, short-lived mobile “bots” that could be fired from artillery shells.
Since this latest globe landing, all of the sensors in line of sight of Clarkesville had been systematically eliminated, every set of bots sent in had been localized and destroyed and the Posleen had put up a blanket of smoke over most of the area they were organizing in. It bespoke something very unusual. And now they seemed to be actively patrolling.
“We gotta get into the area,” Jake pointed out. “To get there we gotta cross the stream.”
“Next time, we’re humping in SCUBA gear,” Mueller grumbled. “Then we swim across the lake.”
“I don’t know how to SCUBA,” Sister Mary whispered.
“I don’t know how to swim,” Nichols admitted.
“Babies,” Mueller grumped. “We’re taking out babies. Don’t they teach you anything in Recondo?”
“Sure,” Nichols said. “How to do a repulsion jump. I think I’ve used it as much as you have SCUBA training.”
“Tonight,” Mosovich said. “We’ll move out at two ohmygodhundred. Standard formation. If we make contact, follow SOP, rally here. Sister Mary, call up the arty and make sure they’re awake for our crossing.”
“Gotcha.”
“Chill until then. Tonight’s going to be busy.”
“You have had a busy day, eson’sora.”
Cholosta’an laid his crest down and bobbed his head to the older Kessentai, uncomfortable with the unusual term. Like many others it had been ferreted out of the Data Net by acolytes of the unusual master of this Globe-force, but it was unfamiliar to the majority of Posleen. It had echoes of a genetic relationship, father to son or sibling to sibling. But they were overtones only; the term meant neither father nor master but something similar to both. Defining the relationship, however, was an ongoing process.
“It has been… interesting.” The ever-present smoke of the main camp stung his eyes but at least now he understood the reason for it. The humans, too, had maps, and ways of seeing from the sky. Most of those had been destroyed automatically, the reason, apparently, that the Alldn’t equipment engaged what appeared to be harmless targets. But there were other ways; communications had been… intercepted from the orbital body. The humans even had eyes there.