A Hymn Before Battle

19 Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V 0529 GMT February 12th, 2002 ad

“Well,” said Sergeant Major Mosovich after he read the e-mail from Special Operations Command, “I thought this mission was going too easy.”

The team sat around the tiny table in the Himmit ship’s lounge drinking hot liquids and waiting for the shower. The team had been on Barwhon for nearly a year, resupplied twice by the Himmit, and it showed. The initial quick in and out had been expanded and expanded again until the hard, hand-chosen warriors of yore became a group of near automatons. Gone were the jokes, the kidding, the asides. Every member of the team had lost weight, become pared down to the point that each looked anorexic. The constant cold and damp, and the anxiety of the penetrations were dragging down even the hardest members of the team. Tempers were frayed. Mosovich thought about that as he read the flimsy Rigas had handed him.

Not even the Galactics could drive a message through the maelstrom of hyperspace, so ships would carry burst packets of electronic mail from warp point to warp point. At most of the major warp nexi, deep space satellites would receive the compressed bursts of data, sort them and store them for transfer. As other ships happened by, the bursts of mail would be routed to those going in the right direction. Finally the mail would reach its destination, slowly or fast depending on the vagaries of the intervening ships. In the case of this missive, it had been burst transmitted to a dedicated Himmit ship shuttling between the nearest surviving beacon and the Barwhon system. The Himmit courier picked up data bursts like it from Earth and returned the team’s data. That way whether the team survived or not the data would make it back to Earth. Rigas had received the most recent transmission shortly before the team made it back from Objective 24, a fully functioning Posleen city.

Mosovich thought about it for a moment more as Mueller stepped out of the shower stall.

“Next!”

“Hold it, Richards. Park it.” With a frown Richards sat back down again in the uncomfortable chair. It had to be bad news, every time they received orders the situation just got worse.

“Okay, first the brass is muchem happy with the take from the entire mission. We’re really here to confirm Galactic intelligence and to see if there’s anything other carnivores can figure out about the Posleen that the Galactics can’t. But they’ve also come up with another tasking. We need to get a Posleen, dead or alive, to be returned to Earth for study. They actually say a group of Posleen.”

“Oh, joy!” exclaimed Ersin. “How the hell are we supposed to collect Posleen covertly? What the fuck happened to a reconnaissance? For that matter, what the fuck happened to a recall order?”

“This clearly states that a snatch is now the primary mission, reconnaissance is secondary,” said Mosovich. It was just another wonderful example of how Washington considered special operations troops expendable. He was beginning to wonder if the brass had decided to just leave them on this ball until they rotted. And if he was thinking it, he knew the others were. So far they had not been detected and had not lost anyone. That was bound to change.

“Who’s the signature?” asked Mueller, toweling his head.

“General Baird, COS-JSOC — Chief of Staff, Joint Special Operations Command — he’s apparently filling in for General Taylor,” answered Mosovich, glancing at the bottom of the flimsy. Tung held out his hand and Mosovich passed it over. After a moment’s perusal Tung handed it back expressionlessly.

“Baird’s Air Force. See any para-jumpers doing this shit?” snorted Trapp.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Mosovich, “it’s an order. Fortunately they don’t say how to do it, or what kind of Posleen. Himmit Rigas?” he asked in a raised voice.

“Yes, Sergeant Major,” the Himmit responded from the intercom.

“Can the backup ship land here?” asked Mosovich. There was plenty of room in the clearing.

“They could but they won’t. They are here purely for support and would not experience this particular event for all the stories in the Galaxy,” responded the Himmit.

“Okay, the rest of the mission is off. We are going to perform our snatch and get the hell out of Dodge. Himmit, how many Tchpth can we cram in this tub, and can we cross shift after the first transfer point? For that matter will Hiberzine work on a Tchpth?”

“I see your objective, but your orders do not mention Tchpth. I read them.”

“Fuck my orders,” snapped the pissed off NCO. He was as tired as the rest of the team and even more unhappy about the orders. He personally thought those orders were a death warrant. “We’re supposed to collect Posleen; do you see room for adult Posleen? I don’t. So we collect nestlings. And since the nestlings are right there by the Tchpth…”

“We pull out as many Tchpth as we can,” finished Ersin.

“Right.”

“Tactically wrong. Morally right. Can we do it?” asked Tung. His midnight face was as still as stone. With nearly as much experience as Mosovich, he was just as aware of the impossibility of their current orders.

“Getting back’s gonna be a stone bitch,” said Trapp. “They’re gonna be all over our ass.” He pulled out his Bushmaster and started sharpening it.

“Lambs to the slaughter,” murmured Ellsworthy, taking a quick buff at a nail.

“Lotta damn lambs,” pointed out Mueller, “with a lot of damn weapons.”

“So, we gotta get in and out without being noticed,” said Richards, shrugging his shoulders.

“Diversion,” stated Tung.

“Oh, now I know why you brought me!” laughed Mueller, “I’m supposed to die heroically planting the explosives! I saw the movie. Now, it was a good movie, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure I want the part.”

“Nail the God Kings,” said Richards.

“That would be me,” smiled Ellsworthy, dreamily. She held her hand out at arm’s length and examined what was left of her nails. “Damn, I wish there was a nail shop on this ball.” She buffed another rough edge.

“Mine the far approach, and the buildings,” stated Tung with a shake of his head at the marine. Ellsworthy seemed to spend most of her time on another plane, but it only seemed to make her more effective when it dropped in the pot. “Come in in the dark, set the charges, hit them from the flank at BMNT.” — Before Morning Nautical Twilight — “Most of the team pulls out the nestlings and the Tchpth while a group draws the Posleen on a wild goose chase.”

“We don’t know that they don’t have vehicles other than the God Kings’ capable of negotiating this muck,” Mosovich pointed out. “Mostly good, but we need to avoid being chased at all. If we are chased, then we split off a team to lead them away. Let me work this over. Tung, Ersin, my cabin. The rest of you get a shower and some rest, I’m going to commune with higher and come up with an op-order.”

Sandra Ellsworthy was in her element. Wrapped in rags of burlap, she nestled into the lower branches of a Griffin tree and plotted targets. As the first faint purple light of Barwhon dawn began to shade the horizon, it degraded the light enhancements built into her scope. However, since the Posleen had a higher body temperature than humans, and far higher than the semi-isothermal Tchpth, the thermal imagery enhancements picked them out like beacons against the cooler backdrop.

There had been changes since the team was last here. There were now seven complete pyramids, each surrounded by several pens. The causeway on the west side had been completed and the bunkers to either side, nearly a kilometer from Ellsworthy’s hide, were complete. On the north and south sides trees were being cleared and it looked like a drainage project was under way. Fortunately clearing had not started on the west side, where the team waited, but the unexpected open area had slowed the diversion team’s entry and would make its retreat less survivable. There were also nearly twice as many Posleen moving around as there had been at the time of the first recon. If anything went wrong with the snatch it looked like it would be a short, sharp shower of shit.

“Deese leettle pig went to market,” she whispered, targeting the Posleen sentry most likely to engage the diversion force first. Her task was to slow the pursuit without lowering the effectiveness of the diversion and without revealing her position. The nursery rhymes, set to a reggae beat, were a mnemonic to remember the order of fire. She had eleven rounds before reload and every round was plotted. “You know deese leettle piggy stayed home,” the first guard’s backup, “deese leettle piggy had roast beef,” a superior normal bent over its 3mm, “an deese leettle piggy had none,” its companion. The Posleen never seemed to be alone; they always moved in groups of two or more. “An deese leettle piggy went… ” a Posleen crouched by the entrance to one of the now-completed pyramids near the nestling pens. About then she expected the God Kings to start making their appearance. She figured on taking out at least two of the seven to ten before reloading.

“Game,” the demo team was pulling back.

“Set,” as Trapp reached contact position. She was glad it was him and not her. The quick little bastard was a master, whatever his technical ranking.

“Match,” she whispered taking up slack on the trigger.

“Initiate,” growled Master Sergeant Tung.

She had barely seen Mueller and Ersin as they moved around the compound. Now their handiwork was evident. The two half-formed bunkers at the causeway were devoured in actinic silver fire as the C-9 atomic catalyst explosive did its job. Simultaneously the further line of bunkers was devoured in flames. Jets of plasma gouted from the palace on top of the farthest pyramid as a small antimatter charge detonated. Posleen began to pour from the huts like hornets from a hive as Ellsworthy serviced her targets and explosions continued to rock the compound.

One little piggy did indeed go to market and one went home. With each shot the fifty caliber slammed into her shoulder like the kick of a horse, nearly unseating her from her perch in the tree. But when the two-ounce rounds punched through the Posleen’s centauroid chests the horse-sized creatures were hurled sideways, plate-sized exit holes and fountains of yellow ichor marking their end. Just as she reloaded, right on time, the first God King rushed into view, harness half slung. The leader caste was as easy meat as the rest and went up to the great smorgasbord in the sky, flattened across the deceased guard at its door.

While the master sniper serviced her targets, Trapp had another job. As the Posleen sentry nearest the nestling pens turned to look at the violent silver flashes, an unnoticed black shadow detached itself from the ground. Not trusting the power of the silenced 9mm rounds against something with the mass of a small horse, Trapp put seven rounds into the sentry’s chest and three into its head in four seconds. The Posleen’s head exploded like a yellow melon and it joined its brethren in repose. Trapp cautiously tracked it to the ground then moved west to cover the left flank of the entry team.

Richards moved directly into the compound and set up an M-60 light machine gun just beyond the pens as Master Sergeant Tung moved to the left with a medium laser. This left Mosovich and Martine to secure the objective.

One problem with the Tchpth was that the team had no translation devices. Human-adapted AIDs had not been available before they left and the Himmit had been exceedingly reluctant to give up any of theirs. Thus Mosovich was forced to try pidgin Tchpth on the prisoners who looked for all the world to him like blue Alaskan King crabs. Martine had, so to speak, drawn the short straw and he had three sacks to fill up with nestling Posleen.

Jake raced to the fence of the Tchpth compound and aspirated “TcKpth! !Klik! Tit! Tit!” which the Himmit had solemnly assured him meant “Friends here to help, move back, move back.”

He was certain it would never work, but the instant the first word left his mouth, the remaining Tchpth jerked to the far side of the pen. He placed a sheet charge against the plastic slats and darted around the corner. The C-4 flashed white and a section of fence three feet across simply vanished. “Ikdee! Ikdee!” he shouted, gesturing for them to follow and ran for the jungle. He looked back and saw that none of them had moved. Each and every one remained in the pen. Cursing everything Galactic he ran back.

In the meantime Staff Sergeant Martine had his own extraterrestrial problems. He had had the foresight to wear gloves, since the carnivorous Posleen had teeth like razors even as nestlings, but standard issue leather work gloves were never meant to deal with carnivore jaws and raptor talons. When he bent over the fence and reached in for the first specimen, as he had seen the God King reach in months before, he immediately discovered that there was a knack to grabbing nestlings.

Like a snake, or a pissed-off cat, they were best grasped behind the neck. The blast of Mosovich’s charge drowned Martino’s bellow of pain and rage as the nestling snapped its tooth-filled maw onto his hand and whipped up to sink all six talons into his arm. But his imprecations could be heard clearly over the beginning sounds of battle in the distance.

“F-f-f-f-co-co-cocksucker!” he managed to say in an intense stage whisper. He pounded the tenacious whelp against the fence several times until he could stun it enough to lever its saurian jaws apart and detach its talons.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed as he stuffed the unconscious pullet into the sack. He surveyed the remaining throng while shaking the blood from his hand. They in turn watched him. They obviously hoped he was supper. He thrust his hand in again and this time managed to snag the floppy skin on the back of one of the nestlings’ elongated necks. It let out a shriek and twisted in his grip, but he thrust the cat-sized extraterrestrial willy-nilly into the second sack.

Mueller and Ersin had laid a series of trip-wire and command-detonated mines along the path the Posleen would take in pursuit and their flashes served to maintain the distraction, but one God King, at least, noticed the commotion by the pens and began to rally a counter attack. That notion was effectively quashed by a .50 caliber high velocity round, but the normals of that God King, and the others whose bonds had been released, were in a hyper-aggressive mood with the death of their masters. A group of them moved toward the disturbance at the pens and it was time to rock and roll.

Richards opened the ball with direct fire from his M-60. The 7.62mm rounds tumbled Posleen to the ground, but the senseless carnivores totally ignored their losses and charged towards the source of the drifting tracers, few of them firing in return. Trapp and Ellsworthy added the weight of their fire, but until Tung added the power of his man-pack laser the tide was unstoppable. The combination managed to stop the first wave but the battle on the south side had drawn the attention of the main body away from the distraction, effectively negating its purpose.

Mosovich gave up coaxing the crabs when the firing started. He leapt into the pen, through a forest of pincers, to the far side and began kicking them out through the opening. The Tchpth first turned towards their former homes, but seeing the raging battle to the north, they scattered southward towards the jungle, chittering in fear. By tracking back and forth waving his weapon, which had better uses at the moment in his opinion, he managed to drive them in the right general direction. He heard silvery laughter on the team net and looked up towards the trees.

“Fuck you, Ellsworthy,” he snarled.

She laughed again, preparing to meet the second wave. “Sorry, honey, but you look like a crab farmer with his flock.” Her laughter broke off in a flurry of directed fire at the trees and a gurgle. He saw a black shape detach itself from a branch and fall thirty meters to bone crushing stillness.

“Incoming!” screamed Richards, as a God King saucer launched itself upwards. It swooped randomly up and left, as its heavy railgun tracked back and forth. Martine screamed and dropped as his legs were severed by the sheet of fire, and Master Sergeant Tung grunted and fell like a forest giant, blood pouring from his mouth.

Jake turned away from his animal husbandry and charged towards the spot where the remains of Sandra Ellsworthy sprawled. Sweeping up her massive rifle he tracked onto the God King saucer and gave it a little lead. The recoil of the powerful weapon rocked him backwards as he fired “off hand.” The Posleen used an energy storage system similar to the Federation’s. A solid state module buried deep in the “battery” generated a field that permitted molecular bonds to be twisted far out of alignment. As energy was released, the bonds twisted back into their correct position, releasing their stored power. It was a mature technology that, while inherently dangerous, worked just fine as long as the stabilization module maintained integrity.

The .50 caliber bullet punched through the light metal of the saucer and into its energy bottle. The round actually missed the stabilization module, but the dynamic shock wave of its passage transferred thousands of joules of energy through the matrix. Before the bullet had passed fully through the crystalline matrix the bonds had begun to shatter and release their massive energy in an uncontrolled explosion rivaling an antimatter charge.

The blast flipped the saucer into the air and the mass of the God King saucer disappeared in the bright white flash. The shock wave slapped the sergeant major and Trapp to the ground, tossed Richards through the air like a flapjack and stunned or killed most of the front rank Posleen. It was followed by a searing wave of heat.

After a moment Trapp and Mosovich stumbled to their feet, but Richards lay with his head flopped oddly to one side. Jake took one look at him, picked up Martine’s sacks and his Street Sweeper then ran for the jungle.