Conquistadors!, page 26
“He never came home,” she said, trying to look piteous. If they assumed she’d stayed home when her uncle had gone to fight ... they could hardly blame her if they drew the wrong conclusion and she simply didn’t bother to correct them. “I don’t know what happened to him.”
“I see,” the woman said. “You have no qualifications yet, I see. You’ll be assigned to a work gang shortly, after the process is completed. There’ll be a chance to move up in the world later.”
Dorothy swallowed, then forced herself to keep from protesting as the bureaucrat ordered her to press her fingers against a scanner, printed out an ID card, warned her that not carrying it on her person when she was outside might lead to arrest and detention, then told her to head to Room 101 for assignment. There was no point in arguing, she knew, and she had to keep her head down until she found a way to hurt the invaders. Uncle Vinnie was dead and she didn’t know anyone else who might be part of the resistance ... if there was a resistance. For all she knew, everyone brave enough to join the fight had already done so ... and been crushed.
Uncle Vinnie used to say that men were either sheep, wolves, or sheepdogs, she recalled. It had seemed silly, at the time, but now she was starting to see his point. If the sheepdogs are all dead, who’ll stand up for the sheep when the wolves prey on them?
She shook her head, mentally, as she stepped into Room 101. There were a handful of others waiting for her, mostly older students with a sprinkling of young people in their early twenties and thirties. She wasn’t surprised to recognise some of them, mainly kids she’d known at school. A couple looked faintly embarrassed to be there, including one who’d bragged loudly of his intention to join the army as soon as he was old enough; the others looked as if they were numb, having long-since lost the ability to feel much of anything. Dorothy understood, all too well. A few weeks ago, everything had been normal; now, the world had turned upside down.
“They’re saying we’re going to be in a work gang,” Norton said. Dorothy remembered him as being a nerd, a boy who’d been picked on by everyone else ... she was mildly surprised he hadn’t turned into a quisling himself. Why not? If she’d been in his shoes, she would have been very tempted. “What do you think they want us to do?”
“Work for them, I guess,” one of the older men said. He looked too worried to even glance at anyone else. Dorothy wondered, suddenly, if he’d been one of the defenders too. “We’ll find out shortly.”
“Doing what?” Norton said. “What?”
“We’ll find out,” Dorothy said, keeping her voice calm. A work gang ... what did that mean? She supposed she should be glad she wasn’t being assigned to a brothel. There was an older woman – a war bride – whose mother had been forced to become a “comfort woman” during the war. The term sounded harmless, but it had been nothing more than forced prostitution and brutal rape ... time and time again. “And then we’ll see.”
Bide your time, she told herself, as they waited. They couldn’t cause any real damage now ... hell, for all she knew, the work gang program was designed to separate the sheep from the wolves before it was too late. Let them relax. Let them get used to you. And then find a way to strike back.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Austin, Texas, USA, Timeline F (OTL)
“The deployment plans have been finalised,” Essex said. “Do you really want to lead the operation in person?”
James nodded. He owed it to himself to take some risks, particularly when they were launching a major operation that could easily go wrong. They’d done everything they could to guarantee success, from sending covert operatives into the city and hacking their computer networks to assigning enough missiles to specific targets that the penny-pinchers back home would start complaining about overkill, but success was not guaranteed. The locals had a saying – no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy – and he could hardly disagree, not when the enemy was innovative and advanced enough to give them a bloody nose. The days of easy victories were coming to an end, he suspected. They’d already lost more hardware than the PEF had lost in any other invasion ...
The enemy lost far more, he thought. But they have hardware to spare.
“You remain in command of the castle,” he ordered. “Keep the locals under close watch – don’t let them have a chance to misbehave. If they do, crack down hard. We cannot let them get the idea they can defy us, or the operational plan will come apart at the seams.”
He cursed his superiors under his breath. In a straight fight, the PEF could take on the entire American military and win. It would be bloody and brutal, but it would be over quickly. If ... he shook his head. The real world was rarely so obliging. The enemy had no intention of lining up and letting him kill them, not when they could fall back and force him to extend his logistics to breaking point. If he’d had another transport regiment, or two, he could have smashed the enemy’s military before they adapted to the new reality. Instead, he was dangerously dependent on local allies. And they simply couldn’t be trusted.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the display. There’d been a certain degree of randomness about the attacks they’d launched, smashing or scattering enemy military formations and forcing civilians to go on the run, and normally it wouldn’t have been a problem. Here ... it clogged roads, slowing his logistics, and gave the enemy all sorts of opportunities to hurt him. Or worse. In theory, he could build more hover vehicles; in practice, there were so many demands on his fabbers, mainly military requirements, that he couldn’t do anything of the sort. He made a mental note to use it in his defence, if the Inner Council questioned his conduct of the war. Their bid to limit his claim to the new world had put the war effort in jeopardy.
That’ll have to wait, he told himself, coldly. Right now, we have a war to win.
He gritted his teeth. The enemy population was armed and dangerous. Some had no interest in fighting for a government they detested, others were too scared to fight or thought they could profit from the invasion, but ... a sizable number were harassing his forces and their collaborators, forcing him to devote resources to countering their attacks and hunting them down. They were growing more and more innovative by the day, drawing on weapons and supplies no other timeline had been able to imagine, let alone use. They’d come very close to wiping out another tank troop ... and would have, if their weapons had been a little deadlier. The next time, the PEF might not be so lucky.
“We’ll leave now,” he said, curtly. They had to make a major show of power, to prove they could strike wherever they liked. It would be enough, he hoped, to get the rest of the world on their side. Their diplomatic contacts had already had some success ... not as much as he’d hoped, but hardly total rejection. “Don’t let them take advantage of you.”
Essex looked irked. “I won’t.”
James smiled, then made his way up to the transport pads. The heavy command vehicle had already been loaded into the aircraft, along with the remainder of his personal escort. Other transports were heading into the air, seemingly unconcerned about enemy air defences ... James had given strict orders that any enemy missile launcher, no matter how primitive, was to be treated as a serious threat. The enemy had more advanced weapons than sticks and stones ... and even sticks and stones could be dangerous, if used effectively. His staff were already waiting for him, their faces calm as they studied their displays. They were about to give the locals a lesson in what a very advanced military could do.
And they shouldn’t be able to see this coming, James thought. The enemy’s air transports were good, better than comparable designs from the Protectorate’s history, but nowhere near as capable as his transports. They know we can move fast, yet ... do they know how fast?
“Sir,” Lieutenant Hawke said. “The assault force is ready to depart. The missile teams are locked and loaded, ready to engage when you give the command.”
“Begin the countdown,” James said. He felt a thrill as he took his seat in the command vehicle. Sure, it was a risk ... but life was all about risk. He thought his ancestor would approve as his transport rose into the air, putting itself – and him – in the line of fire. The gamble was calculated, but a gamble nonetheless. “The missile teams are to open fire as planned.”
“Aye, sir.”
James nodded, curtly. The assault force would get fairly close to the target, he thought, before it was spotted. The enemy’s radar sets had been systematically destroyed; their radio and electronics communications infrastructure jammed or degraded to the point of near-uselessness. He reminded himself not to rely on that. The enemy had had more than enough time to readjust their targets, perhaps even sneak spotters into the occupied zone to watch his activities in the hopes of getting early warning. They might have worked out an attack was underway, even if they didn’t know the target. They’d certainly dispersed many of their units to keep them from being wiped out in a handful of missile strikes.
They’ll get some warning, he told himself. But it won’t be enough.
***
Callam wondered, as he surveyed the line of young recruits assembled at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, if he’d ever looked quite that young, the day he reported to Camp Pendleton. It seemed unlikely ... some of the recruits really were young, too young to be recruited under normal circumstances. Others were too old, or too unfit, to be recruited; no recruiting officer, unless he was desperate to make his quota, would’ve let them sign up. He sighed inwardly, feeling a twinge of guilt. The news about the successful ambush had made him a hero – the media had credited him with destroying seventy tanks personally, as if he were a superhero capable of tearing through metal like paper – but it had also got him called to Austin, to help prepare the new recruits. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to do, yet ... he shrugged. The only upside of the whole affair was that most rules and regulations had gone by the wayside.
“The invaders are tough,” he said. He’d read the autopsy report very carefully. The enemy tanker had been in extremely good shape, good enough to give a Navy SEAL a run for his money. “They move fast, they hit hard, they have a certain degree of calculated ruthlessness that makes them incredibly dangerous. They do not go out of their way to kill civilians, thankfully, but they have no qualms about mowing their way through civilians who happen to get in their way.”
He shivered, inwardly, as he went through the whole tale of just what had really happened in the ambush. He’d hardly done it all alone, no matter what the media said. The recruits listened, asking questions from time to time. Callam did his best to answer, then pointed them to the next set of classes. Everything had been cut dangerously short. The firearms instructors couldn’t give them anywhere near enough time on the range, the urban warfare instructors couldn’t even start to cover all the options ... some idiot politician had started whining about teaching the recruits to fight like terrorists, even though there was little choice. If a full military deployment had been brushed aside, he doubted the raw recruits would do any better.
“Good luck,” he muttered, as he slipped outside. “I need a smoke.”
The city was dark, but the airport was a hive of activity; heavy aircraft and repurposed civilian jets bringing in reinforcements and carrying wounded out of the state, military officers hurrying everywhere as they struggled to impose some order on the chaos. Tilt-rotors and attack helicopters were flying over the city, moving troops closer to the front lines ... he hoped to hell the pilots knew not to go too close to the enemy. One plasma burst would be enough to take them down. A handful of men swaggered around with MANPADs, ready to engage enemy aircraft if they showed themselves; others manned SAM platforms, or long-range missile launchers. They claimed they could defend the airport, if asked, but Callam had his doubts. He’d said so, too. MANPADs had killed an invader aircraft, true, but the idiot pilot had flown right into the missiles. The invaders hadn’t made the same mistake twice.
Which does suggest they’re unused to dealing with any near-equals, Callam reminded himself. He’d put that in his report, forwarding it to Washington. He had no idea if anyone had read it, let alone acted on it, but at least he’d tried. We wouldn’t have made that mistake.
He lit a cigarette and took a long breath, feeling oddly alone in a sea of people. He wanted to get back to the field, away from the city and the state of martial law the governor had declared; he wanted to get back to the front lines and hit the enemy again and again, hurting them until they gave up and left. Their base was vast – he’d seen the satellite photographs – but there had to be hard limits on their manpower, didn’t there? Sooner or later, their losses would become untenable. And then ...
Something flickered, at the corner of his eye. He hurled himself to the ground instinctively, an instant before a streak of light slammed into a heavy transport aircraft and blew it into a colossal fireball. The ground heaved a moment later, other streaks of light – enemy missiles – slashing down, targeting the defences, aircraft and hangars alike. A chain of explosions ran through the furthest hangars, converted into command-and-control stations ... Callam hoped, prayed, the officers had set up fallback positions, just in case the first stations were destroyed without warning. No one had told him anything, unsurprisingly. What he didn’t know he couldn’t tell.
He saw a flash of light in the distance, in the city, followed by a massive fireball. He didn’t know Austin that well, and he had no idea what had been targeted, but the missile looked to have come down in the middle of the city. More followed, the thunder sweeping over his ears and battering them into submission mercilessly. He swallowed hard, all too aware the assault had only just begun. The invaders had bombed a number of targets across the southern US – military bases, mainly – but they’d expended too much effort on Austin for him to think it was random malice. They were about to assault the city itself.
They’re too far away, part of his mind insisted. There were nearly three hundred miles between the front lines and the city, roughly half the distance between Kuwait and Baghdad; it was too far for the invaders ... wasn’t it? Or do they have something in mind ...?
More explosions followed, fireballs billowing up all over the city. Austin was heavily defended ... he wondered, numbly, just how many of the defenders were now dead. The invaders were human ... so many refugees had fled east that the invaders would have no trouble sending their own people into the city, pretending to be more refugees. It wasn’t as if they’d stand out, not in the South. There were millions of people who could claim some degree of mixed heritage ... he shook his head, dismissing the thought as he stumbled to his feet. The airport was a burning ruin, the runways strewn with the remains of wrecked aircraft ... he told himself that would make life difficult for the invaders. If the defenders were lucky, they might have damaged the runways too. They’d certainly blown up the hangar storing the repair gear.
“Sir!”
Callam turned, to see a handful of recruits running towards him. He vaguely recognised a couple ... they’d been on the firing range, hadn’t they? They’d had the sense to grab what ammunition they could, thankfully. Their instructor waddled after them, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Callam tried not to show his disgust. The man had really let himself go after leaving the army, rendering himself unfit for anything other than training duties. Callam heard more explosions to the east and cursed under his breath. The invaders were on their way.
“We need to fall back,” he said. He ignored the look of shock in their eyes. There were only fourteen recruits left, plus two instructors. The remainder of the airport’s defenders were either dead or regrouping somewhere else. “They’ll be coming here.”
“But ...”
“Move,” Callam snapped. He understood the young recruit’s reluctance – he felt as if he’d spent half his time running, since the invasion began – but if they stayed in place and tried to defend the airport they’d be killed effortlessly. “Now!”
He saw a shape pass overhead, too quickly for him to make out anything more than a blur, and cursed under his breath. The invaders were already here ... he snapped orders, driving the recruits into a run. They couldn’t be caught in the open, not here. The airport had been heavily defended, on paper, but it was now nothing more than a death trap. He sensed, more than saw, more aircraft passing overhead. The noose was tightening. The enemy missiles had smashed the defences, and now their troops were arriving to finish the job ...
A low thump echoed through the air as they double-timed it to the edge of the airport. The civilian buildings on the far side of the fence were already on fire ... he hoped to hell they’d been evacuated, those that hadn’t been pressed into military service. They’d been used to stockpile supplies ... he put the thought aside as he realised something had hit the fence, hard enough to knock it down. The handful of earthworks lay broken and scattered.
“Sir,” a recruit said. He let out an odd, high-pitched giggle. “It’s International Rescue!”
Callam bit down, hard, on the urge to slap some sense into the young man. He was so barely trained that the idea of calling him a soldier was just absurd. He certainly hadn’t been stress-tested, let alone trained so hard that actual combat seemed easy ... something that wasn’t true, as any experienced soldier knew, but a delusion that made it easier to cope. And ...
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Thunderbird 2,” the recruit said. “Look at it!”
Callam followed his gaze. An aircraft – an enemy aircraft – sat on the runway ... he wasn’t sure when it had arrived, he certainly hadn’t heard it land, but it looked thoroughly odd. The wings were short and stubby, as if it were a tilt-rotor rather than a jet aircraft. It seemed to split in two as he watched, the airframe lifting up to reveal a heavy cargo pod ... the recruit giggled, again, as the pod opened to release a tank. It glided out, weapons sweeping for trouble; infantry marched beside it, spreading out as a second tank joined the first, followed by a much larger tank. Callam forced himself to think as two more tanks appeared, bringing up the rear. If the invader transport could carry five heavy tanks ... he peered down the runway, through the smoke and flames. There were other invader aircraft, at least five ... he swore. Twenty-five enemy tanks, far too close to the city for comfort ...
