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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 sca
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 tenpe
«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.
His oolt now approached a building where his sensors told him a group of thresh huddled, some of them armed. He thought of spreading his oolt to envelop it in its arms but decided not to bother. He would order a few oolt'os forward, to reduce the loss if the building erupted as others had. But for the rest they would remain between the many highway markers to either side.
These thresh certainly had odd habits. On this stretch not only were there overhead lines with many objects attached, there were markers every few feet and they were adorned with the same sort of odd contraption as the overhead lines . . .
* * *
Sergeant Tri watched the first few Posleen normals head for the church door, hefted his AIW, turned and nodded significantly at Lieutenant Lee.
As Lee moved the jumper cables into contact with the car battery, a fat blue spark jumped through the shadows of the darkened church.
Simultaneously, to the human ear, over three hundred improvised claymores detonated over a four-hundred-yard length of road. Each of the mines spewed out over a hundred missiles traveling much faster than a bullet. The mines were on both sides of the road, attached to ropes slung across the road, on the ground, at every level. Thousands of deadly missiles swarmed the road, and the Posleen were torn to shreds.
The nails tore the centaurs apart, yellow blood flying through the air along with bits of flesh and bone. Hundreds of rounds of ammunition detonated and the rear-rank God King's saucer was consumed in silvery fire as its onboard energy cells shattered. In that first violent instant, over a hundred Posleen were destroyed and the Battle of Concord Heights was joined.
* * *
«Colonel,» said the S-3, «Lieutenant Ray reports they are in contact with the Posleen. The front ranks walked right into the ambush and they finished off the survivors pretty quick, but the rear ranks are pushing forward hard and he doesn't think he can hold his position much longer.»
«Right. Well.» Colonel Robertson looked around at the figures hurrying in and out of the armory. The pile in the center of the armory floor was getting to a respectable size. «We need to pull this operation back. What's the situation at the interstate?»
«The main Posleen force has basically extinguished itself, pun intended, but reinforcements are moving in from the north and south. They're going to be able to hold out for about fifteen minutes more.»
«It's better than we had any right to expect. And the bunker?»
«Just about loaded.»
«Heaven be praised. Okay, tell the sergeant major this is the last load.»
«Who gets to do the honors?»
«I think I'll leave it up to the sergeant major. You and I need to head into town.»
As they walked out the front of the armory for the last time, the colonel turned and looked at the sign just inside the front door and snorted grimly. «I hope that our enemy at least has enough intelligence to begin to recognize insignia.»
«Why?» asked the S-3.
The colonel gestured at the two-turreted castle. «Just imagine how much they'll come to hate that crest.»
* * *
«I will have the get of these Alld'nt threshkreen for my supper!» Kenallai stepped mincingly through the offal clogging the road, having abandoned his saucer for a closer look at the carnage. A haze of dust and smoke still hung over the battlefield and the shattered bodies of the Posleen companies were steaming in the cold night air. «What in the name of the nineteen fuscirt did this?»
«This, my eson'antai,» said Kenallurial, gesturing into the building that had been the center of the fighting. He pointed to a large green-clad thresh missing most of his foreparts. An explosion had occurred that ate most of the thresh's mass, leaving little to salvage for rations. From the spray of oolt'os outward from the thresh, it was an explosion designed to kill the oolt'os as they tried to come upon him. Kenallurial tore a bit of the green garment away.