“Use their tactics against them,” Speare said. The admiral’s breath smelled just faintly of fehral.
Trust the old rodent to be blitzed before an attack! Scratche thought to himself. He filed the information away with the merest twitching of his snout. One day he might use it to prick the Admiral’s pride. For the moment he would keep the information tight inside him, just as he kept his spines tightly furled against about his back.
“And just what are their tactics, Milord Admiral?” Captain Sir Creve Pierce, Knight of the Puissant Order of Spears, inquired. He approached the raised command chair from the side where he had been overseeing the navigation officer.
Milord Admiral eyed his Admiralty-appointed flag-officer with ill-disguised contempt. He hissed, “You know my orders, Captain, be sure you follow them.”
Captain Pierce lowered his muzzle obeisantly, his black eyes glinting fiercely in the intense white light of the battle bridge. “I shall, milord, and you will have no quarrel with me,” the Captain said. “I merely asked, as we have arrived at that point when our jump in-system is imminent.”
“One of their most ancient sages, Sir Captain, said that the epitome of skill is not to fight but to let your enemy fight himself into surrender,” the Admiral replied. He turned to his adjutant. “Fetch me the latest from our probe. They must be fighting by now.”
Speare turned back to the captain, nostrils twitching as though smelling the blood of the kill. “Soon, captain, soon we will jump in and collect their surrender.”
“I am much relieved to hear that, milord,” the Captain replied obsequiously, “I feared that the Admiralty might grow ill-disposed towards this venture after our long wait here at the edge of this solar system.”
“Once the humans have been disposed of, it shall only be a matter of months before the planet is rightfully ours.” Three hundred human years had passed since the first, abortive attempt by Speare’s long-distant ancestor, Sheik William, to conquer the human world. The ignominy of that defeat had been carefully hidden among other Jyncji conquests. But the venture had cost Speare’s line immeasurably in both prestige and wealth. Now he, Rastle of the lesser Speares, would avenge the dishonor that had left the spiny backs of Speares furled against their bodies in shame.
“Colonel,” the Bolo’s voice drew Colonel Rheinhardt back from his ruminations about the forthcoming operation, “I have managed to penetrate the Noufrench military network.”
“How?” Rheinhardt examined the combat displays. “They haven’t detected you, have they?”
“They believe so, however their software security systems are no match for my efforts.” The Bolo continued. “I have determined that the Noufrench were not responsible for the near-destruction of the terraforming microbes three hundred years ago.”
Rheinhardt frowned. “Well, I’m certain we didn’t do it. I suspect their records were destroyed.”
“Perhaps their military records,” the Bolo allowed, “but not their population statistics and agricultural reports. Those show clearly a deliberate, widespread assault on both the terraforming microbes and the staple crops of all areas of human habitation. My combat analysis indicates that another force was responsible.”
“Some mutation of the planet’s original ecosystem?” Rheinhardt mused, more interested in when they would cross the border than ancient history. By his reckoning, it should be any moment now. They had been on the move for several hours already.
“Negative,” the Bolo said. “The planet’s ecosystem is not sufficiently advanced. Even if it were, the distribution of the failure was from the center outward rather than from the outside of the terraformed area inward. That indicates a deliberate attempt.”
“This is interesting,” the Colonel said. “Relay a copy of your data and findings to our G-2, General Sliecher, please.”
“There will not be time for that.”
Rheinhardt narrowed his eyes. “Why not? We should be able to do it as soon as you begin your attacks. The ‘frenchies will know where you are then, certainly, so radio silence will not be an issue.”
“I have calculated that the force responsible for the original destructive microbial infestation and outbreak of hostilities between Noufrance and Bayern has planned another attack,” the Bolo announced.
“What? That’s-” A rippling eruption of high explosives drowned out Colonel Rheinhardt’s words.
“A direct hit! Excellent!” General Marius exclaimed jubilantly. They were still in the combat center but had moved from the communications post to the Battle Room. A large vidscreen relayed the sights and sounds of the devastation that ten tonnes of explosives had produced. Idly he glanced back at the tray containing the half-eaten sandwiches and coffee cups that had been lunch and wondered if a celebratory snack was in order.
“It’s still moving,” Major Krüger said, voice half-dejected, half-amazed.
“It won’t for long,” General Sliecher declared, “our bombers are making their pass now.”
General Marcks paid no attention to their conversation. Instead, he directed himself to a vid-link. “General Cartier, it looks as though I shall have to ask, on behalf of the Astral, that your planes re-arm and return for another assault.”
The Chef d’Armee du Noufrance nodded stoically. Figures scurried in the background behind him, one handed him a report. He glanced at it briefly, scowled in disgust and returned his gaze to the vid-link. “General Marcks, I must agree with you. L’Empereur-our Emperor-has authorized me to comply with any demands your government might reasonably make to aid in neutralizing this deranged implement of war.”
General Marcks kept his face impassive but his eyes flashed at the unspoken rebuke delivered by the Noufrench supreme officer. “We all, General, as professionals, must remain constantly aware of the dangers of sophisticated weapons of destruction.”
“Oui.”
“What was that?” Rheinhardt shouted, desperately searching the multiple displays in his combat visor. He could not hear himself, the explosions outside had been so loud. The air smelled of burnt wiring and hot metal. The Bolo heaved, jerked a little and continued on. “Are you damaged?”
“I have sustained no major loss of combat ability,” the Bolo reported. “I am tracking a westward flight of approximately forty jet-propelled aerial vehicles.”
“Bombers? Shoot them down!”
“Negative,” the Bolo said. “They will be required for future operations.”
“They are enemy bombers!” Rheinhardt shouted, slamming a fist against his cushioned restraints in futile emphasis.
“No,” the Bolo responded, “they are Noufrench bombers.” Rheinhardt’s main display changed to a relief map, displaying two flights of aircraft, one receding westward, one approaching from the east.
“Bayerische bombers approaching as predicted,” the Bolo noted calmly.
“Shoot down the bloody ‘french!” Rheinhardt yelled. “That’s a direct order!”
“That contravenes your original order,” the Bolo replied.
Rheinhardt was outraged. “My order was to destroy the enemy.”
“Nearly correct,” the Bolo agreed. “Your orders were to destroy the enemy in an optimal manner. The Noufrench are not the most dangerous enemy, therefore destroying them at this time is non-optimal. I compute that I shall not remain combat effective upon completion of the primary mission. However, my calculations indicate that with the destruction of the enemy, enmity between Noufrance and Bayern will cease, at least as regards further military actions.
“Bombers commencing their run now,” the Bolo called. All further reports were lost as a long, loud pounding filled the air. Rheinhardt’s body throbbed in the rolling concussions which battered the Bolo’s hull. He let out a long scream of sheer terror but never heard it. The earth shook, rolled, steadied.
Several moments later, the Bolo reported, “The bombers have completed their run and are returning to base. Next assault is in-in-”
Rheinhardt let out a gasp as the Bolo was thrown into the air and fell back to the ground with its metal hull audibly groaning as it was twisted in the blasts. The pounding continued, the hull armor shrieked at the pressures exerted on it. Rheinhardt felt a sharp pressure as his left eardrum burst and a warm trickle as blood rolled out his ear and down his collar.
Screens flickered and shrank in Rheinhardt’s CVC helmet. For a moment, everything was black. Then the screens flickered again, the main one dodged left and was replaced by a sea of red critical failure lights.
“Bolo?” Rheinhardt called. Nothing. He tried again, “Das Afrika Korps, report.”
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” General Marius crowed, nearly dancing with joy in front of the vid-link display of the massive bombing run. Flames flickered in the depths of the explosions, barely visible amongst the huge clouds of smoke that snaked upwards from the ground.
“It’s not moving,” Major Krüger observed. “We stopped it.”
Static crackled in his earphones. A hiss replaced it. “Das Afrika Korps reports. Milnet data-link hardware destroyed as anticipated. Minor damage to hull, 20% of reactive armor inoperative but no critical areas exposed. Minor damage to track, increasing cumulative damage from 49% to 51% of combat limit. Additional scoring on external optics, cumulative damage at 37% of combat limit. Degradation and damage to 5% of total on-line data storage devices, operational volatile memory at 57% of total, 3% of volatile memory free.