Founding of the Federation 3: The First AI War (89 page)

General Murtough nodded.

“We're still having issues with logistics. Some cross-loading issues. I dispatched General Caesar to the Lagrange points to get a handle on it,” General Schlock stated. “He's going to be the liaison with the Neo soldiers as well.”

“We've still got a minimum of a year before the new class comes online,” Captain Oleander stated. She didn't seem too enthused by them. “But we've got four other classes between them—all a mixed bag of recruits, plus the Martians.”

“About bloody time they got into the fight,” General Schlock growled, eyes flashing.

“Definitely. We're going to need all the hands we've got and then some to just clean up Africa. This is going to be a long drawn-out campaign unless we can get some civilian leaders off the stick. They can't be squeamish.”

“You'd think after the orbital bombardment they wouldn't be anymore,” Commander Mizu murmured.

“Setting off nukes in the atmosphere to induce an EMP is a bit different than surgical strikes. The nukes have a primal fear, even though we've explained to them that they have very little radiation. They are fusion warheads after all.”

“And they'll be high up in the atmosphere. But I understand the fear and common sense statement that what comes up must come down. And setting off radioactive bombs in the atmosphere isn't conductive to breathing,” Captain Oleander stated. “But we need to do something.”

“Jack said there were no quick fixes. But maybe, just maybe he can come up with something. Scale up an EMP bomb or something. If they have to, make thousands of the damn things,” General Murtough murmured. His eyes flicked to the window looking out on Earth then back to his staff. “Isis, remind me to nail him down the next time he's here. And we'll see if anyone in the area knows anything.”

The captain nodded dutifully as she made a note on her tablet.

“In the meantime, we have the fifth wave to send down, plus Lois wants more ammunition. Elliot had forwarded a request for additional supplies for the refugees as well. We only have so many shuttles to go around. Can we squeeze an extra drop in per day on some of the birds?”

“We're getting requests for additional maintenance time as it is, sir,” Commander Mizu warned.

“Damn it.”

“I wish we could do another hot drop. Just drop the stuff like we did before. But it gets scattered,” General Schlock growled.

“Then we'll have to prioritize,” General Murtough stated flatly.

<>V<>

General Charlie Caesar's day was going about as well as Elliot's he thought, just without someone trying to kill him. At least not directly trying, though he was pretty sure someone somewhere had it out for him. He mused about a few things as he read the latest situation report from Elliot on the ground, with the attached amendment on what to send and
not
send. Luxury items like the British general's dress uniforms, replica mahogany desk, globe, and paintings, liquor cabinet, and such were definitely out. Got it.

Casualties had been harsh, within expected parameters but still harsh. But what bothered him the most was how scattered they were. There had to be a way to do an orbital drop swarm and have them home in on an LZ. He made a note to ask someone to find a way. Maybe a beacon to home in on? Or a series of beacons around a perimeter? He frowned then put the thought aside.

Since he was a transient sent to get the logistics sorted out, he didn't have a damn office, though he'd been tempted to find someone and kick them out of theirs. Tempting, but no. The situation was … fluid.

During a convoy arrival, all hands were on deck. The wharfs and docks were swarmed with people, tugs, and loaders. It was a dangerous place to be. The dock's officers were damn near as dangerous with people going around trying to keep everything moving smoothly.

Most of the cargo was one way, from Mars to L-5. Eventually it would join cargo made at the various industrial centers in each of the Lagrange points to be transshipped to Olympus.

What he needed to do was get some people to understand such things as priorities.

Take for instance the re-terraforming of Earth. Not a priority, though some seemed to think so. Radick Industries had shipped in more cleaners on their own and Pavilion's ships to cleanse the atmosphere of carbon soot, while Pavilion had shipped in thousands of tons of supercharged algae that created ozone to replace the ozone layer that had been blasted off during the nuclear exchange.

Since the algae was a perishable and needed careful handling, he'd had a hell of a time getting it sorted out since the powers that be in the dock had stored it all in the wrong place, right in the way of everything else. They'd been nagging General Murtough to arrange shipping to get it out of their hair for weeks. Now he had to deal with it since there was no place to put it on Olympus, nor the platforms needed to disperse it in the stratosphere of Earth anyway.

He rubbed his brow tiredly. He was tempted to chuck the kit and caboodle, but he knew some people would get just a wee bit snitty about it so he'd held off on that temptation. Though he was seriously ready to chuck the local Radick rep who kept chasing him all over creation. She meant well, he knew that, but damn it!

Miss Brig's taking a long walk out a
short
airlock would suit him nicely, with or without a suit.

Now they were planning on shipping out low priority materials in pack trains without a ship?? He shook his head. That was going to be a pain in the ass. They'd have to set up tugs to catch it, which meant they would be out burning fuel and not around the habitats pushing materials around. They'd also need to burn fuel to get the damn loads in to the final dock. That well and purely sucked.

Sometimes he wondered if there was some guy or gal in a room somewhere dreaming up methods of messing with him in giving him ulcers and headaches … and if he could maybe lock himself in there with them and a baseball bat for a good ten minutes.

That thought brought a brief smile to his simian face before he returned to work.

<>V<>

Dirk Bently was having the time of his life on Olympus. Now that the station had been set up, he had gotten in as an EVA worker and cargo master. He loved his gig; it paid, not just in credit, but perks. And he got to build shit, to make the station bigger and better every damn day.

You couldn't really beat the view either. Take when they'd done the orbital bombardment. Everyone had bitched about the clouds of ammunition and the giant rail gun platforms near the station. But he'd been one of the people outside moving the ammunition to the feeds for the guns, which meant he had a ringside seat to the rain of orbital strikes below. How cool was that? He'd filmed it of course, a lot of the guys and gals had. Eventually, when the net got up, he'd upload it to his buddies to see. He felt for anyone on the ground under that pounding, but damn, it'd been wicked.

Just about the only thing that might have topped it would have been to see it from the ground. From a safe distance of course, he thought; he wasn't stupid.

He crooned softly as he worked. He had an idea for a song, another ballad. Maybe it'd catch him a date, maybe not. The one bad thing about Olympus was there was no social life to speak of. The still was about it for joy juice, and despite it being “off the books,” it was very carefully rationed and controlled.

As cargo master he'd made connections to some of the people at the Lagrange points. They'd slipped him the occasional care package, for a fee of course. And he'd lent a hand to the occasional lonesome trooper in orbit needing something. He didn't really consider it smuggling just,
facilitating
. Helping the kids get over their nervousness on what might be their last days alive; yeah, that was it.

He grimaced as he checked the empty habitats. Work crews were floating around, cleaning out the bays before the next group arrived. Since he was off shift and didn't want any part of being drafted, he headed to his rack.

When he got there, he checked the clock habitually. If his calculations were right, Captain Wilson would be around with the next payload by the top of the next shift. That meant he had a couple of hours to either hit the sack or find a game.

He stretched, then scratched. He could get a shower. Now that everyone was gone, getting a shower—one as loooong as you wanted—was a luxury the crew was all enjoying. It certainly made up for the long periods of work and the stresses of living in a leaky habitat that was one big fat target.

He smacked his lips together, then pulled out a small engraved pewter canteen. He unscrewed the cap and then took a swig before he put the cap back on and tucked the thing in his hiding spot. A bit of mouthwash he thought, grabbing his towel and toiletries. If he was lucky, one of the ladies might be around on his way back. A little muscle flexing to go along with his singing in the shower and who knows? He just might get lucky.

Chapter 35

Elliot wasn't surprised that they survived the night, but he wasn't elated either, just exhausted. They had taken constant harassment attacks on the perimeter as well as from the air all night long. Sometimes coordinated attacks, most of them were probing attacks. If they weren't on their own perimeter, it was on a nearby one, and they had to listen over the radio as the defenders did their best to beat it off.

It was agonizing sometimes to hear men and women fighting and dying so close, yet so far. They couldn't risk riding out to try to support them.

Fortunately for their base and personnel, one of their priorities had been to set up two R2-D2 laser anti-artillery/aircraft units on either end of the runway before sunset. The units were each covered by a platoon of troops hunkered down in sandbag fire bases. During the night the invisible laser cut down multiple drones sent in to scout or attack. They also cut down hundreds of mortar rounds until their power systems and laser barrels began to overheat. Then the mortars started to get through and things became “unpleasant.”

He'd kept the shoulder launchers in reserve for the drones. They were useless against mortar rounds anyway, even smart rounds.

Every trooper had night vision systems built into their helmets, so attacks on the perimeter could be seen most times. Motion was a giveaway as was heat signatures of some of the robots. But many of the troopers chose to conserve ammunition when attacks by smaller swarms of robots hit them. Fighting hand-to-hand became almost an hourly thing on the west front.

In the morning they were exhausted and a bit shell shocked. No one had slept through the night; there was no way to do so with the constant sound of weapons fire or nearby explosions. Fortunately, the mortars had been completely unguided.

They tallied up the losses as work crews went about strengthening and repairing their defenses and burying the dead. They had sustained another 8 percent loss, bringing the total up to 27 percent. Troops that were dispersed moved to link up with others as soon as the sun was up.

The comfort they received in mutual support was short lived; the larger group meant a larger target for the robots to hit.

They learned quickly to scramble for cover when the screams of incoming artillery warned them of trouble incoming.

“If he says this is a spot of bother one more time …,” a trooper growled. Elliot eyed him and then snorted. “Seriously, sir,” the trooper said.

“Get over it. And don't let him write you up for insubordination; we don't have time for such nonsense. Just behave, nod, and soldier on.”

“Yes, sir. Still sucks though.”

“Yeah. But …,” as the latest attack was weathered, a new rumble could be heard in the sky. This one distant but approaching them.

“Shit, bombers?” the trooper swore.

“No, I think that's our backup,” Elliot said, shading his weary brown eyes to see the first of the shuttles lining up on the airstrip. “Get the strip cleared!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Incoming resupply! Get clear of the strip!” he yelled again. “And prepare to unload!” He said, as troops rose and began to cheer and swing their jackets or hats over their heads.

<>V<>

Skynet noted the incoming shuttles but had nothing to intercept them. The majority of its air power had been destroyed during the orbital bombardment. It had expended a third of its drones during the night making attacks on the perimeter of the spacers.

It had no time for human emotions like regret over not concentrating its attacks. It had sent in forces from various sources all over the continent. They had arrived piecemeal. It had calculated that the constant bombardment would have worn the defenders down, which had been true. Near the end their air defenses had shut down. They had even run out of shoulder-fired rockets.

But by that time Skynet hadn't had sufficient forces in the area to follow up and finish the job. And by dawn, the cloak of night, one of its assumed advantages, was gone.

At first it questioned the shuttles. There was a remote possibility that the enemy was going to withdraw. The A.I. calculated their losses at nearly 25 percent. That was less than the machines, but they had only a finite number of organics to use to fight to begin with.

Unfortunately, there were no platforms in the area to observe the shuttle landings directly. But since the chances were remote, the virus directed its forces to act like the enemy had been reinforced.