GWOT VI - Spike
Apr. 10th, 2022 12:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VI - Spike
War is a creepy thing. I knew that some California officers, most American officers, and even a few of the Xtian militia officers had formally studied the principles of war. Mass, concentration, effort, friction.
This was kind of war, but mostly not. This was worse than war. Not a fight for territory as such, but a fight to save and take lives, a fight for - as of all people, the Army of God, had reminded me - well, a fight for souls.
Someone had thought out the mechanics of our vehicle control points enough to bring child soldiers to defeat them.
Armor would also work. And they'd had an armored car. I kept hearing reports of enemy up-armored vehicles. Rodeo Gulch, my survivors reported that one enemy unit had used scout cars. Killdozers, the slow evil monsters that they are, are really difficult to drive through a parking lot, let alone professional obstacles.
Not all armor is killdozers. Army of God had been showing off. They hadn't had to bring tanks to carry out the police action. They were sending a message to me, and not just the obvious "Don't fuck with us."
We'd spread ourselves out very thin. It was an invitation to defeat in detail.
Something told me it was time.
When an artillery unit is commanded to retreat, and unable to move its cannon, it must disable them. This was often done by driving a metal spike into the touch-hole of the cannon. A skilled armorer could remove it but it would take that skilled armorer and a couple hours. That time could be used to break contact - or break armies.
Another term - from the construction of the transcontinental railroad - is when there is a main camp - as I now had at North Fork, and had had at Camp Snoopy. You send out several camps at some distance from the main camp, for logistical support or control of territory. Spike camps.
I turned to my communications operator.
"Spike, the code word is spike."
He changed nets and started speaking immediately.
"Spike, spike spike. This is a change of mission that does not require authentication or acknowledgement. Spike, Spike, Spike."
I just hoped I'd been in time.
I didn't have a good record for that, in this war.
###
As she watched, the green-painted bulldozer raised its blade and charged forward.
She didn't have a clear shot. She also didn't have a radio.
This is the tension of being a California scout-soldier. Her duty - to hinder, harass, delay and destroy. Also to observe and to report.
She could really do neither. So her third duty took precedence - her duty to live.
The grenade detonated as the bulldozer blade snapped the gate forward and ripped it off its hinges. The bulldozer lurched sideways and the operator was flung from his seat. Fortunately for him, well clear of the treads. Unfortunately, face first into the ground.
Behind, the dismounted infantry roared, "For Christ!" and charged forward in clumps along the road.
If she engaged them, she would kill a few, then they would localize her, and eventually kill her.
Not good enough. She needed to disrupt the enemy management of the battlefield. She needed to follow the ABCs of being a California scout-sniper. Always Be Cruel.
They rushed past, to the ruins of the control point.
Stopped, puzzled.
Waited for their vehicles to come up.
They did. Pickups, jeeps, the occasional SUV. A few with trailers. Only the one technical, and it with the poorly rigged single post mount over the roll bar.
It almost wasn't worth engaging them, but it was her mission.
A man dismounted from the passenger side of one of the SUVs. A more comfortable ride. He seemed ... crisper ... than the others. Someone followed him with a backpack radio.
Ah.
It was the two-tap. A drill. Well practiced. Normally for breaking a window and hitting a target beyond. Sometimes a sniper-observer pair, which she would have had if her partner had not been an idiot as well as a coward.
She adjusted for windage, felt the sudden release of tension as she breathed out.
Tap tap. A shot to the target, an instant and not very accurate follow-up shot to the left of the target.
###
*crack* *ka-crack*
"Captain's down! Sniper! Sniper!"
The RTO felt a tug at his backpack and dumped it, as gently as he could given the warring of his desire to live with his obligation to protect his radio. The out of sync tinkle of glass and electronics showed that his care didn't matter.
Soldiers threw smoke grenades - 'popped smoke' - and started maneuvering on foot in the direction of the sniper. Leapfrog.
Vehicles did rooster-turns and started heading towards the sniper's position. They couldn't see anything. But they could make a sniper flinch, run, and be run down in turn.
###
She ignored the smoke. She ignored the vehicles. Single shots to engines were only effective when the target was stationary.
She wanted that RTO. Enemy leadership. Maybe he didn't give the orders, but he knew what they were. Maybe he didn't carry the map, but he knew what was on it.
So she waited for someone to become visible who didn't carry a rifle.
*crack*
###
They drove through the grass within fifty feet of her hide. They circled and stopped. Then drove off again.
She had a feeling she knew what was coming next.
So she took her spade and started digging, careful only not to let the blade or the dirt show above the level of the hide she'd already dug.
She needed a deeper hole, quick.
###
"Fire the field and let's go," was the newly promoted leader's decision.
The bodies of the captain and RTO were loaded in the back of the one of the pickups. As an afterthought, the shattered radio as well.
The road gave them their map, deeper into Iowa.
###
The smoke was choking. She breathed through a dry cloth. Wetting it would sear her lungs.
Even as she dug, she tried to take each breath bent over, her lips as close to the dirt of the hole as possible.
Covered in soot and dirt, she lived to see the smoke dissipate. Then and only then, she drank the water.
If she'd had the breath, she'd have thanked them.
For signaling California Control for her, that the point was breached.
Now to make sure that all had left, and to find some way to get that drafty barn door nailed shut again before more horsepower bolted through it.
###
At the other vehicle control points, the order to "Spike!" was met by frantic loading of personnel on dedicated escape vehicles. They then carried as many refugees as they could carry and even more than that, hanging on to every part of the vehicle.
They were lives saved. They were also impromptu armor.
###
The duty officer for the Indian artillery battalion put down his book and rose when he heard angry voices - Iowans - raised in protest outside.
A pistol spoke.
He could grab his own pistol, from his harness where it hung on the back of his chair. A lifetime away.
Or he could run for his guns.
What was coming - what dared fire on a United Nations contingent - would not be stopped by one pistol.
"They will light you up and steal your tubes," mocked his memory. The California major, dismissing him.
He ran for his guns. He knew his duty as an artillery officer.
Without his colonel's permission - or even knowledge - he'd prepared the munitions for a destruction bill for the howitzers. Open the block, carefully insert thermite grenade with pin pulled, half-close the block. And the gods of one's choice help whoever tried to move the block again. Close it, the thermite grenade melts the breech. Open it, the thermite grenade falls out at your feet and melts _you_.
Grenades at each howitzer. Ready howitzer ammo uncased just near enough to contribute to a catastrophe without quite being a safety hazard.
He got to the first howitzer. Fumbled out a grenade.
"You man stop!" boomed a voice. And a single *crack* as if from the same pistol that had murdered the soldier on guard mount. A warning or a miss. Perhaps both.
He pulled the pin. No time to open the breech.
It was a simple question. Would he allow his tubes to be stolen, knowing the purpose to which they would be put?
"Stop! I have a grenade!" he called out as he casually pulled the pin to activate and held it loosely.
'Cooking' it. Preparatory to throwing, typically in a hole or around a wall or other thick, heavy obstacle.
It would look like he was trying to hold them off with a bluff.
For a few seconds.
All he needed, to toss the cooked thermite grenade into the ready-use ammunition.
###
"Sir, they did it. The Xtians took out the United Nations artillery contingent. Trying to figure out which faction now. Ravenroost reports multiple heavy explosions in the town and the entire fire department responding to the UN base."
We'd left observers in place when we'd broken contact with the UN contingent, not being stupid.
I'd expected the Xtians to take the tubes. I hadn't expected the Indians to meaningfully resist.
Good for them.
War is a creepy thing. I knew that some California officers, most American officers, and even a few of the Xtian militia officers had formally studied the principles of war. Mass, concentration, effort, friction.
This was kind of war, but mostly not. This was worse than war. Not a fight for territory as such, but a fight to save and take lives, a fight for - as of all people, the Army of God, had reminded me - well, a fight for souls.
Someone had thought out the mechanics of our vehicle control points enough to bring child soldiers to defeat them.
Armor would also work. And they'd had an armored car. I kept hearing reports of enemy up-armored vehicles. Rodeo Gulch, my survivors reported that one enemy unit had used scout cars. Killdozers, the slow evil monsters that they are, are really difficult to drive through a parking lot, let alone professional obstacles.
Not all armor is killdozers. Army of God had been showing off. They hadn't had to bring tanks to carry out the police action. They were sending a message to me, and not just the obvious "Don't fuck with us."
We'd spread ourselves out very thin. It was an invitation to defeat in detail.
Something told me it was time.
When an artillery unit is commanded to retreat, and unable to move its cannon, it must disable them. This was often done by driving a metal spike into the touch-hole of the cannon. A skilled armorer could remove it but it would take that skilled armorer and a couple hours. That time could be used to break contact - or break armies.
Another term - from the construction of the transcontinental railroad - is when there is a main camp - as I now had at North Fork, and had had at Camp Snoopy. You send out several camps at some distance from the main camp, for logistical support or control of territory. Spike camps.
I turned to my communications operator.
"Spike, the code word is spike."
He changed nets and started speaking immediately.
"Spike, spike spike. This is a change of mission that does not require authentication or acknowledgement. Spike, Spike, Spike."
I just hoped I'd been in time.
I didn't have a good record for that, in this war.
###
As she watched, the green-painted bulldozer raised its blade and charged forward.
She didn't have a clear shot. She also didn't have a radio.
This is the tension of being a California scout-soldier. Her duty - to hinder, harass, delay and destroy. Also to observe and to report.
She could really do neither. So her third duty took precedence - her duty to live.
The grenade detonated as the bulldozer blade snapped the gate forward and ripped it off its hinges. The bulldozer lurched sideways and the operator was flung from his seat. Fortunately for him, well clear of the treads. Unfortunately, face first into the ground.
Behind, the dismounted infantry roared, "For Christ!" and charged forward in clumps along the road.
If she engaged them, she would kill a few, then they would localize her, and eventually kill her.
Not good enough. She needed to disrupt the enemy management of the battlefield. She needed to follow the ABCs of being a California scout-sniper. Always Be Cruel.
They rushed past, to the ruins of the control point.
Stopped, puzzled.
Waited for their vehicles to come up.
They did. Pickups, jeeps, the occasional SUV. A few with trailers. Only the one technical, and it with the poorly rigged single post mount over the roll bar.
It almost wasn't worth engaging them, but it was her mission.
A man dismounted from the passenger side of one of the SUVs. A more comfortable ride. He seemed ... crisper ... than the others. Someone followed him with a backpack radio.
Ah.
It was the two-tap. A drill. Well practiced. Normally for breaking a window and hitting a target beyond. Sometimes a sniper-observer pair, which she would have had if her partner had not been an idiot as well as a coward.
She adjusted for windage, felt the sudden release of tension as she breathed out.
Tap tap. A shot to the target, an instant and not very accurate follow-up shot to the left of the target.
###
*crack* *ka-crack*
"Captain's down! Sniper! Sniper!"
The RTO felt a tug at his backpack and dumped it, as gently as he could given the warring of his desire to live with his obligation to protect his radio. The out of sync tinkle of glass and electronics showed that his care didn't matter.
Soldiers threw smoke grenades - 'popped smoke' - and started maneuvering on foot in the direction of the sniper. Leapfrog.
Vehicles did rooster-turns and started heading towards the sniper's position. They couldn't see anything. But they could make a sniper flinch, run, and be run down in turn.
###
She ignored the smoke. She ignored the vehicles. Single shots to engines were only effective when the target was stationary.
She wanted that RTO. Enemy leadership. Maybe he didn't give the orders, but he knew what they were. Maybe he didn't carry the map, but he knew what was on it.
So she waited for someone to become visible who didn't carry a rifle.
*crack*
###
They drove through the grass within fifty feet of her hide. They circled and stopped. Then drove off again.
She had a feeling she knew what was coming next.
So she took her spade and started digging, careful only not to let the blade or the dirt show above the level of the hide she'd already dug.
She needed a deeper hole, quick.
###
"Fire the field and let's go," was the newly promoted leader's decision.
The bodies of the captain and RTO were loaded in the back of the one of the pickups. As an afterthought, the shattered radio as well.
The road gave them their map, deeper into Iowa.
###
The smoke was choking. She breathed through a dry cloth. Wetting it would sear her lungs.
Even as she dug, she tried to take each breath bent over, her lips as close to the dirt of the hole as possible.
Covered in soot and dirt, she lived to see the smoke dissipate. Then and only then, she drank the water.
If she'd had the breath, she'd have thanked them.
For signaling California Control for her, that the point was breached.
Now to make sure that all had left, and to find some way to get that drafty barn door nailed shut again before more horsepower bolted through it.
###
At the other vehicle control points, the order to "Spike!" was met by frantic loading of personnel on dedicated escape vehicles. They then carried as many refugees as they could carry and even more than that, hanging on to every part of the vehicle.
They were lives saved. They were also impromptu armor.
###
The duty officer for the Indian artillery battalion put down his book and rose when he heard angry voices - Iowans - raised in protest outside.
A pistol spoke.
He could grab his own pistol, from his harness where it hung on the back of his chair. A lifetime away.
Or he could run for his guns.
What was coming - what dared fire on a United Nations contingent - would not be stopped by one pistol.
"They will light you up and steal your tubes," mocked his memory. The California major, dismissing him.
He ran for his guns. He knew his duty as an artillery officer.
Without his colonel's permission - or even knowledge - he'd prepared the munitions for a destruction bill for the howitzers. Open the block, carefully insert thermite grenade with pin pulled, half-close the block. And the gods of one's choice help whoever tried to move the block again. Close it, the thermite grenade melts the breech. Open it, the thermite grenade falls out at your feet and melts _you_.
Grenades at each howitzer. Ready howitzer ammo uncased just near enough to contribute to a catastrophe without quite being a safety hazard.
He got to the first howitzer. Fumbled out a grenade.
"You man stop!" boomed a voice. And a single *crack* as if from the same pistol that had murdered the soldier on guard mount. A warning or a miss. Perhaps both.
He pulled the pin. No time to open the breech.
It was a simple question. Would he allow his tubes to be stolen, knowing the purpose to which they would be put?
"Stop! I have a grenade!" he called out as he casually pulled the pin to activate and held it loosely.
'Cooking' it. Preparatory to throwing, typically in a hole or around a wall or other thick, heavy obstacle.
It would look like he was trying to hold them off with a bluff.
For a few seconds.
All he needed, to toss the cooked thermite grenade into the ready-use ammunition.
###
"Sir, they did it. The Xtians took out the United Nations artillery contingent. Trying to figure out which faction now. Ravenroost reports multiple heavy explosions in the town and the entire fire department responding to the UN base."
We'd left observers in place when we'd broken contact with the UN contingent, not being stupid.
I'd expected the Xtians to take the tubes. I hadn't expected the Indians to meaningfully resist.
Good for them.
