The Royal Dragoon Guards, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“Here they go…” Bass watched with interest. There had been a ripple of explosions as the advancing horde reached the outer edge of the minefield and the first victims stepped on the bar mines. The mines had been intended for anti-tank work but their fuses had been adjusted so they’d be set off by much lesser pressures. That had worked, a handful of baldricks had died but the rest were starting to funnel in towards the area partially cleared by the cavalry charge. Bass lased them again, the advance had slowed right down as the baldricks tried to pick their way through the minefield. Poor sods. Bass thought, he could almost feel it in his heart to be sorry for them. Almost, but not quite.
Watching through the high-powered optics of his Challenger II, Bass could see the ranks of baldricks stretching, bucking and surging. He knew what would be happening in there, the NCOs and officers trying to prevent the lines drifting into the cleared zone, trying to force the baldricks to keep moving straight ahead, accepting the losses from the minefield. Idly, he wondered what the Iranian division was thinking, hidden far off to the left, but doubtless watching what was happening. He’d heard they’d cleared minefields by marching infantry through them. Looked like the baldricks were doing the same.
Overhead, Bass heard the scream of shells. “Outbound,” the sound easily distinguishable from the ominous “Inbound”. He wondered quickly how long it would be before the baldricks learned to tell the difference. He looked again through the optics, seeing the shells impact on the mass of baldricks hung up on the flanks of the cavalry graveyard. The artillery forward observers were doing their job, directing the artillery in on the flanks, trying to compress the advancing army into a huddled mass. That was happening already in the graveyard, the baldricks lucky enough to be facing that area were moving in but the ones to either side were sliding in also and the resulting congestion was slowing their movement to a crawl. The spams called this “shaping the battlefield”, a typically melodramatic term in Bass’s opinion but descriptive enough.
Anti-Aircraft Battery, Brigadier Carlson’s Headquarters, Al Badiyah Al Janubiyah, Western Iraq
“There are satans approaching. Raid count 20.” The Iranian Lieutenant rapped the report out in Farsi, then translated to English for the benefit of Sergeant Major Harper. “Prepare to engage.”
“With respect, Lieutenant, might I suggest we wait for a short while and let the situation develop?”
The Iranian frowned slightly, more from curiosity than annoyance. “Sergeant, we have modernized Osa-M missiles here. We have more than 20 kilometers of range.”
Harper settled back slightly. He’d been expecting some of the harpies to leak through the fighter screen, no fighter cover in history had managed to eliminate the threat of just one or two survivors getting past. The sheer numbers of harpies had meant more than that would although this was a larger group that he’d expected. “Lieutenant,” Harper’s voice was very quiet so nobody else could overhear, “how long have you been in the Army.”
“Three years Sergeant.”
“I’ve been serving my Queen for twenty. Let me give you a little advice. We blast those harpies now, when they’re 20 kilometers away and the brass will think our job is easy and move us somewhere dangerous. Now, we wait until they’re five kilometers away and the brass is really sweating, then blast them, we get to be heroes, get a commendation and possibly even a three-day pass. And we get to keep this nice soft billet.
“Ahhh.” The Lieutenant was impressed and a felt a little honored at receiving such a free gift of valuable expertise. Truly there was much a young officer could learn from a veteran such as this. “We will hold fire until… five kilometers?””
Harper nodded fractionally so the officer gave the orders to his men, adding the explanation he’d been given as if it was his own idea. He could see his men nodding as the logic appealed to them.
At five kilometers, the four Osa-M missile launchers opened fire, pushing 24 missiles at the 20 harpies now closing in on the base. One harpy made it past the missiles only to be sawn apart in mid-air as the ZSU-23/4s caught it in a crossfire.
Back in the battery command vehicle, the telephone rang. Carlson’s voice was on the other end. “Well done Lieutenant, that was a getting us a little worried. I’ll send a commendation to General Zolfaghari.” He paused slightly. “You left it a bit late didn’t you?”
“Needed to get a proper tactical picture Sir. We’ve only six ready rounds on each launcher and I didn’t want to get caught reloading.” Out of the corner of his eye, the Lieutenant saw Harper giving him a discrete sign of approval.
“Very wise.” Carlson paused for a second. “We gave you Sergeant-Major Harper as liaison didn’t we? Please tell him I would like a few words with him later.”
Local 3751, ATK Medium Caliber Systems, Mesa, Arizona
“Look, it's like this see. The plant is going to triple shift work whether we like it or not. We’ve talked with the bosses and this is what we’ve come up with. Morning shift from 6am to 2pm. Afternoon shift from 2pm until 10pm. Graveyard shift from 10pm until 6am. Graveyard pays double time. Shifts switch around monthly so everybody gets a crack at the double time.”
“What about weekends?”
“Forget them. Everybody works four days on, one day off. That’ll be staggered so there’s a full shift working the plan all the time. 24/7.”
“Four days on, one day off? That’s not fair.”
“Shadap Al, the boys on the front line don’t get one in five off, why should we.” A mutter of agreement ran around the room.
“What happens if we don’t approve the deal?”
“Mexicans. Or the Army gets the sub-munitions from Israel. Or wherever. Anyway, I’ll put it to the vote. All those for accepting the management offer?” Hands went up all over the room. “And against?” A scattering of hands, mostly those the organizer recognized as those who voted against everything. “It’s carried. New arrangements start tomorrow. Management will tell you which shift you’re starting on and your day off.”
A few hundred yards away, another meeting was being held. One where the worker’s spouses were being gathered. Once it would have been an all-women gathering, these days a few men were there as well.
“So that’s the new arrangements. Look, the guys on the production lines are going to be working their asses off, they don’t need to be worried about problems at home. So if there is a problem, deal with it, don’t go whining. If you can’t deal with it, see us here at the Union. We can help. Above all that, help each other. You older women, you’ve been through this before. You know the problems the young mothers will face, be there for them. Even if its just baby-sitting so she can get out of the house and have some peace for an hour, do it. Watch out for the oldsters as well, nobody will be around as much as they were so we all have to look out for each other. We know nobody else will. Don’t think some guardian angel will be looking out because we know they’re the enemy as well now.”
Across America and the world the same meetings were being held, the same messages given. Under them all was another simple, deeper message. The whole world was at war.
Chapter Twelve
Headquarters, Randi Institute of Pneumatology, The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I see you finally got your new offices.” Julie Adams looked totally different from her first visit here less three weeks ago. Her hair was washed and shining, she was wearing skillfully-applied make-up and was smartly, fashionably, dressed. As with all the latest fashionistas she was wearing chic aluminum foil hat that covered her head and extended down the back of her neck. Producing elegant headwear out of aluminum foil had proved a challenge but the French and Italian designers had come through with flying colors. Julie’s aluminum hat had more to do with her change in appearance than her clothes or make-up. For the first time in many, many years her eyes were quiet and rested, she looked at the world with peaceful confidence not abject terror.
“They’re nice aren’t they.” The Amazing Randi was sitting behind his desk, sorting through the letters received by his unit, trying to pick out the genuine prospects from the fakes. It was a harrowing job. “Our General bullied the decorators until they did what we wanted. By the way, the walls are foil-lined, we’ve got monitoring equipment here and we can’t pick up any extra-dimensional signals. So it looks like we’re safe. I guess the next set of building codes
