Roswell Fanatics

<B>Wham…wham…wham </B> went the M-16, stopping as the bolt was held backwards by the empty magazine. Max quickly ejected the magazine, and replaced it with the partial magazine he’d taken out after the charge before this one. As he hit the bolt release…chambering a round, he knew he was down to his last eleven rounds.

They’d come in three separate attacks down the creekbed, He’d killed them all on the first attack…almost thirty Skins. That had been stupid, and even now he regretted it. He’d used way too much ammo.

The second and third attacks he’d been smarter…killing the senior people and the one or two junior people who had appeared most…enthusiastic…in the charge, and allowed the others to scurry back to cover after he’d killed their leadership. It wasn’t that he hated them any less, simply that he understood the dynamic.

Crew served weapons…like the artillery to the north, were far more efficient at delivering destruction to the enemy than any single man could be. This wasn’t about him personally killing Skins…it couldn’t be if the people at the silos were to have any chance at all of survival. It was about beating up these Skins….killing enough of them, hurting them enough, that perhaps Bryan and the others could defeat them,..or at least complete the rescue of Colonel Taylor’s personnel.

Max wished that the 155mm cannon were on line, although he suspected that even if they were he might be too close for them….within their minimum firing range. It may not have seemed very different to a civilian…the 4 inch shells from the 105 mm versus the 6 inch shells of the 155s, but Max at least knew better. It wasn’t merely the width of the shell…it was the volume of the explosive. The projectile wall of the 155s was little thicker than that of the 105s, and the fuse was essentially the same. That meant that you could pack almost five times the explosive into the larger shells than you could in the smaller, and it meant something more. It had to do with something called their brisance. The larger shells had enough explosive that they generated an internal shock wave that made the explosion occur quicker…causing a greater overpressure. It would be far more lethal…destroying all the unarmored vehicles in close proximity and even those at a distance disabling their externally mounted TOW launchers. And the unarmored vehicles…the humvees and trucks…it would just obliterate. Max Evans of course would be obliterated as well, not that that bothered him.

But the 155s were NOT available, so he was playing a chess match…trying to delay the barrage of the last six rounds of 105mm fire until the Skins were as concentrated as possible. He still couldn’t really believe someone had fucked up badly enough to give that order…it was the first mistake their commander had made.

But with twelve rounds left…..Max knew he couldn’t delay that fire order much longer, much as he would like to. There were three IFVs coming in from the west….two he was pretty sure were the scouts, the one in the rear the command IFV. As much as he’d like to get those, he had his doubts….if they attacked again in force, he doubted that twelve rounds would stop them.

“The idiots!,” screamed Tafor looking out the port, “..they nearly had Zan, and they turned back..”

Zata clenched his teeth, fighting back what he wanted to say…concentrating on driving. He wondered how the fat politician would do rushing an armed man…especially one like the Antarean-human hybrid. He’d wished he could find out.

But the priority was getting there…making contact…dispersing the troops and vehicles once again, before the rain of steel started again from the artillery to the north…or worse…that from the west, if they were indeed preparing their tubes to fire. They’d been so close before the stupidity of Tafor had taken their victory from them…and Zata could almost feel the battle now slipping away. He looked out the port again toward the dry creekbed, seeing him standing there.

That was not Zan. Not the vapid spoiled child-king who he’d bayoneted to death those decades ago. Not the arrogant child of privilege that had appointed a distant cousin with no military training whatsoever as his “general," that had for reasons of politics married an equally spoiled child bride he didn’t love to carry on the dynasty. No, this was not the creature who had offered everything he had if they would just not hurt him…whatever else the person in the creekbed was, he was far more formidable than that pompous coward had been.

The man was working this like a chessboard, and clearly his life meant nothing to him…at least not compared to the lives of those in the silos to the west. He was making every shot count…waiting for them to concentrate enough to shower artillery shells down upon them all. No, if Antar had ever had a leader like this, it would never have fallen.

Zata looked again at Tafor, and the sight sickened him. He’d been young…and naïve, when they’d invaded Antar. There was very little difference between the two worlds….Antar had more oxygen than the home world…but not toxic levels like this place. He’d believed the lies then…that the invasion was necessary for the greater good of his world. It was years later that he found out…it had been about a woman….and an empire.

Of the Antarean “Royal Four,” Vilandra was the only one he had respect for, and even her not much. She’d flirted with Kivar….hell, the spoiled child had flirted with everyone…, but she’d given him the idea of becoming the emperor of the Five Worlds, and Antar was to be the second of those. But her suicide at the altar of the wedding Kivar had forced on her and the stupidity of Kivar and the aristocracy of the Skins home world had united the Antarean commoners, and it was their opposition that had forced Kivar to make deals with his own relatives to stay in power and that…not any threat…had led to the invasion of Earth.

For all its technical expertise, Earth was hundreds of years away from knowing how to make interstellar ships, and even farther away from wormhole technology. Nor would they ever have made war on the Skins home world, they could not have tolerated…would never have wanted…a world so low in oxygen that they could not have breathed there. No, this whole invasion that the political apparatus needed…that they’d tasked upon the Skins military, had never been necessary. Hell, they could have used the wormhole to TRADE with these people …to the benefit of both worlds. But instead they were to destroy the population...for the land...to give estates out to Kivar's many distant relatives...like Tafor, for their support.

Zata looked at Tafor again, the hatred growing in his mind. Both the home world and Antar had been aristocracies for many millennium, the same families in control. Idiots like Tafor…and yes….the treasonous thought jumped to his mind as he realized what Tafor’s order meant to his troops….even Kivar himself, idiots all….no better than the “Royal Four” of Antar.

‘Politics is the womb in which war develops.’ He thought. It was a quote from Karl Von Clausewitz, a human being. And it was royal politics that had brought this disaster to his world. The human nations had abandoned monarchies almost two hundred years ago…except for a few ornamental trappings to impress tourists. Where might his world be if they’d done the same? Better off certainly.

Zata had sent off copies of human books…by Clausewitz… Jefferson….Madison…and others, copies of the Magna Carta and the US Constitution to his own children, themselves officers now in the Skins army on Antar and on the home world. Perhaps it was time that they do something about these fools that had led three worlds to near-ruin in the name of empire…and a larger aristocracy. Perhaps it was time for the Skins homeworld to have their own French Revolution.... the thought of guillotines beheading Kivar's own relatives almost making him smile.

But not today, he thought grimly, as he saw his troops preparing the largest attack yet to rush the hybrid,….not until his troops were safe….and Tafor was dead.

Max was taken by surprise by the sudden appearance of the tear gas grenades that the Skins had lobbed into the dry creekbed from behind the nearest IFV. But although the tear gas was not terribly effective outdoors, they had forced him to move, and worse, the smoke from them had made him lose sight of the nearest group of Skins for several seconds…seconds that they used to rush him.

He fired quickly…choosing his targets as carefully as possible…seven eight..nine, Skins went down, but as the slide locked back…waiting for another magazine full of ammunition…a magazine he didn’t have…it was clear that this charge would not be stopped by gunfire. Max looked down at his webgear…his right hand finding the grenade that had been there for so long. His left hand found the pin…and pulled it.

Zata watched in horror as his men attacked again...watching them fall to the firing of the hybrid. He shook his head grimly as he saw them fall...'so much waste'...but to his surprise, the hybrid threw down his weapon....'he must be out of ammunition'... and fumbled at something on his webgear.

Zata wanted to shout "Grenade," but the distance was too far, and the very smoke that had concealed the approach of the men also concealed the weapon until it came skipping forward nearly at their feet. When the dust from the explosion cleared, the three survivors of what had once been thirty soldiers were running back toward the safety of the parked IFV.

But as bad as that was, that wasn't what caused the real horror in Zata's mind. As he watched the hybrid pick up the radio, he knew what was coming next, and cursed his own stupidity. If he'd have only stopped the vehicle as soon as he had sight of the hybrid...and used the machinegun on him instead of trying to contact his men....but now it was likely even too late for that.

Zata braked the big armored vehicle quickly to a halt and leaped from the driver's seat toward the hatch below the fifty-caliber machinegun...only to be blocked by the clumsy approach of the politician.

"What is it? Why have we stopped? They almost had him that time...next time..."

"There will not be a next time," said Zata as he shoved the governor aside and climbed up to the machinegun...but the brief delay had been a costly one...before he could bring the sights to bear, the hybrid had disappeared in among the rocks, still clutching the radio.


"Liberty 1-7, Liberty Actual. Fire mission, coordinates 22.5 Alpha by 17.2 Bravo Bravo, HE...and anything else you have left...fire for effect."

Five miles away Grayson looked up at Bryan. "Kee-rist, sir. That's right on top of him."

"Liberty 1-7, Liberty Actual. Fire mission, coordinates 22.5 Alpha by 17.2 Bravo Bravo, HE...and anything else you have left...fire for effect."

First Lieutenant Henry Apachito cringed as he heard the order come in. LtCol Evans was more than just a commander to him, he was a role model..a mentor. He heard the order...heard it clearly...but he didn't want to believe it....as he asked for confirmation he prayed to God...and to all the gods of his ancestors, that he had somehow misheard the order.

"Liberty Actual, Liberty 1-7....can you confirm those coordinates.....that isn't just danger close, sir, ...that's right on top of you...."

"This is Liberty Actual, I confirm coordinates 22.5 Alpha by 17.2 Bravo Bravo, Liberty 1-7. You gotta put the ordnance where the bad guys are...it's OK, son."

The young Lieutenant looked in agony at his men, but as he started to give the order the radio again crackled to life.

"Check fire, check fire, this is Justice Actual, Max...are you sure...we are almost to your position."

"I'm sure Bryan, it's now or never....it's my call."

"Liberty Actual......Max...It's been a pleasure...Liberty 1-7, execute the fire mission....Justice Actual clear."

As the Lieutenant turned back to his men he had tears in his eyes...but again the radio crackled to life.

"Check fire, check fire, this is AMRIID Actual, we have two of our artillery pieces functional. We'll take that fire mission here."

Three hours and eight minutes previously….

Hwangzou, China

It was early in the morning and the sun rising in the east hid the sight of the incoming missile. The post boost bus had made final corrections to the course of the warhead before it entered the atmosphere and then it had become truly a ballistic missile as it had screamed through the atmosphere at hypersonic speeds, the ablative material being gradually consumed by the hellish heat of re-entry in its plunge toward the facility below. At an altitude of 6000 meters the warhead slowed to supersonic speeds, and deployed a small radar sensor at the ground below. At 800 meters the radar altimeter triggered a small detonator that ignited the primercord…carving the warhead into eight portions while the smaller charge inside completed the demolition of the projectile. The warhead came apart in a cloud of white smoke.

The Skins guarding the Hwangzou wormhole facility gazed up more with curiosity than alarm at the sound of the distant sonic boom. But the missile was coming out of the sun, and invisible to their eyes. The second explosion…closer and almost directly above them, was softer, and pretty much went un-noticed. And even as the white powder descended gently toward them, there was no apprehension. It was too dilute for them to see.

But as it settled over their bodies…as they breathed it in to their lungs…it was like they had been immersed in liquid fire. They screamed and tried to run, not even knowing what was killing them. The pain was severe, but mercifully brief.



Two hours and forty minutes previously…

Paris-Orly Airport, Paris France

The name on his identification badge said Henri DeCroix, airport chief of security. But the badge wasn’t really his…nor the husk he wore, for that matter, although both had once indeed belonged to Monsieur DeCroix. His actual name was Varnata, and he was a Skin. Right now he was a somewhat concerned Skin.

The reports from Missouri were fragmentary at best. The Dictator’s plane had scarcely landed when they saw something…Varnata was not sure what….. that had scared the Dictator and his security team badly. They’d refueled the Grumman Gulfstream V immediately and had taken off for the nearest wormhole and a return to the home world. And the nearest wormhole was here….scarcely four miles from the airport.

Varnata knew he had almost eight hours to complete preparations, but he was a thorough person, and his eyes missed nothing as he saw his personnel prepare the security needed for the Dictator…France still had a majority human population after all, and there was some threat of partisan activity….although certainly nothing his security forces couldn’t handle.

The plan was a simple one…and quite routine……an overwhelming force to escort the Dictator back to the wormhole. When the Gulfstream V landed, the Dictator would be guarded by Skins security forces while he was hurried the four miles back to the wormhole and the safety of the Home world. But as he looked up in the sky, Varnata suddenly realized that today was going to be anything but routine.

In the darkness, the ablative shield of the warhead was burning brightly as the warhead re-entered…looking to all the world like a thunderbolt from some angry god that had been thrown at the wormhole facility. Varnatta felt like the end of the world was coming as he recognized what it was….being four miles away from a nuclear blast simply wasn’t far enough. But he breathed a sigh of relief as the warhead appeared to explode harmlessly above the building.

He’d keep that relief for another five minutes. That was when he’d try to contact the facility and get no answer. That would puzzle him….but the puzzle would be solved in less than a half hour….when his skin started to burn like fire…..but the pain, while intense, would turn out to be mercifully brief.

Max listened to the radio traffic in disbelief. If they kept arguing they might miss the opportunity to get the Skins altogether. Besides...the Skins looked like they were about to make another charge at him. As he struggled to fasten his bayonet to his M-16 with his left hand he was keying the microphone with his right.

"Look, SOMEBODY turn on the artillery, it's about to get real crowded here, and I'm out of ammo."

"We'll handle the fire mission, Liberty 1-7." said the voice of Colonel Taylor. "Tell your men to stand down."

"Liberty 1-7 copies.."

'About damn time,' thought Max, as he heard the artillery to the west of him fire. They were charging him again.

Zata held the sights of the fifty caliber machine gun on the rocks....praying the hybrid would put his head up once more. His death would send a signal to the troops that the order to capture him had been a mistake.....that they needed to disperse, and quickly.

But as he heard the rolling thunder of the firing of the huge guns behind him, Zata knew that his attempt was already too late.

The 155mm howitzers were not direct fire weapons...they couldn't lower their barrels enough. Besides, there were still the gentle hills between his troops and the silos. For a minimum range shot, the cannon fired at their maximum possible elevation, almost straight up, giving the sound of their firing time to reach him as the projectiles slowed their flight near the top of their arc and began their fall back toward the target below.

Zata let go the machine gun and waited to see the devastation that would be visited on his troops. He had little doubt they'd be savaged and have to retreat. No doubt the troops from the north were already rushing south to harry them, and they would have to retreat in disarray eastward....running the gauntlet of the 105mm howitzers while the 155s continued to pound them. But he could still save many of his men if he could get them dispersed in time.

But as the first two projectiles exploded Zata realized that it truly was too late. Both were airbursts, on the eastern edge of his concentrated troops. As the white dust reached out toward them he slid down the hatch, latching it tightly behind him and activating the nuclear/biological/chemical defense system even as the second two rounds exploded...raining the same white dust on the western half of the battlefield. The filters in the system he knew, were old and out of date. They wouldn't last long. But there were two things he needed to do.

In response to some of Michelle's questions that got erased during pruning:

He used the grenade on the last charge by the Skins, depending on the artillery he could call in to keep him from being captured alive.

AMRIID

Oh yes, and HE stands for high explosive.

Being old and nearly senile, I forgot the rest of your questions.

Max was surprised by the airbursts...and then dismayed...

'Damn it!...I said 'fire for effect,'...not spotting charges.'

But as the platoon of Skins troops rushed him, there was no time to grab for the radio microphone...not unless he could take care of at least the first few enemies whose hands were already reaching toward him.

He used the bayonet in a slashing motion, not risking having his last weapon stuck in someone while the others overwhelmed him...he needed too badly to get to that radio microphone and call in high explosive ordnance. There was actually a chance to bloody this group badly enough that Bryan and the two regiments to the north could take them on in something like an even fight if the 155s could just hit them enough before they could disperse.

But as he killed the third Skin, he looked with amazement through the thin haze of white smoke left by the airbursts. The other two dozen plus Skins who had rushed him were paying no attention to him at all. They were rolling on the ground in agony as if they been napalmed. His skin crawled...not with sympathy certainly...but with a severe itching. But as he saw the Skins start to crumple in on themselves...to decompose into dry scraps of skin and dust...he ceased to notice his own discomfort. It was already starting to fade anyway.

He looked out at the battlefield...there were dead or dying Skins, everywhere he could see.......



Zata watched through the port, shaking his head sadly as he saw his troops die by the hundreds. Tafor's eyes were wide with horror...and his voice quavered with fear as he turned to the Overseer.

"What is this? ...how...how have the humans done this? What happens to us now?"

"This? This is war, Governor," said Zata, spitting the last word out with undisguised contempt. "How they have done this? What does it matter? I have warned for years of their technology...the foolishness of making enemies of people who were no threat to us."

"But we needed the land..."

"Ah yes, we needed the land for more estates for the aristocracy...the price for their allegiance to Kivar in his quest to be emperor of the five...or is it now six planets? Well whichever, this planet has fought back, and if the missiles they fired had similar warheads...and I would bet that they do...I will be greatly surprised if there is a Skin left alive on this planet in three weeks."

"You speak treason, Zata...."

"A dead man can speak anyway he wishes, Tafor. And we are dead. If the filters on this vehicle work for twelve hours I'll be surprised, and we'll need more fuel in half that time. The dust coats this vehicle, like it coats the whole battlefield. There is nowhere we could get to that we could be decontaminated....when we get out it will quickly affect us as well....besides, I have other things to do.

"Other things? What idiocy is that? We must run...try to get away in the confusion. I order you as a member of the aristocracy...you must save me from that dust"

"Oh, I will save you from the dust, Governor. That was the first of the two things I have left to do."

Zata's hand went to the floor and retrieved the knife that had belonged to the communications specialist. He'd been a good troop...Zata had worked with him for over a year, and he had liked him. It was too bad that the vehicle's oxygen level was so high. Tafor would get a quicker and more merciful death than he deserved...although Zata would try to make his pain last as long as he could.

"But what could be more important than getting away?" asked Tafor, relieved when he'd heard that Zata would save him from the dust...but as he saw the man stoop to pick up the knife...saw the look in his eyes...Tafor knew.

But there was nowhere to run...nowhere to hide...and no mercy in the eyes of the Overseer as he made the first slice.....