When the Devil Dances

“There is a bridge over a river called the Little Tennessee,” Orostan said. “Horrible name. After that, we have to take the road up into the mountains. There are four or five objectives that are very important there. We’ll bring the entire oolt’ondar down on the Tennessee then, after we have secured the crossing, we’ll break up for the mountain objectives. We have the mission to open the way up the four-four-one route. Sanada will take the route up the twenty-eight road.”

“A bridge, huh,” Cholosta’an said mournfully. “And mountain roads.”

“Don’t worry, young Kessentai,” the oolt’ondai said. “This time we shall have a surprise for the humans.”

* * *

Major Ryan stood on the slope of Rocky Knob and watched the bridge below. He could see Posleen passing east of Franklin in the dying light, but they weren’t to the bridge yet. And there were still refugees on it.

“When do you blow it?” the specialist asked, picking at her hands. Rigging a bridge for demolition had turned out to be hard work.

“There’s MPs still on it controlling traffic flow,” Ryan answered, lowering his binoculars. “I don’t know if they’re like us, just doing what seems right, or under orders. But if they’re still on it when the Posleen get to it, they’re going sky high.”

“That will be a bit tough on the MPs,” she pointed out.

“It will be tougher on everyone else if the Posleen capture an intact bridge,” he said. “But I have to wonder what they’ll pull.”

“What do you mean?”

He sat down on the verge of the road and dangled his feet over the side. They were stopped on a curve on a side road near Cook Creek and the other troopers were taking a break, eating their MREs, soaking their hands in the cold mountain water and wondering what the eccentric engineer in charge of them would have them doing next.

They had slowly picked up the group he was looking for, soldiers who had kept their equipment and were ready to follow a person who stated up front that he was part of a rearguard. He’d gathered eight instead of the four intended, and the bridge over the Tennessee was his first objective. Once it was down they would move on to the next and the next until they either ran out of explosives or luck. He was more worried about the latter than the former.

“These guys are acting smart so they have to know that we’ll try to delay them, right?”

“Right,” Kitteket said.

“So they’ve got to have a way over the river,” he continued. “I can’t imagine these guys just stopping and giving up. Can you?”

“No, sir,” the specialist replied. “I can’t.”

“Well, looks like we’re about to find out,” he commented as the stream of Posleen, with four Lampreys and a C-Dec hovering overhead, turned in the direction of the bridge. Off in the distance he could see other landers turning towards the west. “I think they’re dividing their forces,” he mused.

“Well, that’s not very smart,” the specialist said. “At least if it’s not a feint.”

“Possibly,” Ryan said, turning to look at the specialist again. “Another manual?”

“Sort of,” Kitteket answered. “How many troops do you think they can push through the pass in an hour?”

“I dunno,” Ryan said, then did some mental calculation. “Probably sixty to a hundred and twenty thousand. Say ninety to a hundred.”

“So they’re going to push those in two different directions,” Kitteket said. “That reduces the forces necessary to stop them on both paths.”

“Hmm,” Ryan said. “On the other hand, each of the routes will have its own problems; I don’t know, for example, if they could push as many on the whole route to Asheville as they can through the gap. Also, by breaking up they’re making the task of cutting them off more complex; each individual defense point may last longer and be more effective with the lower numbers, but you’ll need more routes covered. All in all I think it’s a net positive for them, a negative for us.”

“Possibly, sir,” Kitteket said. “It depends, I suppose, on whether there are defenders on the other routes.”

“I think you just made my point for me,” Ryan said with a smile. “And we are now going to find out how effective we are going to be,” he continued as the MP platoon on the bridge hurriedly boarded their Humvees and retreated, drawing fire from the lead oolt as they did so. Fortunately for Ryan’s stomach, there were no stragglers between the MPs and the Posleen; he’d blown up bridges with stragglers on them before and it wasn’t his favorite pastime by any stretch of the imagination.

“Are you going to wait until they’re on the bridge?” Kitteket asked.

“No,” Ryan answered. “And if I did, Sergeant Campbell would blow it up instead. The SOP is…”

“Five hundred meters,” Kitteket interjected. “Just checking.”

“Clerk typist?” he muttered.

“Four years, sir. Right here. Well, down there,” she said, gesturing towards the Gap. “I type nearly eighty words a minute.”

“If I need any forms filled out, I’ll let you know,” Ryan said, throwing a hand switch as the first Posleen passed by a street sign he had measured off as just under five hundred meters.