When the Devil Dances

“Do it,” Mitchell said. “Get us the frequencies for the unit on the far side; we need them to clear the pass. Either that or we’ll have to leave it up to the militia.”

“Somehow, I don’t think assaulting passes is their forte,” Kitteket said.

CHAPTER 40 Near Balsam Gap, NC, United States, Sol III 2017 EDT Sunday September 27, 2009 ad

Thomas Redman was one pissed Injun.

It wasn’t bad enough that the war had forced the shut-down of the casino that had been his place of employment for over fourteen years. It wasn’t bad enough that his younger brother had been killed on fucking Barwhon by these Posleen sons-of-bitches. Now they’d went and overrun Dillsboro where his “certified Indian Made Posleen Scalpers” store had been.

Well, admittedly, that damn SheVa gun had run it over first, but it wasn’t like they had much of a choice.

Whoever had wiped out his store, it was the fault of them Posleen and they was, by God, gonna pay. His family had been in continuous residence in these mountains since they’d run the Creeks out about the time when Columbus was conniving Isabella out of her jewels. And he wasn’t going to be the last Redman to screw the white man out of money in them.

Up to this moment his resistance to the Posleen had consisted of telling the babe in the SheVa gun where they were. When they’d first gotten word the Posleen were coming up the pass he’d sent the wife — he only called her “squaw” when he wanted to get her really mad — up the road towards Knoxville. Then he’d gotten out his militia radio, his four wheeler and his rifle and headed up onto the ridges.

Now, though, it was looking touch and go. He hadn’t been able to see much of what was happening in the Gap, but the columns of smoke made most of it pretty obvious. He knew a spot where he could get a bead on the Posleen. But that was going to involve a technical violation of the laws of man.

In the rush to enact legislation at the beginning of the crisis, one of the big debates was over formation of militias. Finally the Congress had passed laws that effectively repealed most of the anti-weapons regulations that had grown up, substituting a series of laws to “regulate the several militias.” One of the laws had to do with militia boundaries, in that no member of a militia “formed in one territorial area should pass for militia purposes into another territorial area without the clear wishes of the government of the second territorial area.” What they meant was that if a group of, say, Virginia militiamen were practicing, they shouldn’t go into Maryland.

Unfortunately, the bureaucrats of the Bureau of Indian Affairs correctly interpreted that to mean that there would have to be a “Reservation” militia and the militia of the rest of North Carolina. And, technically, the only area that one Thomas Redman, sergeant in good standing of the North Carolina Cherokee Tribal Milita, could make war on the Posleen in was reservation territory. And he was just about to clear the reservation line.

A series of not particularly funny John Wayne movie jokes went through his head as the four wheeler crested the last bit of rock and rumbled onto the Blue Ridge Parkway headed to cut the Posleen off at the pass.

“Y’all better WATCH out!” he yelled to the night. “This Redman is off the reservation!”

* * *

“Sir, I’m in contact with Eastern Command,” Kitteket said, tapping rapidly for a moment then stopping.

“And what’s the word?” the colonel asked.

“I’m still giving them our situation, sir,” she continued, tapping again. “I have to set up the words three letters at a time, then wait for them to transmit then set up the next set of three letters. It’s a real pain.”

“We’ll get that fixed in the next upgrade,” Pruitt said, scrolling his tactical map around. “Assuming we’re here for the next upgrade.” Things were not looking so hot.

“Okay, what about the Posleen around Dillsboro?” Mitchell asked.

“That’s looking pretty bad. They’re having some trouble with the torn up road and about half of them headed up 441, but the rest are headed this way. There’s also a huge buildup across the river. The scouts can’t get a good estimate on the numbers in there, or they don’t want to believe their math. Either way, it’s a lot.”

“ETA?” Pruitt asked.

“About an hour, the way Posleen travel,” Kitteket said. “I’m telling Eastern that, too.”

“Oh, the hell with this,” Mitchell cursed. “No more Mister Nice-Bunny. There is no reason we should have to worry about getting overrun with Posleen. Pruitt, we’ve got three more rounds of area denial, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the gunner said. He tapped a control and the turret began to track smoothly to the rear. “And there ain’t no humans to worry about back there. Up on three one-hundred kiloton nukes, at your command… Sir!”