Designated targets (aot-2) by John Bigmingham

Author:John Bigmingham [Bigmingham, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_history, sci_tech

19

BUNDABERG, 350 KM NORTH OF THE BRISBANE LINE, SOUTHWEST PACIFIC AREA

It wouldn't be long now. No supplies or reinforcements had made it through to them, although the navy hadn't really pressed the issue. The enemy's "special soldiers" moved at will behind the lines, destroying precious stockpiles and even murdering his officers in their bedrolls at night. His men died bravely, but for no good reason.

The ridiculously outmoded Brisbane Line still held, protected by the superweapons of the Emergence barbarians. And now, with his guns almost empty and his men unable even to forage enough food from the scorched earth, those barbarians had emerged once again, this time from their dugouts and revetments. His forward scouts, reporting by radio now that it no longer mattered, told of monstrous tanks and armored vehicles, cutting through any resistance like a katana through a single reed.

Masaharu Homma, the poet-general, adjusted his sword and cap and centered his hara with a deep breath as he prepared to address the divisional staff.

He stood in the office of the former mayor of this town, Bundaberg. It was a rather fine whitewashed edifice for such a small settlement, typical of British colonial architecture. He doubted it would survive another day. The dull, distant thunder was drawing close, becoming louder, sharper, and more significant. Barbarian artillery was no longer nibbling at the edge of the town. It chewed whole streets to pieces, smashing houses, shops, and schools, setting fire to the large swaths of bushland. His own artillery sounded in reply, once a monstrous rumble but now growing perceptibly weaker with each passing minute.

The barbarian guns were hellishly accurate. It seemed as if everything they hit was important to him in some way. A house where some of his officers were bivouacked. A parking lot full of trucks. This town hall must surely be marked, as well.

How many hours left? wondered Homma. Would this room still exist, the building still stand? He looked about dolefully. His staff hurried about, packing some files, destroying others. Hopefully there was some systemic method at work there. His adjutant waited by the door.

"I imagine it was all worth it, Admiral," he muttered to himself bitterly and to an absent Yamamoto. More bitterly than he would have thought possible even a year ago. A corrosive decay of the soul had settled upon him, and refused to lift.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Had he spoken aloud? He'd been prone to that recently, and the lieutenant was looking at him most strangely.

When he didn't respond, the young officer continued. "I have your papers, General. And we don't have much time. Enemy soldiers have secured the aerodrome. They came in helicopters after the garrison was overcome by a strange gas. Special soldiers, we think. They are animals, sir. They fight without honor."

Homma was both amused and a little touched by the young man's furious sincerity. Surely the empire would prosper with men like him to defend it, even if this particular one was fated to die in a benighted wasteland of red dust and savages.

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