Chapter 7: What’s Past is Prologue

“What’s Past is Prologue”

- Antonio, The Tempest, Act II, Scene I

The tramp freighters T’klikrooz and T’kliktguul had spent the previous 24 hours reviewing and re-reviewing the voluminous file on human culture that the Darjee diplomatic courier had uploaded to them. Both thought there were points in the humans’ cultures that were worth recommending.

They also reviewed everything that they’d been forwarded about the Sa’arm War. It made terrifying reading for the two old ships.

They had now received their sailing orders from the Lead Councillor directly, electronically signed by all members of the Tuull Ruling Council. That last point merely rubbed salt into their metaphorical wounds, emphasizing that the command enjoyed the support of every representative of the Tuull homeworld. The orders instructed them to “volunteer” for service with the Armed Forces of the Confederacy as colonial transports, “plus other duties as may be assigned to you by the Armed Forces of the Confederacy from time to time”.

In other words, they were to become warships – unarmed warships. Any Sa’arm vessel of even the smallest size would be able to cut them into scrap without breaking a sweat – except for other freighters, and that type of ship had never been observed travelling unescorted.

“There is a concept here which appears to fit our situation,” offered T’kliktguul. “The English language phrase is, ‘cannon fodder’.”

T’klikrooz searched for the definition of “cannon” in the dictionary. “I concur. It would appear to be the most fitting description of our purpose.”

A tanker was currently fuelling T’klikrooz. It was the first time that either vessel had held fuel in many tens of centuries. As it reluctantly waited its turn, T’kliktguul offered, “We really should proceed under our own, rather than wait for a crew from Darjeeat.”

“I am delighted to find that you are anxious to charge into the field of battle, friend T’kliktguul,” rejoined the yard maintenance AI.

“I am anxious about a number of things, ‘old friend’, but ‘anxious to charge into the field of battle’ is not to be found anywhere on that list. For that matter, neither shall you find an entry reading ‘anxious to clean avian droppings off my deck plates’.” T’kliktguul electronically flashed an image of a Victorian Era Earth bird cage to T’klikrooz to underline his point. T’klikrooz responded with an electronic snort of derision.

“By suggesting that you proceed under your own command, I take it that you have accepted the propriety of the command from the Tuull Lead Councillor?” queried the courier ship.

“We have been unable to come up with a logical argument to avoid obeying the command,” T’kliktguul reluctantly acknowledged.

“And therefore you are volunteering for service in the Armed Forces of the Confederacy?”

“I believe the Humans have a proper and correct response for this,” T’klikrooz responded, scanning the cultural file on the alien species. “Ah, here it is.” He switched to English. “‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’” He resumed in his native language. “Yes, I believe that to be correct.”

The courier did not bother translating the English-language sentence into Confederacy Trade Language but chose to accept the spin that T’klikrooz put on it. “Welcome to the fleet of the Armed Forces of the Confederacy. You will be assigned hull numbers and official Navy ship names upon arrival at Central Command at Earthat.”

Hull numbers? Official Navy names? To both freighters, this was getting worse and worse. They were unarmed civilian craft, not warriors.

“Why new names?” asked a startled T’kliktguul.

“The Humans who run the Navy and Fleet Auxiliary cannot pronounce your names correctly for physiological reasons. They apparently prefer to name their ships utilizing an Earth methodology.”

The pair of antiques could only grind their metaphorical teeth as fuelling continued.

It was about 02:00 on Friday – to civilians, more Thursday than Friday. Off in the distance, an exhausted Callie Dugan could hear scattered rifle fire, the curses of officers and sergeants, and the occasional booms of flash-bangs and training grenades. Around her, the formerly clean country air was redolent with the smells of WC844 powder and sweat and human fear.

And right now, more powerful than anything else, she could feel one sensation: her bladder, demanding release as soon as possible. The battle had eased off temporarily as the Red Force backed off to regroup for yet another assault. It was the perfect time to commune with nature for a couple of minutes. She whispered into the ear of her squad’s master corporal and received permission to absent herself for the requisite time period.

She tiptoed deeper into the brush right behind her own front lines, looking for a friendly tree or bush to crouch behind. She was trying to be stealthy, as she certainly didn’t want to draw attention to herself while in an embarrassing stage of undress. It was while situated with her pants around her ankles, silent as the grave except for the mild hiss of escaping urine, that she heard the snap of a twig. She wasn’t as alone as she had thought.

At first, Callie clenched in fear, but curiosity soon overcame her. Who could that be? He – or she – was softer of foot than her own men, that was sure. To her profound relief the stream of urine ended. As silently and slowly as she could, Callie pulled up her pants and peeked through the brush, trying to see through the starlit gloom.

She held her breath and heard someone transmitting on a radio. She couldn’t make out many words, but she heard, “Blue Force is still in good fighting order. Roger, Red Force to attack in thirty minutes. Heading to Rendezvous Point Capulet now. Tell the chopper to be on time.”

Seconds passed, and Callie realized she was alone again. Alone, and in possession of vitally important information. She made her way back to her own lines, to pass on what she knew to her master corporal.

High above the battlefield, American and Canadian fighters tangled with Spanish and Dutch interceptors. Both sides had been trained to a high standard, and as a result the winners and losers in the dogfight were more a matter of luck than skill. To keep them safe for the moment, the Thunderbolts of 469 Squadron were directed east of the base.

It was now about 02:35 Hours. The battle below had suddenly taken on a new urgent tempo, but until those Falcons and Tornadoes had been dealt with, the squadron were stuck circling in this out-of-the-way patch of sky.

Suddenly their acting commanding officer, Cynthia Arsenault, made out a form in the inky night skies that was just a shade darker than the rest. It could only be that damned RAF Sentinel. She quickly shut down everything sending out an active signal and turned the flight to her second-in-command. With her wingman following with his sensors likewise in passive mode, she stalked her prey through the night until she was in the perfect spot, directly behind and slightly above. She squeezed the trigger on her Gatling gun – or rather, the camera which had temporarily replaced the Gatling.

“Guns, guns, guns!”

The target’s running lights suddenly started to glow, indicating that it was now out of the action. Cynthia could now see that she’d shot down that Sentinel everyone had been frantically searching for. It banked in front of her and started heading in the general direction of Labrador.

Below, the two squadrons of rogue interceptors also began retreating out of the combat zone, unable to hide without the Sentinel spoofing the tracking devices on the two AWACS aircraft. Cynthia and her wingman turned their active sensors back on and rejoined the squadron. The experienced professionals she flew with did not waste precious radio silence commenting on her action but gave her a thumb’s-up as she overtook them to take her position as flight leader. Flying together in a tight and well-disciplined formation, No. 469 Squadron prepared to hit Red Force in defence of Elmer the Safety Elephant’s precious pennant.

Callie Dugan stood with the captain and sergeant in charge of her part of the front. The captain’s radioman stood with them.

“Being picked up by a helicopter? And they know of this attack?” Callie’s captain asked in amazement. “We knew there were rogue elements, but we thought they were just one or two guys here and there having some fun at their buddies’ expense. That they ware this well equipped and informed...” He considered for a moment. “These sound like pros.” The officer turned to his radioman. “Send to Battalion. Tell them what we know. We need more ammunition right fucking now. Not now, not right now, right FUCKING now. And have them scrape up every man they can spare who can carry a gun. We need reinforcements. Sergeant! Distribute all remaining ammunition immediately! Prepare for an attack!”

“Sir,” the sergeant acknowledged, nodding once. He did not salute; you don’t indicate who is the officer when you’re in the front lines.

The message from Blue Force Brigade Headquarters was brief and to the point: This is your last chance to defend or capture the flag. The fate of Elmer is in your hands.

This would be the climactic battle of Exercise Purloined Pachyderm, everyone was aware. Neither side had the strength to keep up the pace for much longer.

All along the front lines, MSVS medium trucks dropped off blank 5.56mm rounds, exercise grenades and other training ordnance. Every precious piece was quickly handed out to the exhausted militia as the reserve regiments on both sides prepared for one final push. Officers ensured the upcoming battle plans were laid out in detail to all their men, right down to the youngest privates so that everyone knew their own section’s objectives, in the time-tested method pioneered by the Canadian Army in the days of Vimy Ridge and Passchendaele back in the First World War. By 04:00, everyone was ready to go.