Designated Targets

He felt naked, even though he knew, or at least he hoped, that his own view of the battle was godlike compared with that of his opponent, General Homma. He could never really be certain what technology had leaked across to the enemy, but they were running a full ECM suite, and Homma didn’t seem to be packing much beyond a few flexipads used for communications. The encryption software seemed to be commercial and dated, at least by his standards; some Microsoft piece of crap that had been hacked to death about ten years beforehand, subjectively speaking. The pads had probably been used for games or VR porn on the Sutanto.

Still, even without the war-fighting technology that Jones had at his disposal, the Japanese were still here, weren’t they? As Lenin once said, quantity has a quality all of its own, and three months ago they’d poured enormous quantities of men and material first into New Guinea and then into northern Australia, using MacArthur’s island-hopping tactic before he had a chance to use it himself. Jones doubted that they could have been stopped were it not the rapid deployment of the Multinational Force’s ground combat element to bolster MacArthur’s defenses. As soon as the first reports sorted themselves out, it was obvious the enemy had finally decided on how to respond to the strategic shock of the Transition. They were going to try to swarm the Allies with sheer weight of numbers. The Germans looked to be preparing for something similar in Europe, having shifted the bulk of their forces west after agreeing to terms with Stalin.

Jones had more immediate problems to deal with, however. High strategy could wait. Six large flatscreens had been linked to provide a workable video wall that displayed theater-wide data, and it wasn’t family-friendly viewing. There were seven divisions of Imperial Japanese troops infesting the eastern coast of the Australian continent, four of them pressing down on MacArthur’s much-vaunted Brisbane Line. Jones didn’t think they’d break through, and the Havoc had cut off any chance they had of reinforcement, but when the killing was done with, he didn’t imagine he’d have much of a force left, either. Both his guys and 2 Cav were starting to run uncomfortably low on war stocks, and although they brought other strengths to the field, when you ran out of bullets, you weren’t much of a soldier anymore.

Jones had been hoarding matériel for weeks now, farming out tactical and even strategic strikes to the ’temps, who’d been strengthened by a long list of quick fixes and catch-ups, such as those napalm tanks now slung beneath the local ground-attack aircraft. It was a two-way street, though. He’d just read a report of a marine company cut to ribbons by a string of claymores a few hours earlier. They’d have been completely wiped out if one of their sergeants hadn’t rallied the survivors and charged right into the enemy force, which was racing downhill to finish them off.

The command bunker had gone very quiet for a minute when the microburst packet from that reporter’s Sonycam had filled one of the screens on the video wall. Every marine in his Battalion HQ had at least four years’ combat experience. Most of them had a lot more. There’d been some unkind talk about what a bunch of pussies and amateurs the ’temps had turned out to be, and Jones was certain he could feel some embarrassment in the room as the footage of that unholy, disorganized blood swarm filled the screen.

It was every bit as bad as anything he’d known in Damascus or Yemen. And these guys, with the exception of the embed from the Times, were fighting old school. No body armor, medevac, spinal inserts, or tacnet. It was like something out of the Dark Ages.

As he watched now, the thunder of massed artillery rolled over them; that was the barrage he had initiated just a minute earlier. Hundreds of old-fashioned high-explosive shells screamed through the air, their firing sequence controlled by an old laptop computer and designed to drop the entire load simultaneously. Hearing that rumble, he nodded in satisfaction. Air control had three dozen planes stacked up, ready to drop on the Japanese like hawks as soon as the artillery was done fucking with them. Hopefully, the New Zealanders wouldn’t have much to do beyond picking off the survivors.

They’d given up investing much energy in trying to grab live prisoners. These guys had turned out to be worse than Hamas jihadi. It was like every one of them kept a grenade in his loincloth, just to avoid capture and to take a few gaijin with him.

The ground shuddered as hundreds of shells struck home.