Keith Laumer - Bolos 5 - Old Guard

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Bolos: Old Guard

Created by Keith Laumer

Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31957-4

Cover art by Dru Blair

First printing, February 2001

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

In memory of J. Andrew Keith,

1958–1999

Author, historian, wargamer,

brother, friend.

NO BATTLE PLAN SURVIVES

CONTACT WITH A BOLO . . .

Ad-akradai Khorris was pleased with his position. His concentrated dischargers had shrugged off the Humans’ heaviest

bombardment. His nuclear cannons were in position, to be moved up for firing when the human forces had moved into his trap.

But he would wait before deploying his armored vehicles. His infantry and nuclear cannons would be enough to finish off the

Human armor that advanced on him. Only then would his armored vehicles sweep back over the bridge to drive into their rear and

eliminate their precious artillery.

He was worried, however, that more reinforcements were arriving for the Humans. One of his few remaining surveillance

probes had been launched at the first hint of daylight in the east. An image taken just before it died showed that the Human forces

had moved all of their equipment off the eastbound roadway, as if making room for another unit to pass through. He continued to

weigh the possibility of launching his last probe to hopefully catch a glimpse of what was arriving.

His quiet observations were rudely interrupted by his hatch opening with a loud clank. The panicked face of Inkezdai Kepliss

looked in.

“Ad-akradai, massed artillery rises from the west—“

“Good! It begins!”

“But Ad-akradai,” Kepliss pleaded, “the artillery rises from far behind the Human lines, and the launcher approaches swiftly as

it fires! It travels along the roadway at a high rate of speed, sending its shells high into the atmosphere!”

Something new, Khorris thought. The approaching weapons platform had to be exceedingly large to have the stability to wield

a sustained barrage accurately while moving.

Should he launch his last probe to view its approach? He decided against it. Nothing could stand up against his nuclear

cannons. . . .

ALSO IN THIS SERIES:

The Compleat Bolo by Keith Laumer

Created by Keith Laumer:

The Honor of the Regiment

The Unconquerable

The Triumphant by David Weber & Linda Evans

Last Stand

Bolo Brigade by William H. Keith, Jr.

Bolo Rising by William H. Keith, Jr.

Incursion

Mark Thies

It started as just a flicker of X-rays, high above the orbital plane of the bright orange star Epsilon Sindri. The

region of space was devoid of matter, or any potential for producing such a phenomenon, but nonetheless it was there. As

the flicker grew to erratic bursts, these X-rays were quickly logged by several detectors within the system of five planets

below.

The first detector to take note of these bursts was a security array high above the second planet of the star system.

Few disturbances ever escaped the notice of this awkward mass of antennae, reflectors, and arrays that tumbled lazily in its

wide orbit. The bright X-ray flashes were trapped and focused by a myriad of mirrors and lenses, and then sorted by

a series of gold refraction gratings. The spectrometers compiled and analyzed the flood of data, recognizing the

bursts for what they were. Unconcerned, the security array’s attention drifted elsewhere.

The second detector to take note of the bursts was a navigation beacon also in orbit around the second planet.

Unlike its much larger brother in high orbit above him, this oblong satellite sheathed in bright gold foil carefully

recorded the exact position and energy signatures of the bursts. The starports on the planet surface were notified of

the phenomena, but no concern was immediately made evident. This was a weekly occurrence above the planet

Delas, in precisely the location that it was expected. Only high above the ecliptic in the solar system full of debris

could a 500,000 ton merchantman exit trans-light speeds without risking a fatal collision.

Only one other detector in the star system noticed the turbulent arrival of the interstellar freighter Aragonne

Isabelle. Shrouded in the cold shadow of the icy moon of Epsilon Sindri Three, another satellite realigned itself,

focusing its three large collectors upon the source of the X-ray bursts. A fission reactor at its core came to brilliant

life just as the gigantic transport finally exited the rift in a final explosion of radiant energies. Then the X-rays

ceased.

The shrouded satellite, however, was still building up the power that it needed. It had been ordered to track these

ships and monitor their arrivals and departures. But transmitting its reports back home needed far more energy than

its uranium pile could provide. As the fusion core finally ignited, another rift formed for just a moment, sending out a

pulse through subspace. The pulse was fast enough to travel light-years in a matter of weeks, and strong enough even

to reach the fringes of the bright nebula that painted the Delassian night sky with its blue and orange hues. The

acknowledgement to the pulse usually took more than a month to return.

It was also strong enough to catch the attention of Delas’ security array. Once again, a report was logged and

submitted. And on the planet, a corporal was startled by a beep, but then dismissed this second burst as a subspace

echo that seemed to bounce around whenever any transport arrived or departed. His commander had been intending

to ask some local astrophysicist about this phenomenon, but had yet to find the time.

Back in orbit around Epsilon Sindri Three, an acknowledgement was logged by the satellite only two hours later.

The passenger door to the cargo shuttle sprang open with an audible hiss of a pressurized seal. A sunrise of dull

red shined into the small passenger compartment as the occupants stood up and gathered their belongings. Delassian

air slowly rolled down the aisle as it exchanged with the cool processed air of the shuttle. First time arrivals were

easily identified by their stunned gasps as the planet smothered them with its hot and stifling jungle atmosphere.

As the wave advanced down the aisle, it soon overcame a rather large woman in a white dress with bright orange

flowers embroidered into its light fabric. An especially frightful string of expletives was loudly uttered as a result, causing

many heads to turn towards her. Standing behind the woman, a man dressed in a uniform of Concordiat Army Desert

Gray noticed a young girl staring at the woman in awed silence from across the aisle. The girl’s mother remained

unaware of the situation as she seemed to be frantically searching her luggage for something, so he decided to speak

up.

“Madame, please, Starveil is on the edge of a rain forest. Certainly you were aware of where you were arriving.”

Suitcase now in hand, the large woman turned on the man in surprising fury. After taking a moment to brush a

swirl of black hair out of her eyes, she leaned forward as if to intimidate the older gentleman who spoke out, perhaps

threatening to fall over onto him.

“That doesn’t mean that I have to like it, does it?” she shouted.

The woman’s imposing frame and fiery gaze contrasted sharply with the small size and cold dispassion of the

Concordiat officer whom she faced. What she couldn’t discern with her cursory assessment, however, was just how

well muscled the man’s small frame was. Underneath his prematurely gray hair, his Asian brown eyes stared back at

her without flinching.

“No,” said the man calmly, “but perhaps you could refrain from teaching our children to curse it so vividly.”

A nod to the left drew the woman’s attention to the girl, who smiled and huddled close to her mother. In a fraction

of a second, the woman’s fury turned to charming amusement.

“That was very bad of me,” she told the little girl. Then she turned back to the man, and her smile was instantly

gone. “But I am completely justified. I had little choice in coming here.”

A glance down the passenger compartment showed the officer that it wouldn’t be clearing any time soon. More

than half of the sixty-four passengers were cargo handlers from the Aragonne Isabelle, and few were gracious

enough to take the seats in the rear. Travelers such as he would have to wait as they disembarked first.

“That is unfair, then,” the man commented, being courteous.

“My name is Dahlia.” The woman introduced herself, extending her free hand. “Dahlia Burke.”

“Toman Ishida,” the man returned, clasping her hand for just a moment.

“Colonel?” Dahlia asked with a questioning glance at his collar.

“Yes.”

Dahlia smiled proudly, then she turned to grab a small shoulder bag that had been resting on the seat next to her.

“My son is a lieutenant in the Concordiat Army,” Dahlia explained. “He’s with the 351st Planetary Siege

Division, or something like that. Ever hear of it?”

“Sorry, no. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the Melconian front.”

“Oh, I always hope that he’s not there,” she said despondently, “but I guess it would be unlikely that he’d be

anywhere else.”

Ishida didn’t answer. She might have been hoping for some reassurance from him about her son, but without

doubt she was correct. All siege divisions were now assigned to the Melconian front. Only scattered second and third

echelon armored and mechanized formations were assigned to other duties.

The uncomfortable silence was finally broken when the compartment finally began clearing, and the line of

passengers started moving.

“At least I’ll only have to be here for a year. I work for Vetrex Electronics, and they need me to do some sales

work here.”

“Let me carry that for you,” Toman offered as Dahlia’s large suitcase banged against the seats as she walked.

“Oh, thank you. I can’t believe that they make us carry our own luggage.”

Toman took the case, slinging his own duffel bag over his shoulder.

“The Aragonne Isabelle is not a passenger liner. It is a supply transport. Merchant captains always feel that they

are doing us a favor by allowing us to come with them on their rounds, no matter how much we pay them. Making

our trip comfortable is well beyond their reason.”

“You are a father, aren’t you?” Dahlia asked over her shoulder.

Colonel Ishida felt troubled that the woman had discerned this about him. Had he been condescending or

patronizing, he wondered? He had thought that he was just explaining things well. Perhaps, though, she had just read

it in his face.

At sixty-eight years, Colonel Toman Ishida looked much older than he was. His hair, although mostly

undiminished and somewhat long, had turned prematurely white and gray many years before. His facial skin was

rough and unnaturally wrinkled from the aftermath of two Melconian plasma shell burns, the second happening only

a week after he got out of the hospital from the first. He had hoped that his dominant Asian heritage would protect

him from the ravages of age, but it couldn’t help him against a massed artillery barrage.

Toman had always tried to convince his compatriots that these effects made him look wise and respected. They

always responded that he just looked haggard.

“I have two children, Kaethan and Serina,” Toman admitted. “Is it that obvious?”

“In some things. Your concern for that little girl was certainly an indication, but it was more your manners that

was the giveaway.”

“My manners,” Toman repeated, wanting to understand. “My aversion to foul language, you mean?”

“No. No. It was the manner in which you scolded me in front of the little girl. Your tone of voice and method. I

do, however, believe that the use of foul language, as you call it, is healthy and can make your rhetoric much more

effective.” Dahlia punctuated her sentence by poking the air with her finger.

“My old commander would certainly agree with you.”

“Meaning that you don’t?”

Colonel Ishida hesitated before continuing this conversation. The last thing that he wanted to do right now was to

enter into a debate about the usefulness of swear words.

“It’s been a long time . . . since I thought a problem could be improved by cursing at it. I now wonder if ever there

was.”

Ishida was pleasantly surprised as Dahlia didn’t bother replying to his disagreement, seeming more intent on

navigating her wide girth down the aisle. Toman followed, carrying her heavy suitcase as carefully as possible. Even

at his age, Ishida was still almost as strong as he ever was. Toman maintained a strict workout schedule to maintain

his physique. Fifty push-ups and stomach crunches every night before he went to bed, along with a variety of other

simple exercises. His only failing had been giving up his long distance running, for which he had many excuses in

the injuries that his body had endured over the years.

As the colonel exited the door and walked onto the downward ramp, he took a moment to step aside and

appreciate the tangerine sunrise that was climbing above the line of massive hangars to the east. The starport’s huge

expanse of steel and polymer reinforced concrete was wet with a recent rain shower, reflecting the sky in many

puddles. Dark clouds to the south and west looked threatening.

“Just my luck it would be raining today,” Dahlia lamented as she pondered down the steps.

“This time of year it rains every day down here,” Ishida told her.

Whatever weather that was threatening from the north could not be seen, however, since the awesome mass of the

shuttle towered over them like an old-time zeppelin, squat and flat on its bottom and rear. It stretched almost three

hundred meters from fore to aft, and rose over fifty meters above the pavement. The four fusion jets positioned at its

corners wouldn’t be able to budge the giant transport if it weren’t for the powerful counter-grav reactors that reduced

their load. Their passenger compartment was only a small attachment on its underside, near its front. It looked as if it

was only added as an afterthought, conveniently placed next to one of the shuttle’s huge landing shocks, whose side

their ramp was built into.

A brightly colored bus was waiting at the base of the ramp. Painted on its side, in large letters, were the words

WELCOME TO STARVEIL. Large men were taking people’s luggage and helping the arrivals onboard.

“You’ve been to Delas before?” Dahlia guessed.

“My son and daughter live here.”

“Your wife?”

“Widow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How very sad. It doesn’t seem right that a soldier would lose his wife and not the other way

around.”

Toman didn’t quite know how to respond to that statement, so instead he remained quiet. He had the strange

impression that he should apologize for some reason, but he couldn’t figure out why.

As they reached the pavement, he looked down towards the rear end of the cargo shuttle where its massive cargo

ramp was still descending slowly, preparing to offload. The 50,000 ton shuttle would be transferring cargo between

Delas’ three starports and her mothership well into the next day before the Argonne Isabelle departed back to

Angelrath. Ten or eleven days later another freighter would be arriving. Delas was a quickly growing colony, and its

needs were many.

“Are you visiting your children?” Dahlia asked him.

“That, and other things.”

Dahlia’s luggage was taken from him then and stashed into the bus’s undercarriage.

“I’m sorry I have to leave you now, Dahlia.” Toman bowed to her slightly. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“You’re not coming on the bus?”

“No. I have traveling companions to attend to. A car will be coming for me later.”

The cargo ramp finally hit the pavement with a resounding thunk, despite the slow speed it was descending.

“Traveling companions?”

“They were too big to fit in the passenger compartment.”

The sudden thunderous clanging of metal on metal made all heads turn as a monstrous form emerged from the

rear of the cargo shuttle. The dark shape rose thirty meters from the base of its enormous treads, to the top of its

massive main turret, barely fitting inside the cargo hold. Plates of dull black armor gave it an ominous air that

matched the thunderclouds that flashed lightning kilometers away behind it. Its main cannon extended out well past

the forward glacis of the juggernaut, always remaining perfectly level with the ground as the machine descended the

ramp. The landing shocks on the cargo shuttle groaned and shrieked, and the ground beneath them shook violently as

the war machine finally rolled out onto the pavement. Even after it had cleared the shuttle and stopped, a noticeable

vibration remained, as if the tarmac was straining with all its might to support the monster that had just set foot upon

it.

Bristling with secondary turrets and weapon ports, the war machine looked to be a battleship on tracks, though no

one could mistake it for being seaworthy. It was a dreadnought whose design had been condensed to its most lethal

form. Losing its displacement and elegance, it gained terrible focus in all things that its enemies feared most:

firepower, maneuverability, and speed. No christened name could be seen inscribed on its bow, but upon the rear

portion of its side hull, the designation “DBC-0039DN” was emblazoned in tall, silver letters.

“A Bolo,” Dahlia said in awe. “You are with the Dinochrome Brigade?”

“Very good. Your son would be proud of you.”

Dahlia actually blushed at that.

“You have another one?” Dahlia then asked Toman, smiling.

“We require two trips.”

“Ah,” she said. Then she leaned forward as if to whisper something. Toman complied by leaning forward also.

“Should I be worried about anything?”

“Not any more.” Toman said with a smile, backing away again.

Dahlia laughed lightly, though she still looked concerned. A moment later she extended her hand.

“Thank you for your help, Toman. I’ll try to watch my language while I’m here.”

Toman took her hand and held it tightly for a moment, then released it.

“Maybe you’ll find some other way of being effective.”

“We’ll see. Good-bye, Toman.”

“Good-bye, Dahlia.”

The colonel stood waiting for a couple minutes still, until he confirmed that Dahlia had found a seat and was

settled in. With a short wave he then turned away and headed for the Bolo that waited patiently for him, next to the

ramp. A pack of tractors that had been waiting for the Bolo to clear the ramp now were invading the cargo hold to

ferry its remaining contents to several flatbed trucks nearby.

After he had escaped earshot from the passengers, Ishida removed his fieldcomm from his belt and activated it. It

was already set at Brigade battle channels.

“How are you doing, Chains?” He called.

“Fully operational, Commander,” replied a baritone voice from his earphone.

“How ’bout you, Quarter?”

“Waiting the return of the shuttle, Commander,” replied a charming voice with a distinct British accent.

“That might be a couple hours, Quarter. Hold tight. Until then, though, I want both of you to probe every

wavelength and log every emitter that you can around this planet. Find out what their defenses are like, and where

they’ve broken down.”

“This may cause alarms to be triggered,” said Chains.

“Good,” replied Toman cheerfully. “I hope that it does. As always, route all complaints to me.”

“Yes, Commander. Shall we remain at Low Alert Status?”

“For now. No point in distracting you if their security array is operating correctly. Oh, by the way, keep tied into

its frequency. I want you two watching things.”

“We will, Commander,” Chains replied. “The Starveil tower is requesting that I proceed to their military hangar

area. Do you wish to enter first?”

“Yeah, open up. I need to log a report and make some calls.”

“Opening hatch. Will Kaethan be visiting us, again? I would look forward to seeing how your son has grown.”

Memories of Kaethan’s visit to the 39th Lancers temporary headquarters on Point Hermes flooded him with

conflicting emotions. It had been twelve years ago, when Kaethan was fourteen, just after his mother had died. His

sister Serina had just become eighteen and she wasn’t sure that she could take care of him. It was a difficult time, and

Toman decided not to reflect on it at all.

“Maybe. I’ll tell him that you’d like that.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes,” Toman sighed. “It has.”

At midday, it was dark and raining fiercely, and Captain Kaethan Ishida had his sunglasses firmly stashed in his

belt pouch. On a sunny day, the chalk white dunes of the Fort Hilliard Firing Range almost glowed with heat and

blinding light. The sands blew over the landscape from the forty kilometers of the Alabaster Coast that stretched

along the ocean to the west. Soldiers of the Alabaster Guard wore dark sunglasses as unofficial trademarks of their

unit, though the glasses were absolutely necessary equipment for when the skies were clear. This would hardly be a

problem today, but at least on a clear day you could actually see the firing range.

“Almost ready, Kaethan.”

Kaethan didn’t respond to the warning, but instead kept looking out into the rain from their concrete reinforced

bunker. Judging from past experience, Walter Rice would be “almost ready,” typing madly on his computer, for

another couple minutes. And their past experience stretched as far back as elementary school. There was no hurry.

A brief surge of rainfall caused a light spray to splatter through the slit window that stretched the entire forward

length of their bunker. The captain turned his face away, shielding his green eyes. His short, jet-black hair had dried

quickly after his sprint from his vehicle to the bunker, but would remain damp as long as he stayed where he was.

The cool spray was refreshing to Kaethan, who had begun to grow weary of the heat wave that the Telville area had

been experiencing lately.

The bunker that the two men were in was small and brightly lit. Kaethan was dressed in a dark metal-blue uniform

of very light fabric, with black boots and belt. Platinum circlets, pinned to his shoulder flares, identified his rank. The

lights overhead highlighted his sharp Mediterranean facial features and complexion, though his brooding Asian eyes

always broke the categorization. Walter was dressed in gray slacks and a designer white shirt that he had just

purchased that day. His long, wavy brown hair reached his shoulders, though it was neatly combed and kept. The

short beard that he sported caused him to scratch his chin and neck constantly. Although of ordinary features, this no

way detracted from his rugged good looks. Bare concrete walls enclosed them, gray and smooth except for numerous

cracks and cement patches that marred the surface. A fine white dust covered everything, though it was more from

the sand outside than from the deterioration of the concrete. A large but simple computer panel was embedded into

the rear wall, black and not activated. Walter had all he needed in his briefcase of a computer that he had opened on

the extremely large table that dominated the center of the small room.

“Have you ever tried your baby in a rain like this?” Kaethan asked, lazily.

“My laser will work fine,” Walter returned, “just as long as the wind doesn’t pick up.”

“The wind?” Kaethan turned in curiosity.

A cool breeze from the west had picked up off the ocean just as the rain began to pour, slanting the raindrops with

mild fifteen kilometer per hour gusts. Kaethan couldn’t figure out, however, how the wind would be a problem.

“Don’t tell anyone, but we tested out our tracking radar during the last hurricane.” Walter had stopped typing

momentarily as he confided in his friend. “If a strong gust created a localized swirl, our radar sometimes registered it

as an incoming missile.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Yes, but it was a concern.”

As Walter happily returned to his typing, Kaethan sighed and turned back to the slit window. Just the two of them

were in this bunker, orchestrating this demonstration. Fifty meters to their right, closer to the ocean, several faces

peered back at him from another bunker. The local aldermen would probably have a poor show today through this

rain. He suspected that they’d hear the artillery boom a few times, then afterwards they’d be shown the radar tracks.

If they wanted, they’d be driven to ground zero to investigate the area for recent impacts.

Somewhere out there in the rain, however, was a modified mining utility Hauler with a multiphase array radar and

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摘要：

Bolos:OldGuardCreatedbyKeithLaumerFout!Onbekendeschakeloptie-instructie.Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©2001byBillFawcett&Associates;“Incursions”©2001byMarkThies,“Rook’sGambit”©2001by...

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