Chapter 24 – "Four Fifths of Five Eights of Fuck All, SIR!"

Samantha gathered herself as she prepared to address the parade. The 250 cadets were lined up in proper parade formation, their officers – at twelve and thirteen, the oldest of the children – keeping order as if the whole lot were veteran Marines with a decade's experience. The raw recruits of the armoured platoon were milling around like the armed civilians they basically still were. And the Navy never did go in for much in the way of foot and rifle drill. The sailors were lined up in disciplined rows, but looked positively slack and idle compared to the rigid ranks of the Cadet Corps.

Overwhelmingly, the bodies on the parade square were younger than she was – and Samantha was painfully aware how young she herself was. She recalled a history sleep course she'd taken, about the Crusades. Most of the tales of the Children's Crusades were apocryphal, although based on real events. Now, she'd have a very real Children's Crusade. She hoped the Chosen Frozen Children would have better luck than their largely fictional counterparts of Germany and France back in 1212 CE.

The AI amplified her voice as she addressed the planning parade. "Hollister!" she shouted at the 11-year-old boy in charge of the cadets attached to the artillery battery. "How many know how to lay a gun?"

"Seven, Sir!" announced the lad, as six of his charges came to attention. They'd not only taken the sleep training, they'd backed it up with live firing on the artillery range.

"And how many Forward Artillery Directors have you got?"

"Four, Sir!" Unfortunately, those were also members of the seven who knew what was what with the cannon.

"Navy, how many gunners?"

The corporal in charge of the platoon of sailors came to some sort of attention-like manoeuvre that made even the Civil Service officer wince. "Six, Sir!"

Dammit. "How many can lay a gun?"

"A planet-side cannon, Sir? Nobody here."

Not good news. Still, they'd know how to load the damned thing, which meant their muscle could be used.

"Hollister, send your four Forward Artillery Directors to the Marines. Marines, protect their asses, they're going to be protecting yours." At Samantha's order, four cadets double-timed to the Marine platoon.

Samantha brought up a hologram of the battle zone, enlarging it so it hovered over everyone's heads. Two lights glowed green – the camp and the base. The Martellos glowed red. The projected landing zone flashed white. "Here's their likely route: down this valley to this point, where it bisects, heading southwest to Shackleton and northwest to Scott. We're going to block the road here," she pointed with her pace stick, "and place two platoons as reserve here and here." She indicated two spots in the valleys, between the point where they joined the main valley and the two settlements. "First, make things tough on the Swarm by triggering avalanches to block the valleys. This will also make it safer for you to hold. Place half your troops up on the valley walls and the other half across the floor. Understood?"

They did.

"We'll place the Marines and a third of the Cadets here at the main line, and split the remaining Cadets between these two reserve points." She sighed. "I wish we had armour, but..."

"Sir, we do, Sir!" The 12-year-old boy fronting a platoon of Cadets could hardly contain his excitement. "At Martello 2314." Obediently one of the red lights started flashing. It was near the battlefield, near enough to make a difference. "There are six Rommels there, and we have six who took the driver's course."

Everyone grew excited at this – they now had a semblance of a defence. Samantha was of a practical mind, however, and had seen too much bad news this day. "Do we have any gunners for the Rommels?"

Not among the Cadets. No surprise: the crystals the main gun of the Rommel used were hefty beasts. Again, she turned to the Navy gunners. "Corporal, I need six volunteers to load the guns on the Rommels."

He immediately pivoted on his heel. He pointed to six of the largest sailors and advised them they'd just volunteered. They double-timed over to the Cadet tank platoon. The remaining gunners headed to the artillery battery.

"You remaining sailors, what do you know about the RLI-1?"

The Corporal didn't even need to poll his men. "Four-fifths of five eights of fuck all, SIR!"

A brief smile flashed across Samantha's lips. She'd taken her history lessons; it was the standard way that Canadian soldiers, sailors and airmen of World War II had described how much they got paid. "Bonus points for mathematical precision. We need ammunition carriers and stretcher bearers. Congratulations, you're it."

At that point, the AI whispered in her ear that the concubines at Base Scott were getting a touch panicky. They needed a leader, and the lead naval concubines were out at Hesperus with their sponsors.

"OK, I can't lose a gun. I've stolen every man, woman, boy and girl I can get my mitts on. What now. Think." Her eyes came up to realize one of the red-coated infantry, wearing sergeant's stripes, was someone she'd dined with recently. He and his future concubine, assuming she didn't CAP out at over six point four.

"Sergeant Bachelor! I need your concubine!"

"Yes, Sir!" The eleven-year-old brought his wrist up and spoke to the AI. A second later, Diana Deschenes' voice sounded in Samantha's earpiece.

"Get into a set of Civil Service greys and get over to Base Scott. Calm everyone down, get them down to the shelters. If you need help, ask the Marine officers' straw bosses. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir!" Diana chirped. Samantha understood she'd taken a vow of nudity since hooking up with Daniel Bachelor, and briefly wondered how she'd handle the situation. Right now, though, Samantha couldn't afford to care.

"AI, copy this conversation and relay it to the officers' straw bosses. I don't want them taken by surprise by a request from an eleven-year-old. Plus, do we have any Kitten-class landers?"

"We have fifty-one available, Optio Redburn."

Samantha was impressed – Carruthers had obviously been busy fabricating the little devices as if firing them out with a modern Gatling gun. "Can they be at the indicated defence lines in time?"

"Arrival in eight to ten minutes at all three points, Optio Redburn."

"And that Venti?"

"Landing anticipated in two hours, thirty seven minutes, twelve seconds, Optio Redburn."

Samantha ordered the various leaders on her. She sent the artillery and armour away immediately – the tank barn and the nearest Martello had working nexuses already. She addressed the infantry. "Remember, when you get into position, before you dig in, trigger avalanches. That will make it safe for you and a nightmare for the Swarm. Dig in good. Make a space for those Kittens in your trenches – we'll be using them to resupply you with ammo and to evacuate the casualties. Try to link up your foxholes, but not in a straight line. Force the Swarm to shoot around corners. Move, we don't have much time."

The voice of the AI rang in her ear. "Sergeant Howard Peale would like to communicate with you, Optio Redburn."

Who? "Identify Sergeant Howard Peale."

"Sergeant Howard Peale is commanding Three Flight of Scouting Squadron 314. He is currently at Scott Base."

"Put him through."

Sergeant Peale wasted no time. "We think we'll be of more value flying Warthogs."

"'We'?" Once again, Samantha struggled to obtain sufficient information to see the big picture.

"The four pilots who were shot down by that goddamn Swarm ship. We can fly more than just space scouts. We can fly Warthogs. And we'd like one more crack at the ugly mother that shot us down."

"You've flown Warthogs before?"

"Well, no – but we've all flown fixed wing aircraft before."

"You'll have to learn as you fly, then," she warned. "I hope you and your men are quick studies."

"I think we can do this," he insisted.

Samantha remembered a line that Butch was forever quoting. "You know what Think thought? Think thought he farted, but he shit." She paused. "We're both running under the assumption that we actually have Warthogs."

"Fifteen of them. They're all armed and ready to go. Their Marine pilots are supposed to be here in another month."

"Well, then, let's go for it. I'll take all of the additional backup I can beg, borrow or steal. Just play nice – the Marines don't like it when you break their toys."

The Sergeant chuckled. "Don't worry. Any damage will be fixed before they get here."

"Get your ass in the air in fifteen minutes. Let's give the Swarm a nice warm reception."

The parade square rapidly emptied of bodies as the boys and girls – and a painfully few men and women – of the Chosen Frozen Children's Crusade headed for their assignments.

In the tank barn under Martello 2314, Samantha paused at the communications she was receiving from one of the Fleet Auxiliary ratings. "Yes, I know they're cold blooded."

"Well, I was thinkin'. Dangerous, I know. Anyway, you cool 'em down enough, they can't function – they're sittin' ducks."

"And how do you propose to cool them down?"

"Well, you know that firefightin' foam we've got? If it gets on a person, it has to be washed off right away. Otherwise, he could get frostbite or worse, hypothermia. Lay some of that stuff on the Swarm and you've got Swarmcicles."

"AI, can you drive the fire truck?"

"Negative, Optio Redburn. I can only take it to the main battle line. After that it needs to be operated by a human, as it would be considered a weapon at that point and I would be in violation of the regulations."

"Understood. Is it an automatic transmission?"

"Negative, Optio Redburn. It is a manual transmission."

"Know of anyone who can drive a stick?"

"Negative, Optio Redburn. That information has not been gathered."

"Start asking. Include the concubines. Include the dependants as well."

"Aye aye, Optio Redburn."

Samantha took one last look around the tank barn. You literally could not tell the difference between sailor, Marine or Cadet by their dress: everyone was wearing armoured, heated, sealed matte-white Arctic battle suits with the anti-glare on the visor hiding the face. Only the two-metre height gave a clue that the person might be a Marine, and enough sailors had gone for that package so as to confuse the issue. "Mount up! Let's get the hell out of here!"