Chapters (19)
- CHAPTER ONE COLUMBUS DAY
- CHAPTER TWO DEPLOYMENT
- CHAPTER THREE CAMP ALPHA
- CHAPTER FOUR PARADISE
- CHAPTER FIVE INTEL
- CHAPTER SIX FORT ARROW
- CHAPTER SEVEN COLONEL
- CHAPTER EIGHT PLANTING POTATOES
- CHAPTER NINE JAIL
- CHAPTER TEN SKIPPY
- CHAPTER ELEVEN AWAY BOARDERS
- CHAPTER TWELVE MERRY BAND OF PIRATES
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN FLYING DUTCHMAN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN SPACE SUITS
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN RAID
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN HOME
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN IDLE HANDS
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN TICKING CLOCK
- CHAPTER NINETEEN OUTBOUND
Our supposed allies, the Kristang, think that Ruhar assault transport was damaged during the drop from orbit, and fell short of its intended target, since that is the only possible reason the Ruhar would have invaded Thompson Corners, Maine. Hell, I didn’t want to be there anymore, that’s why I joined the Army in the first place. My hometown is nice enough, it’s simply nothing special. There’s potatoes and cattle and sheep and other farming, of course, and some people like my Dad had jobs at the big paper mill down in Milliconack, and you could get by with some lumbering, working as a hunting or fishing guide, a little welding on the side, whatever. Nobody in northern Maine relies on one job. Anyway, Thompson Corners is not the sort of vital strategic target that military planners would think of, when deciding where to drop from orbit a combat transport, with a dozen or so heavily armed troops. The Ruhar troops, cute and furry bewhiskered bastards that they are, no doubt waited until their transport finally skidded to a stop on the front lawn of the elementary school in the middle of town, popped the door open, gazed in awe at the magnificent vista of Thompson Corners, and asked the pilot where the fuck they were. Soldiers are soldiers, whether they have fur, skin or scales. So, logically, the Ruhar lobbed a missile at the most imposing structure in the area, the potato warehouse, and took it out in impressive fashion. I mean, they blew the hell out of it, those soldiers must have had something against potatoes. Next they destroyed the two bridges across the Scanicutt river; the railroad bridge and the old concrete highway bridge that’s been there since it was built by FDR’s Works Progress Administration in the 1930s. We'd had a lot of rain, and the river was running high, so with the bridge out, the only way for me to get into town was to drive all the way to Woodford and cross the river there. Like the old New England joke; you can’t get there from here, right? Nice idea, if the roads hadn’t been clogged with panicked traffic, and a hundred other people didn’t have the same idea I had, at the same time.