The Crucible of Solitude (12)
Artillery is the god of war. Even if it was a makeshift cannon crudely fashioned from a single oil drum, the Lightning Cannon's theoretical maximum range stretched nearly three hundred meters. In the close-quarters combat of urban streets, that was more than enough to play the part of a deity.
A crisp winter wind swept away half the gun smoke, and as the peasant workers' artillery battery bellowed in fury, hoisting their barrels to adjust the elevation angle for indirect fire, the government forces encircling the industrial complex outside plunged into horrific chaos—public security officers and militia alike. Naturally, our communist nobles were scared out of their wits too. The command tent might be in the rear, but it had a naked-eye view of the kill zone.
"D-Deputy Director! We need to fall back too! Hurry!"
It was a pain having Gao Xusen grab my arm and try to drag me away. I calmly pried his hand off and slowly shook my head.
"Calm down. Their shells won't reach us here."
"What do you mean? We have to go now!"
"I said calm down. Have I ever given you bad advice?"
Staring him straight in the eye with steady composure worked its magic; the trembling in Gao Xusen's ragged breaths eased a bit. I nodded toward the radio.
"Tell your subordinates to hold position. Firmly. This is the perfect chance for the Patrol Police Detachment to show what sets it apart from the others."
"……."
"Not going to do it? Hurry, or the whole detachment's lines will collapse."
Already, I could see signs of the Patrol Police Detachment getting swept up in the chaos of the other units. They had the second-largest numbers after the militia and had taken the rear positions after losing the initial scrum for dominance, so they were holding discipline—for now. But without firm orders, they'd crumble fast.
I skipped the hesitating Gao Xusen and spoke directly to one of the deputy directors.
"Deputy Director Hushan Liang. I'm counting on you."
It was phrased as a request, but it was an order in all but name. The deputy director, his face slick with sweat, glanced at his superior, then nodded sharply in lieu of a salute and grabbed the radio.
"This is Command broadcasting! All Patrol Police Detachment forces, hold your positions! I repeat, all Patrol Police Detachment forces, hold your positions! Disobeying orders will be punished severely, regardless of rank!"
His voice shook a little—a flaw—but not enough to be disqualifying. The radio's poor audio quality would mask that much tremor. Gao Xusen, shoulders rigid with tension, didn't even seem to register that his subordinate had just overstepped.
Kyung-tae, standing silently at attention, spoke up.
"You sure this is fine, hyungnim? Not doubting your judgment or anything—"
"It's fine. Look at those idiots—they still can't even load their shells properly."
The peasant workers' artillery crew struggled to finish prepping for lobbing shots. It was only natural; they were propping junk under the bipod to elevate the barrel and piling sandbags behind, making it tricky to standardize the elevation angle.
Random barrage like that, and they'll just look like amateurs.
For improvised guns where accuracy didn't matter, the key was massed fire to create a kill zone and maximize efficiency. The fact they weren't rashly lighting fuses proved, paradoxically, that their commander had basic competence. Probably one of those intellectuals deep into Maoism, claiming to be Mao's successor.
Besides, that theoretical max range of three hundred meters came from the People's Liberation Army's bloody trial-and-error during the Chinese Civil War and Korean War. Bluntly put, oil drums weren't made to be cannons. How much blast pressure could those welded plates withstand? How much powder before the barrel blew? How many shots before it gave out? What weight for the projectile? ... I could guarantee it: the moment one gun blew, the whole battery would disintegrate. No one would dare light another fuse after that.
But stretch the fuses too long, and ability users would rush in and kick the guns over while they burned. So their controller had no choice but to be cautious—especially with suspect drum quality. Chinese-made, and not even new; if they held up, it'd be a miracle.
One sentence summed it all up for Kyung-tae.
"They don't have the guts to bet their lives on a gamble."
In my estimation, their limit was half the max range, maybe a third if we were lucky.
I thought that, but I couldn't help the prickling tension myself.
"Fire!"
The battery spat flames again. Slow muzzle velocity let anyone with good dynamic vision barely track the shells with the naked eye. The clustered barrage scattered into gleaming metal shards under the winter sun, arcing to their apex before turning into a white-metal hailstorm that hammered the public security forward line—rat-tat-tat-crash.
The previous inferno replayed on a grander scale.
"……."
I listened to the screams and relaxed. Even shorter than I'd predicted. But with public security and militia tangled in a mass retreat, a bottleneck had formed—making the rear easy pickings for steel sleet inevitable.
"Help! Somebody help!"
The thick stench of blood only made the survivors wail louder. More would die trampled than from shrapnel in this crush.
Cheers rivaling the cannon roar rose from the peasant workers' lines. Under the sun's warming rays, they fired a third, fourth salvo. No need to readjust elevation for repeat shots. It was a mercy kill on the fallen and a threat to terrify the panicked.
If it were me, I'd push to maximize kills here...
After breaking the enemy's lines, commit reserves to inflict maximum damage—that's basic tactics. For those in the know, anyway. Real Maoists among the peasants wouldn't miss it; Maoism's revolution hinged on military overthrow of the state.
Yet they'd burned through a fair number of ability users early on. Outside my expectations, honestly. But without it, they'd have collapsed before building momentum via casualties—understandable. Firing first thing would've tanked public support if footage leaked; the people's backing was Maoist revolution's core.
For that choice to pay off rationally, though, they needed real reserves separate from the peasant mob—not ideal for controlled assaults.
So...
"Deputy Director."
"Yes, sir."
"The other detachments and militia have lost cohesion for now. I doubt the enemy will let this chance slip, so have your men prepare for rear assaults."
"Rear...?"
"You were sure from the start some outside force was involved, right? Secure maximum cover from mutual support range."
Hushan Liang and Panhai Shan's faces hardened at my hint. Crushing the public security here would leave Guangzhou with an unmanageable security vacuum. At minimum, preserve the Patrol Police Detachment—the city's policing backbone—with least losses.
Maybe thirty seconds after the new warning broadcast...
Vrooooom—!
Sudden bike exhaust roars echoed from alleys all around. The infamous sound from Guangzhou metro lately. Those barely escaping the bottleneck froze in new terror.
As communist nobles and deputies gaped, I nearly snorted at the Black Sea Party's trick. Most of those echoes were recordings. The already spooked misjudged the assault's scale. With command fleeing by car, mowing down friendlies, organized resistance was impossible against a force easily stopped if lines held.
No point revealing the enemy's thin numbers without proof. I gave practical advice—orders, really—within limits.
"Units just need to hold in place. Plenty of easy prey; they won't chase the hard marks."
Hushan Liang asked,
"Just hold, then?"
"For now. But if they interfere, shoot even allies. Don't let runners take your cover."
My words sounded harsh; he swallowed dryly. Lose cover to stragglers, and you couldn't repel attacks. Urgent radio reports showed the warning alone kept Patrol Police from total rout. Frontline troops saw it matching command's predictions, instinctively relying on us.
Hushan Liang issued new orders; the frantic net steadied somewhat.
From the Black Sea assault's view, the bottleneck escapees were perfect density—slaughter and punch through. Weaving gaps between alleys, cars, people, they wielded a new weapon. From afar, like cavalry lances: long poles with powder-and-lead bamboo tubes at the tip, wrapped in tough rope.
Disposable shotguns.
"Raise lances!"
To the PLA, a salute; here, literal—thrust spears forward. At the lead rider's cry, all leveled vertically held lances horizontally.
"Fire!"
Brrap-brrap-brrap!
Riders yanked trigger cords with the poles; tubes shattered, spraying shot. Power to shred groups, just shy of directional claymores. I almost wanted to applaud the prep.
Mid-massacre, some wolves eyed our tent. Worth grabbing the hard prey, maybe.
But we were here—me and my boys.
"Kyung-tae."
"On it."
No need for me; Kyung-tae directed. Joined public security fire turned three to corpses in seconds; the rest abandoned us fast. Plenty elsewhere to eat.
Wolves wheeled, using sheep as shields to dodge shots, resuming bloody charges with guns and blades. Cops and militia died without firing back. In this moment, just terrified weaklings.
One blood-soaked rider bellowed around the corner:
"BMW! BMW here!"
In this slaughterhouse, a glossy luxury sedan screamed class. It had hit people and trees, immobilized. Three bikes circled, hosing it with SMGs. Riders dragged out huddled passengers.
A portly communist noble begged tearfully for mercy. Riders took him alive.
Then three bomb-laden trucks charged from the complex. I finally grasped the peasant workers' and Black Sea Party's plan.
No wonder. Way too much powder and bombs produced.
To hardcore Maoists, revolution meant total enemy extermination—armed force only. Whether their brains were true diehards or posers, the goal: arm the people's revolution, run production lines max long. Wage protests were theater to buy time. Negotiation futile from the start.
So Deputy Director Zhang Tailong's delayed report on industrial power usage from the city power company shifted. Faction issues, sure—but likely execs hiding problems, delegating to same-faction peers.
Creators of this meticulous arsenal wouldn't ignore power. Especially with Maoists leading; from what I knew, China's core Maoists were red-pilled young intellectuals—educated, sharp real reds.