by John Ringo
“Hell yes, son, hold on.” As Mike waited he noticed that the wall of the building seemed to be pulsing in time to his heartbeat. What an odd sight, he thought. He looked up through the deep clear water at the sky above him and took a breath of the cold, dry air from the regulator. The reef around him was alive with vibrant shades of yellow and red, unusual for such a depth. But the rapture of the dive enfolded him and he ceased to analyze the situation, just let the time flow over him, spending each second as if it were eternity. Lieutenant, dustoff is on the way. O’Neal? Specialist is this radio working? Yes, sir, we’ve got his carrier wave, I think he’s there, sir just not answering. Okay, O’Neal! Wake up!
“O’Neal! Answer me!”
“Yes, sir, sorry sir!” Mike snapped back to the bitter reality with a shock.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine, sir, couldn’t be better. I’m just fine, sir. Just fine.” Mike’s head swiveled from side to side, trying to reacquaint himself with the situation. The lack of normal input, the feel of a breeze or the smell of the battle, made the situation even more unreal. He felt that he was sinking into an electronic simulation and tried to remember which one it was. The German major was staring at him with a blank expression.
“O’Neal!” snapped the general, sensing that the lieutenant was drifting again. “Don’t you crack on me now. Get those units back here then I’ll give you a break, but don’t lose it in the middle of a battle. Can you get some rest?”
“I’ll be fine, sir, really. All of us are a little tired. And I think I overdid the stimulants.”
“You can’t crack, son. If one of your troops loses it it’s one thing but if the commander cracks all hell’s out for noon, you of all people should realize that. Get some shut-eye if you can, even a few minutes would help.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll try,” said Mike, taking a deep breath. The wall started pulsing again.
“Now get to work.”
“Yes, sir. Work. Right. Out here, sir.”
* * *
Mike knew that part of the problem was the suit, so he popped the helmet. The overwhelming stench of Posleen dead assaulted his senses and he gagged for a moment.
“Er ist eine Geruch, nicht wahr?” said the German major.
“Ja, er sind. Sorry, but without the suit closed it’s hard to keep up with the translation and I don’t speak much German. Do you know English?”
“Yah, I was assigned to an American Armor unit as a junior officer,” the major answered with a distinct English accent. “Major Joachim Steuben, by the way, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, sir. I was just talking to General Houseman. If I may suggest a course of action?”
“Certainly, Leutnant.”
“If you could hold here until we start getting the other units extracted. Then as units come on line we could replace your unit with the relieving unit. My platoon will cover the rear as we retreat along the boulevard. General Houseman stated that we could be covered by artillery as we pulled back to the MLR, so my platoon should be enough.”
“Sounds like a good plan, Leutnant. But how are we going to fight through to the MLR?”
“Hmm, well when the first unit comes up of sufficient size, one or the other, yours or theirs, could, with my platoon, push the line through to the MLR, placing blocking forces at the intersections and patrolling the building fronts. My platoon would, I submit, remain in a mobile supporting role. Once all the units were out we would pull back with the last unit.”
“I agree with this plan, Leutnant. Now, can I make a recommendation?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Get some sleep. You look like death warmed over. I have told off my unit to get some rest as possible. You should do as well.”
“If the major will permit the liberty,” Mike chuckled, “the major doesn’t seem so hot his own self.”
After obviously struggling for a moment with the idiom, Major Steuben laughed. “Well, I’m going to sit in this comfortable seat for a bit and if I happen to drift off I’m not going to feel remiss. After I ensure everything is secure.”
“Yes, sir, well I’m going to go make a quick check of my positions and then, if I am still for an unusually long time you can draw your own conclusions.” Mike flipped the major a sketchy salute, resquelched his helmet and bounced over to the barricade.
“So, Sergeant, what’s the word?” he asked Sergeant Green as the latter leaned against the rubble wall, rifle pointed downrange. The only fire was a distant hammering from inland on the MLR. It was as quiet as Mike had heard it since the first moment of contact.
“The Posleen don’t seem to want to come right back, sir,” answered the NCO. “They’re retreating along both boulevards now and infiltrating to the east and north. They may be pulling back from the MLR as well; those units are reporting less activity. They seem to be backing far off from us; I guess we really scared the shit out of ’em.
“The engineers will be here in about five according to their last ETA. They ran into a couple of Posleen, but nothing the team couldn’t take care of. Second squad is in contact with the Frogs and they’re moving back. There’s a French general still in command but the unit apparently is down to about a brigade. I passed on the plan for them to relieve the Germans and they’re okay with that.
“Duncan is trying to find a senior officer of the British right now. He reports that the Brits are pretty much trashed. They’re having to clear out a lot of Posleen in the Brit sector that got through. Still no word on the American unit, Williams is out looking for them.”
“By himself?”
“Yes, sir. He should be fine, he’s slick as a cat. When he finds the Americans he’ll contact us. He thinks maybe they’re in better shape than the Brits ’cause there’s less Posleen in the area.”
“Right, well, fine then. Do you put a medal on him or court-martial ’im? Fine, great, fine, let him write his own damn letter.”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“You’re babbling,” said the sergeant. “Can I make a suggestion?” he continued, diffidently.
“I know, get some rest. That’s what everybody is saying. The general, the major, the sergeant. Before you know it the fuckin’ privates are gonna be coming up. ‘Lieutenant O’Neal, you need to get some rest,’ ” he concluded in an annoying little kid’s voice.
“Yes, sir, we should be able to get you up in time if anything happens. Let’s go siddown over by the wall, sir.” The platoon sergeant turned the lieutenant with a tactful hand on his shoulder and led him to a block of masonry along the wall. There he pushed him to a sitting position and patted him on the shoulder. “Just catch a quick nap, sir.”
He had long experience of the stresses of leadership. A private just has to do his duty, follow the flow. He can often rest standing up or walking, his senses on alert but otherwise checked out. The leaders have to constantly be thinking, feeling, paying attention. They have to be running around and motivating. It eats them up and the higher on the chain the harder it is. But junior leaders rarely conserve themselves and burn out faster. Eventually they learn. Or they don’t and find an easier profession.
“Okay, Sar’nt, okay. Oh, put the platoon on thirty percent stand down and, and, umm…” Mike trailed off. He knew he had forgotten something but it just wouldn’t come.
“Yes, sir, we’ll take care of it.” Sergeant Green stood by the officer until he was sure he had gone to sleep, the depletion of the constant strain of command as sure as any drug. “AID, is he asleep?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Okay, leadership push. Squad leaders, put your troops on thirty percent stand down, one third on guard, the other two out, and I want you O-U-T, asleep, not playing fuckin’ spades! Sorry second, we’ll let you get some sleep when you get back. Scouts, divvy it up between you. First and third squad leaders, turn it over to your Alpha team leader and rest dammit! AIDs, administer Wake-the-Dead antidote and if the sleepers don’t,
report it to me. And tell your people to continue to prepare these positions, this can’t last. Thirty minutes rest only then rotate. Any questions?”
“When do we get to pull out?” asked Sergeant Brecker.
“When the LT says so, anything else?” There were no further questions. Sergeant Green looked around trying, like his commander, to decide if there was anything undone. He considered telling the Kraut major what the situation was but the officer in question was oblivious, head cradled on the TC hatch and asleep. There were no Posleen in view on either boulevard, the occasional straggler marked by the hammer of a machine gun or grav gun, depending on whose reflexes were faster. He shrugged his shoulders and decided to take a walk around the perimeter.
Shortly after that the engineers got back, full of stories of their adventures and set up a charging station. Sergeant Green took the precedence of rank and then had the scouts come in one by one and recharge. There were four charging stations so he figured they would be able to fully recharge in about an hour. He ordered the engineers to set up a shunt and start charging the suits of the personnel who were asleep. Starting with the lieutenant.
As the first turnover of rest groups was occurring an FX-25 French Main Battle tank nosed out of the rubble of the human-occupied building, turned and sped to the intersection, grinding the Posleen pulp on the street to a finer slurry. Sergeant Green bounced over to it and waved for it to stop. A bare-headed captain occupied the TC hatch of the vehicle which had a long deep scar runneled down the left side. The captain bore a large bandage on the same side of his face. Sergeant Green thought there was probably a good story there. He saluted.
“Sergeant First Class Alonisus Green, 82nd Airborne Division, Monsieur Kapitan. I take it you’re the first French unit?”
“Captain Francis Alloins, Sergeant, Deuxième Division Blindèe,” the captain responded and saluted with panache. “Enchantè. Yes, we’re the first. We have many wounded, do we have to fight them out?”
“Well, sir—” Green’s AID overrode the conversation with an incoming transmission.
“ACS 325th, ACS 325th, this is Medevac Flight 481, we need to know where to land.”
“Medevac is inbound, sir,” said the sergeant, gratefully. “You can take your wounded down to the water. If you could detach a unit to handle the medevac I’d appreciate it, we’re really shorthanded.” Sergeant Green switched from external to the medevac frequency and started coaching in the birds.
“Certainement,” agreed the captain, unaware that he had already been effectively dismissed by the NCO. “Pardon.” He picked up his radio and barked rapid orders into the handset. As he did more FX-25s poked out onto the street, followed by APCs and support vehicles. A cavalry scout vehicle pounded down the boulevard and slid to a stop opposite the tank.
A tall and gangling general in camouflage descended from the scout vehicle, looked around and hitched his belt into a better position. He was immediately followed by a squad of heavily-armed infantry who spread out to cover him. The captain jerked to attention and threw a parade ground salute. Sergeant Green, nettled, clanged a gauntlet into his helmet and left it at that.
“Bonjour, Sergeant, bonjour! I must say that I am extremely pleased to make your acquaintance,” the general said, returning the salutes and then taking the sergeant’s gauntlet into his hand and pumping it strenuously. “There were any number of times I was sure that I would not. And good day, Captain Alloins! Fancy meeting you here! How was the ride?”
“Simple enough, with the flanks secured for once, mon General,” the captain said with a smile. He gestured grandly towards the suit of armor. “General Jean-Phillipe Crenaus, may I introduce to you Sergeant Alonisus Green of Confederation Fleet Strike.”
“Yes, yes, I have already been apprised of Sergeant Green,” said the general. “And where is the indomitable Lieutenant O’Neal?”
Sergeant Green wrinkled his eyebrows, an expression impossible to see beyond the blank mask of his helmet. Where had the general heard of Lieutenant O’Neal? “He’s taking a nap, sir. He’s wiped out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the general boomed. “Sergeant Duncan assured me that he was made solely of steel and good quality rubber! It seems beyond the pale that he could require such a mundane thing as rest!”
Sergeant Green was beginning to realize that the general was one of those people that could only talk in exclamation points. Then he noticed the solemnity of his eyes and remembered that this was the general who had preserved his unit far more than any other in the battle. That spoke volumes for his ability. “Well, sir, sorry. But the LT is as human as you or I. Did Sergeant Duncan pass on the battle plan? And do you approve?”
“Yes,” said the general. He looked around at the windrows of bodies with a mildly pleased expression then kicked a Posleen forearm out from under foot.
“I agree with one exception. I believe that I have the largest cohesive unit left. I insist that Deuxième Blindèe should hold the intersection until the other units are past, although I agree that your ACS unit should maintain the final retreat. It is uniquely suited for it since it can, in extremis, exit through the buildings or for that matter over them.” He smiled again at his little joke.
“Major?” asked the sergeant, tiredly, wrinkling his brow again.
“Fine by me,” said the panzer major, “we’re down to a short battalion after that last push by the Posleen.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed the general, rubbing his hands together. Sergeant Green could not believe he had so much energy. “We can begin the relief within fifteen minutes. My unit will form up on the boulevard. We will continue to send the wounded to the seaward side to be evacuated by air. Sergeant, since you are the only one with effective communications, please ask your personnel to pass on the word to the other units to move the wounded forward as fast as possible.”
Sergeant Green passed on the word and watched in bemusement as the intersection was rapidly and effectively invested by the French forces. The perimeter was pushed farther out and the rubble walls reinforced.
The exhausted ACS and panzers thankfully turned over their positions and dropped back to assembly areas. Soon, a continuous stream of medical choppers was shuttling to the seaside ramp, now cleared of Posleen by the simple expedient of dozering them into the sea. Sergeant Green told off first and fourth squads to help the Germans drive to the MLR.
The French general had decided he had enough troops to hold the intersections as well, so all the Germans had to do was reach safety. Sergeant Green monitored the nets as the reduced division organized itself and moved out. Within forty minutes after the first French XF-25 had appeared, all the Germans in the perimeter, the wounded, the hale and the dead were gone, by tank, truck, foot or helicopter and Sergeant Green decided it was time to trade places with his commander.
39
Andata Province, Diess IV
1037 GMT May 19th, 2002 ad
Az’al’endai, First Order Lord of the Po’oslena’ar, clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth as he fought a rising tide of te’aalan. His finest genetic product dead and his oolt’ondai, including that thrice-damned puppy Tulo’stenaloor, in full retreat! If these threshkreen thought to triumph they were sorely mistaken!
“All security oolt’ondai to the command ship,” he barked into the communications grid as the oolt’os of his bodyguard looked on with adoring eyes. “The command ship lifts in five tar!” Let them try to face his just wrath as he swooped upon them in his oolt’ Posleen. He stewed as the scattered battalions and their vehicles, including the Posleen tanks used for ship security, were reloaded into the vast dodecahedron. Thousands of normals and their God Kings filed into the cavernous holds packed with cold sleep capsules and all the machinery necessary to set up a Posleen civilization.
“I shall have the get of my enemies as thresh!” he snarled, switching from screen to hateful screen. “And the structures of my enemies shall burn beneath my claws. I shall reap the blood and sear
the bone. They will burn and burn until the burning sends word to the demons of the sky that none shall oppose the A’al Po’oslena’ar!” The scattered lampreys, trapezoidal craft that attached to the facets of the command craft in space flight, were left with their own small security detachments as the vast ship lifted under anti-grav and ponderously thundered towards the fragile human lines.
* * *
Something painful was waiting beyond the veil that surrounded him and Michael O’Neal refused to face it. It waited with hungry mouths to devour him and he fled down endless brightly colored metal corridors ahead of it. Wherever he turned it was there and it called to him with a seductive voice. Michael, wake up. Lieutenant O’Neal, wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up. I’m sorry Sergeant, I can’t get him to wake up… All right. A sudden searing pain jerked him into wakefulness and was as quickly gone.
“What the hell was that?” he mumbled blearily.
“I applied direct pain stimulation to your nervous system,” the AID answered nervously.
“Well, next time try shaking the suit or something, okay? That hurt like hell.” He checked the time and shook his head. It would just have to do.
“Yes, sir.”
He tried to rub his face and was balked by the suit. He almost popped the helmet and then thought better of it. The last time he had the helmet off the smell had hit him like a blowtorch. He could only imagine what it would be like after an hour in the hot Diess sun. He took a sip of liquid and Michelle substituted coffee. Unfortunately, it was the one thing the suits absolutely could not get right. It tasted like coffee-laced mud.
“Thanks,” he muttered and sipped his mud; the caffeine was less strenuous to the system than the wake-ups would be. He did not want another hallucinatory experience right now. He stared around bemusedly at the scene of normal human activity. “You’ve been busy, Sergeant.”
