by John Ringo
As far as he knew, Shari O'Neal, his Wendy, and a handful of kids from the creche they had both worked in were the only women and children who had survived both the Fredericksburg landing and the Posleen eating the Franklin SubUrb, where many survivors of Fredericksbug had been sent. What a goatfuck that had been. Disarmed residents, no exits except from the top—the way the Posleen had to come in. They might as well have planted a big, neon, fast food sign on the top of the place. He hated the Darhel more for the deliberate mis-design of Franklin than for anything else. The dying act of the men from Fredericksburg had been to hiberzine the women and children and stash them underground, stacked like cordwood in an old pump house, hoping they'd hidden it successfully from the Posleen. Those men had acted in the purest tradition of heroism. Many had done as much in that war, but nobody had done more. Only then a lot of the survivors had been sent to Franklin, which had been made a zero-tolerance for weapons zone at the insistence of the Galactics—which meant the Darhel. Designed with no exits. Franklin had been near the Wall, just inside Rabun Gap. When the Posleen broke through, the women, kids, and old people in Franklin hadn't had a snowball's chance in hell. Except that Wendy and Anne Elgars, a woman soldier of the Ten Thousand who'd been recuperating from near-fatal injuries, had gotten Shari and the kids out through the ventilation shafts and a small exit in the hydroponics section. Again, Wendy's habit of finding out everything about where she lived had saved her life. And the lives of the handful of others she'd been able to take with her.
Thank God his mother and sister had gone to Asheville instead of Franklin. They didn't get eaten, but what with the war and all, and the way everybody changed, by the time he and Wendy officially died, he and his surviving family hadn't been close.
He knew he was in Fredericksburg, which brought back all the ghosts he thought he'd laid to rest decades ago, but he couldn't recognize anything. Every once in awhile he'd get a glimpse of something he thought might once have been familiar, but he wasn't sure if he really remembered it or was kidding himself. The woods were anything but a healthy forest. There were plenty of trees, but mostly large patches of weeds and grass. Their roots and the elements had done a job on the rubble and compressed ground, which was punctuated by falling scraps of walls. The rusted spikes of rebar that crested above the weeds in places contrasted sharply with the twisted girders. Between one thing and another, not all of the metal in the ruins of Fredericksburg had gone into the Posleen nano-tanks. Some cities, in the rear of the Posleen occupation, or under more efficient God Kings, had been totally obliterated, so thoroughly had they been scoured for resources to feed the Posleen's infinite needs for war materiel. His home town had been left with its ghosts. He didn't know whether that was good or bad.
With difficulty, he shook himself out of his involuntary review of The Day. It didn't do any good to get caught up in past shit. There was just too much of it. Fuck it, drive on. Going fishing with one of his sons or grandsons was usually how he straightened himself out. Which it would be time to do when he got home, but now was time to have his head in the game.
The Fleet Strike silks threatened to pull him back into more unwanted reverie, of the days after his stand at the Washington Monument, along with the rest of the motley force that came to be known as the Ten Thousand. Shortly after, he'd been transferred from the US Army to Fleet Strike ACS—where he'd gotten used to wearing silks, in the rare times when he wasn't living in his suit. Now he was back. His conversion away from the system had come at the very end of the war, when to stay alive and keep the Posleen from pouring into the American heartland they had had to hide their moves from their Darhel-issued AIDs. Even back then, he was every bit as good with a computer as he was with a rifle. There was no way for the Posleen to be reading the AID network unless the Darhel had deliberately given them access. Put together with the designed-in vulnerabilities of the Franklin SubUrb, that were also too comprehensive to be accidental, nobody had needed to draw him a picture. Now he was back. For an hour or so, anyway.
He checked the blue stripe on the back of his buckley for what must have been the fifth time, reading over Michelle O'Neal's data on the mission that discovered the alleged Aldenata device. On a Crab planet the ACS had nicknamed Charlie Foxtrot, being unable to pronounce the Galactics' name for the place, Fleet Strike had engaged in heavy fighting with pockets of Posleen resistance in areas the powers that be deemed too sensitive to be neutralized by Fleet from orbit. According to Michelle, Fleet Strike had received orders to divert some equipment recovered from the Crab equivalent of a museum, and deliver it up the line. The museum was listed in all official Galactic records as a total combat loss. Cally's sister believed, and his experience agreed, that Fleet Strike kept more information in its records than it acknowledged to its Galactic bosses. Especially when ordered to do something it might have to cover its ass for later. He sure hoped the Michon Mentat was correct in her information about what they'd find in the records this time. It would really, really suck to have come all this way for nothing. Not to mention how much longer it would take to come up empty. Finding something was quick. Finding nothing was what took time.
Date, planet, coordinates, unit, commanding officer. If it was there, he should be able to find it. If it was there. He checked the blue stripe on the back of his PDA again.
"You're not nervous, are you?" Cally asked. "That's about the tenth time you've checked that thing."
"No, I'm good. It's just . . . Fredericksburg."
"Yeah, that's gotta suck."
"No shit," he agreed. "On the other hand, it takes my head right back to when I was with Fleet Strike, so it's not all bad."
"I wouldn't have minded being with Fleet Strike," Harrison observed, pouting. "Parts of it, anyway."
"Very funny. Keep a lid on the camp. It wouldn't play well with the target. Stick to the sports," Cally said. "You're checking your notes, right?" From what Tommy could see, he was playing solitaire.
"I've got it. I drilled it until I'm blue in the face. I can talk baseball with George for God's sakes. Don't jostle my elbow, dear."
"You'll be fine," she assured him.
"I know." The other man winked at her. "Don't worry, I'll keep it simple."
"We've got the fence ahead," Papa said, softly, pulling the humvee up. He stopped it short of the expanse of chain link topped with razor wire that cut a line through the woods. The woods on this side looked very much like the woods on that one, with nothing obvious about the land to tell why the fence was here and not there.
Harrison was out of the truck first, approaching the barrier with an old-fashioned multi-meter and a black leather bag that looked like something an old country doctor would have carried. The fence was probably electrified, but its main purpose was as a simple barrier to announce the presence of a stupid Posleen normal charging through it. It also served to keep out equally stupid humanist radicals, seeking street cred with others in the protester set.
Tommy nodded to himself when the fixer started pulling out assorted wires and clippers. Electrified. He and Cally got out, breath frosting on the air. He put his buckley in the pocket of his silks and sealed it, patting the other packet to make sure his emergency field kit was in place, dropping the AID into the seat. Unlike conventional clothing, the pockets on his silks would stay reliably closed until he pressed the top corner again with a finger. They were comfortable as hell. He'd regret turning them back in at the end of the mission. Not that the Bane Sidhe had another operative who would fit silks made for Tommy Sunday. They didn't have anybody else as big as him. Which incidentally also meant Harrison had to cut the hole in the fence big enough for him to get through. The smaller man was used to it by now. Still, it was a good thing silks didn't snag.
Schmidt One looked up at his brother and said, "When we come back out of here, we're going to have to stop for me to patch the hole. Otherwise they'll find it the next time they run their maintenance checks. The idea's that we were never here, right?" It wasn't re
ally a question.
"Cally, you're through first," the fixer said. "Tommy, get the other side. It just wouldn't do for her to get scratched up on all these rough edges."
"Nope. Ruin the whole effect." Papa O'Neal spat neatly out the driver's window. "Through you go. Get moving."
George put the box of coffee supplies, graced by a well-known brand name, on the ground next to his brother. "Here," he said, handing each of them a small data cube. "Terrain updates. That's what the pictures were for. Cross referenced with the hummer's tracking measurements, it should be pretty solid—at least for what I was able to see. I've also marked backup rendezvous points."
His female counterpart took the cube without comment, pocketing it. Tommy and Harrison at least nodded at the smaller man, who smiled faintly before going back to the car.
Sunday followed her through the fence, letting her get as far away as she could without losing sight of her. He began following as she moved in to the southwest. He could hear the faint crackle of leaves under Harrison' feet behind him. Good thing the noisier man would be the farthest one from any unfriendly ears.
They'd walked just over two hundred meters, by his pace count, when Cally raised her hand and stopped them. He echoed the signal back to Harrison. She stripped her camo jumpsuit off and stowed it under a bush, patting the pocket of her black windbreaker, rubbing her ear to make sure the dot earphone was in place. Flesh toned and about half the diameter of a ladybug, it was practically undetectable. Tommy checked his earphone, too, patting the pocket with his buckley.
Once the extremely stacked and tempting blond was on the road, Tommy could keep pace with her slow jog at a safely increased distance, watching the flash of red from her tank top through the trees that concealed his own muted gray. He listened carefully as he went, waiting for her to find and draw off the guard.
"Hey!" He heard a masculine voice from the direction of the road. He stopped cold, raising his hand to stop Harrison. "Excuse me, Ma'am, but this is a restricted area." He heard the voice say, apologetically. Definitely not the tone he'd have taken with some unknown man. He almost felt sorry for the guy. Dangling Cally in front of him was a below the belt hit if there ever was one.
"Oh, is it? I'm so sorry, I didn't see the sign. I got a little turned around, anyway. Could you point me back to base housing? My sister-in-law is going to think I'm such a dummy," she said.
The voices were far enough away that he had to listen carefully, and wouldn't be easily overheard. He started forward again, carefully, beckoning with one hand. Harrison would have to go in first with his box, so he'd be looping around Tommy. The voices were moving down the hill as his female teammate succeeded at drawing the young soldier along with her. Single women on base were in short supply.
"Oooh!" The high feminine squeal of dismay was followed by a pause. "It's my ankle. . . ."
He couldn't hear the rest. They kept moving, cutting in to approach the road. There was a five yard strip of grass on each side of the road before the gate to the chain link fence surrounding the archive building, and a good fifteen yards between the fence and the building. Where the front of the building jutted out from the hillside, the structure was surrounded by neatly trimmed boxwood hedges. Fortunately, the gate was open, the guard mount a precaution against a theoretically possible intrusion that nobody seriously expected. Harrison crossed the open area at a fast sprint, setting down the box on top of the hedge as he vaulted it with more agility than Tommy had known he had, and pulling the box down out of sight. Too big to try to go over the hedge without either landing in it or hitting the wall, Tommy ducked around the back after covering the gap between the tree line and the building. He barely had room to crouch down below the top of the hedges without scraping himself to bits on the hedge or the brick wall, or laying flat on the dirt. Dammit. The pictures they studied had had a mock-up of a suit and a scale model of a SheVa tank in the courtyard. Someone had moved the damned displays. He supposed they were lucky to have any cover at all.
He thumbed his pocket open and pulled out his PDA, tapping the transmit button. "Dude, I need a beer," he said, and ended the transmission. Seconds later, alarms began wailing across the base, sounding the drill alert. Soldiers all over the base would be grabbing their AIDs and their gear to get their information and execute their movements to set up an appropriate defense in response to the specified "Posleen attack." Over the next few seconds, half a dozen or so men sprinted out of the building and through the gate, disappearing quickly from Sunday's limited view. The activation phrase had been his own idea. He couldn't think of anything less likely to be flagged as a code phrase if it was somehow overheard. Papa had grumbled that it lacked style. Tommy had told Papa that next time he was on the pointy end, he could die with style if he wanted to—again. It hadn't been a fair thing to say. After all, it had only happened the once. Still, without the Crabs' miracle slab to patch up even the dead, as long as there was enough brain intact, they were all being more careful.
They waited another two minutes to make sure as many men as possible were clear before Harrison went in through the front door. It wouldn't do to wait too long and have Cally lose her grip on the attentions of the guard. Yeah, as if that was likely to happen. Getting out of the bushes wasn't fun. Schmidt One had to crawl across the bigger man's back on his knees so he wouldn't leave boot prints all over his back. Silks were stain resistant as hell, but they picked up dirt like anything else. The other man brushed off his back, getting the slightly damp pine chips off him. Tommy dusted off the bottom of the coffee box and handed it back.
The morning was brightening in the way only a crisp fall day could. He was warm in his silks, but could feel the cold against his face and hands and see his breath. As he looked up to watch Harrison around the side of the building, he could see the trees down the slope bending in the wind. In the lee of the hill, he didn't feel much wind, but he was starting to hear it. A quick glance up at the sky showed a line of heavy clouds as a colder front blew in from the northeast. Great. He gave Harrison a full minute before walking around the back of the hedge to the front of the building, PDA in hand.
He opened the door to see Harrison shrug at the counter clerk.
"No coffee maker? I dunno, maybe you're getting one. All I know is this is the building number I got and I need a signature. Hey, even if it's ultimately supposed to be somewhere else, it don't say so. Might as well drink it. Hell, I would."
"If it has our number on it . . ."
"Excuse me, I've just got to finish something up." Tommy waved the PDA at the clerk, showing the blue stripe, and walked past the desk. The clerk barely glanced at him, busy signing for the coffee.
"So, hey, did you see the last game of the series? That homer in the top of the sixth? What a beautiful . . ." He heard Harrison settling in to shooting the shit with the bored clerk.
Down the main hall, at the second intersecting cross-hall he turned left, past the reading room and walked down to where the terminal plug was supposed to be—and wasn't. The space of wall that should have had a terminal had a door to the head. He looked back along the hallway the way he'd come and saw the jutting lip of the terminal outlet all the way down at the other end—and a skinny, freckled sergeant in silks.
"God damn, you're a fucking tank, aren't you?" The man looked up at him, tapping one foot. He didn't look impatient, just like the kind of guy who couldn't stand still.
"Um . . . hi," Tommy said. There weren't a lot of brilliant ways to answer that even if he'd been somewhere he was supposed to be.
"Sorry, I should have said hi or something first. You're just, damn, I'm surprised the ACS brass came up with a suit to fit you." The man was more a kid, really. He was already starting to remind Tommy of an overexcited cocker spaniel.
"I don't really know what to say to that. I'm Johnson. Bob Johnson," Tommy lied.
"Sorry, I swear to god I'm not weird or anything. It's just that they're running a course right now on early ACS tactics in the war.
I didn't think anybody could be as huge as Tommy Sunday, but you must be close. Damn." He shrugged, starting to look uncomfortable. "I bet you get that all the time. So, when did they transfer you in? Johnson, is it? I haven't seen you, and I know I'd remember. Are you here for the course? It just started but I'm on light duty from a strained rotator cuff and thought I'd try to get ahead in the reading. . . ."
During the kid's rapid monologue, Tommy had started getting more and more nervous. When he heard his own name, he made a split second decision and started sliding his hand into his right pocket with the emergency kit. He'd instinctively kept that side turned slightly away, so the kid didn't see anything wrong when Tommy started moving.
"Good to meet you," he said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. The spec four's friendly grin glazed over as the hiberzine from the needle Tommy had palmed hit his system. Strictly speaking, they hadn't finished introducing themselves, but what the fuck. Tommy dragged the now unconscious kid into the head and down to the last stall, propping him on the toilet. This wasn't good. A single glance at the guy's face would show anyone he'd been hiberzined, and when they woke him, damn. Tommy hit him with a second needle of another drug. If they revived him without knowing to look for it, and no reason why they should, the man's memories of the previous few minutes to hours would be so scrambled nobody would ever make sense of them. Cursing under his breath, he punched up another transmission on his buckley.
