by John Ringo
“I’m not that much of a specialist…” said the engineer in deprecation. Until the project to create the regional defense center in northwest Georgia was dropped in his lap he had been a well-respected but otherwise unremarkable civil engineer in the Atlanta market, one of literally thousands. However, as the project had progressed, his innovative plans and almost fiendish details had vaulted him to the top of the hierarchy of “continental defense engineers.”
“I saw the raw reports from the Fort Mountain Planetary Defense Center,” Mueller disagreed. “You had more innovative recommendations than any seven other engineers involved. Same with Chattanooga. Richmond is going to need innovative ideas to survive.”
“So is Atlanta,” Keene protested, “where my exwife and daughter are. So you can understand if I would rather be there.”
“You’ll be going back. For that matter so will we; Atlanta is where we are being based. But Richmond needs some input.”
“What’s the problem?” asked Keene, looking around the area of the airport. The first thing that came to mind was that the area was flat, which favored the Posleen. But, heck, airports always were.
“Terrain, or lack of it,” said Mueller, as if he was reading Keene’s mind. “When I was a terrain analyst we would call the terrain around Richmond, with the exception of the James River and a couple of hills, microterrain. From a military point of view, it’s flat as a pancake. I don’t know why they chose it for a defense city.”
“Politics, history and size,” said the engineer, “the same reason they chose Atlanta, which has the same problems. Hell, Atlanta doesn’t even have the James; the Posleen can cross the Chattahoochee at any point they choose. And what am I to do about that? I can’t bring a mountain to Mohammed.”
“I don’t know, why don’t you wait and see?” Mueller said as he walked up to a car parked in a no-parking zone. He tossed the carry-on in the backseat, pulled the sign that said “Richmond Defense Planning Agency, Official Business” off the dashboard of the unremarkable white Ford Taurus, pulled a ticket off the window and put it in the glove compartment. He had to stuff it into a pile of others.
“Okay, any other information before the briefing?” asked Keene with a smile at the little pantomime.
“Well, we’re all staying at the Crowne Plaza hotel.”
“Okay, wherever.”
“It’s a nice enough place with a good view of the James…”
John gave Mueller a sidelong look; even in their brief walk from the gate he was experienced enough with the sergeant to wonder where the explanation was going.
“It’s fairly convenient to the state capitol, which is where most of the meetings are, but not very. However, it is within walking distance of Schockoe Bottom. Which is really important.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Well,” said Mueller, pulling out onto Williamsburg Avenue, “there’s this fantastic microbrewery…”
John laughed, the first full belly laugh he had had in a while. He looked around at the sparse traffic for a moment as if someone might have heard the mirth and found it out of place.
“It must help to be military,” John commented.
“Huh?”
“You guys are better prepared, mentally, for this than civilians, I guess.”
“Man, have you got that wrong,” Mueller denied. “There is no way to be prepared for the Posleen. None.”
“Well, you can joke about it, anyway.”
“Ah, well, that I can. If you can’t joke about dyin’ you are not suited to the military. So I guess that means we are better prepared.”
After that they continued in silence through the suburbs of Richmond, heading towards the barely visible city center. Avoiding the fork onto Government Road, Mueller took the more scenic drop into Stony Run, overlooked by the Confederate Memorial. Beyond the juncture with Main Street they touched the outskirts of Schockoe Bottom. Abandoned factories loomed on their left as a giant hill rose on their right.
“This isn’t exactly microrelief,” commented Keene, looking up at tree-covered Libby Hill looming over the valley of the James. The trees were turning color with the first chill of autumn and the hill was a mix of brown and yellow. “Hell of a lot better than Atlanta.”
“Maybe not,” replied Mueller, “but it’s not like the city is up there. I’m damned if I can think of a way to use it.”
“Possibly,” mused the engineer, “possibly you are.”
“The capitol and city center are that way.” Mueller gestured to their right as they dropped into the sector of old brick factories. The dying rays of the sun lit the crowds beginning to come to the area after the work of the day. Music began to pulse as soldiers of the Twenty-Second Cavalry Regiment in BDUs mingled with female office workers, dancing the dance that was old before clothing was born. The city, each night, seemed to empty to Schockoe Bottom. They climbed out of the bottoms and made a series of lefts to intersect the one-way Cary Street. As they approached their hotel Keene took another look around.
“Yes, there’s definitely possibility here,” Keene whispered, almost inaudibly.
Mueller hid his small, unsurprised smile.
CHAPTER 20
Ft. Myer, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1650 EDT September 27th, 2004 ad
“General Olds,” said O’Neal, nodding his head slightly to the approaching First Army commander, “I hope you enjoyed the conference.”
The reception ending the all-commands conference was considered mandatory, a way for the various commanders and their staffs to get together one last time and go over all the things that had been missed at the marathon series of meetings. For the next few weeks, e-mails would fly hot and heavy as everyone came up with questions that they forgot or modifications arose from those questions. However — as the American Army had repeatedly proven — open and complete communication was the key to effective military operations. The left hand not knowing what the right was doing was the quickest road to defeat.
On the other hand, what it meant for Mike was one last run of the gauntlet with some senior officers that in O’Neal’s opinion were poster children for the Peter Principle. But once it was over, it was off for two weeks’ leave and finding out what bad habits Cally had picked up from Dad.
“O’Neal,” said the tall, spare commander, nodding his own head. “I thought I would get a clarification on one item. I believe you stated that the directive of CONARC was that ACS should not be used in a situation where a ‘Fortress Forward’ or montane defense point had already fallen.”
Mike gave it a quick scan for booby traps. “Yes, General, that is correct.”
“Even if the ACS could permit the survival of the defending units.”
“Again, General, that is the intent of the directive.”
“So, you, or CONARC through you, equate an ACS battalion to be the same as the units in a ‘Fortress Forward’ position, equivalent to a corps of trained soldiers? All their support? Some seventy thousand lives balanced against six hundred?”
Mike considered his response carefully. “General, I realize that you disagree with the logic…”
“You are correct, Captain, a point that I believe I have made with General Horner. There is no military justification for such a stance, and if Fleet Strike feels that its units are too good to support Army units, then I question why we are funding Fleet Strike!”
Earth provides a fraction of Strike’s funding, General. We are almost abysmally poor by Galactic standards. So we are not exactly “funding” Fleet Strike. Of course we do provide one hundred percent of its personnel. “It is not a situation of lack of desire, General, but rather the coldest of military necessities,” Mike stated. While the general had been reactivated after one of the longest careers in the history of the United States Army, he had somehow obtained his current rank without ever hearing a shot fired in anger. Furthermore, the primary period during which he was a senior officer was the period of retrenchment by the Army t
hat culminated in Monsoon Thunder, a period during which the Army was often less worried about a unit’s readiness than about physical fitness norms and political correctness.
While the general had served during the periods of both Desert Storm and Monsoon Thunder, coincidentally in neither case had he been deployed to the combat zone. Possibly because of that fact he was among those officers who placed the blame for failures during Monsoon Thunder on the forces that were deployed, not the plan or the overall level of military readiness.
Mike was in one way looking forward to the day the general was finally responsible for a real world military operation. Someday the general would be faced with a situation where he was losing lives and territory faster than reinforcements could be thrown into the gaps. But Mike was sorry for the troops that would have to pick up the burden. What am I thinking?! I am the troops that will have to pick up the burden.
“Let me ask you a question, sir.”
“All right.”
“I am sure you have examined the reports from Barwhon and Diess, sir. Have you noticed that while conventional forces invariably suffer significant levels of casualties when they venture out from fixed defenses, the ACS is able to roam virtually at will and can often stand and fight or break contact without major levels of loss?”
“I am aware of that fact but I disagree with the conclusion you are about to draw: that therefore, the ACS must be preserved because they are the only mobile force that can take the fight to the enemy. Those casualty levels are primarily a terrain issue as opposed to a tactical, equipment or operational issue. The terrain of both Barwhon and Diess is not suited to modern, mobile combat.
“The swamps of Barwhon hamper our Abrams and Bradleys, while the megascrapers of Diess hamper artillery and deny effective logistical support. Given open terrain, or even broken terrain, mobile cavalry and armored forces would be able to outmaneuver the Posleen forces and subject them to repeated firetraps. That is the way to fight them, on the plains that everyone wishes to avoid!
“Right here in Virginia would be perfect. Everyone says that the plains are lost, but that is bullshit! Once the Posleen are on the plains, in nonrestrictive terrain, our armored columns and artillery will eat them alive. ‘Fortress Forward’ ought to be called ‘Maginot Two Thousand’! We don’t need to go back to tactics that were smashed by the Wehrmacht! Apparently everyone has forgotten Military History One-Oh-One!
“And as for the ACS-one-tenth the expense poured into those tin suits would have bought thousands more fighting vehicles. And I have stated my professional analysis of the effect of conventional equipment in the upcoming conflict. So, I beg to differ that one ACS battalion is worth five damn divisions of trained and equipped mechanized infantry, armor and cavalry, I really, really do.” The general was practically frothing by the end of the tirade.
“Well, General,” said Mike and stopped. He thought for a moment and decided that there was no way to antagonize the officer more than he already was. It was obvious that this was one officer who rejected every concept under which the GalTech and Fortress Forward programs were designed. Furthermore, he was so far out of Mike’s chain of command that Mike could do just about anything but punch the officious oaf in the nose and get away with it. Fleet and Ground Force’s first official point of contact was somewhere in the morass of Galactic bureaucracies.
“Well, General,” he repeated, “that’s your opinion… and you know the saying about opinions.” He grinned coldly to drive the insult home. “Before the primary invasion we will, I fear, both have ample opportunities for vindication. I frankly hope you are correct; it would make my job easier. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch. Heaven and hell have been moved so that I can spend one more week with my family. It behooves me to keep them both on my good side.”
CHAPTER 21
Big Pine Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III
1422 EDT October 4th, 2004 ad
The Keys were a scene from the Twilight Zone.
The last time Mike had been down Highway 1 — the long strip of asphalt and concrete that linked the beads of the Keys together like the cord in a coral necklace — the traffic had still been heavy at 1 a.m. The occasion was a spring break from college and the party would go on through the night and the next day. Honking cars and pickup trucks crowded the highway, and people packed the shops and restaurants from Largo to Key West.
Mike watched an errant palm frond tumble across the sand-filled parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly and knew in his bones that the world had turned a corner. The strip mall on Big Pine Key had never been a center for bustling tourism, but the islands to the north of it, where once retirees and college students mingled, were just as deserted. The O’Neal family had driven ever southward on the strip of blacktop looking for an open motel, or even a gas station. Instead there had been an unending string of closed shops, abandoned businesses and tumbledown residences. Crossing the Seven Mile Bridge to this ghost town had been the final straw.
The whole trip had been a disaster. The visit to Sharon’s parents had been particularly excruciating. Despite the fact that he had faced the Posleen in combat, and still held the scars to prove it, Sharon’s parents had retreated into the disbelieving shell that many of the nation shared. In their hearts they truly believed it was all a made-up threat of the “gubermint” and stated the fact in no uncertain terms.
To many of their ilk the world was flat, the sun revolved around it and there were no other worlds. The sociologists were referring to this stance as “societal denial.” After the third time his father-in-law had carefully but firmly corrected him on the subject, Mike started referring to it as “total bullshit.”
Finally Sharon had cut short the visit and they had continued on their way to the Keys. The locale held special meaning for Mike and Sharon. They had briefly met on Key Largo during school and felt a mutual, undeclared, attraction. When chance happened to throw them together at a later date the mutual attraction had rapidly flowered. Michelle and Cally were the results.
When the opportunity had come to take time together the target of the Keys immediately came to mind. The lure of four-star hotels, pools and diving was almost irresistible. Mike knew that Cally would love it; there would be other kids to play with and the clean green sea to play in. The only thing that would make it perfect would be to have Michelle along. But at least she was safely on her way to Adenast. Whatever happened on Earth, at least one member of the family would survive.
But the vacation might not. They had traveled through the deserted islands looking in vain for a place to lay their heads. Or even refuel. The Chevy Tahoe was a gas guzzler. Since Mike had packed along some items to start prepositioned caches they were able to get all the gas they needed from military rations, but the range of the tank was only so great.
They had filled up in Fort Worth, north of Miami, but they had now reached the point of no return. There was not enough gas to get them to Key West, where Mike was sure he could get refilled at the reactivated Navy base, but if they turned around they could make it back to Miami. If they did that they would stay; the Keys were not worth wandering in the wilderness. And that would put the cap on the trip.
Mike tossed the useless map he had been perusing on the floor and looked at his wife. Even with the travails of the vacation she still looked like a starlet in a low-budget disaster movie. Her hair was just pleasantly mussed, her eyes slightly shadowed, her face lineless and grave. It made him sit back and pause. She had hardly talked about her Fleet position, but he was sure it was no sinecure. He suddenly realized that being lost in a howling wilderness, running out of gas and on the edge of being stranded might look good. What that told him about her last few months was unsettling. He cleared his throat.
“Take the chance on going on or turn around,” he said, laying out the options for discussion.
She nodded her head and looked around again. There was nothing more to be revealed by the scenery. The day was one of those �
��blazing gray days” that south Florida had from time to time. A cold front had petered out to the north but the high-level clouds had continued on, obscuring the sun but permitting the heat to build up underneath. The result was a condition of terribly bright indirect light, combined with a dessicating wind. It was like being in Kansas, except with palm trees and green water.
The scenery matched the conditions. The strip mall had once sported all the usual businesses for such a locale. There was a grocery store, nail kiosk, chiropractor and hair salon. The “random choice” on this particular mall was a small restaurant that professed to sell “Authentic Keys Food.” This could be read on the sign that was now swinging from side to side in the hot, dry wind.
Sharon stared at the same palm frond that had caught Mike’s eye and snorted. “This isn’t going so well, is it?” she asked.
Mike had talked endlessly about his company. And every word was praise for the men, the command and the training. Which just meant that his situation was about as fucked-up as hers. She knew she should talk about it. He might even have some input that would help; he had been bumping around Fleet for a couple of years longer than she. But it would sound like complaining and she just couldn’t add that to the unmitigated disaster the trip was becoming.
The days at her parents’ house in Orlando had been bad for many reasons. Besides her parents’ complete illogic about the Posleen there was also the fact that Cally was used to going to the various amusement parks in the area. Unfortunately, they were all closed “for the duration.” Cally had taken it well; she seemed to have developed an almost unhealthy control under her grandfather’s influence. But not being able to give her the treat hurt at a subliminal level. The trip to the Keys was as much for Cally as for Sharon and Mike.
