Gust Front lota-2

by John Ringo

  “Command and Staff. A level of response of that difficulty requires everything to hit the ground running perfectly.”

  “What’s the first and most obvious lack? Take them in order downward.”

  “Artillery command and control. We do not have a Fire-Support Team.”

  “Right. Who do we have in the battalion with significant fire control experience?”

  “Besides yourself?” she asked dryly.

  Mike rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Save me from an AID with a sense of humor. “Besides me.”

  “There are four NCOs in the battalion with fire control experience and one lieutenant.”

  “Who’s the lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant Arnold, your mortar pl—”

  “Pass,” he said. “I want Arnold right where he is.” In case he has to take over from Nightingale.

  “Then one of the four NCO’s.”

  “Who is senior?”

  “An E-6 in Bravo Company. Staff Sergeant Duncan.”

  Mike wrinkled his face in the flexible gel. He was unable to place the name in his own company’s roster. And, as far as he knew, with the exception of Sergeant Brook in the Mortar platoon none of Bravo’s NCOs had ever been in fire control. “The name rings a bell,” he continued, “but not from Bravo Company.”

  “He joined Bravo Company while you were on leave.”

  Mike thought about the roster for a moment and grimaced. “Gimme Gunny Pappas.”

  The AID chirped after a moment and the Gunny’s voice came over. “Yessir?”

  “This new NCO that joined while I was on leave…”

  “Duncan?”

  “Yeah. Let me guess. He got put in charge of Second Squad of Second Platoon.”

  “Yup. Only squad without a staff sergeant. Wasn’t much I could do.”

  “Agreed. So, how is Stewart taking it?”

  “Fairly well. Duncan’s a real experienced NCO as you know. Generally he lets Stewart continue to run the squad and helps Boggy with training. Stewart’s actually started to pump him for information and support. They work well together.”

  “Hold it,” Mike said after digesting this. “ ‘As I would know’? Is this Bob Duncan?”

  “Yeah. Sorry, boss, I assumed you’d know.” The Old Man was damn near omniscient normally. “Shelly didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Damn. Shelly, bring Sergeant Duncan in on this conversation.”

  “Yes, sir.” After a moment there was another chirp of connecting circuits.

  “Captain O’Neal?” asked the quiet voice.

  “Duncan! Who the hell let you into my company?” Mike snapped in a serious voice.

  There was a pause. “Well,” responded the quiet baritone, “they wanted me to take a commission as a captain. They said there was this really screwed-up company that needed straightening out. I told ’em I wanted to infiltrate it first as an NCO. And here I am.”

  Mike and the first sergeant both chuckled. “Like I said,” said Pappas. “He’s a real screwball.”

  “Yeah,” said Mike with a smile in his voice. “I’ve noticed that before.” He thought about the situation for a moment. He had some of the best experience in the battalion in the three way at the moment. He thought about bringing in Sergeant Bogdanovich, but she was undoubtedly busy with her platoon. There were four other combat veterans that he knew of in the battalion, but none of them were officers. From the point of view of suggestions, this was as good as it got.

  “We’ve got a bit of a FUBAR situation in D.C.” He ran over the outline of what they could expect. “There’s combat power to spare. But nobody has any sort of decent control and most of the line units have just been through a rout. The first problem on Shelly’s list was artillery support. We don’t have a Fire Support Team. And the automated system has been taken off-line. We need someone to coordinate artillery support.”

  “Me,” stated Duncan.

  “Right. If I had a FIST captain, it would be him. We don’t. So it’s you.”

  “Is the arty gonna go for that?” asked the first sergeant. It was a realistic question. Duncan would effectively be ordering artillery battalions. Colonels do not normally listen to sergeants.

  “I’ll take care of that,” said Mike. “Shelly, send General Horner an e-mail. Tell him we are assuming control of the defense of the bridges of D.C. under Standing Regulations for the interaction of Federation and Local forces.”

  “Oh, shit,” whispered Duncan.

  “Did you just say what I think you said?” asked Gunny Pappas in an incredulous voice.

  “Yep. We now own the forces in D.C.,” said O’Neal in a definite voice. He suddenly realized that Major Givens might have liked to be informed. He had just sent a message to an Army General telling him that a lowly battalion, commanded by a major, was taking command of one of his Armies. If it was anyone but Jack Horner it would be impossible, whatever the standing orders. “Shelly, slug this plan to him so he understands what we’re doing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are they going to listen?” asked Duncan.

  “That is where you come in. The first order will be to reestablish the automated fire control network. The AIDs will stomp any virus they find so security won’t be an issue. Get that up. After that, we will have control. Without direct orders to the contrary, the cannon cockers will follow the computer guidance. And the computers will follow our orders.”

  “Then what?” asked Duncan. He knew his own AID would be taking in the details.

  “Shelly?”

  “The next problem is Command. We are short three of four combat company commanders.”

  “Pass. Nightingale can carry the company,” said O’Neal. Lord, hear my prayer. “Same for Alpha’s XO. We’ll use Bravo for the shock company and Alpha and Charlie for support.”

  “This scenario will require all three line companies to interact perfectly,” the AID demurred.

  “If needs be, I’ll take direct command of the suits. Start preparing a program to lead every trooper in Alpha and Charlie by the hand. We can slug them to replicate the actions of Bravo troops. That will give us three times the firepower for each Bravo shooter. Delta’s Reapers will be under control of fire-support. They won’t be a problem. Next.”

  “Communications.”

  “Handle it.”

  “Captain, I cannot handle the entire communications strategy!” the AID responded. The tone was almost hysterical. “There are too many variables.”

  “Define the problem,” Duncan interjected.

  “We will require the support of forces in the area to accomplish the mission,” his own AID responded, unexpectedly. The device had a slightly different voice than Shelly, more of a contralto. “Captain O’Neal, you yourself specified level eight difficulty. Given that, we will need the majority of the forces in the area for base of fire. We will need a complete fire control network. We will need communications to higher headquarters for logistical support. And we will need to maintain communications intelligence monitoring. We AIDs cannot handle all of that alone. We will be heavily tasked to maintain local coordination. Especially if you have to take direct suit command.”

  “Agreed. Okay, okay.” Mike suddenly wished he could scratch his head. Inside the pod he couldn’t even pop the helmet; there was no room. “Pass for right now. Next.”

  “That’s it,” answered Shelly. “With the forces in the area or approaching it we will have the force necessary to retake and destroy any two bridges that are no more than six miles apart.”

  “Okay. Duncan, Pappas, I’m open to suggestions on the communications problem.”

  “Debbie,” said Duncan, “how are you planning on communicating out of the battalion? That is, who are you planning on talking to?”

  “We would normally communicate with the local commander. However, there isn’t a local commander. The units are fragments.” Suddenly on all three screens a map of the area around the Washington Mall popped up. It was scattered with dots
and blobs of all the colors of the rainbow. There was little or no rhyme or reason to the colors. “Each of the different colors represents a unit which has made it to D.C. It is based on a spectrum of units from each of the divisions involved. Therefore, units that are from vaguely similar units would have vaguely similar colors.”

  Mike made an okay sign with his hand. It was the body signal the ACS had developed to replace nodding the head. “Okay. Nice picture.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And of course,” he continued, “that’s not what’s there. These units are randomly mixed.”

  “Correct. A complete higgledy-piggledy. A mishmash. A hodgepodge…”

  “Yes, thank you. We get the picture. So that is the communications problem. You’d be required to find the frequency of each unit and broadcast to it.”

  “Correct. We actually have the frequencies of all the units that have communicated. However, there are others that are not communicating at all. They might not even have radios.”

  “Are they all at the Mall?” Duncan asked.

  “Many of them are,” Shelly answered. “It is a prime destination. The units from Ninth Corps are trying to find transport to their bases. Tenth Corps units are just lost.

  “Christ,” muttered Gunny Pappas. “What a rat-fuck.”

  “Dantren,” Duncan said, cryptically.

  “Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Remarkable how the Posleen keep doing this to us.” The first expeditionary force to Diess had had its mobile units trapped by advancing Posleen in an Indowy megascraper. The siege had been lifted by then-Lieutenant O’Neal’s platoon. In that case the hard-hit American and British units had been reduced to scattered squads.

  “What about artillery?” asked Duncan, taking a closer look at the unit data on the screen. Most of the units seemed to be from front-line combat forces.

  “Artillery and Service and Support units generally have stayed together better,” answered Shelly. “Although many of them have crossed farther upriver, those that were caught in the Arlington pocket have mostly crossed the river and are assembling in the area of Chevy Chase and Rock Creek Park. The remnants of Ninth Corps’s Artillery are actually assembling at the Chevy Chase Country Club.”

  The first sergeant snorted. “Hate to see the bill for that.”

  “Yeah,” snorted O’Neal. “Anybody sends me a bill, I’ll tell ’em to stick it where the monkey put the peanut. Duncan.”

  “Sir?”

  “This is going to hinge on fire-support. Get with those units. Get them to not just assemble but get ready to fire.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said dubiously.

  “If you get any guff, call General Horner, directly,” Mike said definitely.

  “Okay,” Duncan answered in the same tone.

  “Do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gunny.”

  “Sir.”

  “Start setting up some commo with those units on the mall. Figure out a scheme for assembly and get them assembling. Get the units you can cajole to start making signs for assembly areas. Use the color scheme you’ve already got.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try to put some spine into them. We’re going to have to get support. Remind everyone and anyone that if the Posleen cross the Potomac, we’ll be running all the way to the goddamn Susquehanna.”

  “Right.”

  “Ask your AID for help.”

  “Not a problem, sir.”

  “Okay. Good.” Mike desperately wished he could rub his face. “Okay, Shelly. Anything else.”

  “Just one thing,” she responded.

  “Yes?”

  “This scenario will require forces that are willing to stand and fight. That is not a normal characteristic of routed forces.”

  “Well,” said Mike softly. “We’ll just have to hope that the survivors were not just the ones with the fastest horses, but also the best aim.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Fairfax, VA, United States of America, Sol III

  0726 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

  The Suburban lurched as it crossed the toothpick remains of a backyard fence.

  The fastest way through the neighborhoods of scattered one- and two-story houses was often the yards. They had had to turn around at Glebe Road and backtrack up Wilson Boulevard until they found a section not completely blocked by cars. The choked roads had overflowed to the point of bursting and the abandoned vehicles were scattered through the strip malls and fast-food restaurants along the major thoroughfares. Once they got across Wilson they stayed as much as possible on yards and side streets, only attempting crossings at the least likely places.

  They could have abandoned the vehicles. There were military vehicles scattered throughout the region. But if they left the tracks they would lose the mortars and the .50 calibers. All in all, Keren was willing to chance the Posties catching them to keep the firepower.

  But the circuitous route had other problems.

  “Where are we?” asked Elgars, leaning out the window and looking back at the two following mortar carriers. Surprisingly, none of the vehicles had broken down in the harum-scarum run from Manassas. Apparently all the deadwood had been left in Prince William County. “You got any idea?”

  “Not really,” said Keren, handing her the map. They had switched drivers when the going got bad. She was fine on streets but he had much more experience at off-road.

  She found the last notations he had made, back at Wilson Boulevard. “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  He picked up the microphone. After the third time he had pushed it out the window, Elgars had found a roll of duct tape and fixed it so the antenna stuck out the moonroof of the vehicle. It worked remarkably well and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it. Probably because the only time he hadn’t been running for the last three days was when he was dead asleep.

  “Reed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Find a road sign.”

  “Right.”

  The mortar carrier made a hard left, kicking up a rooster tail of soil from the manicured yard. It trampled a pink plastic tricycle then slipped into the space between neighboring houses. The wooden fence between them turned to splinters as the vehicle ran down its length. As he cleared the house he made another abrupt turn to the right.

  The houses were halfway down a block. The mortar platoon proceeded to the end of the street where the ubiquitous green sign finally fixed their location.

  “Jackson and Sixth,” said Reed over the radio.

  “Damn,” said Elgars. “Not bad. We’re nearly to Arlington Cemetery.”

  “How far?” asked Keren, peering ahead. There were skyscrapers ahead, which was not good. The damn things drew Posleen like flies. He keyed the mike again. “Anybody see a big hill? Should be at our nine o’clock.”

  “I got it,” said somebody from the Three Track. The squad was from another brigade, added on to their nearly intact platoon at Jackson Lake. They still didn’t feel like family, but at least they kept up. “Between two buildings. You probably can’t see it from there.”

  “Okay,” Keren said, “that’s our objective…”

  A tremendous explosion tore the face off a skyscraper to the south and a tracer kicked up and out crazily.

  “Holy Shit!” shouted Reed. “Posleen!” The .50 caliber on the top of the mortar carrier tracked to the south down Sixth Street and began to spit fire.

  “Goose it!” shouted Keren over the radio, putting action to words as he dropped the Suburban into gear. “Don’t just sit there!”

  He turned into the road just as the mortar carrier began to move. A hypervelocity missile evaporated a section of roadway to their right as the Suburban slid crazily into the intersection. Elgars had her AIW out and was climbing into the moonroof. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other tracks cutting across the parking lot on the corner but he put his foot down and accelerated towards the distant hill.

  He had just passed forty when Elgars kicked h
im painfully in the shoulder.

  “Stop!” she yelled as another HVM flew by. The shockwave of its passage shook the heavy vehicle like a terrier and the missile itself demolished a gas station on the corner.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted back and started weaving. The silver lance of plasma cannon came from nowhere and he saw the Two Gun track erupt in fire. “Goddamnit!” The mortar carriers were firing their .50 calibers but with the way they were jumping over curbs there was no chance in hell of hitting the Posleen leader that must have fired that accurate blast. He was barely in sight in the rearview, at nearly a thousand yards. The distance was the only thing saving them from the notoriously inaccurate Posleen. Distance, however, helped not a bit with God Kings.

  “Stop or we’re all FUCKED!” Elgars shouted again. Her feet were braced on the backs of both front seats and the rifle was rock-steady.

  He stomped on the brakes and reached in the back for his own AIW. He was no expert, but unless they took out that God King, they were all toast. Two rifles were better than one. The 7.62 rifles had the ability, technically, to hit something at that range. He’d never been able to hit the broad side of a barn at over five hundred yards. But, hell, the horse might sing.

  The vehicle had barely lurched to a stop when there was a single crack from overhead. “Go!”

  He looked in the rearview as a storm of fire erupted towards them. The Posleen normals of the company were attacking berserkly. But they were firing at everything in sight, not just the vehicles, and the fire was scattered. There was enough to begin slamming into the Suburban, but the God King was clearly dead. His saucer was barely in sight drifting off to the side. Keren dropped the Suburban back into gear and floored the accelerator. The smoke from the burning gas station was just ahead and if they made it to that obscurement they might just survive.

  “Holy Mother of Acceleration, don’t fail us now!” shouted Elgars as she began pumping out grenades. The 20mm rounds pounded out like a metronome, weaving a dance of destruction in the wake of the retreating platoon.