by John Ringo
“Guns. Deflection two seven three seven, elevation eleven hundred, charge three. Four rounds.” He dropped the radio and spun the board again. “Where by the Pentagon?”
* * *
The Posleen normal stared up at the symbol. It was not one of the familiar ones. There was the crossed projectile weapons; they were familiar and easy to deal with. There was the two-turreted building of the military technicians. There were orders to avoid that symbol at all times. This was a new one. It appeared to be picture of a world with some device on it and rope around the device. Perhaps it was a symbol of a group that chained the world. The normal looked over its shoulder towards its God King. That worthy ordered it to open the doors with a gesture of its crocodilian head.
* * *
C-9 was an atomic catalyst explosive. The President’s Marine Guard Force had easy and unquestioned access to Galactic weaponry and explosives. They also were veterans of Barwhon and Diess. Since they were well aware that the Posleen first looted, then destroyed, most of the buildings they captured, they saw no reason not to advance the timetable. Well, the destruction timetable. And there was a whole lot of tradition attached to Henderson Hall. So there was no damn reason at all to give it to the horses. It just wasn’t a Marine “thing.”
* * *
Keren had discovered that there weren’t many safer places than under the steering column of a Chevy Suburban. So when the white flash to his left transferred palpable heat to his skin, he dove for the floorboards.
The shockwaves from the series of triphammer micronuclear explosions rolled the Suburban over onto its top then back up onto its springs. Shaken, Keren took a moment to compose himself and make sure that the worst was over, then dragged himself up into his seat and looked to the south.
From the area where the Pentagon had been faintly visible a pall of smoke was rising. The trees across Arlington Hill had been stripped of most of their fall leaves and the tops of some of the southerly ones were sheared off. Several fires had started on the south edge of the hill.
He did a quick inventory to check the damage. One of the PRC-2000s, the one set to support the regiment, was smashed. The other had apparently jammed under one of the seats and physically survived. He’d check to see if it still transmitted in a minute.
The interior of the vehicle was trashed. All the personal gear that had accumulated in the back along with half-eaten meals, open drinks and other debris had been thoroughly mixed. On the other hand, it wasn’t much worse than it had been before the explosion. There had been less spaghetti sauce on the royal blue headliner. But not much less.
Elgars was apparently alive. The soldier was braced against the door cradling her left wrist with an expression of agony on her face.
First things first. Elgars wasn’t dripping blood, so finding out if they still had wheels was paramount. Keren turned the key and after a couple of cranks the engine caught. There was some blue smoke but all the gauges dropped into the green and the engine kept running. He cautiously put the Suburban into gear, but the grinding sounds were no worse than they had been.
He looked over at Elgars. “Broken or just sprained?” he asked.
“Broken, I think,” she said through clenched teeth.
He nodded his head. “Hang tight for a couple of minutes.” The last question was whether the radio would key. The blasts had looked like nukes, which meant Electro-Magnetic Pulse. EMP was supposed to destroy all electronics. But the truck had started, which came as a surprise. Now if the radio had just survived.
“Guns, you there?” he asked.
“Roger, FDC. What the fuck was that?” asked the sergeant from One Gun.
“Dunno,” answered Keren. “Can anybody see any of the bridges?”
“Yeah,” answered Three Gun. “I can see the Arlington Bridge. It’s still up.”
“Okay, I gotta switch freqs. I’ll be right back. Is everybody okay?”
“We’re here,” answered One Gun.
“For a while,” Three added.
Keren switched frequencies to the regiment’s and set the remaining radio for ease of switching back and forth. “Regiment, this is Mortars, over.” No response. He turned to Elgars. “Hang on a sec.” He crawled into the back of the vehicle and started turning over the mass of rucksacks, clothing, candy wrappers and sleeping gear. After a few moments’ search he found a medic’s kit he had picked up on the retreat. In it, as expected, was an inflatable splint. A few moment’s later he had Elgars’ wrist splinted and was back on the radio.
“Regiment, this is Mortars, over.” He unkeyed the radio and took a deep breath. The fires on the hill were getting worse, the small blazes joining and catching the dry grasses of the graveyard. A few of the trees on the south side were smoldering as well. If it spread much farther they were going to have to leave, good timing or not.
“Mortars, this is regiment,” came another voice. The previous caller had clearly been young and extremely confused. This was an older voice, full of assurance.
“Regiment, we have fires spreading towards our position. We will have to move soon. Do you need fire, over?”
The bleak humor of the responder was clear. “Mortars, we need a hell of a lot more support than you can give us. What’s your ammo situation, over?”
Keren didn’t know who this person was, but it was a completely different cat than the colonel in command. “Not so hot. We’ve got about fifty mortar rounds a track left and we’re about out of Ma deuce.”
“Roger.” There was a pause. “Gimme a volley of twenty rounds of variable time per gun on the big twisty intersection right by the Marine Memorial. Seems the Marines didn’t rig that for some strange reason. It’s grid 1762-8974 if you’re using a military map.”
Keren’s face split in a grin. “Roger. But who the fuck is this?”
“Major Cummings. I’m the S-3.”
“Well, Major, nice to talk to a professional for a change. Stand by.”
* * *
“Yeah, likewise mortars,” said Major Alfred Cummings, lowering the radio. Not that it was going to matter. Alpha Company was heavily engaged by the Posleen mass coming down from the north. In Andatha this would have been the time for a shower of artillery, cluster ammunition for preference. What really pissed him off was that he knew there were artillery units in range, but he didn’t have the frequencies or codes to call for fire. Just another cock-up.
The post was supposed to be a sinecure. A comfortable unit for a company commander who had seen just a little too much combat. He and a few NCOs were there to add a tone of reality to the purely ceremonial guard force.
But now it was a different beast. The colonel had decided to make this stupid stand. Naturally, when the C-9 went off and the pressure went on, he didn’t make the grade. Major Cummings had hated polluting this holy ground with that coward’s blood, but he was sure the ghosts would approve. Some of the boys had run into the coffins as they dug in. Most were intact, but a few had spilled. He told them to dig on, dig on. The soldiers, sailors and Marines who were buried on this hill would have no argument with a little jostling. They understood.
And that boy on the radio had understood. The major could tell. That was a good troop. He smiled as he heard the crump of the mortars firing in the background. Only two tracks, which was a shame. Mortars were hell on the yellow devils.
“Sir,” said Sergeant First Class Smale. “Them’s mostly through Alpha Company. Bravo an’ Charlie’s holdin’, and thems that’s gonna stays from Delta, they’s up at the Tomb.”
“But we’re being flanked.”
“Yissir.”
“Should we pull out?” he asked. It wasn’t much of a test, the sergeant was another veteran.
“Nah, Major. Whut’s da fuckin’ point? Landin’s right and left. Might as well die here as anywhere. Better than fuckin’ Andatha.” The NCO turned to the side and spat.
“Yep. But no reason to take everyone with us.”
* * *
“Gol
f One One, this is Echo Niner Four, over.”
Keren picked up the mike as he carefully watched the hill to his west. “Golf One One, over.” It was the S-3 by the voice.
“Golf One One, the explosions from the complex slowed the tourists down on that side. However, we are being pushed back to the north. We anticipate losing the bridge shortly. I recommend that you move out on completion of the fire mission.”
Keren smiled and his eyes misted slightly. “Roger, Echo Niner-Four.” He wondered how to ask the next question. “Will we have company?”
The smile on the radio was evident. “Not unless you’re slow and our out of town visitors catch up. I think this is all the farther I’m gonna go.”
Keren nodded. “Well, there are worse places.”
“Roger, that, Golf, and I’ve been to most of them. Looks like only one to go.”
Keren smiled. “Roger, Echo. See you there. Golf One One out.” He flipped frequencies. “Can you still use your rifle?” he asked Elgars. The private was white-faced with pain, but had the weapon trained towards the fire to the north.
“Yeah. When the hell are we getting out of here?” As she asked that there was a large but distant explosion to the southeast. “And what the hell was that?”
“Probably a bridge going. And we need to be across one before we’re the main course.” He keyed the mike again. “One Gun, how many left on that volley?”
“Just about done. We sort of lost track.”
“Roger. Three?”
“That was the last.”
“Roger. Button up and do the boogie. We’ve been waved off by the Regiment.” At the words the Three Gun track jerked to life. The driver apparently did not think it necessary to take the gun out of action. Keren had never turned the Suburban off, so he put it into gear as well. One Gun still wasn’t moving.
“One Gun, you mobile?”
“Roger.” The track spat one more spiteful round skyward and lurched into movement. “We’re outta here.”
“Let’s just hope the engineers know we’re coming,” whispered Elgars pessimistically.
CHAPTER 65
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
0925 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
Lieutenant Ryan was not lost. It was impossible to be lost on the Washington Mall. You always knew right where you were. What he did not know was where he and his platoon were supposed to be.
After Occoquan the platoon had been unable to find anyone in their chain of command. The trucks that had brought the rifle company to replace them had left immediately. Without transportation they had walked northward, hopping the occasional ride. Their target had been Belvoir; however, just short of their goal they were directed away by MPs and told to join the bits and tatters of units headed for Washington. They eventually found transportation but the bus drivers had no better idea of where they were supposed to be than anyone else.
By default they had ended up on the Mall. Most of the remnants of Ninth and Tenth Corps were there, electronic intelligence units without divisions, mess halls without battalions, the occasional artillery or infantry unit that had made it out of the rat-fuck to the south. There was no attempt at organization; units set up wherever they stopped.
Lieutenant Ryan parked the platoon near the D.C. War Memorial and sent Sergeant Leo out on a scrounging mission, hoping that he’d actually come back. The sergeant had and reported that anything anyone wanted was available, for a price. Since nobody had orders to release anything, the only way to get it was black market. There had been one mess hall that had set up, but it had run out of food in no time. Now it was cash on the barrelhead or go hungry.
However, Leo also reported that engineer units were on their way to rig the bridges for demolition. When they showed up the platoon might be able to attach themselves and at least get some rations.
Lieutenant Ryan passed around the hat for donations. After that was unsuccessful he and Sergeant Leo shook down each of the engineer privates individually. This time Lieutenant Ryan left Leo with the platoon and went out on his own. While he fully recognized that the older soldier could probably negotiate a better deal, that assumed that he came back with the rations.
Their combined two hundred dollars was enough to secure two cases of MREs. His Academy ring got them a heated tray meal. Water was still flowing in the city so that was no problem. As the platoon shared a tray of lasagna, the lieutenant pointed out that it was better than Ranger School. Within a day or so they should be able to find a unit to attach to so the food only had to last that long. Sergeant Leo pointed out that he had managed to avoid Ranger School at least three times.
* * *
The approaching sounds of battle had drawn many of the insanely curious towards the Potomac. But Lieutenant Ryan had drifted that way in hopes of finding the engineers who were sure to be rigging the Arlington Bridge. The MPs who were holding back the curious let him through without comment when they saw the engineer tab. He could see figures moving carefully along the bridge, stringing wire. It looked like about a platoon of engineers, and he knew he was almost home. There was a single figure leaning on a Humvee supervising the activity. Lieutenant Ryan walked up to him and saluted.
“Ryan, sir. Second Lieutenant, Corps of Engineers,” he said to the officer.
The officer was a short, broad colonel smoking a cigar. He looked the lieutenant up and down for a moment and then took the cigar out of his mouth. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, my platoon apparently has been lost by higher. We were deployed from Belvoir and couldn’t get back in. We’re out of rations and don’t know where to report.” The young officer paused as if unsure how to go on. “I don’t know what to do, sir. I’m not even through the basic course!” he ended on a rising note. He caught himself as he almost began to babble. Just because things were a little fucked-up was no reason for an academy graduate to lose control. It could always be worse.
The colonel took another puff on his cigar and regarded him evenly. “Where were you?”
The lieutenant misinterpreted the query. “We’ve been camped on the Mall, sir.”
“No,” said the colonel, flicking an ash. “Which bridge were you blowing? That’s what all the Belvoir Boys were doing, right?”
“Oh. Yes, sir. My platoon was tasked with the Virginia 123 bridge at…”
“Occoquan.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant finished lamely. “How’d you know?”
The colonel finally let a smile violate his face. “You’re the ‘Lost Platoon,’ Lieutenant.”
“Sir?”
“Where’s the rest of your unit, Lieutenant?” asked the officer without answering either query.
“Back on the Mall,” said the thoroughly confused lieutenant.
“Well, I’d offer you my Humvee, but you’re just going to have to walk a little longer. Go find them and tell them to get their asses over here. I’ve got to get on the radio.”
“Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant. The colonel saluted in dismissal and the tired and still confused lieutenant started trudging back to the platoon’s bivouac.
* * *
“Castle Six this is Castle Five, over.”
The officer who leaned in and snagged the microphone ahead of his RTO was a mountain. Nearly seven feet tall and proportionately broad, his uniforms required custom-tailoring from raw material. The crew-served M-60 machine gun slung across his back looked like a toy. “Castle Five, this is Six actual, over.” The voice was a deep, rich bass.
“Six, we found the ‘Lost Platoon’, over.”
The ebony face creased in a broad smile and the general gave a thumbs-up to the distant and unseeing colonel. “Great! which one was it?”
“Ryan.”
“Well, the West Point Society is going to be pleased as punch to hear that.”
The smile in the distant officer’s voice was evident. “Only the cream, boss.”
“Well, only the stuff that rises to
the top,” corrected the general, a graduate of a ‘lesser’ school. “How’s it going otherwise?”
“Pretty well. I’m gonna have to put those poor kids to work one more time, but we’ll be ready.”
“Roger. We’re about done laying in the champagne.”
“Sorry I’m gonna miss the party.”
“So’m I. But we all must have the occasional sacrifice. Good luck, Tom. Out here.”
* * *
The general looked around and smiled. Most of the forces that had been sent out to mine the bridges over the Occoquan had come back immediately. They had then been sent back out in a less harum-scarum fashion to prepare other sites for demolition and to establish fighting points. After those tasks were complete they again returned to their base at Fort Belvoir.
With the destruction of Ninth and Tenth Corps the general had put his personal plan for Ragnarok into place. The ammunition dumps of Fort Belvoir, filled once again for the training of recruits, had disgorged an amazing variety of explosives and mines.
Since he had at his disposal the equivalent of a brigade of Army Combat Engineers, he was determined that the Posleen would have a very hot reception. On the other hand, he was no fool and had no intention of being a hero. The force of trainees and their instructors were put to work turning Belvoir into mechanical hell.
Mining and booby-trapping is a matter of art. The point is not just to kill the enemy, but to frighten and shock them. Simple overwhelming force is usually the best bet. But with all the munitions and time available to them, the general felt that the “Home of the Engineers” could do a little better than that.
He dug out a computer program a nasty-minded engineer had come up with and tried it out. The program was called “Perfect Hell” and was a minefield design aid. It created a fiendish series of concentric self-activating fields. The purpose was to first suck a force in, then thoroughly trap it. Feed in an inventory of available materials and personnel and it spit out a design and a timetable.
