Gust Front lota-2

by John Ringo

  “All tanks have active carrier waves and I shunted it to the intercom.”

  “Right,” snarled Pappas. He pulled out a roll of spacetape and secured the futilely protesting officer to the turret. Then he walked across the tank to the driver’s hatch, his EVA clamps holding him to the skin of the armored behemoth. He knelt by the driver’s hatch and pounded on it. “OPEN UP!”

  There was no physical response, but he could have sworn he heard a faint “No!”

  He tapped a spot on his forearm and a two-foot blade sprang out from the underarm of the suit. The blade had been suggested by Duncan, and the Indowy fitters had been more than happy to oblige for the whole company. Now it came in handy as the monomolecular vibroblade slid through the Chobham armor like butter and sliced the hatch lock in two.

  In short order Pappas had the remaining members of the platoon lined up at attention. Two or three were bruised and at least one had a broken arm. There was a cooling spot on the turret of one tank from a glancing armor-piercing round and there was a gunner who would require serious medical attention. But most of them were there.

  “I tried to do this the easy way. I am now going to have to do it the hard way,” he said in an iron tone. “This unit is guilty of desertion in the face of the enemy. The life of every member of this unit is forfeit, under both the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the Federation Procedures for the Prosecution of War.” He stopped and looked at the figures. Most of them were still defiant. Despite the regular hangings for desertion before the Posleen landed, the bug-out in this case had been so widespread that it was unlikely they would be charged. What they did not realize was that they were no longer under the control of American Law.

  “You were given an order by a duly designated noncommissioned officer of the Fleet Strike Forces. As such your offense falls under Federation law.” He stopped again and lowered his voice. “What that means is that you have just entered hell.”

  He picked up the securely bound lieutenant and held him again by the back of the head. “This officer ignored a direct order. He led this retreat. He is primarily at fault.” Pappas closed his fingers and the skull of the officer exploded. The corpse of the lieutenant catapulted to the feet of the lined-up troops along with a splatter of blood and brains that covered the arrayed troopers in gray matter. The nearly decapitated body kicked and thrashed on the ground as undirected nerve impulses continued to fire for a few more moments. Most of the troop looked stunned, a couple looked satisfied. Then about half doubled over in nausea.

  “I want you to understand something,” Pappas snarled. “The Posleen might kill you. If you try to run again, I will kill you.” Pappas lifted his M-300 and fired over the head of the platoon. The blast of relativistic teardrops took out a section of the Longworth building, scattering debris into the street. “This weapon will go through your fucking tin cans long ways. You will be more terrified of me than of the enemy.”

  * * *

  “Mortars, they’re over Seventeenth Street and spreading out,” said the cool voice on the radio. Keren had seen him from time to time, pulling out the occasional wounded or dead, calling for more volunteers, even, for God’s sake, giving marksmanship lessons. And he didn’t sound any more flustered now. “Can you get us any more fire-support, over?” The voice was young, but the assurance wasn’t. Rejuv again.

  “Negative,” responded Keren over the radio in the Three Track. His hands dripped blood to the steel deck as the blisters took another beating from the rounds. The members of Three Track had finally had it, slipping out one by one in the crowd of volunteers. But it didn’t matter. There was a halfway intelligent gun bunny dropping rounds. And two chicks with signals intelligence patches cutting charges. And a dozen more men and women preparing rounds. The bastards from Three didn’t matter a damn. “I’ve tried all the arty freqs. Nobody.” Not even the Fiftieth Division control. The bastards had probably run.

  “Well,” said the guy on the radio in a voice that was both resigned and positive, “gotta die somewhere.”

  Keren twisted the traverse and dropped the range a crank. “Guess it’s that time.”

  “Yep,” said the guy on the other end. “Well, I always said every day after the Chosin was one I wasn’t meant to live. Thanks for the support, Mortars. Out here.”

  Keren shook his head in wonder. Maybe the guy was talking about Valkyries or something.

  * * *

  Mike had some important decisions to make. As the battalion stepped out, crossing the Twelfth Street Phase-line he was still in a quandary. But, after thinking long and hard, he finally came to a decision.

  “Duncan?” he asked.

  “We’re up! Where do you want it?”

  “Question. What tune should I use?” he asked. The firing from the distant Monument was clear. The forces had to be thinking they were doomed.

  “What?”

  “I’m thinking ‘Ride of the Valkyries.’ ”

  “What?”

  “Or should I go with tradition?”

  “What tradition?… Oh.”

  “Yeah, tradition wins. Pity, really. This is such a Wagnerian moment.”

  * * *

  Keren looked up and snarled as the guy hanging rounds froze. Then, when he saw his slack-jawed face he looked to the rear. The tune was familiar. At first he could not for the life of him place it. But then, as the approaching unit began singing, it came to him and he started to laugh so hard he thought he would die.

  * * *

  Colonel Cutprice looked up at the sound behind him and started to laugh. Just when you thought you had lost the game, sometimes life handed you an ace. Some of the riflemen on the mound turned to snarl at the misplaced mirth but then, as more and more of the veterans began laughing, they looked to their rear and smiled. They weren’t sure what the joke was — the song was familiar from basic training but otherwise a mystery. But the old guys obviously got whatever the joke was.

  * * *

  And to the strains of “Yellow Ribbon,” the anthem of the United States Cavalry, the men and women of the First Battalion, Five Hundred Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry Regiment, the “Triple-Nickles,” began to deploy.

  CHAPTER 72

  Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III

  1116 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

  Teri Nightingale was not happy. The plan that battalion, which meant Captain O’Neal, had downloaded was unnecessarily hazardous and invited defeat in detail. It also left Bravo Company with an unsecured flank. The hazards of that were obvious to a blind man. But not to the world’s greatest expert in combat suit tactics.

  He also had sent Ernie out on a forlorn hope. Trying to hold that force coming across the bridge with a few infantry troops and some cowardly tank crews was impossible. They would be slaughtered. And that would be the end of Ernie Pappas.

  She was not happy with the direction that relationship had taken. She had never intended to actually go to bed with him. But when the captain had turned her training over to the NCO, she felt a certain amount of flirtation in order. A good report from the NCO, much as it galled her, would go far towards restoring her position in the captain’s eyes. Since the captain wrote her evaluation report, her career depended on keeping this NCO happy.

  Flirtation had, unfortunately, quickly led to more. And now she was not sure she could end the relationship without causing the exact opposite of the effect she had been striving for. It was a hell of a predicament. Much as it bothered her to consider it, Sergeant Pappas’s death would certainly permit her to be free and clear.

  Her own death, however, might quickly follow. She swallowed at that thought and caught her breath. For the first time she seriously regretted her change from Intel to Infantry. A career in Intel would have meant slower promotion, but one of the costs of being in combat arms was the chance of dying. That had never been real to her until today. Despite the reality of the training systems, the possibility that Teri Nightingale might cease to exist was a shock.


  That possibility was much on her mind as the company double-timed down New York Avenue. Confident in his company and assured by the first sergeant that the XO was capable of handling the load, Captain O’Neal had assigned Bravo the most difficult assignment. It required moving across Washington at an oblique angle and taking the Posleen forces in the flank. It also left them out on a limb, unsupported by the rest of the companies in the battalion. And to get to the point where they were truly in trouble required a headlong charge towards the distant enemy.

  Second platoon was in the lead as they approached the back side of the White House. Lieutenant Fallon had pushed his point out well in advance of their location, but they were running without flankers, an invitation to ambush. That was not a comforting feeling to the XO.

  “Lieutenant Fallon,” she said, carefully controlling her voice, “hold up at the intersection of New York and Fifteenth Street. I don’t like this running blindly towards the enemy. We need to get some scouts forward.”

  “Ma’am,” said the lieutenant, diffidently. “With all due respect we’re behind schedule as it is. We need to be in position to support the battalion’s assault.”

  “I am aware of the plan, Lieutenant!” snapped the acting commander. “But if we get ambushed it will not help the battalion either!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the officer, tightly.

  The company stopped in the open area to the east of the Treasury annex and automatically trained weapons out. The unit had been moving in tactical formation, the suits spaced twenty meters apart, weapons trained out to either side. If any Posleen unit had ambushed them it would have been toast.

  * * *

  Wilson tapped a grav-gun to get the rifleman on the correct axis and walked over to where Stewart was standing, one foot tapping a rhythm on the concrete. He leaned into the squad leader and set his communicator to private mode.

  “Manuel, we’re not supposed to be stopped here,” he hissed.

  “No shit,” snapped Stewart. He did not even correct the use of his former name. The alias James Stewart was a bit of comedy that the gang had managed to keep secret to everyone but the first sergeant. But right now he was worried more about the colossal screwup the company was engaged in than in keeping his former existence a secret.

  “Well, do something!”

  “What would you have me do?” he asked in exasperation. “Off the XO?”

  The response was resounding silence.

  “Oh, great,” Stewart responded. “Do you have any idea what a really bad idea that is? No? You think that Rogers or Fallon would just pick up the ball if we shot Nightingale? Or, maybe, they would have to deal with whoever shot her first? Bad, bad, bad idea.”

  “Okay,” relented the former gang member. “But what the hell are we going to do?” he asked plaintively. “We were supposed to be in position by now, not standing by the White House with our thumbs up our butts!”

  “Muy trabajo, buddy. I know that, you know that, the L-T knows that. The only one who doesn’t know it is the fuckin’ XO. So, when the Old Man figures out what’s going on he’ll kick her ass and get it in gear. No problemo.”

  “Sure, sure, Jim,” snapped Wilson. “No problem for us. But the rest of the battalion is going to get corncobbed.”

  Stewart snorted faintly and smiled in his armor. “Why, Juan, I didn’t think you cared about anybody but the gang!” The sarcasm was gentle and ironic.

  “Well.” Wilson looked at the symbol across the street. “I guess maybe I figure this is as much my turf as anybody’s. And you know damn well that if you’re standing still, sooner or later the Bloods are gonna find you!”

  * * *

  Atalanara had been part of Kenallurial’s charge across the Potomac. But, unlike most of the other Kessentai, he had marshaled his oolt by the bridge, ready to cross. So the force had made it across relatively intact. Seeing the massive confusion near the Memorial he had struck out on his own.

  A very junior battlemaster, he had no interest in facing well-prepared forces. His first movement to the north along the great river had been rebuffed by fire from thresh dug-in among the buildings of a large complex. Although the complex had looked desirable, he doubted his ability to drive the force of thresh out of their positions.

  Taking a side street he sent teams of oolt’os into the buildings lining the roads. They reported nothing of value. Some of the buildings had fine artwork or well-made equipment, but nowhere were the heavy metals, refined chemicals or production facilities that he craved. Such a find would assuredly be assigned by the Net to the first to capture it. And it would permit him to equip his oolt with much better weapons.

  Of course, the threshkreen had already helped in that regard. The oolt had exited the lander equipped mostly with the cheapest of shotguns along with a few missile launchers. The tenar that he had started off with sported the company’s sole 3mm railgun.

  The tenar was the same, but it now was mounted with a gigawatt laser and a new sensor suite. The Kessentai that had “improved” his vehicle would never miss the equipment. And their oolt, scattered in death from the threshkreen’s ballistic weapons, had yielded a mass of weapons. So, now, the normals of the company were armed with a decent mix of weaponry. He had been able to double the number of hypervelocity missile launchers in the company and most of the remaining normals were now armed with railguns. True, many of those were 1mm rather than 3mm. But there were several plasma cannons to make up the lack. There was not a single shotgun left in the oolt; he was as well armed as a senior battlemaster. Now if he only could avoid using all that might!

  The map that Kenallurial had been using indicated that there was a “Treasury” around here somewhere. The translation of that term had been more than satisfactory. That would be a prize worth fighting for.

  * * *

  “Okay,” said Nightingale over the leader’s circuit. “I know you’re wondering why we’ve stopped. I’m not happy with running around without scouts further out. We don’t know what is out there and we could get hit at any second.”

  “In that case,” said Lieutenant Rogers, angrily, “we should be moving, not stopped. And, in case you haven’t noticed, the rest of the battalion is about to engage the enemy. They are expecting us to hit them in the flank and cover the holes on that side! Which we are not doing standing around with our thumbs up our butts!”

  “Watch your tongue,” snapped Nightingale. “I understand your concerns, but we need a good op order on this.” She paused for a moment. “This plan is not complete. We don’t have good intelligence on the enemy’s dispositions.”

  “Ma’am,” said Sergeant Bogdanovich, “that is the Infantry. We’re always the people who are gathering the intel the hard way. And this isn’t about intel, it’s about assault. We have to move.”

  “We will move when I am ready to move,” said Nightingale angrily. “And not a moment sooner!”

  * * *

  “Boss,” said Arnold, over a side channel.

  “Yeah,” sighed O’Neal. “I see it.” Bravo had stopped at the intersection of New York Avenue and Fifteenth Street. Although it was not where he would have had a pre-rally, a stop made sense. If they had moved on. But they hadn’t.

  The battalion had finally cleared the detritus on the Mall and was preparing to cross Fifteenth Street. The forces on the Mound were getting hammered so he had brought the unit up to a lope. As they cleared Fifteenth, Alpha Company opened out like a fan. The edges of the company were already taking fire from distant God Kings and as soon as they cleared the mound it was going to be a firestorm. He needed to get Nightingale going. Fast.

  “Top,” he said, letting the AID switch him automatically.

  “Yes, sir,” said the first sergeant. According to the schematic he was not far from Bravo, in the company of a platoon of tanks. “I got a more or less intact battalion to move over to the Watergate. They got a brush from Posleen but beat them off. I’m taking these tanks over and there’s some mo
re forces that might trickle along behind. If we get artillery and not too many bad guys we should be fine.”

  “That’s great, Top,” said Mike quickly. “Just one problem. Look where Bravo is.”

  Mike waited a moment then snorted faintly at the fluent swearing that the AID faithfully broadcast.

  “Shit,” the first sergeant finished. “I’m sorry, boss.”

  “You get one suggestion,” Mike answered. He was not terribly happy with the situation he was in. Pappas was normally to be depended on for a logical evaluation of personnel. In the case of Nightingale it had obviously failed and he was beginning to suspect why.

  Pappas thought about the question furiously. If he left the Abrams unit they would take off like a scalded cat. But if he tried to persuade Nightingale over the radio it would be a waste of breath. He could see as clearly as the Old Man that she had frozen, whatever she was telling the company. There was only one choice, as painful as it was personally and professionally.

  “Relieve her, sir,” he said after the brief moment’s thought. “Put Rogers in charge. If they’re stopped and get hit by a Posleen company, you’ll have a hell of a time getting them started again.”

  “Concur. Out here,” said O’Neal, coldly.

  Pappas knew he was going to get his ass kicked at some time in the near future by the little fireball. But that was only if they survived the upcoming battle.

  * * *

  Atalanara was nearly there. All he had to do was take this “Treasury” building and survive the battle. If he could, he would be set for all eternity; the treasury of such a rich nation would be bulging with loot. As he cleared the intervening bulk of the Old Executive Office Building the long-sought building came into view. And so did an oolt of metal threshkreen.