by John Ringo
A hint, a flinch, a deep breath and the nanometers left of trigger squeeze would be complete.
And his son would be a puree inside of his customized Armored Combat Suit.
They would not win the battle but it would help immensely. The ACS, their most cherished hero dead, would be livid but confused. If Mike O'Neal could die, what were they facing?
If his son could die . . .
It was an instant, a flash of neurons that processed more information in less time than the most sophisticated AID. A gestalt of total oneness.
A perfect moment for any warrior.
Mike didn't really need Shelly to scream. He was looking more or less right at the sniper. The positioning had been . . . superb. It was as if the man had read his mind. The sniper had him dead to rights. And Mike knew, looking at the weapon, at the shooter, that he, Lieutenant General Michael O'Neal, holder of two Medals of Honor and the Globe of Valor, was dead.
There were other things that Mike, in that brief moment, knew. The man, he was certainly a man despite the concealing clothing and body armor, was a juv. How Mike knew he couldn't say. His steadiness? His calmness? The set of his perfect shooter's position? It didn't matter. This was a man who had been in combat for a long time. There was no way in hell he was going to miss.
Blue eyes. The shooter was all away across the atrium, far too far away to see that sort of detail, and firing through a narrow port. But it was suddenly as if Mike had the vision of an eagle. The man had blue eyes.
His rig-out was . . . perfect. Every item was placed just so. Some of them had subtle angles to them that made it almost look messy, but it wasn't. The placement was more . . . combat feng shui. Sometimes it wasn't best for a magazine holder to be directly up and down. Tilted, slightly, might work a bit better.
This was a man who had honed his skill for years, decades. Centuries?
Training, experience and sheer monkey survival instincts lifted Mike's right arm at lightning speed, bringing his under-arm microgrenade launcher in-line. The slot was remarkably small but it wasn't as if Mike hadn't hit smaller targets.
Before the first grenade was out of the launcher, however, he knew two more things.
The sniper recognized him. There was no motion, no widening of the eyes. But something, a form of telepathy in the zen state of that moment, told General O'Neal he was both recognized and that the recognition was unexpected. That the sniper was as shocked as he was.
The second thing almost made him check his fire.
The sniper lifted his finger from the trigger.
The armored door snapped back up but two of the antimatter grenades had made it through. The hide vanished in a ball of plasma as antimatter touched matter and engaged in an orgy of mutual annihilation. Whoever the sniper was, whyever he had chosen not to kill General Michael O'Neal, was a mystery.
"Jesus, General," the lieutenant snapped, practically jumping into the air. "Are you okay?"
"Never better," Mike replied, calmly. "As I was saying . . ."
Cally had her hands together as if praying, thumbs under her chin and index fingers pressed against her lips. Tears were streaming down her face.
Tommy reached over and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Cally . . . Do you want me to take it?"
"I'm just focusing," she said. "Dammit! How in the hell did they take him down? The hide was cloaked, the position was armored and it was Papa!"
"They're . . . very good," Tommy said, gently. "Some better than others."
"Miss O'Neal," the AID said carefully.
"What?"
"I've parsed data from your late grandfather's PDA," the device replied. "I have an identification on the enemy commander. Who also was the person who . . . fired on your grandfather's position."
"Lieutenant Cuelho," Cally said. "We already know who the commander of the force is."
"Correction," the AID said. "The senior officer present is not Lieutenant Arthur Cuelho. It is Lieutenant General Michael O'Neal."
Corporal Erin Melvin Doyle was of the opinion he was having a bad day.
"Jesus Bloody Christ!" he shouted as a blast of plasma more or less cooked the entire corridor. Fortunately, he was standing around a corner and it only heated up his suit a bit. It would have cooked any unprotected human, or lesser protected human, within twenty feet.
He stuck his grav-cannon around the corner and triggered a burst on remote, managing to snag the plasma gunner. But then two grav rifles fired back, filling the corridor with trails of silver fire.
"This ain't workin', Bigfoot," SPC Ray Joseph Hutchinson said calmly.
Like Hutchinson it was Doyle's first taste of combat but, also like Hutchinson, he'd been an instructor in ACS, using the incredibly lifelike simulations, for over four years. Frankly, so far actual combat had been easier than their sims. "I would recommend an alternate route."
"Roight 'ch'are, Hutch," Doyle said, pulling out a suicide bar. "You don't like us coming down this corridor, we'll go down the one under it."
"Stand by," his AID said. "Incoming orders."
" 'Bout bloody time," Doyle snapped.
"Not the corridor under it," the AID said, karating the ceiling. "Go up. Two levels. Then across and down."
Both grav-cannons swiveled upwards, blasted in a circle and in a moment both suits were gone.
"They left," Corporal David Hines said. "That's . . . odd."
"They didn't leave," Sergeant Blevins said. "Use your ears."
As some of the ringing in his ears from the battle died—grav-cannons fired at relativistic speed made a sonic-crack from hell—Hines could make out a series of thumps, crashes and explosions. It was, despite the muffling of multiple walls, fairly easy to follow. When a blast of relativistic velocity depleted uranium hits Galplas it tends to cause a bit of a noise. First going up. Then across accompanied, even at this distance, by the distinct sound of boots, a crash.
"What was that?" Rich Widemann muttered. The only Bane Sidhe assigned to the short team of DAG, he was feeling a bit out of his depth.
"Door?" Hines said.
"Wall," Blevins replied stoicly. "I think they just punched through it. They're going around us."
Hines looked at the heavy plasteel armored door they were guarding and made a moue.
"If we're supposed to keep them from going through the door and they attack us from the other side of the door . . ."
"We stop them," Blevins said.
"I'm just saying. If we're supposed to keep them out of there and they're already in there, fighting to keep them in there just sort of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"
"We were ordered to hold this intersection," Blevins said. But even he was starting to look puzzled.
"Yeah," Hines said. "But because of the door!"
"They're coming down," Widemann said.
"I'm just saying," Hines said.
"We hold the intersection," Blevins snapped, turning to face the door.
"Okay," Hines said, waving his grav rifle. "No issues. I'm just saying. They're probably going to blow it. Shouldn't we sort of back away?"
"Okay," Blevins said, nodding. "Point."
The threesome crouched behind a hastily constructed barrier ten yards from the door in question. In the distance there was banging.
"You guys ever see this movie?" Widemann asked with a puzzled tone. "Real old one. Horrible CGI. But it's got this guy in black armor with this cape?"
"Yeah," Hines said, frowning. "I know the one you're talking about. Dammit, if you hadn't mentioned it I could have told you right off."
"There are other things to concentrate on," Blevins growled.
"It's just that . . ." Widemann said. "I guess you haven't seen it, huh?"
"I've seen it," Blevins said then paused. "I think. Weren't there some sequels?"
"I think those were prequels," Hines said. "The skinny dude with the magic sword was really the emperor or something."
"The point is," Widemann said, trying to
recover the thread. "There's this scene in the beginning of one of the movies. Just before the guy in black armor shows. Bunch of guys in light armor, guns pointed . . ."
"Damn," Blevins said, starting to laugh. "You Bane Sidhe son of a bitch."
"I mean," Widemann said, "am I the only one with a sense of déjà vu?"
"The banging's stopped," Hines said.
"Yeah, that was a bad sign in the movie, too," Blevins said. "I mean, all we need is white helmets and a steely eyed guy . . ."
"That would be me," Corporal Doyle said from behind them.
"Dammit," Blevins said, setting his grav-rifle on the barricade. "You and your movie trivia!"
"Where the hell did you come from?" Hines said angrily, dropping his to the floor.
"How do you catch a unique rabbit?" Corporal Doyle asked, kicking the weapon away.
"I don't know," Widemann said, raising his hands. "How do you catch a unique rabbit?"
"You nique up on it."
"Just one problem," Widemann said, shrugging. "We can't be captured."
"But you are," Hutch pointed out, coming up behind them.
"Heads full of secrets and all," Blevins said sadly. "Crap."
"Look, fellas . . ." Doyle said uneasily.
"Nice to have met you," Hines said, then bit down on something.
All three dropped to the floor.
"Bloody hell," Doyle said softly. "Bloody fucking hell."
"Four more WIA, no KIA," Shelly said. "The teams are bypassing points but the points can follow their progress and are maneuvering skillfully."
"Not skillfully enough," Mike said. Now that he'd gotten the feel for the enemy commander he could pretty much anticipate where they were going to remaneuver to and the teams were actually getting there faster.
AIDs, with just a glance, could spot not only that there was an enemy but identify individuals. The schematic marked them with a T (tango or target) and a numerical designator. So far fifty tangos had been ID'd, many but not all of them former DAG.
Fourteen of those fifty were dead. Seven had been, temporarily, captured. One of the captured had then politely noted that she was going to commit suicide and the ACS might want to back up.
Which they did and she did. With C-9 that could, conceivably, have done some damage to the ACS.
The rest had commited suicide in less spectacular ways.
It was the strangest damned battle.
"This is stupid," Mike said. "And annoying. Shelly, call for a cease fire."
"They're hitting us from every direction and moving too fast for us to reposition," Tommy said. "We're getting slaughtered." His tone was odd. "I had a pretty good layout, even to take on ACS."
"I know," Cally replied. There was a time for grief and a time to lock it down. She knew Papa was dead. She wanted to scream, to shout, to kill something. But for the first time in her life she and her people were getting killed. And she knew why. It wasn't just the technology, it was the guy behind it.
"They're taking us apart like a chicken," Tommy said.
"I know."
"We need a better plan."
"Such as?"
"Get into position on the Gamma entry," Tommy said, pointing. "All the heavy equipment means that they'll have to come at us head-on. We couldn't do it before because we were still evacuating the base. Most of the evacuees are in Gamma at this point."
"We're in contact," Cally pointed out. "We don't have time."
"Call for a cease-fire?" Tommy said.
"Rebel commander . . ."
"ACS commander . . ."
"You sound young," Mike said. There was no visual. "Juv?"
"Of course," the female voice said.
"General?" Lieutenant Cuelho said. "Be aware that they're piping this into their announcement system. Everyone is hearing this."
"Good," Mike said. "I'm not planning on saying anything I don't mean."
"Neither am I," the woman replied. "That's why I pumped it."
"Your people are very good," Mike said. "Not just the DAG that went rogue but the other ones as well. And your tactics have been . . . fair."
"Coming from you I'll take that as a compliment."
"An honest one," Mike said. "I want you to understand that I admire your dedication and professionalism. I will even admit that I, too, don't particularly like the current political situation."
"What?" the voice said sarcastically. "Like extra-judicial killings? Complete trashing of not only the Constitution but every bilateral legal treaty we've ever negotiated? Deliberate manipulation of the war and since to reduce the human race to beggars dependent on Darhel 'charity'? Duty, honor, country? Remember those words? General?"
"All of the above," Mike replied calmly. "Agreed. Arguing your side is rather easy. Arguing mine somewhat harder and I'm not going to bother. The bottom line is that I've got a job to do. The job is to arrest certain persons in this base and turn them over to Fleet Penal for questioning. Surrender your weapons and you spare your lives."
"Sorry, been with Fleet Penal before," the voice said. "I'd rather go down fighting. Hell, I'd rather go down in a burning aircraft. It's quicker."
Mike paused and blinked.
"You were the woman captured in the penetration of Strike Base," he said.
"Got it in one."
"Then I have a question for you," Mike said coldly. "Were you involved in the killing of General Stewart?"
The reply was a barked laugh that settled into a giggle that sounded very much like a little girl.
"No," the voice said with strained humor. "Uh, you could say that the answer to that is a definite no. We were, among other things, lovers. If they didn't give you full disclosure, the only reason I was caught was that he'd been shot, by someone else I'll add, and I stayed to save his life. For which I was then subjected to a month of torture. So you'll understand if I'm not willing to go that for you."
"Shelly?" Mike said.
"Accurate," the AID replied. "I have been given access to the information on that. What she says is correct."
"Question for a question," the female said tightly. "More a confirmation. One of our people had the mission of removing the commander of your force."
"It was a legitimate forlorn hope," Mike said gently. "I was forced to return fire. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" the voice said angrily. "Oh, you have NO idea how sorry!"
"I take it you were close."
"You might say that," the woman replied. "He was my grandfather."
"He was very good," Mike replied. "Very, very good. I am truly sorry. But I think that this makes the obvious point that you don't have a hope in hell of surviving. Please surrender. I'll see what I can do about—"
"And we both know how far that will fly," the woman said. "I know you would," she said, more gently. "But we both know that the Darhel are going to pull us apart like a chicken. I've been there and most of my people know the story. We're less than enthusiastic about surrendering. A clean death is preferable."
"Always the problem of treating your prisoners badly," Mike said sadly. "I hate to kill you, you're very good."
"We'd hate to die. But we're not going to surrender. So why don't you go tell the Darhel to piss up a tree?"
"Ain't happening," Mike said, his face grim. "I guess we'll just have to do battle upon this morn. If it's any consolation, you're the best people I've ever faced. The downside from my perspective is simply that I'd rather have you fighting for me than be fighting against you. It is . . . an honor to do battle with you."
There was a long pause.
"Thank you, General," the woman said, her voice tight. "If we're going to die in battle . . . I cannot imagine a better choice than in battle against you. So, General, I say: Cry HAVOC and let slip the dogs of war!"
Chapter Thirty
"You are clear," the AID said.
"Are our people repositioned?" Cally asked.
"Yes," Tommy replied. "Most of the Indowy are in the tunnel. They
're not far enough away to survive the blast, but they're in the tunnels. The ship has mostly boarded the dependents. The stay-behind forces are in positions that even ACS will find hard to flank. We need to leave."
"Like hell," Cally said. "I'm not going to leave people to die and then run away like . . . an Indowy."
"Thought you might say that," Tommy replied, then shot her in the back of the neck with a Hiberzine dart.
"Carry Miss O'Neal to safety," Tommy said, sitting down at the desk.
"You're not staying?" George said, picking the slumped figure off the floor.
"Not if I can avoid it," Tommy said. "AID, get me the stay-behind commander."
"The enemy forces used the period of cease fire to reposition," Shelly said. "Our forces aren't encountering any resistance."
"They have to be here somewhere," Mike said.
He was still in the atrium. He'd considered moving forward with the forces but there was really no need. Despite Tam's insistence, he could have run the whole thing from Fredericksburg.
He wished he had. No, that would have meant that the sniper would have gotten Lieutenant Cuelho. And despite the fact that the kill was naggling at him—the female commander had gotten to him—losing another man would have made him feel worse.
"Teams have searched all the upper levels," Shelly said. "That leaves Foxtrot or Gamma. Both are heavy equipment areas with limited entry."
"We can't just blast our way through," Mike said.
"No, sir."
"Tell them to stop the general search," Mike said, considering the placement of his teams. "First squad to Gamma entry, Third to Foxtrot, Second to Echo Forty-seven as reserve. Press forward until they hit resistance then . . . take open order, lie down and sit tight."
"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Maise said.
Most of the stay-behind force was wounded. In general, the weapons that the ACS were using didn't cause wounds. If a hypervelocity pellet of depleted uranium hit you going at relativistic speeds, it tended to kill any human not wearing ACS. A few of the troops had been injured, maimed or killed simply from a pellet hitting an obstacle near their positions.
