by John Ringo
There was some fundamental spark, some flare of optimism, that really seemed to be missing from them. Maybe Horner was right, maybe he just wasn’t cold and hard enough for this world. God knew at times like this he just wanted to lay the burden down, to just say “get somebody else.” But there really wasn’t anybody else. To lead the battalion or even carry the spark; his was one of the last generations that was raised in the “golden age.” If they didn’t keep their eye on the prize, which was to recover the world not just to a survival level, but to recapture the beauty and art and science, then nobody would. Humanity was going to sink to the level the Darhel chose for them. And the only ones who could stop that were these feral wild-children of the war. Who had as much connection to the basic concept of positive human growth and human rights as they did to…
Well, frankly, there was nothing they were more disconnected from.
This really sucked.
Dear Cally:
Rochester was… difficult. We were successful, but the battalion took more casualties than I would have liked. I’m personally and professionally happy that we were able to push the lines back to Cayuga, but all things considered I would have preferred that the necessity not drive it.
I’m glad to hear that you had some visitors, especially female visitors. I know that it must be hard growing up with only your grandfather for company. I hope that you will be able to learn…
He backed up and erased the last sentence unfinished. Using the phrase “ladylike” assumed both that the ladies were and that Cally wanted to be. And assumed that “ladylike” was a useful condition, which was a major assumption. Given the choice between a retiring maid and a little war-child, and given the conditions, he’d take war-child any day. Let the world and the future go hang as long as his daughter survived.
…only your grandfather for company.
By the way, I hope you’re not calling him “Baldy” to his face. If you are, I’m going to have to come down and prove that I can still tan your bottom. And before you say “You and what army?” let me point out that I guarantee I can still pin you in about three seconds without armor and if you decide to treat me like the Division Sergeant Major there’s always the armor to fall back on.
:-›=
I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to resume civilian life after the War. That will give me the opportunity to spend the few years that remain before you flee the nest being “around.” I look forward to that and to having Michelle home as well. I think of you often and love you very much.
Your Dad. Who is not going Bald.
The last one was from his father.
Mike:
Rochester looked like a fucking nitemare. I’m glad you survived. And glad it was you and not me. We had some visetors last week. Jake Mosovich, I knew him in Nma, stopped by with some women from the Franklen Urb. There was some kids and his NCO Mueller. Their both snake-eaters with this corps, but their Fleet. We had a good time and I’m gonna asc one of the women her name is Shari to move in here. I think they were good for Cally she hasn’t blown up in to days and I like her. Shes got kids they’ll move in to. And Cally will have kids around. Shes doing good to and I think she likes the idea.
I got your last mail. You sound like your burnt out. I hope you get a rest. You need a R R in Hong Kong and get laid. But I think the Posleen have eat all the whores. Maybe you should try one of the corpswhores in your area. If you show ’em youre metals you might even get it for free.
We got your last cair package and I put it away safe. I appresiate the helop in these trying times. And if you ever need anthing, you no where it is.
Take care and don’t forget to duck.
Dad.
It took him the usual two reads to interpret his father’s missive. His dad was not illiterate or unintelligent, but when Michael O’Neal, Sr. had grown up in Rabun County, going to the eighth grade was for over-educated nerd-boys. Mike’s father had been pulled out in the sixth grade to work the fields and had done so until he was seventeen and could escape to the Army.
And, unlike some of his peers, Papa O’Neal had never improved his writing. He was well-read, indeed he read military history voraciously, but the reading never seemed to translate to his written vocabulary or grammar.
That was okay by Major O’Neal, though. In a way, his father was just about the only person he could open up to, even if his advice was sometimes rough and ready.
He was just beginning to mentally compose a reply to the effect that they were getting a Rest and Recovery and that despite the fact that he was the second person to recommend that he get laid, he had so far failed to do so, when the AID cleared the screen and threw up a hologram.
“Incoming priority message from General Horner.”
So much for R R.
Mike looked at Horner’s image and sighed. “Where?”
Horner opened his mouth as if to start a spiel and then seemed to deflate. “Rabun Gap. It’s… gone, Mike.”
Major O’Neal set his jaw and tapped the AID. “Schematic, Shelly.”
When he saw the map of the Gap it had red covering all the zones around the Gap including the O’Neal farm. Mike looked at it a moment in disbelief then dropped his face into his hands. “Did the corps last a whole five minutes?”
“I don’t know how well they would have done under normal circumstances,” Horner answered, “but these Posleen aren’t acting like Posleen at all. They have some sort of armored flying tank that took out the SheVa gun that was forward deployed. It apparently was parked too close to the main force of the Corps and it took out the second and third line of defense. To make things worse, they are using their landers for a straightforward airmobile operation; they used C-Decs to take out the Wall, to literally smash it flat, and look like they’re getting ready for a bound forward. Then they have come in and, apparently, rebuilt the road. I’m impressed. And frightened. I don’t like the idea of Posleen combat engineers. What next? Artillery?”
“Shelly, how solid is this information?” Mike asked hoarsely.
“Resetting image,” Shelly said. “Red is eyewitness reports or video or Posleen transmissions, shading to blue for maximum estimate of expanse.”
Modified that way, the O’Neal farm was only a light violet; it was possible that Cally and Papa O’Neal were still alive.
“Shelly, try to raise somebody at the farm and keep an ear out for intelligence as to their condition,” Mike said. “So, what do you want me to do?”
“The Gap has to be plugged…” Horner said.
“Oh, blow that!” Mike exclaimed angrily. After all the years of fighting it took him barely a second to imagine the broad outline of the proposed mission. And it was not survivable. “You’re joking, right!”
“No, I’m not joking,” Horner said coldly. “We still have Banshees, not enough to loft a full battalion but…”
“But we’re not a full battalion,” Mike snarled. “God dammit, Jack, my middle name may be Leonidas, but it doesn’t mean I want to die like him! And the damned Spartans died because they got surrounded; we’d already be surrounded. And just how the hell are we supposed to fight our way into the Gap? How? There are, what, fourteen or fifteen million Posleen waiting to move through? Where in the fuck are we supposed to land?”
“I need the Gap plugged,” Horner said inexorably. “I need it plugged for seventy-two hours.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” Mike said. “Are you listening to yourself? I’ve got three hundred and twenty effectives! We couldn’t carry in enough ammo for three days! And there’s no way you’re going to be able to get anyone to us in three days! Not in the teeth of the Posleen!”
“I’m moving the Ten Thousand, they’ll be backstopped by the best artillery I can find,” Horner said. “They’ll take positions and wait for the Posleen to come to them then hammer them with artillery. With you in the Gap, the Posleen won’t be able to push through any more; they’ll only have to take care of the ones that are already throu
gh.”
“And the ones in the landers,” Mike said. “Remember? They’re using airmobile, your words.”
“SheVa guns,” Horner said. “There’s one surviving in the valley; it’s got some technical problems, but it will get up. I just need the Gap plugged. And you’re going to plug it for me.”
“Like hell we are,” Mike said. “Nobody will be able to. I’d need a damned brigade of ACS, which we don’t have, and continuous shuttles of ammo and power.”
“Look, Major, every minute that we spend arguing, sixteen or seventeen hundred Posleen go through the Gap. I’m sending the Banshees to your location. Get your battalion moving.”
“Look, General, get the wax out of your ears!” Mike shouted. “We’re Not Going. The fucking shuttles wouldn’t make it to the ground! We’d need a cold LZ! And we’ll need spare shuttles for supplies! And we would last about four hours! We are not going! Period!”
“God damn you, Mike!” Horner shouted back. “I am not going to lose the entire eastern seaboard because you don’t want to lose your fucking battalion! You will take and hold the Gap to the last man or so help me God I will have you court-martialled and shot if it is the last thing I do!”
“Fuck you, Jack! You should have thought of that before you let them put Bernard in charge of the GAP! You got me into this fucking mess! You put me in that plasteel fucking coffin, that I’ve been trapped in for the last nine years, you took away my family, you took away my wife! And the only thing I have LEFT is this fucking battalion and you are not going to piss that away too, you murdering BASTARD!”
The door practically left its hinges as Gunny Pappas stepped through. “Sir, what in the hell is going on? They can hear you down in the damned barracks.”
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, GUNNY!” O’Neal screamed. He grasped the heavy wooden desk, raised it over his head and slammed it into the window behind him. When it didn’t fit he let out a shriek of fury and slammed it into the wall repeatedly until the hole was large enough. Then the desk flew through with a bellow.
It was a full-bore rage, as controllable as a hurricane and nearly as destructive. There was nothing between the world and O’Neal’s blind anger at reality; if he could have twisted a button and turned off the universe he would have. Instead, he took it out on his office and the battalion headquarters building. In seconds the few scraps of mementoes on the walls had followed the desk. He threw everything in the room through the hole then started widening it by punching the walls.
The headquarters was a simple wood frame structure; the interior walls were gyp-rock and the outer was a layer of pressboard covered by vinyl siding. Despite being only five foot four, Michael O’Neal, Jr. could bench press four hundred pounds and each punch slammed through all three layers as if they were tissue; two by fours shattered with no more than two blows. His knuckles were bleeding within a few punches, but he no more noticed than he noticed the fact that portions of the ceiling were buckling; the pain felt good in his universe of rage. The worst part of the rage, beyond losing his father and his daughters and his life, was that he knew in the end that the battalion would go. And the only thing in his mind besides the rage was that evil plotting bastard at the back of his brain, that little thinking bastard that was already figuring out the mission even as every other fiber of his being was denying that they would ever commit suicide in such a clear and stupid fashion.
Finally the rage spent itself fully; there was no emotion left to feel. His office now had a new door, one big enough to fit a car through, and a circle of interested and worried onlookers. He ignored them and strode through the debris path to where the AID still showed a picture of Horner floating in the air.
“Nukes,” O’Neal rasped. “We’ll go. But only if that entire area is slagged to the ground. I’ll have my staff work up a fire plan. You will fire it. If the President balks, tell her it is an order of a Fleet officer and she is under treaty to follow military orders of Fleet officers. You will follow our fire plan, and stand by for on-going nuclear support. We will prepare for the mission. We will board the Banshees. We will fly south. If we don’t get the nukes, you can kiss my fat, hairy ass before we will go near the Gap. And if at any point I feel that we are receiving insufficient support, I will withdraw on my cognizance alone. Call me when you have nuke release and only when you have nuke release, and it had better be open release. Shelly, end transmission.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, cutting off Horner.
“Shelly, I don’t ever want to talk to that bastard directly ever again,” Mike rasped. “When he sends nuke release, just tell me.”
He looked around at the group that had gathered. Most of them were enlisted from Bravo Company — Pappas must have been telling the truth about hearing him at the Barracks — the rest were officers and NCOs from battalion.
“Okay, boys,” he rasped, looking around at the group. “Let’s all go get kil’t.”
* * *
It had been nearly thirty minutes since the last sound of activity around the Wall. There was sound down in the valley, but it was the sound of thousands of feet and the occasional crack of a railgun or plasma cannon, drifting up the hills on the light wind.
“Damn,” Cally whispered as the first Posleen came into sight at the notch. “I don’t think there is a corps anymore, Granpa.”
“Yeah,” O’Neal said. “But that’s not the worst,” he continued, pointing at the tenaral floating up into sight over the eastern edge of the holler. “That’s worse.”
Cally looked out the firing slit to the west and tapped his arm. “No, that’s worse.”
Papa O’Neal flinched at the shadow that was looming over the farm; the Lamprey was heading west from the Gap at about four thousand feet above ground level. As he watched, a beam of silver stabbed downward into the valley and there was a secondary explosion from the direction of the artillery park.
“Are we gonna get shot by that if we fire at them?” Cally asked nervously as the first mine went off. “I don’t like that idea at all.”
“Neither do I,” Papa O’Neal said. “Okay, Plan B is activated.”
“Run like hell?” Cally asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Or at least as far as the mine; it is reinforced for a nuke; we’ll hole up there for a while until the first wave should be past, then we’ll head up into the woods.”
“Let’s go,” Cally said, turning around and pressing in the plywood on the back of the bunker. It pushed inward slightly then popped out on hinges revealing a heavy steel door set well into the hill. She undogged the hatch and stepped through. “You are coming right?”
“Yeah,” Papa O’Neal said, “keep the door open, I’ve got to set all these command mines on a timer. And rig the final destruct sequence; the hell if these bastards are gonna have my house.”
“Well, move it,” Cally said nervously. “I don’t want to go crawling around these hills on my own.”
“Be there in a minute,” Papa O’Neal said. “Get moving.”
CHAPTER 27
Near Dillard, GA, United States, Sol III
1427 EDT Saturday September 26, 2009 ad
If drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!
— Rudyard Kipling
“Recessional” (1897)
Major Mitchell looked at the warrant officer as she popped up through the hatch. “Can we start firing yet?” he asked.
The major was a rejuv and, long ago as a newbie officer, had trained to fight the Soviets in Fulda Gap. After his initial shock at this attack he came to the conclusion that this situation wasn’t all that different. The “tanks” were larger and one side was flying, but, really, the numerical disparity was about right; there were forty or so landers and only one of them. Perfect.
Riiight.
The only good news was that they had trained as hard as he could manage over the last few months. The team had been put together even before the SheVa was completed and began working in the simulators and fixed systems at Fort Knox, trying to get a feel for their actions and reactions in a fight. The initial assault had caught him, had caught all of them, off-balance. But he remembered somebody once telling him that surprise was a condition in the mind of a commander. All you had to do was push it aside and play the cards you were dealt.
Now that he was in the groove it was time to do what he had trained for almost his whole life. It was an odd moment, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
“Yes, sir,” Indy said, sliding into her seat and buckling in. “I’ve taken off the lockout; the lidar should be able to rotate and the guns move.”
“I hate this mechanical monstrosity,” Pruitt bitched, coming up through the hatch and dogging it down. “We need a bigger engineering crew. Or Riff.”
“Engineering?”
“Go,” Indy said. “Everything’s green.”
“Driver?”
“Up,” Reeves said. “We are ready to roll.”
“Gunner?”
“Up,” Pruitt said, sliding into his own chair and slapping on the straps. “Bun-Bun is in the green and ready to kick Posleen.”
