by John Ringo
"Well, Indowy Aelool, if this Yankee dandy felt it necessary, I suppose I have to agree." He delivered the countersign with a broad but toothless smile. A toothed grin was the sign of a predator to the nervous Indowy. Something about this one, though, made him suspect that it could take a full-toothed grin without a flinch. "Will you join me for dinner?"
"I think not," said the alien, his face wrinkling in a complicated expression. After a moment Nathan realized that it was an attempt to copy a smile. The closest Indowy expression was actually a motherly expression of disapproval. "I have a ship to catch. But perhaps we shall meet . . . anon." Again the odd grimace. In this case a few broad ratlike front teeth were exposed.
Nathan thought for a moment. Then he wrinkled his nose as hard as he could, pulled back his upper lip and crossed his eyes. At the incredibly silly expression Paul nearly choked on his own recently delivered wine but the Indowy simply copied it in surprise and emitted a series of high-pitched whines like a kitten with its tail caught in a door. He clapped his furry hand over his mouth but was unable to stop. Heads throughout the room turned at the odd and annoying sound.
"Where did you learn that?" asked the Indowy, having finally managed to stop whining. The sound was Indowy laughter and was as infectious and difficult to stop for them as laughter was for humans. "That was the best human copy of 'ironic agreement' I have ever seen."
"I'm a student of anthropology," said the Jesuit with deprecation. "There is nothing that says that 'anthro' must refer only to human beings . . . You ought to see me do Darhel 'unfortunate embarrassment.' I've been practicing."
CHAPTER 18
Ft. Myer, VA, United States of America, Sol III
0710 EDT September 14th, 2004 ad
"Hangover or no, you're giving the brief this morning," said Captain Jackson as he sauntered into Mike's cubicle.
Mike turned and looked at him with one eye shut, as a piston hammered his head. "I will have you know, I have never had a hangover in my life. This headache that is currently pounding me into the ground is entirely coincidental and based upon nervousness over the briefing. It is not the result of trying to drink officers who have far more experience and training in the imbibing of hard alcohol under the table."
"Same for the light sensitivity and the taste in your mouth?" asked the nattily dressed aide. Mike was fairly sure that the tailored uniform had not come off the rack at the Officers' Sales Store. Like Mike's it was probably Brooks Brothers or Halberds. The cloth was noticeably better and the fit was immaculate.
"Correct. Besides, in about three minutes the GalMed I just took will kick in and no more headache. To what do I owe the honor, Captain, sir?"
"Actually," said Captain Jackson, with a smile, "I think you have me by date of rank, Captain, sir."
"Ah, that would explain the confused look you perennially sport."
"Actually, that look comes with the position of aide."
"That I am familiar with," Mike agreed with a wince. "I held the position myself, briefly. Thank God there were no real aide's duties, though; I was basically the wild-hair guy for the GalTech program. But since there were no real aide duties it was a good place to stash me."
"So I've heard. I also heard you fought it tooth and nail."
"Well, the position of aide is one that is strongly political, no offense, and I'm lousy at passing canapés."
"Unlike us ring knockers?" asked the new aide with a raised eyebrow and an almost subconscious gesture of his right hand. The West Point ring briefly caught the light.
"I will admit that I have met only one mediocre West Point graduate," Mike said in oblique agreement.
"Thanks." The captain's brow furrowed. "Why do I suddenly suspect that is not the outstanding advertisement for West Point it at first sounds?"
"As I was saying, to what do I owe the honor?" asked Mike.
"Well, first the general sends his regrets. He won't be able to see you prior to the briefing, other items have suddenly come up, but he will see you at the reception afterwards."
"Tell the general, thank you, I can hold my own pecker just the same."
"You are really in a savage mood this morning, aren't you?" the aide commented with a nervous chuckle.
"Yes. Is there anything else?"
"Do you think the damn medal gives you the right to dispense with common courtesy?"
"No. I was a revolting SOB before I got the medal. Is there anything else?"
Captain Jackson's face worked for a minute. "No. But can I ask you something?"
"You just did." After a moment Mike relented. "Go ahead."
"You are about to go out in front of a bunch of goddamned senior brass, under the direction of CONARC, and tell them how CONARC—really meaning you—thinks they should handle their ACS forces. Now, if you show your ass, it's going to reflect poorly on my boss. Since one of my jobs is to make sure that doesn't happen, I've gotta find out if you're up to this briefing, because right now I am tempted to call General Horner and tell him his fair-haired boy is even more canned than last night and not up to the briefing."
"That would be bearing false witness, Captain," said Mike, casually. He obviously considered it an empty threat. He took a sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth. "And isn't there some sort of unwritten code at West Point about ratting?"
"There is a written code about reporting . . . questionable behavior. I would be following the written code. And good sense. I will stop this presentation if I think you can't answer questions civilly. Trust me, I know the system and how to use it. If General Horner doesn't pull you, there are other venues."
Mike smiled calmly for the first time in the encounter; it was like a tiger stretching to work out the kinks and the toothy smile was strangely feline as well.
"Like I said, Captain, to each his own. Very well, my problems are as follows. One." He flicked a finger up, counting. "I am about fed up with professional paper-pushers. It was paper-pushing, political, regular-Army assholes that fed me into a grinder on Diess and that probably will here on Earth. So—remember you pointed out that you are politically connected not me—you were probably the worst possible person to send to buck me up. Since Jack knows this, it was probably a test. I am in no mood for tests, which I will point out the next time I see him.
"Two." He flicked another finger. "I am giving a briefing for the senior commanders of America's defense on the subject of usage of ACS. I figure that there is about one chance in ten of those senior officers paying me any attention, despite the fact that these are the recommendations of their commander. We will undoubtedly institute the strategic logistical plan. After that single bone tossed to us, the ACS will get used in one of two ways: as cannon fodder, or as a last desperate measure.
"In the first case, ACS will be sent out unsupported by artillery or followed by conventional forces and thrown at the Posleen in movement-to-contact environments. They will be expected to make contact and stop the forces, without flank support or logistical tail. Most of the time, they will run out of juice, be surrounded and overrun. That will happen to about three battalions in the first month of skirmishing, on the East and West Coasts. This will be completely contrary to recommended doctrine.
"In the other scenario, ACS will be sent into close-contact infernos when all other methods, except nukes, have failed. They will be in close terrain, but, again, not in prepared positions. They will be given orders to hold on like the Spartans at Thermopylae and, by and large, much the same fate will befall them. This will include the fact that the follow-on forces will be ineffectively assembled or completely imaginary. And then the strategic scenario they died for will die with them. That scenario will occur repeatedly throughout the invasion. Again, it will be contrary to recommended doctrine.
"In the meantime, senior officers will complain that the MI are a waste of funds, that the same funds spent on conventional equipment would have given us much more capacity. The ones that complain the worst will be the most pissed off
when the ACS are destroyed by improper implementation, and point to those defeats as support for their arguments. The fact that they would not even consider sending a conventional unit into the same environment will be completely overlooked. And the whole time, we, meaning the ACS, will be watching our numbers dwindle, without the ability to reinforce. It is not a pleasant scenario, sort of like suicide by arsenic: slow and painful."
"Well," said Captain Jackson, shaking his head at the Fleet Strike officer's vehemence, "congratulations, you have one last chance to get them to see the light."
"Captain, did you ever read 'The Country of the Blind'?"
"No."
"Well, the one-eyed man did not become king!"
CHAPTER 19
Richmond, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1232 EDT September 19th, 2004 ad
"My name's John Keene," said the tall, distinguished engineer, taking the hand of the Green Beret sergeant who met him at the airport.
"Sergeant First Class Frank Mueller."
"I could have caught a cab," the engineer continued as they walked through the Richmond airport. It was filled with more smokers than any airport he had ever seen. In fact, the entire airport was a smoking area with the exception of occasional small nonsmoking areas. It almost made him think about having a cigar.
"No you couldn't, there aren't any. Or hardly any. And anyway, I wasn't busy. You got any bags?"
Keene gestured by lifting the small carry-on and briefcase in his hands. "What is the Special Forces role in all this?" he asked.
"The Richmond Defense Project?" asked Mueller, wresting the carry-on out of Keene's grip but leaving him with the briefcase. He gestured with his head towards the front of the airport and started walking. "In the case of our team, not much. Virginia already has a Special Forces group. We were sent to beef up the local defense training program. But Twentieth group has that well in hand, so we were mainly sitting on our thumbs waiting to go back to Atlanta until the 'Fortress Forward' program was announced. The local corps commander knew our team chief 'back when' and he made us a sort of super IG for the time being. When there's a problem, we get sent out to deal with it. Occasionally we lend a helping hand, like picking up a defense engineering specialist at the airport."
"I'm not that much of a specialist . . ." said the engineer in deprecation. Until the project to create the regional defense center in northwest Georgia was dropped in his lap he had been a well-respected but otherwise unremarkable civil engineer in the Atlanta market, one of literally thousands. However, as the project had progressed, his innovative plans and almost fiendish details had vaulted him to the top of the hierarchy of "continental defense engineers."
"I saw the raw reports from the Fort Mountain Planetary Defense Center," Mueller disagreed. "You had more innovative recommendations than any seven other engineers involved. Same with Chattanooga. Richmond is going to need innovative ideas to survive."
"So is Atlanta," Keene protested, "where my exwife and daughter are. So you can understand if I would rather be there."
"You'll be going back. For that matter so will we; Atlanta is where we are being based. But Richmond needs some input."
"What's the problem?" asked Keene, looking around the area of the airport. The first thing that came to mind was that the area was flat, which favored the Posleen. But, heck, airports always were.
"Terrain, or lack of it," said Mueller, as if he was reading Keene's mind. "When I was a terrain analyst we would call the terrain around Richmond, with the exception of the James River and a couple of hills, microterrain. From a military point of view, it's flat as a pancake. I don't know why they chose it for a defense city."
"Politics, history and size," said the engineer, "the same reason they chose Atlanta, which has the same problems. Hell, Atlanta doesn't even have the James; the Posleen can cross the Chattahoochee at any point they choose. And what am I to do about that? I can't bring a mountain to Mohammed."
"I don't know, why don't you wait and see?" Mueller said as he walked up to a car parked in a no-parking zone. He tossed the carry-on in the backseat, pulled the sign that said "Richmond Defense Planning Agency, Official Business" off the dashboard of the unremarkable white Ford Taurus, pulled a ticket off the window and put it in the glove compartment. He had to stuff it into a pile of others.
"Okay, any other information before the briefing?" asked Keene with a smile at the little pantomime.
"Well, we're all staying at the Crowne Plaza hotel."
"Okay, wherever."
"It's a nice enough place with a good view of the James . . ."
John gave Mueller a sidelong look; even in their brief walk from the gate he was experienced enough with the sergeant to wonder where the explanation was going.
"It's fairly convenient to the state capitol, which is where most of the meetings are, but not very. However, it is within walking distance of Schockoe Bottom. Which is really important."
"Okay. Why?"
"Well," said Mueller, pulling out onto Williamsburg Avenue, "there's this fantastic microbrewery . . ."
John laughed, the first full belly laugh he had had in a while. He looked around at the sparse traffic for a moment as if someone might have heard the mirth and found it out of place.
"It must help to be military," John commented.
"Huh?"
"You guys are better prepared, mentally, for this than civilians, I guess."
"Man, have you got that wrong," Mueller denied. "There is no way to be prepared for the Posleen. None."
"Well, you can joke about it, anyway."
"Ah, well, that I can. If you can't joke about dyin' you are not suited to the military. So I guess that means we are better prepared."
After that they continued in silence through the suburbs of Richmond, heading towards the barely visible city center. Avoiding the fork onto Government Road, Mueller took the more scenic drop into Stony Run, overlooked by the Confederate Memorial. Beyond the juncture with Main Street they touched the outskirts of Schockoe Bottom. Abandoned factories loomed on their left as a giant hill rose on their right.
"This isn't exactly microrelief," commented Keene, looking up at tree-covered Libby Hill looming over the valley of the James. The trees were turning color with the first chill of autumn and the hill was a mix of brown and yellow. "Hell of a lot better than Atlanta."
"Maybe not," replied Mueller, "but it's not like the city is up there. I'm damned if I can think of a way to use it."
"Possibly," mused the engineer, "possibly you are."
"The capitol and city center are that way." Mueller gestured to their right as they dropped into the sector of old brick factories. The dying rays of the sun lit the crowds beginning to come to the area after the work of the day. Music began to pulse as soldiers of the Twenty-Second Cavalry Regiment in BDUs mingled with female office workers, dancing the dance that was old before clothing was born. The city, each night, seemed to empty to Schockoe Bottom. They climbed out of the bottoms and made a series of lefts to intersect the one-way Cary Street. As they approached their hotel Keene took another look around.
"Yes, there's definitely possibility here," Keene whispered, almost inaudibly.
Mueller hid his small, unsurprised smile.
CHAPTER 20
Ft. Myer, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1650 EDT September 27th, 2004 ad
* * *
"General Olds," said O'Neal, nodding his head slightly to the approaching First Army commander, "I hope you enjoyed the conference."
The reception ending the all-commands conference was considered mandatory, a way for the various commanders and their staffs to get together one last time and go over all the things that had been missed at the marathon series of meetings. For the next few weeks, e-mails would fly hot and heavy as everyone came up with questions that they forgot or modifications arose from those questions. However—as the American Army had repeatedly proven—open and complete communicati
on was the key to effective military operations. The left hand not knowing what the right was doing was the quickest road to defeat.
On the other hand, what it meant for Mike was one last run of the gauntlet with some senior officers that in O'Neal's opinion were poster children for the Peter Principle. But once it was over, it was off for two weeks' leave and finding out what bad habits Cally had picked up from Dad.
"O'Neal," said the tall, spare commander, nodding his own head. "I thought I would get a clarification on one item. I believe you stated that the directive of CONARC was that ACS should not be used in a situation where a 'Fortress Forward' or montane defense point had already fallen."
Mike gave it a quick scan for booby traps. "Yes, General, that is correct."
"Even if the ACS could permit the survival of the defending units."
"Again, General, that is the intent of the directive."
"So, you, or CONARC through you, equate an ACS battalion to be the same as the units in a 'Fortress Forward' position, equivalent to a corps of trained soldiers? All their support? Some seventy thousand lives balanced against six hundred?"
Mike considered his response carefully. "General, I realize that you disagree with the logic . . ."
"You are correct, Captain, a point that I believe I have made with General Horner. There is no military justification for such a stance, and if Fleet Strike feels that its units are too good to support Army units, then I question why we are funding Fleet Strike!"
Earth provides a fraction of Strike's funding, General. We are almost abysmally poor by Galactic standards. So we are not exactly "funding" Fleet Strike. Of course we do provide one hundred percent of its personnel. "It is not a situation of lack of desire, General, but rather the coldest of military necessities," Mike stated. While the general had been reactivated after one of the longest careers in the history of the United States Army, he had somehow obtained his current rank without ever hearing a shot fired in anger. Furthermore, the primary period during which he was a senior officer was the period of retrenchment by the Army that culminated in Monsoon Thunder, a period during which the Army was often less worried about a unit's readiness than about physical fitness norms and political correctness.
