Gust Front

by John Ringo

  Captain Brantley refrained from sighing. He remembered his first sergeant in the company he commanded during his last hitch. An NCO who was one of the last with service in Vietnam, he could track a mess section down no matter how "lost" they got and if he did not find the mess section he would get pizza delivered. By helicopter if necessary. Since the time of Wellington, at least, if not Gustavus Adolphus, the importance of a prepared meal before a battle had been highly emphasized. Brantley was not particularly happy going into battle with two-thirds of his company, nobody on his left flank and soldiers who were subsisting on MREs and junk food they had packed along.

  "Okay, take the command Hummer. There's a McDonald's up at the interstate. Get a hundred and twenty hamburgers and thirty cheeseburgers." He pulled out his wallet and handed the first sergeant enough cash to cover the purchase. "If they'll take it, try to give them a chit for the food. If they're closed, get the makings out of the building. Take Specialist Forrier with you." He gestured with his chin at the RTO lounging on the troop ramp of the command Bradley. The kid got into enough trouble that he would probably jump at the chance to do a little authorized scrounging.

  "If you can't find any hot food there, keep looking, find a deli, a restaurant, anything. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir." The first sergeant looked hangdog. "I don't want to leave you, Captain. We don't know when they'll get here."

  "Just make sure you're back with some real chow before they do. And make sure you have communications in place; I want to be able to get ahold of you if I need you back here."

  "Yes, sir. Maybe the XO will turn up with some chow."

  "Maybe. Get going, First Sergeant."

  The NCO saluted again and headed for the command Humvee. Give him his due; if you gave him clear instructions he carried them out to the best of his ability. As that headache was placed under control, Captain Brantley saw the Hummer of the battalion commander rolling in through the pine forest.

  A tall heavy-bodied officer hopped out of the Humvee before it came to a full stop and strode rapidly towards the waiting company commander. Although he looked about twenty-two, Lieutenant Colonel Hartman was nearly sixty, having retired as a battalion commander in the First Infantry Division in the early '80s. A solid professional officer, he had taken command of the battalion only four months before and had worked steadily to bring it up to a highly trained level he could be proud of. Unfortunately, the Posleen did not seem to be in favor of giving him the time to correct the unit's multitude of deficiencies.

  As he approached his Alpha Company commander—the only commander he had he considered worth the spit to insult them with—he was rehearsing how to break all the bad news.

  "Captain Brantley."

  "Colonel," the officer said with a nod. "I would offer you a hot cup of coffee, but we seem to have misplaced the mess section."

  "That's not all we've misplaced," the battalion commander alleged with a patently false grin. "Let's take a walk."

  When the officers were far enough away from the unit that they could not be overheard, the colonel maneuvered to place Brantley's back to the soldiers in view. That way they would not be able to see his face when he heard the news.

  "Okay," the colonel said without preamble, "there is no good news. None. The bad news is as follows. I know you don't have Bravo on your left. That's because there is, effectively, no Bravo Company. There are enough tracks to make up a platoon in Bravo Company's area of operation. All the others are either lost or hiding. We may be able to find a few more that are simply lost, but most of them are on the run to avoid the battle. They ran, it's as simple as that. Before the damn battle was even joined."

  He shook his head but did not let the overwhelming sense of shame and anger cloud his features. Even from here he could see the occasional glance from the soldiers digging in and he was not about to let them know how badly they had been screwed.

  "Your First platoon has turned up intact intermingled with the Twenty-First Cav and since they're already there they have been 'detached' for the duration as infantry support to the Cav."

  "Oh, shit." The company commander shook his head and tried not to let the hysterical laughter that was bubbling to the surface overcome him. "Jesus, we are fucked."

  "The battalion trains—including all the spare food, mess section, ammunition, repair units and general logistics—somehow got on the Prince William Parkway and are halfway to Manassas. That's where breakfast is."

  "I'd be happy to load up and go after it. I mean the whole company."

  "I'm sure you would," the battalion commander said dryly. "I have seen some consummately fucked-up exercises, but this is arguably the worst."

  "This isn't an exercise, sir," said the Alpha commander, all the humor evaporated. A cold wash of chills came over him and his mouth went dry. "Charlie Company?"

  "About where you are, effectiveness-wise, with the exception of Captain Lanceman being among the missing." Something about the commander's lack of expression seemed to denote a lack of regret at the captain's absence.

  "I put the XO, Lieutenant Sinestre, in charge and he has most of the company, but he is missing his mortars. I sent them Bravo's mortars and I'm detaching Bravo's personnel to you as your 'Third Platoon.' However, there are two more problems."

  "And they are, sir?"

  "The battalion has no reserve, this way, but worse we have no one on our right flank."

  "Where's Second batt?" the company commander asked, shocked.

  "Somewhere around our mess section, thirty miles away near Manassas. That was the location they received to dig in. Brigade is running around like a chicken with its head cut off, so I'm arbitrarily going to extend the battalion. Third batt is on our left, but there's a divisional boundary on the right. I've got the scouts out looking for the Thirty-Third, which is supposed to be out there somewhere, or even the Forty-First. IVIS says there's no one between here and the Potomac, but I just can't fathom that. There has to at least be someone around the interstate!"

  * * *

  "Run that by me again." Arkady Simosin felt like a half-dead corpse. As many times as he had participated in exercises—from a junior officer leading a tank platoon up through exercises with multiple corps—he had never seen such a tremendous mishmash as had happened during the night. His corps had utterly jumbled units and, apparently, directions and intentions. Now he was finding out just how badly. His staff had assembled to tell him the bad news with the Chief of Staff as official sacrificial lamb.

  "As you know, sir, the corps battle plan called for the Forty-First to establish strong positions between the Potomac and the I-95/U.S. 1 area, the Thirty-Third to mass in the area of the roads and the Fiftieth to establish strong positions to the west of the roads, with a cavalry screen to the west and Nineteenth Armor in reserve. This plan was developed on the presumption that the Posleen would drive up the 95/1 axis towards Alexandria."

  "Tell me something I don't know," snarled the general. His accent went briefly Brooklyn Slavic, always a bad sign. "You said something about the Forty-First being out of position."

  "Badly, sir. The Twenty-First and Fiftieth divisions are the only ones on the correct east-west axis. The Forty-First is set up seven miles to the rear and the Thirty-Third is set up four miles to the rear of where they are supposed to be. We have logistics trains forward of our combat teams and combat units. Currently we have three divisions echeloned instead of massed which is going to invite . . ."

  "Defeat in detail." Arkady grimaced and glanced at the screen of his PC. "That's not what this says. It just notes that they are not at full strength."

  "It perceives that a percentage of each unit is in the right location and, given the current chaos, that is their actual axis, General. Unfortunately, most of each division is in the area I just gave you. Those are the locations that they received to set up in or, in some cases, chose to set up in."

  "Okay." Simosin flogged his tired brain for a solution. "Call the Twenty-First. Tell them t
o hold in place. If the Posleen make contact they are not to decisively engage but they should try to slow them down. Pull the Fiftieth back to where the Thirty-Third is actually axised. Pull the Forty-First forward to that axis. Get as many units properly joined up as possible in the time allotted along that axis."

  "That will put us almost on the Prince William, General," noted the G-3. "Well north of the President's stated intent."

  "North or south of the Prince William?"

  "South of it, sir."

  "Good, the President will have to suck it up; having that road at our backs will give us a way to move reinforcements back and forth and to retreat if necessary. Move the corps artillery north of the Occoquan; they'll be able to range for close support. And move all the logistic elements except ammunition and food north of it too. Tell the division commanders to make their own judgement on where their artillery should be placed. They should know that if it's north, if those bridges go down their artillery will be out of contact.

  "What is the status on the bridges?"

  "They're cored, mined and ready to drop, General," said the Ninety-Fifth ID Assistant Division Engineer, a major-promotable. As the most senior noncommanding engineer left in the corps, he had been seconded to act as engineering liaison to replace the absent corps engineer. "They will drop them when the last of the units are south and the refugees are north or when the Posleen come into close-contact range."

  "Well, we'll just have to try and make sure that doesn't happen. Okay, get to shuffling units. We still have time to straighten this out, people; we just have to keep our heads on straight."

  CHAPTER 43

  Near Ladysmith, VA, United States of America, Sol III

  0912 EDT October 10th, 2004 ad

  The Twenty-Ninth Infantry Division artillery fire was like a slight tap against a hornet's nest. Slowly at first, practically one at a time, the hornets began to wander out, looking around for whatever had kicked their home.

  Ersin held onto the ceiling grab bar and the seat in front of him as the Humvee left the ground for the fifth time, this time striking a streambed with a tremendous splash that threw water over the hood of the all-terrain vehicle. Above him the twenty-five-millimeter chain gun burped. How anyone could expect to hit anything while airborne was beyond him but the gunner in the seat next to him grunted in satisfaction.

  "Better get us hull-down, Tom," the gunner shouted over the howl of the engine as the vehicle dug itself out of the stream. "I got the God King."

  He turned to look at the Special Forces master sergeant on the seat next to him and laughed. "I knew all that time playing Death World was going to come in handy someday!"

  Ersin glanced out in time to see the trees behind them begin coming apart under the hammer of Posleen guns. In response the Humvee cornered so hard his clamped hand came loose and he slid across the compartment and slammed into the gunner. The wide stance and advanced traction of the combat vehicle permitted maneuvers that would roll any normal off-road vehicle.

  "Sorry!" he yelled to the gunner as he forced himself back across the seat.

  "No problem, Sarge." The gunner tapped the four-point harness holding him in place. "That's why we changed out the belts in this thing." He glanced at his monitor and shook his head. "Nothing in sight."

  "Another klick to the interstate!" shouted the vehicle commander over the howl of the diesel engine. "I told them we're coming in!"

  "Just make damn sure they're ready to pass us through the lines!" Ersin tapped his AID. "AID, get me Sergeant Mueller."

  "He is standing by, Master Sergeant Ersin."

  "Mueller?"

  "Yeah, Ersin. I understand we got company."

  "How's it coming?"

  "We're hooking up the blasting caps as fast as we can."

  "Well, you got hostiles at about a klick, klick and a half from the IP. Hurry."

  "Roger. We need to keep them from coming down U.S. 1, they're not as far along."

  "How the hell do we do that?" snapped Ersin.

  "Do you know how to lead a pig?" asked Mueller.

  "No."

  Mueller explained.

  The master sergeant gave a feral smile in return and spared a glance out the back window. The Posleen were not to going to like their reception by Twelfth Corps.

  * * *

  "You sure about this, Sergeant?" asked the Bradley gunner, as the TOW launcher rotated outward.

  "No, but it's the orders. Edwards," he continued to the driver, "you be ready to put your foot in it as soon as you get the word."

  "Okee-dokee, Sarge," said the driver of the Bradley. In sheer nervousness she gunned the throttle.

  "Now, Irvine, you gotta . . ."

  " . . . launch the rocket off-axis. I got it."

  "Hopefully, that way the lander won't fire right at us. When the Posleen turn this way, we'll lead them down 632."

  "What happens if they do take us out, right away, that is?"

  "Four track will wait for the ground response and take it under fire. Not that we'll care," he ended, parenthetically.

  "I got family in Richmond," responded the gunner. "Target," he said, indicating that the target was in sight in his scope.

  "Right." The vehicle commander looked through his repeater. The missile launcher was pointed into a tobacco field. With any luck the gunner would be able to turn the wire-guided missile and get it on a course to hit the Posleen landing ship before it was destroyed by counterfire. The alternative, firing directly at the lander, had been determined to be suicide on Barwhon. At that point, the thinking went, the Posleen would send their forces towards the launcher. Towards them, that was, as they retreated down the country road.

  Since their vehicle was nearly three thousand yards from the lander, the only Posleen weapons they had to worry about immediately were the automatic weapons on the God King saucers and the defensive fire of the lander itself. Not that either system was very survivable for a tin can on tracks like a Bradley.

  If the plan worked, the Posleen would be exposed to sniping flank attacks by cavalry units scattered throughout the woods and fields and it would give the ambush sites more time to prepare. "Confirm, target identified. Fire."

  "Man," whispered the gunner as he closed the firing circuit, "I really wish they'd used an Abrams."

  * * *

  The United States Ground Forces were in the unusual situation of having incomplete battlefield intelligence. Knowledge of an enemy's abilities and intentions is better than half a battle won or lost. For years the pre-Posleen Army had worked on systems to insure that future commanders would have an almost Godlike view of the physical and electronic battlefield. Satellites would look down from their Olympian orbits while closer pilotless drones and deep-viewing reconnaissance planes with sophisticated radar and visual systems gave precise moment-to-moment information on enemy movements.

  The coming of the Posleen had ended for all time the concept of "sundering the fog of war."

  The satellites were already gone. Most of them had been destroyed during the ponderous atmospheric entry of the Posleen battleglobes and the rest were picked off at leisure by the automated sky defense systems of the landers. The same defense system created a virtually impregnable information bubble around the Posleen forces. To find the Posleen, small units were forced to maneuver forward until they made contact. It was a return to the bad old days of information warfare; the days of skirmishers and scouting parties. The term "Dark Ages" was used frequently.

  Given Posleen psychology, if they saw a target, it would be taken under fire. Once taken under fire, if there were any survivors the Posleen would give chase. If they gave chase they were bound to run into defenses, defenses which were still not prepared. The whole concept of the defense and the information war had been predicated on cavalry or infantry patrols making contact but not being seen.

  Now those slowly probing patrols were converting to skirmishers. In most cases the results were poor. On the north edge of the Posleen bub
ble, in the Tenth Corps area of operations, a reconnaissance platoon of the Twenty-First Cavalry found out the hard way that Posleen can be fast and brutal in movement-to-contact.

  Probing forward on U.S. 1, the two Humvees and two Bradleys would bound forward in echelons. First a Humvee would move, then a Bradley. When they were in place with troops deployed, the next echelon would dart forward, twenty-five-millimeter chain guns constantly questing for heat signatures.

  As the Bradley of the second echelon was bounding forward, without warning a company of Posleen came out of a side road at a trot. Before the standing echelon could even call in the sighting, all four hundred normals opened fire at under five hundred meters.

  The moving Bradley was the first to be hit, as a three-millimeter railgun tracked across the personnel compartment. The tungsten rounds penetrated the thin magnesium armor and began tumbling through the compartment, chewing up the troops within. Their moment of horror was brief, however, for within seconds of one another, four of the twenty hypervelocity missile launchers in the Posleen company found the armored cavalry vehicle. When the slugs of gadolinium traveling at .3c struck the vehicle with near simultaneity, there was not enough left to do a chemical analysis.

  The forward Humvee was gone seconds later, victim of massed fire from 1mm railguns and shotguns, and the rear echelon, taking fire from nearly a hundred 3mm railguns and HVM launchers, lasted only moments longer. The entire battle was over before the standing unit could send out a sighting report, before they could even move out of their positions.

  The dense smoke and crack of HVMs from the skirmish, however, was not lost on the next echelon of scouts. The backup company a thousand meters behind the point went into a hasty defense and called in a sighting report. Their platoon of Abrams main battle tanks turned to the rear of a nearby strip mall. With a brief, almost unnoticed, crash 120mm cannons shivered the remaining display glass from the inside. The shadows of the buildings effectively hid the massive combat vehicles within.

  * * *