Gust Front

by John Ringo

  * * *

  Mike watched Major Givens giving unseen thumbs-up signs as he tapped one armored boot on the ground. O'Neal had six different battle maps up on his display and the lander to the north, President or no President, was not the problem. Standing around and discussing it was just making it harder. He popped off his helmet, clamped it to his side and took a whiff. The one thing the suits did not replicate well was smell. There was a hit of wood smoke from the mess around the mall. Some less savory burning smells in there as well. Probably the Pentagon. And the slight waft, even from here, of unwashed humanity. Soon, soon, there would be the stench of slaughtered Posleen. Or his name wasn't Michael Leonidas O'Neal.

  There was no room for failure; the choice was success or the ferryman. He inhaled the last fresh air he was going to smell for a while and felt his center finally click into place. No doubt. No fear. No failure. He'd sworn it on the graves of his dead.

  "Captain O'Neal," Major Givens finally said, cutting him in on the conversation, "we have two problems."

  "The Marines can handle the refugees, sirs," Mike said, cutting him off abruptly. "We need to get to the Mall. Now." He opened up a belt pouch and extracted a can of Skoal. The transceiver in the helmet seal broadcast his words faithfully.

  "Mike," said General Horner. "They're going to be spread out . . ."

  "Not a problem," he said shortly, taking one gauntlet off and clamping it onto the outside of his suit.

  "Mike . . ." said General Horner over the circuit.

  "Jack. Do not tell us our job. We don't have time for this." He tamped the can down hard and turned his head to the side to listen. The firing to the north, felt and heard in the background, reached a crescendo and died away as a large number of grav-guns opened fire. It sounded as if they were finally clear of an intervening obstacle. And as if the users were very, very angry.

  "Captain . . ." Major Givens said.

  "No," interrupted General Horner quietly. "Major, the captain is the expert. If he says let's go, then you better go."

  "We have . . . fourteen seconds to continue this conversation," said Mike stonily, with a glance at a projected hologram. He had programmed the time he thought it would take the Posleen to get assembled into a countdown timer along with the minimum time to make the movement. The battalion was ready. All they needed was the word.

  No doubt. He'd gamed this a thousand times before. It would work.

  The suits were also useless for pinching snuff. He popped the can with his left hand and pulled out a pinch. "General Horner," he continued formally, "Fleet Strike is not giving Washington to the Posleen."

  No fear. They were invincible. The Posleen would kill individuals. But as a unit, the only way to fail was to fail to try. This was a strightforward "Horatio at the Bridge" action. He had forty scenarios prepared. Any of them would work.

  "General?" asked the acting commander. The officer was used to clear plans developed in advance. While he could change them on the fly to an extent, he was not a "seat of the pants" warrior. He found himself simultaneously in command and out of his depth. It was a most uncomfortable feeling.

  "Do it," said Horner. He had no idea what the plan was. But he knew Mike O'Neal. If Mighty Mite said the sky was green, Horner would double-check the forecast and then get a second opinion before doubting him.

  "Okay, Captain O'Neal," said the commander, "what's the plan?"

  "I'll have to tell you on the way, Major," said O'Neal. "We haven't got any time at all." He then belied his own words by inserting the pinch between his cheek and gum. He carefully closed the can and put it away, then reclamped the gauntlet and helmet. He spit out a few stray bits of tobacco and keyed the frequency to the battalion broadcast.

  No failure. He hadn't read the book, he'd written it. "Okay boys and girls. Lets go kill us some E-Ts."

  * * *

  "Man," snarled Keren, "it seems like we never have any time together. All we've been doin' is killing Posties!" He helped Elgars up and got the big rifle hoisted over her shoulder.

  "Well," she smiled grimly, "maybe later."

  "Sure." Like there was going to be a later. He could see the Posleen pouring across the bridge and the God Kings popping up and flitting around the Memorial. The whole damn pack of demons was over the river and all hell was out for noon.

  Elgars trotted towards the Monument, supporting the weight of the bouncing rifle with her right hand. Keren shook his head one more time and headed for the Suburban. He was glad she finally got her gun back. He suddenly realized he'd never even found out her first name.

  A blast of fire came from the area of the Memorial, but he never paid it any attention.

  * * *

  The area under the Memorial was not exactly a warren of tunnels, but it bade a fair resemblance. And, as the Posleen were discovering, engineers above ground were nothing compared to engineers in tunnels.

  The ball bearings from the claymore bounced off the walls and ceiling of the stone-lined tunnel and tore the front rank of the assault apart. A few tossed grenades finished off the rest and the engineers lunged forward to retake their positions. The first private in kicked closed the brass-fitted door at the end of the corridor and threw the bolt.

  "Set the charges!" shouted Sergeant Leo, spooling out the wire and preparing the blasting caps. "Move! Move!" He handed one to each of the chosen privates as they emplaced the charges to blow the tunnel. These young men, and one woman, had experienced a crash course in demolitions over the last three days. The survivors had become experts.

  He rounded the corner and nearly ran into the L-T and the security team. The security team held everyone that, in Sergeant Leo's opinion, really needed to become a rifleman. They were the survivors who had not learned the lessons of demo adequately. They were used for support of the "real" sappers. Leo intended to suggest each one of them get a small medal then send them over to the infantry.

  "We've got the corridor secure," said Lieutenant Ryan, gesturing over his shoulder. "Once you blow that tunnel, there's only one way in and one way out. And they'll have to dig us out."

  "Well, we're about done," said Sergeant Leo as the sappers came around the corner. He counted each one past then leaned around the corner for a visual check. The look drew a violent response as flechettes spanged off the rock walls and ricocheted down the side tunnel. There was a cry of pain from one of the engineers as a ricochet caught him in the thigh.

  "Fire in the hole!" shouted Leo as he twisted the hand-dynamo generator up to speed then pressed the firing switch.

  There was a blast of heat and a wash of marble dust. As the platoon coughed on the dust there came a complicated sound of settling from overhead.

  "Uh-oh," said one of the privates, quietly.

  "Yeah," said Lieutenant Ryan. "I think we might be in a little trouble here."

  * * *

  Elgars's jaw dropped as the statue of Lincoln in the distance settled slightly to the left. "Holy shit." But that was only one bad sight among many.

  The area around the Memorial was rapidly filling up with Posleen. The assaulting God Kings had been joined by their units and the forces were deploying outward, opening the wings of the Host to capture the city. Starting with the Memorials.

  She filtered out the shouting and sounds of panic behind her and set the familiar stock into her shoulder. It was a long shot up the entire length of the reflecting pool. The laser range finder gave a reading of forty-two hundred feet to the steps of the Memorial. As she shifted her sights to the side, trying to decide which one of the God Kings to gift with her attention, there was another gout of dust and fire from the interior of the monument. At least one other group was willing to fight. Behind her she could hear the fading engines of those either smarter or more cowardly.

  * * *

  "I am didee-mao, asshole!" snarled the specialist in charge of the Three Gun track. The driver put words to action, backing out of their position and spinning the track in a shower of carefully tended turf
.

  Keren stepped up to the spinning treads, daring to be churned into paste. "Austin!" he shouted.

  As the specialist turned to look, a grenade came flying through the air and landed in the crew compartment in the rear.

  Trailing blue air, the gunner and ammo bearer dove out of the compartment, falling to the ground in a heap. The driver took her foot off the gas and piled out as well, as the heavy-set squad leader tried to struggle out of the TC's hatch.

  The assistant gunner had been deep in the belly of the beast when the grenade came flying into the compartment and rolled to the front. With nowhere to go he picked it up in the vain hope of throwing it back out. And howled in rage.

  "The fuckin' pin's still in!" he shouted swarming up the side of the crew compartment bent on killing a café au lait gadfly.

  He was met at the edge of the compartment by a cocked Beretta. Keren punched the barrel of the gun into his nose hard enough to draw a spurt of blood and followed his tumbling body into the interior of the track.

  Austin tried to train the .50-caliber machine gun to bear on the raging Keren. But the pintle mount was designed to prevent accidents just like that. Keren kicked the squirming assistant gunner in the crotch, turned and triggered a single round into the squad leader's face.

  It was a shot he never could have made on a range. The bullet entered just below the squad leader's nose. The top of the specialist's head was lifted up into the air in a spray of blood and brains. He slumped backwards over the front of the Mortar Carrier and landed on the still-quivering driver.

  Keren pulled himself up on the top of the Mortar Carrier and pointed the pistol at the gunner and ammo bearer just starting to get up from their crumpled heaps.

  "You will get into this vehicle," he shouted. "And you will lay in the fuckin' gun! Or I will personally kill every one of you sons of bitches! Is that clear?!"

  "The fuckin' horses are over the river!" the gunner shouted, then looked at the unwavering pistol. He wondered where Austin was. Then he saw the faint trail of smoke from the barrel and made a rapid guess.

  "I am not giving the horses the goddamn monument!" screamed Keren, leaping off the track and striding over to shove the still-warm gun into the face of the recalcitrant gunner. "We have run and run and run and we are not going to run anymore! Are we clear on that? Or do you need the same lesson?!" The barrel intersected the cheek-bone of the gunner hard enough to leave a bone bruise. The gunner closed his eyes as urine trickled to darken his BDUs.

  The ammo bearer raised one shaking hand to wave at the pistol. "We . . . we're clear. Okay?"

  Keren jerked up and strode to the front. The slight specialist pulled the driver out from under the former squad leader with a single jerk. The female private was stuttering and shaking uncontrollably. Keren shook his head and dragged her back to where the gunner and ammo bearer were just starting to regain their feet.

  "Get . . . the . . . gun . . . laid . . . in. Now. And don't ever try to cross me again."

  The gunner nodded as the specialist strode away.

  The ammo bearer shook herself and hissed. "We could shoot up that piece-of-shit Suburban. See it make it through some Ma-Deuce fire!"

  The gunner slapped her across the back of the head so hard it knocked her to the ground. He sucked his knuckles and kicked her. "Don't even think about it. What if he lived? And One Gun would eat us alive. Now get in the fuckin' track."

  As Keren strode towards the Suburban he noticed that One Track had been watching the whole show. Sergeant Chittock was on the .50 caliber and the weapon was pointed more or less towards the Three Gun track.

  "Point it that way!" he raged, pointing towards the Potomac, "and get ready to fire the gun!"

  Chittock just watched him as he headed to the SUV. The rest of the crew flew to getting the weapon trained towards the enemy; nobody was going to get in the way of the sulphurous specialist. As Keren reached the truck Sergeant Chittock caught his eye with a lifted chin. The specialist stopped and looked towards him with fury in his eyes. But Chittock just saluted, very precisely. Keren stopped and nodded. Then returned the salute, just as precisely. As he stepped into the truck he realized that the stench of urine he was trailing was not from the gunner of Three Track. We're all fuckin' cowards, he thought. And picked up the firing board.

  CHAPTER 70

  Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III

  1053 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

  The private bit her lip and caressed the unfamiliar rifle on her lap. There was still a shortage of the Advanced Infantry Weapon, so rear area units were issued the venerable M-16A2. She had shot it in the abbreviated basic course, but once she reached her permanent post the situation was so messed up the chain of command was not about to let soldiers have weapons. So the first time she had actually had one in her hand since basic was three days before, when the ammo supply unit scrambled out of Fort Indiantown Gap.

  She looked at the selector now and considered her options. There was the easy one, which was to go along with the actions of the driver. That made a lot of sense, really. Who the hell wanted to drive a truck full of ammunition towards Posleen.

  But then there was the fact that they'd been ordered to go resupply a mortar unit by the Washington Monument. The platoon had shot out all their ammo, which meant they'd at least been fighting. And they were probably still there, whatever Lee thought.

  Let's see, she thought. How hard can it be. It says "semi" right there.

  "Turn around," she whispered. The voice was barely audible over the scream from the overstressed engine of the five-ton truck.

  "What?" snarled Private Lee. The stupid bitch was always whispering shit. Just like she never pulled her goddamn weight when they were unloading. He'd thought half a dozen times about dropping her off as a present for the fuckin' horses. One of these days . . .

  "Turn around." The voice was a bare whisper again, but something about the quiet click as the rifle was taken off safe penetrated the thunder of the engine.

  Lee turned to look at her with disbelief in his eyes. "Are you fuckin' nuts? Point that goddamn thing somewhere else before I make you eat it, cunt!"

  The slightly built private looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Her mouth was dry with fear, but she slowly lifted the rifle until it was pointed at the temple of the driver and snuggled it into her shoulder. Take a breath and let it out, just like the drill instructor said.

  With a jerk she pointed it to the side and shot out the driver's side window. The blast from the rifle tore the glasses off the driver's face and peppered his face with burns. "Turn us the fuck around, you bastard," she screamed, "or I will spread your brains all over this cab."

  As the truck rocked through a U-turn she felt that that was insufficient. "There, was that loud enough for you? Asshole!"

  * * *

  There was a snort of diesel behind Elgars as a Bradley troop carrier spun around and started disgorging troops. The squad spread out down the mound, using the reverse of the gentle slope for cover. The guy in the lead was real young for a lieutenant colonel, but as he dropped to the ground not far away she saw he was wearing a dress uniform Combat Infantryman's Badge with two stars. Either the "fresh-faced" kid had been in three wars already and was working on his fourth or he was a "PX Ranger." From the calm expression on his face and the expert way he surveyed the battlefield she was fairly certain which one it was.

  The Bradley spun on its axis again and moved to the other side of the Monument, well away from the squad. The mound was just a bit higher than the top of the vehicle but that was no problem. The barrel of the Bushmaster cannon canted upward and fired a burst of tracers.

  Elgars watched with glee as the rounds drifted up and then down, splashing without particular note into the Potomac. She nodded her head as the lieutenant colonel "squad leader" whispered into a radio, directing the fire of the gun.

  "Hey!" she called, catching his eye. "Those mortar tracks behind us are on sixty-three-seven
ty!"

  He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up then started switching frequencies.

  There was a thonk! from the rear and she realized that a 60mm mortar team had set up right behind her. The squad leader, another "fresh-faced kid" with master sergeant's chevrons, was lifting his head up to spot the fall of the shot then adjusting with hand and arm signals. It was the crudest of fire control, but with the mass of Posleen forming on the sward it was effective. Elgars saw a splash of Posleen thrown away from the fall of the one-pound shot and nodded in satisfaction.

  At least she wasn't gonna die alone. She could see more people moving up to the mound, many of them obvious rejuvs by their rank and assurance but others just simple soldiers responding to the threat to the nation's soul. She understood the call. As screwed up as her life had been, she was still an American. And the thought of the Posleen taking the White House, or the Capitol or even the stupid Monument was just more than she was willing to accept.

  If she fired at a God King without more covering fire she was doomed. But maybe if she didn't fire at a God King? Just one of the "normals?" She had to re-zero the damn thing somehow. She used the splinted forearm to support herself as she took a calming breath.

  * * *

  "Duncan?"

  "Yeah, boss?" the NCO responded, his breathing deep and regular.

  Certain anomalies of armored combat suits had modified long-standing military practices. One of them was the ubiquitous "jody" calls, chants paced to a running or marching beat. When ACS units ran, it was at a long open lope, the rhythm of which had so far resisted every attempted choreography. The standard ACS "double time" was approximately a four-and-half–count beat that carried the unit forward at nearly thirty miles per hour.

  What had been discovered, however, was that certain popular music, especially "hard" seventies and eighties rock and roll and the rhythm-similar "raker" rock of the turn years fitted the pattern with remarkable congruity. Thus, units usually pumped one or the other type of music through to the personnel, helping to set the running beat. A fair simulation is to imagine listening to "Thunder Road" by Bruce Springsteen while running on the moon. Long-forgotten, and in many cases dead, artists were staging a quiet comeback among Armored Combat Suit units.