by John Ringo
“Inter-Posleen communication is not fully understood nor is Posleen territorial activity in the immediate post-battle period. What that means is we may have two billion Posleen around us at the first shot. Or we may not see any.
“There are multiple exits and we can probably cut our way out but we may use more power than we gain. On the other hand, there may be no response, especially if we hit hard and quiet. Now, I want the opinion of the NCOs, most junior first. Sergeant Brecker?”
The young third-squad leader raised his hands palm upward. “I’m down to about two hours normal use, sir. And one of my troops is lower. We haven’t scavenged enough to matter. As far as I’m concerned there’s no choice.”
“Sergeant Kerr?” First squad.
“Can we, like, redistribute the power, sir?”
“No, the suits can scavenge but not share, that’s why I was distributing it on the basis of lowest power first. It’s a subject there was a lot of technical debate about; ask me about it if we both survive. Basically, if you have an open power output, it can be tapped under certain circumstances. On the other hand, whether we live or die the technical report on this will go to Earth and I’m sure this will tip the debate some other way. Too late to help us, however. So. What’s it gonna be?” he asked.
“Attack, sir, no choice.”
“Noted. Sergeant Duncan?” Second squad.
“Why not just go where there is heavy machinery, Lieutenant?” Duncan asked with a note of interest.
“It would take us about an hour, at our present rate of movement. Too far out of our way.” Mike noted his tone. The council of war had more than one purpose, it was the first time he had conducted a two-way communication with his NCOs. He was learning a lot from their responses. “What’s your vote?”
“Attack.” The response was clipped but almost enthusiastic.
“Sergeant Wiznowski?” he asked.
“Kill ’em all, sir,” said the Wizard with uncharacteristic savagery. “I don’t think there’s a choice and I wanna kick some butt.”
At that there was a muted growl on the platoon net.
“Sergeant Green?”
“Go for it, sir.”
“Right, I’m glad to have your opinions. We go for the power. Now, by squads, who has real experience in knife fighting, wrestling or serious martial arts? Oh, yeah, if you’ve won more than your share of bar fights. I want somebody to back you up, not just your word for it. Squad leaders, get that information on the squad push. Three minutes.”
He watched in amusement as the squads broke up into gesticulating groups. He could tell by the arm movements that several of the troops were defending their personal brawling skills but when he switched on the exterior sound systems the only noise was the occasional foot stomp until one of the arguing troops banged a fist into his palm with a resounding clang.
“Second squad! Quiet!” snapped Sergeant Green, before O’Neal could say anything.
“Sorry about that, Sergeant,” said Sergeant Duncan. It was only then that Mike realized it was Duncan who had made the noise. With a command to Michelle the name of each trooper was blazoned on them momentarily as Mike looked at them. Fifty-eight human beings depending on him to make the right decisions and he knew maybe six or seven of their names. Two minutes left, enough time to contact higher.
“Michelle, try to access General Houseman.”
“I’ve got headquarters,” she said after a moment. “General Houseman is on the way.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“O’Neal, what’s your progress?” the general asked tersely.
“We’re nearly out of power, General. We have to take a short detour to scavenge. It will push our ETA back by about an hour. On the other hand, we’ll be able to move faster once we power-up.”
“All right, it’ll have to do. How are you going to get to the pocket?”
Mike told him.
“You’re fucking crazy, O’Neal,” the officer chuckled grimly. “Will it work?”
“No reason it shouldn’t, sir. I can’t analyze the likelihood of Posleen resistance, but we should be able to outrun organized resistance. The only thing I’m worried about is resupply. Any chance?”
“I’ll punch out the shuttles whenever you’re ready for rendezvous. I will tell you, there’s gonna be casualties; those shuttles are sitting ducks for the God King vehicle weapons.”
“I need the weapons more than I need the troops, sir. Keep the troops with you.”
“I’d hoped you’d say that,” said the distant general with a relieved tone. “I’m not sure I was going to renege, but the more I thought about it the less I liked it.”
“Just load each of the shuttles down with ammo, rifles, grenade launchers and power packs and let us do the rest, sir. Send them on remote, for that matter.”
“That’s how we’ll do it. Call me again when you have a rendezvous.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Out.”
“ ’Kay, troops,” Mike continued, Michelle automatically switching him back, “who’s the lucky winners in the Diess Fantasy Lottery Drawing? Second squad?”
“Just me, sir,” said Sergeant Duncan.
“I think I have a vague memory of you having some capability in this arena,” Mike said with a chuckle. “Actually, thinking back about ten years I remember you having a punch like a mule. Glad to have you. Next, First squad?”
“Lyle, Knudsen and Moore, sir,” said Sergeant Kerr.
“Sounds like a Minneapolis law firm.”
“Yes, sir,” chuckled Sergeant Kerr. “Well, Lyle and Knudsen both do kung-fu. I went to a couple of their tournaments, back when. They’re okay. And Moore…” He gestured at an exceptionally large suit of armor standing next to him that the AID dutifully highlighted with “SP4 Moore, Adumapaya.”
“… was obviously the biggest one in his class,” finished O’Neal.
“Ah played some ball too, sah. Ah kin hold mah own,” said the velvety bass.
“Righto, third?”
“Well, sir,” said Sergeant Brecker, “none of us really fit the criteria, but I am coming. I wrestled in high school and I’m sure I can hold my own.”
“I won’t deny you, your squad needs to be represented. Scouts?”
“I’ll go, sir,” said Sergeant Wiznowski. “Just try to stop me.”
Mike scanned the team’s power levels and approved; all of them were in the yellow, but none of them were approaching failure. “Okay, here’s the plan,” Mike said, casting a map to each of the platoon members. “Scouts lead to the room second layer away from the power room,” he said, highlighting it.
“Between it and the power room is a hallway, right turn, ten meters to the power room on the left. We check the hallway then the team moves to the door to the power room while the rest of the platoon stays in that location. Order of movement is Wiz, Moore, myself, Lyle, Knudsen, Duncan, Brecker.
“Wiz, down corridor security. The door reads as sealed on the building sensors. Moore, take the door, then down. I’ll take out anything moving on immediate entry then Lyle, Knudsen and Duncan move past. I move. Wiz pull back and past. Moore move. Brecker, hold the door. I’m downloading the vectors of movement to your systems.
“The Posleen have removed or destroyed some of the sensors in the room so we don’t have perfect intelligence on where they are. If one of you is rendered ineffective the vectors will automatically update. We’ll move the rest of the platoon in on my command. At that time I will designate corridor security. Questions?”
“How many Posleen in the whole power-room area?” asked Duncan.
“About thirty,” Mike said.
“Thirty?” Duncan choked, “and only seven of us?”
“Yes,” Mike said, “magnificent isn’t it?”
“Sir…”
“Can it, Sergeant. There is not time for debate. You may decline to be on the entry team at any time. It is totally voluntary,” Mike wait
ed for the response.
“Never mind,” said Duncan after a few moments’ thought. “I don’t think it can be done, though, Lieutenant.”
“Noted. Any other questions?” There were not.
“Scouts out.”
The movement to the corridor outside the power room was successful, but when they reached the last corner there was a snag.
“There’s a sentry,” Sergeant Wiznowski whispered.
“That cans it,” whispered Duncan.
“They can hardly hear us through the armor, Sergeant Wiz. And it hardly ‘cans it,’ Sergeant Duncan. I considered this. Okay, the rest of you hunker down and quiet. Quietly, team, line up.” Mike dialed up his compensators and moved to the door. Fortunately there was a certain amount of masking noise from the roar of the fusion reactor in the far room. He studied the door for a moment to ensure it would open easily and popped his belly armor. He drew out the discharged power gem the soldier had given him and tossed it to get a good grip.
“Michelle, throw aiming grid. Left arm on automatic, visual targeting.” He whipped open the door, stepped into the corridor and looked at the Posleen normal guarding the power room. “Fire.” The pseudomuscles of the armor swiveled the left arm of the suit to vertical and delivered the one-kilo gem at two hundred meters per hour to the forehead of the Posleen. The centauroid dropped like the rock that hit him.
“Move.” Wiznowski ghosted past him down the corridor and he fell in behind Moore. When Moore reached the door, Mike checked that everyone was in place, stooped, drew the dead Posleen sentry’s palmate blade with his left hand and said, “Do it.”
Moore took a half step back and threw himself through the door and down; his charge carried him several feet into the room. Mike was suddenly happy they had not charged in guns blazing as he realized he was looking at the primary cooling system of the fusion reactor.
“No grenades,” he snarled as he picked out Posleen in view. As each one came into view his AID popped a round out of his ready storage bin eject under the left arm and threw it with a Frisbee motion. The rounds were three-millimeter needles of depleted uranium. They arrived at the target at over one hundred meters per second with deadly precision.
There were seven Posleen in the room ranged neatly side to side with the exception of one almost directly in front of him that was masked. The five across the room from him were worrying over the primary coolant controls while the one to the left had just entered the area and the one directly in front was moving right to left. The moving one was targeted first. The teardrop of depleted uranium only weighed two ounces, but it was traveling at the speed of a .45 caliber round and struck dot accurate.
The teardrop entered the Posleen’s crocodilian head at the juncture of the chin. It continued upward, passing through the cranial/spinal juncture and lodged in the rear of the skull. The neck of the Posleen squirted yellow blood as it began to fall, dead as a pithed frog. The three at the coolant controls were eliminated just as efficiently, dead before the first target had hit the ground. But the Posleen entering the room was a senior normal with improved reactions and weapons.
Mike grunted as a three-millimeter round passed entirely through his left leg, and flipped a round off-hand at the aggressive Posleen. It avoided his fire by diving for cover behind the secondary controls. Mike took out the last standard Posleen and bounced left while drawing his pistol. He did a gunslinger’s toss, switching pistol and sword, still hoping to keep the noise and energetics down. He was not sure if there was a point; the hypersonic “crack” of the railgun rounds must have been heard throughout the building.
Suddenly the Posleen popped back up several feet from where he had gone to cover and three-millimeter railgun rounds caromed off Mike’s heavier cuirass, smashing him backwards. Mike spun on his left foot, the impact of the rounds turning him around in a controlled spin, and released the blade. The three foot, monomolecular blade whistled through the air and into the chest of the Posleen with the sound of an air lock closing. The Posleen stuttered for a moment, dropped the railgun and settled to all four knees, coughing yellow blood.
Mike yanked the knife out, kicked the rifle aside and took off the Posleen’s head to make sure. He checked the room but all the Posleen were down and his entry team had already spread out. The only thing left to do was set out on his vector.
Mike’s self-appointed mission was to secure the outer flank of the sweep. He suspected that if there were an organized counterattack it would be from this direction and he preferred to handle it himself.
He started off with a limp, but his suit’s biomechanical repair processes were already underway. The armor’s auto-doc administered a local stun and jetted the area with quick-heal, antibiotics and oxygen. The inner skin of the armor sealed the area, reducing blood loss and pumping the leakage away to be recycled into rations and air. At the same time, nano-repair systems began the task of replacing the outer “hard” armor one molecular-sized patch at a time. Given enough time, energy and materials, the self-repair systems would completely heal even major damage.
As he got a better grasp on the size of the complex, O’Neal ordered the platoon to move to the cooling room, relieving Sergeant Brecker to begin a sweep. Three more times he ran into Posleen, but never more than one at a time and none of them with heavy weapons. The normals would fight gamely but with ultimate futility, their one-millimeter rounds from railguns and shotguns bouncing off of the suits with the sound of raindrops on a tin roof. There had been only one other enhanced normal and he had been finished off by Sergeants Wiznowski and Duncan. There were no casualties.
By the end of the sweep Mike was becoming exhausted by the strain of hours of combat. He stumbled back to the coolant room, where the engineers were happily plugging troopers into the power circuits. He joined the line and finally collapsed into one of the undersized Indowy chairs.
“What’s the status, Sergeant Green?” he rasped. Why the hell he was so whipped under Provigil-C he had no idea. He had participated in the field trials and they were harder and longer than the tribulations so far. During the trials he had participated in seventy-two hours of virtual-reality combat and was fresh as a daisy at the end. It was like the Provigil part was entirely missing. They would have been better off taking a simple amphetamine.
“Only three more from the entry team to power-up.” The sergeant’s speech was slurred with fatigue also. “We found a store of energy gems and everyone’s got at least one. We’re twelve minutes behind schedule, even the updated one. No casualties in the entry team or elsewhere, and we picked up all the Posleen weapons. But, sir, the troops are scared and tired as hell, Wake-the-Deads or no. We have to rest sometime.”
“This is the last break, Sergeant,” O’Neal stated. His eyes started to close and he took a deep breath. That damn Wake-the-Dead was supposed to be good for ten hours! he thought. “We’ve got a mission to complete. When the last troop is recharged we’re moving out.”
“Sir, I think you should talk to higher about that. These troops are gone. I mean look at ’em,” he gestured around at the suits collapsed against the walls. “You want to take these guys into battle? They need at least an hour’s sleep. When you asked back under the building if we should rest there or later you implied there would be a later.”
“There aren’t a few hours, Sergeant, and there isn’t any time to argue. Get the men moving.”
“I don’t think they can, sir.”
“You mean you don’t think they will.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any suggestions?”
“No, sir, I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Will you go on?”
“I… yes, sir, I will, but I’m a career NCO. I’ll charge hell with a bucket of water, just ’cause it’s orders. These troops have just seen their whole battalion destroyed and their morale is shot. I don’t think they will. I think they’re beyond motivation.”
“O, ye of little faith. Platoon push. Troops, liste
n up, here’s the deal. Show schematic…” Michelle flashed the schematic on all the visors except the entry team members still hot-footing it back to the coolant control room.
“This is a map of the area,” said Mike, highlighting some of the landmarks the troops might recognize. “You see that pocket of blue? Michelle, highlight — that’s the remainder of the NATO armored forces and they’re surrounded. We are going to relieve them.” There was an audible groan of disbelief.
“They don’t have a lot of time, so we have to get there fast. The way we are going to do that is unconventional. Did you notice up top that these buildings are close together? And all the roofs are at the same level? Well, they’re all identical and close enough together for a trooper in armor to jump from one roof to the other. And that is just what we’re going to do.
“We are going to go up to the roof and double-time from here to the pocket, jumping the gaps as we come to them. Then we are going to mine all the damn buildings around it and drop them right on the Posleen. Along the way I have been promised resupply of weapons and ammo,” he continued into a sullen silence, “and we are going to make that rendezvous. It is as simple as that. Am I understood?” Sergeant Wiznowski, the last back, was sitting down to power-up as Mike’s power-levels topped off. Silence.
“I said, Am I understood?”
“Yeah.” “Sure.” “Yes, sir.”
Mike looked around at the gathered suits. The slumped postures clearly bespoke fatigue and resentment. “I asked if I was understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the platoon responded tiredly.
“I’m sorry, my AID must be acting up,” he said, twisting one finger against the side of his helmet, as if cleaning out an ear. Michelle helpfully transmitted a squeaking sound effect. “I can’t HE-ar you.”
“Yessir!” The general tone was angry for a change, which beat tired or mulish from Mike’s point of view. Now to redirect the anger.
“Up until this moment we have been taking it in the ass,” he stated. “I do not care for that, no offense to any of our sexually open-minded politicians. And whatever your orientation, I don’t think anyone in this room cares for taking it in the ass either.