Gust Front lota-2

by John Ringo

  “Mike,” said Horner, with a slight snort of his own. “You do realize that Commander in Chief is a rank, don’t you?”

  “Oh,” said Mike, then, “Oh!”

  “Yep,” said Taylor, and howled in laughter, “it called up all the surviving Presidents who had either served during a time of combat at any rank or who were President during a time of war. It recalled them at the rank of four-star general, that being the highest available, and ordered them to report to Fort Myer immediately for inprocessing as same.”

  “Oh, God,” laughed Mike, “that’s rich.”

  “I got a couple of very irate calls from the Secret Service,” Taylor laughed. “But what was even funnier were the direct calls. One of ’em even offered to come back as his ‘original’ rank.”

  “Did you take him up on it?” asked Mike.

  “Nah. I was tempted. God knows Fleet needs every pilot it can get. But it would have been a political nightmare. I hope he was just joking.”

  “Anyway,” said Horner, severely, “right after this conference is the big kickoff. To make sure nothing goes too wrong on one end of the spectrum, we will, with great ceremony, recall every single winner of the Medal of Honor still at large.”

  “Oh, man,” said Mike, quietly. Although he wore the Medal himself, he was sure that most of the other winners were real heroes. Whenever he was in their company he felt like a piker. What he had not yet realized was that most of the Medal winners felt the same way about the other holders.

  “We’re hoping that the infusion of ‘heroes’ will put some spine in the force,” said Taylor, seemingly pulling a knife out of the air and cutting the end off of his own cigar. The knife, after a brief flurry that looked like a simple habit rather than showing off, disappeared as rapidly.

  “We’re reactivating the ‘Strike, Line, Guard’ concept as well,” the High Commander continued. “The plan of creating ‘elite’ Line forces that were mobile shock forces fell by the wayside along with a lot of other ideas.” He lit the cigar with a silver lighter. The inscription “Who Dares Wins” was faintly visible along with a chased dagger and wings.

  Taylor took a drag on the cigar and let out a stream of blue smoke. “Right now, other than the Fleet Strike Forces and Special Operations, the only forces that show overall high readiness are some of the Cavalry regiments. We’re going to start the Line concept around them. They will become mostly volunteer and will be moved to locations where they can be used to reinforce defense points and sally against Posleen columns. They’re going to take a hell of a lot of casualties, but I expect there will always be volunteers.

  “So, most of the ‘heroes’ will end up in Line units,” Horner pointed out. “But they’re going to be bearing the brunt so it’s the right place to put them.”

  “Just remember,” said Mike, rubbing his eyes, “some of these guys are not going to be tightly wrapped.”

  “Speaking from experience, Mighty Mite?” asked Horner.

  “I’ve had my bad days, sir,” Mike admitted, quietly. “Nights, usually.”

  “You need a break, son,” said Horner. He didn’t tell him they already had something in mind.

  “I had one, remember, sir,” said Mike, sourly. “I was on a Bond Tour.”

  “That wasn’t a break and you know it,” said Horner. “And it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t have a shred of pull back then.”

  Mike nodded and decided to change the subject. “Apropos of nothing, sir, where is the equipment for all these mechanized and mobile divisions coming from?”

  “Chrysler is back in the armor-making business, has been for nearly a year. They and GM have been producing like mad, son,” said General Taylor. “They’ve not only stepped up their production rate beyond anything they expected, they’ve converted two factories in western Pennsylvania and Utah for M-1 production and four for Bradley production. The Toyota plant in Kentucky is about to get into the business as well. Modern equipment we have out the ass. What we don’t have is GalTech.”

  “And even an Abrams can’t stand up to Posleen for very long,” continued General Horner.

  “Hmm. Any more rabbits in the hat?” asked Mike.

  “Like what?” asked Jack.

  “Like independent forts along the way?”

  “No,” said the CONARC. “We’ve only got so much logistics to go around. Not to mention bodies. We have to concentrate on the cities, not long-ball chances like the evac. There might be some small outposts — we’re looking at doing some stuff with militias — but by this time they will probably be swept away. That’s where the mobile infantry comes into play.” The fate of the defenders was obvious. But the general carefully did not comment on that.

  “And in the southwest,” interjected General Taylor, flicking an ash from his stogie.

  “And in the southwest,” agreed Horner, “which is going to be an Eleventh Mobile Infantry show. The other use for the MI will be as support during the initial retreat to the montane defenses and to ensure that the Posleen do not break through the Appalachian defenses especially. What we want you to do is go over the conventional battle plans being developed and set up the MI zones of responsibility.

  “Zones of responsibility will not be detailed to units smaller than a battalion,” continued Horner. “The units you have to work with are the 508th, 509th and the 555th. The Eleventh will be used as a division to hold the ‘underbelly.’ ”

  “Are we going to have all of those?” Although there were plans in the pipeline to supply all those regiments with suits, the schedule of supply had been pushed back and back. Pretty soon they were going to start taking losses and the new suits would be going to replace casualties.

  “We have to assume so,” Horner stated. His grim smile belied the words. “I’ve set up an office with a couple of staff and all the necessary clearances. And of course you’ve got Michelle,” said General Horner, gesturing at the captain’s AID.

  “Shelly,” corrected Mike, fingering the bracelet of black intelli-plastic. “Michelle died on Diess.”

  “Sorry,” said General Horner, ignoring the inquiring glance from General Taylor, “Shelly. Can you work out the details with just that?”

  “I could do it without the staff, if everything is in the network.”

  “It is,” said Horner.

  “Then no problem.”

  “Initial deployments and SOP battle plans for three regiments in wildly varying terrain?” asked General Taylor. “No problem?”

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Neal with a tired smile. He thought it would be a nightmare, but doable. “After activating a company of multigenerational soldiers being introduced to science fiction technology for the first time, in an encampment that has daily riots, this will be a piece of cake.”

  “Okay,” chuckled General Horner, tossing back the last of his vodka. “You have three weeks. Your company will be on leave by then and you’re going on leave as well. Colonel Hanson asked me to make that an order, by the way.”

  “Yes, sir. I could do with a little time off.”

  “I agree,” said Taylor. “And so did Lieutenant General Left.”

  Mike looked suspiciously from general to general. “How did the Fleet Strike Commander, who I trust is still safely ensconced on Titan, become involved?”

  “Well, Bob seemed like the best point of contact to make with Fleet,” said Horner with a frown.

  Mike flicked an ash off his cigar and frowned warily. “And why did Fleet get involved?”

  “Well, we had to get permission from Vice Admiral Bledspeth,” explained Taylor.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mike, his suspicions fully aroused. “I suppose you did. For what is the question?”

  “Well, to get them to kick Sharon loose,” said Horner.

  “And shuttle her down for a break of her own,” pointed out Taylor. “That was almost harder.”

  Mike’s jaw dropped. “Sharon’s taking leave?” he asked incredulously. “Since when?”

  “What time
is it?” asked Taylor, ostentatiously looking at his watch.

  Horner gave one of his rare true smiles. “Close your mouth, Mike, flies will take advantage. Think of it as having friends in high places. Or, if you prefer, think of it as a reward for maxing your FSTEP.”

  “Sir,” the captain spluttered. “This is not funny. It is completely unfair to everyone else in the world who has a spouse on detached duty! It is the worst case of personal privilege I can imagine!”

  “Yes, it is,” said Taylor, seriously. “But most of those soldiers have not made the contributions you have. Most of those soldiers are not going to be asked to shoulder the burdens you, and Sharon, will be asked to shoulder. And most of those families, despite the occasional tear-jerker news report, don’t have both parents in harm’s way.”

  “Mike,” said Horner, seriously also. “It’s a done deal. I knew you would react this way which is why I didn’t even ask you about it. Take it as a gift from a friend or an order from a general. I don’t care which. But Sharon will be on leave a week before you get kicked loose. Then you’ll have a week together. After that you’ll have a week by yourself. And that will probably be the last break you have for years.”

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Neal, finally getting over the shock. Looked at a different way it was a hell of a compliment. The only part that bothered him was the personal privilege. He finally decided that this was one gift horse where he wasn’t gonna look at the teeth.

  “Take off, Mighty Mite. It’s good to have you around.”

  “ ’Night, sir,” said Mike. He paused at the door in thought. “And thanks,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lagrange Point Four, Sol III

  0510 EDT September 10th, 2004 ad

  I wanna pony. Her young face was scrunched in an unhappy frown, her arms crossed over her chest and tears threatening in her eyes. The light wind of the summer afternoon had faded and the trees in the background were dropping their leaves like rain.

  I’m sorry, sugar, you can’t have a pony. None of us can have ponies.

  Why not?

  There’s no air for them to breathe. As she said it Sharon realized that there really wasn’t any air. She began to pant but she couldn’t fill her lungs.

  Mommy? said the little girl, receding into the blackness. She had fallen out of the air lock and was drifting off into the depths of space, the diamond-hard stars wheeling around her as she fell and fell. Mommy? Mum? Comman’er O’Neal? Commander? Mum? COMMANDER!

  Sharon started up in the bunk and banged her head into the bunk above hers. For a moment stars wheeled around her and she nearly screamed at not waking from the nightmare. Instead she took a deep breath and quietly let slip her husband’s favorite swearword.

  “Are you quite all right, mum?” asked Boatswain Michaels. He squatted by the side of the bunk with a cup of steaming tea in his hand. His thick Midlands accent was, as always, nearly incomprehensible.

  “I’ll be fine as soon as I figure out how to kill Lieutenant Crowley so I can have his bunk removed,” she joked, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk. It was necessary to hunch forward to avoid banging her head again. The ceilings of the converted Indowy fast courier were barely six feet tall. Cramming two bunks in vertically had been challenging.

  Everything had been challenging since she’d been assigned to the position of executive officer on the Agincourt five months before. During her tenure she had suffered through three different captains as Fleet High Command cycled officers through the few available warships. The first one was fine, a former submariner who had taught her many of the tricks that stood her in good stead since. The other two had been losses, micromanaging assholes who were lost commanding the ship. The last one had been a philanderer to boot, a Russian bigot with wandering hands.

  She had firmly quashed a mutiny by the ship’s crew that would have led inevitably to a fatal “accident” for the officer. The crew treated her more like an older sister than their XO, and had fiercely defended her. By the time the captain left he had discovered the many pleasures of a badly tuned ship, such as varying air pressure in his cabin, reversing toilets, lighting that remained at constant intensity but slid through the spectrum in varying increments, now red, now purple, now, apparently, out, but really broadcasting in high ultraviolet. The sunburn from the last had actually overwhelmed his antiradiation nannites.

  Since he had completely bypassed his executive officer, placed in the position because of her background in astronautic engineering, the systems failures were entirely his fault. He, of course, did not see it that way, blaming everything on Sharon. She, in turn, kept full records of all meetings or even casual encounters.

  The past two weeks of inquiries had been… interesting. It was not an experience she cared to repeat. However, a new commander was on the way and the Russian was headed back to the land of borscht.

  “Ach, you don’ wann’ remove Lieutenant Crowley now, mum,” the boatwsain disagreed. “Thin you’d have’ta con this bitch on your own everytime.”

  She accepted the cup of tea, then rubbed her forehead before taking a sip. She’d have a knot there. The request for foam rubber had been on the books for nearly four months. Time to send another HEAT round. And then there was the shortage of filters, which was why the ship smelled like a goat-locker. And the forward force screen was acting up. And the number three impeller. And about half the environmental fans, thus the hint of ozone in the goat-locker. And the heat exchangers. And with the main water recovery unit down, the cup of tea she was ingesting was a third of her potable water ration for the day. But with the Russian gone at least they might get some of it fixed. If they could squeeze the parts out of Titan Base.

  “Anything I need to know right away?” she asked and reached across the narrow compartment for a bottle of Tylenol. The living compartments were designed for four-feet-tall Indowy. At five feet eleven she fitted in them poorly.

  “Aye, mum,” said the boatswain soberly. “Wiv finely lost the forward force screen.”

  “Damn,” she muttered, swallowed a handful of the acetaminophen and chased it with a swig of the bitter tea. The “chai” as the NCO insisted on calling it was a thick, nearly black concoction preferred in the British Navy. Sharon had talked the crew out of many things, feeding her pickled herring for breakfast as an example, but she had been unable to adjust the tea. Whatever. It woke you up.

  She pulled off her T-shirt and pulled out one that was marginally fresher. Michaels was queer as a three-dollar bill, so it wasn’t going to inflame him.

  They’d had a couple of problems with sexual harassment and one attempted rape in the first few weeks she was onboard. Not all the countries that had contributed sailors to the Fleet had a tradition of females serving on ships. She had stamped on it hard. Maybe too hard. She sometimes wondered if being left on the ship was punishment for suspending the attempted rapist in microgravity, vacuum and darkness for fourteen hours. With his radio pulled. The sailor had had to be transferred to Ground Forces.

  She pulled on a stained coverall and stamped her feet into a pair of shipboots. The emergency belt pack was the last piece of necessary equipment to go on and she was ready to face her day. She was already hot as hell. The backup heat converter must be out again.

  “You should at least have a bite,” said Michaels reproachfully. He held out a platter with toast on it.

  She tilted her head to the side, a habit she had picked up from her husband, and smiled. “You’re the bosun, not a steward.”

  Michaels shrugged. “Cooky’s pretty damn busy, mum. I knew you’d not eat if I di’nt insist.”

  Sharon picked up one of the pieces of toast and took a nibble. It was dry and quite awful. There was no decent bread flour in the ship and the last fresh food they had received had come in nearly a month before.

  The ship was on a seemingly endless patrol of near-Earth space. Parts and food, such as reached them, were shipped in by light freighters and transferred by hand fr
om ship to ship. The crew struggled endlessly against the conflicting demands of failing systems and the boring patrols.

  Sharon knew they were no better or worse off than the other frigates. The converted fast couriers were the front line of the Federation’s defense against the Posleen, but they were frighteningly inadequate from the human’s point of view. The ships were ancient, literally centuries old, and lacked every item that humans had come to expect in a warship. There were no redundant systems, no easily switched out spares, not much in the way of defense, and the weapons were nearly useless.

  What made matters worse was their customization. Each ship was hand built over nearly a half century by one of a few Indowy families. Since each ship was custom fabricated there were no interchangeable spare parts. For that matter, since the ships were designed to last for a few centuries of blemishless activity, then be taken out of service, there were no parts whatsoever. Every part was solid-state; there was no reason that they would not last a pair of centuries. And the Indowy guaranteed it.

  Unfortunately, most of the ships, like their own Agincourt, had been in service since the beginning of the war. The losses from the war were straining the production capacity of the Federation beyond the maximum and the shortage of shipping was the most obvious aspect. These ships, which should have been taken out of service a century earlier, were still being used on the front line. And the Indowy technicians attached to the Fleet were learning a new term from the humans: jury-rigging.

  She nibbled at her dry toast and had another sip of the bitter tea. Then she tapped the artificial intelligence device on her wrist. “What’s the news?” she asked.

  “There are twenty-seven messages in your e-mail queue,” the AID answered in a melifluous baritone.

  “How many of those are the maintenance people on Titan whining about our parts requests?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Delete.”

  “Okay. Then there are five denying requests from various crewmembers for a transfer off ship. One of those is a rather snotty question about the leadership of the frigate.”