Gust Front lota-2

by John Ringo

  He had run the available parameters and almost choked on the solution. It turned Belvoir into a nightmarish set of mine nets. The nice part about it was that it designed with the Posleen in mind. They could drive their forces right across the mine zone, but it would cost them thousands and thousands of “troops” to clear it that way. Of course, if he had to come back and take it out it would not be pretty. But that was another bridge.

  He’d started the installation and the brigade had worked like demons. However, as each section was completed he sent the trainees down to the fort’s marina, where they were ferried across the Potomac.

  * * *

  He now waited with a few remaining senior officers and NCOs. For the last hour they had talked about old times and watched the monitors that had been scattered along U.S. 1. He was currently outside getting a breath of air. But at a yell from inside the boat house he strode back in rapidly.

  “They’re in sight,” said the Belvoir operations officer. The colonel was leaning forward, hand on the shoulder of the tech managing the monitors.

  The general grabbed the back of the colonel’s battle dress uniform and pulled him gently back. “You can’t make ’em come on any faster. And that’s practically the only private we’ve got. She’s more important than any three of us.”

  The colonel shook himself and laughed deprecatingly. “Sorry, soldier,” he said.

  The tech nodded with a smile and switched screens. The new screen was from a sensor ball placed on the sign at the main entrance. The mine fields started just on the other side of the sign. The staff officers leaned forward like spectators waiting for a crash and the general had to laugh. The operations officer was actually washing his hands in anticipation.

  “Sir,” said Belvoir’s sergeant major, keeping one eye on the screen, “I made a little foray on the officers’ bar.” The sergeant major held up two bottles of Moët Chandon. “I thought we might want to toast the first blast. Or something.”

  The general laughed again. These guys were really getting into the spirit. “Sure, why not,” he said then turned back to the screen at a gentle “Shit” from the operations officer.

  The mass of Posleen on the screen had stopped. A single Posleen was forward of the rest and it had stopped cold fifty meters in front of the Main Post welcome sign. The mass of Posleen behind it was not a single company but thousands. They had been concentrating on the drive up the U.S. highway and now milled in front of the sign, shuffling back and forth and fidgeting.

  A God King came forward and then another. Their alien saucers were drifting from side to side constantly, apparently to make it harder for snipers. Several of them gathered in front of the sign and appeared to engage in an argument. Slowly the saucers stopped moving back and forth as alien teeth were bared and crests lifted and fluffed.

  Another one came forward, finally, who apparently was senior. This God King took one look at the sign and backed away. Much further away. It then called the other God Kings over and continued the discussion. Another argument ensued which was finally cut off by the senior God King. At his gesture most of the God Kings and their forces simply turned around and trotted back to the south away from the facility.

  One leader was left with a single company. He watched the others retreat, then took a last glance over his shoulder and headed after them.

  * * *

  The jury-rigged control room in the boathouse was filled with stunned silence. The general leaned forward and tapped the tech on the shoulder. “Switch to U.S. 1 north,” he said quietly.

  There another force was trotting, a single company in the lead without a “point” individual. The God King was close to the front in the midst of the company and others were visible farther up the road. The company trotted down U.S. 1 to the main entrance and swung in. However, just as it neared the MP Post, which was where the booby traps started on this side, it too stopped, piling up in its haste. The God King came forward for a brief look and his crest went straight up in the air. He appeared to shout something and lifted his saucer out of ground-effect. Before the regular Posleen of his company could even get turned around, their leader was back on U.S. 1 and accelerating to the north.

  The general was never sure where the laughter started. Some said it was the sergeant major. Some said it was the female technician’s infectious giggle that set it off. Some insisted it was the deep, bass laugh of the United States Army’s Engineer. Whoever started it, it turned out to be impossible to stop for nearly ten minutes as monitor after monitor showed untouched Posleen units in full retreat.

  For years afterwards, in the midst of the worst of news, the few lucky souls who were in that control room could look at one another in brief encounters and crack the other up by a simple widening of the eye or a gesture of a crest lifted in total fear. Utter, total and abject fear. Of a twin-turreted castle. Of “Fort Belvoir, Home of the Engineer.” Of the Sapper.

  CHAPTER 66

  Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III

  1045 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

  “I think we shall stay well away from there,” commented Kenallai. The notice had been ferreted out by one of Kenallurial’s “Companions.” With the fief of the military technicians finally neutralized, perhaps they would be fewer in number.

  The crossed-rifle warriors were becoming more and more of a challenge, however. This last group, outnumbered and with pitiful weapons, had seriously mauled the oolt’ondar that assaulted them. Their last stand atop the hill had been worthy of song and there was still discussion as to which was the Kessentai. Given that there were more than enough thresh to be had, including many on foot that were yet untouched, they might declare the entire group piled on the monument at their center Kessentai and give them a single Kessanalt.

  The place that they had stood made no sense. There was a fairly good shelter on the ridge, but it was well away from the monument they had chosen to cluster upon. And the entire ridge was covered in stones. He had set Kenallurial to determining the purpose of the ridge as he and Ardan’aath surveyed the problem to the east.

  “So, old friend,” he said, gesturing to the bridge below. It was still intact but they had learned what happened when they tried to cross one. “What shall we do?”

  “That I know not,” admitted the old oolt’ondai. “If we set claw on that structure it will take us to the Fuscirt.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kenallai. “Fuscirto uut these ‘sappers’!”

  “I have, perhaps, two answers, edas’antai,” said Kenallurial, drifting up silently from behind.

  Ardan’aath turned away as Kenallai queried with a lifted crest. But the older Kessentai did not go so far as to not hear the suggestions of the younger.

  “This place is a ‘graveyard,’ a place where certain of the thresh are placed after death.”

  Kenallai tilted his head to the side in query. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was difficult for me to comprehend as well, edas’antai. However, instead of recycling their dead, the thresh apparently place them in boxes in the earth.” He gestured at a headstone. “This lists who they were and when they lived.”

  “That is,” the Kessentai wrinkled his snout in distaste, “that is disgusting.”

  The younger Kessentai lifted his crest in assent and snorted. “Nonetheless it appears to be the case. Furthermore, these in this place are not just thresh, they are all threshkreen.”

  At that Ardan’aath turned and looked at the serried rows of headstones drifting off in every direction. “Oh, abat shit,” he whispered.

  Kenallai looked at him questioningly. “What?”

  “I will make you a bet. Most or all of them are not just threshkreen. I will bet you they are Kessanalt.”

  At those words both of the other Kessentai were flushed by combat hormones. Kessanalt was accorded to only the most potent, the bravest. To be surrounded by unrecycled souls of Kessanalt was like some nestling nightmare. At a visceral level they were suddenly surrounded by
the larger and fiercer teeth that drove all the Posleen to become as secure as possible.

  “Fuscirto uut!” said Kenallai. “First metal threshkreen. Then where the Kessanalt go to die. What is next?” he finished rhetorically. “You said you had two answers?”

  “Yes, my edas’antai,” Kenallurial agreed. “I perceive a possible way to capture the bridge.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the oolt’ondai. “And will it work?”

  “It might,” admitted the younger Kessentai. He told them what it was.

  Kenallai watched a descending ship as it headed to the other side of the river. If they did not make the crossing, the latecomers might make a bridgehead. He could call his Oolt’pos forward to make the crossing. But many of the large command ships had been destroyed doing just that and it would take precious time. No, better to try the crossing with his eson’antai’s idea.

  “Look at those abat,” snorted Ardan’aath. “We do all the work and they come wandering in to take our prize.”

  “They are landing on the other side of the river, Ardan’aath,” Kenallai retorted with a snort. “They seem to be landing in a grat’s nest to me.”

  * * *

  The sonic boom overhead was hardly noticeable after all the artillery and demolitions they had endured. But Keren still looked up.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said as the Suburban bounced across the torn grass to the south of Washington’s Monument. The lawn had already been abused by various tracked and wheeled vehicles and was rutted and worn. They had seen the units scattered across the mall and the monuments area and wondered where the hell their assembly area was in the whole sea of tents, trucks and fighting vehicles.

  “Just another lander,” said Elgars. A couple of ibuprofen had apparently helped with the wrist.

  “Yeah, but it’s gonna land on some poor bastards who are gonna have to do something about it.”

  “You mean it’s landing in a hornet’s nest.”

  “Yeah. But it’s gonna kill a bunch of hornets.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Carter had never set up a squad tent in his entire military career. But, not surprisingly, the AID had precise directions. So, while one squad was laying out the grid for the tent city, he and his squad were showing a group of civilians how to set them up. The rest of the company was explaining field latrines in another area or standing guard. The guards were still by the Bradleys, rather than around the President, when the Posleen ship landed.

  The ship slowed to practically zero and drifted, light as gossamer, over to Fifth Street. There it set down and dropped its ramp.

  The crowd had started to panic at the first sonic boom. The now familiar sound went straight to the reptile hindbrain and triggered a flight. Unfortunately everyone had a different idea of which direction to run in and the result was a riot.

  The riot stopped when the ship arrived. As the shadow drifted across, the mob noted distance and direction in its mob mind and headed the other way. The effect was to sweep the Detail along with it.

  The President, on the other hand, in his half-ton battle armor was simply buffeted. Once he was knocked over as he stood his ground but as the crowd thinned he regained his feet.

  The golf course between the Posleen ship and him was scattered with injured and dead from the panicked mob. Most of them were children or the old. As the ship drifted to the ground the President shook his head. He looked around at all the poor people who had been killed and injured in this last incident and put them squarely on his ledger. He could have ordered them dispersed, put into scattered and controlled groups. Then all those poor children who were lying broken on the ground wouldn’t have been there. And if he had had the sense that God gave a donkey all the poor children who were scattered across Prince William County would still be alive.

  He shook his head one last time and looked into the depths of the hated helmet. He really, really hoped that the gestalt knew what it was doing. He could feel it pulsing against his control and he was about ready to let it take over.

  He put the helmet on and waited for it to open pockets over his eyes, nose and mouth before opening his eyes. “AID?”

  “Sir?”

  “When the first Posleen appears, begin taking your control from the gestalt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will attempt to not make distracting movements and sounds. However, if I move in a major way, AID, you follow Sergeant Martinez. Clear?”

  “Clear,” said the AID. There was a strong but complex surge from the gestalt. He took it as agreement.

  He reached behind him and lowered the M-300 grav-rifle. As the heavy weapon dropped into place, a series of screens blossomed across his vision. The information was surprisingly comprehensible for a change. Range and bearing tracks crawled across as he shifted the weapon back and forth. A crack appeared at the top of the ship’s deployment platform.

  “Well, guys,” he whispered to the electronic entities, “it is up to you. Do your President proud.” At least he would be able to look his ghosts in the eye.

  CHAPTER 67

  Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III

  1046 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

  The gruff but friendly colonel had left, after ensuring that Ryan’s platoon of trainees was firmly attached to the local force. He had been replaced by a much more dour captain. Lieutenant Ryan felt like he’d wandered into a play in the middle of act three. The colonel and the captain seemed to communicate in some sort of code. But he could tell that the captain was not pleased to make his acquaintance. His only comment was something to the effect of points for the WPPA.

  Now, Lieutenant Ryan had not been in the Army long, but he knew what the “West Point Protective Association” was. Since it was normally invoked to save the career of a West Point graduate, he had to assume that he was in deeper shit than he thought over “losing” his platoon. The good work they had done at Occoquan had been forgotten, of course, and the only thing that would be remembered was that he had wandered around the Mall all day looking for a home. It didn’t seem fair but, then again, the Army rarely was. All the “atta-boys” in the world were erased with one “oh-shit.”

  However, whether the captain liked him or not, Ryan felt it was his duty to point a few things out to him. So he screwed up his courage and approached.

  “Sir?” he said, diffidently. The captain turned from where he had been surveying the work on the Arlington Bridge. The location was perfect for getting a good overview, since the back side of the Lincoln Memorial looked directly across the bridge. It did, however, have a few down sides.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Ryan?” he asked in a supercilious tone. Captain Spitman was a tall, broad officer whose black eyes were piercing.

  “I was just wondering, sir,” said the lieutenant, hesitantly. He cleared his throat. “This location is… sort of exposed.” Some of the engineers on the deck had been blinded by the flashes of the Pentagon’s destruction. It only highlighted how exposed the position was.

  The captain’s face tightened. It could just have been a question from a junior officer requesting greater knowledge, but the captain obviously took it as an attack. “And I suppose that that observation is from your mass of combat experience, Lieutenant?” he snarled.

  The fact that the reaction was completely overboard was lost on the lieutenant. Ryan’s first reaction, which he suppressed, was sarcastic. He wanted to say, No, it’s from having my head somewhere above my waistline. The location was exposed. The first Posleen approaching the bridge would be looking right at them. And if they were even slightly on the ball they would shoot the shit out of this half-ass “command post.”

  But he controlled himself manfully. “No, sir. I was just wondering.”

  “This is the best location to control the rigging and detonation of the charges, Lieutenant. We have three separate methods of detonation leading to the command center. I would hate to have one of those out where anyone could blow up the bridge at whim. Furthermore, it
permits me a clear view of approaching Posleen. Last but not least this is well beyond the standard range of engagement for Posleen forces.”

  The lieutenant nodded in agreement at this fatuous explanation. It immediately called to mind Law Seven of Murphy’s Laws of War: If the enemy is in range, so are you. “Very well, sir. Thank you very much for that explanation. I was wondering, I have a few issues to discuss with my platoon sergeant. By your leave, sir?” He finished in a ritual request to be excused.

  The captain grandly waved him away and went back to watching the last few wires being rigged into the circuit board. The bridge did indeed have three backup systems to drop it. One of the three would be guaranteed to work. Of course, they all terminated at the command post, so it was a point failure source. A minor item that had been glaringly obvious to the trainee lieutenant. A minor item that was pointed out in all the “how not to do it” parts of the manuals. But that had somehow completely escaped the engineer company commander.

  * * *

  “Echo Three Golf One One, this is Whiskey Four Delta One Five, over.”

  Keren glanced at the radio with a puzzled expression and handed the mike to Elgars as he pulled out his ANCD. The device was about to expire, and he had no idea where to find another.

  The platoon had stopped on the back side of the Washington Monument mound. It put them hull-down to any Posleen at the level of the Potomac, but they were still in view of Arlington Hill. There were no more fireworks from the Hill, so he had to assume that the Old Guard major was raising one with absent companions. But, for the time being, the platoon was out of it.