by John Ringo
This time the movement was a relatively short distance. The battalion, less Bravo Company, was in a four-column formation, running down Seventh Street in Downtown D.C. to the beat of Heart’s “Crazy on You.” All Duncan had to worry about was coordinating two corps’ worth of artillery while doing it.
“Status.” The voice on the other end was cold and distant. Mighty Mite was obviously in his prebattle trance.
“Up.” It was not that the run was taking away air. This was barely breaking a sweat. But that was all the Old Man needed to know. It was all he wanted to know.
“How much?”
Well, usually. “Three battalions of One-Five-Five and scattered mortars.”
There was no answer and Duncan realized that the Man was gone. It was just as well. The tubes were there, but he was still slamming out the plan, his fingers flying across a virtual map. Each of the units that had responded positively was available for fire as an icon along one side of the map. Dragging an icon onto the target point called up a dialogue asking for fire type and quantity. After the first the others called on the same locations took the first as a default. It was a simple method of developing a fire plan, but the complex plan the Old Man had laid out called for several separate fire plans with contingencies. Setting it up was taking time but he kept slamming it out. To the sound of the drums.
* * *
“Gunny.”
“Yes, sir.” The NCO angled across the formation as they passed the MCI building. He accelerated ahead, driving the pace and elongating his stride to get to the front. He pushed it up to nearly fifty miles an hour down the nearly empty street. An advance party of real runners had moved ahead to seal the Mall end, preventing a general retreat up the route. But he had to get to the Mall ahead of the battalion. He needed to have a heart-to-heart with a couple of units. Sergeant First Class Clarke had done wonders getting the cluster fuck on the Mall organized, but that was just organization. Some of the units were willing to stand and fight. But most were running again. He was zeroing in on a few that were critical to the plan. If he couldn’t get them to stand and deliver the Old Man might as well throw in the towel.
“Status.” The captain was at level four again. It wasn’t like anybody had to protect him or keep him from tripping over the curb, he reacted faster in a trance than when he was “here.” But it was mildly unsettling to hear a voice with no more emotion than a new AID.
“Coming along. They don’t want to deploy forward.”
“Push it. Get some units to the Watergate. Any units. Stat.”
Pappas swallowed the sigh. “Yes, sir.” There was no point arguing; he knew the plan and the requirements. But doing the plan was something else. He put one foot down on the hood of a Mercedes and soared off it, pushing the speed up even further. If he was going to get somebody to the Gate, he had to step on it. It was going to take direct, personal attention. The fucking Mall was a mess. The Posleen were organized and ready to roll. It was gonna be a slaughter.
* * *
Ardan’aath snarled. “This puny bridge is creating a total hash of our units! The entire host is pushing forward without any control! It will take forever to sort out.” He drifted his tenar to the side, watching his junior Kessentai trying to reform the oolt’ondar. His own oolt’os were somewhere in the mess as well, but they would find him. Most had been with him through worlds. They would find him in Hell.
“Well, at least we have a bridge,” said Kenallurial, blowing a snort.
Kenallai raised his crest to forestall fresh argument. “We are exposed here,” he said, just as a wave of explosions tracked across the oolt to the south. The blasts were small, the charges weak. But it killed several oolt’os outright and others were rendered as a loss.
The exuberant young commander waved off the blasts. “The fire is coming from near that structure,” he said, gesturing to the distant obelisk behind him. “It is random. The thresh cannot hi—” His chest exploded in yellow as a .50-caliber bullet punched through his neural path and out through his chest.
The head of the young Kessentai flew upwards and yellow blood spurted from his mouth and nostrils. He slumped onto his tenar controls and his talons scrabbled at them as he appeared to be trying to say something. The crocodilian mouth appeared to shape the first syllables of the name of his lord, father and master, then he slid out of the cradle and to the torn ground, his fiery eyes going cold and glazed.
The sensors on a half dozen tenars screamed and weapons automatically swiveled towards the source of the fire. The weapons vomited a mixture of coherent light, relativistic missiles and concentrated plasma. A corner of the Monument was gouged out as the fire continued into the spot where someone had had the temerity to assassinate a God King. In a moment it was joined by the fire of dozens and then hundreds of Posleen normals, following the aiming points of their gods.
Of all that host, only one did not fire. Kenallai sat upon his unmoving tenar, staring down at the body of his eson’antai. As the fire slacked off the oolt’os came forward to start the rendering, but he held up his hand.
Finally, finally, he understood the thresh and it made him fear. Suddenly he was forced to wonder if there was not a better way than to make such a one into an evening’s meal. Not even a special meal, but simply one bit mixed into the ration chain. Was there not something to such a one as this brilliant Kessentai? Something that lasted beyond the moment the thrice-Fistnal threshkreen put a bit of metal through him? Was there not something that lived on?
And he finally understood something else. Sometime, somewhere, someone in the Host had felt as he had. Had felt this for an eson’antai, for a beloved comrade, for a beloved enemy. And had fought for a change. For a bit of tradition that lifted out of the continuous cycle of conquest and orna’adar. For something higher.
He had never felt that calling. But he understood it now. Understood it at last.
He reached down to his feet and snapped loose a staff. There was only one per Kessentai, in keeping with tradition. Some cast them away as scoutmasters. Most had cast them at one time or another. Three had been cast on the long ride to this hellish spot. But never by him. He had never understood the need. Now he did. Finally. He finally understood his son, who had cast his at the blasted heath of the first conquest on this blasted planet. This thrice-damned, never to be mentioned, horrid, horrid little planet.
And he finally understood the thresh. And feared. For they felt this way for every single death. To the threshkreen, all the gathered thresh, all the wasted thresh, all the thresh on the hoof were Kessanalt. Each and every one. And every single threshkreen felt the anger he did now. It was terrifying to suddenly realize how thoroughly they had erred in landing on this white and blue ball.
“We are doomed,” he whispered, as he tossed the staff onto the body. He looked to the oolt’os. They were of his personal oolt and all fairly intelligent. They should be able to follow the instructions. “Carry him to the hill.” He pointed to be sure they were clear on which hill he meant. “Place him on the pile of threshkreen that are upon the top of the hill. Take the staff. Report back to this location when you are done.”
Ardan’aath drifted his tenar up behind him. “We have to get moving.” He pointed to the distant obelisk. “We’ve killed that one, but more will be back.”
Kenallai turned to the older Kessentai. The commander could not expect him to suddenly change as he had. He had not had the vision. “Do you realize how thoroughly we have failed?”
Ardan’aath did not even turn his head. But a twitch of crest betrayed his discomfort. “I never expected you to be one to throw the staff,” he said dubiously.
Kenallai flared his nostrils in agreement. “Well, I have. And I will tell you. We are caught in the grat’s nest. There is no escape.”
Ardan’aath took a deep breath. “I will give you a moment to decide. After that you can take the field or return to the rear.”
Kenallai flared his crest in bleak humor. “You idiot. The
re is no rear. I will take the field with or without you. And be damned to your threats. But it is because we have no retreat! This is the end! We have thresh dug-in like abat in this damn building,” he continued, gesturing to the monument behind him. “We have the force to the south, which has destroyed the host there and we are faced with this force here while the host trickles across the river. We are fuscirto uut!”
Ardan’aath gestured in negation. “You are made soft by the teachings of that young fool.” He gestured towards the obelisk-topped mound. “They are few and already running.”
The sensors screamed again as another God King slumped off his tenar. This time the fire raked from one end of the mound to the other, tearing across the front of the obelisk. But even as the fire tore into the engineering work, another target dot appeared on the OAS Annex. And another on the Agriculture Building. Then a group of oolt’os splashed away from the explosion of the first 120mm mortar round.
The .50-caliber rifles were not only powerful, they had enormous range. The snipers were taking shots from nearly a mile. Most of them were falling among the normals, causing unnoticed casualties. But the occasional shots, better or more lucky than the others, were hitting the leaders. And drawing massive response. But as more of the weapons joined the fray, the response of the God Kings was becoming more diffused.
Kenallurial fluffed his crest. “We have come far together. But now it is time to sever our relationship.” He nodded at his old friend. “I go to the field. And I shall not return.”
He turned his tenar and sent it floating down towards his waiting oolt. The heavily armed company would scythe into the distant defenders. But he already knew it was for naught.
Suddenly a targeting dot appeared at the top of the obelisk and a moment later the tenar of Ardan’aath evaporated in actinic fire as a bullet penetrated the crystal pack.
The low-grade nuclear explosion washed the steps of the Monument clear of Posleen. Kenallai had already moved away from his former comrade when it happened and he controlled his tenar as the shock wave threatened to drown it in the shallow reflecting pool.
He was beyond cursing. He winced at the gouge riven across his back by a bit of shrapnel and looked to the distant obelisk.
“That is just about enough,” he whispered. “To the Alld’nt with this.” He gestured to the members of his oolt’ondar. “Off your tenar!” He suited action to words, climbing off his own saucer and removing the plasma cannon from its pintle mount. The heavy power pack was lovingly placed across his back as the other God Kings dismounted and began gathering the oolt’os of the late Ardan’aath. “If we are among the oolt’os the fuscirto uut thresh cannot pick us out!”
He turned to the east and the distant monument as another line of explosions tracked across the mass of oolt’os gathered before the pool. “Let us to battle!” he cried. “It is a good day to die!”
* * *
The cough tore wrackingly through her chest and more blood spotted the white dust. The falling limestone cap stones had pretty well flailed her ribcage and put the final whammy on her left arm, but it had been a good shot. She had stayed in place long enough to see the God King saucer blow. Her eyes were still mostly blind from it. But it had cost her.
She knew all the long goddamn run up the stairs that it was stupid. But the thought of the shot, when she’d managed to avoid getting killed after the first one, was just too good to pass up. A shot from the top of the Washington Monument. It was a sniper’s wet dream. And it had been a good shot. She knew it the moment the stock slammed into her shoulder. Perfect, right through the fuckin’ X-ring. Despite the heaving breath. Despite the pounding heart.
The heart still refused to stop pounding. Only, now it was pounding blood out on the marble floor. But it was worth it. It had been a perfect moment. And her life had had damn few perfect moments. It had been a good shot…
CHAPTER 71
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1116 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
They might not win, but they were taking their best shot. Keren had tossed aside his board and was down to breaking rounds. The guns were traversing their fire, walking the explosions across the front of the oncoming Posleen force. Two more gun tracks had joined them and the four mortars stitched a seam across the enemy.
Three Gun seemed to have settled down now that more ammo and support had shown up. He wished that the backup driver of the ammo truck would pitch in or at least put down her rifle. But he had become familiar with the look in her eye and wasn’t going to be the first to suggest it. And it wasn’t as if they needed the help.
The troops helping wore every damn kind of unit patch. There were cavalry, infantry and a mass of combat-support types. They didn’t really know what they were doing, but the hands made the job much faster and the mortar rounds were finally piling up quicker than the guns could pour them out. About half of them had come with a cavalry bird colonel. The guy looked like he was seventeen, which just meant he was another rejuv. As he strode around directing the support force he displayed the most incredible command of invective Keren had ever heard.
And these were just the dregs, the ones without decent weapons, or any at all for that matter. Most of the volunteers had joined the cavalry troop on Monument Mound. Some of them, they were just tired of running. Some of them figured if they didn’t stop the horses here it was all over; might as well die here as anywhere. But plenty of them seemed to just be pissed about where it was. Sure, take Virginia, who cares. Take Arlington Cemetery. We’ll take it back. But the Monument? Fuck that. There were a bunch of obvious rejuvs; most of them arrived together and seemed to know each other. He didn’t know who they were or where they had come from; they weren’t from any regular unit. But they were coming out of the woodwork now, leading any damn soldier that showed an ounce of willingness.
He had seen plenty of the soldiers on the Mall run. The tent city that had been setting up was nearly empty. And most of them weren’t here. But a good few were.
They were black and white and oriental and Hispanic. Men and women. Most of ’em stank from days of running. Plenty of ’em looked like they could use a good meal, or a night or two with no guard duty and no nightmares.
But they were here. And they were helping. The ammo truck carried a mixed load and the volunteers swarmed over it, throwing down cases of .50 caliber to feed the guns on the tracks, breaking open the mortar rounds and running forward to feed the infantry positions.
The infantry, in the meantime, was laying down a curtain of fire. At least six hundred soldiers had crept up the mound and now fired at the oncoming Posleen. They were belly down with just their heads and rifles showing. An occasional HVM would strike a section and open it up or the odd round would strike an individual, but more volunteers would creep forward to fill the gaps.
Sure, most had run. But plenty more stayed. And the horses would have the Monument over their dead bodies.
* * *
“First Sergeant, I don’t care if you are Fleet. I don’t care if you have orders from God Himself. I am going back there over my dead body. I’m not even going to think about it. There’s no way to win and I’m not going to be a stupid hero.” The tired and dirty first lieutenant was the last officer the cavalry company had left. Of course, he was in charge of less than a platoon of Abrams so it wasn’t like he was overtaxed.
Pappas thought about the statement for a moment. “L-T, I need your tracks at the Watergate. I’m getting part of an infantry battalion headed that way and there’s a buncha artillery support. But I really, really need your tracks, too.”
“No. And what’s more — fuck, no,” snarled the lieutenant, tired of arguing with the remorseless NCO. The upstart Fleet bastard had been nagging him for nearly an hour before the horses crossed the river. If they hadn’t crossed he might have stuck around, but as it was there was just no reason. No reason at all. No force on Earth was going to stop the Posleen tide now that it was over the Potom
ac. They might as well head back to New York city as stick around and get eaten.
The officer dug at the plasteel fingers holding onto the coaming of his TC hatch. “Get off my track.” The lieutenant switched on the intercom. “Pauls, move out.” As the Abrams sprang to life, the other four tanks fell in behind it, moving down the Mall to the east, towards the Capitol and away from the fighting around the Arlington Bridge.
Pappas sighed and leaned forward. Steel fingers removed the helmet from the struggling lieutenant’s head and pulled him in close. The writhing officer found that fighting against them was like fighting a mechanical clamp.
“AID, whisper mode,” said Pappas, calmly. Then he whispered to the lieutenant. “You said that it would be over your dead body. Turn this platoon around or I will squeeze your head until it pops. Literally.” Pappas palmed the back of the officer’s head and applied a calculated amount of pressure.
The officer writhed in the iron grasp and whined from the pain. It felt as if his eyeballs were going to burst. “You can’t do this the whole way there!” he shouted. One shin banged painfully against the thermal repeater but the lesser pain went unnoticed.
Pappas face hardened and he yanked the officer out of the tank. “AID, broadcast to all tank units. All units. Stop right here. We have to have a little talk.” The tanks continued to the east. Instead of stopping they actually increased speed. “AID, did that get to them all?”