by John Ringo
CHAPTER 41
I-95 near VA 639, VA, United States of America, Sol III
0629 EDT October 10th, 2004 ad
During the early morning hours, work had virtually stopped on the Richmond defenses. Occasionally the crash of explosions could be heard in the distance and the portable TVs receiving broadcasts from Continental Army Headquarters held everyone enthralled. However, with the breaking dawn the enormous boom of the FAE in the distance and the uplinked video broke the spell and the tired cavalry troopers and civilian grading contractors returned to preparing the I-95 fighting positions. Meanwhile teams of women and teenagers emplaced claymores and other mines along the verge. It looked to be a hot reception for the Posleen.
"Let's get to it, boys and girls," said Sergeant First Class Mueller as the extended break ended. "It's us next."
* * *
"Are we ready?"
"Yes, Mr. President. Obviously, given the time of day and all the transmission problems there is not a major audience. But there is a higher share than normal because of the emergency."
"It'll have to do." He turned to the secretary of defense. "What is the situation with Tenth Corps?"
"They've turned around and are headed back down to Quantico. It's a bit confused but I'm sure they'll get straightened out in time."
"They'd better. What about Ninth Corps?"
"They're headed for Manassas. The whole First Army is heading into northern Virginia, with the exception of the Fifty-Fifth Armored Division, which is assaulting a landing in Maine."
"Maine. Maine and where else?"
"Arkansas, California and Oregon all have at least one landing of a battlegroup," answered the FEMA representative referring to her notes. "Several other states have already dealt with individual landers. But only Fredericksburg has been hit by a full globe. Not counting Fredericksburg or areas that haven't turned in complete reports, we have over fifteen thousand civilian casualties. Most of those are in the immediate area of landings. About two-thirds are mortalities." She almost continued with a report on the evacuation of northern Virginia.
A bad situation had gone completely catastrophic when Tenth Corps was forced to shut down Interstate 95 and the Beltway to turn around. The corps was out of the way now, and most of the lanes on both sides of the highways had been opened to traffic, but the monumental traffic jam had stalled cars all over it. Instead of pushing more traffic through than normal, the interstates were almost deserted. Millions of Virginians were now on foot, heading towards the Potomac bridges.
"Mortalities," repeated the President with a grimace. "Great. How 'bout just telling your President that he lost fifteen thousand American civilians in the depths of the night."
"And an almost irreplaceable engineering battalion. And a city, sir," said the secretary of defense. "On national television no less. There, feel better?"
"No." The President turned to the makeup artist. "Are we done?"
"Just about, Mr. President. You want to look your best, don't you?"
"That's going to be hard," he commented looking at the text of the speech. It was not the best copy he had ever seen, but it was fairly good given the time the writer had to create it.
"You need to look good, Mr. President," said his Chief of Staff. "Presenting just the right face at this time is very important. You can't appear worried or haggard. It will send the wrong message."
"Would someone please tell me something new? I can do without the pointless reminders."
"The Eleventh Mobile Infantry Division commander called," said the secretary of defense, reading an e-mail hardcopy from CONARC. "As the senior Fleet representative, he asked that we hold off on using the Third Battalion of the Five Hundred Fifty-Fifth. He recommended that we use First Battalion instead."
"Did he give a reason?" asked the President with a look of confusion. "General Olds didn't want them because they're on block leave, right? And isn't the commander stuck in California?"
"Well, Mr. President," said the secretary. "He pointed out that they are fully trained and tested, unlike the Third. Third Battalion is only halfway through their initial training cycle, sir, and has not had an FSTEP."
"So why did General Olds prefer to bring them all the way up from Carolina instead of using First Battalion?" asked the president. The answer had just reinforced the question. "Isn't that the battalion that's officially assigned to him?"
The secretary of defense looked uncomfortable. "I think you'd have to ask General Olds, sir."
"I'm not asking, Olds, Robby. I'm asking my secretary of defense! Is it that divided chain of command thing, again?"
"I wouldn't venture to guess, Mr. President," the SecDef answered, tightly.
"Guess," the President snapped, tired of the prevarication.
"I think it might be a matter of General Olds's opinion of the First Batt's officers, Mr. President, rather than their readiness," commented the President's military aide.
The President turned and looked at the normally silent brigadier general. Since his function was specifically to handle information flow and keep his opinions to himself, the President was surprised to hear him say anything.
"Why do you say that?"
"I was present for the conference on Fortress Forward, Mr. President," the brigadier related without a change of expression. His face might as well have been carved from mahogany. "General Olds several times expressed openly his distrust of the ACS concept in general and specifically of some of the officers of the battalion assigned primary responsibility for his area of operations."
"Did he state which officers?" the President asked.
"No, sir, but the person giving the ACS brief to which he took particular exception was Michael O'Neal."
"The Medal Of Honor winner?" the President asked, surprised. "Did he indicate what he had against him?"
"Again, Mr. President, let me clearly state that he expressed reservations about the ACS program and some of the officers in the battalion attached to his Army. He did not state that it was Captain O'Neal he particularly found offense with, although that might have been taken from the context."
The President looked at his secretary of defense. "He's your friend. You want to explain that?"
The secretary gave the military aide a long measuring look which the general returned without a blink. The brigadier had commanded the Special Forces Sniper School for three years and could stare down a cat. "Jim Olds is an experienced and combat tested officer who has certain strongly held opinions, Mr. President," the SecDef explained. "Many of those opinions are about the nature and function of an officer corps within an Army. He also has a strong opinion about how this war should be prosecuted and how funding should be distributed. They are opinions that the majority of the ACS community disagree with.
"Given those facts, I doubt that General Olds is particularly happy with one of the companies in his command that consumes a disproportionate share of funding being commanded by a former sergeant. Or the influence that that former sergeant has had on its preparation and training."
* * *
Mike fishtailed the Tahoe through the median, climbed out of a ditch and pulled out under the nose of a five-ton truck. The vehicle braked with a blare of horn as Mike cut into the lane and then swung the Tahoe back onto the median as the way became clear. The pickup pounded down the rough median, swerving around trucks, buses and Humvees pulled off the road for breakdowns and bouncing in and out of ruts cut by previous passersby. It seemed like he had been traveling up the twisty mountain interstate his whole life. He was barely over the border of Virginia and the traffic was only getting heavier.
He glanced at the heads-up display of the Eastern United States with unit movements denoted on it and grimaced. Murphy's Law was settling in with a vengeance.
"Captain O'Neal," chirped his AID, "incoming call from Lieutenant Colonel Hanson . . ."
"O'Neal?"
"Yes, sir."
"Caught in traffic, I see." The colonel was getti
ng good at drawing information from his AID.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm stranded in Los Angeles. I'm hopping AMTRAK in about thirty minutes, but . . ."
"Shelly, display continent tactical." Mike glanced at the virtual display. Green and red zones were scattered across the United States, with grounding and routing arrows superimposed. "It'll be at least a couple of days, sir. Unless the Sixteenth Cav can clear that infestation in Kansas."
"Yep. And airlines are well and truly grounded. There were scatter landings in the interior and all it takes is one lander in the wrong spot."
"Roger that, sir."
"How long for you?"
Mike saw another MP post coming up, the Hummer-25 already training its barrel on his hurtling truck.
"Damn near as long at this rate, sir. I'll see what I can do."
"Well, I talked to Major Givens, and unless either I or Major Rutherford makes it back in time, that'll leave the battalion in command of the S-3. Who do you think I said should fill in as S-3?"
"Great, like I want to plan this operation." Mike didn't mention his questions about Nightingale's abilities or his own capabilities. It would be a hell of a test of both. "Did you see the Tenth Corps go into defense?"
"Yes, lovely. I wonder what's going on there?"
"I don't know, sir, but I have to talk my way past a roadblock." He started slowing as the MP team leader got out of the Humvee.
"Okay, good luck. I don't know if it will help, but I'm ordering you to reach the unit as quickly as possible. Using any means you deem necessary."
"Roger, sir. Well, good luck to you as well."
"Thanks. Out here."
"Shelly, get me First Sergeant Pappas."
"First Sergeant Pappas is not near his AID," answered the AID.
Mike wrinkled his brow. "Is he on post?"
"When last located. But he is not in range of his AID. His AID is in his office. He is not."
Mike, who went virtually nowhere without his AID, shrugged in puzzlement. "Okay, get me Lieutenant Nightingale."
"Lieutenant Nightingale is not near her AID."
"What the hell is this?" the commander grumped. "Is anybody with their AIDs?"
"Lieutenant Arnold is available."
"Well, get me Tim then."
After a moment the weapons platoon leader answered. "Captain O'Neal?"
"Yeah, Tim. Look, I'm stuck in traffic on I-81. I don't know how long I'll be. Tell Top that I want an assessment of Nightingale. If she's not up to the job he's to tell Major Givens on my say-so. I don't care if she remains technically in command, but I want Gunny Pappas to run the show. Clear?"
"Uh, yeah. Yes, sir."
"Do you know where the gunny is? He's not by his AID."
"Not exactly. I'll see if I can track him down."
"Okay. I'm gonna bend heaven and hell to get back as fast as I can, but I don't know if its gonna work."
"Yes, sir. Take care."
"Right. Out here. Corporal," said O'Neal, rolling down the window and holding out his Fleet ID, "my name's O'Neal, Fleet Strike . . ."
* * *
"My fellow Americans . . ."
The President personally hated that phrase but it was the only acceptable one for such a usage. He stared at the TelePrompTer and firmly quelled all doubts. Though he knew that the country was about to pay a terrible price, it was a price he was sure the American people would call for, a price that duty and honor called for.
" . . . you have by now all witnessed the terrible events which have occurred overnight. In the space of twelve hours thousands of American citizens have lost their lives and one of the most historic cities in our nation has been erased from the face of the Earth.
"I call upon you now, as Americans, to face this challenge as we have faced every challenge in our great history, with honor, courage and a sense of duty towards all mankind.
"The current military plan in a situation such as this is clear. Since the Posleen are here earlier than expected, and in overwhelming local strength, the proper military reaction is to retreat to better terrain, to retreat behind the James and Potomac Rivers to the north and south, into the Appalachians on the west, until such time as sufficient military forces are assembled to defeat the enemy on the plains of battle.
"This is a good and just plan, one caring, as American generals always have, for their soldiers. If there were insufficient time to evacuate the civilian populace the decision would be to stay and slow the Posleen until the civilians could evacuate. But there is enough time to evacuate these areas. Manassas, Arlington and Alexandria, all of northern and central Virginia, is evacuating even as I speak." He took a pause, not for any reason of drama, but gathering courage for the words he was about to say.
Throughout the country, at radios and, where they were functioning, televisions, Americans leaned forward waiting for their chief executive to continue, knowing that such a reaction, such a decision was anathema to the politician.
"Unfortunately, sometimes the proper military response is not the correct action for the country as a whole. Many mistakes have been made in history because of taking the proper military choice. It is for this very reason that the military is under civilian control in the United States and virtually every western nation. If we had taken the proper military choice we would have dropped nuclear weapons in Korea. The proper military choice led to the Battle of the Bulge. The proper military choices nearly lost World Wars One and Two to the Germans.
"I have, therefore, decided to override the 'proper military choice.' I have ordered the Tenth Ground Forces Corps, the Corps of Northern Virginia, to go into defensive positions south of the Occoquan River in the area of Quantico Marine Base. Their purpose is to stop Posleen incursions aimed towards Alexandria, Arlington and Washington, D.C.
"In addition, the soldiers of the Ninth Corps, the Pennsylvania and New Jersey Corps, should arrive in time to take positions south of Manassas, Virginia, a name well known to us all. It is also remembered in some parts of the country by the name Bull Run. It is a land saturated in the history of conflict.
"I have done this, over the strong objections of my most senior commanders, because I believe that is the desire of the American people and I believe that the justifiable military reaction misses one small factor.
"We have been attacked," the simple statement came out as almost a snarl, while his expression changed hardly at all. "For the first time in nearly two hundred years, the United States has been invaded. And I don't like that. If these . . . things communicate among themselves I want them to get one communication loud and clear. If you attack the United States, you are asking for a bucket-load of trouble. If you land on these shores, the only things you are going to get for your pains are chaos and death!
"The video from Fredericksburg, horrific as it is, clearly shows what Americans, surprised and facing overwhelming odds, can do to these creatures on their own turf. As your President, I cannot simply throw away northern Virginia, not and face myself in the mirror in the morning.
"I have made this decision, knowing that it means the death of many of the soldiers sworn to the service of their country.
"To the soldiers in the field, I have only this to say.
"Obey your orders, care for your comrades and take the field knowing that few things can face a human who is in the right and just keeps coming.
"Good luck. Pile 'em up like cordwood."
* * *
Mueller watched the female technician hooking wires up to the demolition circuit board. "Where are we with the stringing?" she asked. Her hands moved with a graceful haste, barely pausing as each circuit was connected; her fingers seemed to blur in the morning light.
"We've strung all but the outer edge, and the engineers have placed all the detonators. We're still putting up the claymores, but they'll be done by the time you're ready."
"I wish we had enough Pyronics for this job," she said, testily. "I hate working with this lowest-bidder military st
uff."
"Hey, MILSPEC is the class of the world!"
"Hah! Tell it to the amateurs, kid. I've worked with every type of detonator in the world and five gets you ten one of these blasting caps fails when I do the systems check. These dang military caps are too dang sensitive."
"Okay, I've got ten bucks says you're wrong."
"It was an expression. I don't drink, swear or bet. I have enough excitement in my life as it is."
"What do you usually do?"
"Well, I used to drop buildings for a living, but lately I've been a home demolition contractor." She set the last circuit in place and hooked up the meter. "How certain are you that they haven't hooked up any of the blasting caps?"
"Not certain enough."
"Good answer. I wanted to see if you had any sense." She stood up and arched her back, rubbing at her lumbar. "I prefer doing this with a table, too."
"We must all make our little sacrifices for the war effort."
"Sure. Personally, I gave up chocolate. I'm gonna go do the circuit. Stay here and make absolutely certain no one touches the board. I don't like all these amateurs running around."
"I thought I was one of them."
"Yeah, but that way I only have to worry about one."
"Let me make you a deal. Since I am in charge of most of the 'amateurs,' especially the civilian ones, and I really shouldn't be tied to this spot, let me get a guard who knows darn well not to touch anything and only understands simple commands so he gets it right."
"Whatever."
Mueller came back a few moments later with one of the cavalry troopers providing security for the construction site. With a screen of Bradleys and Humvees five miles down the road, Mueller was personally convinced that the Posleen would be spotted well before they reached the ambush. But the military's standard operating procedures were developed from numerous situations where people were personally convinced of one thing or another and totally wrong. So—despite anyone's personal conviction—Colonel Abrahamson was providing security to all of the ambush preparation sites.
This was the ambush site most distant from Richmond and presumably the point of first contact for the Twelfth Corps. At this point, near Road 656, there was a perfect site for a long-range armor and mechanical ambush. An overpass ran along a very slight ridgeline perpendicular to the interstate. North of the overpass there was a straight stretch nearly two miles long. Half a mile from the overpass a group of trees crowded the road at either side and ran down the median. In the midst of the trees a shallow and apparently unnamed creek crossed the interstate in a box culvert.