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"Good God," said the fighter jock. "How the hell did that happen?" The various perso
" . . . explain what happened and show you the face of the enemy in my office, the senior editors at CNN and the DOD press office have prepared the following tape. It serves as the final work of that fine journalist and shows, as no words can, the true face of the devil. This transmission was the last set picked up by the supporting Federation stealth ships. Parents should ask small children to leave the room."
* * *
"General Trayner, I'd like to thank you for this opportunity . . ." The dark-haired female reporter speaking had serious eyes, deeply troubled. She was in a clearing in apparently unbroken forests of looming purple. Twisty blue and green edifices could be seen on the edge of the camera view, thin and sinuous; they seemed too delicate to withstand normal gravity. A low crab shape scuttled across the background, a Tchpth on some unknown errand, forever impressed into immortality. "What is your impression so far of the Posleen forces and the security of our position here? We seem to be more or less surrounded by fighting." There was a distant crackling, like a thousand lightnings and the sky in the background lit in actinic fire.
The general smiled confidently. "Well, Shari, as you know, the Posleen are generally unable to cross rivers and mountains if they are under fire. Although the Galactics have a lot of problems fighting the Posleen effectively, they are holding this area with a fair degree of confidence. The region is bounded on two sides by large rivers that stretch for some distance away from the primary Posleen infestation. As long as the enemy doesn't flank the rivers upstream, and with the support of our Legio
"General Erton," she swung the microphone to the American's counterpart, "do you agree?"
"Oh, oui." The tall aristocratic Frenchman wore dark gray camouflage that somehow blended well with the overall purples of the background. He also gave the reporter a blinding smile as the Chinese and Russian marshals waited for their opportunity to reassure the nervous reporter. What none of them considered was that the reporter had more time in combat zones than all of them combined, and had developed a certain nose for trouble. "The Posleen so far have shown no ability to force a crossing of these rivers. In addition, according to the intelligence we have been given, they do not seem to use their landing craft after the initial invasion as would humans for `airmobile' purposes—"
"Mon Général!" shouted a voice in the background, "Le ciel!"
The camera swung wildly then settled down with a wonderful view of the soaring Tchpth towers against a setting violet sun. Looming over the purple forest giants and the towers of the town was a monolithic block of darkness, silver lightnings stabbing downward at the defiant Darhel and human defenders. In response to a lazy lift of tracers toward the distant Posleen lander, a silver bar of steel lightning slammed down, picked up the camera on a shock wave of air exploding away from the beam of plasma and tossed it into the air like a child's toy.
Now, the camera view was sideways. Something, a button or a scrap of cloth from the body it leaned against, blocked the lower part of the screen. An American jump boot was propped limply on a gray set of rags, the torn body of a former enemy. The single living human in view, a French paratrooper, removed his empty magazine and stared at the feed in stupefaction. Tossing it over his shoulder he reached down to his belt and drew his bayonet. Fixing it he leapt out of view with a cry of "Camerone!"
Moments later leprous yellow-scaled legs with eaglelike talons entered the view. The camera tumbled for a moment, losing focus, and the screen exploded in a cloud of red. There had never been a clear view of the enemy.
"My fellow Americans," said the President as the view returned to the podium, "we face a storm unlike any in our history. But, like the majestic oaks of our land, our roots are deep, our Union strong. Before this storm we will lose leaves, we will lose branches. But this Union under God will weather the storm and in the spring we shall bloom anew." There was a moment of silence, a hush, then a single member began to clap. The applause spread and caught until there was a thunderous roar, an affirmation. For one brief moment the nominal leaders of the strongest republic on earth were joined in a single vision, a vision of survival and a future beyond the darkness. For that one brief moment there was unity against the storm.
8
Ft. Bragg, NC Sol III
1648 November 19th, 2001 AD
Staff Sergeant Bob Duncan, Chief Fire Direction Controller for the 2nd Battalion 325th Infantry Heavy Mortar section, was occasionally a problem for his chain of command, what is euphemistically called a leadership challenge. For his entire career in the Army he never quite fit in. He had all the merit badges expected of a ten-year veteran of the 82nd Airborne, the Ranger tab, the jumpmaster's wings, staff sergeant's stripes, but despite these he was never quite trusted by his first sergeants and platoon sergeants. Part of this was the nature of his career. For whatever reasons, and they had varied, he had never been cycled to another unit. He'd arrived fresh from Infantry Individual Training and Airborne school as a private, was promptly assigned to D company (then CSC Company) of the 2nd Battalion 325th PIR and there he stayed. Not for him the rotations to Korea, or Germany. No tours to the Airborne units in Italy, Alaska and Panama. Instead, during his term it seemed he had done every job in the company. Need a scout to round out the platoon? Sergeant Duncan's been a scout. Need a TOW HUMVEE commander? Sergeant Duncan. Need a head for your Fire Direction Center? A mortar squad leader? Call Sergeant Duncan. Operations sergeant? He was a fixture of D company more immutable than the barracks, far more fixed than the command groups, the constantly cycling first sergeants, lieutenants and commanders. Whenever the new first sergeants, lieutenants and commanders had a question, the finger was inevitably pointed at Sergeant Duncan.
It would seem that, in any fair world, such omnipotence about the function of the company, from the supply room (supply clerk, nine months, year three) to the function of the antitank platoon (acting platoon sergeant, nearly a year, gu
But that led to another problem with Sergeant Duncan. How could anyone give the same lecture, teach the same lessons over and over, not to subordinates but to superiors, and not develop a faint aura of scorn? When the company commander constantly had to ask you questions, it inevitably led to invidious comparisons. When twice in your career you ended up leading the (notional) remnants of the company in graded field maneuvers, once getting a far higher grade than the current commander, when the most trying task became routine, when you were always chosen first for any difficult and tedious job because you were just so blamed good at it and coincidentally it got you out of the first sergeant's remaining hair, an e