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"Second squad! Quiet!" snapped Sergeant Green, before O'Neal could say anything.
"Sorry about that, Sergeant," said Sergeant Duncan. It was only then that Mike realized it was Duncan who had made the noise. With a command to Michelle the name of each trooper was blazoned on them momentarily as Mike looked at them. Fifty-eight human beings depending on him to make the right decisions and he knew maybe six or seven of their names. Two minutes left, enough time to contact higher.
"Michelle, try to access General Houseman."
"I've got headquarters," she said after a moment. "General Houseman is on the way."
"Okay, thanks."
"You're welcome."
"O'Neal, what's your progress?" the general asked tersely.
"We're nearly out of power, General. We have to take a short detour to scavenge. It will push our ETA back by about an hour. On the other hand, we'll be able to move faster once we power-up."
"All right, it'll have to do. How are you going to get to the pocket?"
Mike told him.
"You're fucking crazy, O'Neal," the officer chuckled grimly. "Will it work?"
"No reason it shouldn't, sir. I can't analyze the likelihood of Posleen resistance, but we should be able to outrun organized resistance. The only thing I'm worried about is resupply. Any chance?"
"I'll punch out the shuttles whenever you're ready for rendezvous. I will tell you, there's go
"I need the weapons more than I need the troops, sir. Keep the troops with you."
"I'd hoped you'd say that," said the distant general with a relieved tone. "I'm not sure I was going to renege, but the more I thought about it the less I liked it."
"Just load each of the shuttles down with ammo, rifles, grenade launchers and power packs and let us do the rest, sir. Send them on remote, for that matter."
"That's how we'll do it. Call me again when you have a rendezvous."
"Yes, sir."
"Out."
" 'Kay, troops," Mike continued, Michelle automatically switching him back, "who's the lucky wi
"Just me, sir," said Sergeant Duncan.
"I think I have a vague memory of you having some capability in this arena," Mike said with a chuckle. "Actually, thinking back about ten years I remember you having a punch like a mule. Glad to have you. Next, First squad?"
"Lyle, Knudsen and Moore, sir," said Sergeant Kerr.
"Sounds like a Mi
"Yes, sir," chuckled Sergeant Kerr. "Well, Lyle and Knudsen both do kung-fu. I went to a couple of their tournaments, back when. They're okay. And Moore . . ." He gestured at an exceptionally large suit of armor standing next to him that the AID dutifully highlighted with "SP4 Moore, Adumapaya."
" . . . was obviously the biggest one in his class," finished O'Neal.
"Ah played some ball too, sah. Ah kin hold mah own," said the velvety bass.
"Righto, third?"
"Well, sir," said Sergeant Brecker, "none of us really fit the criteria, but I am coming. I wrestled in high school and I'm sure I can hold my own."
"I won't deny you, your squad needs to be represented. Scouts?"
"I'll go, sir," said Sergeant Wiznowski. "Just try to stop me."
Mike sca
"Between it and the power room is a hallway, right turn, ten meters to the power room on the left. We check the hallway then the team moves to the door to the power room while the rest of the platoon stays in that location. Order of movement is Wiz, Moore, myself, Lyle, Knudsen, Duncan, Brecker.
"Wiz, down corridor security. The door reads as sealed on the building sensors. Moore, take the door, then down. I'll take out anything moving on immediate entry then Lyle, Knudsen and Duncan move past. I move. Wiz pull back and past. Moore move. Brecker, hold the door. I'm downloading the vectors of movement to your systems.
"The Posleen have removed or destroyed some of the sensors in the room so we don't have perfect intelligence on where they are. If one of you is rendered ineffective the vectors will automatically update. We'll move the rest of the platoon in on my command. At that time I will designate corridor security. Questions?"
"How many Posleen in the whole power-room area?" asked Duncan.
"About thirty," Mike said.
"Thirty?" Duncan choked, "and only seven of us?"
"Yes," Mike said, "magnificent isn't it?"
"Sir . . ."
"Can it, Sergeant. There is not time for debate. You may decline to be on the entry team at any time. It is totally voluntary," Mike waited for the response.
"Never mind," said Duncan after a few moments' thought. "I don't think it can be done, though, Lieutenant."
"Noted. Any other questions?" There were not.
"Scouts out."
The movement to the corridor outside the power room was successful, but when they reached the last corner there was a snag.
"There's a sentry," Sergeant Wiznowski whispered.
"That cans it," whispered Duncan.
"They can hardly hear us through the armor, Sergeant Wiz. And it hardly `cans it,' Sergeant Duncan. I considered this. Okay, the rest of you hunker down and quiet. Quietly, team, line up." Mike dialed up his compensators and moved to the door. Fortunately there was a certain amount of masking noise from the roar of the fusion reactor in the far room. He studied the door for a moment to ensure it would open easily and popped his belly armor. He drew out the discharged power gem the soldier had given him and tossed it to get a good grip.
"Michelle, throw aiming grid. Left arm on automatic, visual targeting." He whipped open the door, stepped into the corridor and looked at the Posleen normal guarding the power room. "Fire." The pseudomuscles of the armor swiveled the left arm of the suit to vertical and delivered the one-kilo gem at two hundred meters per hour to the forehead of the Posleen. The centauroid dropped like the rock that hit him.
"Move." Wiznowski ghosted past him down the corridor and he fell in behind Moore. When Moore reached the door, Mike checked that everyone was in place, stooped, drew the dead Posleen sentry's palmate blade with his left hand and said, "Do it."
Moore took a half step back and threw himself through the door and down; his charge carried him several feet into the room. Mike was suddenly happy they had not charged in guns blazing as he realized he was looking at the primary cooling system of the fusion reactor.
"No grenades," he snarled as he picked out Posleen in view. As each one came into view his AID popped a round out of his ready storage bin eject under the left arm and threw it with a Frisbee motion. The rounds were three-millimeter needles of depleted uranium. They arrived at the target at over one hundred meters per second with deadly precision.
There were seven Posleen in the room ranged neatly side to side with the exception of one almost directly in front of him that was masked. The five across the room from him were worrying over the primary coolant controls while the one to the left had just entered the area and the one directly in front was moving right to left. The moving one was targeted first. The teardrop of depleted uranium only weighed two ounces, but it was traveling at the speed of a .45 caliber round and struck dot accurate.
The teardrop entered the Posleen's crocodilian head at the juncture of the chin. It continued upward, passing through the cranial/spinal juncture and lodged in the rear of the skull. The neck of the Posleen squirted yellow blood as it began to fall, dead as a pithed frog. The three at the coolant controls were eliminated just as efficiently, dead before the first target had hit the ground. But the Posleen entering the room was a senior normal with improved reactions and weapons.