Gust Front

«AID, tell the suit to clear the view and reduce sensitivity to view shift by fifty percent,» said the captain. «Sir, we don't have time to get you trained to the suit. We have to leave.»

«Okay,» said the President, fighting against the waves of anger flooding through him. He took a deep breath. «Okay, let's go.» He started to shake his head and was stopped by the gel of the underlayer. The viewpoint nonetheless shifted side to side. How anyone got used to this insane device was a mystery to him.

CHAPTER 59

Near Harper's Ferry, VA, United States of America, Sol III

0546 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

«How the hell do you guys get used to this?» asked Captain O'Neal, fighting down the nausea as the OH-58 Kiowa banked past Harper's Ferry and dropped down to follow Interstate 70 towards Baltimore. The road was packed with military vehicles, most of them at a standstill.

«Get used to what?» asked the pilot, keeping a close eye out for wires. The requirement to stay below one hundred feet was nerve wracking. You never knew where some stupid electric company was going to stick their lines. And half the time it seemed like they weren't on the damn chart.

«Never mind,» muttered Mike, wishing he was back in a suit. Even the interface using a set of Milspecs was limited. He craved the total immersion of the suit like the drug it was. But he had other things to worry about right now.

He leaned back in the seat of the small helicopter and let the information flowing from the Virtual Reality glasses sink in. The interstates were completely overloaded, as were the side streets. But the mission was to get the battalion to D.C. before the Posleen. There seemed to be no way, but that was an illusion.

Back under the hammer of necessity, doubts and fears started to fall away. «Impossible» was a word that left his vocabulary as the information started flooding through his synapses. The Posleen had torn his world apart and ended the Golden Age he had grown up in. Such a species would not be permitted to continue to live, breathe and breed. Earth was their last stop. He nodded his head as the final piece of the plan fell into place and keyed the AID.

«Shelly, get me Major Givens.» It was time to start the dance.

* * *

Bob Givens was an experienced officer. Therefore, he knew that what he was in the grip of was a classic military disaster, not a nightmare. There was a simple difference. You woke up from nightmares.

«I know, Sergeant Clarke. I agree,» he said to the battalion operations NCO. The sergeant first class was one of the few battalion staff NCOs that was not scattered to the four winds. And the NCO had a legitimate complaint. The tasking from Continental Army Command was clearly impossible. The roads were packed with military units scrambling in every direction and refugees heading for the hills. Getting to Washington in anything under twenty hours would be a miracle. «But those are the orders.»

«How in hell does General Horner expect us to perform them, sir? Did he give a hint?»

«No, but we'll have to figure something out.»

«I'll start getting transportation laid on,» said the NCO. «But I'm damned if I know how it's going to cut through the traffic jams.»

«Major Givens,» chirped his AID. «Incoming call from Captain O'Neal.»

Givens's shoulders slumped. He shouldn't be ashamed of his delight that the captain had finally initiated communication. The colonel had told him that if O'Neal made it back he would be taking over operations while Givens took command. And God knew he needed all the help he could get. There was only one company commander present and half the first sergeants were still out. There were no other battalion staff officers. He was just about to shanghai senior lieutenants from the companies to take up some of the administrative slack. Having a captain back would be a bonus even if it weren't O'Neal. But it was. And although Givens was an experienced and capable field-grade officer, he still had a germ of hope that the doughty captain would have thought of a miracle.

He picked up the AID and decided that humor would be the best approach. «Dammit O'Neal, where the hell have you been,» he said with a smile in his voice.

O'Neal's mind felt like a whirring machine and he neither acknowledged the humorous greeting nor misunderstood it. «I've been fighting my way up I-81, Major, just like the Eleventh Division.»

«Good to have you back. Where are you?»

«In a Kiowa headed up I-70. I'm pla

«Well, you'll probably get there before we do.»

«Yes, sir. But not long before you do.»

«I estimate that it will take us nearly twelve hours to get there through the traffic, Captain. Sergeant Clarke is calling for trucks right now.»

«Trucks, sir?» said O'Neal in a bad Hispanic accent. «We don' need no stinkin' trucks.»

* * *

The command track lurched to a halt and the following MP Humvee drove up to the man standing by the side of the road. The vehicle commander dismounted and saluted the boyish-looking colonel. «Colonel Cutprice?» he asked. The BDU uniform had only rank insignia, no nametag, no United States Ground Force identifier.

«Yes,» answered the colonel, shortly. He had spent two weeks going through rejuv processes and he was still sore as hell. And cooling his heels with the rest of the officer «heroes» while they watched «The Jig and The Kraut» screw things to hell had been worse. In all honesty it did not seem to be Taylor and Horner's fault things had come apart so badly. They had inherited most of the problems and had been working to remedy them. But the vision of those fine boys being slaughtered through bad strategy and lack of training had been hard to take. It was goddamn Korea all over again. And Kasserine. And Bull Run. And the Somme for that matter. The goddamn Perfumed Princes just never ever seemed to learn.

«The general would like to speak to you,» said the MP, leading the way to the back of the track and opening the door.

Horner was sitting in front of a video communicator smiling like a tiger. The colonel the smile was directed at was not enjoying the call.

«Colonel, when you receive orders from those units they will take priority over any other orders below the level of this command. Is that clear?»

«Sir . . .» the colonel started to respond.

«Goddamnit I asked if that was clear!» Horner shouted, finally losing his normally placid temper. «If I do not get a straight answer I will have an MP unit over there so fast it will make your head swim! I have a half a dozen colonels loading ammunition and driving trucks! Do you want to join them?»

«No, sir, but . . .»

«Yes or no?»

«Yes, sir,» said the recalcitrant colonel. «I'll pass on those orders.»

«Good, now get off my monitor,» snarled the harassed general. He swung around and pi

The colonel, however, had been glared at by the best of them, and it washed off him like dew. He stood at attention and looked six inches over the general's head. «Colonel Cutprice, reporting as ordered.»

Horner looked at him for a moment and spun around again. He rummaged in a desk and came out with a small medal. «Take this,» he said, tossing it to the colonel. «Wear it.»

The device in question was a blue field with a rifle on it. Around the field was a wreath and it was surmounted by two stars. The Combat Infantryman's Badge signified that the holder had been in infantry combat; actual firefights where people were trying to kill you and you were doing your best to «do-unto-them» first. The stars signified that the combat had occurred over the course of three wars. There were very few people breathing entitled to wear one.