Страница 139 из 169
The message was written in Attic Greek, encrypted half a dozen ways, and used code phrases. The message was, nonetheless, clear.
«What?» asked Paul, looking up from the card game he was engaged in with the Indowy. The Himmit stealth ship was in two hundred feet of water in Hudson Bay. And the Indowy had explained that it would stay there until the majority of the Posleen were destroyed and clear areas declared. Himmit would risk much on occasion, but they believed that discretion was better than valor.
«Our team is trapped at the O'Neal farm!» he snarled.
«Calmly, Nathan, calmly,» soothed the Indowy. «The O'Neals are an inventive clan. The team will be well taken care of.»
«Bit of a turnabout for the books.» Paul smiled, taking a card off the stack on the table. He grimaced. «Your move.» The cards were difficult to read in the odd blue-green light. This Himmit ship, unlike some, had never been converted for human use.
The table was too low and the bench he sat on was designed to be used by lying on a hairy belly. The air was thin, the gravity too heavy and the lighting set to Himmit norm, which meant that it was mainly in shades of violet invisible to human eyes. The result was an odd blue-green that made everything look as if it was under deep water. There were odd sounds at the edge of hearing; the Himmit communicated in hypercompressed squeaks that were barely in the human audible range. There were strange chemical smells and occasional odd slurping noises. All together it was one of the most uncomfortable environments the widely traveled des Jardins had experienced.
Aelool looked to the Monsignor, who finally gave a resigned gesture. «It is not as if there haven't been breaches before,» the little alien said.
«Hmm,» said the Monsignor, irritably. «But there are reporters swarming nearly as thick as the Posleen. There are already reports that there is a well-defended farm near the landing. And the local commander says that the reason they haven't attacked Posleen yet is to see how the farm fairs. He says he's afraid of hitting the farm with friendly-fire, but it sounds more like he trusts the O'Neals to take care of the attack. One old man and a young girl up against a Posleen company?!»
Paul smiled sardonically. «Well, they are Irish, no?»
Nathan's eyelids dropped, giving him a sleepy look and he stared at des Jardins's back. «This is a small ship, Paul, and the lighting is really getting on my nerves. Don't push it.»
* * *
«We gotta push it, sir,» said Captain O'Neal, looking into the Virtual infinity of data. He was in a trance of data assimilation as graphs and maps cascaded past. The data included snippets of live video from the front lines, where reporters were finally encountering the enemy firsthand.
In many cases the locations of advancing Posleen had to be assumed. Here a company not responding, there a transmission suddenly cut off. But the picture was firming up. The battalion was still well short of the District while the Posleen were well into Fairfax County and nearly over the border into Arlington. They had spread up to the Potomac on the north side and were moving rapidly down the Beltway towards the crossing to the east of Arlington.
The movement was unconscious, but it was creating a pocket in the Arlington area. All the survivors were being pushed towards the downtown D.C. bridges, just as General Horner had anticipated.
«Agreed, Captain,» responded the acting battalion commander. «Any more suggestions?»
«No, sir. Not at this time.» The movement of the canisters was as fast as the AIDs could handle the information load. Not only did each suit have to be controlled, but the overall load had to be balanced among all the suits. The current speed of an average of eighty miles per hour was the fastest they could do. The alternative, exiting the containers and ru
The roads, however, were packed with military units and refugees. First Army was finally getting its combat power concentrated, with units flooding into the area of the Potomac from all over the northeast. Like the units of Ninth and Tenth Corps, most of the forces were undertrained and their equipment was in pitiful shape. But with any luck they would be fighting from fixed positions.
Mike glanced at the exterior view and his eyes narrowed. Somebody had had a rush of sense, and the lead units were mostly artillery. By the time they were in contact, there would be a mass of artillery available. Command and control, however, was spotty.
«But I'll figure something out. I'll get back to you soon, sir.»
«Okay, Captain. We need a good plan if this is going to succeed.»
«Roger, sir. Shelly,» he continued, looking back at the feeds. «What are you getting from D.C.?»
«It's a bit of a dog's breakfast, sir,» responded the AID.
Mike smiled. The device had been getting more and more attuned to human interaction, even starting to use some slang.
«There's a mishmash of units,» she continued. «Some of them are ordered there, like the engineers that are rigging the bridges and the One-Oh-Fifth I-D. But most of them are from Ninth and Tenth Corps.»
«Any sign of leadership?»
«There are small units that are coherent. But nothing over a company.»
«Hmm. Bring up an appropriate scenario. Assume the Posleen take a bridge intact.» If the Posleen did not take a bridge, the battalion could wait for Eighth Corps to get its act together, then cross the river at leisure to sting the Posleen. It was only if one of D.C.'s bridges fell that time would be critical.
«Is there a scenario in the can for this?» Mike thought there was, but there were so many developed «games» scenarios it was impossible to keep track.
«Bridge over the River Die,» responded the AID. «On the basis of probable Posleen numbers at contact and probable friendly support I would recommend responses for difficulty level six.»
«Yeah,» whispered the officer, reading the scenario as it scrolled down the left of his heads-up view. He remembered it now. He had gamed it at least three times. It wasn't one of his favorites, but it had some interesting surprises. The similarities to the current situation were remarkable. Even the buildings were similar; the writer of the scenario had clearly envisioned Washington as a target. That was not in the description and Mike had never noticed the similarities. But it was obvious now. «Who wrote it?»
«A teenager in Fredericksburg. Thomas Sunday, Junior.»
«Oh. Damn.» Fredericksburg was, of course, gone. What a waste of a good mind. The writer had obviously had a good grasp of suit tactics. Losing him this early in the game sucked. «Shit happens. Shelly, can this one. Set it to level eight. Now, what are we missing for an eighth-level response?»
«Command and Staff. A level of response of that difficulty requires everything to hit the ground ru
«What's the first and most obvious lack? Take them in order downward.»
«Artillery command and control. We do not have a Fire-Support Team.»
«Right. Who do we have in the battalion with significant fire control experience?»
«Besides yourself?» she asked dryly.
Mike rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Save me from an AID with a sense of humor. «Besides me.»
«There are four NCOs in the battalion with fire control experience and one lieutenant.»
«Who's the lieutenant?»
«Lieutenant Arnold, your mortar pl—«
«Pass,» he said. «I want Arnold right where he is.» In case he has to take over from Nightingale.
«Then one of the four NCO's.»
«Who is senior?»
«An E-6 in Bravo Company. Staff Sergeant Duncan.»
Mike wrinkled his face in the flexible gel. He was unable to place the name in his own company's roster. And, as far as he knew, with the exception of Sergeant Brook in the Mortar platoon none of Bravo's NCOs had ever been in fire control. «The name rings a bell,» he continued, «but not from Bravo Company.»