Gust Front

The vehicle had barely lurched to a stop when there was a single crack from overhead. «Go!»

He looked in the rearview as a storm of fire erupted towards them. The Posleen normals of the company were attacking berserkly. But they were firing at everything in sight, not just the vehicles, and the fire was scattered. There was enough to begin slamming into the Suburban, but the God King was clearly dead. His saucer was barely in sight drifting off to the side. Keren dropped the Suburban back into gear and floored the accelerator. The smoke from the burning gas station was just ahead and if they made it to that obscurement they might just survive.

«Holy Mother of Acceleration, don't fail us now!» shouted Elgars as she began pumping out grenades. The 20mm rounds pounded out like a metronome, weaving a dance of destruction in the wake of the retreating platoon.

* * *

The platoon had torn through Fort Myer as if it weren't there. Headquarters of the Continental Army Command and one of the most famous facilities in the United States, it was now a ghost town; it seemed that the only sentients in the world were the platoon and the pursuing Posleen. The mortar unit had a blurry view of the commissary and the clinic as they rushed past and then they were at the wall around Arlington Cemetery.

Knowing the barrier was coming up, Keren had slowed to let the tracks catch up. He picked up the mike again. «Three Track. Run that thing over,» he said, pointing at the wall.

«Idn't there a gate?» asked the person on the radio in One Track.

«You wa

«Now, goose it. Three Track, FDC, First. Go!»

Keren fell in behind Three Track as it began to weave a way up through the headstones. The specialist looked around at the white markers drifting off into the distance and shook his head. He suspected that the residents would understand the unseemly nature of the platoon's passage, but dislike the ru

Three Track turned right on the first road and followed it around the hill. The trees in the area shielded them from sight, but until they were on the back side of the hill, Keren wouldn't feel happy. Mortars are never, ever, ever supposed to see the enemy. It was drilled into them from basic training. Unlike artillery, they could not fire directly at an attacker. Used correctly, though, their big 120mm rounds could be devastating.

They were just approaching a traffic circle when an officer came striding down the hill towards them. The lieutenant colonel was in Dress Blues and carried an MP-5 submachine gun. He walked out in front of the leading track and held up one hand for them to stop. After a brief conversation with the vehicle commander, he strode back to the Suburban.

Elgars laid down her AIW and reached for the 9mm that was half-forgotten in Keren's holster.

Without turning his head he said: «No.»

«Why?» she asked. A brief glance in her direction revealed pale blue eyes as dead as a shark's.

Keren gestured up the hill to his right. A line of foxholes could be seen ru

«You want to take the chance that all of them are willing to have this guy fragged?» he whispered as the officer approached.

«I'll think about it,» she said, leaning back into the passenger's seat. «We'll see.» She was as determined as any of them to put a river between themselves and the Posleen.

* * *

Keren fixed a military expression on his face and saluted as the officer approached. It was not precisely correct under the circumstances, but it never really hurt to salute.

«Colonel,» he said, «Specialist Keren, Mortar Platoon, Alpha Company First Battalion Four Fifty-Second Infantry, Third Brigade Fiftieth Infantry Division.»

The colonel was tall, slim and almost painfully handsome. He looked more like some movie star in a truly screwed-up war movie. He returned the salute with parade ground precision. «Lieutenant Colonel Alexander.» He looked at the Suburban. The vehicle had been some yuppie's pride and joy before it fell into the clutches of the Infantry. Now it had only one remaining window, the side and rear panels were pocked with flechette strikes, the left rear quarter panel had been mostly torn off by a close encounter with a mortar track and the engine compartment was spurting steam.

«Where did you acquire the vehicle, specialist?» he asked in a dry and deadly voice.

Keren blinked rapidly. It was the last question he had expected to be asked. Hell, the platoon had stayed together, unlike most units. They had practically no NCOs left, the tracks were on their last legs, they had no officers, no spare ammo, no communications. And this stupid bastard wanted to know why they stole a truck.

There was only one option: Lie.

«Sir. Our Fire Direction vehicle was struck by friendly-fire in the Occoquan Defense. My company commander personally commandeered this vehicle, which was out of fuel on the Prince William Parkway. We used it for an ammunition carrier and to transport wounded in the withdrawal. We were overrun again, in company with an Armored Combat Suit battalion, at Lake Jackson. We lost our company commander, our platoon leader and all of our NCOs in the first contact at Lake Jackson. I've been using it as an FDC vehicle ever since. Sir. We are the last unit in. We have been performing a fighting withdrawal under fire. I could not have done that without a vehicle. Sir.»

And the colonel could believe as much or as little of that as he liked. If the bastard made any more complaints, Keren would just let this hard-faced bitch do her thing. And then the platoon could just perform another fighting retreat.

The commander of a unit like this should have been a grizzled veteran as well as a martinet. Keren knew that was what the President's Marines were. Every swinging dick was a veteran of Barwhon or Diess. And they still had lovely drill. So it only made sense that the commander of the Old Guard would be the same. But the fruit-salad on the Dress Blue uniform said otherwise.

Keren wasn't one of those guys who spent all their time memorizing the medals they wanted to get someday. But he had seen fruit-salad before. And he knew a few things to look for. He didn't recognize the highest award on the colonel's chest, but it was probably a Legion of Merit. And that pretty much said it all. An L-o-M was the sort of award a really proficient paper-pusher got for thirty years' slavery in the Pentagon.

After careful but covert searching of the dangling medals, Keren determined a few lacks. There were no Silver Stars. There were no Bronze Stars. The colonel was infantry, he had the crossed rifles, but no Combat Infantry Badge. Expert Infantry Badge, yes. Expert Marksmanship Medals, yes. Master Parachutist Wings, yes. Combat Jump Star, no. His chest full of medals broadcast as plain as day that the colonel had never heard a shot fired in anger.

Patton might have shown up at a time like this in a dress uniform. He probably would have been in BDUs, but Georgie was fu

Keren's face was a polite mask but he knew the deal. This guy was a piker. He was scared shitless and throwing away his unit to prove he wasn't a coward. When the time came he would probably be ru