Gust Front

The suit was unmoving, but the President imagined there was a tiny change in the set of the arms. «Yeah.»

«Same deal. And sometimes they're angry at you.»

The captain turned his palms up in admission.

The President turned the helmet over in his hands again, watching as the mobile gel flowed and humped. It looked like something from a bad horror movie and he was supposed to put it on his head. «I gotta see these people. If I blast past them on my run to Camp David, it'll be a slap in the face this administration might never recover from.» He looked up and his face hardened. «So tell the driver to head over there.»

* * *

The refugees were a milling mass. Thousands of people, individuals and families, had been transported to the area by truck and bus and dropped on the golf course. A company of MPs was futilely trying to get the people sorted out and tents erected, but by and large the people stood, sat or walked around as they wished. The MP company commander had set aside a platoon for a reaction team and they occasionally had to enter the mass to break up fights or stop incipient riots. The management was becoming more and more like dealing with prisoners of war as time went on.

The Bradleys and Suburbans of the presidential caravan swung up Arnold's Drive towards the Soldiers' Home then pulled to a stop. Because all the Marines had not been able to fit in the Bradleys and SUVs, one squad had clamped onto the outside of the fighting vehicles. These individuals dropped to the ground before the tracks had stopped turning, their grav-guns dropping into place as they searched for threats.

The milling refugees had watched the caravan approach with mingled curiosity and trepidation. The Suburbans indicated that it might be a higher government official, although the usual limousine was missing. But the armored fighting vehicles, tanks to most of those watching, were a scary reminder that the government was not always a friend. Already treated as effective prisoners by the necessities of the situation, seeing heavier firepower, and especially the half-saint/half-demon Armored Combat warriors, was a mixed blessing. When the Marines lowered their weapons, searching for an exterior threat and not thinking about the effect on the civilians, the mob surged backward.

Newsies had swarmed to the refugee camps like flies to jam. It was apparent from several of their fellows' transmissions that reporting on the Posleen advance was tantamount to suicide. That being the case, the next best press was governmental incompetence and bullying. Since the «government» had not been able to instantaneously provide food and shelter for fifteen thousand refugees, it was obviously incompetent. Along with the deaths of nearly a hundred thousand soldiers in northern Virginia, this was proving to be a scoop of legendary proportions. Or so it appeared.

In the wake of the Posleen destruction of the satellites, most standard television signals had been lost. Although cable companies were scrambling to co

While the regular media still had a significant share of that market, many viewers had become savvy enough with the still-developing medium that they were seeking out their own news venues.

Major «alternative» news sources were sustaining such massive loads that servers were failing left and right. However, enough of them remained up for the viewers at home to zero in on each individual's concept of «newsworthy.» For once a major war was being sent into homes virtually unfettered.

Viewers had a choice of live feeds from Inter-Vehicle Information Systems that clearly indicated where the fighting was going on, or even live video from combat suits headed to or involved in the fighting. An encounter between First Battalion Five Hundred Eighth Mobile Infantry and a small landing outside Redmond, Washington had the highest audience rating in history, surpassing even the final hours of the Battle of Fredericksburg. The fact that it occurred at primetime had something to do with it.

And the highest rated «show» for the battle was not on any of the networks. The output of a website dedicated to Armed Forces news and issues was the most common «hit» on several major search engines for «combat news.» This relatively minor website had nearly sixty million simultaneous co

The «commentator» was a former Army colonel who was too old, even with regen, to have been recalled. His expert analysis was compiled by a team of communication-savvy internet geeks, then interactively viewed by over a hundred million people in the United States alone. Not only did he determine in advance the precise outcome of the battle, he was correct within two suits of the total friendly casualties. The video was enhanced with audio clips from the battle and erudite commentary on the similarity to battles ranging back to the campaigns of Sargon. Sun Tzu was frequently quoted, leading to overloads in most of the search engines that had led to the site. And their primary advertiser, which was Barrett assault rifles, experienced the largest ordering frenzy any site had ever seen. They and all their linked sales outlets immediately went into terminal overload.

But the «major media» ignored these quiet inroads on their market share and continued to concentrate on the tactics that had worked for them in the past.

So when the crowd surged back from the Marine Guards, the reporters crowded in. The screams of the hysterical refugees, already driven to the brink of despair by the loss of their homes and the possessions that they had accumulated over the years, were faithfully broadcast across the world.

The Marine captain put his hand on the President's chest as the rest of the company deployed. «Not until it's safe,» he growled. The President, still holding the hated helmet, just nodded his head. The sound of the plasteel armor slamming through the troop doors and the diesel engine overrode any note from outside. But a moment later the detail chief put his head in the door.

«Sir,» he said, his face tight. He was in a dilemma. The crowd was about to turn into a riot and the only person who might stop that was the President. But by the same token, doing so would be nightmarishly dangerous.

Captain Hadcraft put his hand up to his helmet, then cursed. Since he had been on speaker it was faithfully reproduced. «Sir,» he said, grabbing the President by the arm, «we got another problem.»

The President ducked to keep from smashing his head on the troop door. The suit was already trying to adjust to his shape and style of movement, but occasionally it interpreted his sharp, precise movements as a command to jump. Fortunately that had not happened while he was in the crew compartment with his helmet off. Now it propelled him out and down the troop ramp in a near sprawl.

As he came around the back of the AFV it was immediately apparent what the problem was. He looked back and forth for a moment from the Marines with lowered weapons to the surging crowd and the news cameras.

«Christ,» he whispered, «what else is going to go wrong?»

He thought for just a moment and the capacity for rapid and effective action that had stood him in good stead in his climb up the political ladder came to the fore.

«AID, the suit can act as an amplifier, right? Like that suit unit did on Diess?»

«Yes, sir.»

«Okay, tell the damn Marines to raise their weapons.» He dragged himself up onto the roof, unable to find the footholes he knew should be there.

He reached the top of the vehicle just as the Marines raised their weapons. He dropped the helmet, raised his hands and said, «Amplify.»