Gust Front

The lieutenant closed his eyes for a moment, then they flew open. «Get them up here,» he snapped. «Full loadout. Now!»

«Yes, sir!» said the sergeant and started trotting down the steps before he wondered why. But he continued on. The Old Man was nobody to cross.

The lieutenant strode across the echoing room dedicated to either the greatest humanist or the greatest tyrant in American history, take your pick, and stopped at an i

The last of the platoon was starting down the stairway when the first gout of plasma slammed into the Memorial.

* * *

The wash of ionized deuterium caused the marble face of the Memorial to sublime. The gaseous carbon mixed with the carbon from the squad on the portico and was blown away in the wind from the superheated air. The flight of God Kings was at first u

* * *

Kenallurial shouted in pure joy as his tenar flared out. So this was the te'naal battle madness that was spoken of. He felt whole for once, concentrated wholly on the task. The thresh burned beneath his guns, and that was good. The far side of the bridge was taken and the hated military technicians had been overcome for once. He detached Arnata'dra to begin clearing the demolitions as he charged the huge building.

There did not seem to be an entrance on this side, but that was no barrier. He floated the tenar up to the level where the hated technicians had been set up and landed. There was no sign of their devices, but wires still lingered, melted to the face of the rock in places or dangling on the ground. Without knowing their purpose he was loath to touch them; that was Arnata'dra's province.

He raised his talons in triumph. Let Ardan'aath belittle this accomplishment. A bridge across the river was in the hands of the Host. Let the thresh despair.

CHAPTER 69

Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III

1050 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad

So this is despair. Jack Horner looked at the two messages in the light from the hatch of the swaying Bradley. The ACS battalion was at the intersection of U.S. 1 and Capitol Avenue. They were barely ten blocks from where the President was under attack.

They had been pla

So that meant south. But by the time they got there the Posleen were going to be deployed. Which meant that most likely the battalion would be overrun just like those poor bastards at Lake Jackson. It was precisely the sort of place where he had told his subordinates to use regular forces to stop the Posleen, not the ACS. The suits were a finite resource. He should use the Hundred and Fifth to try to stem the tide. Using the ACS would be the wrong strategic decision.

But the Hundred and Fifth wouldn't stop the crossing. They were weak as a twig even with the «band of heroes» that he could throw in. They would break just like the other units; you can't stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of buckshot. And then the Posleen would be across the Potomac. And that meant backing up to the Susqueha

He shook his head and tapped his AID. «Nag, get me Major Givens of the ACS.»

* * *

Mike watched Major Givens giving unseen thumbs-up signs as he tapped one armored boot on the ground. O'Neal had six different battle maps up on his display and the lander to the north, President or no President, was not the problem. Standing around and discussing it was just making it harder. He popped off his helmet, clamped it to his side and took a whiff. The one thing the suits did not replicate well was smell. There was a hit of wood smoke from the mess around the mall. Some less savory burning smells in there as well. Probably the Pentagon. And the slight waft, even from here, of unwashed humanity. Soon, soon, there would be the stench of slaughtered Posleen. Or his name wasn't Michael Leonidas O'Neal.

There was no room for failure; the choice was success or the ferryman. He inhaled the last fresh air he was going to smell for a while and felt his center finally click into place. No doubt. No fear. No failure. He'd sworn it on the graves of his dead.

«Captain O'Neal,» Major Givens finally said, cutting him in on the conversation, «we have two problems.»

«The Marines can handle the refugees, sirs,» Mike said, cutting him off abruptly. «We need to get to the Mall. Now.» He opened up a belt pouch and extracted a can of Skoal. The transceiver in the helmet seal broadcast his words faithfully.

«Mike,» said General Horner. «They're going to be spread out . . .»

«Not a problem,» he said shortly, taking one gauntlet off and clamping it onto the outside of his suit.

«Mike . . .» said General Horner over the circuit.

«Jack. Do not tell us our job. We don't have time for this.» He tamped the can down hard and turned his head to the side to listen. The firing to the north, felt and heard in the background, reached a crescendo and died away as a large number of grav-guns opened fire. It sounded as if they were finally clear of an intervening obstacle. And as if the users were very, very angry.

«Captain . . .» Major Givens said.

«No,» interrupted General Horner quietly. «Major, the captain is the expert. If he says let's go, then you better go.»

«We have . . . fourteen seconds to continue this conversation,» said Mike stonily, with a glance at a projected hologram. He had programmed the time he thought it would take the Posleen to get assembled into a countdown timer along with the minimum time to make the movement. The battalion was ready. All they needed was the word.

No doubt. He'd gamed this a thousand times before. It would work.

The suits were also useless for pinching snuff. He popped the can with his left hand and pulled out a pinch. «General Horner,» he continued formally, «Fleet Strike is not giving Washington to the Posleen.»

No fear. They were invincible. The Posleen would kill individuals. But as a unit, the only way to fail was to fail to try. This was a strightforward «Horatio at the Bridge» action. He had forty scenarios prepared. Any of them would work.

«General?» asked the acting commander. The officer was used to clear plans developed in advance. While he could change them on the fly to an extent, he was not a «seat of the pants» warrior. He found himself simultaneously in command and out of his depth. It was a most uncomfortable feeling.

«Do it,» said Horner. He had no idea what the plan was. But he knew Mike O'Neal. If Mighty Mite said the sky was green, Horner would double-check the forecast and then get a second opinion before doubting him.