Gust Front

Sure, most had run. But plenty more stayed. And the horses would have the Monument over their dead bodies.

* * *

«First Sergeant, I don't care if you are Fleet. I don't care if you have orders from God Himself. I am going back there over my dead body. I'm not even going to think about it. There's no way to win and I'm not going to be a stupid hero.» The tired and dirty first lieutenant was the last officer the cavalry company had left. Of course, he was in charge of less than a platoon of Abrams so it wasn't like he was overtaxed.

Pappas thought about the statement for a moment. «L-T, I need your tracks at the Watergate. I'm getting part of an infantry battalion headed that way and there's a buncha artillery support. But I really, really need your tracks, too.»

«No. And what's more—fuck, no,» snarled the lieutenant, tired of arguing with the remorseless NCO. The upstart Fleet bastard had been nagging him for nearly an hour before the horses crossed the river. If they hadn't crossed he might have stuck around, but as it was there was just no reason. No reason at all. No force on Earth was going to stop the Posleen tide now that it was over the Potomac. They might as well head back to New York city as stick around and get eaten.

The officer dug at the plasteel fingers holding onto the coaming of his TC hatch. «Get off my track.» The lieutenant switched on the intercom. «Pauls, move out.» As the Abrams sprang to life, the other four tanks fell in behind it, moving down the Mall to the east, towards the Capitol and away from the fighting around the Arlington Bridge.

Pappas sighed and leaned forward. Steel fingers removed the helmet from the struggling lieutenant's head and pulled him in close. The writhing officer found that fighting against them was like fighting a mechanical clamp.

«AID, whisper mode,» said Pappas, calmly. Then he whispered to the lieutenant. «You said that it would be over your dead body. Turn this platoon around or I will squeeze your head until it pops. Literally.» Pappas palmed the back of the officer's head and applied a calculated amount of pressure.

The officer writhed in the iron grasp and whined from the pain. It felt as if his eyeballs were going to burst. «You can't do this the whole way there!» he shouted. One shin banged painfully against the thermal repeater but the lesser pain went u

Pappas face hardened and he yanked the officer out of the tank. «AID, broadcast to all tank units. All units. Stop right here. We have to have a little talk.» The tanks continued to the east. Instead of stopping they actually increased speed. «AID, did that get to them all?»

«All tanks have active carrier waves and I shunted it to the intercom.»

«Right,» snarled Pappas. He pulled out a roll of spacetape and secured the futilely protesting officer to the turret. Then he walked across the tank to the driver's hatch, his EVA clamps holding him to the skin of the armored behemoth. He knelt by the driver's hatch and pounded on it. «OPEN UP!»

There was no physical response, but he could have sworn he heard a faint «No!»

He tapped a spot on his forearm and a two-foot blade sprang out from the underarm of the suit. The blade had been suggested by Duncan, and the Indowy fitters had been more than happy to oblige for the whole company. Now it came in handy as the monomolecular vibroblade slid through the Chobham armor like butter and sliced the hatch lock in two.

In short order Pappas had the remaining members of the platoon lined up at attention. Two or three were bruised and at least one had a broken arm. There was a cooling spot on the turret of one tank from a glancing armor-piercing round and there was a gu

«I tried to do this the easy way. I am now going to have to do it the hard way,» he said in an iron tone. «This unit is guilty of desertion in the face of the enemy. The life of every member of this unit is forfeit, under both the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the Federation Procedures for the Prosecution of War.» He stopped and looked at the figures. Most of them were still defiant. Despite the regular hangings for desertion before the Posleen landed, the bug-out in this case had been so widespread that it was unlikely they would be charged. What they did not realize was that they were no longer under the control of American Law.

«You were given an order by a duly designated noncommissioned officer of the Fleet Strike Forces. As such your offense falls under Federation law.» He stopped again and lowered his voice. «What that means is that you have just entered hell.»

He picked up the securely bound lieutenant and held him again by the back of the head. «This officer ignored a direct order. He led this retreat. He is primarily at fault.» Pappas closed his fingers and the skull of the officer exploded. The corpse of the lieutenant catapulted to the feet of the lined-up troops along with a splatter of blood and brains that covered the arrayed troopers in gray matter. The nearly decapitated body kicked and thrashed on the ground as undirected nerve impulses continued to fire for a few more moments. Most of the troop looked stu

«I want you to understand something,» Pappas snarled. «The Posleen might kill you. If you try to run again, I will kill you.» Pappas lifted his M-300 and fired over the head of the platoon. The blast of relativistic teardrops took out a section of the Longworth building, scattering debris into the street. «This weapon will go through your fucking tin cans long ways. You will be more terrified of me than of the enemy.»

* * *

«Mortars, they're over Seventeenth Street and spreading out,» said the cool voice on the radio. Keren had seen him from time to time, pulling out the occasional wounded or dead, calling for more volunteers, even, for God's sake, giving marksmanship lessons. And he didn't sound any more flustered now. «Can you get us any more fire-support, over?» The voice was young, but the assurance wasn't. Rejuv again.

«Negative,» responded Keren over the radio in the Three Track. His hands dripped blood to the steel deck as the blisters took another beating from the rounds. The members of Three Track had finally had it, slipping out one by one in the crowd of volunteers. But it didn't matter. There was a halfway intelligent gun bu

«Well,» said the guy on the radio in a voice that was both resigned and positive, «gotta die somewhere.»

Keren twisted the traverse and dropped the range a crank. «Guess it's that time.»

«Yep,» said the guy on the other end. «Well, I always said every day after the Chosin was one I wasn't meant to live. Thanks for the support, Mortars. Out here.»

Keren shook his head in wonder. Maybe the guy was talking about Valkyries or something.

* * *

Mike had some important decisions to make. As the battalion stepped out, crossing the Twelfth Street Phase-line he was still in a quandary. But, after thinking long and hard, he finally came to a decision.

«Duncan?» he asked.

«We're up! Where do you want it?»

«Question. What tune should I use?» he asked. The firing from the distant Monument was clear. The forces had to be thinking they were doomed.

«What?»

«I'm thinking 'Ride of the Valkyries.' «

«What?»

«Or should I go with tradition?»

«What tradition? . . . Oh.»

«Yeah, tradition wins. Pity, really. This is such a Wagnerian moment.»