Gust Front

«Note the marking. In the reports it stated that all the green– and gray-clad thresh wore markings. Many await deciphering, but this one is recognized. It translates as something like 'leader of military technicians.' There are others that wear rifles that are leaders of warriors.»

«Military technicians?» scoffed Ardan'aath. «What rot! What does war have to do with repairmen? War is for the warriors, not skulkers who use explosives for their weapons! Show me the ones with the rifles and I shall bring you their get on my blade!» He spun his saucer and darted off towards his advancing oolt'ondar.

Kenallai took the proffered piece of cloth in his hand, turning the symbol so that the protrusions were upward. «It appears to be a building.»

«Yes, eson'antai. It may be their headquarters. And although their purpose includes construction, they also are the primary artists of explosive destruction,» he gestured around, «as you can see.»

«Well, do these military technicians have a name of their own?»

«Yes, they call them the 'engineers' or 'sappers.' « Kenallurial's muzzle made a hash of the syllables.

« 'Sappers.' « Kenallai tasted the word. «I hope that this encounter is the last that we see of them.»

* * *

«Damn,» muttered Colonel Robertson under his breath, «it's working.»

The tail end of the line of women and children shuffled forward another few steps as he passed under the railroad bridge over Sophia Street.

He could see Lieutenant Young talking earnestly with a civilian construction worker as he neared the pump house. The power to the city had been lost, and thereby the streetlights, but construction Klieg lights had been set up and the bulldozers and earthmovers worked unabated. The hill that had flanked Frederick Street opposite the train station was leveled and the street was practically gone. There was no trace of the buildings that had been there, or of the Montessori School on the corner. In their place the Rappahanock had a new bluff. The area looked as if it had been attacked by a group of giant gophers.

The pump house had been a low concrete building, about fifty feet long by thirty feet wide, surmounted by what appeared to be a twenty-foot-high silo. The lower building had been partially covered by alluvial deposits, but otherwise was protected overhead and on the river side only by its three-foot-thick reinforced concrete walls. A narrow catwalk had led to the door at the top of the silo where there was a room ringed by windows: the «delightful view of the river.» To the side of the catwalk had been another, wider, door with a crane mounted above it. It was through this door that replacement equipment was lifted when the pump house was still in operation.

Now fill dirt reached nearly to the door, as load after load of what the military referred to as overburden was dumped onto the lower building. It was in this lower compartment of the bunker that the noncombatants were being secured. The catwalk had been replaced by a wider ramp constructed of structural steel. Colonel Robertson could see military engineers rigging it to be destroyed as the noncombatants shuffled up. At the top, the wall had been ripped out around the door and other engineers and construction workers were driving holes for demolition charges. The line of women and children, their breath steaming in the air, disappeared into the maw of the beast at the top of the ramp.

As Colonel Robertson waited patiently for the young lieutenant to finish with his conference he found himself starting to nod off. He glanced at his watch and realized that they had successfully held the Posleen back for over six hours. On the other hand, with the Posleen across 95, through the defenses on the Jeff Davis and pressing up Tidewater Trail, it was really all over but the shouting.

Lieutenant Young turned away from the construction worker and nearly walked into the colonel. When the lieutenant finally focused on the obstacle he swayed for a moment and snapped off a salute. Sometime during the hellish evening he had lost his glasses and peered at his superior owlishly.

«Good evening, sir.» He looked around and swayed again in fatigue. «I am pleased to report that we have sufficient room for all the remaining women and children.» He looked at the line of crying children and worn women who were all that remained of the Fredericksburg noncombatants.

Only hours ago they had been as relatively carefree as any group of people could be in the face of an impending invasion: middleclass matrons and their children, the flower of American suburbia. Now they shivered in the freezing dark as predatory aliens closed in on either side and only a forlorn hope stood between them and an end in the belly of the beast. «This had better work.»

«It will,» the colonel assured the plan's developer. He had his own dark thoughts about the likelihood, but it was far too late to voice them. And when it came down to cases it was not a choice between this plan and a better one, but a choice between this plan and nothing.

«Well, even if it doesn't, sir, they'll never know.»

«You're going to Hiberzine all of them?»

«All except the last few coherent mothers, sir. In the unlikely event that something goes wrong that is fixable, it would be a hell of a note to have the whole group die because nobody was awake to fix it.»

«Like a leak or a fire or something?»

«Yeah, or somebody having an allergic reaction, whatever. It just seemed like a good idea. Sir,» he added belatedly.

«I think at this point we can more or less dispense with military courtesy, Ke

«Well, the Public Safety folks and Quarles Gas came through again. They each had some CO2 scrubbers for work in confined spaces. So, anyway, the bunker will be outfitted with sufficient power and light for a two-week stay, at which point the sentry mothers will be instructed to put themselves under and hope for the best. If they're still alive at that point the Posleen will not have found them, which is good, but on the other hand neither did the Army so it would be a wash.»

«Sir,» said Colonel Robertson's radio operator, «the XO.»

«Uniform 51, this is Uniform 82-actual, over.»

«This is Uniform 51-actual, over.»

«Uniform 51, we have penetration to Sunken Road and Kenmore House. Estimate old town entry in five, say again, five minutes. Over.»

«Roger, Uniform 82. Am with Uniform 49 at Point Delta. Plan Jackson is nearly complete. Coordinate with . . .» His mind blanked on the call sign for Charlie company. «Coordinate with Charlie 6, over.»

«Roger, Uniform 51. This is Uniform 82.» There was a pause then the radio crackled one last time. «Nice knowing you, Frank.»

«Same here, Ricky. God will surely know his own.»

«Roger that. Out here.»

Colonel Robertson handed the mike to the RTO, swallowed and cleared his throat. «Despite all your good work, we need to get a move on,» he said, gesturing at the dwindling line.

«Yes, sir, I heard. I'm going to go coordinate some more overburden, but if you want to go chivvy some civvies, well, we work for you.»

The colonel chuckled at the weak joke. «I wish we could get some support, any support. Any distraction right now would be a good one.»