When the Devil Dances

When he saw the map of the Gap it had red covering all the zones around the Gap including the O'Neal farm. Mike looked at it a moment in disbelief then dropped his face into his hands. "Did the corps last a whole five minutes?"

"I don't know how well they would have done under normal circumstances," Horner answered, "but these Posleen aren't acting like Posleen at all. They have some sort of armored flying tank that took out the SheVa gun that was forward deployed. It apparently was parked too close to the main force of the Corps and it took out the second and third line of defense. To make things worse, they are using their landers for a straightforward airmobile operation; they used C-Decs to take out the Wall, to literally smash it flat, and look like they're getting ready for a bound forward. Then they have come in and, apparently, rebuilt the road. I'm impressed. And frightened. I don't like the idea of Posleen combat engineers. What next? Artillery?"

"Shelly, how solid is this information?" Mike asked hoarsely.

"Resetting image," Shelly said. "Red is eyewitness reports or video or Posleen transmissions, shading to blue for maximum estimate of expanse."

Modified that way, the O'Neal farm was only a light violet; it was possible that Cally and Papa O'Neal were still alive.

"Shelly, try to raise somebody at the farm and keep an ear out for intelligence as to their condition," Mike said. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"The Gap has to be plugged . . ." Horner said.

"Oh, blow that!" Mike exclaimed angrily. After all the years of fighting it took him barely a second to imagine the broad outline of the proposed mission. And it was not survivable. "You're joking, right!"

"No, I'm not joking," Horner said coldly. "We still have Banshees, not enough to loft a full battalion but . . ."

"But we'renot a full battalion," Mike snarled. "God dammit, Jack, my middle name may be Leonidas, but it doesn't mean I want to die like him! And the damned Spartans died because they got surrounded; we'd already be surrounded. And just how the hell are we supposed to fight our way into the Gap? How? There are, what, fourteen or fifteen million Posleen waiting to move through? Where in the fuck are we supposed to land?"

"I need the Gap plugged," Horner said inexorably. "I need it plugged for seventy-two hours."

"Un-fucking-believable," Mike said. "Are you listening to yourself? I've got three hundred and twenty effectives! We couldn't carry in enough ammo for three days! And there's no way you're going to be able to get anyone to us in three days! Not in the teeth of the Posleen!"

"I'm moving the Ten Thousand, they'll be backstopped by the best artillery I can find," Horner said. "They'll take positions and wait for the Posleen to come to them then hammer them with artillery. With you in the Gap, the Posleen won't be able to push through any more; they'll only have to take care of the ones that are already through."

"And the ones in the landers," Mike said. "Remember? They're using airmobile, your words."

"SheVa guns," Horner said. "There's one surviving in the valley; it's got some technical problems, but it will get up. I just need the Gap plugged. And you're going to plug it for me."

"Like hell we are," Mike said. "Nobody will be able to. I'd need a damned brigade of ACS, which we don't have, and continuous shuttles of ammo and power."

"Look, Major, every minute that we spend arguing, sixteen or seventeen hundred Posleen go through the Gap. I'm sending the Banshees to your location. Get your battalion moving."

"Look, General, get the wax out of your ears!" Mike shouted. "We're Not Going. The fucking shuttles wouldn't make it to the ground! We'd need a cold LZ! And we'll need spare shuttles for supplies! And we would last about four hours! We are not going! Period!"

"God damn you, Mike!" Horner shouted back. "I am not going to lose the entire eastern seaboard because you don't want to lose your fucking battalion! You will take and hold the Gap to the last man or so help me God I will have you court-martialled and shot if it is the last thing I do!"

"Fuck you, Jack! You should have thought of that before you let them put Bernard in charge of the GAP! You got me into this fucking mess! You put me in that plasteel fucking coffin, that I've been trapped in for the last nine years, you took away my family, you took away my wife! And the only thing I have LEFT is this fucking battalion and you are not going to piss that away too, you murdering BASTARD!"

The door practically left its hinges as Gu

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, GUNNY!" O'Neal screamed. He grasped the heavy wooden desk, raised it over his head and slammed it into the window behind him. When it didn't fit he let out a shriek of fury and slammed it into the wall repeatedly until the hole was large enough. Then the desk flew through with a bellow.

It was a full-bore rage, as controllable as a hurricane and nearly as destructive. There was nothing between the world and O'Neal's blind anger at reality; if he could have twisted a button and turned off the universe he would have. Instead, he took it out on his office and the battalion headquarters building. In seconds the few scraps of mementoes on the walls had followed the desk. He threw everything in the room through the hole then started widening it by punching the walls.

The headquarters was a simple wood frame structure; the interior walls were gyp-rock and the outer was a layer of pressboard covered by vinyl siding. Despite being only five foot four, Michael O'Neal, Jr. could bench press four hundred pounds and each punch slammed through all three layers as if they were tissue; two by fours shattered with no more than two blows. His knuckles were bleeding within a few punches, but he no more noticed than he noticed the fact that portions of the ceiling were buckling; the pain felt good in his universe of rage. The worst part of the rage, beyond losing his father and his daughters and his life, was that he knew in the end that the battalion would go. And the only thing in his mind besides the rage was that evil plotting bastard at the back of his brain, that little thinking bastard that was already figuring out the mission even as every other fiber of his being was denying that they would ever commit suicide in such a clear and stupid fashion.

Finally the rage spent itself fully; there was no emotion left to feel. His office now had a new door, one big enough to fit a car through, and a circle of interested and worried onlookers. He ignored them and strode through the debris path to where the AID still showed a picture of Horner floating in the air.

"Nukes," O'Neal rasped. "We'll go. But only if that entire area is slagged to the ground. I'll have my staff work up a fire plan. You will fire it. If the President balks, tell her it is an order of a Fleet officer and she is under treaty to follow military orders of Fleet officers. You will follow our fire plan, and stand by for on-going nuclear support. We will prepare for the mission. We will board the Banshees. We will fly south. If we don't get the nukes, you can kiss my fat, hairy ass before we will go near the Gap. And if at any point I feel that we are receiving insufficient support, I will withdraw on my cognizance alone. Call me when you have nuke release and only when you have nuke release, and it had better be open release. Shelly, end transmission."

"Yes, sir," she said, cutting off Horner.

"Shelly, I don't ever want to talk to that bastard directly ever again," Mike rasped. "When he sends nuke release, just tell me."