"We've had a hundred and twenty-three encounters among our forty-five personnel," he said after another ten minutes of studying figures and screens, "and only three encounters have involved disciplined parties of Posleen."
"Their rear area seems fairly soft, sir," said Sergeant Green. The NCO appeared to have the patience of a saint.
"Yeah, concur Sergeant. The only problem is getting through the rind. And, I'm sure, if the frontline troops had any idea we were here they'd be descending like locusts."
"How are the troops in the encirclement doing?"
Mike checked the schematic and studied the notations. "It looks like they're holding temporarily. The line hasn't reduced noticeably."
"Think the shuttles distracted the threat, sir?"
"Not for this long. And I don't think that the loss of ten or so God Kings could disrupt them that badly. I think the survivors of the armored divisions are just some bad mother fuckers." Mike snorted at the thought. It was always that way, the first battle often decided who would live or die for the rest of the war. It was one reason that veteran units were so dangerous in battle; they had a core of bitterly capable survivors.
"I guess the Posleen aren't too happy about how things are going, huh, LT?" asked the sergeant. Perhaps the waiting was getting to him as well.
"No, I suspect not," he said. There was a brief pause. "And," he continued, a note of animation in his voice, "they're about to have a worse surprise. The last team is complete!"
"Time to rock and roll!"
"Fuckin' A. Platoon," O'Neal called, the AID automatically switching him to broadcast mode. "All personnel, retreat through the tunnels following the assigned vectors. You have fifteen minutes to reach minimum safe distance! Good luck and see you at the processing plant!
"Let's move out, Sar'nt."
They headed to the nearest lock along with a fire team following the same path. Mike checked the locations of all the teams and breathed a sigh of relief. The plan had invited defeat in detaiclass="underline" a gut-wrenching terror that was now off his back. It was a central military axiom that you never divide your forces in the heat of battle, but the intelligence conferred by the suits as well as the disorganization of the Posleen rear area permitted enormous missions to be accomplished in record times. Without a doubt, if a practical method could be found for passing through Posleen lines, the deep strike was the premium method for battling the Posleen. Outside their hordes they were as dangerous to a man in a suit as so many mosquitoes, painful but hardly life threatening. The difficulties would be finding a way to attack the Posleen rear area and viable methods of disruption. The fate of the shuttles was graphic proof that the traditional techniques of deep strike would be impossible.
The teams slid through the tunnels as slickly as so many ferrets, noting and designating the location of the occasional human body. In most cases the personnel would stop to remove a dog tag or other identification if there was time. The platoon rally point was in the basement of a processing plant and fifteen minutes was plenty of time to get there.
The building was technically in Posleen hands, but the formed units of Posleen were fully involved trying to dislodge the battered survivors of the 10th Panzer Grenadiers in the nearest megascraper and the only Posleen in the basements were unbonded stragglers.
Mike triggered a fatal burst at a Posleen that wandered into the processing floor, and popped off his helmet. The basement smelled of seaweed and smoke, but not of rotting organics; the hygiene was surprising under the circumstances. The troops around him starting popping their helmets as well and before long there was a cluster of alert soldiers scanning the scattered machinery of the basement. The molecular seals of their headwear were bright circles in the dimness.
"All right troops," Mike said, for the first time seeing the faces of the soldiers he had been leading for almost twenty-four hours. The troopers in turn studied the diminutive officer who had carried them through hell. They were so far beyond any human reaction that Mike was unable to decide what was in their expressions. They faced him like so many sharks, eyes dead and uncaring in their carnage. He shivered for a moment, showing it no more than the troops around him.
He had seen many of these soldiers only two days before suiting up in preparation for the battle to come. Most had been frightened, covering it with bravado. Some had been so brainwashed with the airborne mentality that they were awaiting the moment of contact with eagerness. Some had been openly fearful, but ready to do their duty. Now they were one and all automatons. He had taken them from childhood to some region beyond and at this moment he feared the Frankenstein monster he had created. But the professional dies hard and he carried right on.
"In a minute and a half the remaining charges will blow," he continued in a soft but carrying voice. There was distant gun and cannon fire, felt more than heard, and a drip-drip of water from broken pipes. "When they do we'll watch on our helmet systems. That was why the scouts planted the flicker-eyes, that and to see if there was any concerted response to our little incursion." He felt himself drifting with fatigue and wondered what would happen if he wavered. The way they were looking at him he half expected them to turn on him in some sort of feeding frenzy at the slightest sign of weakness.
"When the buildings drop, the armor units should be able to break out to the MLR. After they pass through the lines we'll sneak back to the MLR ourselves and hopefully get a well-earned rest." He smiled tiredly at the half-hearted cheer. "Now, helmets on, unless you want to miss the show." He ducked back under his helmet like a turtle. The eyes were on him still there but at least he could no longer see them.
"Michelle, get me General Houseman."
"Okay, Mike." The circuit crackled with static; General Houseman had to be away from his command post, using a shunt through a regular Army frequency.
"O'Neal? What's the hold-up?" the general asked impatiently. Mike could hear the freight-train roar of artillery in the background and a nearby jackhammer sound of a heavy machine gun.
"The charges are laid and about to blow, sir," he said, glancing at the countdown clock. "We ran into a few snags."
"Yeah, we saw what they did to the shuttles through the monitors. Was that you leaving your position?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't get carried away, son, this is gonna be a long war."
"Yes, sir." Mike could not begin to explain over this open circuit the red tower of rage that had overrun him at that moment.
"When do they blow?"
"In . . . twenty-five seconds," Mike answered. He split the screen to give him an overview of the trapped divisions. The numbers were not looking good.
"Very well, the armor forces really need the help. Good luck, son, and carry on."
"Roger that, sir, Airborne."
"Out here."
Mike shunted the view from the remote sensors into the platoon's helmets, each squad overlooking its own building. In the upper quadrant was a count-down timer. Precisely at zero there was a gout of dust, fire and less definable things out of the lower floors of the buildings. Slowly they began to topple, gaining speed and finally crashing to the ground in a shower of rubble.
There was cheering on the platoon net with the troops laughing and swearing in relief. Until that moment Mike had not realized their level of disbelief. Only a couple of them had thought that the buildings would really fall. He shook his head in wonder that they had not simply evaporated to the rear.