“Agreed, Captain,” responded the acting battalion commander. “Any more suggestions?”
“No, sir. Not at this time.” The movement of the canisters was as fast as the AIDs could handle the information load. Not only did each suit have to be controlled, but the overall load had to be balanced among all the suits. The current speed of an average of eighty miles per hour was the fastest they could do. The alternative, exiting the containers and running, would be even slower. The maximum sustainable speed for suits was about forty miles per hour, if the roads were open.
The roads, however, were packed with military units and refugees. First Army was finally getting its combat power concentrated, with units flooding into the area of the Potomac from all over the northeast. Like the units of Ninth and Tenth Corps, most of the forces were undertrained and their equipment was in pitiful shape. But with any luck they would be fighting from fixed positions.
Mike glanced at the exterior view and his eyes narrowed. Somebody had had a rush of sense, and the lead units were mostly artillery. By the time they were in contact, there would be a mass of artillery available. Command and control, however, was spotty.
“But I’ll figure something out. I’ll get back to you soon, sir.”
“Okay, Captain. We need a good plan if this is going to succeed.”
“Roger, sir. Shelly,” he continued, looking back at the feeds. “What are you getting from D.C.?”
“It’s a bit of a dog’s breakfast, sir,” responded the AID.
Mike smiled. The device had been getting more and more attuned to human interaction, even starting to use some slang.
“There’s a mishmash of units,” she continued. “Some of them are ordered there, like the engineers that are rigging the bridges and the One-Oh-Fifth I-D. But most of them are from Ninth and Tenth Corps.”
“Any sign of leadership?”
“There are small units that are coherent. But nothing over a company.”
“Hmm. Bring up an appropriate scenario. Assume the Posleen take a bridge intact.” If the Posleen did not take a bridge, the battalion could wait for Eighth Corps to get its act together, then cross the river at leisure to sting the Posleen. It was only if one of D.C.’s bridges fell that time would be critical.
“Is there a scenario in the can for this?” Mike thought there was, but there were so many developed “games” scenarios it was impossible to keep track.
“Bridge over the River Die,” responded the AID. “On the basis of probable Posleen numbers at contact and probable friendly support I would recommend responses for difficulty level six.”
“Yeah,” whispered the officer, reading the scenario as it scrolled down the left of his heads-up view. He remembered it now. He had gamed it at least three times. It wasn’t one of his favorites, but it had some interesting surprises. The similarities to the current situation were remarkable. Even the buildings were similar; the writer of the scenario had clearly envisioned Washington as a target. That was not in the description and Mike had never noticed the similarities. But it was obvious now. “Who wrote it?”
“A teenager in Fredericksburg. Thomas Sunday, Junior.”
“Oh. Damn.” Fredericksburg was, of course, gone. What a waste of a good mind. The writer had obviously had a good grasp of suit tactics. Losing him this early in the game sucked. “Shit happens. Shelly, can this one. Set it to level eight. Now, what are we missing for an eighth-level response?”
“Command and Staff. A level of response of that difficulty requires everything to hit the ground running perfectly.”
“What’s the first and most obvious lack? Take them in order downward.”
“Artillery command and control. We do not have a Fire-Support Team.”
“Right. Who do we have in the battalion with significant fire control experience?”
“Besides yourself?” she asked dryly.
Mike rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Save me from an AID with a sense of humor. “Besides me.”
“There are four NCOs in the battalion with fire control experience and one lieutenant.”
“Who’s the lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Arnold, your mortar pl—”
“Pass,” he said. “I want Arnold right where he is.” In case he has to take over from Nightingale.
“Then one of the four NCO’s.”
“Who is senior?”
“An E-6 in Bravo Company. Staff Sergeant Duncan.”
Mike wrinkled his face in the flexible gel. He was unable to place the name in his own company’s roster. And, as far as he knew, with the exception of Sergeant Brook in the Mortar platoon none of Bravo’s NCOs had ever been in fire control. “The name rings a bell,” he continued, “but not from Bravo Company.”
“He joined Bravo Company while you were on leave.”
Mike thought about the roster for a moment and grimaced. “Gimme Gunny Pappas.”
The AID chirped after a moment and the Gunny’s voice came over. “Yessir?”
“This new NCO that joined while I was on leave…”
“Duncan?”
“Yeah. Let me guess. He got put in charge of Second Squad of Second Platoon.”
“Yup. Only squad without a staff sergeant. Wasn’t much I could do.”
“Agreed. So, how is Stewart taking it?”
“Fairly well. Duncan’s a real experienced NCO as you know. Generally he lets Stewart continue to run the squad and helps Boggy with training. Stewart’s actually started to pump him for information and support. They work well together.”
“Hold it,” Mike said after digesting this. “ ‘As I would know’? Is this Bob Duncan?”
“Yeah. Sorry, boss, I assumed you’d know.” The Old Man was damn near omniscient normally. “Shelly didn’t tell you?”
“No. Damn. Shelly, bring Sergeant Duncan in on this conversation.”
“Yes, sir.” After a moment there was another chirp of connecting circuits.
“Captain O’Neal?” asked the quiet voice.
“Duncan! Who the hell let you into my company?” Mike snapped in a serious voice.
There was a pause. “Well,” responded the quiet baritone, “they wanted me to take a commission as a captain. They said there was this really screwed-up company that needed straightening out. I told ’em I wanted to infiltrate it first as an NCO. And here I am.”
Mike and the first sergeant both chuckled. “Like I said,” said Pappas. “He’s a real screwball.”
“Yeah,” said Mike with a smile in his voice. “I’ve noticed that before.” He thought about the situation for a moment. He had some of the best experience in the battalion in the three way at the moment. He thought about bringing in Sergeant Bogdanovich, but she was undoubtedly busy with her platoon. There were four other combat veterans that he knew of in the battalion, but none of them were officers. From the point of view of suggestions, this was as good as it got.
“We’ve got a bit of a FUBAR situation in D.C.” He ran over the outline of what they could expect. “There’s combat power to spare. But nobody has any sort of decent control and most of the line units have just been through a rout. The first problem on Shelly’s list was artillery support. We don’t have a Fire Support Team. And the automated system has been taken off-line. We need someone to coordinate artillery support.”
“Me,” stated Duncan.
“Right. If I had a FIST captain, it would be him. We don’t. So it’s you.”
“Is the arty gonna go for that?” asked the first sergeant. It was a realistic question. Duncan would effectively be ordering artillery battalions. Colonels do not normally listen to sergeants.
“I’ll take care of that,” said Mike. “Shelly, send General Horner an e-mail. Tell him we are assuming control of the defense of the bridges of D.C. under Standing Regulations for the interaction of Federation and Local forces.”