They were just approaching a traffic circle when an officer came striding down the hill towards them. The lieutenant colonel was in Dress Blues and carried an MP-5 submachine gun. He walked out in front of the leading track and held up one hand for them to stop. After a brief conversation with the vehicle commander, he strode back to the Suburban.
Elgars laid down her AIW and reached for the 9mm that was half-forgotten in Keren’s holster.
Without turning his head he said: “No.”
“Why?” she asked. A brief glance in her direction revealed pale blue eyes as dead as a shark’s.
Keren gestured up the hill to his right. A line of foxholes could be seen running up the ridge towards the Tomb of the Unknowns. The soldiers in them were hunkered down waiting for the approaching centaurs. Their AIWs and crew-served machine guns were plainly in evidence.
“You want to take the chance that all of them are willing to have this guy fragged?” he whispered as the officer approached.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, leaning back into the passenger’s seat. “We’ll see.” She was as determined as any of them to put a river between themselves and the Posleen.
Keren fixed a military expression on his face and saluted as the officer approached. It was not precisely correct under the circumstances, but it never really hurt to salute.
“Colonel,” he said, “Specialist Keren, Mortar Platoon, Alpha Company First Battalion Four Fifty-Second Infantry, Third Brigade Fiftieth Infantry Division.”
The colonel was tall, slim and almost painfully handsome. He looked more like some movie star in a truly screwed-up war movie. He returned the salute with parade ground precision. “Lieutenant Colonel Alexander.” He looked at the Suburban. The vehicle had been some yuppie’s pride and joy before it fell into the clutches of the Infantry. Now it had only one remaining window, the side and rear panels were pocked with flechette strikes, the left rear quarter panel had been mostly torn off by a close encounter with a mortar track and the engine compartment was spurting steam.
“Where did you acquire the vehicle, specialist?” he asked in a dry and deadly voice.
Keren blinked rapidly. It was the last question he had expected to be asked. Hell, the platoon had stayed together, unlike most units. They had practically no NCOs left, the tracks were on their last legs, they had no officers, no spare ammo, no communications. And this stupid bastard wanted to know why they stole a truck.
There was only one option: Lie.
“Sir. Our Fire Direction vehicle was struck by friendly-fire in the Occoquan Defense. My company commander personally commandeered this vehicle, which was out of fuel on the Prince William Parkway. We used it for an ammunition carrier and to transport wounded in the withdrawal. We were overrun again, in company with an Armored Combat Suit battalion, at Lake Jackson. We lost our company commander, our platoon leader and all of our NCOs in the first contact at Lake Jackson. I’ve been using it as an FDC vehicle ever since. Sir. We are the last unit in. We have been performing a fighting withdrawal under fire. I could not have done that without a vehicle. Sir.”
And the colonel could believe as much or as little of that as he liked. If the bastard made any more complaints, Keren would just let this hard-faced bitch do her thing. And then the platoon could just perform another fighting retreat.
The commander of a unit like this should have been a grizzled veteran as well as a martinet. Keren knew that was what the President’s Marines were. Every swinging dick was a veteran of Barwhon or Diess. And they still had lovely drill. So it only made sense that the commander of the Old Guard would be the same. But the fruit-salad on the Dress Blue uniform said otherwise.
Keren wasn’t one of those guys who spent all their time memorizing the medals they wanted to get someday. But he had seen fruit-salad before. And he knew a few things to look for. He didn’t recognize the highest award on the colonel’s chest, but it was probably a Legion of Merit. And that pretty much said it all. An L-o-M was the sort of award a really proficient paper-pusher got for thirty years’ slavery in the Pentagon.
After careful but covert searching of the dangling medals, Keren determined a few lacks. There were no Silver Stars. There were no Bronze Stars. The colonel was infantry, he had the crossed rifles, but no Combat Infantry Badge. Expert Infantry Badge, yes. Expert Marksmanship Medals, yes. Master Parachutist Wings, yes. Combat Jump Star, no. His chest full of medals broadcast as plain as day that the colonel had never heard a shot fired in anger.
Patton might have shown up at a time like this in a dress uniform. He probably would have been in BDUs, but Georgie was funny. The same with MacArthur. If he had been ordered to hold Arlington Cemetery to the last man he probably would have had the entire unit in Dress Blues. It was an impossible task and everyone was going to die anyway. Might as well go out with style. But both of them had seen the elephant.
Keren’s face was a polite mask but he knew the deal. This guy was a piker. He was scared shitless and throwing away his unit to prove he wasn’t a coward. When the time came he would probably be running down the hill for the bridges. And praying like hell the engineers wouldn’t blow them before he was across.
The colonel favored him with another cold look and nodded. “Very well. I am aware that there have been certain exigencies of service in the last two days.” His face twisted into a sour expression that ended as contempt. “Your division has been on the run for quite a while.”
Keren suppressed a deep angry breath as a last tiny trickle of adrenaline made it into his overloaded system. After a brief pause he nodded. “Yes, sir. We have.”
“Well.” The officer smiled coldly. “Lucky for you. Your running days are over.” He gestured up the hill towards the barely visible Tomb on the hill. “Move your… unit up there. And dig your mortars in. They will be a useful addition to our firepower.”
Keren nodded respectfully and reached for his map. “Yes, sir. Sir, might I point out two items of mortar doctrine…”
The officer’s face hardened. “I am quite aware of mortar doctrine, specialist. I gave you an order.”
“… which point out that in close contact mortars are to be maintained on the mortar vehicles. We can be in operation in four minutes after we stop if we stay in the vehicles, sir. It will take time to dig in.” He looked the officer right in the eye. “We were in contact less than two miles from here, sir.”
The officer’s face tightened at that. He could not have missed the hypervelocity missile impacts, but apparently he had hoped that the enemy was farther away. “Where?”
“The Posleen unit was at Arlington Hall, sir. Their God King was using a plasma cannon. You did see the fire, sir?”
“Yes. Specialist, we don’t have time to argue…”
I’ve got all the time in the world, you jackass. If you put us on that hilltop we’ve got maybe fifteen minutes of life left. “Sir, we were heading for a traffic circle on King Drive. One-hundred-and twenty-millimeter mortars have a minimum firing distance of nearly eight hundred meters. I cannot provide Final Protective Fire for your unit from the hilltop.” It was a bald-faced lie. The distance was a third of that. But he was betting that this officer wouldn’t know it.
And he was right.
“Very well,” the officer snapped. “But if you attempt to move out of position once we are in contact, I will have your vehicles destroyed. Your running days are over, Specialist.”
“Yes, sir!” said Keren. “What is your fire control frequency?”