The officer was desperately attempting to not look over his shoulder towards the encroaching Posleen. So his sudden look of shock was comical. “Uhhh…”
“We’re on Sixty-Three Seventy, sir,” said Keren, helpfully. He pulled out his leader’s notebook and made a note. He tore the sheet of paper out and handed it to the colonel. “Here, sir. We’ll go set up then?”
“Yes. Go, I’ll…”
“Call us.”
“Yes.”
Keren saluted again and picked up the mike. “Three Track. Hold up. I’ll ground-guide into position.” He was glad that the receiver was turned down and to his ear.
“What? We’re stopping?” said Three Track. One Track responded similarly but the response was garbled by Three’s response.
“Yes, we’re going to the roundabout. I’ve got the map and the colonel has our frequency. I’ll lead in. Get ready to get set up.” He smiled at the colonel and saluted him without taking the mike out of his hand. Then he put the Suburban into gear and gunned it around the big mortar track in front of him. The rear wheels of the big SUV tore the carefully tended sod and threw a rooster tail of loam back along his backtrack. He looked in the rearview to where the colonel was still standing, holding the little slip of paper. What a dumbfuck.
“You dumbfuck,” snarled the specialist, leaning in the window. Third squad’s leader was not happy about stopping. Keren glanced up from his board and saw first squad’s leader headed over to the Suburban as well. The sergeant was from another battalion in Third Brigade and outranked Keren. But he was originally a rifle team leader and did not know much about mortars. He also was not much of a leader. He had been happy to defer to Keren throughout the entire flight. Keren finished setting up his board just as the sergeant arrived.
“Yeah, maybe,” Keren admitted. Then he jerked his chin towards the hill. “There’s Dragon antitank missiles up there. And maybe those big goddamn sniper rifles. If we try to run you want one of those up your ass?” He looked third squad’s leader in the eye. “The fuckin’ Posties are gonna be here anytime. You think maybe we better be ready to fire?”
The squad leader was a big man, with fine blond hair that was cut down to the stubble. The stubble on his face was nearly as long. His nostrils flared as he clenched and unclenched his hands. Then, with a glance up the hill towards the rifle positions and a curse, he turned around and stomped back to his track, shouting for them to get the gun into action.
First squad’s leader was an older guy, balding, fat and black as an ace of spades. He stood with his arms crossed as the other squad leader stomped away and looked at Keren somberly.
Keren looked back. “Yeah?”
“How long we gonna stay?” the squad leader asked.
Keren shook his head in resignation. “The smart answer is until they,” he said with another jerk of the chin towards the battalion, “have got it well and truly stuck in the horses. When they don’t have any time to spare for a mortar unit that is running away.”
The sergeant nodded his head. “In other words, we gonna run at the worst possible time.” The statement was toneless.
Keren looked down at his shaking hands as they spun the board. “I’ve never been accused of being smart,” he answered. “Stubborn, yeah. Stupid, yeah. A pain in the ass. Oh yeah. But not smart.”
The sergeant smiled faintly and nodded his head. With that he started walking back to his track.
CHAPTER 63
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
0817 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
“Mr. President,” said Captain Hadcraft, “this is stupid.”
The commandeered Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicle crabbed sideways as it fought its way up the road embankment. The platoon from the One Hundred Fifth Infantry Division had been reluctant to give up the vehicles. But the combination of a direct presidential order and a platoon of Armored Combat Suits had won out. Now the suits had transportation that was all-terrain to an even greater degree than the Suburbans they had started out in.
But that wasn’t going to help a bit if they were overrun by an angry mob.
U.S. 29 and U.S. 50 on the north side of D.C. were being ruthlessly cleared of vehicles. Anyone who had not made it to the Beltway by this time was ordered out of their car, truck or van and the vehicle pushed to the side by dozerblade-mounted tanks. The refugees from this and the battles to the south were being trucked to parks around the Veterans’ Hospital where a tent city was forming.
The Presidential Unit had been headed by the area when this came to the attention of the Commander in Chief. And he had ordered that they detour immediately.
The problem from the point of view of the Secret Service, and the Marines for that matter, was that the President’s approval rating was not the highest at the moment. By a result of a direct presidential order, the United States had just lost more soldiers in a forty-eight-hour period than at any time in the last century. There was a formless anger about this that had already been observed on the still-functioning Internet. What form it had was directed at the President. Add to this the anger of people forced from their homes and it meant a good chance these people would attack the Chief Executive.
The President turned the helmet over and over in his hands and finally shook his head. “Maybe. I’ve never been called smart. Stubborn, yes. A pain in the ass, yes. But not smart.” He looked up at the Marine officer hunched forward on the crew seat. Bradleys were never designed to accommodate combat suits and it was obvious. The squad in this one was crammed in like sardines. He looked directly at where he figured the captain’s eyes would be. “But these are my people. This is part of the job. Put it to you this way; when one of your soldiers is in the hospital, do you go see him?”
The suit was unmoving, but the President imagined there was a tiny change in the set of the arms. “Yeah.”
“Same deal. And sometimes they’re angry at you.”
The captain turned his palms up in admission.
The President turned the helmet over in his hands again, watching as the mobile gel flowed and humped. It looked like something from a bad horror movie and he was supposed to put it on his head. “I gotta see these people. If I blast past them on my run to Camp David, it’ll be a slap in the face this administration might never recover from.” He looked up and his face hardened. “So tell the driver to head over there.”
The refugees were a milling mass. Thousands of people, individuals and families, had been transported to the area by truck and bus and dropped on the golf course. A company of MPs was futilely trying to get the people sorted out and tents erected, but by and large the people stood, sat or walked around as they wished. The MP company commander had set aside a platoon for a reaction team and they occasionally had to enter the mass to break up fights or stop incipient riots. The management was becoming more and more like dealing with prisoners of war as time went on.
The Bradleys and Suburbans of the presidential caravan swung up Arnold’s Drive towards the Soldiers’ Home then pulled to a stop. Because all the Marines had not been able to fit in the Bradleys and SUVs, one squad had clamped onto the outside of the fighting vehicles. These individuals dropped to the ground before the tracks had stopped turning, their grav-guns dropping into place as they searched for threats.
The milling refugees had watched the caravan approach with mingled curiosity and trepidation. The Suburbans indicated that it might be a higher government official, although the usual limousine was missing. But the armored fighting vehicles, tanks to most of those watching, were a scary reminder that the government was not always a friend. Already treated as effective prisoners by the necessities of the situation, seeing heavier firepower, and especially the half-saint/half-demon Armored Combat warriors, was a mixed blessing. When the Marines lowered their weapons, searching for an exterior threat and not thinking about the effect on the civilians, the mob surged backward.