“Dunno,” answered Keren. “Can anybody see any of the bridges?”
“Yeah,” answered Three Gun. “I can see the Arlington Bridge. It’s still up.”
“Okay, I gotta switch freqs. I’ll be right back. Is everybody okay?”
“We’re here,” answered One Gun.
“For a while,” Three added.
Keren switched frequencies to the regiment’s and set the remaining radio for ease of switching back and forth. “Regiment, this is Mortars, over.” No response. He turned to Elgars. “Hang on a sec.” He crawled into the back of the vehicle and started turning over the mass of rucksacks, clothing, candy wrappers and sleeping gear. After a few moments’ search he found a medic’s kit he had picked up on the retreat. In it, as expected, was an inflatable splint. A few moment’s later he had Elgars’ wrist splinted and was back on the radio.
“Regiment, this is Mortars, over.” He unkeyed the radio and took a deep breath. The fires on the hill were getting worse, the small blazes joining and catching the dry grasses of the graveyard. A few of the trees on the south side were smoldering as well. If it spread much farther they were going to have to leave, good timing or not.
“Mortars, this is regiment,” came another voice. The previous caller had clearly been young and extremely confused. This was an older voice, full of assurance.
“Regiment, we have fires spreading towards our position. We will have to move soon. Do you need fire, over?”
The bleak humor of the responder was clear. “Mortars, we need a hell of a lot more support than you can give us. What’s your ammo situation, over?”
Keren didn’t know who this person was, but it was a completely different cat than the colonel in command. “Not so hot. We’ve got about fifty mortar rounds a track left and we’re about out of Ma deuce.”
“Roger.” There was a pause. “Gimme a volley of twenty rounds of variable time per gun on the big twisty intersection right by the Marine Memorial. Seems the Marines didn’t rig that for some strange reason. It’s grid 1762-8974 if you’re using a military map.”
Keren’s face split in a grin. “Roger. But who the fuck is this?”
“Major Cummings. I’m the S-3.”
“Well, Major, nice to talk to a professional for a change. Stand by.”
“Yeah, likewise mortars,” said Major Alfred Cummings, lowering the radio. Not that it was going to matter. Alpha Company was heavily engaged by the Posleen mass coming down from the north. In Andatha this would have been the time for a shower of artillery, cluster ammunition for preference. What really pissed him off was that he knew there were artillery units in range, but he didn’t have the frequencies or codes to call for fire. Just another cock-up.
The post was supposed to be a sinecure. A comfortable unit for a company commander who had seen just a little too much combat. He and a few NCOs were there to add a tone of reality to the purely ceremonial guard force.
But now it was a different beast. The colonel had decided to make this stupid stand. Naturally, when the C-9 went off and the pressure went on, he didn’t make the grade. Major Cummings had hated polluting this holy ground with that coward’s blood, but he was sure the ghosts would approve. Some of the boys had run into the coffins as they dug in. Most were intact, but a few had spilled. He told them to dig on, dig on. The soldiers, sailors and Marines who were buried on this hill would have no argument with a little jostling. They understood.
And that boy on the radio had understood. The major could tell. That was a good troop. He smiled as he heard the crump of the mortars firing in the background. Only two tracks, which was a shame. Mortars were hell on the yellow devils.
“Sir,” said Sergeant First Class Smale. “Them’s mostly through Alpha Company. Bravo an’ Charlie’s holdin’, and thems that’s gonna stays from Delta, they’s up at the Tomb.”
“But we’re being flanked.”
“Yissir.”
“Should we pull out?” he asked. It wasn’t much of a test, the sergeant was another veteran.
“Nah, Major. Whut’s da fuckin’ point? Landin’s right and left. Might as well die here as anywhere. Better than fuckin’ Andatha.” The NCO turned to the side and spat.
“Yep. But no reason to take everyone with us.”
“Golf One One, this is Echo Niner Four, over.”
Keren picked up the mike as he carefully watched the hill to his west. “Golf One One, over.” It was the S-3 by the voice.
“Golf One One, the explosions from the complex slowed the tourists down on that side. However, we are being pushed back to the north. We anticipate losing the bridge shortly. I recommend that you move out on completion of the fire mission.”
Keren smiled and his eyes misted slightly. “Roger, Echo Niner-Four.” He wondered how to ask the next question. “Will we have company?”
The smile on the radio was evident. “Not unless you’re slow and our out of town visitors catch up. I think this is all the farther I’m gonna go.”
Keren nodded. “Well, there are worse places.”
“Roger, that, Golf, and I’ve been to most of them. Looks like only one to go.”
Keren smiled. “Roger, Echo. See you there. Golf One One out.” He flipped frequencies. “Can you still use your rifle?” he asked Elgars. The private was white-faced with pain, but had the weapon trained towards the fire to the north.
“Yeah. When the hell are we getting out of here?” As she asked that there was a large but distant explosion to the southeast. “And what the hell was that?”
“Probably a bridge going. And we need to be across one before we’re the main course.” He keyed the mike again. “One Gun, how many left on that volley?”
“Just about done. We sort of lost track.”
“Roger. Three?”
“That was the last.”
“Roger. Button up and do the boogie. We’ve been waved off by the Regiment.” At the words the Three Gun track jerked to life. The driver apparently did not think it necessary to take the gun out of action. Keren had never turned the Suburban off, so he put it into gear as well. One Gun still wasn’t moving.
“One Gun, you mobile?”
“Roger.” The track spat one more spiteful round skyward and lurched into movement. “We’re outta here.”
“Let’s just hope the engineers know we’re coming,” whispered Elgars pessimistically.
CHAPTER 65
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
0925 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
Lieutenant Ryan was not lost. It was impossible to be lost on the Washington Mall. You always knew right where you were. What he did not know was where he and his platoon were supposed to be.
After Occoquan the platoon had been unable to find anyone in their chain of command. The trucks that had brought the rifle company to replace them had left immediately. Without transportation they had walked northward, hopping the occasional ride. Their target had been Belvoir; however, just short of their goal they were directed away by MPs and told to join the bits and tatters of units headed for Washington. They eventually found transportation but the bus drivers had no better idea of where they were supposed to be than anyone else.
By default they had ended up on the Mall. Most of the remnants of Ninth and Tenth Corps were there, electronic intelligence units without divisions, mess halls without battalions, the occasional artillery or infantry unit that had made it out of the rat-fuck to the south. There was no attempt at organization; units set up wherever they stopped.