“Fuscirto uut!” said Kenallai. “First metal threshkreen. Then where the Kessanalt go to die. What is next?” he finished rhetorically. “You said you had two answers?”
“Yes, my edas’antai,” Kenallurial agreed. “I perceive a possible way to capture the bridge.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the oolt’ondai. “And will it work?”
“It might,” admitted the younger Kessentai. He told them what it was.
Kenallai watched a descending ship as it headed to the other side of the river. If they did not make the crossing, the latecomers might make a bridgehead. He could call his Oolt’pos forward to make the crossing. But many of the large command ships had been destroyed doing just that and it would take precious time. No, better to try the crossing with his eson’antai’s idea.
“Look at those abat,” snorted Ardan’aath. “We do all the work and they come wandering in to take our prize.”
“They are landing on the other side of the river, Ardan’aath,” Kenallai retorted with a snort. “They seem to be landing in a grat’s nest to me.”
The sonic boom overhead was hardly noticeable after all the artillery and demolitions they had endured. But Keren still looked up.
“Oh, fuck,” he said as the Suburban bounced across the torn grass to the south of Washington’s Monument. The lawn had already been abused by various tracked and wheeled vehicles and was rutted and worn. They had seen the units scattered across the mall and the monuments area and wondered where the hell their assembly area was in the whole sea of tents, trucks and fighting vehicles.
“Just another lander,” said Elgars. A couple of ibuprofen had apparently helped with the wrist.
“Yeah, but it’s gonna land on some poor bastards who are gonna have to do something about it.”
“You mean it’s landing in a hornet’s nest.”
“Yeah. But it’s gonna kill a bunch of hornets.”
Sergeant Carter had never set up a squad tent in his entire military career. But, not surprisingly, the AID had precise directions. So, while one squad was laying out the grid for the tent city, he and his squad were showing a group of civilians how to set them up. The rest of the company was explaining field latrines in another area or standing guard. The guards were still by the Bradleys, rather than around the President, when the Posleen ship landed.
The ship slowed to practically zero and drifted, light as gossamer, over to Fifth Street. There it set down and dropped its ramp.
The crowd had started to panic at the first sonic boom. The now familiar sound went straight to the reptile hindbrain and triggered a flight. Unfortunately everyone had a different idea of which direction to run in and the result was a riot.
The riot stopped when the ship arrived. As the shadow drifted across, the mob noted distance and direction in its mob mind and headed the other way. The effect was to sweep the Detail along with it.
The President, on the other hand, in his half-ton battle armor was simply buffeted. Once he was knocked over as he stood his ground but as the crowd thinned he regained his feet.
The golf course between the Posleen ship and him was scattered with injured and dead from the panicked mob. Most of them were children or the old. As the ship drifted to the ground the President shook his head. He looked around at all the poor people who had been killed and injured in this last incident and put them squarely on his ledger. He could have ordered them dispersed, put into scattered and controlled groups. Then all those poor children who were lying broken on the ground wouldn’t have been there. And if he had had the sense that God gave a donkey all the poor children who were scattered across Prince William County would still be alive.
He shook his head one last time and looked into the depths of the hated helmet. He really, really hoped that the gestalt knew what it was doing. He could feel it pulsing against his control and he was about ready to let it take over.
He put the helmet on and waited for it to open pockets over his eyes, nose and mouth before opening his eyes. “AID?”
“Sir?”
“When the first Posleen appears, begin taking your control from the gestalt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will attempt to not make distracting movements and sounds. However, if I move in a major way, AID, you follow Sergeant Martinez. Clear?”
“Clear,” said the AID. There was a strong but complex surge from the gestalt. He took it as agreement.
He reached behind him and lowered the M-300 grav-rifle. As the heavy weapon dropped into place, a series of screens blossomed across his vision. The information was surprisingly comprehensible for a change. Range and bearing tracks crawled across as he shifted the weapon back and forth. A crack appeared at the top of the ship’s deployment platform.
“Well, guys,” he whispered to the electronic entities, “it is up to you. Do your President proud.” At least he would be able to look his ghosts in the eye.
CHAPTER 67
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1046 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
The gruff but friendly colonel had left, after ensuring that Ryan’s platoon of trainees was firmly attached to the local force. He had been replaced by a much more dour captain. Lieutenant Ryan felt like he’d wandered into a play in the middle of act three. The colonel and the captain seemed to communicate in some sort of code. But he could tell that the captain was not pleased to make his acquaintance. His only comment was something to the effect of points for the WPPA.
Now, Lieutenant Ryan had not been in the Army long, but he knew what the “West Point Protective Association” was. Since it was normally invoked to save the career of a West Point graduate, he had to assume that he was in deeper shit than he thought over “losing” his platoon. The good work they had done at Occoquan had been forgotten, of course, and the only thing that would be remembered was that he had wandered around the Mall all day looking for a home. It didn’t seem fair but, then again, the Army rarely was. All the “atta-boys” in the world were erased with one “oh-shit.”
However, whether the captain liked him or not, Ryan felt it was his duty to point a few things out to him. So he screwed up his courage and approached.
“Sir?” he said, diffidently. The captain turned from where he had been surveying the work on the Arlington Bridge. The location was perfect for getting a good overview, since the back side of the Lincoln Memorial looked directly across the bridge. It did, however, have a few down sides.
“Yes, Lieutenant Ryan?” he asked in a supercilious tone. Captain Spitman was a tall, broad officer whose black eyes were piercing.
“I was just wondering, sir,” said the lieutenant, hesitantly. He cleared his throat. “This location is… sort of exposed.” Some of the engineers on the deck had been blinded by the flashes of the Pentagon’s destruction. It only highlighted how exposed the position was.
The captain’s face tightened. It could just have been a question from a junior officer requesting greater knowledge, but the captain obviously took it as an attack. “And I suppose that that observation is from your mass of combat experience, Lieutenant?” he snarled.
The fact that the reaction was completely overboard was lost on the lieutenant. Ryan’s first reaction, which he suppressed, was sarcastic. He wanted to say, No, it’s from having my head somewhere above my waistline. The location was exposed. The first Posleen approaching the bridge would be looking right at them. And if they were even slightly on the ball they would shoot the shit out of this half-ass “command post.”