“Then when it came apart again, I had just decided to catch some rest. We were in the back of a truck headed up the road to Manassas.” She paused and took a deep breath.
“I woke up with two of ’em holding me down and Pig-Breath here pulling down my pants. When the three of ’em were done they dumped me by the side of the road with that piece of shit rifle and one fuckin’ magazine. I guess they thought we were the back side of the retreat.” She took another deep breath. “Which was where you found me.” She looked at Keren with eyes smoldering. “I want my fuckin’ piece back and Pig-Breath charged! I’d prefer castrated, but I wanna stay out of Leavenworth myself.”
Keren nodded at her when he was sure she was done and turned to the beefy specialist. He noted in passing that his nametag read “Pittets.” It was obvious where Elgars had derived the name Pig-Breath.
“What do you have to say?” he asked evenly. He was ninety-nine percent certain that Elgars was telling the truth. But since for some ungodly reason everyone was looking to him for judgement, he had to be impartial.
“This cunt is lying,” snarled the heavyset specialist, flexing his fists. “I’d never met her before she walked up and stuck a fuckin’ gun to my head. She just wants my rifle, the bitch, and I can’t believe you’re letting her fuck me over like this!”
Sergeant Chittock grabbed Elgars by the collar of her BDUs just in time and got an elbow in the stomach for his pains. But she subsided after she realized who she’d hit.
Keren nodded again. He rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought and nodded a last time. “What’s the serial number of the piece?” he asked Pittets.
The beefy specialist blinked a few times. “Why the hell would I memorize a serial number? I don’t see what that…”
“BR 19784,” Elgars hissed. “It stands for Barrett Rifles. And my initials are scratched on the bottom of the receiver pan. A-L-E.” She smiled thinly. “If I’ve never met you, I’ve never met the rifle, right, Pig-Breath?”
Keren looked at Sergeant Chittock, who was searching the rifle for the serial number. He stopped, then looked up at Keren and nodded.
Keren’s face tightened. He looked at Pittets. “Wrap him up with hundred-mile-an-hour tape and strap him to the side of One Track. We’ll turn him over to proper authorities if we ever find them. If he makes too much noise, put a piece of tape over his fat mouth.”
“Hey,” shouted the specialist as willing hands dragged him towards the Mortar Carrier. “You can’t do this! I’ve got rights…”
Elgars hefted the rifle and tried to support it with her broken left wrist. She grimaced and let the barrel drop.
“Well,” said Keren with a grim expression. “You’ve got it again. What the hell are you going to do with it?”
She slid the butt to the ground and opened the bipod one-handed. “Well, first I’m gonna give ’im a good bath,” she said. “Then I’m gonna zero ’im back in.” She lowered it onto its bipod and sat crossleg alongside. “What I don’t know is how I’m gonna reload the magazines.”
“Well,” said Keren with a faint smile. “I guess you’re gonna need some help.”
CHAPTER 68
Washington, DC, United States Of America, Sol III
1048 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
“Is there something we can do to help, L-T?” asked Sergeant Leo. The Old Man looked as despondent as the NCO had ever seen him. Even worse than when he thought they were gonna run out of chow.
The lieutenant sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial looking at the reflecting pool. It was another perfect fall day, as all these awful days of death and devastation had been. It was as if nature was laughing at them all for their silly games of war. The only effect of the kinetic bombardments, so far, had been to make for some spectacular sunsets and sunrises.
Lieutenant Ryan had chosen the perfect spot to capture the reflection of the Monument in the water. He was vacillating between hysteria and depression, both riding on a knife edge. He was an academy graduate whose first professional responsibility had, from his point of view, gone better than anyone had any right to expect. Lucking onto the Missouri had permitted him to slaughter the Posleen. And his platoon had performed like veterans under fire.
So they got lost from their unit. It wasn’t their fault. There wasn’t a unit to rejoin. So now they were talking behind his back about how the WPPA was going to have to recover his career. After turning most of a division of Posleen into paste.
And now this.
He’d only been in combat for a few days, but he felt he’d developed a “gut.” And his gut call was that the Posleen were gonna wipe out the only controller for the demolition charges. That meant that they would capture the bridge. At that point the fucked-up units on the Mall would shatter like glass. And the Posleen would own America’s core.
Losing the Mall would cut the heart out of the States. Hell, it would have a major effect on the expeditionary forces. Americans complained about their government all the time, but that was not the same as hating the symbols on this historic piece of ground. And all because a single stupid officer wouldn’t pay attention to what a manual, an experienced junior officer and good common sense told him.
But Ryan was an officer. And a professional officer at that, a product of the long, gray line.
“I’m fine, Sergeant.” He stood up and took a deep breath. There was a hint of smoke smell from the fires to the south where the Marines had mined the Pentagon with micronukes. He fixed what he thought was an expression of reserved contemplation on his face.
I was right, thought Leo, we’re fucked. The last time the L-T had gotten that constipated-possum look was just before they latched on to the Mo and got all the fire-support any rational human being could want.
Leo knew what was bothering the L-T and agreed. He was, after all, a demolition instructor. And the captain was totally fucked-up. When the L-T mined the 123 bridge, Leo had been ready to help on the design. But the L-T figured just the right amount of demo and not only had three ways to blast, but different firing points for all three. That was way over the limit to conservative, but the Old Man was a belt-and-suspenders kind of guy. Which was just fine by an NCO missing two fingers from his left hand. Cutting corners around demo was a baaad idea.
“How are the men?” the lieutenant asked. He stopped whatever he was going to say next and his breathing deepened as he dropped into thought.
Leo cocked his head to the side. “They’re fine, sir. We got a resupply of chow and ammo. Hell, we even managed to scrounge some wheels.” He leaned over to look at the officer who had suddenly stopped paying attention. “Sir?” He looked the way the L-T was looking but all he could see was the reflecting pool and the Monument.
The lieutenant closed his eyes for a moment, then they flew open. “Get them up here,” he snapped. “Full loadout. Now!”
“Yes, sir!” said the sergeant and started trotting down the steps before he wondered why. But he continued on. The Old Man was nobody to cross.