“Well,” said the guy on the radio in a voice that was both resigned and positive, “gotta die somewhere.”
Keren twisted the traverse and dropped the range a crank. “Guess it’s that time.”
“Yep,” said the guy on the other end. “Well, I always said every day after the Chosin was one I wasn’t meant to live. Thanks for the support, Mortars. Out here.”
Keren shook his head in wonder. Maybe the guy was talking about Valkyries or something.
Mike had some important decisions to make. As the battalion stepped out, crossing the Twelfth Street Phase-line he was still in a quandary. But, after thinking long and hard, he finally came to a decision.
“Duncan?” he asked.
“We’re up! Where do you want it?”
“Question. What tune should I use?” he asked. The firing from the distant Monument was clear. The forces had to be thinking they were doomed.
“What?”
“I’m thinking ‘Ride of the Valkyries.’ ”
“What?”
“Or should I go with tradition?”
“What tradition?… Oh.”
“Yeah, tradition wins. Pity, really. This is such a Wagnerian moment.”
Keren looked up and snarled as the guy hanging rounds froze. Then, when he saw his slack-jawed face he looked to the rear. The tune was familiar. At first he could not for the life of him place it. But then, as the approaching unit began singing, it came to him and he started to laugh so hard he thought he would die.
Colonel Cutprice looked up at the sound behind him and started to laugh. Just when you thought you had lost the game, sometimes life handed you an ace. Some of the riflemen on the mound turned to snarl at the misplaced mirth but then, as more and more of the veterans began laughing, they looked to their rear and smiled. They weren’t sure what the joke was — the song was familiar from basic training but otherwise a mystery. But the old guys obviously got whatever the joke was.
And to the strains of “Yellow Ribbon,” the anthem of the United States Cavalry, the men and women of the First Battalion, Five Hundred Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry Regiment, the “Triple-Nickles,” began to deploy.
CHAPTER 72
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1116 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
Teri Nightingale was not happy. The plan that battalion, which meant Captain O’Neal, had downloaded was unnecessarily hazardous and invited defeat in detail. It also left Bravo Company with an unsecured flank. The hazards of that were obvious to a blind man. But not to the world’s greatest expert in combat suit tactics.
He also had sent Ernie out on a forlorn hope. Trying to hold that force coming across the bridge with a few infantry troops and some cowardly tank crews was impossible. They would be slaughtered. And that would be the end of Ernie Pappas.
She was not happy with the direction that relationship had taken. She had never intended to actually go to bed with him. But when the captain had turned her training over to the NCO, she felt a certain amount of flirtation in order. A good report from the NCO, much as it galled her, would go far towards restoring her position in the captain’s eyes. Since the captain wrote her evaluation report, her career depended on keeping this NCO happy.
Flirtation had, unfortunately, quickly led to more. And now she was not sure she could end the relationship without causing the exact opposite of the effect she had been striving for. It was a hell of a predicament. Much as it bothered her to consider it, Sergeant Pappas’s death would certainly permit her to be free and clear.
Her own death, however, might quickly follow. She swallowed at that thought and caught her breath. For the first time she seriously regretted her change from Intel to Infantry. A career in Intel would have meant slower promotion, but one of the costs of being in combat arms was the chance of dying. That had never been real to her until today. Despite the reality of the training systems, the possibility that Teri Nightingale might cease to exist was a shock.
That possibility was much on her mind as the company double-timed down New York Avenue. Confident in his company and assured by the first sergeant that the XO was capable of handling the load, Captain O’Neal had assigned Bravo the most difficult assignment. It required moving across Washington at an oblique angle and taking the Posleen forces in the flank. It also left them out on a limb, unsupported by the rest of the companies in the battalion. And to get to the point where they were truly in trouble required a headlong charge towards the distant enemy.
Second platoon was in the lead as they approached the back side of the White House. Lieutenant Fallon had pushed his point out well in advance of their location, but they were running without flankers, an invitation to ambush. That was not a comforting feeling to the XO.
“Lieutenant Fallon,” she said, carefully controlling her voice, “hold up at the intersection of New York and Fifteenth Street. I don’t like this running blindly towards the enemy. We need to get some scouts forward.”
“Ma’am,” said the lieutenant, diffidently. “With all due respect we’re behind schedule as it is. We need to be in position to support the battalion’s assault.”
“I am aware of the plan, Lieutenant!” snapped the acting commander. “But if we get ambushed it will not help the battalion either!”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the officer, tightly.
The company stopped in the open area to the east of the Treasury annex and automatically trained weapons out. The unit had been moving in tactical formation, the suits spaced twenty meters apart, weapons trained out to either side. If any Posleen unit had ambushed them it would have been toast.
Wilson tapped a grav-gun to get the rifleman on the correct axis and walked over to where Stewart was standing, one foot tapping a rhythm on the concrete. He leaned into the squad leader and set his communicator to private mode.
“Manuel, we’re not supposed to be stopped here,” he hissed.
“No shit,” snapped Stewart. He did not even correct the use of his former name. The alias James Stewart was a bit of comedy that the gang had managed to keep secret to everyone but the first sergeant. But right now he was worried more about the colossal screwup the company was engaged in than in keeping his former existence a secret.
“Well, do something!”
“What would you have me do?” he asked in exasperation. “Off the XO?”
The response was resounding silence.
“Oh, great,” Stewart responded. “Do you have any idea what a really bad idea that is? No? You think that Rogers or Fallon would just pick up the ball if we shot Nightingale? Or, maybe, they would have to deal with whoever shot her first? Bad, bad, bad idea.”
“Okay,” relented the former gang member. “But what the hell are we going to do?” he asked plaintively. “We were supposed to be in position by now, not standing by the White House with our thumbs up our butts!”
“Muy trabajo, buddy. I know that, you know that, the L-T knows that. The only one who doesn’t know it is the fuckin’ XO. So, when the Old Man figures out what’s going on he’ll kick her ass and get it in gear. No problemo.”
“Sure, sure, Jim,” snapped Wilson. “No problem for us. But the rest of the battalion is going to get corncobbed.”