“And even an Abrams can’t stand up to Posleen for very long,” continued General Horner.
“Hmm. Any more rabbits in the hat?” asked Mike.
“Like what?” asked Jack.
“Like independent forts along the way?”
“No,” said the CONARC. “We’ve only got so much logistics to go around. Not to mention bodies. We have to concentrate on the cities, not long-ball chances like the evac. There might be some small outposts — we’re looking at doing some stuff with militias — but by this time they will probably be swept away. That’s where the mobile infantry comes into play.” The fate of the defenders was obvious. But the general carefully did not comment on that.
“And in the southwest,” interjected General Taylor, flicking an ash from his stogie.
“And in the southwest,” agreed Horner, “which is going to be an Eleventh Mobile Infantry show. The other use for the MI will be as support during the initial retreat to the montane defenses and to ensure that the Posleen do not break through the Appalachian defenses especially. What we want you to do is go over the conventional battle plans being developed and set up the MI zones of responsibility.
“Zones of responsibility will not be detailed to units smaller than a battalion,” continued Horner. “The units you have to work with are the 508th, 509th and the 555th. The Eleventh will be used as a division to hold the ‘underbelly.’ ”
“Are we going to have all of those?” Although there were plans in the pipeline to supply all those regiments with suits, the schedule of supply had been pushed back and back. Pretty soon they were going to start taking losses and the new suits would be going to replace casualties.
“We have to assume so,” Horner stated. His grim smile belied the words. “I’ve set up an office with a couple of staff and all the necessary clearances. And of course you’ve got Michelle,” said General Horner, gesturing at the captain’s AID.
“Shelly,” corrected Mike, fingering the bracelet of black intelli-plastic. “Michelle died on Diess.”
“Sorry,” said General Horner, ignoring the inquiring glance from General Taylor, “Shelly. Can you work out the details with just that?”
“I could do it without the staff, if everything is in the network.”
“It is,” said Horner.
“Then no problem.”
“Initial deployments and SOP battle plans for three regiments in wildly varying terrain?” asked General Taylor. “No problem?”
“Yes, sir,” said O’Neal with a tired smile. He thought it would be a nightmare, but doable. “After activating a company of multigenerational soldiers being introduced to science fiction technology for the first time, in an encampment that has daily riots, this will be a piece of cake.”
“Okay,” chuckled General Horner, tossing back the last of his vodka. “You have three weeks. Your company will be on leave by then and you’re going on leave as well. Colonel Hanson asked me to make that an order, by the way.”
“Yes, sir. I could do with a little time off.”
“I agree,” said Taylor. “And so did Lieutenant General Left.”
Mike looked suspiciously from general to general. “How did the Fleet Strike Commander, who I trust is still safely ensconced on Titan, become involved?”
“Well, Bob seemed like the best point of contact to make with Fleet,” said Horner with a frown.
Mike flicked an ash off his cigar and frowned warily. “And why did Fleet get involved?”
“Well, we had to get permission from Vice Admiral Bledspeth,” explained Taylor.
“Yes, sir,” said Mike, his suspicions fully aroused. “I suppose you did. For what is the question?”
“Well, to get them to kick Sharon loose,” said Horner.
“And shuttle her down for a break of her own,” pointed out Taylor. “That was almost harder.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “Sharon’s taking leave?” he asked incredulously. “Since when?”
“What time is it?” asked Taylor, ostentatiously looking at his watch.
Horner gave one of his rare true smiles. “Close your mouth, Mike, flies will take advantage. Think of it as having friends in high places. Or, if you prefer, think of it as a reward for maxing your FSTEP.”
“Sir,” the captain spluttered. “This is not funny. It is completely unfair to everyone else in the world who has a spouse on detached duty! It is the worst case of personal privilege I can imagine!”
“Yes, it is,” said Taylor, seriously. “But most of those soldiers have not made the contributions you have. Most of those soldiers are not going to be asked to shoulder the burdens you, and Sharon, will be asked to shoulder. And most of those families, despite the occasional tear-jerker news report, don’t have both parents in harm’s way.”
“Mike,” said Horner, seriously also. “It’s a done deal. I knew you would react this way which is why I didn’t even ask you about it. Take it as a gift from a friend or an order from a general. I don’t care which. But Sharon will be on leave a week before you get kicked loose. Then you’ll have a week together. After that you’ll have a week by yourself. And that will probably be the last break you have for years.”
“Yes, sir,” said O’Neal, finally getting over the shock. Looked at a different way it was a hell of a compliment. The only part that bothered him was the personal privilege. He finally decided that this was one gift horse where he wasn’t gonna look at the teeth.
“Take off, Mighty Mite. It’s good to have you around.”
“ ’Night, sir,” said Mike. He paused at the door in thought. “And thanks,” he said.
CHAPTER 14
Lagrange Point Four, Sol III
0510 EDT September 10th, 2004 ad
I wanna pony. Her young face was scrunched in an unhappy frown, her arms crossed over her chest and tears threatening in her eyes. The light wind of the summer afternoon had faded and the trees in the background were dropping their leaves like rain.
I’m sorry, sugar, you can’t have a pony. None of us can have ponies.
Why not?
There’s no air for them to breathe. As she said it Sharon realized that there really wasn’t any air. She began to pant but she couldn’t fill her lungs.
Mommy? said the little girl, receding into the blackness. She had fallen out of the air lock and was drifting off into the depths of space, the diamond-hard stars wheeling around her as she fell and fell. Mommy? Mum? Comman’er O’Neal? Commander? Mum? COMMANDER!
Sharon started up in the bunk and banged her head into the bunk above hers. For a moment stars wheeled around her and she nearly screamed at not waking from the nightmare. Instead she took a deep breath and quietly let slip her husband’s favorite swearword.
“Are you quite all right, mum?” asked Boatswain Michaels. He squatted by the side of the bunk with a cup of steaming tea in his hand. His thick Midlands accent was, as always, nearly incomprehensible.
“I’ll be fine as soon as I figure out how to kill Lieutenant Crowley so I can have his bunk removed,” she joked, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk. It was necessary to hunch forward to avoid banging her head again. The ceilings of the converted Indowy fast courier were barely six feet tall. Cramming two bunks in vertically had been challenging.
Everything had been challenging since she’d been assigned to the position of executive officer on the Agincourt five months before. During her tenure she had suffered through three different captains as Fleet High Command cycled officers through the few available warships. The first one was fine, a former submariner who had taught her many of the tricks that stood her in good stead since. The other two had been losses, micromanaging assholes who were lost commanding the ship. The last one had been a philanderer to boot, a Russian bigot with wandering hands.