“What about targeting the enemy? Didn’t that depend on the GPS as well?”
“Same thing, only backwards. The forward observer determines his distance and elevation to the nearest UTD and his distance and elevation to the target and sends the raw data to the targeting computers. It all can be done with a special laser range-finding system. The targeting computer crunches the numbers and assigns the fire to the appropriate guns. It’s incredibly automatic.”
“Will it work?” asked the Journal Constitution reporter.
“Ah, well that is the question isn’t it?”
“You said something about connecting our equipment up, General,” interjected the producer.
“Of course, let me introduce Major George Nix.” General Horner gestured for one of the hovering officers and the slight, bespectacled major hurried over from one of the displays.
“Major Nix came out of Space Command and is our tactical systems officer. The TacSO is the officer in charge of making sure all the systems integrate and are maintained, as opposed to the tactical actions officer, Colonel Ford. Colonel Ford — we call him the TacCO — is in charge of making the moment-to-moment tactical decisions.
“Major Nix, can you get these journalists a feeder screen and somehow hook their cameras up? I want to make sure that everyone in the United States has up-to-the-minute access to all the data we are generating.”
“Yes, sir, we anticipated this.” He turned to one of the video technicians. “Come with me.”
Nix led the tech out of the room, the reporters following and quietly making notes about the intense atmosphere in the room. He led them down the corridor and into a well-lit chamber where two specialists and a slightly overweight staff sergeant were arguing at a display.
“Sergeant Folsom, ‘One If By Land.’ And do it fast.”
“Yes, sir.” The two specialists hurried out of the room as the sergeant went around configuring displays. As he worked he talked. “Gentlemen, we had anticipated this, so you will get more functionality than you would expect, but less than you are used to. I’m setting up two displays for the print and radio guys, and we’ll feed you to your headquarters, ABC, over RealAudio, so you can do your radio thing over the Net. The Net is busy right now, but the usage is not as high as a normal business day so you should have good connectivity.
“The consoles use a simple graphic user interface. Right-click on an area of the map and it will zoom down to a fineness of about six hundred miles on a side. It’s not a political map. It’s drawn from satellite imagery, so somebody had better be up on their geography.”
“Sergeant,” asked the CNN producer, appropriating one of the consoles, “is there any way to run a second audio feed back to CNN?”
“Sure, if somebody there has Interphone or NetMeeting.”
“Where?”
The sergeant walked over and tapped at the next console. “What’s their URL?”
Within minutes the sergeants and the specialists, returned from rerouting Internet T-3 lines to increase the room’s available bandwidth, had configured all of the backup CIC consoles to support the media effort. The reporters were practically speechless.
“Sergeant,” said the CNN producer, as she finished preparing the headquarters’ team for the next round of reports, “when this is all over, if you ever need a job, come see me.”
“I’ll think about it, when this is all over.” The question of when it would be over and whether any of them would be around to see it was unspoken.
“Well, now all we do is wait,” said Argent, watching the ovals of probable landing areas reduce on his monitor.
“What about reporting on the personnel being called back to duty?” asked the video technician, watching the feed on his own monitor to ensure the “take” was working.
“That’s being reported on in Atlanta.”
“Poor bastards.”
“Bye, honey,” said Mike, shrugging into his silks top.
“Bye, Daddy,” said Cally, looking up at him with round eyes.
“You listen to Grandpa, all right? And be a good girl.”
“I will, Daddy. When the Posleen come we get a few, then run and hide. Stop, drop and roll, right?”
Unless they’re right on top of you.
“And then I’ll come dig you out,” he promised.
“Right,” she said, face twisting as she tried not to cry.
“Take care, son,” said his father, proffering a Mason jar for the road.
“Too right, the last time in the body and fender shop was enough. Getting shot smarts.”
“Long drive.”
“Too long. They’ll be down before I’m in South Carolina.” He looked at the Mason jar, shrugged and took a hit. The fiery liquor felt good going down. He sealed it and tossed it in his bag.
“How you going?”
“Want to know if I’m going to be in a landing path?”
“Something like that. The Twenty-Fourth Tennessee Volunteers are right up the road as the Tennessee Divide reserve and the whole Fifty-Third Infantry is holding Rabun Gap. So we’re probably going to be fine. You, on the other hand, are driving up to Pennsylvania. So, are you taking the plains or the mountains?”
“I’m still trying to decide. The plains would be faster, even with the interstates doglegging away from the Gap. But, that is a possible landing area according to Shelly, so…”
“So. Which way?”
“Mountains,” Mike decided. “Up Interstate 81. Better to be caught in traffic jams than in a landing.”
“Want a piece?” A Glock 9mm appeared by legerdemain in the old man’s hand.
“No, I’m packed. Speaking of which.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a finely carved wooden box. The wood was an odd shade of lavender-brown Mike Senior had never seen before. Mike Junior handed it to Cally. “I was going to leave this with your Grandpa as a birthday present, but I think now would be a good time to give it to you.”
She was puzzled by the latch, a circular pattern similar in appearance to a maze, with no obvious buttons. Pulling on the sections caused them to lift, and they could be twisted on their axes but none of the actions seemed to open the box.
“It’s an Indowy puzzle box, which I don’t, unfortunately, have time to let you work through. Watch.” He lifted three sections and twisted them until the sections joined together to form a pattern reminiscent of a multiheaded dragon. When slid back into place, the latch released and the top opened as the serpent seemed to writhe off the box and into a circuitous dance. The fire-breathing hologram danced above the open box as Cally gasped at the contents.
“I’m still getting presents from Indowy clans over Diess. Most of them I pass on to the survivors or their families, but this I couldn’t resist.” In the box, cradled in a lustrous silken foam were a gilded pistol and two magazines.
“I’ve got a case of ammunition for this out in the truck. The powers-that-be still frown on grav-guns in civilian hands but this is a pulser gun. It fires pulse darts. Each of the darts has an electrical charge in it powerful enough to kill an elephant, much less a Posleen. There are twenty-four darts in a clip. It’s accurate to about a hundred yards with a good hand.” He pulled a clip out of his cargo pocket. “This is a clip of practice ammunition and you can reuse an expended dart as practice ammo. But to fire it in practice, you have to charge the onboard capacitor.” He turned to Mike Senior. “It charges on 220.”