Mike waited a moment then snorted faintly at the fluent swearing that the AID faithfully broadcast.
«Shit,» the first sergeant finished. «I'm sorry, boss.»
«You get one suggestion,» Mike answered. He was not terribly happy with the situation he was in. Pappas was normally to be depended on for a logical evaluation of personnel. In the case of Nightingale it had obviously failed and he was beginning to suspect why.
Pappas thought about the question furiously. If he left the Abrams unit they would take off like a scalded cat. But if he tried to persuade Nightingale over the radio it would be a waste of breath. He could see as clearly as the Old Man that she had frozen, whatever she was telling the company. There was only one choice, as painful as it was personally and professionally.
«Relieve her, sir,» he said after the brief moment's thought. «Put Rogers in charge. If they're stopped and get hit by a Posleen company, you'll have a hell of a time getting them started again.»
«Concur. Out here,» said O'Neal, coldly.
Pappas knew he was going to get his ass kicked at some time in the near future by the little fireball. But that was only if they survived the upcoming battle.
* * *
Atalanara was nearly there. All he had to do was take this «Treasury» building and survive the battle. If he could, he would be set for all eternity; the treasury of such a rich nation would be bulging with loot. As he cleared the intervening bulk of the Old Executive Office Building the long-sought building came into view. And so did an oolt of metal threshkreen.
* * *
«Posleen!» shouted a private in First Platoon and sent a stream of relativistic teardrops towards the Posleen company that had appeared around the corner.
The fire was obscured by the fences and trees at the back of the White House as well as the bulk of the government office building. This gave the company enough time to react to the sudden appearance.
«Okay,» said Nightingale, looking at her readouts, «we can do this.» She tapped her gauntlets together and thought for a moment. «Okay, First platoon. Dig in and prepare to lay down a base of fire. Second, swing to the right and prepare to hit them in the flank. Third, get ready to pass through First to lay down more fire. Mortars—«
«No, no, no, no!» shouted Stewart over the command channel. «Kick their ass don't piss on them! The battalion is about to get fucked because we're out of position!»
«Stewart,» the officer snarled. «One more word out of you and I'll have you court-martialed!»
«He's right, Nightingale,» snapped Rogers as he stepped into line with his platoon and opened fire at the Posleen. The force was actually moving into the Executive Building, using the mass of the structure as cover and concealment. And the fire coming back was heavy. But they could bypass this resistance and move to their positions with minimal casualties. If the intel-weenie bitch could ever get off the stick. Giving vent to his frustration he sent a code to the platoon to open fire with grenades.
The small antimatter grenades sailed out in a volley, the spheres smashing through windows and bouncing off of walls before detonating. The arc-light bright flashes tore off the front of the building without noticeably impeding the Posleen fire. Whoever the God King in charge was, he was starting to learn human tactics.
«Cease fire with grenades!» shrilled Nightingale, horrified by the damage done to the building. It was on the grounds of the White House for God's sake. The consequences were going to be catastrophic.
«Nightingale,» came O'Neal's voice, snapping across the company general circuit. «You are relieved. Move immediately to the area of the cargo canisters and remain there until further ordered. Lieutenant Rogers, you are in tactical command. Move immediately down G Street to Nineteenth. Take your positions along Constitution. You have three minutes to effect this maneuver. If you hit resistance punch through. Kick their ass, don't piss on them!» he finished in unconscious mimicry of his most junior squad leader.
«Yes, sir!» said the new acting commander. «Bravo Company! Follow me!» He locked his grav-gun and mortars on the building sheltering the entrenched Posleen and began a cascade of fire as he trotted off. By the time he reached the end of Lafayette Square he was at a full loping run, accelerating past forty miles per hour.
* * *
Stewart was right behind him with Lieutenant Fallon at his side and the rest of the company charging behind them. The hurricane of destruction from the company chewed away the north end of the Gothic structure, shattering the concrete and stone around the Posleen and covering them with cascading debris. Stewart realized halfway down the street that making the requisite turn was going to be nearly impossible. If they turned to the left it would take them towards the fire.
They had the Posleen suppressed at the moment, but when they turned the fire would break up, permitting the aliens to pick the suits off at the corner. However, if they turned right it would put the Posleen behind them. That was no good either since it would give the enemy a clear shot at the company for several blocks.
However, as they reached the end of Lafayette Square and faced the need to decelerate, he realized that Rogers had no interest in turning.
Accelerating past forty miles per hour, the combat suit of the acting company commander smashed into a building at the end of the street without slowing. The concrete and stone wall shattered at the impact of the thousand-pound suit, leaving a vaguely human-shaped hole as the officer disappeared into the depths to the echoed sound of destruction.
Laughing like madmen Stewart and Lieutenant Fallon lowered their heads and prepared to enlarge the hole.
CHAPTER 73
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1121 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
Mike had one eye on the repeater from Stewart's suit as the battalion reached the Mound and he laughed as well. The two forces arrayed against one another were shaping up. The Posleen had the advantage of numbers but, since they had to pulse the forces across the Arlington Bridge, it would be difficult for them to gather enough forces to dislodge the defenders. If, that was, the humans killed them fast enough.
The humans were at an apparent disadvantage. Most of the units were barely recovered from a rout. There was no central command. And there was no vital rationale to defend this spot. The location was not clearly critical terrain.
But Mike could see that few agreed with that analysis. As he passed the line of figures hunkered down on the mound and firing steadily he could see others picking up weapons from the dead and thickening the line. The mortar tracks were firing their guns steadily and adding the weight of their .50-caliber fire to the mix. Snipers were interspersed with regular infantry, and officers and NCOs were moving among the troops cajoling, correcting or ensuring that everyone had enough ammo. The fact that they had barely slowed the Posleen advance was apparently lost on the soldiers on the mound. They were done running.
The Posleen, on the other hand, were advancing. The lead companies were already past the Reflecting Pool and nearly to Seventeenth Street. Mike was surprised that there were no saucers in the mix, but he quickly surmised by their regular order that the God Kings must have dismounted to make themselves less of a target. The force was not, however, solid. There was a large force advancing on their position, but just as many or more were still milling around in the area of the Memorial. If they stopped this force butt-cold they could deal with the others at leisure. If.
This was where having Bravo in place would have helped tremendously. Not only could Bravo have taken the force with enfilading fire, but the plan called for the battalion to wait for Bravo so that the shock of their first strike would turn the Posleen towards the Monument and into the killing field he intended to make of the monument area.