“Enough, Pruitt,” Mitchell replied as the warrant drew in a breath through her nose with a hiss. “And enough, Warrant Officer Indy. We have Posleen to kill. We’ll worry about how to manage accidental sexually overtoned situations in a combat environment after we survive the combat environment. Agreed?”
“Agreed, sir,” the warrant replied. “I… Never mind. We are still in bad shape physically, the SheVa that is.”
“I’m aware of that,” Mitchell said. “We’re going to have to go with what we’ve got. Pruitt?”
“Hydraulics are still showing yellow,” the gunner replied in his most professional voice. “All other systems are go.”
“Then let’s get this show on the road again.” Mitchell keyed his microphone to the general frequency. “All SheVa attachments, same plan as before. Let’s roll.”
The plan was for the SheVa to follow the river, with one set of tracks actually in the radioactive water, while the rest of the vehicles followed along on the near bank; despite the fact that they now knew the water wasn’t dangerously hot, the scare from the crossing had made a lasting impression. Keeping up was no trouble, however, because with the loss of power from three reactors the SheVa was limited to a maximum speed of about forty kilometers per hour. Keeping out of the spray of mildly radioactive water and mud from its tracks was somewhat more difficult.
There was a narrow saddle between two of the hills near Porter’s Bend. The only way for the SheVa to survive was to limit the number of Posleen that could engage it at any one time. Following the valley seemed like the best bet. The top of the SheVa might be in view over the hills, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Tango Eight-Nine this is Quebec Four-Six.” With the passing of the previous day the CEOIs had rotated and everyone had to learn new names. Another one of the happy necessities of military training. Along with the thirty minutes or so after the switch-over while everyone hunted for the correct frequencies and quite often settled on the wrong one.
“Quebec this is Tango-Papa, over.”
LeBlanc frowned at the radio and wondered why Pruitt, whom she still hadn’t forgiven, was answering for the colonel. But sometimes you had to deal with the RTO.
“I’m sending out a scout unit at this time,” she replied. “And we’ll move outward to screen your west flank.”
“Thank you, Quebec.” It was Mitchell replying instead of Pruitt. “The Mike unit reports no visuals on the enemy, over.”
“Roger, we’ll just have to go find out where they are.”
“Unload!” the TC called as the troop door thumped to the ground in the gray moonlight.
The Bradley had stopped at the base of a wooded ridgeline; the maps said that there was an open area beyond and it was up to the dismounts to check that out.
Bazzett hefted his AIW and trotted out of the Bradley, fanning out to the left towards the woods. Somewhere to the west, maybe a klick, was Highway 28. For sure the Posleen were using it for movement; it was the job of the scouts to find out whether there was more than light forces in the area.
Since crossing the river and turning to the east they hadn’t seen any of the horses. Generally the Posties got more spread out than was apparent in this area. Maybe that was because of the battle across the river where the rest of the 147th was apparently pounding them.
But the rest of the 147th was on the far side of the river and until a better crossing point than Iotla, where the Posleen appeared to be reconsolidating, was found, they were going to be staying on the far side of the river.
The specialist hit the cold ground again and wriggled forward as he came to the end of the light woods. The scrub ended abruptly at a line of fence. The sheep or cows that had once been in the field were gone, but at the far side of the valley he could see some movement in the shifting light. He didn’t bother with his monocular this time, just raising the thermal sight on the rifle to his eyes and scanning the distant ridgeline.
“Fuck me,” he muttered again. “Why does this keep happening to me?”
“Tango Eight-Nine this is Quebec Four-Six,” LeBlanc said tiredly. She had taken a Provigil and even dropped a tab of meth but she was still tired. Why wouldn’t the Goddess-damned horses just go away?
“Tango,” Mitchell answered. He sounded tired, too.
“Scouts report a major concentration near Windy Gap Church,” she replied. “I’m deploying my troops along the ridgeline to establish a base of fire and have contacted division for artillery support. They’re still in movement so we only have a battery, but we have to pass through this gap. I can patch a visual. Over.”
Mitchell glanced up at the screen and shook his head. There was a solid mass of Posleen moving down Highway 28 with a gathering on the hill occupied by the church. There was a good chance they were also using Windy Gap Road for transportation. Which meant that even when the SheVa and the battalion took them under fire they would have, in effect, reserves ready to counterassault. He had discovered that the worst part of a battle was when the MetalStorms were reloading but that seemed to be the nature of the weapon’s system. And he was down two Storms on his front plate, not to mention the plate itself being sort of shredded.
He was getting really tired of these damned skirmishes. Just once he would like to be able to skip to the end, smoking holes in the SheVa and all. He brought up the map and looked at it but that was no help. Right now the battalion, and the SheVa, were concealed by the ridge. Once they moved on towards their firing point they would be in view and all hell would cut loose. The best bet seemed to be to go with LeBlanc’s implied plan; lay down a base of fire and then assault the Posleen with the tracks, tearing them up with direct and indirect fire.
That would leave a force at their back, though, and they’d still be taking fire as they moved forward. Shitty choices all around.
The Windy Gap Hill was relatively steep but covered in roads so the Posleen could move on it easily. And while it was in range, now, of the MetalStorms they couldn’t direct accurate fire on it until it was in view.
On the other hand, it really stood out…
“Pruitt,” he said thoughtfully. “You ever watch the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark?”
“A couple of times,” the gunner replied. “Why?”
“You know that scene where the big bad guy comes out of the crowd and Indy shoots him?”
“Yes, sir?” the gunner asked.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Porter’s Bend, NC, United States of America, Sol III
0648 EDT Tuesday September 29, 2009 AD