This engineering, some said over-engineering, had stood O’Neal in good stead on Diess. There, when it all went to the wall, when a Posleen battlecruiser had come in for direct support of the invaders, he had taken the only road to “victory” he could see and used the last bit of his suit energy to fly up to the ship and hand detonate a cobbled together antimatter limpet mine.
He knew at the time that he was committing suicide; had sent a note to his wife to the effect. But through a series of low order physics probabilities and the “over-engineering” of the suits he had survived. Since then, many troopers had survived nearly as strenuous situations, although none as strenuous, and these days no one used the term “over-engineered.” “Hideously expensive,” yes. A command suit cost nearly as much as a small frigate. But not over-engineered.
The armor also permitted degrees of control that were both a blessing and a nightmare. A superior could control every aspect of the battle down to the smallest action of a subordinate. Which was the nightmare. However, it also permitted a commander to lay out a very detailed and graphic plan, then monitor events and intervene if necessary when, not if, the plan went awry.
Now, though, it permitted the major to cover last-minute changes with his company commanders and battle staff while standing on the bottom of the Genesee River.
“Word is we have an additional artillery battalion,” he continued, updating the schematic with the icon for on-call artillery. “It’s still not what I would prefer for this assault. But I think that it’s all that we’re going to get in less than five or ten days. And if we wait that long all that we’ll really get is more Posleen.
“That brings us up to close to two brigades but only one of them is fully coherent and effective. That brigade will initiate with a time-on-target over our initial movement area. With luck that will plaster the Posleen in our way and this will be a walk in the park.”
“Riiight,” Captain Slight said, to assorted chuckles. The captain had come a long way from the newbie lieutenant who had joined Mike’s company before the first landing of the Posleen and she was well respected by her company, what had been Mike’s company. She was also trusted by her battalion commander.
“When we move forward, our right will be aligned on the canal,” Mike pointed out “So it will be covered. But our left flank is going to be as open as a gutted whale.”
“I thought we were going to have a curtain barrage covering it,” Captain Holder said. The Charlie company commander was responsible for the left.
“We are,” Mike said with an unseen grimace. He worked his dip and spit into the pouch the somewhat prescient gel produced. “But Duncan is defining the battalion responsible for the barrage as ‘shaky.’ ”
“Who’d he get that from?” Slight asked. The icon for the artillery coordinator was firmly fixed on the hill previously occupied by the battalion commander and for some of the same reasons. Among other things, it gave a lovely view of the battlefield. More importantly, it permitted the suit’s sensor suite a lovely view of the battlefield, and what the suits could do with that information continued to astound everyone. Including, from time to time, the artificial intelligence devices that drove the suits.
However, the artillery that would be supporting the push was miles back, nowhere near the location of the battalion’s artillery expert.
“I understand he is liaisoning with the Artillery Coordinator of the Ten Thousand,” Mike answered in a lofty tone.
There was a grim chuckle from the officers.
“Colonel, I’ll ask the question one last time,” the captain said with a grim smile. The junior officer was slight, café au lait in complexion and furious. Furthermore, his reputation preceded him.
“Captain, there’s nothing else to do,” the older officer said seriously. “The guns are getting in place as fast as possible. I know it’s not up to standard, but it’s as fast as this unit is capable of. You have to understand, we’re not some sort of super unit…”
“No, Colonel, you’re not,” the captain spat back. For most officers it would have been suicide, but Keren, and every other member of the Six Hundred, already knew what suicide was. Suicide was huddling around the Washington Memorial, damn near out of ammunition and completely out of hope, because you’d rather pile up the mound with your dead than back up one last yard. And the one thing that the Six Hundred never, ever accepted was an excuse. From anyone. “What you are is an artillery battalion of the United States Ground Forces. And you are expected to perform as such.
“Unless your command is laid in in the next three minutes, prepared to fire, I will ask for your relief. And General Horner will order it. And then I will take command of this battalion. If I have to kill every member in this unit, until I get to the last ten reasonably competent people, I will do so to get fire on target. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”
“Captain, I don’t care who you are,” the colonel said harshly. “I do not have to take that sort of tone from any goddamned O-3.”
“Colonel,” the officer said coldly, “I have shot superiors that failed to perform to my satisfaction. I don’t give a flying fuck how you feel about getting reamed out by a captain; we no longer have time for your incompetence. You have one of three choices, lead, follow or die. Choose.”
The colonel paused as he realized the captain was absolutely serious. And there was a pretty good chance that if a captain of the Six Hundred asked for his relief, it would be granted. That was what the Army was coming to, damnit.
“Captain, we will not be laid in in three minutes,” he said reasonably.
“Colonel, have you ever heard of the Spanish Inquisition?” Keren asked tightly.
“Yes,” the officer said and blanched. “I’m… sure we can get laid in to your satisfaction, captain.”
“Try,” the captain rasped. “Try like the Posleen were about to eat your ass. Because if you’re caught between the Posties and the Six Hundred, choose the Posties. Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear,” the colonel answered and checked his salute before turning away.
Keren watched him leave with cold, dead eyes then stepped around the command Humvee by which they had been carrying on their quiet conversation. He assured himself that no one was watching, then, retaining the identical expression, casually threw up.
He washed out his mouth with a swig from his canteen and shook his head. It wasn’t that he was unprepared to shoot the arrogant, incompetent bastard in command of the artillery. It was that it wouldn’t help. The unit had been on support duty in Fort Monmoth for so long they weren’t in any way, shape or form prepared to do anything but fire, from exactly the same positions, on the same azimuths and elevations, day after day.
Unfortunately, they had been pulled out of their comfy positions as the ones “most excess to need” and sent to support the assault in Rochester. What “excess to need” was turning out to mean was “excessively incompetent.” It was an old problem, when a unit called and said “we need your best for something hard” the unit that was losing the capability naturally did not want to send their best. Whether it was a levee of individuals or a shift of units, the commander always tended to send whoever they felt the most comfortable with losing.
And any commander in his right mind would be willing to get rid of this battalion of artillery. Keren had to wonder how many “friendly fire” incidents they had been involved in.