Mike sat in the sunshine on Fort Hill looking down over the interleaving ridges and marshes running north and south from Lake Cayuga to Lake Ontario that comprised the Montezuma Defense Zone.
The terrain had been perfect for the human defenders; with all the roads and bridges cut, the Posleen assaulting out of fallen Syracuse had been cold meat in the first days of the war. Whether slogging through the numerous marshes or rushing the slab-sided hills they had fallen by the hundreds of thousands. And human losses, while high, had been a bare fraction; it was believed that the Battle of Messner Hill had achieved over one thousand Posleen deaths for every human defender.
Therefore, the decision to retreat barely a month into the war had been a critical blow. It had been on the plains between Clyde and Rochester that the Ten Thousand was born and the ACS died. It was in the politically driven decision to defend every hamlet, to counterattack every hilltop, that six divisions of veteran soldiers had been turned into food for the alien invaders. In the process, over three thousand M-1 tanks and two thousand irreplaceable suits had been lost. It was on the Ontario Plain that the war was nearly lost.
But now it was all returned. The Posleen, once broken in the brick-dust ruins of Rochester U, had run. And the ACS and the Ten Thousand hammered them for it. The Ten Thousand needed no encouragement; from the lowest buck private to their commander, every single soldier believed in “keepin’ up the skeer.” And any time a Posleen force turned at bay they would call on the supporting artillery and ACS.
That last, however, had cost the ACS battalion dear. Every suit was precious and they had lost better than two dozen troopers or suits in the pursuit. Supposedly a few new ones were on the way. But when they arrived would be problematical.
Looking down over the sparkling marshes, though, Mike had to believe it was worth it. The Ontario Plain was the weakest point in the Eastern U.S. With it back in human hands not only was there defense in depth — unlike at the beginning of the war the plain was now being covered with line after line of trench works — but the strongest points were held by veteran soldiers that knew the Posleen, however fierce, were not invincible. Posleen could die and their crested heads made great decorations over a mantelpiece.
Mike didn’t even raise his head at the sound of a helicopter behind him. That was the definitive sign of a secure area; any aircraft was vulnerable to God Kings’ fire and helicopters were worse than planes. If a helicopter was buzzing around it meant that all was right with the world. He smiled and recrossed his feet on the headless God King propping them up. Life was good.
Jack stepped out of the OH-58 and shook his head. It looked like the orders he brought were none too soon. There were quite a few signs that both the 1st/555th and the Ten Thousand needed a break. But the crests that some of the Ten Thousand troopers had attached to their rucksacks was nothing compared to the head of a God King stuck on an upthrust sword. The dripping yellow trophy had stained the weapon, probably the God King’s own boma blade, and pooled under the ACS commander.
But Mike didn’t seem to notice that little fact or the smell, despite having his helmet off. He just kept looking to the east, towards Syracuse and the distant Atlantic. Towards the enemy that held the plains.
The general walked up behind his former aide with a glance at Mike’s staff. The group of officers and NCOs kept a respectful distance, also looking to the east and conversing in low tones. Most of them were young, like the commander, and all had learned in a hard school. But Horner understood the difference, the reason they were not starting to act oddly; they didn’t have the added weight of command.
From the very first contact with the Posleen, O’Neal had been in one position of command or another. Frequently, in the early days, these were thrust upon him unexpectedly. And unlike Horner he had not had the time before the war to come to terms with the weight of responsibility or the little tricks that commanders learned to manage the load. The result was his psychological management techniques took unexpected and, arguably, unwise directions.
No question, it was time for a break.
“Morning, Mike,” said the general.
“You will note that it is Tuesday,” the major said, standing up. “And while we are not in Syracuse that is not our fault; I was informed that to go further would be ‘logistically insupportable.’ Thanks for the armor support, by the way.”
“It’s okay,” said Horner. “We got back Savannah. And, believe it or not, there are no problems anywhere in the Eastern U.S. As a matter of fact, the worst I have to worry about is a globe in Georgia that’s not acting the way it should.”
The ACS commander turned around and looked up at the much taller general. “So you’re telling me we’re going west.”
“Nope,” said the Continental Army Commander. “You’re not going anywhere. Except back to Buffalo for at least a week of R R.”
Mike frowned. “Harrisburg?”
“The assault got beaten off. And we managed to slip in a resupply of critical parts so they’re back in full form.”
“Roanoke?”
“The 22nd Cavalry retook the forward positions. And the Posleen look like they’re licking their wounds. Actually, they’d better be ’cause General Abrahamson boxed ’em in and pounded them into scraps. He couldn’t get a good count, but it looked like over two million lost there. Better than Richmond.”
“Chattanooga?”
“Hasn’t been a probe in a couple of months.”
O’Neal tugged at the collar of his armor and worked his neck around nervously. “California?”
“There hasn’t been any activity in weeks,” Horner sighed. “Mike, you need to take a break. You’re propping your feet on dead Posleen and screaming ‘eat me’ at my corps commanders.”
“You heard about that, huh?” the major asked without chagrin. “He deserved it, though. We’d been ready to move out for two hours when his first unit showed up.”
“Probably,” Horner admitted. “But you still need a break. There’s not enough time for you to go see Cally, though. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” said the ACS commander looking around as if awakening from sleep. “I just… I don’t know what to do, Jack!”
Horner snorted. “Keep your battalion on standby, but one day recall is fine. I’ll go tell Duncan; he can handle the details. Go back to Buffalo. Get some dress greens, flash the medal around, get your tubes cleaned. You’re a widower, not an ascetic.”
“That’s cold, Jack,” O’Neal said with a touch of anger.
“And that is something you haven’t figured out, yet,” the general responded. “War is cold. You have to be colder.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, wiping his gauntlet over his face and glancing at the head of the God King with distaste. “Maybe a couple of beers are in order.”
“Two weeks,” Horner said. “After that there’s that globe landing in Georgia I want you to go check out. I had the local corps commander put a Fleet LRRP team on it, but they don’t appear to be moving. So take a couple of weeks. Besides, we’re getting ahead of the game on SheVas and I sent SheVa Nine down there to backstop Fourteen. If two SheVas can’t handle it, what’s the point of sending the ACS, right?”
“Okay,” O’Neal said. “I got the picture.” He took one last look at the marshes and hills to the east. “All in all, though, I think I’d rather be in Georgia.”
“I need you functional, Mike. This war has cost us too many good soldiers already.”
Mike nodded and scratched at one of the newer gouges on his suit. The nannites would eventually clean it up, but the repairs left visible traces like scars, slightly off-color. The sign that a suit had seen wear.