As it happened, actually hitting the Posleen became unnecessary. The barrels throughout the entire warehouse were filled with an oil processed from algae. It was used by the Indowy in cooking. It was as ubiquitous as corn oil, and the five million Indowy of Qualtren used so much they needed a half-kilometer square warehouse. Like corn oil, it had a fairly high flash point but given certain conditions it could burn, even explode.
The depleted uranium pellets of the grav guns traveled at a noticeable fraction of the speed of light. The designers had carefully balanced maximum kinetic effect against the problem of relativistic ionization and its accompanying radiation. The result was a tiny teardrop that went so fast it defied description. It made any bullet ever made seem to stand still. Far faster than any meteor, rounds that did not impact left the planet's orbit to become a spatial navigation hazard. It punched a hole through the atmosphere so fierce that it stripped the electrons from the atoms of gas and turned them into ions. The energy bled in its travel was so high it created a shock front of electromagnetic pulse. Then, after it passed, the atoms and electrons recombined in a spectacular display of chemistry and physics. Photons of light were discharged, heat was released and free radicals, ozone and Bucky balls were produced. The major by-product was the tunnel of energetic ions indistinguishable from lightning. Just as hot, and just as energetic. A natural spark plug.
In two seconds a thousand of these supremely destructive teardrops punched through fifty drums of fish oil. One pellet was enough to finely distribute a drum of oil over two to three thousand cubic meters of air. The following rounds found only vapor, and these excess pellets, following the immutable laws of physics, set out to find other drums to divide. The oil from thousands of drums suddenly flash blasted into gas then ignited from compression, rather like a diesel piston. The net effect was a fuel-air bomb, the next best thing to a nuclear weapon in Terran technology, and the basement warehouse became a gigantic diesel cylinder. For Sergeant Reese, in an instant the world flashed to fire.
The warehouse was two levels below ground. It had six levels below it and was three hundred fifty meters from Sisalav Boulevard, a hundred fifty meters from Avenue Qual. The fuel-air explosion blasted a two-hundred-meter diameter crater down to bedrock, gutted the building for a kilometer upward and set off all the charges planted for Plan Jericho. The shock wave smashed structural members all the way to Sisalav and Qual and spit many of the remaining troopers on the ground floor out of the building like watermelon seeds. It killed every unarmored being in the mile cube structure: three hundred twenty-six thousand Indowy and eight thousand particularly quick and greedy Posleen. The Jericho charges worked as planned, shattering a hundred and twenty critical monocrystalline support members. With surprising grace, the mile-high edifice leaned to the northwest and slowly, as if reverently kneeling, fell into Daltrev, blocking Sisalav and Qual and smashing the southeast quadrant of Daltrev. It crushed more Posleen and completely blocked an enemy advance from the massif to Qualtrev.
Following a predetermined plan, when the last shaken but mobile survivors of Alpha and Bravo quit Qualtrev five minutes later, that structure's charges detonated as well. The building settled across Avenue Anosimo and the rest of Daltrev, blocking Posleen advances through both the battalion's sector and the primary axis of advance into the 7th Cav sector. With the Posleen advances blocked, the remnant of the battalion was free to support the Cav. If it could be reconstituted.
Mike moaned and opened his eyes. At least he thought he did but the world was as black as before and he suffered from vertigo. Either there was something wrong with his inner ear, or he was basically upside down and on his back.
"Lieutenant O'Neal," said his AID in her most soothing voice, "you're not blind, there just is no light."
"Suit lights," muttered Mike, dazedly.
"First let me tell you where you are. What do you remember?"
"Headache."
The AID correctly interpreted this as a medication request and chose three items from the pharmacope.
"Whew," said Mike after a minute or two of shutting his eyes against the soul-drinking darkness, "that's better. Now, where am I? And turn on the damn helmet."
"What do you remember?" the AID temporized.
"Entering a warehouse in the basement of Qualtren."
"Do you remember what happened in the basement?"
"No."
"Do you remember Sergeant Reese?"
"Yeah. Is he alive?"
"Barely. You encountered some Posleen. In firing on them Sergeant Reese struck several bladders of oil with kinetic pellets. This caused a fuel-air explosion which in turn detonated the Jericho charges . . ."
"I'm under Qualtren," said Mike in sudden horrified realization.
"Yes, sir. You are. You are under approximately one hundred twenty-six meters of rubble."
28
Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III
0025 August 5th, 2002 AD
Pappas' eyes were open, his back straight, his arms crossed and a fierce expression was fixed on his face. For all that he was, in reality, asleep.
It was after midnight as the swaying bus ground to a halt at the MP guarded entrance to Fort Indiantown Gap. The bus driver had wondered as they approached about the red glow of flames in the distance, but the greeting from the MPs drove all thought of it out of his head. He leaned out of the window to ask where the recruits and their humorless sergeant were supposed to go, but before he could ask the question the MP answered it for him.
"I don't know where the fuckers are supposed to go, who they are supposed to report to or what the fuck to do with them. Are there any more questions?" the MP private asked in an angry and aggressive tone.
Pappas' eyes flicked open and before he was fully awake he had exited the bus and had the MP dangling by his BDU collar from one hand.
"What the fuck kind of answer is that you pissant?" he raged. The MP's companion started awake and clawed at his Berretta.
"Draw your weapon and you will be splitting rocks in Leavenworth on Thursday, asshole!" said the infuriated Pappas turning his fulminating gaze on the companion. On top of the difficulties of the trip the attitudes of the MPs had just been too much. The backup quit clawing at his sidearm and popped to attention.
"Now," said Pappas as his fury cooled slightly, "what the fuck is your problem, Private?" He lowered the MP so that his feet contacted the ground without actually releasing him.
The MP had had his share of problems lately and plenty of opportunity to practice hand-to-hand combat. But he had never had anyone manhandle him so quickly or completely and the experience was shattering. The NCO in gray silks, which designated him as one of the nearly untouchable Fleet Strike Force, was a mountain of muscle. The dim lighting and red flickering of distant flames turned him into a surreal figure of almost primeval strength and fury, like a volcano on two trunk-like legs. The private did a quick reevaluation of his environment.
"Sergeant," he was definitely a sergeant, although it was hard to read the Fleet stripes on his shoulder, "we got a lot of problems . . ."
"I don't want to hear problems, private, I want to hear answers."
"Sergeant, I don't have any. I'm sorry." The private's face was screwed into near tears and Pappas suddenly had to reevaluate the situation as well.
"What the fuck is going on?" he asked releasing the private and smoothing the fabric of his BDU collar. He finally turned his head to look at the distant fires. "What the fuck is going on?" he asked again, shaking his head.