"Aye aye, sir," said the gunnery sergeant grimly, standing up and heading for the door. "Semper fuckin' Fi. Adams! Front and center!"
34
Andata Province, Diess IV
0821 GMT May 19th, 2002 AD
I think I should have waited to motivate them until now, Mike thought. Diess' rising primary cast a fierce green fluorescence over the tableau on the roof. Fifty-eight sets of combat armor were planted at various distances from the edge of the roof, some of them slightly crouched as if trying not to face something. One was parked right on the edge. The roofs could be seen stretching in a continuous checkerboard from the inland mesas to the far green sea. In the extreme distance to the west Mike noticed some breaks and of course there was the missing set against the mesa, the fallen Qualtren and Qualtrev. Almost the length of a football field away was another megascraper roof at the same level.
"How far away is that megascraper, Sergeant Wiznowski?"
The NCO focused his range-finder crosshairs on the far wall and confirmed his rough guess. "Seventy-two and a hair meters, sir," he answered, reading off his Heads-Up-Display.
"And do you happen to know the maximum jump range of a Warrior Combat Suit?"
"No, sir, sorry, sir."
"Right, well it just so happens that the maximum jump range in the specifications we called for was one hundred meters for warriors, one twenty for scouts and one fifty for command." Mike crouched and whispered an order. His suit rolled backward over the mile high drop and sprang outward. In apparent defiance of gravity it shot out and over in a back flip and landed neatly on the far roof. He then sprang back, landing with a thump in their midst.
"Sergeant Wiznowski, I want you to take a running jump to the other roof . . ."
"Uh, Mike, sir . . ."
"You can do it, Wiz. If I can, you can. Back up a couple of hops, take a running jump at it and as you jump, tell your suit to jump. Do it." His visor faced that of the NCO, two blank surfaces, armor unreadable. He wondered what was going through the mind of the scout at that moment. Wiznowski had always been the consummate airborne NCO, brave to the point of suicide. Now he apparently was facing a challenge he was not fully prepared for. "Do you want me to jump again?"
"No sir, I'll do it." The tall suit backed up from the group and ran at the edge. There was total silence on the net as he reached the edge and whispered, "Jump." Again, the suit soared upward in defiance of gravity and common sense. This time with his additional speed, far greater than an unarmored man, he soared far onto the roof, almost a hundred meters from the edge.
"That was a little excessive, Wiz. I said we spec'ed them for one hundred and twenty meters; it turned out to be a bit better than that." Mike bounded farther into the roof to get a running start. He said, "Michelle, command run and maximum jump, execute."
The legs of the suit began to blur. In the hundred meters from his position to the roof's edge it accelerated to over one hundred kilometers per hour in a series of ground-devouring bounds. As the boots of the suit came in contact with the roof, a grappling field would engage to prevent slippage, therefore maximum energy was applied to each thrust. When he reached the roof's edge the suit's AID automatically launched him into the air. Under the combination of forward momentum, his inertial compensators' contragravity function, and thrust from the inertialess thrusters built into the suit, he was carried over two hundred meters onto the far roof. With a return series of bounds he reached the edge of the roof and bounced effortlessly back to the platoon.
"Of course, this is a prototype command suit, not an issue one. Quite the thing, actually. But a suit can take a gap like this without breaking a sweat as you should all know. Powered suit drills is what your jobs are all about now; if you goons had ever been given proper training we wouldn't be having this conversation.
"We will move out in an extended watch formation, twenty meters between personnel, thirty meters between squads, scouts forward leaning left. If somebody misses the jump, the team falls out and recovers them using their winch system. If you miss the jump, don't worry, your suit will automatically hit the anti-grav and your momentum will carry you to the face of the building. Use the universal clamp in your palm pad, clamp to the wall and wait for your buddies to recover you, or climb up hand over hand for that matter. The first rally point is the resupply rendezvous and we don't need everybody there at first so if somebody misses, that troop's team drops and only that team drops, everybody else drives the fuck on, is that clear?"
"Clear, sir."
"If we take any fire from Posleen, those with weapons take them under fire. Kick their ass, don't pee on 'em. Lay down all the fire you can and blow the fuckers away. We do not want to get held up on these rooftops without weapons.
"Now, just to get the feel for things, we'll drop back and start moving forward across the roof as a platoon, not a cluster fuck, right?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Sergeant Green!"
"Yes, sir."
"I want to take this at a long slow lope."
"Yes, sir."
"All-righty then, move out." The platoon moved back, slowly, and the NCOs got it sorted out. With the men in position, Mike got his headquarters' squad, effectively Sergeant Green and the engineers, in place, right rear, and hollered, "Move 'em out!"
The scout team started forward in long bounding strides and the platoon, spread over nearly a half kilometer, perforce bounded out behind them. As they neared the edge Mike consulted with Michelle.
All of the scouts took the jump without a hitch and when several of the regular troops, naturally, balked, the suits overrode them and jumped anyway. As they crossed the next building, still without opposition or even harassing fire, the troops began to get into the rhythm of the run. Runners all, as any soldier had to be in the modern airborne, the comforting rhythm of a light run was an anodyne to their nerves and the speed and distance involved a boost to their ego. Mike gave it a few more minutes then cranked on the tunes. Suddenly, from each troop's AID, the Pat Benatar song "Legend of Billy Jean" started to play. "Benefits of not having to be tactical," he commented to Sergeant Green.
* * *
As the kilometers passed with no Posleen in sight, the songs continued. Seventies rock, alternative, raker rock, turn fusion, heavy metal. Many of the songs emphasized the ephemeral nature of life and the importance of honor and courage, or at least resignation, in the face of inevitability. If the troops objected to the playlist there was no evidence, just a susurrant hush of breathing, each troop lost in his own thoughts. As they neared the rendezvous, a megascraper about three "blocks" or six kilometers from the encirclement, Mike cut onto the platoon push, breaking into a live version of "Don't Fear the Reaper."
"Okay, hold it up in the middle of this next building, cigar perimeter, personnel with weapons on the outside," he said, looking around the empty rooftop. "We're supposed to be meeting our resupply here."