Mike thought the silvery containers probably caused their fair share of accidents as they floated down the interstate. The speed was not much, not more than seventy or eighty miles per hour, but it had permitted the battalion to cover the distance from Harrisburg to Baltimore in an hour. And it would permit them to continue on to D.C. in no time at all — once they picked up a stray captain.
The giant boxes floated noiselessly to a halt around the overpass and began to drift downward to the roadway. The control on the way down, managed by forty AIDs in each container, was spotty and most of them dropped to the roadway with rumbles that shook the early morning air. Many of the remaining residents rushed out to see if the sound was landing Posleen. When they saw the strange and obviously alien objects scattered down the road many of them took it as a final sign that it was high time to head for the hills.
The nearest conex began to spit suits and Mike let go of a deep sigh. He had not even realized how uneasy he had been until that moment. A soldier without his unit is like a man with one arm. He was finally home.
The first suit sprinting towards him was the unmistakable outline of Gunny Pappas. He grinned wryly as the NCO slid to a halt. “What kept you, Gunny?”
“Goddamn, am I glad to see you, boss,” said the NCO, quietly. “We’ve got a hell of a situation on our hands.”
“Yeah, same here. How’s the XO holding up?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
There was a momentary hesitation. “Lieutenant Nightingale is doing fine, sir,” the NCO answered baldly.
O’Neal stopped and turned towards the NCO. He wished, not for the first time, that he could see the first sergeant’s face. “Does that mean that she’s marginal?”
“No,” said Pappas instantly and definitively. “She’s made a hell of a lot of improvement. I think she’ll be fine.”
“This is going to be the real deal, Top,” said the captain with steel in his voice. “I can’t take any chances. She’d better be ready.”
“I know that, sir,” answered the NCO. “She’s ready. I’d say that… anyway. She’s ready.”
O’Neal tilted his head to the side and wrinkled his forehead. “Say that again?”
“She’s ready, sir. She’ll do fine. I’ll make sure of that.”
Mike had thousands of hours in and around suits. They had virtually no body language, but virtually was not the same thing as none. And the first sergeant’s body language was contradicting his words. O’Neal placed both hands on his hips. “Top, what the fuck is going on?”
The gunny paused for a moment then made a negating gesture. “It doesn’t affect the efficiency of the company or my analysis of Lieutenant Nightingale, sir. You gotta take my word on that.”
Mike shook his head and sighed. “Okay, Gunny. I’ll take you at your word.” The other suits were a small security force. He wasn’t sure if someone had ordered it or if the troopers had taken the responsibility themselves. “What’s with that?” he asked.
“The landers are everywhere, sir,” grumped the first sergeant as he gestured towards the container. The subject of whatever nonsubject they had just not discussed was obviously dropped. “We actually got jumped by a lander on our way down.”
“Any casualties?” asked Captain O’Neal. He stripped quickly and unselfconsciously, tossing his gear in the bin. The stuff would get sorted out if and when.
“No, sir,” said the sergeant. “We mounted sensor balls all over these things so we could see where we’re going. We spotted it coming in and landed our ownselfs. The horses had a kinda hot reception.”
Mike shook his head with a smile and headed for his pod. The container popped open before he even reached it and the suit was opened up like a lobster as he stepped up. “Missed me, did you?” he chuckled. He slapped Shelly into her interface slot and stepped into the future.
CHAPTER 60
Fairfax, VA, United States of America, Sol III
0606 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
Keren started awake and yanked the wheel to the left as the Suburban drove off the road.
“Sorry, man,” said the driver, shaking her head to wake up. He didn’t even know the girl’s first name; her nametag read “Elgars.” She was wearing a Thirty-Third ID patch, which put her miles away from her unit. How she had made it to Lake Jackson and then out of the rat-fuck when the Ninth Corps came apart was a mystery. He had picked her up when he saw her by the side of the road with a disassembled AIW, carefully oiling the parts. It was obvious she’d decided she had had enough running.
“Where the fuck are we?” asked Keren, his voice rasping. He’d had barely three hours of sleep in the last forty-eight. The division was supposed to be supplied the new antisleep drugs but, like a lot of things, that hadn’t worked out. The platoon was subsisting on caffeine. And it was starting to fail.
“We just passed the Beltway,” said the female soldier in a husky contralto. “But we got a problem.”
“Yeah,” Keren agreed. “What else is new.”
Interstate 66 was the major thoroughfare through Fairfax County, Virginia, leading into the nation’s capital. The Army had maintained a stranglehold on it for the movement of troops and material until the Posleen cut through the Lake Jackson defense. Since then, between panicked civilians who would not take “no” for answer, routed units from Ninth and Tenth Corps and desertions among the MPs tasked to maintain control, the interstate had become a solid grid of fleeing vehicles.
From where they were currently parked, the roadway gave a clear picture of the surrounding secondary roads. At first the press of vehicles indicated to Keren that taking the platoon off the interstate would be no better than pressing on. But then he changed his mind. The major thoroughfares were thoroughly blocked, but many of the neighborhood roads were open.
“The good news,” he whispered, “is that this is gonna slow the horses up some.” He picked up the radio and extended the whip antenna out the window. “Reed, you there?” he said.
“Yep,” came the response on the frequency-clipping radio.
“Looks like we gotta take to the side streets,” he said, pulling out a DeLorme gazetteer. The multipage map of Virginia had repeatedly come in handy when the smaller scale tactical maps ran out. But now he needed even more detail.
“We’re gonna cut the corner on Sixty-Six and head for Arlington,” he said over the radio, trying to find a good route on the map. “There’s bound to be some sort of units assembling around there. Reed, I want you to take the front. If there’s a couple of cars blocking the way, try to push ’em out of the way with your track. If we can’t push through a blockage we’ll go around. We’ll take to the back roads and back yards if we have to. Go through houses and buildings.”
“Gotcha.”
“Okay, turn off and take out the fence. I’ll follow, then Three Track then One Track. Stay together but put your foot in it. The damn horses can’t be far behind.”
Kenallurial looked at the report and his crest stood straight up in stunned amazement.
Ardan’aath looked over his shoulder and grunted. “Apparently, the Net recognizes your worth.” The senior Kessentai chuckled at the figure on his own monitor. “And mine as well.”
The area surrounding Fredericksburg had been designated as “secure” by the information Net and the distributed processors were beginning the assignment of resources. How the Net decided what area was to be distributed to what Kessentai was not understood by the aliens; the technology predated their recorded history. But it was generally fair and the best way to distribute initial booty. Often, it was the only way to prevent an early descent into orna’adar, the apocalypse of post-conquest worlds.