He had moved his command post to the high ridge on the north bank of the Occoquan. Screened by a thicket of beech saplings—their palmate leaves turning brilliant yellow in the autumn chill—he had a clear view of the town, including the opposite ridge and both bridges. The last orders he had received were to blow the bridges when the Posleen were in sight and remain in position to cover the old dam. Until an infantry unit could be found to replace him, his platoon was responsible for preventing the Posleen from crossing that vital defense work.
In preparation for the oncoming tide, the engineering platoon had been busy little groundhogs. A slit trench ran the length of the top of the ridge, with V-cut positions for riflemen stretched along its length and intermittent reinforced positions for machine guns. The slope was a mass of concertina and barbed-wire tanglefoot and the road running across the south slope was mined for demolition. Should they somehow force a crossing it would be extremely difficult for the inflexible Posleen to establish a bridgehead without the road.
When an artillery battery began firing from just behind the ridge, with impacts on the south edge of the town sending woodwork flying into the autumn sunshine, Ryan decided that knowing how to contact artillery might be a good thing. A brief scroll through his ANCD, however, indicated that there might be a problem. He did not have listings for Tenth Corps units.
Since the platoon had been drawn from a training establishment, their chain of command did not include any of the local tactical forces. The ANCD listed a vast number of training units in the Belvoir local area and even higher command frequencies that few platoon leaders would have under normal tactical conditions. But, unfortunately, there was not a single artillery unit listed. The closest thing to an artillery unit was the cryptic entry: «Continental Indirect Fire Net.»
With a shrug, he flipped his PRC-2000 to the listed frequency and keyed the mike . . .
* * *
Since the prohibition on automated indirect-fire, the Fire Direction Center had been stymied. Even when automated fire was allowed, so few units had direct contact that the Fire Control could only order fire on rough guesses of enemy location. Even worse was the lack of feedback. Nothing got a gun crew hopping like the word that they just destroyed an enemy.
So when the crewwoman heard a faint whisper in her earphones, she clamped her right hand over the earphone and responded instantly.
«Unit on this net, unit on this net, you are coming in faint and broken. Say again callsign.»
«Oscar-Fi—is—Romeo—«
«Unit on this net, you are broken. Say again, or boost signal.»
«St—by.»
«Roger, this is Oscar Five Uniform Four Seven, standing by.»
A few minutes later the calling unit came back in, still faint but clear.
«Oscar Five Uniform Four Seven, this is Mike Eight Romeo Six Seven, over.»
«Romeo Six Seven, this is Uniform Four Seven. Authenticate Victor Hotel.»
Pause. «Authentication, Bravo, over.»
«Romeo Six Seven, welcome to the net, over.»
«Roger, adjust fire, over.»
«Adjust fire, out.» She began to enter the order as she hit the foot trip to switch to intercom. «Fire mission!»
«Target, Posleen in open, coordinates 654894. Can you range, over?»
«Romeo, what map sheet are you on, over?»
The lieutenant stared at the private next to him and realized that he was no help; they were both trainees.
«Sergeant Leo!»
«Yes, sir?»
«I got an artillery unit that needs to know what map sheet we're on!» The platoon leader looked at the military grid map covered in incomprehensible signals. «Where the hell is it?»
«Why do they need the map sheet, sir?»
«You want me to take the time to ask?»
The NCO forced his way through the troops between himself and the lieutenant and ran a practiced eye over the map.
«There it is, sir, in the upper right. Occoquan. That was next week's course,» he finished with a wry grin.
«Right.» The lieutenant keyed the mike. «Occoquan, over.»
«Umm,» the fire direction technician checked her map and eyeballed the range. «Roger. say your position and condition, over.»
«Ridge to north of Occoquan River, overlooking 123, dug-in, coordinates 654897.»
«Roger, stand by.»
* * *
«L-T, we got movement on 123!»
Lieutenant Ryan lifted his head out of the slit trench and peered into town. Down Main Street, «Old 123,» trotted a swarm of yellow centaurs, their God King prominent in their midst. He had been surprised by the female voice, but now just wished she'd get her fanny in gear.
«Sergeant Leo!»
«Yes, sir?»
«Drop the 123 bridge!»
«Yes, sir. What about the footbridge?»
«Let's keep that up for a while.»
A group of centaurs came around the shoulder of the hill, trotting down 123. At the sight of the intact bridge they broke into a gallop. Almost simultaneously there was a thundering racket from downstream where the I-95 and U.S. 1 bridges went up simultaneously.
«Purple Heart Bridge indeed,» muttered the lieutenant.
«What was that, sir?» asked one of the waiting engineers.
«Nothing, I think I've got some artillery on the way.»
«Great! That battery behind us?»
«No, I don't have their frequency. Somebody else, I don't know what.»
As the 123 bridge blew up, the two hundred pounds of Composition-4 explosives lifting concrete chunks and the first rank of centaurs into the air, the radio crackled with a transmission.
«Say again, over!» shouted the young officer, ears ringing. Despite orders and pointed suggestions, he wasn't wearing earplugs.
«This is Uniform Four Seven, ranging round incoming. Danger close, say again, danger close!»
The lieutenant lifted his head up to see if the view had changed. No, he was still over three hundred meters from the center of town. «Danger Close» for 155mm was only two hundred yards. What the heck.
«Uniform, this is Romeo Six Seven. We are three or four hundred meters from impact area, over.»
«Roger, incoming five seconds, danger close, I say again, danger close. Hunker down and cover your ears, soldier-boy! Splash in five seconds!»
«Sir, what's that?»
The lieutenant looked up and followed the private's view to a rapidly descending dot. As it lowered it loomed larger and larger. The precise size was hard to determine, but it was the biggest shell the young officer had ever seen or could possibly imagine. It looked like whatever it was was firing cars.
«Incoming! Everybody down!» the lieutenant screamed and demonstrated by throwing himself to the bottom of the slit trench.
The impact of the shell rivaled the explosion of the much closer bridge. The officer stumbled to his feet, partially stunned and shaking off good Virginia loam to survey the damage. The round had impacted on the far ridge, near where the now silent artillery had fallen, and the damage area was wider than that of the damage from the full battery behind him. The area was covered in dust and smoke from the explosion, but he could make a reasonable guess at adjustment. With the «footprint» of whatever it was, «close» was going to be good enough.
«Jesus Christ, sir,» yelled Sergeant Leo, «who the hell did you call?»
«Romeo Six Seven,» the radio crackled, «Did you observe the fall of shot?»
The shaken lieutenant picked up the microphone. «Uniform Four Seven, roger. Down seven five meters and fire for effect. And careful with that seventy-five meters! What unit is this, over?» It was lousy communications discipline to ask, but he felt like he needed to know what he had called down upon their heads.
«Romeo Six Seven, confirm down seventy-five meters and fire for effect. This is the USS Missouri, at your service. Hunker down for a nine-gun salute, Romeo.»