Occoquan was no more; not a single house was left standing throughout the entire valley. As the engineer/forward observer walked the big sixteen-inch rounds back and forth, the quaint one– and two-story wood and stone houses had been torn apart under the hammer of the guns. Main Street was choked with rubble and in places the big rounds struck so many times they had pummeled the underlying rock into layers of gravel. The spot where the Occoquan Boatyard had once stood was now a channel, dug by repeated impacts of the big rounds.
The huge shells were briefly visible as they plunged into the maelstrom, each one adding its load of dust and smoke to the surreal haze across the river. Occasionally, the pall was blown away by the light north wind but not fast enough for clear vision. Parties of the Posleen would make their way through the holocaust, taking casualties that would turn back a human force, all the way to the foot bridge and the dam, where they would run into more problems.
The dug-in engineer platoon had festooned the bridge with command-detonated mines. As the Posleen continued to reach the bridge, these were slowly used up, but the base of the narrow bridge was within easy small-arms fire. As the Posleen tried to cross, one at a time, they were brought under a hail of fire from the M-16s and AIWs of the platoon. Three times God Kings had made it through the curtain of battleship fire, but even their heavy weapons had been unable to force the passage.
Trying the old dam was no more use. In an inspired move one of the privates had found a can of grease in the now-erased waterworks and spread grease all along the top of the dam. The engineers rarely fired at the centaurs trying to cross there, instead taking notional bets on how far they would make it. There was a steady flow of white water across the top and the massive Posleen rapidly drowned in the deep water at the base.
The platoon had lost some trainee engineers, and the names of each would lie heavy on his soul, but this day Lieutenant Ryan knew he had done a man's job and done it with style. The sun descending in the west was bringing on the night's bitter autumn cold when the private next to him yelled to get his attention.
The sound barely penetrated the ringing as he called another adjustment, but the hand on his shoulder turned him around. There was a captain in battledress on his stomach behind him, camouflaged face split in a watermelon grin and crossed-rifles on his collar.
«We're here to relieve you!» the lieutenant half-heard, half-lip read.
The battle-shocked lieutenant just nodded his head. Combined with an infinite feeling of relief as he saw fresh, trained and heavily armed infantryman swarm over the lip and drop into the slit trench was a terrible sadness. It was the feeling of a job not completely done, of leaving a battle to another, a feeling similar to survivor guilt. It said «I am alive, and going to safety, but I leave you here to carry on my work and die.»
It was a silly feeling in the conditions; the infantry company was better trained for this sort of battle, fresh, more heavily armed, with three times the personnel. If his platoon of trainee engineers had been able to hold the bridge through the day, then surely this unit would have no problems through the days to come. And there must be a sore need for engineers in other battles. But it still hurt.
He nodded his head again at the captain now standing next to him. «I can't hear anything, sir, just nod your head!» To which the captain nodded.
«USS Missouri,» Ryan shouted, gesturing with the microphone, «Uniform Four Seven! Be careful how close you get.» The hammer of machine guns in the background was washed out by another salvo of three rounds impacting. «You're sharing fire with the divisions getting pulled off at Deep Hole Point and over in Maryland, but it's enough.» He keyed the mike a last time.
«Uniform Four Seven, this is Romeo Six Seven, over.»
«Romeo, this is Mo, over.»
«Mo, we are being relieved. I'm turning you over to . . .» He glanced at the captain.
«Lima Niner Two!» shouted the captain.
«Lima Niner Two, over!»
«Roger, I accept Lima Niner Two to this net, over.»
«Well, thanks Mo, this is Romeo Six Seven, out.»
«Good luck, Romeo, this is Juliet, out,» responded the unknown female on the other end of the circuit.
With a smile, the tired lieutenant carefully slid out of the trench and down the back side of the hill to where the remains of his platoon was gathering.
CHAPTER 49
Richmond, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1320 EDT October 10th, 2004 ad
Time was on the side of Washington. The direct line distance between D.C. and Fredericksburg was practically the same as the distance between Fredericksburg and Richmond. But the dogleg around the Occoquan Reservoir and the resistance of the Ninth and Tenth Corps ensured that the first city to be hit by the spreading incursion would be Richmond.
And in Richmond they were just about done laying in the drinks.
* * *
«Won't they spot that?» asked the specialist who had been assigned as Mueller's driver.
«Maybe,» said Mueller, affixing the last connection on the sensor pod. The small device was a surveillance tool that had been modified for long-range transmission. Set up in a lightly armored shell, the tiny camera and transmitter looked northward on I-95.
«But we'll be able to fire them up at least once with artillery. If they don't notice them, or do and don't take them out, we'll be able to use them for long-range artillery fire and surveillance during the whole battle.»
* * *
«Sergeant Ersin?»
«Yeah?» Ersin turned from supervising the installation of a field of mines along the northwest rim. The querying individual was one of the junior engineers assigned to the area. The kid didn't even have his professional license. He was a junior flunky at one of the local engineering firms sent out as a last bit of support. But at least he knew he was wet behind the ears and wasn't afraid to ask questions. He was accompanied by a tall, beefy civilian. Something about the florid face and casual clothes spelled «salesman» to Ersin.
«This guy is trying to explain something to me . . .» the engineer started to say.
«Hi there, Sergeant . . . Ersin, was it?» asked the civilian, brushing aside the engineer and taking Ersin's hand in a hearty shake. «Tolert, Bob Tolert, I represent Advanced Materials Manufacturing here in Richmond . . .»
«If it's about the Golden Girls . . .»
«No, no, different company entirely. We have a line of . . .»
«We're a little busy here . . .»
« . . . military supplies that I . . .»
« . . . and I really don't have time . . .»
« . . . think would be just perfect for . . .»
«You're not listening to a thing I'm saying, are you?» said Ersin in a dangerously calm voice. The scars on the side of his neck and face were flushed.
«Oh, yes, I am, sir; yes, I am,» said the salesman, smiling broadly in reply. «You have the most important job in the entire United States right now, protecting our fair city, and these little caltrops my company makes are just the thing to help.» The smile was wide and patently insincere. The salesman was obviously figuring on a hard sell.
Ersin snapped forward like a snake until his scarred Eurasian face was inches from the civilian's. One hand snatched the collar of the Dockers shirt and dragged the salesman the last inch. «What did you say?»
Bob Tolert had dealt with difficult customers in his time. However, he'd never dealt with ones who had an instant ability to remove him from the face of the earth. He considered his next words carefully.