He shook his head one last time and looked into the depths of the hated helmet. He really, really hoped that the gestalt knew what it was doing. He could feel it pulsing against his control and he was about ready to let it take over.
He put the helmet on and waited for it to open pockets over his eyes, nose and mouth before opening his eyes. «AID?»
«Sir?»
«When the first Posleen appears, begin taking your control from the gestalt.»
«Yes, sir.»
«I will attempt to not make distracting movements and sounds. However, if I move in a major way, AID, you follow Sergeant Martinez. Clear?»
«Clear,» said the AID. There was a strong but complex surge from the gestalt. He took it as agreement.
He reached behind him and lowered the M-300 grav-rifle. As the heavy weapon dropped into place, a series of screens blossomed across his vision. The information was surprisingly comprehensible for a change. Range and bearing tracks crawled across as he shifted the weapon back and forth. A crack appeared at the top of the ship's deployment platform.
«Well, guys,» he whispered to the electronic entities, «it is up to you. Do your President proud.» At least he would be able to look his ghosts in the eye.
CHAPTER 67
Washington, DC ,United States of America, Sol III
1046 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
The gruff but friendly colonel had left, after ensuring that Ryan's platoon of trainees was firmly attached to the local force. He had been replaced by a much more dour captain. Lieutenant Ryan felt like he'd wandered into a play in the middle of act three. The colonel and the captain seemed to communicate in some sort of code. But he could tell that the captain was not pleased to make his acquaintance. His only comment was something to the effect of points for the WPPA.
Now, Lieutenant Ryan had not been in the Army long, but he knew what the «West Point Protective Association» was. Since it was normally invoked to save the career of a West Point graduate, he had to assume that he was in deeper shit than he thought over «losing» his platoon. The good work they had done at Occoquan had been forgotten, of course, and the only thing that would be remembered was that he had wandered around the Mall all day looking for a home. It didn't seem fair but, then again, the Army rarely was. All the «atta-boys» in the world were erased with one «oh-shit.»
However, whether the captain liked him or not, Ryan felt it was his duty to point a few things out to him. So he screwed up his courage and approached.
«Sir?» he said, diffidently. The captain turned from where he had been surveying the work on the Arlington Bridge. The location was perfect for getting a good overview, since the back side of the Lincoln Memorial looked directly across the bridge. It did, however, have a few down sides.
«Yes, Lieutenant Ryan?» he asked in a supercilious tone. Captain Spitman was a tall, broad officer whose black eyes were piercing.
«I was just wondering, sir,» said the lieutenant, hesitantly. He cleared his throat. «This location is . . . sort of exposed.» Some of the engineers on the deck had been blinded by the flashes of the Pentagon's destruction. It only highlighted how exposed the position was.
The captain's face tightened. It could just have been a question from a junior officer requesting greater knowledge, but the captain obviously took it as an attack. «And I suppose that that observation is from your mass of combat experience, Lieutenant?» he snarled.
The fact that the reaction was completely overboard was lost on the lieutenant. Ryan's first reaction, which he suppressed, was sarcastic. He wanted to say, No, it's from having my head somewhere above my waistline. The location was exposed. The first Posleen approaching the bridge would be looking right at them. And if they were even slightly on the ball they would shoot the shit out of this half-ass «command post.»
But he controlled himself manfully. «No, sir. I was just wondering.»
«This is the best location to control the rigging and detonation of the charges, Lieutenant. We have three separate methods of detonation leading to the command center. I would hate to have one of those out where anyone could blow up the bridge at whim. Furthermore, it permits me a clear view of approaching Posleen. Last but not least this is well beyond the standard range of engagement for Posleen forces.»
The lieutenant nodded in agreement at this fatuous explanation. It immediately called to mind Law Seven of Murphy's Laws of War: If the enemy is in range, so are you. «Very well, sir. Thank you very much for that explanation. I was wondering, I have a few issues to discuss with my platoon sergeant. By your leave, sir?» He finished in a ritual request to be excused.
The captain grandly waved him away and went back to watching the last few wires being rigged into the circuit board. The bridge did indeed have three backup systems to drop it. One of the three would be guaranteed to work. Of course, they all terminated at the command post, so it was a point failure source. A minor item that had been glaringly obvious to the trainee lieutenant. A minor item that was pointed out in all the «how not to do it» parts of the manuals. But that had somehow completely escaped the engineer company commander.
* * *
«Echo Three Golf One One, this is Whiskey Four Delta One Five, over.»
Keren glanced at the radio with a puzzled expression and handed the mike to Elgars as he pulled out his ANCD. The device was about to expire, and he had no idea where to find another.
The platoon had stopped on the back side of the Washington Monument mound. It put them hull-down to any Posleen at the level of the Potomac, but they were still in view of Arlington Hill. There were no more fireworks from the Hill, so he had to assume that the Old Guard major was raising one with absent companions. But, for the time being, the platoon was out of it.
They had set up with the guns ready to fire, and Keren had automatically laid them in and set up the plotting board, but now they were just resting. Eventually he was planning on finding somebody in the mass who had some idea what was going on. But for now he was content just to chill. They had done their bit and more.
So the radio call, an unknown station trying to log onto their net, was unexpected.
The ANCD listed the caller as the Fiftieth Division Artillery Fire Direction Center. But the hacking on the first day of battle made him cautious. He took the mike back from Elgars. She stepped out of the Suburban with a whispered, «Gotta go.»
«Whiskey Four Delta One Five, this is Echo Three Golf One One. Authenticate Victor Charlie, over.» There was no such authentication line. It was a trick.
«Golf One One, there is no such authentication, over,» said the confused voice on the radio. On reflection the voice sounded a bit rote. It could be a very good voice processor and Keren was suddenly glad he had used the old trick.
«Sure there is, Delta. Figure it out or get off my net.»
There was a brief silence on the radio. Keren suddenly realized that Elgars was striding steadily towards a cluster of soldiers about seventy meters in front of the platoon. From the set of her shoulders there was a problem and as he watched she drew his 9mm Beretta out of her BDU cargo pocket. He had assumed from her words that she meant to find a latrine; that was obviously incorrect. He flipped frequencies.