He shook his head and tapped his AID. «Nag, get me Major Givens of the ACS.»
* * *
Mike watched Major Givens giving unseen thumbs-up signs as he tapped one armored boot on the ground. O'Neal had six different battle maps up on his display and the lander to the north, President or no President, was not the problem. Standing around and discussing it was just making it harder. He popped off his helmet, clamped it to his side and took a whiff. The one thing the suits did not replicate well was smell. There was a hit of wood smoke from the mess around the mall. Some less savory burning smells in there as well. Probably the Pentagon. And the slight waft, even from here, of unwashed humanity. Soon, soon, there would be the stench of slaughtered Posleen. Or his name wasn't Michael Leonidas O'Neal.
There was no room for failure; the choice was success or the ferryman. He inhaled the last fresh air he was going to smell for a while and felt his center finally click into place. No doubt. No fear. No failure. He'd sworn it on the graves of his dead.
«Captain O'Neal,» Major Givens finally said, cutting him in on the conversation, «we have two problems.»
«The Marines can handle the refugees, sirs,» Mike said, cutting him off abruptly. «We need to get to the Mall. Now.» He opened up a belt pouch and extracted a can of Skoal. The transceiver in the helmet seal broadcast his words faithfully.
«Mike,» said General Horner. «They're going to be spread out . . .»
«Not a problem,» he said shortly, taking one gauntlet off and clamping it onto the outside of his suit.
«Mike . . .» said General Horner over the circuit.
«Jack. Do not tell us our job. We don't have time for this.» He tamped the can down hard and turned his head to the side to listen. The firing to the north, felt and heard in the background, reached a crescendo and died away as a large number of grav-guns opened fire. It sounded as if they were finally clear of an intervening obstacle. And as if the users were very, very angry.
«Captain . . .» Major Givens said.
«No,» interrupted General Horner quietly. «Major, the captain is the expert. If he says let's go, then you better go.»
«We have . . . fourteen seconds to continue this conversation,» said Mike stonily, with a glance at a projected hologram. He had programmed the time he thought it would take the Posleen to get assembled into a countdown timer along with the minimum time to make the movement. The battalion was ready. All they needed was the word.
No doubt. He'd gamed this a thousand times before. It would work.
The suits were also useless for pinching snuff. He popped the can with his left hand and pulled out a pinch. «General Horner,» he continued formally, «Fleet Strike is not giving Washington to the Posleen.»
No fear. They were invincible. The Posleen would kill individuals. But as a unit, the only way to fail was to fail to try. This was a strightforward «Horatio at the Bridge» action. He had forty scenarios prepared. Any of them would work.
«General?» asked the acting commander. The officer was used to clear plans developed in advance. While he could change them on the fly to an extent, he was not a «seat of the pants» warrior. He found himself simultaneously in command and out of his depth. It was a most uncomfortable feeling.
«Do it,» said Horner. He had no idea what the plan was. But he knew Mike O'Neal. If Mighty Mite said the sky was green, Horner would double-check the forecast and then get a second opinion before doubting him.
«Okay, Captain O'Neal,» said the commander, «what's the plan?»
«I'll have to tell you on the way, Major,» said O'Neal. «We haven't got any time at all.» He then belied his own words by inserting the pinch between his cheek and gum. He carefully closed the can and put it away, then reclamped the gauntlet and helmet. He spit out a few stray bits of tobacco and keyed the frequency to the battalion broadcast.
No failure. He hadn't read the book, he'd written it. «Okay boys and girls. Lets go kill us some E-Ts.»
* * *
«Man,» snarled Keren, «it seems like we never have any time together. All we've been doin' is killing Posties!» He helped Elgars up and got the big rifle hoisted over her shoulder.
«Well,» she smiled grimly, «maybe later.»
«Sure.» Like there was going to be a later. He could see the Posleen pouring across the bridge and the God Kings popping up and flitting around the Memorial. The whole damn pack of demons was over the river and all hell was out for noon.
Elgars trotted towards the Monument, supporting the weight of the bouncing rifle with her right hand. Keren shook his head one more time and headed for the Suburban. He was glad she finally got her gun back. He suddenly realized he'd never even found out her first name.
A blast of fire came from the area of the Memorial, but he never paid it any attention.
* * *
The area under the Memorial was not exactly a warren of tunnels, but it bade a fair resemblance. And, as the Posleen were discovering, engineers above ground were nothing compared to engineers in tunnels.
The ball bearings from the claymore bounced off the walls and ceiling of the stone-lined tunnel and tore the front rank of the assault apart. A few tossed grenades finished off the rest and the engineers lunged forward to retake their positions. The first private in kicked closed the brass-fitted door at the end of the corridor and threw the bolt.
«Set the charges!» shouted Sergeant Leo, spooling out the wire and preparing the blasting caps. «Move! Move!» He handed one to each of the chosen privates as they emplaced the charges to blow the tunnel. These young men, and one woman, had experienced a crash course in demolitions over the last three days. The survivors had become experts.
He rounded the corner and nearly ran into the L-T and the security team. The security team held everyone that, in Sergeant Leo's opinion, really needed to become a rifleman. They were the survivors who had not learned the lessons of demo adequately. They were used for support of the «real» sappers. Leo intended to suggest each one of them get a small medal then send them over to the infantry.
«We've got the corridor secure,» said Lieutenant Ryan, gesturing over his shoulder. «Once you blow that tunnel, there's only one way in and one way out. And they'll have to dig us out.»
«Well, we're about done,» said Sergeant Leo as the sappers came around the corner. He counted each one past then leaned around the corner for a visual check. The look drew a violent response as flechettes spanged off the rock walls and ricocheted down the side tunnel. There was a cry of pain from one of the engineers as a ricochet caught him in the thigh.
«Fire in the hole!» shouted Leo as he twisted the hand-dynamo generator up to speed then pressed the firing switch.
There was a blast of heat and a wash of marble dust. As the platoon coughed on the dust there came a complicated sound of settling from overhead.
«Uh-oh,» said one of the privates, quietly.
«Yeah,» said Lieutenant Ryan. «I think we might be in a little trouble here.»
* * *
Elgars's jaw dropped as the statue of Lincoln in the distance settled slightly to the left. «Holy shit.» But that was only one bad sight among many.
The area around the Memorial was rapidly filling up with Posleen. The assaulting God Kings had been joined by their units and the forces were deploying outward, opening the wings of the Host to capture the city. Starting with the Memorials.