She filtered out the shouting and sounds of panic behind her and set the familiar stock into her shoulder. It was a long shot up the entire length of the reflecting pool. The laser range finder gave a reading of forty-two hundred feet to the steps of the Memorial. As she shifted her sights to the side, trying to decide which one of the God Kings to gift with her attention, there was another gout of dust and fire from the interior of the monument. At least one other group was willing to fight. Behind her she could hear the fading engines of those either smarter or more cowardly.
* * *
«I am didee-mao, asshole!» snarled the specialist in charge of the Three Gun track. The driver put words to action, backing out of their position and spinning the track in a shower of carefully tended turf.
Keren stepped up to the spinning treads, daring to be churned into paste. «Austin!» he shouted.
As the specialist turned to look, a grenade came flying through the air and landed in the crew compartment in the rear.
Trailing blue air, the gunner and ammo bearer dove out of the compartment, falling to the ground in a heap. The driver took her foot off the gas and piled out as well, as the heavy-set squad leader tried to struggle out of the TC's hatch.
The assistant gunner had been deep in the belly of the beast when the grenade came flying into the compartment and rolled to the front. With nowhere to go he picked it up in the vain hope of throwing it back out. And howled in rage.
«The fuckin' pin's still in!» he shouted swarming up the side of the crew compartment bent on killing a café au lait gadfly.
He was met at the edge of the compartment by a cocked Beretta. Keren punched the barrel of the gun into his nose hard enough to draw a spurt of blood and followed his tumbling body into the interior of the track.
Austin tried to train the .50-caliber machine gun to bear on the raging Keren. But the pintle mount was designed to prevent accidents just like that. Keren kicked the squirming assistant gunner in the crotch, turned and triggered a single round into the squad leader's face.
It was a shot he never could have made on a range. The bullet entered just below the squad leader's nose. The top of the specialist's head was lifted up into the air in a spray of blood and brains. He slumped backwards over the front of the Mortar Carrier and landed on the still-quivering driver.
Keren pulled himself up on the top of the Mortar Carrier and pointed the pistol at the gunner and ammo bearer just starting to get up from their crumpled heaps.
«You will get into this vehicle,» he shouted. «And you will lay in the fuckin' gun! Or I will personally kill every one of you sons of bitches! Is that clear?!»
«The fuckin' horses are over the river!» the gunner shouted, then looked at the unwavering pistol. He wondered where Austin was. Then he saw the faint trail of smoke from the barrel and made a rapid guess.
«I am not giving the horses the goddamn monument!» screamed Keren, leaping off the track and striding over to shove the still-warm gun into the face of the recalcitrant gunner. «We have run and run and run and we are not going to run anymore! Are we clear on that? Or do you need the same lesson?!» The barrel intersected the cheek-bone of the gunner hard enough to leave a bone bruise. The gunner closed his eyes as urine trickled to darken his BDUs.
The ammo bearer raised one shaking hand to wave at the pistol. «We . . . we're clear. Okay?»
Keren jerked up and strode to the front. The slight specialist pulled the driver out from under the former squad leader with a single jerk. The female private was stuttering and shaking uncontrollably. Keren shook his head and dragged her back to where the gunner and ammo bearer were just starting to regain their feet.
«Get . . . the . . . gun . . . laid . . . in. Now. And don't ever try to cross me again.»
The gunner nodded as the specialist strode away.
The ammo bearer shook herself and hissed. «We could shoot up that piece-of-shit Suburban. See it make it through some Ma-Deuce fire!»
The gunner slapped her across the back of the head so hard it knocked her to the ground. He sucked his knuckles and kicked her. «Don't even think about it. What if he lived? And One Gun would eat us alive. Now get in the fuckin' track.»
As Keren strode towards the Suburban he noticed that One Track had been watching the whole show. Sergeant Chittock was on the .50 caliber and the weapon was pointed more or less towards the Three Gun track.
«Point it that way!» he raged, pointing towards the Potomac, «and get ready to fire the gun!»
Chittock just watched him as he headed to the SUV. The rest of the crew flew to getting the weapon trained towards the enemy; nobody was going to get in the way of the sulphurous specialist. As Keren reached the truck Sergeant Chittock caught his eye with a lifted chin. The specialist stopped and looked towards him with fury in his eyes. But Chittock just saluted, very precisely. Keren stopped and nodded. Then returned the salute, just as precisely. As he stepped into the truck he realized that the stench of urine he was trailing was not from the gunner of Three Track. We're all fuckin' cowards, he thought. And picked up the firing board.
CHAPTER 70
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1053 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
The private bit her lip and caressed the unfamiliar rifle on her lap. There was still a shortage of the Advanced Infantry Weapon, so rear area units were issued the venerable M-16A2. She had shot it in the abbreviated basic course, but once she reached her permanent post the situation was so messed up the chain of command was not about to let soldiers have weapons. So the first time she had actually had one in her hand since basic was three days before, when the ammo supply unit scrambled out of Fort Indiantown Gap.
She looked at the selector now and considered her options. There was the easy one, which was to go along with the actions of the driver. That made a lot of sense, really. Who the hell wanted to drive a truck full of ammunition towards Posleen.
But then there was the fact that they'd been ordered to go resupply a mortar unit by the Washington Monument. The platoon had shot out all their ammo, which meant they'd at least been fighting. And they were probably still there, whatever Lee thought.
Let's see, she thought. How hard can it be. It says «semi» right there.
«Turn around,» she whispered. The voice was barely audible over the scream from the overstressed engine of the five-ton truck.
«What?» snarled Private Lee. The stupid bitch was always whispering shit. Just like she never pulled her goddamn weight when they were unloading. He'd thought half a dozen times about dropping her off as a present for the fuckin' horses. One of these days . . .
«Turn around.» The voice was a bare whisper again, but something about the quiet click as the rifle was taken off safe penetrated the thunder of the engine.
Lee turned to look at her with disbelief in his eyes. «Are you fuckin' nuts? Point that goddamn thing somewhere else before I make you eat it, cunt!»
The slightly built private looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Her mouth was dry with fear, but she slowly lifted the rifle until it was pointed at the temple of the driver and snuggled it into her shoulder. Take a breath and let it out, just like the drill instructor said.
With a jerk she pointed it to the side and shot out the driver's side window. The blast from the rifle tore the glasses off the driver's face and peppered his face with burns. «Turn us the fuck around, you bastard,» she screamed, «or I will spread your brains all over this cab.»