As the truck rocked through a U-turn she felt that that was insufficient. «There, was that loud enough for you? Asshole!»
* * *
There was a snort of diesel behind Elgars as a Bradley troop carrier spun around and started disgorging troops. The squad spread out down the mound, using the reverse of the gentle slope for cover. The guy in the lead was real young for a lieutenant colonel, but as he dropped to the ground not far away she saw he was wearing a dress uniform Combat Infantryman's Badge with two stars. Either the «fresh-faced» kid had been in three wars already and was working on his fourth or he was a «PX Ranger.» From the calm expression on his face and the expert way he surveyed the battlefield she was fairly certain which one it was.
The Bradley spun on its axis again and moved to the other side of the Monument, well away from the squad. The mound was just a bit higher than the top of the vehicle but that was no problem. The barrel of the Bushmaster cannon canted upward and fired a burst of tracers.
Elgars watched with glee as the rounds drifted up and then down, splashing without particular note into the Potomac. She nodded her head as the lieutenant colonel «squad leader» whispered into a radio, directing the fire of the gun.
«Hey!» she called, catching his eye. «Those mortar tracks behind us are on sixty-three-seventy!»
He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up then started switching frequencies.
There was a thonk! from the rear and she realized that a 60mm mortar team had set up right behind her. The squad leader, another «fresh-faced kid» with master sergeant's chevrons, was lifting his head up to spot the fall of the shot then adjusting with hand and arm signals. It was the crudest of fire control, but with the mass of Posleen forming on the sward it was effective. Elgars saw a splash of Posleen thrown away from the fall of the one-pound shot and nodded in satisfaction.
At least she wasn't gonna die alone. She could see more people moving up to the mound, many of them obvious rejuvs by their rank and assurance but others just simple soldiers responding to the threat to the nation's soul. She understood the call. As screwed up as her life had been, she was still an American. And the thought of the Posleen taking the White House, or the Capitol or even the stupid Monument was just more than she was willing to accept.
If she fired at a God King without more covering fire she was doomed. But maybe if she didn't fire at a God King? Just one of the «normals?» She had to re-zero the damn thing somehow. She used the splinted forearm to support herself as she took a calming breath.
* * *
«Duncan?»
«Yeah, boss?» the NCO responded, his breathing deep and regular.
Certain anomalies of armored combat suits had modified long-standing military practices. One of them was the ubiquitous «jody» calls, chants paced to a running or marching beat. When ACS units ran, it was at a long open lope, the rhythm of which had so far resisted every attempted choreography. The standard ACS «double time» was approximately a four-and-half–count beat that carried the unit forward at nearly thirty miles per hour.
What had been discovered, however, was that certain popular music, especially «hard» seventies and eighties rock and roll and the rhythm-similar «raker» rock of the turn years fitted the pattern with remarkable congruity. Thus, units usually pumped one or the other type of music through to the personnel, helping to set the running beat. A fair simulation is to imagine listening to «Thunder Road» by Bruce Springsteen while running on the moon. Long-forgotten, and in many cases dead, artists were staging a quiet comeback among Armored Combat Suit units.
Although the physical strain was lower than a standard training run, it was fairly equivalent to a «long slow distance run.» A well-trained unit in peak shape could generally sustain the pace for two to three hours. This gave the ACS an approximately sixty-mile range using the same technique, the difference being that a unit doing a «long slow distance run» usually did it in PT uniform, whereas the ACS did the same thing in battle armor.
This time the movement was a relatively short distance. The battalion, less Bravo Company, was in a four-column formation, running down Seventh Street in Downtown D.C. to the beat of Heart's «Crazy on You.» All Duncan had to worry about was coordinating two corps' worth of artillery while doing it.
«Status.» The voice on the other end was cold and distant. Mighty Mite was obviously in his prebattle trance.
«Up.» It was not that the run was taking away air. This was barely breaking a sweat. But that was all the Old Man needed to know. It was all he wanted to know.
«How much?»
Well, usually. «Three battalions of One-Five-Five and scattered mortars.»
There was no answer and Duncan realized that the Man was gone. It was just as well. The tubes were there, but he was still slamming out the plan, his fingers flying across a virtual map. Each of the units that had responded positively was available for fire as an icon along one side of the map. Dragging an icon onto the target point called up a dialogue asking for fire type and quantity. After the first the others called on the same locations took the first as a default. It was a simple method of developing a fire plan, but the complex plan the Old Man had laid out called for several separate fire plans with contingencies. Setting it up was taking time but he kept slamming it out. To the sound of the drums.
* * *
«Gunny.»
«Yes, sir.» The NCO angled across the formation as they passed the MCI building. He accelerated ahead, driving the pace and elongating his stride to get to the front. He pushed it up to nearly fifty miles an hour down the nearly empty street. An advance party of real runners had moved ahead to seal the Mall end, preventing a general retreat up the route. But he had to get to the Mall ahead of the battalion. He needed to have a heart-to-heart with a couple of units. Sergeant First Class Clarke had done wonders getting the cluster fuck on the Mall organized, but that was just organization. Some of the units were willing to stand and fight. But most were running again. He was zeroing in on a few that were critical to the plan. If he couldn't get them to stand and deliver the Old Man might as well throw in the towel.
«Status.» The captain was at level four again. It wasn't like anybody had to protect him or keep him from tripping over the curb, he reacted faster in a trance than when he was «here.» But it was mildly unsettling to hear a voice with no more emotion than a new AID.
«Coming along. They don't want to deploy forward.»
«Push it. Get some units to the Watergate. Any units. Stat.»
Pappas swallowed the sigh. «Yes, sir.» There was no point arguing; he knew the plan and the requirements. But doing the plan was something else. He put one foot down on the hood of a Mercedes and soared off it, pushing the speed up even further. If he was going to get somebody to the Gate, he had to step on it. It was going to take direct, personal attention. The fucking Mall was a mess. The Posleen were organized and ready to roll. It was gonna be a slaughter.
* * *
Ardan'aath snarled. «This puny bridge is creating a total hash of our units! The entire host is pushing forward without any control! It will take forever to sort out.» He drifted his tenar to the side, watching his junior Kessentai trying to reform the oolt'ondar. His own oolt'os were somewhere in the mess as well, but they would find him. Most had been with him through worlds. They would find him in Hell.
«Well, at least we have a bridge,» said Kenallurial, blowing a snort.