* * *
The cough tore wrackingly through her chest and more blood spotted the white dust. The falling limestone cap stones had pretty well flailed her ribcage and put the final whammy on her left arm, but it had been a good shot. She had stayed in place long enough to see the God King saucer blow. Her eyes were still mostly blind from it. But it had cost her.
She knew all the long goddamn run up the stairs that it was stupid. But the thought of the shot, when she'd managed to avoid getting killed after the first one, was just too good to pass up. A shot from the top of the Washington Monument. It was a sniper's wet dream. And it had been a good shot. She knew it the moment the stock slammed into her shoulder. Perfect, right through the fuckin' X-ring. Despite the heaving breath. Despite the pounding heart.
The heart still refused to stop pounding. Only, now it was pounding blood out on the marble floor. But it was worth it. It had been a perfect moment. And her life had had damn few perfect moments. It had been a good shot. . . .
CHAPTER 71
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1116 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
They might not win, but they were taking their best shot. Keren had tossed aside his board and was down to breaking rounds. The guns were traversing their fire, walking the explosions across the front of the oncoming Posleen force. Two more gun tracks had joined them and the four mortars stitched a seam across the enemy.
Three Gun seemed to have settled down now that more ammo and support had shown up. He wished that the backup driver of the ammo truck would pitch in or at least put down her rifle. But he had become familiar with the look in her eye and wasn't going to be the first to suggest it. And it wasn't as if they needed the help.
The troops helping wore every damn kind of unit patch. There were cavalry, infantry and a mass of combat-support types. They didn't really know what they were doing, but the hands made the job much faster and the mortar rounds were finally piling up quicker than the guns could pour them out. About half of them had come with a cavalry bird colonel. The guy looked like he was seventeen, which just meant he was another rejuv. As he strode around directing the support force he displayed the most incredible command of invective Keren had ever heard.
And these were just the dregs, the ones without decent weapons, or any at all for that matter. Most of the volunteers had joined the cavalry troop on Monument Mound. Some of them, they were just tired of running. Some of them figured if they didn't stop the horses here it was all over; might as well die here as anywhere. But plenty of them seemed to just be pissed about where it was. Sure, take Virginia, who cares. Take Arlington Cemetery. We'll take it back. But the Monument? Fuck that. There were a bunch of obvious rejuvs; most of them arrived together and seemed to know each other. He didn't know who they were or where they had come from; they weren't from any regular unit. But they were coming out of the woodwork now, leading any damn soldier that showed an ounce of willingness.
He had seen plenty of the soldiers on the Mall run. The tent city that had been setting up was nearly empty. And most of them weren't here. But a good few were.
They were black and white and oriental and Hispanic. Men and women. Most of 'em stank from days of running. Plenty of 'em looked like they could use a good meal, or a night or two with no guard duty and no nightmares.
But they were here. And they were helping. The ammo truck carried a mixed load and the volunteers swarmed over it, throwing down cases of .50 caliber to feed the guns on the tracks, breaking open the mortar rounds and running forward to feed the infantry positions.
The infantry, in the meantime, was laying down a curtain of fire. At least six hundred soldiers had crept up the mound and now fired at the oncoming Posleen. They were belly down with just their heads and rifles showing. An occasional HVM would strike a section and open it up or the odd round would strike an individual, but more volunteers would creep forward to fill the gaps.
Sure, most had run. But plenty more stayed. And the horses would have the Monument over their dead bodies.
* * *
«First Sergeant, I don't care if you are Fleet. I don't care if you have orders from God Himself. I am going back there over my dead body. I'm not even going to think about it. There's no way to win and I'm not going to be a stupid hero.» The tired and dirty first lieutenant was the last officer the cavalry company had left. Of course, he was in charge of less than a platoon of Abrams so it wasn't like he was overtaxed.
Pappas thought about the statement for a moment. «L-T, I need your tracks at the Watergate. I'm getting part of an infantry battalion headed that way and there's a buncha artillery support. But I really, really need your tracks, too.»
«No. And what's more—fuck, no,» snarled the lieutenant, tired of arguing with the remorseless NCO. The upstart Fleet bastard had been nagging him for nearly an hour before the horses crossed the river. If they hadn't crossed he might have stuck around, but as it was there was just no reason. No reason at all. No force on Earth was going to stop the Posleen tide now that it was over the Potomac. They might as well head back to New York city as stick around and get eaten.
The officer dug at the plasteel fingers holding onto the coaming of his TC hatch. «Get off my track.» The lieutenant switched on the intercom. «Pauls, move out.» As the Abrams sprang to life, the other four tanks fell in behind it, moving down the Mall to the east, towards the Capitol and away from the fighting around the Arlington Bridge.
Pappas sighed and leaned forward. Steel fingers removed the helmet from the struggling lieutenant's head and pulled him in close. The writhing officer found that fighting against them was like fighting a mechanical clamp.
«AID, whisper mode,» said Pappas, calmly. Then he whispered to the lieutenant. «You said that it would be over your dead body. Turn this platoon around or I will squeeze your head until it pops. Literally.» Pappas palmed the back of the officer's head and applied a calculated amount of pressure.
The officer writhed in the iron grasp and whined from the pain. It felt as if his eyeballs were going to burst. «You can't do this the whole way there!» he shouted. One shin banged painfully against the thermal repeater but the lesser pain went unnoticed.
Pappas face hardened and he yanked the officer out of the tank. «AID, broadcast to all tank units. All units. Stop right here. We have to have a little talk.» The tanks continued to the east. Instead of stopping they actually increased speed. «AID, did that get to them all?»
«All tanks have active carrier waves and I shunted it to the intercom.»
«Right,» snarled Pappas. He pulled out a roll of spacetape and secured the futilely protesting officer to the turret. Then he walked across the tank to the driver's hatch, his EVA clamps holding him to the skin of the armored behemoth. He knelt by the driver's hatch and pounded on it. «OPEN UP!»
There was no physical response, but he could have sworn he heard a faint «No!»
He tapped a spot on his forearm and a two-foot blade sprang out from the underarm of the suit. The blade had been suggested by Duncan, and the Indowy fitters had been more than happy to oblige for the whole company. Now it came in handy as the monomolecular vibroblade slid through the Chobham armor like butter and sliced the hatch lock in two.
In short order Pappas had the remaining members of the platoon lined up at attention. Two or three were bruised and at least one had a broken arm. There was a cooling spot on the turret of one tank from a glancing armor-piercing round and there was a gunner who would require serious medical attention. But most of them were there.