«I tried to do this the easy way. I am now going to have to do it the hard way,» he said in an iron tone. «This unit is guilty of desertion in the face of the enemy. The life of every member of this unit is forfeit, under both the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the Federation Procedures for the Prosecution of War.» He stopped and looked at the figures. Most of them were still defiant. Despite the regular hangings for desertion before the Posleen landed, the bug-out in this case had been so widespread that it was unlikely they would be charged. What they did not realize was that they were no longer under the control of American Law.
«You were given an order by a duly designated noncommissioned officer of the Fleet Strike Forces. As such your offense falls under Federation law.» He stopped again and lowered his voice. «What that means is that you have just entered hell.»
He picked up the securely bound lieutenant and held him again by the back of the head. «This officer ignored a direct order. He led this retreat. He is primarily at fault.» Pappas closed his fingers and the skull of the officer exploded. The corpse of the lieutenant catapulted to the feet of the lined-up troops along with a splatter of blood and brains that covered the arrayed troopers in gray matter. The nearly decapitated body kicked and thrashed on the ground as undirected nerve impulses continued to fire for a few more moments. Most of the troop looked stunned, a couple looked satisfied. Then about half doubled over in nausea.
«I want you to understand something,» Pappas snarled. «The Posleen might kill you. If you try to run again, I will kill you.» Pappas lifted his M-300 and fired over the head of the platoon. The blast of relativistic teardrops took out a section of the Longworth building, scattering debris into the street. «This weapon will go through your fucking tin cans long ways. You will be more terrified of me than of the enemy.»
* * *
«Mortars, they're over Seventeenth Street and spreading out,» said the cool voice on the radio. Keren had seen him from time to time, pulling out the occasional wounded or dead, calling for more volunteers, even, for God's sake, giving marksmanship lessons. And he didn't sound any more flustered now. «Can you get us any more fire-support, over?» The voice was young, but the assurance wasn't. Rejuv again.
«Negative,» responded Keren over the radio in the Three Track. His hands dripped blood to the steel deck as the blisters took another beating from the rounds. The members of Three Track had finally had it, slipping out one by one in the crowd of volunteers. But it didn't matter. There was a halfway intelligent gun bunny dropping rounds. And two chicks with signals intelligence patches cutting charges. And a dozen more men and women preparing rounds. The bastards from Three didn't matter a damn. «I've tried all the arty freqs. Nobody.» Not even the Fiftieth Division control. The bastards had probably run.
«Well,» said the guy on the radio in a voice that was both resigned and positive, «gotta die somewhere.»
Keren twisted the traverse and dropped the range a crank. «Guess it's that time.»
«Yep,» said the guy on the other end. «Well, I always said every day after the Chosin was one I wasn't meant to live. Thanks for the support, Mortars. Out here.»
Keren shook his head in wonder. Maybe the guy was talking about Valkyries or something.
* * *
Mike had some important decisions to make. As the battalion stepped out, crossing the Twelfth Street Phase-line he was still in a quandary. But, after thinking long and hard, he finally came to a decision.
«Duncan?» he asked.
«We're up! Where do you want it?»
«Question. What tune should I use?» he asked. The firing from the distant Monument was clear. The forces had to be thinking they were doomed.
«What?»
«I'm thinking 'Ride of the Valkyries.' «
«What?»
«Or should I go with tradition?»
«What tradition? . . . Oh.»
«Yeah, tradition wins. Pity, really. This is such a Wagnerian moment.»
* * *
Keren looked up and snarled as the guy hanging rounds froze. Then, when he saw his slack-jawed face he looked to the rear. The tune was familiar. At first he could not for the life of him place it. But then, as the approaching unit began singing, it came to him and he started to laugh so hard he thought he would die.
* * *
Colonel Cutprice looked up at the sound behind him and started to laugh. Just when you thought you had lost the game, sometimes life handed you an ace. Some of the riflemen on the mound turned to snarl at the misplaced mirth but then, as more and more of the veterans began laughing, they looked to their rear and smiled. They weren't sure what the joke was—the song was familiar from basic training but otherwise a mystery. But the old guys obviously got whatever the joke was.
* * *
And to the strains of «Yellow Ribbon,» the anthem of the United States Cavalry, the men and women of the First Battalion, Five Hundred Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry Regiment, the «Triple-Nickles,» began to deploy.
CHAPTER 72
Washington, DC, United States of America, Sol III
1116 EDT October 11th, 2004 ad
Teri Nightingale was not happy. The plan that battalion, which meant Captain O'Neal, had downloaded was unnecessarily hazardous and invited defeat in detail. It also left Bravo Company with an unsecured flank. The hazards of that were obvious to a blind man. But not to the world's greatest expert in combat suit tactics.
He also had sent Ernie out on a forlorn hope. Trying to hold that force coming across the bridge with a few infantry troops and some cowardly tank crews was impossible. They would be slaughtered. And that would be the end of Ernie Pappas.
She was not happy with the direction that relationship had taken. She had never intended to actually go to bed with him. But when the captain had turned her training over to the NCO, she felt a certain amount of flirtation in order. A good report from the NCO, much as it galled her, would go far towards restoring her position in the captain's eyes. Since the captain wrote her evaluation report, her career depended on keeping this NCO happy.
Flirtation had, unfortunately, quickly led to more. And now she was not sure she could end the relationship without causing the exact opposite of the effect she had been striving for. It was a hell of a predicament. Much as it bothered her to consider it, Sergeant Pappas's death would certainly permit her to be free and clear.
Her own death, however, might quickly follow. She swallowed at that thought and caught her breath. For the first time she seriously regretted her change from Intel to Infantry. A career in Intel would have meant slower promotion, but one of the costs of being in combat arms was the chance of dying. That had never been real to her until today. Despite the reality of the training systems, the possibility that Teri Nightingale might cease to exist was a shock.
That possibility was much on her mind as the company double-timed down New York Avenue. Confident in his company and assured by the first sergeant that the XO was capable of handling the load, Captain O'Neal had assigned Bravo the most difficult assignment. It required moving across Washington at an oblique angle and taking the Posleen forces in the flank. It also left them out on a limb, unsupported by the rest of the companies in the battalion. And to get to the point where they were truly in trouble required a headlong charge towards the distant enemy.