«I'm not that much of a specialist . . .» said the engineer in deprecation. Until the project to create the regional defense center in northwest Georgia was dropped in his lap he had been a well-respected but otherwise unremarkable civil engineer in the Atlanta market, one of literally thousands. However, as the project had progressed, his innovative plans and almost fiendish details had vaulted him to the top of the hierarchy of «continental defense engineers.»
«I saw the raw reports from the Fort Mountain Planetary Defense Center,» Mueller disagreed. «You had more innovative recommendations than any seven other engineers involved. Same with Chattanooga. Richmond is going to need innovative ideas to survive.»
«So is Atlanta,» Keene protested, «where my exwife and daughter are. So you can understand if I would rather be there.»
«You'll be going back. For that matter so will we; Atlanta is where we are being based. But Richmond needs some input.»
«What's the problem?» asked Keene, looking around the area of the airport. The first thing that came to mind was that the area was flat, which favored the Posleen. But, heck, airports always were.
«Terrain, or lack of it,» said Mueller, as if he was reading Keene's mind. «When I was a terrain analyst we would call the terrain around Richmond, with the exception of the James River and a couple of hills, microterrain. From a military point of view, it's flat as a pancake. I don't know why they chose it for a defense city.»
«Politics, history and size,» said the engineer, «the same reason they chose Atlanta, which has the same problems. Hell, Atlanta doesn't even have the James; the Posleen can cross the Chattahoochee at any point they choose. And what am I to do about that? I can't bring a mountain to Mohammed.»
«I don't know, why don't you wait and see?» Mueller said as he walked up to a car parked in a no-parking zone. He tossed the carry-on in the backseat, pulled the sign that said «Richmond Defense Planning Agency, Official Business» off the dashboard of the unremarkable white Ford Taurus, pulled a ticket off the window and put it in the glove compartment. He had to stuff it into a pile of others.
«Okay, any other information before the briefing?» asked Keene with a smile at the little pantomime.
«Well, we're all staying at the Crowne Plaza hotel.»
«Okay, wherever.»
«It's a nice enough place with a good view of the James . . .»
John gave Mueller a sidelong look; even in their brief walk from the gate he was experienced enough with the sergeant to wonder where the explanation was going.
«It's fairly convenient to the state capitol, which is where most of the meetings are, but not very. However, it is within walking distance of Schockoe Bottom. Which is really important.»
«Okay. Why?»
«Well,» said Mueller, pulling out onto Williamsburg Avenue, «there's this fantastic microbrewery . . .»
John laughed, the first full belly laugh he had had in a while. He looked around at the sparse traffic for a moment as if someone might have heard the mirth and found it out of place.
«It must help to be military,» John commented.
«Huh?»
«You guys are better prepared, mentally, for this than civilians, I guess.»
«Man, have you got that wrong,» Mueller denied. «There is no way to be prepared for the Posleen. None.»
«Well, you can joke about it, anyway.»
«Ah, well, that I can. If you can't joke about dyin' you are not suited to the military. So I guess that means we are better prepared.»
After that they continued in silence through the suburbs of Richmond, heading towards the barely visible city center. Avoiding the fork onto Government Road, Mueller took the more scenic drop into Stony Run, overlooked by the Confederate Memorial. Beyond the juncture with Main Street they touched the outskirts of Schockoe Bottom. Abandoned factories loomed on their left as a giant hill rose on their right.
«This isn't exactly microrelief,» commented Keene, looking up at tree-covered Libby Hill looming over the valley of the James. The trees were turning color with the first chill of autumn and the hill was a mix of brown and yellow. «Hell of a lot better than Atlanta.»
«Maybe not,» replied Mueller, «but it's not like the city is up there. I'm damned if I can think of a way to use it.»
«Possibly,» mused the engineer, «possibly you are.»
«The capitol and city center are that way.» Mueller gestured to their right as they dropped into the sector of old brick factories. The dying rays of the sun lit the crowds beginning to come to the area after the work of the day. Music began to pulse as soldiers of the Twenty-Second Cavalry Regiment in BDUs mingled with female office workers, dancing the dance that was old before clothing was born. The city, each night, seemed to empty to Schockoe Bottom. They climbed out of the bottoms and made a series of lefts to intersect the one-way Cary Street. As they approached their hotel Keene took another look around.
«Yes, there's definitely possibility here,» Keene whispered, almost inaudibly.
Mueller hid his small, unsurprised smile.
CHAPTER 20
Ft. Myer, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1650 EDT September 27th, 2004 ad
* * *
«General Olds,» said O'Neal, nodding his head slightly to the approaching First Army commander, «I hope you enjoyed the conference.»
The reception ending the all-commands conference was considered mandatory, a way for the various commanders and their staffs to get together one last time and go over all the things that had been missed at the marathon series of meetings. For the next few weeks, e-mails would fly hot and heavy as everyone came up with questions that they forgot or modifications arose from those questions. However—as the American Army had repeatedly proven—open and complete communication was the key to effective military operations. The left hand not knowing what the right was doing was the quickest road to defeat.
On the other hand, what it meant for Mike was one last run of the gauntlet with some senior officers that in O'Neal's opinion were poster children for the Peter Principle. But once it was over, it was off for two weeks' leave and finding out what bad habits Cally had picked up from Dad.
«O'Neal,» said the tall, spare commander, nodding his own head. «I thought I would get a clarification on one item. I believe you stated that the directive of CONARC was that ACS should not be used in a situation where a 'Fortress Forward' or montane defense point had already fallen.»
Mike gave it a quick scan for booby traps. «Yes, General, that is correct.»
«Even if the ACS could permit the survival of the defending units.»
«Again, General, that is the intent of the directive.»
«So, you, or CONARC through you, equate an ACS battalion to be the same as the units in a 'Fortress Forward' position, equivalent to a corps of trained soldiers? All their support? Some seventy thousand lives balanced against six hundred?»
Mike considered his response carefully. «General, I realize that you disagree with the logic . . .»
«You are correct, Captain, a point that I believe I have made with General Horner. There is no military justification for such a stance, and if Fleet Strike feels that its units are too good to support Army units, then I question why we are funding Fleet Strike!»