They were met with fire but not enough. Despite the interlocking fires of the remaining suits, some of the Posleen drove forward, then more and more.
“Hmm, da dum,” Pappas muttered, pulling another magazine out and slipping it into the well as the empty dropped out. “If the Army and the Navy, ever look on heaven’s scene…” The Posleen were pushing forward hard; a solid block of them were across the wall of bodies. Most of them had dispensed with shotguns and railguns and missile launchers and were dragging out their boma blades even as the fire of the remaining suits piled up windrows of bodies. But each windrow was closer and closer. Fifty meters, thirty, ten, five.
“If the Army and the Navy ever look on Heaven’s scene,” he half hummed, half sang as the first normal reached his hole. He blew it apart with a blast of silver fire, but there was another and then another behind it, all around, and his magazine dropped out. “…they will find the streets are guarded, by United States Marines.”
Tommy had managed to get Wendy aside for a moment as the two Reapers assembled the boxes on the top of the hill. It had required, among other things, climbing around the shoulder of the ridge. But with the preparations to carry the gear over to Black Rock Mountain well underway, he could take a moment of private time.
He ended up carrying Wendy the last few meters as the side of the mountain got vertical; with ample power he could apply his full anti-grav system and simply fly around the precipice.
“Now that was exciting,” she said as they landed on a relatively flat patch. It was a narrow ledge, mostly granite with some moss and twisted saplings growing out of the rocks. Under the rising moon it was an inhospitable and airy place that seemed to speak of sylphs and elementals, a place where lichen struggled to grab a gray foothold.
“So, Superman, what’s the big secret?”
“Not a secret, really,” he said, taking off his helmet so he could see her with his own eyes. “It’s just… we don’t have much more time.” He paused and looked to the south. There was a strong, cold breeze from the north and their aerie was exposed to it, but he still could hear occasional sounds from the Gap where the Posleen hordes were pouring through. “When we go back… there’s not going to be much we can really do. Just… dig in and hold on. And there’s not anything really coming that’s going to get here…”
“So you’re saying that when you go, you’re not coming back?” Wendy asked pushing her hair back behind her ear. The wind was hitting the ledge and being deflected upwards. The zephyrs yanked her blond hair back out from where she had futilely tucked it and streamed it out and upwards.
“I… I think so, sweet.” Tommy toggled on a white light and looked her in the eye. Her eyes were a deep, magnetic blue. It had been so long he’d almost forgotten how blue. “It’s been bad before. And there was always the chance of catching a round. But this time…”
“So you brought me here to tell me you’re going to leave me?” she asked, quietly, stroking his face again. The suit undergel took care of all personal hygiene needs, including depilation. His chin was normally rough with a beard; he had to shave twice a day. But under the care of the suit it was as smooth as a baby’s.
“Maybe, a little,” he answered. “And… you know we’re in a rush. We don’t have much time. But…”
“Tommy?” she said, pulling her shirt over her head and starting to undo her bra. “Shut up and get that goddamned armor off.”
Mosovich tried not to smile as the lieutenant and his “lady” joined them on the hilltop; if he’d had the opportunity he probably would have taken it as well.
“Well, Lieutenant, nice to see you back,” Mueller said with a chuckle.
Tommy had the grace to look a bit shamefaced but Wendy just smiled languidly. “I guess it’s time to port and carry, huh? I hope we can rig it so it doesn’t hit my bruises.”
Mueller coughed as Shari chuckled wickedly. “That sounds like a self-inflicted wound to me.”
“Oh, it took two,” Wendy said with a wink.
“If we’re ready to leave,” Sunday said, looking at the boxes, then at McEvoy. “Time to load up.”
He lifted one of the boxes onto the side of the Reaper’s suit and locked it in place with a gravity clamp, then added one to the other side. It took a moment to figure out but he finally found a place to add a third, and that seemed about the maximum that would fit. He did the same with Pickersgill then had them load him up with one of the power packs, an ammo box and the weapons box, now covered in cloth. Finally the three suits were ready, looking very much like some odd species of worm that preferred to camouflage itself in boxes.
With difficulty Tommy and the Reapers helped the unarmored group to each load up a box. The cases were heavy, running nearly a hundred and fifty pounds, and didn’t have carrying straps. But by strapping them onto empty rucksack frames they finally got them on their backs. They were terribly unwieldy, but marginally portable.
“Let’s go,” Elgars said, leaning forward to try to get the box balanced.
“Take care of the kids,” Shari said, shifting the weight to try to get it comfortable. But, really, there was no way to do that; she could feel the straps cutting into her back, and her legs already felt wobbly.
“I will,” Cally said, looking over at Wendy and Tommy. “You guys take care, okay?”
“We will,” Mosovich said. “Keep your head down.”
“Will do.”
Sunday looked around at the group, then at Elgars. “Captain, if you’re ready.”
“Cally, get back to the cache,” Elgars said. “Let’s move out.”
With that she took a step down the trail, placing her feet carefully. One slip with these damned boxes on their backs and they’d end up in a broken pile of bones.
“I remember filling this out on my list of future employment,” Mosovich said, shifting the weight again and trying to move his AIW into a better position.
“What’s that?” Mueller asked. Of all the group he was the one who seemed the least bothered by the weight.
“Sherpa,” the sergeant major said with a laugh. “I always wanted to tote somebody else’s luggage over hill and dale.”
“You know, there’s got to be a better way to run a war,” Mueller said.
Dr. Miguel “Mickey” Castanuelo was a fanatic.
Miguel A. Castanuelo had first seen the United States from the bow of a pitching, overloaded boat. And if there was anything more lovely than that faint shred of land of the horizon, it was the Coast Guard cutter that had appeared just as it seemed the leaky boat was finally going to sink.
The boat was one of the last “official” refugee boats from Castro’s Cuba; within a month all transport would be forbidden. Miguel’s father, Jose Castanuelo, was a medical doctor who was the victim of one of the favorite post-revolution games: catch the Batistist.
Dr. Jose Castanuelo had not been involved in the Batista government. But when a colleague fingered him as a Batistist, he knew it was only a matter of time until he would be incarcerated in a “reeducation camp.” Instead, he took his family out on a rickety boat towards freedom.
However, a degree of doctoral medicine in Cuba was nothing more than an interesting piece of paper in the United States. Jose never let that stop him, though. He found a sponsoring family in Atlanta, Georgia, and moved his family there. Then he and his wife, who was from a prominent family and had never before known a day of real work in her life, found jobs in a restaurant. He went to night school at Georgia State University and then Emory while his children, though donations from the parish, attended first Christ the King Elementary School and then Pope Pius X High School.