A Hymn Before Battle, page 27
O'Neal had stopped flicking his fingers and now stood like a gray statue. The light seemed be drunk by the camouflage skin of his suit. He suddenly shimmered out of sight then shimmered back in. The officer's suit was apparently performing diagnostics. Green turned his body toward Wiznowski and apparently carried on a side conversation for a moment. After a moment The Wizard raised his hands palms up, as if in resignation.
"Duncan," said Wiznowski in an unusually cold voice, "if you give that dwarf bastard the slightest problem he will frag you so fast it will flat amaze you. Briefly. Where the hell do you think I got my amazing level of training about everything in the world to do with suits?" The other NCO's snort carried clearly over the circuit.
"Oh," said Duncan. That amazing repertoire had been the subject of several discussions. It was assumed that he just had a better rapprochement with his AID. In every case of a question raised during the training it turned out that the AIDs had the information all the time. "How the hell did . . . ?" he trailed off.
"Whenever we were training, O'Neal would sit in his cabin controlling the whole thing like a puppetmaster. Hell, half the time when `Wiznowski' would answer the question it was O'Neal or his AID." The smile in Wiznowski's voice was evident. "He was even present plenty of times. All he had to do was tell your AIDs to not `see' him."
"Damn."
"So," answered Sergeant Green, "yeah, the LT has his shit together. Now, why don't you pay attention to your fuckin' job instead of his, squad leader?" The NCO could be ascerbic when he wanted to be.
"Okay, just one more thing."
"What?" asked Sergeant Green.
"I figured out a way to get out of here, if the LT asks."
"Okay, I'll pass that on. Just out of curiosity, what is it?"
"Well, we could set up our personal protection fields behind us and pop that plug," he said gesturing at the pile of rubble blocking the tube. "That would flood this area like an air lock."
"Okay," said Sergeant Green with another look at the pile. "I'll pass that on. Now get your squad together."
"Roger, dodger," said Duncan, pushing himself off the wall. "I just hope the lieutenant knows what to do after that," he ended.
* * *
Sergeant Green walked to where Lieutenant O'Neal was standing. The featureless command suit shifted slightly, indicating that the lieutenant had noticed him coming.
"Sir," he said on a discreet channel, "can we talk?"
"Sure, Sergeant. I guess I oughta call you Top. But somehow I don't feel like the Old Man." The voice was precise with an enforced note of humor, but there was fatigue whispering in the background.
"I think we're both out of our depth, Lieutenant," said the NCO.
"Yeah, but we gotta keep treading water, Sergeant. That's why we get paid the big bucks," the officer said in an encouraging tone. Green was something of an enigma to O'Neal. He was not one of the NCOs involved in Wiznowski's training program so Mike had not been able to closely study his methods. He seemed, however, to be a very sturdy and capable NCO. He had better be.
"Confirm, sir. Okay, that's the trouble. The men know we're in deep shit, sir and I don't know a way out. There has been one suggestion but I think it is frankly flaky." Green told him Duncan's suggestion.
Mike nodded his head and briefly communed with his AID. "Yeah," he said, "I think that will work. Tell Duncan thanks, that's two I owe him.
"Get with him and have him experiment with it. We need to be sure before we put all our eggs in that basket. If it is gonna work, we'll start to move out as soon as I contact higher."
"Can you reach higher through all this rock, Lieutenant?" Green was happy to have the lieutenant in charge. He apparently not only knew his stuff, but was willing to use good suggestions. He had started talking to Wiznowski in the first place because Wiz was the official battalion expert. When Wiz told him where the expertise came from the lieutenant had gone up several notches in the NCO's eyes. He wondered how many of the company commanders had been in on the deception?
"Sure," said Mike easily, "these communicators aren't affected by line of sight. They're just stepping on the frequency."
"Yes, sir." The instant answer was another encouraging sign of the officer's expertise. "Okay, how soon on the mechanics, sir?"
"Soon. Do you think it would be better to move out, or to rest up then move?" Mike flashed the schematic of the proposed route up so that they could both view it.
"Is there anywhere down the line we could stop, sir?" asked the platoon sergeant, trying to decipher the three-dimensional representation. He should have been much more familiar with the symbology, but the lack of training with the systems was hampering him still.
"Probably." Mike flashed several possible stopping places.
"Then I'd suggest moving out as soon as possible, sir. The troops are on the ragged edge in here; if we don't get them somewhere more open they'll start to crack. And then there's the other problem."
"Roger that, Sar'nt, the weapons and energy." Three hundred miles, hah! Seventy-two hours, hah! I told them to use antimatter!
"Yes, sir, or the lack of weapons. Most of us don't even have a pistol."
"Well, right now we don't need them and later on we'll find some, don't you worry. What about the other group? Where are they?"
"Sergeant Brecker has eighteen men with him, sir, including two of the engineers. They were about two hundred yards away in another tunnel. They're mining their way here right now."
"When they get here we'll start work on the next phase. I need those engineers, but everybody will help."
"Lieutenant O'Neal?" his AID broke in.
"Yes?"
"Major Pauley is about to be available."
"Right, connect me. Sergeant, get the troops who aren't working on getting out of here mining towards Sergeant Brecker and his men. I have to talk to battalion."
"Yes, sir." The relief in the sergeant's voice was evident. He got started on cross mining to the other group, comfortable now that there was a clear mission.
* * *
The chirp of connection cued him. "Major Pauley, it's Lieutenant O'Neal."
"O'Neal? What the hell do you want?"
"Sir, I am currently in command of the survivors gathered under Qualtren. I was looking for orders, sir." Mike watched the NCO leading a group across the scattered rubble. The first suit to reach the far side grabbed a piece of rubble and pulled it out. There was a prompt slide into its place and a section of ceiling fell out, momentarily trapping one of the other troops. With some hand motions and swearing on a side channel Green got the group to move more circumspectly.
"Who the hell put you in command?" demanded the distant officer.
"Captain Wright, sir," answered O'Neal. He was expecting some resistance but the harshness of Pauley's voice made him instantly wary.
"And where the hell is Wright?"
"Can I deliver my report, sir?"
"No, dangit, I don't want your dang report. I asked you where Captain Wright was." The panting of the officer over the circuit was eerie, like an obscene phone call.
"Captain Wright is irretrievable with what we have available, Major. He put me in command of the mobile survivors and put himself into hibernation."
"Well, the hell if any trumped up sergeant is going to lead my troops," said the major, his voice cracking and ending on a high wavery note. "Where the hell are the rest of the officers?"
"I am the only remaining officer, Major," O'Neal said reasonably. "There are one sergeant first class, three staff sergeants and five sergeants, sir. I am the only officer on site."
"I do not have time for this," spit the commander, "put me through to another officer."
"Sir, I just said that there are no other officers."
"Dangit, Lieutenant, get me Captain Wright and get him now or I'll have you court-martialed!"
"Sir," Mike choked. He began to realize that Major Pauley was not tracking well. The position of the retreating ACS battalion should have prepared him somewhat, but nothing could have fully prepared him. "Sir . . ." he started again.
"Dangit, Lieutenant, get those troops back here now! I need all the forces I can get! I don't have time to eff around with this. Get me through to Captain Wright!"
"Yes, sir," Mike did not know what to do, but ending this conversation would be a start. "I'll get the troops to your location as fast as I can and get Captain Wright to contact you as soon as possible."
"That's better. And put him back in command, dang you. How dare you usurp command, you young puppy! I'll have you court-martialed for this! Put yourself on report!"
"Yes, sir, right away, sir. Out here. Michelle, cut transmission." He thought for a moment. "Michelle, who is next in this rat-fuck chain of command?"
"Brigadier General Marlatt is MIA. That makes it General Houseman."
"Okay, who is left in the battalion chain."
"Major Norton and Captain Brandon are still in action and collocated with the battalion."
"Put me through to Captain Brandon."
"Left, left! Bravo team, move back!" Captain Brandon was maneuvering the remaining troops in contact on an open channel, usually used for platoon maneuver. Since from the map Mike was scanning Brandon was in command of fewer than forty troopers, it fit the condition.
"Captain Brandon."
"AID, partial privacy," said the captain quickly. "O'Neal? Is that you? I figured you were dead under your pyramid.
"Thanks for the cover," Brandon continued sarcastically, "unfortunately most of my damn company didn't quite make it out of the building!"
"That explosion was not the demolition charges, although they were detonated sympathetically," Mike began, lamely.
"Fine, now come up with some miracle to get us out of this nightmare! Or give me my damn company back!" the captain ended angrily.
"I have some of your troops down here, sir. We're going to start E and Eing out of here as soon as the rest link up. But, I just tried to report to Major Pauley, and, well, he was . . ."
"Babbling," Brandon said, flatly.
"Yes, sir."
"We know, thank you. Anything else?"
"Well, . . .", go ahead, he thought, say it. "What the hell do I do, sir? I'm . . . I'm just . . ." he bit back what he was about to say, " . . . not sure what course to follow, sir."
"I don't have time to hold your hand, O'Neal. Do whatever you think will do the most damage to the enemy until you can get back in contact. Take that as an order, if it helps."
"Yes, sir." Deep breath. "Airborne, sir."
"O'Neal."
"Sir?"
There was a short pause. "Fuck that shit about being a jumped up NCO, you saved our asses by dropping the buildings. Sorry about jumping your ass, it wasn't right. So, good hunting. Pile 'em up like cordwood, Lieutenant. That's an order." The officer's voice was firm and unwavering.
"Yes, sir," said Mike, unfelt conviction in every syllable. "Air-fucking-borne." Vaya con Dios, Captain.
"Now get off my damn freq; I got a war to run here. Alpha team! Position Five! Follow the ball! Move!"
30
Andata Province, Diess IV
0626 GMT May 19th, 2002 AD
As Mike whipped in the current, dangling like a lure on a trolling line, he really wished he had either been smarter, and had come up with a better plan, or stupider and had not thought of this one.
Once the improvised air lock was in place and area flooded, the next problem was how to move through the water mains. Between ongoing use in unconquered areas and unsealed breaches, the flow rate was high. An unencumbered person who is a good swimmer can only swim against three to four knots of current. The water was flowing past their location at what Mike judged to be about seven knots.
Mike had trained under water in battle armor, but never with a current. When he checked the flow going past at the first "T" intersection he experienced a sinking suspicion that his armor would not handle worth a damn, especially since the lack of power meant he could not "fly" the suit under impellers. He was still unsure what the mission plan would be, other than "to stack 'em up like cordwood" but he fully intended to see Diess' fluorescent light again, and soon. That meant getting out from under the zone of total destruction and the only way out from under the buildings was through the water mains, current or no current. Since swimming the armor was out, that left "rappeling" down the current. He worked out a route that flowed with the currents and would come out under a building three blocks away from Qualtren. Since the first principle of leadership was that you never asked someone to do something you would not do, Mike elected, over the protests of his platoon sergeant, to scout the first bound.
A line would be secured at the starting point by universal clamp and paid out with the scout, in this case O'Neal, dangling from it like a spider in the current. Waypoints had been determined, areas where there should be lower currents, and there personnel could be marshaled for the next bound. After the first bound, it had been agreed, other troops would take over the scouting duties. Once the line was emplaced the following troops would clip to the line and rappel to the waypoint.
The winch and line were built-in features of the suits. The winch was a bulge the size of a pack of cigarettes on the back of the suit and the line was thinner than a pencil lead. Designed for microgravity work they were rated to reel in a fully loaded suit against three gravities. On the other hand although the reel system and the universal clamp, a "magnet" that acted on a proton-sharing technology, had been extensively tested for full immersion, neither had been tested under heavy strain while fully immersed.
That lack of testing, since he had been the test pilot, was a personal indignity of the highest order. If there was any failure Mike had precisely no one else to blame. As he went bouncing off into the darkness he would be forced to curse only himself: designer, test pilot, user. Idiot.
For it was inky darkness his suit lights barely penetrated. Silt from breaks swirled through the tube and as he twisted wildly in the raging current the light swung randomly, illuminating for a moment then being swallowed by the turbidity. A moment's flash of wall, empty water, wall, opening, broken bits of plascrete from the shattered infrastructure, what was once an Indowy. The feeling of helplessness, swirling movement and flashing lights induced massive vertigo. He abruptly vomited, the ejecta captured and efficiently scavenged by the helmet systems.
"Down," he continued. "How much farther?" He would have looked, but he had to close his eyes for a moment. That made it worse so he opened them again and glued his eyes to the suit systems, checking the schematic just as the suit slammed into the wall. The heavy impact was more than absorbed by the suit systems and Mike hardly noticed.
"Two hundred seventy-five meters to waypoint one," answered the AID.
"Increase rate of descent to five meters per second."
As the descent rate increased, the swirling lessened, the suit moving at approximately the rate of the current. He started stabilizing himself, fending himself away the next time he swung toward the wall.
"Michelle, adjust the winch to maintain a tension of ten pounds regardless of rate of descent, up rate of descent to ten meters per second."
"Lieutenant O'Neal, if you strike a serious obstacle at ten meters per second, it could cause serious damage. Regulation maximum uncontrolled movement is seven meters per second."
"Michelle, I wrote that spec, and it's a good spec, I like it. But there are times when you have to push the specifications a little. Let me put it this way, what was the maximum gravities sustained by a mobile survivor of the fuel-air explosion under Qualtren?"
"Private Slattery sustained sixty-five gravities for five microseconds and over twenty for three seconds," answered the AID.
"Then I think I can take hitting concrete at an itty-bitty thirty or forty feet per second," Mike answered with a smile.
"Nonetheless, his suit systems indicate some internal bleeding," protested the AID.
"Is he still functioning?"
"Barely."
" 'Nuff said."
Her silence was as good as a sniff of derision to Mike after so much time in the suit. He had amassed over three thousand hours before this little adventure and he, the suit and the AID were now a smoothly running team. This was again proven when Michelle started flashing an unprompted warning as the waypoint appeared. Restrained by her programming, she could not override his rate setting but she could communicate the need to start slowing down quite pointedly. He sometimes wondered where she had picked up so much personality. Most of the other AIDs he dealt with tended to be flat. He decided to tweak her nose a bit and let the rate setting ride until the last moment. Playing chicken with an AID, what would he do next?
As the waypoint loomed up through the haze he thumbed the manual winch control. The descent braked to a stop just as Michelle intoned "Ahhh, Mike?"
"Gotcha," he laughed. Again the lack of response was pointed. The braking maneuver immediately started him spinning near the far side of the three-meter tube. He let out a few more feet and tried to "fly" over to the opening by twisting his body into a position used in skydiving called a "delta track." Essentially it forms the body into a self-directed arrow. Unfortunately, the external design of the suit did not lend itself to the maneuver and although he swung briefly toward the opening he just as swiftly swung back. He grasped the line and tried to swing toward the opening again, but the current and the geometry of the movement defeated him.
He finally stopped the spin by the simple expedient of switching on his boot clamps, universal binders again, locking his feet onto the far wall, and studied the problem. He had to cross three meters of water with every bit of physics working against him. Wait, which way was gravity? Well, it was perpendicular to the direction of movement, so that was no help. He slowly paid out the line until he was perpendicular to the wall on which he stood facing into the current. He deliberately stopped thinking about gravity again, and stretched his arms as far as they would go. No way to reach, he was way too short. What to do, what to do?
