The journey of a hundred meters begins with one push, thought O'Neal. The suit lights had banished the enveloping darkness, but the twisted masses of plascrete and rubble they revealed was just as depressing.
"Okay, have you come up with any ideas?" he asked his AID.
"Only one. There is a small open area 3.5 meters away at 123 degrees mark 8. If you can worm your way there, you can work your way towards the nearest exit by blasting small openings with the activator charges on your grav rounds."
"What, you mean use them as explosives? How?"
"If you jam one of them firmly in place then shoot it with your grav pistol, it will fracture the antimatter activator charge, releasing the energy as an explosion."
"That sounds . . . odd but possible. Okay, all I have to do is make it ten or eleven feet up and to the right. How do I turn over? Never mind . . . I've got an idea." His right hand was, fortunately, near his grav pistol. The suit's biomechanical musculature made short work of the intervening rubble and he sighed as his gauntlet contacted the familiar grip. He drew it and angled the barrel across his abdominal cuirass, the point that seemed most tightly constricted. Whispering a brief prayer to whatever gods might be watching this dust bowl of a planet, he triggered a single round into the plascrete mass.
The concussion belled unexpectedly loud through the armor, transmitting by contact noise that previously had been comfortably muffled. Despite the muffling underlayer, his ears rang as though someone had put a tin bucket over his head and whacked it sharply with a stick. There was a moment's freedom as he rolled quickly to his left then his right shoulder stuck fast again. If he were out of the suit, he could have flexed his shoulders inward and made the turn. On the other hand, if he was out of the suit he would be dead. The external monitors indicated very low oxygen levels and aerosol toxins, probably a result of all the combusted fish oil and associated burning.
He worked the barrel upwards and carefully turned his head to the side. If the round struck the helmet or any part of his armor dead on he would be pureed as effectively as that poor private in the first contact. Pressing the barrel as much as possible into the slab, he triggered another round. This time it skittered ineffectually along the plascrete and ricocheted off his cuirass. The relativistic teardrop left a deep, glowing trench in the refractory armor that had shed thousands of lower velocity flechettes in the earlier battle and the heat dissipated through the underlayer.
Rattled by the near miss he tried again and on the second attempt cracked the refractory plascrete. He twisted like a cat and found himself on his stomach facing slightly downward. Although there was pressure on several points he could move the rubble after a fashion, courtesy of the tremendous power available from the combat armor. After he twisted back and forth for a bit, the slab piece that had cracked to the left of his shoulder and was now across his right slipped beneath him with a resounding crash and a small area was opened to the upper right. He holstered his pistol and snaked a hand up to a convenient handhold revealed in his suit lights. With a firm grip on a piece of structural ceramet he dragged the rest of his body sharply up and to the right. Since this was the way he wanted to go he braced his feet on the rubble he had extracted himself from and pushed upwards. He was rewarded by sliding sharply backwards.
After a good bit more struggle and twice being forced to use his pistol when vigorous activities were rewarded by large slabs pinning some point of his armor he finally reached the promised open area. Above his head was some indefinable piece of machinery. It was this large something, another indefinable bit of Galactic machinery that created the pocket. He took a sip of water and just sat and scanned his situation for a moment. No rifle, lost sometime during the explosion. Shoulder grenade launchers sheared off clean. Replacement was a simple field repair assuming spares which he ain't got. One hundred twenty-eight thousand remaining rounds of depleted uranium 3mm penetrators with antimatter activator charge, pretty much useless without a rifle. Grav pistol and forty-five hundred rounds. Two hundred eighty-three grenades, hand or launcher useable. A thousand meters of 10,000kg test micro line, universal clamp and winch. C-9, four kilograms. Detonators. Sundry pyrotechnic and specialty demolition supplies. Personal Area Force-screen; useless against kinetic weapons, as he had pointed out, but of some utility otherwise. His suit had air, food and water for at least a month.
Unfortunately, at his current rate of energy consumption he would be out of power in twelve hours; the kinetic damping systems had been forced to work overtime counteracting not only the effects of the fuel air explosion but also the settlement of the rubble. Combine all of those with the unexpected and unprecedented strains involved in extracting through the rubble and it was a recipe for disaster.
Mike took a bite of suit rations. Ah, pork fried rice pulp. The semibiotic liner of the suit absorbed all bodily wastes, skin-borne oxygen and nitrogen, dead skin cells, sweat, urine and, ahem, and converted them back into breathable air, potable water and surprisingly edible food. In fact the food was quite tasty and constantly changing; just now it changed to broccoli. The texture was still paste, but the system pulled a little power and voilà. No worries about anything but power, as long as he did not think of where the food was coming from.
Well, if it took twelve hours to work through the rubble, he might as well be dead; by then he would be far behind the lines. If he was alone, he would be dead. On the other hand . . .
"Michelle, how many other members of the battalion are down here and functional?" The GalTech communications network could easily punch through the rubble and determine precise positions of every unit.
"Fifty-eight. The senior is Captain Wright of Alpha company. Captain Vero is also trapped under Qualtrev, but he is severely injured and his AID has administered Hiberzine. There are thirty-two personnel who will survive if they are evacuated to a class one medical facility within one hundred eighty days. All are now in hibernation."
Mike rocked his armor back and forth on the plascrete pile trying to make a more stable spot. "Okay, gimme a three-D map with locations, and note rank with increasing brightness levels. Those out of action in yellow, functional in green."
As he spoke the map formed in front of his eyes. Most of the severely injured were those closest to the fuel-air burst or close to Jericho charges.
"Are any of the others starting to extract themselves?"
"A few. The AIDs are sharing the technique. It was initially hard to start without a pistol, but Sergeant Duncan of Bravo company suggested using grenades. So far, that is working."
"Get me Captain Wright," said Mike, happy to have someone else find a solution.
"Yes, sir." There was a chirp and the sound of muted and futile swearing.
"Ah, sir?"
"Yes! Who is it?" Captain Harold Wright checked his heads-up display. "Oh, O'Neal. Your splendid idea worked like a charm. Congratulations."
"It would have been fine if it weren't for the fuel-air explosion, sir," Mike said with chagrin. A drift of dust dropped out of the ceiling of the rubble pocket.
"That is what contingency plans are for, Lieutenant. As it is the battalion is combat ineffective, not to mention trapped in this damn rubble! Any more brilliant ideas?"
"Work our way to the periphery, gather the survivors and head back to friendly lines?" Mike asked rhetorically.
"And we start how?" asked the captain.
"Your AIDs have the plans, sir. I've moved to an open pocket and am preparing to move to the periphery. Basically, we'll blast our way out."
Hal Wright took a moment to consider the plan mapped out by the AID. "Okay, that might just work. I need to start rounding up the NCOs. . . ."
"Sir, the AIDs can sketch out a TOE based upon who we've got and who can make it out. My AID has significantly more experience than yours. If you wish, it can conference with yours and help it along with some of the rough spots . . ."
"Like a certain helpful lieutenant?"
"That was not in fact the idea."
"Well, whatever the idea, according to this schematic your helpful AID just supplied, you are the only surviving lieutenant under here. Congratulations, XO," he concluded, wryly.
"I'm not in the chain of command, sir."
"You are now. Also, according to this schematic, we will end up widely separated. You'll have about thirty-five soldiers gathered in your area. When you're concentrated we can try to use these utility tunnels to rendezvous. First, though, we have to actually extricate ourselves. Contact your personnel, they include Sergeant First Class Green, platoon sergeant of my second platoon. Get them sorted out and moving, then get back to me."
"Watch your energy level, sir," Mike warned, checking his own decreasing waterfall display. "Mine is well down already. We can scavenge power if we find sources, but in the meantime . . ."
"Right. Make sure you emphasize that. Get moving, XO."
"Airborne, sir."
For the next few hours soldiers and NCOs were contacted and units worked out. Personnel who were mobile were sent to free thoroughly trapped comrades. The grenade idea worked well except in the case of one unfortunate private who discovered after arming the grenade that he could not retract his arm. Fortunately GalTech medical technology could regenerate the missing hand if they ever got back to friendly lines. Given that the pain was quite brief, the suit sealed the breach and pain-blocked the damage almost instantly, it caused a certain amount of black humor at his expense. It only got worse when he told them his last words were, "This is gonna huurt."
Despite the occasional setback, by seven hours after the detonation all the personnel who were going to be recovered had reached the utilities tunnels. This did not, unfortunately, include Captain Wright or three other personnel from Alpha company. They were trapped within a tremendous pile of heavy machinery. In spite of repeated attempts to reach him, troops had been unable to make a significant penetration of the machinery. After all the other personnel were withdrawn Captain Wright ordered the remaining trapped troopers to activate their hibernation systems and then, placing command in the hands of Lieutenant O'Neal, he activated his own.
O'Neal surveyed the group of dispirited soldiers gathered in the water main. The end of the two-meter-tall oblate tube was shattered and dangled over a manmade cavern the troops had hollowed out over the last few hours. One of the squad leaders had gone up the tunnel and stated that it was sealed at the other end. Cross that path when they came to it.
"Sergeant Green."
"Yes, sir?"
"Get the men fed and do a weapons and systems check. Cross load ammo. All the usual post-battle chores. By then I should have a handle on the environment and I'll give an operations order."
"Yes, sir."
Okay, one problem down. Just take them one at a time and everything would be fine. "Michelle, who is left in the command structure?" Mike tapped the configurable controls on his left forearm and pulled up a colorful schematic of the troop's energy levels. He took one look and winced. Charge or die, he thought with grim humor. The Energizer Bunny we're not.
"Major Pauley is currently in command of the remainder of the battalion."
"Okay, get me in contact. Where are they?"
"The unit has retreated approximately six kilometers in a direct line towards the MLR."
"What? Where is the cav?"
"The American cavalry units are engaged in a general retreat towards the MLR. They are at less than thirty percent of their nominal strength. In any other conditions they would be considered combat ineffective."
"Show me." The local schematic drew back until it showed a mass of red, broken directly above, but otherwise nearly continuous, in contact with a thin line of green. There were breaks up and down the green line but the landward portion was entirely open with a large gap to the rear and another small portion of green well separated from the remainder. The gap was opening and it was obvious that the red of the Posleen would shortly flank or encircle the beleaguered green armor units.
"He's still pulling back," said Mike, watching the ACS unit make another bound towards the dubious safety of the MLR.
"Yes."
"Is he in contact with higher authority?" the lieutenant wondered aloud.
"I am not at liberty to discuss communications with higher headquarters," said the AID primly.
"Great. Connect me."
"He is currently in communication. I will connect when he is available."
"Okay." Mike studied the schematic again, flexing his hand idly. The AID automatically adjusted the resistance of the glove to that of the torsional device he normally used. "Is that solid mass of red accurate or are there any clear areas?"
"The information is based upon a survey of visual and auditory sensors thoughout the affected areas. It is fairly accurate. I would recommend drawing further away from the edge of the battle area before emerging on the surface." The AID highlighted probable areas of low Posleen presence on the map.
"Well, where is the nearest sewage main?" Mike asked. "We need a way out of here." He stopped for a moment then did a double take. "Hey, how the hell did you find that out now but didn't know it before the assault?" he asked angrily.
"What do you mean?" queried the AID.
"When we were waiting for the Posleen assault the only information we could get was bits and pieces from the Indowy and the Himmit."
"You refer to the battalion intelligence briefing," said the AID.
"Yes," replied Mike, hotly.
"You never asked me," said the AID. Mike could almost hear the sniff.
Mike thought about the statement and had a sudden urge to just quit. It was moments like this that made him hate suits. If he was not in a thousand pounds of ceramet and plasteel with a three-inch-thick helmet he could do such things as slap his forehead, bang his head on the wall or, at least, shake it from side to side. As it was he just had to stand still as a statue as the adrenaline released by feeling like such an utter fool coursed through his system. He took a deep breath. Blowing it out created a tiny amount of back pressure in the small open area in front of his mouth. It was as close as he would come to tactile feedback.
"Michelle, are you filing continuous reports?" he asked tiredly.
"No, the unit is under emission control, local transmissions only." The suit local transmission system used directional pulses of monoperiodic subspace transmissions. The transmissions were traded in a distributed network from one suit that was in sight to another, shuttling through the group in the same manner as a data packet in the internet. Since the transmission simply jumped from one suit to the next, the power was a trickle and the likelihood of detection or interception was next to nothing. If a Posleen could detect the transmission, it meant they were already in the perimeter.
"Okay," sometimes the Posleen seemed to use direction finding, so it made sense. "Well, the first time we get in touch with higher, which will be soon, I want you to file a full report for me. Include that little tidbit. Now about the sewer lines?"
"There are no major sewer lines. There are toxic chemical dumping lines, but I discommend using them; over time they could damage your armor."
"Well then, how are we getting out?" asked O'Neal, puzzled. Michelle had clearly indicated that she had a plan.
"Through the water mains," said the AID.
"The system is sealed. If we break the seal we squirt out like grapes and getting back in will be a pain. Can we shut the water down?" he asked. Mike studied the schematic of the water system. The water flowed in from the ocean through processing plants along the shore. There plankton and minerals were separated from the water to be refined for further use and the purified water was pumped to the megalopolis. Although most of the products necessary for life were recycled within the megalopolis, significant quantities of water were lost in direct evaporation, thus the need for a tremendous resupply system. The tunnels flowed throughout the megalopolis, crossing and cross connecting into a continuous network.
"We cannot shut down the flow," answered the AID, taking the questions back to front. "The Posleen have gained control of the majority of the pumping systems between here and the sea and are in the process of installing their own hardware and software controls. In addition, even if we shut down the pumping stations, we would be faced with reverse flows from the various megascrapers."
"So how do we get through the obstacle?"
"I don't currently have a plan," admitted the AID, chastened.
"Well, neither do I. Cross that bridge when we come to it."
Duncan rubbed the sides of his helmet. The external oxygen monitor indicated that there was just enough O2 for humans in the tunnel, but the platoon or so of troops would use it up rapidly if they took off their helmets. Which sucked, cause he really wanted a Marlboro.
"Gimme Sergeant Green," he said to his AID and looked at the new lieutenant. O'Neal looked like a fucking spastic, his fingers flicking in front of his armor. It was the same guy from Division; he had been around the battalion in the last month or so as they suddenly went into frantic training overdrive. It was stupid. There was no way the battalion was going to get ready in less than two months after pissing away all that other time on the ship; it was just window dressing. On the other hand, the training that Wiznowski had been bootlegging had really helped. He wished that someone had forced the colonel to listen to him; Wiz really knew his shit.
"What's O'Neal lookin' at?" he asked. He had found that all the AIDs were linked and sometimes he could peek in on what someone was doing with their system.
"I cannot access his system," the AID answered.
"What about Sergeant Green?" asked Duncan, kicking some of the rubble on the floor, the plasteel chips skittering away in the suit lights to flip off the jagged end of the tunnel.
"He is in conversation with Sergeant Wiznowski."
"Try to break in." He felt confident that they would let him in. During the trip his had been one of the first squads to be included in Wiznowski's secret training sessions and they had developed a good rapport.
"Yes, Duncan," Green asked, tiredly. The NCO's attitude had come around, but he was still an occasional pain in the ass.
"We got any word?" he asked. He could see the two NCOs at the other end of the tunnel. They were examining the blockage there, a trickle of water shining silver at their feet in the suit lights.
"Some, I was just talking to Wiznowski about that. The lieutenant says we're gonna get out of here through the water main. We need to break the troops down into squads. I want you to take seven, Bittan and Sanborn from your squad, and an engineer. I'm gonna give Brecker his own squad."
The names of the troops flashed up and the suits of the troopers scattered through the tunnel were highlighted. Duncan tapped one of the names and data began to cascade across his vision.
"Okay, can do. I got one question: does that fucker," he flipped a laser designator at the lieutenant, "have any idea what the hell to do, or are we gonna have to frag his ass?" The last was meant jokingly but came out harsh as the reality of the situation hit again. They were trapped under a hundred meters of fucking rubble and the surface was a hell of Posleen. Basically, they were fucked. And the officer appointed over them was a total unknown to everyone in the battalion.
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!"