Major Steuben pulled himself up on a block of masonry and wiped the blood from his mouth. The ringing in his ears seemed permanent but he was alive, something on which he would not have taken odds at any point in the last twenty-four hours. Total hearing loss seemed at the moment a small price to pay. He tried to stand but a wave of dizziness overcame him and he sat back down. It was then that he saw the first squad of MI bounce forward and spit silver fire downrange. The crash of the kinetic energy weapons was a dull ringing in his ears, but it was the first sound he had heard since the explosions.
He remembered the flame from the illusory dragon wiping the attacking God King out of the air like swatting a fly. That sight was a bucket of cold water to his sanity and he dove off the masonry mound, scooping up the G-3 in passing, and headed to one of the hasty bunkers the grenadiers had cobbled together. He needed to get to communications now that it seemed the unit might miraculously survive. Before he could reach it he was blocked by a Leopard panzer snuffling forward, scenting Posleen blood in the water. The blast from its main gun was an assault on his ears and he despaired for a moment of regaining any control in this mad and chaotic world.
He ducked behind a shattered wall support and poked his rifle around the corner. The scene beyond was shocking even given the horror of the past few days. He was slightly elevated so he could see the holographic dragon heads pouring fire into the massed Posleen on the division's seaward flank. The Posleen were unable to maneuver or flee, trapped by the inertia of bodies, and they were now being blasted apart like a clay cliff before a fire hose; bits and pieces flew into the air under the concentrated hammer of the dragon's breath. When the pile had grown so large as to be an impediment, the lower heads leapt up and forward over the mound of bodies, first half the heads, then the other half, the streams of fire never stopping, even in midair. As the second set of heads landed the single lifted head dropped to the ground and a group of small, round objects flew upward and outward from them.
It took a moment to think about what those might be. Major Steuben had been briefed, a thousand years ago on Earth, about the capabilities of the Fleet armored combat suits. He watched the harmless looking, relatively tiny little balls drift lazily upward then begin to drift down. He suddenly turned sheet white, screamed "INCOMING!" and dove backwards with his hands over his ears.
Now he pulled himself to his feet again, determined to force his recalcitrant body to bend to his will, and stumbled out into the street. As the second group of MI bounded forward he lurched directly in front of one of the flankers, an NCO by the stripes on his shoulder. Steuben hoped the sergeant would be able to see him. There was no apparent visor, the front of the helmet was blank, sloped gray plasteel.
"Officer!" he shouted at the trooper, pointing at his collar tabs. "I need to talk to your commander!"
The trooper's weapon never wavered from the targets downrange and continued to hammer at them. Major Steuben swatted the trooper's arm; it was as useful as punching an I-beam and nearly broke his hand. He felt he was talking to some insensate robot and wondered for a moment if there was a human in the suit.
"Eine Minute, bitte Herr Major. Der Leutnant ist hierher unterwegs," the trooper said in accentless Hochdeutsch.
"Was? Was? Ich bin ein wenig taub." Louder!
"Eine Minute bitte, Herr Major. Der Leutnant ist hierher unterwegs," the suit boomed again.
"Sind Sie Deutscher?" shouted Major Steuben, surprised; he could see the red-white-and-blue patch on the suit's shoulder clearly, despite the gouges it had taken in the day's battle.
"Nein, Herr Major, Amerikaner. Die Rüstung hat einen Übersetzer. Bitte, Herr Major, ich muss gehen." (No, Major, American. The suit has a translator. Excuse me, Major, I have to go.) The platoon bounded off leaving a short set of combat armor behind. It stumped over to the major and saluted with a clang of gauntlet to helm.
"Leutnant Michael O'Neal, Mein Herr," the suit boomed loudly. "Tut uns leid dass es so lang gedauert hat. Wir hatten unterwegs eine Störung." (Sorry we took so long. We had a spot of bother along the way.)
"Better late than never, Lieutenant. Do you need to move out with your unit? Where is your commander?"
"I'm it, sir. The rest of the battalion is either dead, buried under Qualtren or in the MLR." O'Neal suddenly had a pistol in his hand. The weapon spat a stream of fire into the darkness of the far building's lower story. There was a dwindling scream and by the time the major looked back the pistol was in its holster again. The whole action happened in less time than Steuben could have pulled a trigger.
"Well," Steuben said, shakily. "You are looking at the last of the 10th Panzer Grenadiers as well. We don't even have enough left to bury our own dead, if we could find them."
"Yes, sir," said the suit of armor, stoically. "We'll all face the reaper someday but just too damn many met him today."
"Ja. What are your orders?" asked the major. He began to blink with fatigue as the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes wore off. He felt a sudden urge to vomit, barely suppressed.
"I have verbal orders from General Houseman to relieve the units in this building and expedite getting them to the MLR, sir."
"Well, we are fairly relieved and I think that the fallen buildings will be a relief to the British, French and Americans as well," said the major, sitting down abruptly on a convenient pile of rubble. "But we are completely out of contact with them. We can't even tell them that the way out is clear."
"Well, technically it isn't, sir. We will have to fight our way to the MLR."
"Yes, but we can, now that the main bulk of Posleen have been pushed out of position. Anyway we can if we leave before they counterattack in force and that I cannot guarantee. The avenue to the west is open and we have three more buildings and two avenues to contend with on the way."
"Hold on a moment, sir. I gotta do some handling." The combat suit was immobile and featureless but something about the set of it told the major that this young, he thought young, lieutenant was as tired as he.
"We've secured the intersection, Major," Mike continued after a moment, "and are in contact with your units there. I submit that we should move up there, at least I should. We need to get this wagon train a-rollin', sir."
"Ja, verstehe." Steuben's head swiveled around and spotted the Leopard that had blocked his retreat. The commander and driver were now up out of their hatches, as the battle moved out of their sector, surveying the piles of Posleen dead. The tank commander was a lieutenant from Third Brigade with whom he was only distantly familiar. No matter. He stood up, walked over and grasped the handhold. He swayed for a moment from a head rush then planted his foot and on the second try managed to boost himself onto the front deck. He took a deep breath.
"Lieutenant," he barked, "we are going to a mobile phase. I need transportation and this sector needs to be secured, the wounded dealt with and the personnel prepared to pull out. I am taking your tank and you are taking command of this sector."
The lieutenant gulped and prepared to protest but swallowed it manfully. "Jawohl, Herr Major. I understand." With that he hopped out of the TC's seat, unbuckled his helmet, traded with the major and hopped off the panzer to begin organizing the survivors.
Major Steuben slumped into the comfortable seat gratefully as the armored womb of the Leopard enfolded him. He had come up through panzers and loved the days he had spent as a TC. He wished that was all he were now, with only the responsibility of his tank and survival. But no, greater and greater responsibility was a drug to him, something to be sought not shirked. He must face this moment as so many others had in history, as a German, and a Steuben. Head up, shoulders back and thinking.
"Driver, head up to the intersection, schnell."
When Mike reached the intersection the situation was well in hand. The street to the north was entirely blocked by the fallen megascraper to the east. The few remaining panzers with dozer blades had shoved debris into a line, and a hasty barricade of masonry now blocked access to the road east. The wall was shored with structural membranes ripped from the buildings by the MI troopers and was lined with Panzergrenadiere mingled with a squad of MI. The Posleen were in evidence in the distance, over a kilometer away, but those groups seemed to be in full retreat. Mike wished he had the forces to harry them but he could not even think about that now.
The street to the south was also blocked but a large sally opening had been left. Here the Posleen were still in evidence, as the groups between the intersection and the MLR were firing heavily in both directions. Most of the remaining platoon was here, exchanging long range fire with the Posleen. Most of the HVM fired by the Posleen were detonating in the barricade, requiring constant reinforcement but again the situation for the time being was well in hand. The MI were maintaining fire like the veterans they now were and scouts even now entering the flanking buildings were beginning to pick off the God Kings, ruining the force's command and control. Mingled with them were the snipers of the Panzergrenadiere, nearly as effective with their scope-mounted G-3 rifles.
"Sergeant Green," Mike called and the platoon sergeant moved back from the southern barricade.
"What's the breakage, Sergeant?"
"We lost Featherly and Simms, Meadows is badly injured but his suit took him under and he's stable."
"Not bad considering what we did." Still, Mike now knew that each loss would ache at him in the depths of the night. His casual approach to combat was as gone as Wiznowski. From here on out each counter on the screen was a real person and he would not forget it.
"We need to reestablish contact with the other units in the building. The Germans are out of contact with them and they say that Corp is too. Send Duncan's squad with two scouts into the building and have them find those units. We will hold here until I order us to retreat. As each unit exits the building it will temporarily reinforce the lines to cover the retreat of the other units."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll get with this Kraut major to make sure they'll hold here until we can pull the other units out. Then we'll skeedaddle, daddy-o."
"Yes, sir, good luck." Sergeant Green headed over to the barricade to pull out second squad calling for two scouts on the platoon push.
As he left a Leopard snuffled forward, its main gun questing to the east. With a crash and a burst of flame a distant saucer flipped into the air. Mike noted that the TC was the German major and hopped onto the turret. He checked his energy levels but he was still at over twenty-five percent.
"Sergeant Green, call for a general energy and ammo check. Redistribute ammunition and check on the engineers' progress. See if you can raise higher for some evac for wounded—they can come in from out to sea through the secure vector. Push some troops into the building to the south and make sure this avenue remains secure."
He tried to think if there was anything he was missing, but he was so tired. He felt his eyes start to close as he stood on the tank and knew it was time for another stim.
"Michelle, another Wake-the-Dead and then get me General Houseman."
"You are about to exceed your maximum prescribed dosage."
"Just do it," Mike snapped, driven far beyond courtesy to a machine. "Order them throughout the platoon, we're not out of the woods yet."
"Yes, sir, General Houseman is on the line."
"O'Neal? What's the situation? We've lost contact with the Tenth." The general sounded upset.
"We have relieved them at this time, sir," said Mike, tapping a command to upload the data. "And have cleared their positions of Posleen. The other flanks are covered by the fallen scrapers. We have secured the intersection and created hasty barricades with the Tenth's support. We've, we've . . . retaken the position and are attempting to contact the other units at this time. We have sustained affordable casualties in the movement and engagement. What are your orders, sir?"
"Lieutenant," the general started and then stopped to clear his throat, "you just hold on there for a bit while some of those units get out of the buildings and then come on home. Now that you're in line of fire of the MLR you can call for limited artillery support. As you retreat we'll cover the road behind you in fire. Just hold there for a bit. Can you do that?"
"Airborne, General, we'll hold on here until ordered to retreat. Could we get some evac on the wounded, sir? Aircraft should have a clear zone out to sea and they can come into the boulevard for pickup. I've got one trooper in a bad way and the grenadiers are up to their necks in wounded."
"Hell yes, son, hold on." As Mike waited he noticed that the wall of the building seemed to be pulsing in time to his heartbeat. What an odd sight, he thought. He looked up through the deep clear water at the sky above him and took a breath of the cold, dry air from the regulator. The reef around him was alive with vibrant shades of yellow and red, unusual for such a depth. But the rapture of the dive enfolded him and he ceased to analyze the situation, just let the time flow over him, spending each second as if it were eternity. Lieutenant, dustoff is on the way. O'Neal? Specialist is this radio working? Yes, sir, we've got his carrier wave, I think he's there, sir just not answering. Okay, O'Neal! Wake up!
"O'Neal! Answer me!"
"Yes, sir, sorry sir!" Mike snapped back to the bitter reality with a shock.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine, sir, couldn't be better. I'm just fine, sir. Just fine." Mike's head swiveled from side to side, trying to reacquaint himself with the situation. The lack of normal input, the feel of a breeze or the smell of the battle, made the situation even more unreal. He felt that he was sinking into an electronic simulation and tried to remember which one it was. The German major was staring at him with a blank expression.
"O'Neal!" snapped the general, sensing that the lieutenant was drifting again. "Don't you crack on me now. Get those units back here then I'll give you a break, but don't lose it in the middle of a battle. Can you get some rest?"
"I'll be fine, sir, really. All of us are a little tired. And I think I overdid the stimulants."
"You can't crack, son. If one of your troops loses it it's one thing but if the commander cracks all hell's out for noon, you of all people should realize that. Get some shut-eye if you can, even a few minutes would help."
"Yes, sir. I'll try," said Mike, taking a deep breath. The wall started pulsing again.
"Now get to work."
"Yes, sir. Work. Right. Out here, sir."
Mike knew that part of the problem was the suit, so he popped the helmet. The overwhelming stench of Posleen dead assaulted his senses and he gagged for a moment.
"Er ist eine Geruch, nicht wahr?" said the German major.
"Ja, er sind. Sorry, but without the suit closed it's hard to keep up with the translation and I don't speak much German. Do you know English?"
"Yah, I was assigned to an American Armor unit as a junior officer," the major answered with a distinct English accent. "Major Joachim Steuben, by the way, pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise, sir. I was just talking to General Houseman. If I may suggest a course of action?"
"Certainly, Leutnant."
"If you could hold here until we start getting the other units extracted. Then as units come on line we could replace your unit with the relieving unit. My platoon will cover the rear as we retreat along the boulevard. General Houseman stated that we could be covered by artillery as we pulled back to the MLR, so my platoon should be enough."
"Sounds like a good plan, Leutnant. But how are we going to fight through to the MLR?"
"Hmm, well when the first unit comes up of sufficient size, one or the other, yours or theirs, could, with my platoon, push the line through to the MLR, placing blocking forces at the intersections and patrolling the building fronts. My platoon would, I submit, remain in a mobile supporting role. Once all the units were out we would pull back with the last unit."
"I agree with this plan, Leutnant. Now, can I make a recommendation?"
"Of course, sir."
"Get some sleep. You look like death warmed over. I have told off my unit to get some rest as possible. You should do as well."
"If the major will permit the liberty," Mike chuckled, "the major doesn't seem so hot his own self."
After obviously struggling for a moment with the idiom, Major Steuben laughed. "Well, I'm going to sit in this comfortable seat for a bit and if I happen to drift off I'm not going to feel remiss. After I ensure everything is secure."
"Yes, sir, well I'm going to go make a quick check of my positions and then, if I am still for an unusually long time you can draw your own conclusions." Mike flipped the major a sketchy salute, resquelched his helmet and bounced over to the barricade.
"So, Sergeant, what's the word?" he asked Sergeant Green as the latter leaned against the rubble wall, rifle pointed downrange. The only fire was a distant hammering from inland on the MLR. It was as quiet as Mike had heard it since the first moment of contact.
"The Posleen don't seem to want to come right back, sir," answered the NCO. "They're retreating along both boulevards now and infiltrating to the east and north. They may be pulling back from the MLR as well; those units are reporting less activity. They seem to be backing far off from us; I guess we really scared the shit out of 'em.
"The engineers will be here in about five according to their last ETA. They ran into a couple of Posleen, but nothing the team couldn't take care of. Second squad is in contact with the Frogs and they're moving back. There's a French general still in command but the unit apparently is down to about a brigade. I passed on the plan for them to relieve the Germans and they're okay with that.
"Duncan is trying to find a senior officer of the British right now. He reports that the Brits are pretty much trashed. They're having to clear out a lot of Posleen in the Brit sector that got through. Still no word on the American unit, Williams is out looking for them."
"By himself?"
"Yes, sir. He should be fine, he's slick as a cat. When he finds the Americans he'll contact us. He thinks maybe they're in better shape than the Brits 'cause there's less Posleen in the area."
"Right, well, fine then. Do you put a medal on him or court-martial 'im? Fine, great, fine, let him write his own damn letter."
"Sir?"
"What?"
"You're babbling," said the sergeant. "Can I make a suggestion?" he continued, diffidently.
"I know, get some rest. That's what everybody is saying. The general, the major, the sergeant. Before you know it the fuckin' privates are gonna be coming up. 'Lieutenant O'Neal, you need to get some rest,' " he concluded in an annoying little kid's voice.
"Yes, sir, we should be able to get you up in time if anything happens. Let's go siddown over by the wall, sir." The platoon sergeant turned the lieutenant with a tactful hand on his shoulder and led him to a block of masonry along the wall. There he pushed him to a sitting position and patted him on the shoulder. "Just catch a quick nap, sir."
He had long experience of the stresses of leadership. A private just has to do his duty, follow the flow. He can often rest standing up or walking, his senses on alert but otherwise checked out. The leaders have to constantly be thinking, feeling, paying attention. They have to be running around and motivating. It eats them up and the higher on the chain the harder it is. But junior leaders rarely conserve themselves and burn out faster. Eventually they learn. Or they don't and find an easier profession.
"Okay, Sar'nt, okay. Oh, put the platoon on thirty percent stand down and, and, umm . . ." Mike trailed off. He knew he had forgotten something but it just wouldn't come.
"Yes, sir, we'll take care of it." Sergeant Green stood by the officer until he was sure he had gone to sleep, the depletion of the constant strain of command as sure as any drug. "AID, is he asleep?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Okay, leadership push. Squad leaders, put your troops on thirty percent stand down, one third on guard, the other two out, and I want you O-U-T, asleep, not playing fuckin' spades! Sorry second, we'll let you get some sleep when you get back. Scouts, divvy it up between you. First and third squad leaders, turn it over to your Alpha team leader and rest dammit! AIDs, administer Wake-the-Dead antidote and if the sleepers don't, report it to me. And tell your people to continue to prepare these positions, this can't last. Thirty minutes rest only then rotate. Any questions?"
"When do we get to pull out?" asked Sergeant Brecker.
"When the LT says so, anything else?" There were no further questions. Sergeant Green looked around trying, like his commander, to decide if there was anything undone. He considered telling the Kraut major what the situation was but the officer in question was oblivious, head cradled on the TC hatch and asleep. There were no Posleen in view on either boulevard, the occasional straggler marked by the hammer of a machine gun or grav gun, depending on whose reflexes were faster. He shrugged his shoulders and decided to take a walk around the perimeter.
Shortly after that the engineers got back, full of stories of their adventures and set up a charging station. Sergeant Green took the precedence of rank and then had the scouts come in one by one and recharge. There were four charging stations so he figured they would be able to fully recharge in about an hour. He ordered the engineers to set up a shunt and start charging the suits of the personnel who were asleep. Starting with the lieutenant.
As the first turnover of rest groups was occurring an FX-25 French Main Battle tank nosed out of the rubble of the human-occupied building, turned and sped to the intersection, grinding the Posleen pulp on the street to a finer slurry. Sergeant Green bounced over to it and waved for it to stop. A bare-headed captain occupied the TC hatch of the vehicle which had a long deep scar runneled down the left side. The captain bore a large bandage on the same side of his face. Sergeant Green thought there was probably a good story there. He saluted.
"Sergeant First Class Alonisus Green, 82nd Airborne Division, Monsieur Kapitan. I take it you're the first French unit?"
"Captain Francis Alloins, Sergeant, Deuxième Division Blindèe," the captain responded and saluted with panache. "Enchantè. Yes, we're the first. We have many wounded, do we have to fight them out?"
"Well, sir—" Green's AID overrode the conversation with an incoming transmission.
"ACS 325th, ACS 325th, this is Medevac Flight 481, we need to know where to land."
"Medevac is inbound, sir," said the sergeant, gratefully. "You can take your wounded down to the water. If you could detach a unit to handle the medevac I'd appreciate it, we're really shorthanded." Sergeant Green switched from external to the medevac frequency and started coaching in the birds.
"Certainement," agreed the captain, unaware that he had already been effectively dismissed by the NCO. "Pardon." He picked up his radio and barked rapid orders into the handset. As he did more FX-25s poked out onto the street, followed by APCs and support vehicles. A cavalry scout vehicle pounded down the boulevard and slid to a stop opposite the tank.
A tall and gangling general in camouflage descended from the scout vehicle, looked around and hitched his belt into a better position. He was immediately followed by a squad of heavily-armed infantry who spread out to cover him. The captain jerked to attention and threw a parade ground salute. Sergeant Green, nettled, clanged a gauntlet into his helmet and left it at that.
"Bonjour, Sergeant, bonjour! I must say that I am extremely pleased to make your acquaintance," the general said, returning the salutes and then taking the sergeant's gauntlet into his hand and pumping it strenuously. "There were any number of times I was sure that I would not. And good day, Captain Alloins! Fancy meeting you here! How was the ride?"
"Simple enough, with the flanks secured for once, mon General," the captain said with a smile. He gestured grandly towards the suit of armor. "General Jean-Phillipe Crenaus, may I introduce to you Sergeant Alonisus Green of Confederation Fleet Strike."
"Yes, yes, I have already been apprised of Sergeant Green," said the general. "And where is the indomitable Lieutenant O'Neal?"
Sergeant Green wrinkled his eyebrows, an expression impossible to see beyond the blank mask of his helmet. Where had the general heard of Lieutenant O'Neal? "He's taking a nap, sir. He's wiped out."
"I'm sorry to hear that," the general boomed. "Sergeant Duncan assured me that he was made solely of steel and good quality rubber! It seems beyond the pale that he could require such a mundane thing as rest!"
Sergeant Green was beginning to realize that the general was one of those people that could only talk in exclamation points. Then he noticed the solemnity of his eyes and remembered that this was the general who had preserved his unit far more than any other in the battle. That spoke volumes for his ability. "Well, sir, sorry. But the LT is as human as you or I. Did Sergeant Duncan pass on the battle plan? And do you approve?"
"Yes," said the general. He looked around at the windrows of bodies with a mildly pleased expression then kicked a Posleen forearm out from under foot.
"I agree with one exception. I believe that I have the largest cohesive unit left. I insist that Deuxième Blindèe should hold the intersection until the other units are past, although I agree that your ACS unit should maintain the final retreat. It is uniquely suited for it since it can, in extremis, exit through the buildings or for that matter over them." He smiled again at his little joke.
"Major?" asked the sergeant, tiredly, wrinkling his brow again.
"Fine by me," said the panzer major, "we're down to a short battalion after that last push by the Posleen."
"Excellent!" exclaimed the general, rubbing his hands together. Sergeant Green could not believe he had so much energy. "We can begin the relief within fifteen minutes. My unit will form up on the boulevard. We will continue to send the wounded to the seaward side to be evacuated by air. Sergeant, since you are the only one with effective communications, please ask your personnel to pass on the word to the other units to move the wounded forward as fast as possible."
Sergeant Green passed on the word and watched in bemusement as the intersection was rapidly and effectively invested by the French forces. The perimeter was pushed farther out and the rubble walls reinforced.
The exhausted ACS and panzers thankfully turned over their positions and dropped back to assembly areas. Soon, a continuous stream of medical choppers was shuttling to the seaside ramp, now cleared of Posleen by the simple expedient of dozering them into the sea. Sergeant Green told off first and fourth squads to help the Germans drive to the MLR.
The French general had decided he had enough troops to hold the intersections as well, so all the Germans had to do was reach safety. Sergeant Green monitored the nets as the reduced division organized itself and moved out. Within forty minutes after the first French XF-25 had appeared, all the Germans in the perimeter, the wounded, the hale and the dead were gone, by tank, truck, foot or helicopter and Sergeant Green decided it was time to trade places with his commander.