those who had already slapped themselves face-down on the earth, and those who were running as fast as they could go.
Overhead, dozens of drones swooped and curled in dogfights: The Navy interceptors were up again. A flaming drone fell seaward, exploding halfway to the surface. Cavanaugh wasn’t sure which side it belonged to.
Nothing he could do about the duel in the sky. But the continuing explosions on the beach made him feel the weight of his gear again and the burden of too little sleep. He trotted on toward the line of his battalion’s vehicles and saw Jake Walker and the sergeant major waving their arms, berserk with urgency, as they guided the ancient Bradleys off the road into a herringbone formation.
I
should’ve done that, Cavanaugh thought. An hour ago. Jesus Christ. I am screwing this up worse than a lockjaw epidemic at a cocksucker’s convention.
He banged on the side of the nearest Bradley, then smacked the driver’s helmet to get his attention. Behind his goggles, the specialist’s eyes looked paralyzed by shock.
First time under fire.
“Go! Go!
Go!
” Cavanaugh pointed to the left, into the bit of open space by the roadside.
After a five-second eternity, the driver jerked the big vehicle into motion. The engine was one of the new “miniaturized” power-packs, but the adjective exaggerated. The Bradley still snorted and belched like an angry bull.
The driver oversteered, and Cavanaugh had to leap out of the way. He moved on to the next track, but realized, on time-delay, that he had not heard any further explosions and that the ground fire had dwindled to intermittent bursts.
The attack was over. Cavanaugh looked back down along the beach. The ammo fire was still cooking, but the noise had fallen to popcorn level. Offshore, a GAB burned, flames toasting the sky. Small figures ran madly across the deck.
It wasn’t one of his GABs. His battalion was still intact. Some other commander would report the loss and figure out how to reorganize his unit. Cavanaugh knew he shouldn’t feel good on that count, since they were all in this together. But he
did
feel good. In a crummy sort of way he doubted he’d ever explain to another human being. Now that Mary Margaret had become the colonel’s lady, instead of Rosie O’Grady.
The loss, the shock of betrayal, still had the power to twist his stomach after more than two years.
Betrayal
. The most shit-rotten word in the English language.
He took off his helmet and ran a palm over the stubble that passed for hair. Combat trim. Like a worn-down toothbrush. Overhead, the sky was clean and clear and impossibly blue. Under other circumstances, he thought wryly, it might’ve been a nice day at the beach.
As he looked up the road that led onto Mt. Carmel, Cavanaugh saw vehicles inching forward.
All
right
, he thought. Let’s move ’em out.
He turned back to the labor of command.
MT. CARMEL
Harris marched along the shaded path that traced the military crest. He still felt queasy from the helicopter’s outlaw maneuvers on the flight up. To avoid any prowling drones, the pilot had taken them on a tree-clipping ride through a succession of ravines, popping over intervening ridges and dropping again until it seemed they’d smash into the boulders that flanked the seasonal streams. They had swooped over a site where a vehicle accident and the debris of an attack had blocked the road at a hairpin turn, holding up one of his brigades. There had been no spot level enough to set down the light helicopter, and Harris was glad of it now. He would only have beenin the way. But it was hard not to go hands-on when you saw your war machines backed up all the way to the beachhead, burning fuel and serving as perfect targets.
One of his 155mm batteries fired from a meadow behind and below the path, close enough to send shock waves through the air. Sending the guns forward had been the right thing to do, even though it played hell with the landing
Overhead, dozens of drones swooped and curled in dogfights: The Navy interceptors were up again. A flaming drone fell seaward, exploding halfway to the surface. Cavanaugh wasn’t sure which side it belonged to.
Nothing he could do about the duel in the sky. But the continuing explosions on the beach made him feel the weight of his gear again and the burden of too little sleep. He trotted on toward the line of his battalion’s vehicles and saw Jake Walker and the sergeant major waving their arms, berserk with urgency, as they guided the ancient Bradleys off the road into a herringbone formation.
I
should’ve done that, Cavanaugh thought. An hour ago. Jesus Christ. I am screwing this up worse than a lockjaw epidemic at a cocksucker’s convention.
He banged on the side of the nearest Bradley, then smacked the driver’s helmet to get his attention. Behind his goggles, the specialist’s eyes looked paralyzed by shock.
First time under fire.
“Go! Go!
Go!
” Cavanaugh pointed to the left, into the bit of open space by the roadside.
After a five-second eternity, the driver jerked the big vehicle into motion. The engine was one of the new “miniaturized” power-packs, but the adjective exaggerated. The Bradley still snorted and belched like an angry bull.
The driver oversteered, and Cavanaugh had to leap out of the way. He moved on to the next track, but realized, on time-delay, that he had not heard any further explosions and that the ground fire had dwindled to intermittent bursts.
The attack was over. Cavanaugh looked back down along the beach. The ammo fire was still cooking, but the noise had fallen to popcorn level. Offshore, a GAB burned, flames toasting the sky. Small figures ran madly across the deck.
It wasn’t one of his GABs. His battalion was still intact. Some other commander would report the loss and figure out how to reorganize his unit. Cavanaugh knew he shouldn’t feel good on that count, since they were all in this together. But he
did
feel good. In a crummy sort of way he doubted he’d ever explain to another human being. Now that Mary Margaret had become the colonel’s lady, instead of Rosie O’Grady.
The loss, the shock of betrayal, still had the power to twist his stomach after more than two years.
Betrayal
. The most shit-rotten word in the English language.
He took off his helmet and ran a palm over the stubble that passed for hair. Combat trim. Like a worn-down toothbrush. Overhead, the sky was clean and clear and impossibly blue. Under other circumstances, he thought wryly, it might’ve been a nice day at the beach.
As he looked up the road that led onto Mt. Carmel, Cavanaugh saw vehicles inching forward.
All
right
, he thought. Let’s move ’em out.
He turned back to the labor of command.
MT. CARMEL
Harris marched along the shaded path that traced the military crest. He still felt queasy from the helicopter’s outlaw maneuvers on the flight up. To avoid any prowling drones, the pilot had taken them on a tree-clipping ride through a succession of ravines, popping over intervening ridges and dropping again until it seemed they’d smash into the boulders that flanked the seasonal streams. They had swooped over a site where a vehicle accident and the debris of an attack had blocked the road at a hairpin turn, holding up one of his brigades. There had been no spot level enough to set down the light helicopter, and Harris was glad of it now. He would only have beenin the way. But it was hard not to go hands-on when you saw your war machines backed up all the way to the beachhead, burning fuel and serving as perfect targets.
One of his 155mm batteries fired from a meadow behind and below the path, close enough to send shock waves through the air. Sending the guns forward had been the right thing to do, even though it played hell with the landing
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