Unknown - The_Growing_589064

Live with it, asshole. If you want Lakota allies, accept Lakota customs. Koda sips at her coffee and winks slyly the next time Grueneman, H. allows his eyes to wander to her and her brother.

The Major averts his gaze instantly, and Koda turns her attention back to Maggie Allen. The Colonel stands at the front of the room, marking the positions of enemy units on a holographic topo map. Its contours are dotted with small red laser x’s that show a clear pattern of convergence upon Ellsworth, troops grinding south from Minot, north from Warren and Offut. A scattering of green circles represents possible disposition of Ellsworth’s own assets, mostly ground and mechanical forces with a couple squadrons of Black Hawks and Apaches to back them up from the air.

“That’s an extremely conservative strategy, Colonel,” Hart observes. “We do have an operational fighter squadron. Counting Lieutenant Rivers and yourself, we have a good dozen pilots. Why not simply bomb these columns?”

Maggie turns from rearranging red and green marks on the screen to answer the Base commander. “It is conservative, General. ‘Conservative’ as in preserving our assets. I would prefer to hold our air power back to use as a last resort.”

‘What aircraft do the droids have, Colonel?” Kirsten’s question is quiet, but it draws the immediate attention of the entire assembly. “It’s my understanding that they have no fighters and no air transport. And they would have no one to fly them if they did.” Her attention shifts, then, and her green eyes flash, for an instant feral as a hunting cat’s. “I can tell you for certain, General, that no military droids were ever programmed to operate aircraft or airborne weapons systems. I fought your own Air Force Chief of Staff over that in the House Armed Services Committee.

“I won.”

“All the more reason to take advantage of –well, our advantage.” Grueneman, H. has found his voice. “There is a limited time remaining in which we can expect our satellite-guided systems to continue to function. We might as well make use of them while we can.”

“What about outlying civilian communities?” asks Lorena, the redheaded Ms. Tilbury-Laduque. “The jets are the only way help can reach them in time if they’re attacked.”

“Risk them—waste the ammo—waste the fuel—and they’ll be entirely on their own.,” her partner adds.

“Ma’am, we’re at war,” says Hart. “Under these circumstances, the armed forces’ first duty is to preserve itself and the government.”

“No1” Kirsten is on her feet, hands flat on the surface of the table. Her mouth is straight and tight,; the effort the other woman is making to keep her voice even is almost palpable. “Don’t you understand? There is no government at the moment. By itself Ellsworth”—a wave of her hand encompasses the base—“is not a viable unit. The population is skewed in half a dozen ways that mean it can’t survive except as part of a wider social spectrum. Protecting those outlying communities has to be our first priority, not our last.”

“I agree with Dr. King, General,” Maggie says quietly. “Let’s use our planes if we need them, but only if we can’t get the job done otherwise. The droids do have SAMs; we don’t’ want to risk a shoot-down unnecessarily.”

“All right.” Hart leans back in his chair, stretching his legs under the table. “Let’s game it out without the air cover.”

Maggie turns once again to the holoboard. “We have enemy units coming in here, here, here.” She highlights the red X’s with a pointer. “From what we’ve picked up from their communications and can guess by the routes they’re taking, they’ll converge in force here—in the foothills just north and east of the base.”

“They’ll have to cross the Elk Creek branch of the Cheyenne,” Tacoma observes. “There’s only one bridge.”

Maggie flashes him a grin. “There’s only one bridge. We split our forces. One party waits for them here, on the south bank. The land is rough, with plenty of cover, including some wooded areas. The other party—“ she pauses, a good teacher waiting for her students to supply the answer.

“The other party,” Koda answers slowly, “gets into position behind them before they arrive. We squeeze them between the two forces and the river. Dr. King can monitor the androids’ communications. Manny and Tacoma and I can relay the information without worrying about interception.”

“Classic pincer,” observes Grueneman.

“Not quite,” Manny counters. “When do we blow the bridge?”

“On my order, Lieutenant,” says Hart. He gives Allen a nod and a complacent smile. “It’s a good plan, Colonel, assuming we can get by without committing our air superiority.”

An awkward silence falls in the room. Kirsten breaks it. “You mean to command the operation personally, General?”

‘Why, yes.”

“After your brilliant success at Minot?” she spits. “General, your leadership is what got us where we are now.”

It seems to Koda that the temperature in the room drops a good ten degrees. The silence that follows is glacial. The muscles around Tacoma’s mouth twitch almost imperceptibly; Lorena Tilbury-Laduque coughs sharply and covers the lower half of her face with a well-faded bandana. Without sound, Manny’s lips form the words, “Holy Ina Maka, Mother of God.”

The quiet stretches out interminably. Finally, Hart draws a long breath and says quietly. “Very well, Dr. King. Allow me to recommend Lt. Colonel Frank Maiewski.”

Maiewski, Koda notes, is the one pilot. He turns an unattractive shade of fuschia, bright pink scalp showing through thinning hair. “General, thank you, but I don’t believe—“

“Colonel Allen has rank,” Kirsten observes quietly.

“And experience,” adds Manny. “We spent the first week after the uprising fighting these things out in the countryside.”

The General’s mouth curves upward in an expression that stiffens Koda’s spine and sets off alarms all along her nerves. That’s how a snake would look if it could smile. Beside her, Tacoma has picked up on it, too; he turns to stare straight at Hart. His fingers, spread flat on the table, twitch as if trying to form themselves into fists. But Hart says only, “Colonel? Are you up to the job?”

Maggie’s own face has gone grey. But her voice is steady when she answers. “I will be happy to accept whatever assignment you or Dr. King gives me , Sir.”

“All right. You’re in command of this operation. Just be sure of your targets this time.” Hart pushes out his chair and rises. “Half hour break.”

The Colonel remains standing by the holo screen as the other officers and civilians file out. Koda is the last to go; just short of the door, though, Maggie calls her back. “Dakota.”

Koda stops and shuts the door. Her voice is soft. “What’s wrong?”

“Hart.” Maggie lays down her pointer, making an oddly pleading gesture toward the General’s now empty seat. “There’s something you need to know.”

Be sure of your targets. It had been a threat. Missed targets. With a sudden sense of conviction, Koda knows what Maggie is about to say. Damn the bastard.

Aloud she says, “No. There’s nothing I need to know.”

“Yes, there is. Dr. King needs to know, too.”

Koda speaks levelly, acknowledging what she knows is coming, denying nothing. “You hit the wrong target once.”

“Oh, not just the wrong target.” Maggie crosses the room and opens a pair of the grey-on-grey curtains. Thin grey light shines in, muted by cloud cover and dirty snow. “I hit the wrongest target there is.”

”Civilians?”

“A village in the Panjir. Farmers and goatherders. Old women. Kids.” Her voice hardens. “Half a dozen five-hundred pounders right on top of them. No goddamned excuse at all.”