Out of the Black (Odyssey One, Book 4) (29 page)

Eric paused, half turning back, then walked over to Curran’s tank. He reached out and touched one of the transmitters, making a close proximity connection, and Curran watched as someone took over his computer for a moment.

Well, he’s got to be at least a flag officer if he’s got my codes
. . .

A moment later the board lit up, now showing more than forty new IFF signals on top of his position, and several more coming up from behind them.

“There,” Eric said, “you now have access to the
Odyssey
’s codes. You’ll see what we see.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Eric nodded, then turned and gestured to the other armored figures before bounding off in a roughly northerly direction. One by one and in groups the others followed, leaving Curran and the rest of his platoon alone.

“Alright, we’re moving out in five!” he called. “First I want to check our fallen. Do whatever you need to do now because once we’re moving, we ain’t stopping!”

With that he popped the hatch of his tank and pulled himself out, intent on checking for any survivors from the two tanks he’d lost. The bodies would have to wait, but if there was anyone breathing, now was the only time they’d have.

NATIONAL GUARD HQ,
INTREPID
SEA, AIR, & SPACE MUSEUM

“SIGNALS FROM SEVENTH Platoon, sir. Enemy destroyed and they are proceeding to back up the Ninth.”

Potts grumbled, but for once it wasn’t an annoyed sound.

“Good. Any word on the unknown IFF signals?”

“Major Curran says that they’re a team off the
Odyssey,
led by Weston, General.”

Potts frowned deeply, considering that. It both made sense and yet didn’t. He walked over to his own station, calling up files as quickly as he could. The new IFF signals were certainly consistent with what a team from the
Odyssey
would be using, but unless he was misremembering . . .

There it is
. Potts glared at the memo he’d pulled up.
According to reports, Weston was the only man on that ship when she went down. So who the hell did he put in those suits?

“Do we have the codes yet for the contingent from the
Odyssey
?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Yes sir. Not from Command, General. Captain Weston gave them to Major Curran directly.”

Potts grunted. “Good man. Bring them up.”

The map of the battlefield, of New York City, was a confused mess and that was being kind. The impact explosions of the Drasins’ insertion vehicles had toppled skyscrapers and blown craters into the very foundation of the city itself. Those were ugly scars on the computer display Potts was now looking at, scars that he doubted would ever be healed.

His own platoons and squadrons were represented by blue division patches, and they were now arrayed around the city with fairly deep penetration despite the traffic issues. The new icons, also blue, were of the
Odyssey
’s own patch, a starship against a starry background, eclipsing a planet and its moon.

There were several dozen of those signals, moving north as he watched, heading for where the Ninth Platoon was embroiled in a nasty firefight and had lost three of their number already. Potts gritted his teeth, but didn’t see many options open to him.

“Give me a direct link to the commander of Ninth Platoon.”

“Yes sir.”

Potts leaned forward, eyes on the map. “Major, this is General Potts. You have reinforcements inbound from your six. Hold the line son, help is coming. When they arrive, Captain Weston has tactical command. Do you understand?”

When the major acknowledged, Potts cut the channel and nodded to his aide.

“Send them the IFF codes for the
Odyssey
contingent.”

“Yes sir.”

Running rooftop to rooftop was tricky business, even in full enhancing armor, but in a city like New York it also permitted
a course almost straight as the crow flies, one that would cut entire seconds, perhaps even a full minute, off their travel time. For anyone looking from below, or above, the sight of forty-plus armored men and women running full tilt across the roof of the city had to be surreal.

Eric had a full overlay up, which made the maneuvering even harder, but he had little choice. He needed a plan of attack before they got there, and with only seconds to put it together he had to lean on every skill and trick he’d ever picked up in multitasking.

“We’re going to hit them hard and fast,” he ordered. “The Guardie armored platoon has already lost three tanks and as many as nine men, and they’ve only taken out one of the Drasin drones. First squad, you’re with me. We’ll take them from ground level. Everyone else is to deploy across the rooftops according to Commander Granger’s orders. Watch your lines of fire. I’ll be
very
irritated if I die because one of you mistook me for an alien.”

There were some mild chuckles over the channel at the idea of mistaking a human, even in full armor, for one of those things, but the undercurrent was as serious as he could hope for.

Eric was feeling the strain on his body. Enhancing armor was designed to take up a lot of the stresses and energy requirements of combat, but only if you knew it well enough not to fight it. Eric knew that he was, indeed, fighting his armor on some levels. The strain in his legs and arms was enough evidence of that.

More to the point, however, he’d never actually led men into combat on this level. It was—it felt—so very different than taking the Double A squadron into a furball, and his
guts were clenching almost like the first time he’d been given command of a fighter group.

Then the time for worries, stresses, and any thoughts but those of survival and comrades was over. Eric, leading his five-man team, dropped from the rooftops right on top of the beleaguered Guardsmen’s tanks and leveled their own weapons at the snarling and hissing alien drones.

He stroked the firing stud on the Priminae gravity weapon, and with a sharp crack of depleted uranium destroying the sound barrier, the fight was on.

CHAPTER NINE

Under 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

“MR. PRESIDENT, I’M not sure that you understand the ramifications of what you’re asking.”