When the Devil Dances

Gunnery Sergeant Ernest Pappas, late of the United States Marine Corps, knew that knights in armor had been nothing more than murdering bastards on horseback. And Ernie knew that what you did was survive. Just survive. And maybe you managed to stop the enemy and maybe you didn’t. But as long as you survived to cause them grief that was good enough.

But Gunny Pappas knew that wasn’t what got the boys to get up and shoot. The boys got up to shoot from the shining vision and because they believed with Ironman O’Neal beside them there was no way they could lose. Because that was how it should be.

Pappas looked down at the smoke and flames drifting off the rubble of the city and sighed. This sure as hell wasn’t how it should be. And if Captain Karen Slight tried to carry the battalion into that fire they would evaporate like water on a griddle. Because they wouldn’t believe.

“Major?” he said, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“Ernie,” the major answered. They had been together since O’Neal had taken command of Bravo back in the bad days when it seemed like the entire Army had lost its mind. They’d been through the ups and the downs, mostly downs. Whether they knew it or not it was the team of Pappas and O’Neal that defined the 1^st/555^th and made it what it was.

“That was a long goddamned climb you just forced on an old man.”

“Great view, though. Don’t you think?” Mike smiled sadly and carefully spit into his helmet where the biotic underlayer picked up the spittle and tobacco juice and started it on its long trail back to being rations.

Pappas glanced at the pistol and winced. “You need to quit listening to Dire Straits.”

“What? You’d prefer James Taylor?”

“We’ve got a situation.”

“Yep.” Mike sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Don’t we always.”

“The 14^th Division high-tailed it.” The battalion sergeant major took his own helmet off and shielded his eyes. “They’re halfway to Buffalo by now.”

“What else is new?” O’Neal intoned. “Nice artillery fire, though. Not hitting anything, but very pretty.”

“Corps arty. I doubt they’ll stick around much longer. The whole corps is thinking the ‘bugout boogie’ by now.”

“Ten Thousand plugging the gap?”

“Yep.”

“Yep.”

There was a long silence while the sergeant major scratched at his scalp. The biotic underlayer of the suits had finally fixed his perennial dandruff but the habit lingered on long after the end of the problem.

“So, we gonna do anything about it, boss?”

“Do what?” the battalion commander asked. “Charge heroically into the enemy, driving him back by force of arms? ‘Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage’? Break the back of the enemy attack and drive them into rout? Retake positions lost for months? Drive them all the way back to Westbury and Clyde where they are supposed to be?”

“Is that what you’re planning?” Pappas asked.

“I’m not planning anything!” Mike answered shortly. “But I suppose that is what Jack is expecting. I notice he turned up.”

“It’s how you know it’s serious,” Pappas joked. “If CONARC turns up the shit has truly hit the fan.”

“I also notice that there are no artillery units responsive to calls for fire.”

“They’re working on that.”

“And that both flanking divisions are defined by Shelly as ‘shaky.’ ”

“Well, they’re Army, ain’t they?” the former Marine chuckled. “Army’s always defined as ‘shaky.’ It’s the default setting.”

Artillery fire dropped on the rickety pontoon bridge and the wood and aluminum structure disintegrated.

“See?” said O’Neal. “They didn’t really need us.”

“Horner wants a counterattack.”

O’Neal turned around to see if the sergeant major was joking but the broad, sallow face was deadpanned. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. I thought that was what you was bitching about.”

“Holy shit,” the major whispered. He reached down and put on his helmet then shook his head to get a good seal on the underlayer. The gel flowed over his face filling every available crevice then drew back from mouth, nostrils and eyes. The Moment, as it was known, took a long time to get over and a lifetime to adjust to. “Holy shit. Counterattack. Grand. With Slight in command I presume? Great. Time to go pile up the breach with our ACS dead.”

“Smile when you say that, sir,” the NCO said, putting on his own helmet. “Once more into the breach.”

“That’s ‘unto,’ you illiterate Samoan, and I am smiling,” O’Neal retorted. He rotated his body sideways, turning the snarling face of his battle armor towards the sergeant major. “See?”

* * *

“Gotta love his armor,” Cutprice chuckled.

“I wish I had a thousand sets,” Horner admitted. “But I’d settle for a thousand regular sets so that’s not saying much.”