No question, it was time for a break.

"Morning, Mike," said the general.

"You will note that it is Tuesday," the major said, standing up. "And while we are not in Syracuse that is not our fault; I was informed that to go further would be 'logistically insupportable.' Thanks for the armor support, by the way."

"It's okay," said Horner. "We got back Savannah. And, believe it or not, there are no problems anywhere in the Eastern U.S. As a matter of fact, the worst I have to worry about is a globe in Georgia that's not acting the way it should."

The ACS commander turned around and looked up at the much taller general. "So you're telling me we're going west."

"Nope," said the Continental Army Commander. "You're not going anywhere. Except back to Buffalo for at least a week of R&R."

Mike frowned. "Harrisburg?"

"The assault got beaten off. And we managed to slip in a resupply of critical parts so they're back in full form."

"Roanoke?"

"The 22nd Cavalry retook the forward positions. And the Posleen look like they're licking their wounds. Actually, they'd better be 'cause General Abrahamson boxed 'em in and pounded them into scraps. He couldn't get a good count, but it looked like over two million lost there. Better than Richmond."

"Chattanooga?"

"Hasn't been a probe in a couple of months."

O'Neal tugged at the collar of his armor and worked his neck around nervously. "California?"

"There hasn't been any activity in weeks," Horner sighed. "Mike, you need to take a break. You're propping your feet on dead Posleen and screaming 'eat me' at my corps commanders."

"You heard about that, huh?" the major asked without chagrin. "He deserved it, though. We'd been ready to move out for two hours when his first unit showed up."

"Probably," Horner admitted. "But you still need a break. There's not enough time for you to go see Cally, though. Is that okay?"

"Yeah," said the ACS commander looking around as if awakening from sleep. "I just . . . I don't know what to do, Jack!"

Horner snorted. "Keep your battalion on standby, but one day recall is fine. I'll go tell Duncan; he can handle the details. Go back to Buffalo. Get some dress greens, flash the medal around, get your tubes cleaned. You're a widower, not an ascetic."

"That's cold, Jack," O'Neal said with a touch of anger.

"And that is something you haven't figured out, yet," the general responded. "War is cold. You have to be colder."

"Yeah," Mike said, wiping his gauntlet over his face and glancing at the head of the God King with distaste. "Maybe a couple of beers are in order."

"Two weeks," Horner said. "After that there's that globe landing in Georgia I want you to go check out. I had the local corps commander put a Fleet LRRP team on it, but they don't appear to be moving. So take a couple of weeks. Besides, we're getting ahead of the game on SheVas and I sent SheVa Nine down there to backstop Fourteen. If two SheVas can't handle it, what's the point of sending the ACS, right?"

"Okay," O'Neal said. "I got the picture." He took one last look at the marshes and hills to the east. "All in all, though, I think I'd rather be in Georgia."

"I need you functional, Mike. This war has cost us too many good soldiers already."

Mike nodded and scratched at one of the newer gouges on his suit. The nannites would eventually clean it up, but the repairs left visible traces like scars, slightly off-color. The sign that a suit had seen wear.

"Did you really tell that SheVa colonel to run me over?" he asked.

"Who?" Horner said with a frown. "Me? Whatever gave you that idea?"

" 'Twas a terrible cruel thing to do," Mike grumped. "I got half a dozen ports clogged."

"Face it, Mighty Mite," Horner said, slapping the suit lightly on the shoulder. "You needed a good shellacking. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it."

Mueller crouched on the slope above Bridge Creek Road and regarded the bridge sourly.

The rest of the team was gathered around, belly down on an outcrop of schist that gave a fairly covered view of the dam and the bridge at the same time. In spring or summer the slope of mixed white pine and hardwoods would have obscured the view of the dam and vice versa. But this late in the fall the only thing protecting the team from view was camouflage and stillness. Which meant that crossing the bridge was going to be tricky.

Coming out of the dam the river curved around the slope they were on, slightly to the east, then straightened back out in an "s." The bridge was a strikethrough in the middle of the "s," slightly out of sight from the dam. On the north side of the road, the side they overlooked, was a low field of white pine that came within twenty meters of the road and ran right up to the water's edge. The road's right-of-way hadn't been bushed since before the invasion from the looks of things and was thick with weeds and brambles. The cover down on the flat was going to be much better than anywhere on the slope.

On "their" side of the river was a power substation that appeared to be still functioning. At least, the road up to it had been recently regraded and the fence metal looked to be in good repair. If it wasn't in use, the Posleen probably would have salvaged it long since.

From long years of experience, Mueller was fairly sure which way Mosovich would hop, but he had to be sure.

"Well?" he whispered.

Mosovich's camouflage-painted face was set and still for a moment, then he grimaced. There were two problems in the crossing. The first was the slope, which was not only open—it was steep as hell. Most civilians would have referred to it as a cliff, but it was really just a very steep, standard Appalachian, forested slope. The trees alone would reduce the difficulty in going down and it was cut by both the back-and-forth trails of deer and a couple of what looked like old logging roads. The team, with the exception of Nichols, had been spending enough time climbing up and down similar slopes that they were as good as any mountain troops, with the possible exception of the Gurkhas, in the world. So they would be able to negotiate it. But it was still steep as hell and that meant the possibility of somebody getting injured on the way down.

If they went straight down they would also be in view of the dam. For all his words about the Posleen not posting sentries he wasn't about to take an unnecessary risk. Just to their left, moreover, was a very shallow gully. If they moved around to that they would be out of sight of the dam, any Posleen coming from the east would have to look back over their shoulder to spot them and the ground was a tad less steep.

Once they were on the flat they could get into the trees by the stream and have fairly good concealment right up to the bridge. Crossing that would be tricky thing number two.

"Left. Take the slope fast. Go for the drainage ditch by the road then into the trees."

"Gotcha," Mueller said, swinging off the gray rock outcropping to get ready to go down the hill.

"Fast is a relative term," Nichols pointed out. "I ain't gonna win any hundred yard dashes with this heavy mother."

The sniper's rifle weighed thirty pounds and the ammunition for it was not exactly light. Although the snipers carried relatively few rounds, their "loadout"—the amount of material and equipment they carried—rounded out at over a hundred pounds. Nichols wasn't a slouch, but Godzilla couldn't dash with a hundred pounds on his back. Not very far.

"Mueller, take one end," Mosovich hissed. "I'll take the lead. When we hit the flat, trot, don't dash. But for God's sake, keep an eye out, don't trip and don't slow down." He crouched as well, looked both ways and nodded. "Let's go."

The safest and quietest way to go down the leaf-covered slope would have been to follow the deer paths step by cautious step. In places they might have been able to drop a level or two, moving onto the occasional outcrop or fallen tree so as to get down on the flats a bit quicker, but by and large it would have been a slow, serpentine, back-and-forth trail to the valley floor.