"John Ringo - The Legacy of the Aldenata 3 - When the Devil D" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

he'll be here as soon as possible."
The colloquy of commanders and key staff from the Ten Thousand and the ACS
were gathered on the hills above Black Creek. From there, even with the waves of cold,
misting rain coming off the lake, the successful Posleen assault across the river was
clearly visible. As was the ineffectual artillery fire of the local Corps. Whose
headquarters, commander and staff were forty-five miles behind the Continental Army
Commander's current position.
"We need to get this penetration contained," said Colonel Cutprice. The colonel
looked to be about twenty until you saw his eyes. In fact he had been one of the most
decorated veterans of the Korean War. Thanks to the miracles of Galactic rejuvenation,
and a push for more "warriors" in the officer corps, the decrepit old warrior had been
restored to youth. And almost immediately started gathering medals again.
The silver eagles on his shoulders were almost an affectation; the "Ten Thousand"
force that he commanded was better than a brigade in strength and thanks to its converted
Posleen equipment had the combat power of an armored corps. But he refused any rank
higher than bird colonel and the one abortive attempt to replace him had resulted in
something very close to mutiny. So a colonel commanded a pocket division.
"My boys and the 72nd Division have 'em contained along Genesee Park Avenue and
there's a company or so of the 14th holding on in The Park; they're dug in hard on the hill.
But more of the fuckin' horses are pushing over that damned bridge all the time. We need
to drive in a counterattack and destroy the crossing. It would be helpful if we could get
some combat suit support on that."
Stewart winced again at the neutral tone. For conventional forces, or even the
unarmored Ten Thousand, assaulting the Posleen was a brutal business. The railguns and
plasma cannons of the enemy turned troops in the open into hamburger and the God
Kings opened up main battle tanks like tin cans. It was why the ACS, the Galactic
supplied Armored Combat Suits, were always used for assaults. But that meant that the
ACS had been whittled away in attack after attack, especially on the Great Plains and
here in the Ontario Salient. And with Earth interdicted and the only factories for making
suits off-planet that had meant "ten little suits, nine little suits." Until there were none.
There was a trickle of resupply from the Galactics. Stealth ships slipped onto Pacific
Islands and transferred their cargoes to submarines. These, in turn, visited high latitude
ports such as Anchorage. The cargoes then would be trucked to where the lines were still
holding. But that resupply route was pitifully inadequate for making up losses. Which
was why the U.S. had gone from two divisions of ACS to less than two battalions, a
ninety percent reduction in total force, in the last four years. And it had used up more
than four divisions of suits along the way.
1st Battalion 555th Mobile Infantry, "The Real Black Panthers," had lost fewer units
than the other battalions and it still maintained a solid core of veterans who had survived
every battle. But even they had had a nearly two hundred percent turnover rate. And with
the slow rate of resupply that meant eventually even "First Batt" was doomed.
 Whereas the supply of Posleen just seemed to be growing.
Horner shook his head and turned to the other suit in the conference.
"If Major O'Neal does not appear soon, I am turning command over to you, Captain
Slight." His blue eyes were as cold as agates. Mike O'Neal had once been his aide and
was a hand-picked prot├йg├й but if Rochester got turned the next fall-back line was just east
of Buffalo. And the front there was twice as long. Holding the Rochester defenses was,
therefore, the number one priority in the eastern United States.
"Yes, sir," said the Bravo company commander. "Sir, it would help if we could free
up the artillery. We need it to hit that bridge, not the, pardon my French, fucking