“He has a kit request in the system, but we’ve got nothing available,” the sergeant said. “Most of our advanced tech is overseas and we’re light here.”

“How light?”

“Cupboard’s bare, sir,” the sergeant admitted grudgingly. “We’ve got plenty of armor, the old school kind, but modern kit is in demand and we’re stretched thin.”

“We’ve got nothing then?”

The sergeant hesitated, his expression twisted almost painfully. Caern recognized the beginning of an evasive answer and just shook his head.

“Belt it out, son.”

“Weston’s is Double A qualified, sir.”

“Right, I know that.”

Hell, the entire planet knew that. Eric Weston was the one name that was forever more associated with the Archangel squadron. You’d have to find a soul who’d not watched a media device in the last two decades to find someone who didn’t know Eric Weston was Double A.

“Yes sir. What I mean to say, sir, is that we have a few advanced combat units sitting this one out sir,” the sergeant said. “No trained NICS qualified people.”

“Right. Those.” The General nodded. “Are they field ready?”

He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to those. They seemed like advanced tinker toys, but then he was an old-school soldier at heart. Wars were won door to door, not by knocking over buildings and blowing great massive holes in things.

Of course, these things could do with some great massive holes.

“Yes sir, cleared last quarter.”

“Check one out and offer it up,” Caern said, turning away. “If he wants it, hand deliver it if need be.”

“Yes sir.”

Caern made his way back over to the central war table, a conference table surrounding a tri-D holo imager.

“What was it, General?” the President asked, looking over. “More bad news?”

“Some good news, I would say.” The Marine general grinned. “Weston survived.”

“Impossible,” an admiral growled. “Nothing walks away from a hit like that.”

“Not necessarily,” McCullen responded thoughtfully. “If her counter-mass was still up when the Odyssey dug in, it could have been survivable. The bridge has a backup unit, so if anyone would have lived, they’d have been there.”

“Whatever. The man is breathing and calling down the fire in New York,” Caern said. “If it’s his ghost, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Gentlemen,” the President stepped in, “this is hardly getting us anywhere and, while I am pleased that Captain Weston survived and, yes, it is good news, it’s a very minor silver lining in a very dark cloud. Let us stay on task here.”

“Yes Mr. President.”

“Alright, now you’ve all had an hour to review our weapons development divisions. Does anyone have a solution to our problem in orbit?”

EIGHTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY

CORPORAL BURKE GRINNED, no humor in his expression but plenty of satisfaction as he jammed the throttle of the M7 Abrams main battle tank, flattening the tiny import in front of him to a mashed pulp as he rumbled over it.