A Hymn Before Battle

20 Planetary Transport Class Maruk, N-Space Transit Terra-Diess 1147 GMT March 14th, 2002 ad

Mike was lifting weights in a tiny gym tucked away between the number eighteen cargo hold and the gamma zone environmental spaces when his AID chirped, “You’re requested to report to General Houseman at your earliest convenience.”

This request involved a number of problems. The first was their relative location. There were four troopships in the Expeditionary Force flotilla. One was occupied entirely by the Chinese divisions. Two had Allied Expeditionary Force, NATO units, U.S. III Corp, German, English, Dutch, Japanese and French. The last was filled with a mixed bag of Russian and Third World troops, southeast Asian, African and South American. With the exception of the NATO troops, the contingents were kept strictly segregated. Besides avoiding the cultural conflicts that would inevitably arise, this permitted the use of other nations’ forces when riots broke out within a force.

For two months troops, mostly ill-prepared and trained, had been left in an interstellar limbo. There was ample horizontal room, but the low ceilings designed for Indowy and lack of wind, sun and space caused the troops to become stir-crazy even once the air, food and light problems were fixed. With no communication in or out while in fold space the units brooded into explosion. Once in the NATO ships and four times on the mixed ship, local arguments had gotten out of hand.

The problem was that General Houseman, the III Corp and American contingent commander, spent time on both the Maruk, the ship Lieutenant O’Neal was on and the Sorduk, the other ship with NATO forces, as the ships dropped in and out of hyperspatial anomalies. His office and the bulk of III Corp were on the Maruk, but his commander, General Sir Walter Arnold, British Army, was on the Sorduk.

“Where is the general?” he asked his AID, toweling off while stumping ponderously to the manual gravity controls.

“General Houseman is in his office, Alpha Quad, ring five, deck A, right abaft NATO Senior Officers’ Quarters.”

Made sense, the general wouldn’t expect him to come to the Sorduk without any warning. Second problem: when a Lieutenant General tells a First Lieutenant “at your earliest convenience” he means “right damn now.” But showing up in sweat-soaked PT uniform is Unacceptable Attire. Oh, well. He’d have to take time to change, but he was also about four kilometers away. This was going to be interesting.

“Please send a message to the general that I am unavoidably detained and will not be able to reach his location for a minimum of… thirty minutes.”

Third and insurmountable problem: He didn’t have the right uniform. All he brought were Fleet Strike uniforms and all the U.S. units were wearing regular Army uniforms: BDUs or Greens as appropriate. Therefore, he could show up in silks, daily work uniform, or blues, dress uniform.

“What’s the uniform of the day for III Corp headquarters personnel?”

“BDUs.” Battle dress uniform, regular camouflage. It would be replaced, had been in Mike’s case, by silks, but the two uniforms could not be more different. Therefore, blues might even be less conspicuous; it might be mistaken for some other country’s dress uniform.

The Fleet Strike uniform design team had really thrown caution to the wind with the dress uniform. The color was a deep cobalt blue with, in officer’s case, thin piping at the seams in the color of the officer’s branch, in O’Neal’s case light blue for infantry. The piping was thermally activated and swirled with movement as the leg contacted the edge. The tunic was collarless without lapels and pressure sealed on the left side. It was a damn showy and conspicuous uniform, which militated against it. Silks it was.

Twenty-seven minutes later First Lieutenant Michael O’Neal in gray silks and Terra blue beret, entered the outer office of the Commander, United States Ground Forces, Diess Expeditionary Force. Installed in the outer office, Cerberus at the gates, was a thick-set command sergeant major who looked as if he last smiled in 1968. Mike could have sworn he was fighting off a grin at Mike’s attire.

Lieutenant O’Neal had traveled four kilometers, washed, shaved and changed in those twenty-seven minutes. It was only possible because he brought his suit to the gym. Instead of using normal hallways he had passed through a series of zero gee and unpressurized holds at speeds that still had him shaking. The suit’s semibiotic liner had scavenged his sweat and dirt and consumed the stubble on his face.

When he got into his cabin it was only necessary to pop out of the suit and change. Unfortunately this last was severely inhibited by the suit. Although the suit was no more bulky than a fat man, and a short one at that, it had to be leaned against the wall and was immobile until he put it back on. To put on his trousers in the cramped cubicle it was necessary to straddle the suit’s leg and more or less bounce up and down. Once the process was done it left only an undignified rush through the junior officers’ quarters “up-country” to the senior levels.

The sergeant major expressionlessly inspected the uniform then stood and walked to the inner door. He opened it without knocking. “Lieutenant O’Neal, sir.”

“Send him in, Sergeant Major, by all means,” said an affable voice. O’Neal heard the distinct sound of a sheaf of papers hitting others, as when a folder is tossed onto an overloaded desk.

The sergeant major stood aside, gestured for the lieutenant to enter and closed the door after him. Only with the door safely closed did he, without a change in expression, snort several times in laughter.

The general had much in common, physically, with his sergeant major. Both had stocky builds of medium height, round florid faces and thinning gray-blond hair. All in all they looked not unlike a matched set of champion bulldogs. But, whereas the sergeant major wore a perpetual frown, the general’s face was creased in a smile and his mild blue eyes twinkled as Lieutenant O’Neal saluted.

“Lieutenant O’Neal, reporting as ordered,” said Mike. Like all junior officers he was categorizing his sins and trying to decide which one had come to the general’s attention. However, unlike most he had ample experience with flag officers so he was less intimidated than many would have been.

The general waved a hand at his forehead and said, “At ease, Lieutenant, as a matter of fact, grab a chair. Coffee?” The general grabbed his own mug and reached for a Westbend coffee maker hardwired into the wall.

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Mike paused. “Did the Indowy wire that for you, sir?”

“Indowy, hell.” The general snorted. “I had to get somebody from Corp maintenance to set up a portable generator a couple of compartments over then drill through the damned wall. We’ve got mostly standard office equipment and we’re having a shitload of problems getting them integrated. Cream and sugar?” he continued graciously.

“Much of both, thank you, sir. I could look into that for you, sir. I get along with Indowy pretty well, I think it’s because I’m their size.”

“I understand that we already have you to thank for getting the damn lighting fixed. Not to mention finding the food we were supposed to be getting all along. Lots of time on your hands, Lieutenant?” The general handed Mike his coffee and took a sip of his own, peering at the lieutenant over the rim.

“Sir?”

“I had an interesting conversation with Oberst Kiel of the Bundeswehr the other day. I believe you know the Herr Oberst?”

“Yes, sir. He was one of the GalTech Infantry Design team leaders for the NATO committee.”

“He came through General Arnold, who asked me to talk to him on the subject of my ACS battalion. Do you have any idea what he said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understood that you were to advise the battalion on ACS techniques, is that correct?” asked the general, mildly.

“Yes, sir,” said Mike. Now he knew where this was going. He was mildly surprised that the general was underinformed. The flag officer was in for a shock.

“And how would you rate the battalion as an ACS unit?”

“Low, sir,” said Mike, taking a sip of the coffee. He suppressed a grimace. Apparently the general was a Texan; you could have floated a horseshoe in the brew.

“Thank you. Can I ask where you have been the last two months? Where you were today?” asked the general, anger building in his voice.

“Under direct orders, until we made planet-fall, to keep to myself,” said Mike, forcing down another sip. Fortunately the way the conversation was going he was going to be able to put the cup down and avoid it soon.

“From whom?” asked the general, surprised.

“Lieutenant Colonel Youngman, sir.”

“Direct orders?” asked the astounded officer.

“Michelle?” Mike prompted.

“Yes, Lieutenant O’Neal,” she said. The experienced machine knew when to be on her best behavior.

“Run the applicable conversation.”

“Now, I don’t care what you think your mission is, or who you think you are. What I want you to do is go to your cabin and stay there for the rest of the trip. You’re not confined to quarters or anything but I decide how my battalion is run, how it trains, what its tactics are. Not any former E-5 with a shiny silver bar that thinks he’s hot shit. If I find you in the battalion area without my direct permission, in the training areas, or talking to my officers about tactics or training I will personally hang you up, shake you out and strip you of commission, rank, honor and possibly life. Do I make myself clear?” the AID played back.

“I confess, sir, that I did not handle the conversation very well on my side,” Mike allowed, to stunned silence. “I let the colonel get my goat, to be frank and I was already upset with the posted training schedule when I arrived.”

“Did you tell the AID to record that conversation?” the general asked, with a neutral expression once he had gotten over his shock.

“You didn’t know, sir?” asked Mike, with an uneasy voice and a glance at the general’s AID, sitting conspicuously on top of his desk. This was a turn he was not particularly happy about.

“Know what?”

“They record everything, sir.”

“What?”

“We found out at GalTech, sir. Sight, sound, everything. It can be played back at any time in the future.”

“By whom?”

“Currently they are designed solely for user-authorized playback, sir, with some caveats. Some of the countries wanted to make it anyone of a higher rank, but we, the Americans, and a few others, the British and Germans notably, refused. If our soldiers found out that their AIDs would rat on them at any opportunity, they’d ‘lose’ them all the time. However, the records are generally accessible in times of combat or by anyone interacting with the owning individual during the applicable moment.”

“Okay. Damn, maybe you should be my ACS advisor. So, the colonel told you to remain in your cabin. Effectively under arrest. Have you?”

“No, sir. I’ve been keeping in training, physical and tactical. I also construed that I should not develop social contact with the members of the ACS battalion, so I’ve avoided the club, etc.”

“So, you’ve been working out in a gym for the past month?”

“And with my suit, yes, sir.”

“Have you been working with any units of the 325?”

“Sir?”

“Do you realize that you always respond the same way when avoiding a question? Among other interesting anomalies, it appears that Bravo company of the battalion is the only company in the ACS battalion that is hitting the expected milestones for suit training time. And, according to the Herr Oberst, Bravo has made a remarkable advancement in the last month. The Oberst seems to feel that the only part of my ACS unit that is worth wiping a nose with is Bravo company. Not actually up to where they should be, but not completely useless.

“Then it came to my attention that Lieutenant Colonel Youngman wrote an Officer Evaluation Report for his Bravo company commander that accused him of everything but sleeping with my daughter. According to the OER it seems that Bravo company is ‘wholly unprepared for combat.’ In a recent internal battalion EIB evaluation none of the company’s personnel managed to pass,” said the general with a thin smile.

“Sir, one of the EIB standards is a thousand-meter land navigation course. Where’d they do it?” For the first time in the conversation the general was beginning to remind Mike of General Horner.

“Good question. More to the point, since the EIB hasn’t been upgraded for ACS standards, what’s the point of training for it?” asked the general. The affable expression had turned to something very like a snarl.

“Ummh, his people… need to maintain proficiency for when they transfer to non-ACS units, sir?”

“Very good,” smiled the general with a rueful shake of his head. “You make a wonderful devil’s advocate, Lieutenant. Unfortunately, regulations currently call for permanent retention of ACS qualified personnel in ACS units. There goes that argument right out the window. Actually, the only line commander he’s satisfied with is Charlie. Alpha also performed abysmally. However I also happened to notice that although the majority of the battalion is less than ten percent ACS proficient, Alpha and Bravo are at twenty and thirty percent, respectively. Comments, Lieutenant?”

“I suspect that Alpha and Bravo’s brass is unshined and they haven’t met their PT norms, sir.”

“Sarcasm, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, sir. Maybe a little.”

“As a matter of fact, when I asked Lieutenant Colonel Youngman about Bravo company, he commented that he was considering relieving his Bravo company commander.”

“Jesus!”

“Do you normally interrupt generals, Lieutenant?” the general asked, dryly.

“No, sir. No excuse, sir,” said Mike. He took a deep breath and tried to get hold of his temper. Relieving Captain Brandon would cut the entire pipeline he had been using to get the battalion any decent training.

Infantrymen were past masters at disappearing. Partially it was a matter of their mission; being “ghosts” was half of what being infantry was all about. Another part of it was that without a war or heavy-duty training schedule, they were always first to be handed the worst details. So experienced individuals in infantry units learned to become functionally invisible outside of real training times.

Mike and Wiznowski had used this ability to the fullest. The companies were holding regular morning, early afternoon and recall formations, per battalion orders. However, some of the empty holds were practically right next door to the battalion area. Every day NCOs from Bravo and later Alpha company had slipped out of the battalion area and into the abandoned holds. There they had begun to master the myriad facets of their new specialty, the better to pass it on to their juniors. One of the ironic items was the fact that they bitched and moaned about not having the “GalTech expert” available to help them. Mike meanwhile was monitoring the entire process through his Milspecs or armor, down to listening to the bitching. Whenever he felt that the situation needed something pointed out he filtered it through Wiznowski. As far as anyone knew, Wiz was running the whole training program.

If Captain Brandon were relieved, the entire masquerade would go down the tubes.

“I was informed of your habitual frown,” General Houseman continued quietly, “but you are currently turning red and smoking at the ears. And would you kindly avoid drilling holes through the wall with your stare?”

“Bulkhead, sir. On a ship it’s a bulkhead.”

“Whatever. Now to return to my original question, did you in fact violate direct and indirect orders by interfering in the tactical training of one of Lieutenant Colonel Youngman’s subunits?”

“Partially, sir,” Mike equivocated. He was thinking furiously.

“By helping Captains Brandon and Wright with ACS training?”

“Sir, I have not discussed training or Galactic technologies with any officer of the battalion.”

“Would you care to explain that?” asked the general with a raised eyebrow.

“I have not spoken directly to any officer about training, sir. That was in fact my order. Nor have I entered the battalion area, nor have I entered any training area. I have, in fact, obeyed the letter of the order.”

“I see.” The general smiled. “I suppose there is a reason that the NCOs and enlisted in the companies are doing better, overall, than the officers?”

“Possibly, sir.”

“Related to your influence?”

“Possibly, sir. Then again, to be honest, it might have something to do with the officers spending more time in the ‘club’ than they do in suits.”

“But you have influenced training,” the general pointed out.

“Yes, sir.”

“Despite the training schedule authorized by the Battalion S-3?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you aware of the published training schedule?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m glad you didn’t turn a blind eye to your misdeeds.” The general shook his head, looking suddenly harried.

“Son, I’m going to tell you this by way of an apology. The battalion is an attachment as opposed to one of ‘my’ units, a III Corp unit that is. Therefore, it would be damned difficult for me to relieve Lieutenant Colonel Youngman, much as I would currently like to.” He raised an eyebrow inviting comment, but Mike remained silent. He shook his head again and went on.

“It’s a hell of a fix to take a unit into battle where I distrust the entire command team. So I’ve done what I can. Disregarding my long-standing rule against micromanaging my subordinate units, a rule the colonel has apparently never heard of, I gave Lieutenant Colonel Youngman a written order to initiate a vigorous training program in ACS combat. It states that, given his failure to date to train in vital areas, if the battalion fails to score eighty percent or better in ACS training norms by the date of our landing it will give me no choice but to relieve him for cause. He did not take it well at all. He seems to feel that since there is no way to prepare adequately because of ‘grossly inadequate preparation time’ on Earth, the battalion should be reissued standard weaponry and deployed as regular airborne infantry.”

“Good God,” Mike whispered. The upcoming battle was sure to be a bloodbath for ACS, going in as lightly weaponed airborne infantry would be suicide.

The general smiled coldly again. “I cannot tell you how much I agree. Trust me: I had disabused the colonel of that concept by the time I was done.

“Before some of this came up I sent a personal e-mail to Jack Horner. He said that your only problem was that you needed someone holding your leash. If there is a problem that requires a juggernaut all I should do is release the leash. That is why we are having this conversation.

“Now, I’ve given Colonel Youngman all the guidance I think he needs; I did not order him to use you as a training asset. So, if he doesn’t contact you within a week, leave a message with my AID. I’ll make an unannounced visit and drop a question about ‘that GalTech expert, whatsisname?’ Clear?”

“As crystal, sir.”

“If I feel it necessary, I will tell you that you have carte blanche. At that point I will have to relieve the colonel. I don’t have a replacement for him I trust that has any ACS time. You do understand the implications of having to place a captain like, for example, Brandon, in command of a battalion.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike was feeling weak in the knees. The personnel and policy wonkers in Washington would go ballistic. The repercussions for GalTech, which already had a bad reputation for ramming through conventions, might be worse than losing the battalion. The entrenched bureaucracy could throw up the damnedest obstacles when they felt threatened and did not seem to give a damn that there was a war on.

“Thank you for coming, Lieutenant. We did not have this conversation. This compartment will self-destruct in thirty seconds. Get lost.”

“Yes, sir. Where am I?”