Eye of the Storm

CHAPTER TWELVE

Cutprice quickly found out that the Officer Placement Board was even more complicated than buying stocks. Sending text messages back and forth, he and Wacleva started building the NCO cadre for the company. The absolute most points was not always a perfect guide. Scrolling down the list, typing in an occasional name, he and Wacleva found that many of the NCOs they wanted were in the upper quadrant but not near the top. They all had bids against them already, but between them, and sending some messages to get the NCOs to buy in, they managed to fill the TOE pretty steadily. Some guys were off-line but it seemed like most everybody was playing ‘match my unit.’

The problem was, he hadn’t even bid on a unit, yet. He’d put in a bid for a random company, but as Norris had pointed out, that could be in a rag-bag unit. He looked at the officers who had bid on him and the two with the most points were both the ones he didn’t want and… what was the word? clustered around units he didn’t want to be a part of. He’d be a very big fish in a very small pond. But since a company really depended on the companies around it, on the battalions around theirs, being in a sucky brigade was a good way to earn a medal: Posthumously.

He was going to have to cluster. And anyone who had been in the military for any time at all, knew what that meant.

If it was tough for Cutprice it was worse for the officers managing the boards.

The first problem was, they had no real idea how many officers and NCOs were going to be available for cadre on any particular day. A cut-off point for the first recalls had at least been determined, so when the last recall of that day was recorded, they’d know their total cadre.

But they’d started with an estimate of sufficient cadre for a division. An officer had been hand-picked to command the division — three infanty regiments, one tank regiment one field artillery, one armor and one support and supply — given a staff to begin standing up the division and then sat back to watch the boards. If he, in his opinion, did not like the choices of regimental and battalion commanders he had the option to override them. But, in general, the recalled officers with high points all were worthy of commanding their respective units. Generals with years in combat commands were going to be able to commmand a battalion in their sleep. Guys who had commanded armies were going to be able to run a brigade. They’d not only done it, they’d trained subordinates to do it.

But between conscription numbers going up and the recall gaining steam, the estimate went up to a division reinforced by a regiment. Then two regiments. Then two divisions. A second officer was picked for the new division.

At this point, cadre numbers were going over into a tenth regiment. Conscription and volunteer numbers, the troops and junior NCOs in other words, were still down. But they’d fluctuated ahead and behind cadre numbers the whole time.

Each time that cadre numbers got high enough, a new regiment had to be added to the board. When that happened, all the bids suddenly shifted. Then there was finding cadre for the training commands. Very few high-point cadre wanted a training unit so some of them were just going to have to suck it up.

It was a nightmare.

“Board says that there’s enough numbers for another regiment,” the major said, sighing. “Who’s up next?”

“Fourteenth,” his assistant said. “Golden Dragons.”

“Post it.”

“You think everybody’s having as much of a jug-fuck as we are?”

Screened by a line of advancing artillery, the tanks and AFVs of Schwere Panzer Battalion Michael Wittman rolled across the small valley in assault formation, heading for a stand of trees on the far ridge.

Simulated bursts of plasma artillery exploded around them. Mines popped up. Some of the tanks and Marders slowed to a stop as red lights on their exterior turned on. Simulated anti-tank missiles lifted off from the woodline as lines of blue fire searched out. More of the tracks slowed as defenses crumbled. But missiles were blotted from the sky by railgun fire. The plasma blasts were diverted by shields. Smoke rounds fell. Unfortunately, most of them fell behind the line of advancing armor failing to shield it from view.

Despite that, the majority of the unit crashed into the distant woods. Troop doors opened and infantry jumped to the ground, taking firing positions and moving forward as the slowed tanks and AFVs used direct fire to dig the enemy from their positions.

“Exercise terminated,” Muehlenkampf said. “Head us over to the objective.”

His driver kicked the SUV into gear and maneuvered through the heavy undergrowth towards the ridgeline. It took about fifteen minutes for the Generalmajor to join the unit and find its commander.

Oberstlieutnant Dieter Schultz was in the center of the armored lager having a terse hot-wash of the exercise. But when the Generalmajor’s vehicle entered the clearing made by the big armored vehicles he waved his junior commanders away, picked up the steel pot filled with flowers at his feet and walked over.

“Generalmajor,” Dieter said, saluting.

“Oberstleutnant Schultz,” Muehlenkampf said, returning the salute. “Comments?”

“Various problems,” Schultz replied, tightly. “We took too many casualties. We will have to work much harder on our artillery direction. Also I failed to anticipate the minefield.”

“Because there was no intelligence indicating that the Hedren use them,” Muehlenkampf said. “I ordered it added to the exercise because if they do not, I’m sure they will quickly. I consider it, for your level of training, fair.”

“And we ship in three days,” Dieter said, shaking his head. “We are not ready, Generalmajor.”

“War rarely gives us the luxury of being as ready as we would wish,” Muehlenkampf replied. “And even when we are, it rarely goes as we expect. I’m sure we will prove the same truths to the Hedren. Take your unit back to the kasserne and begin preparations for movement. Time is not our friend.”

“See, Norris really understands this system,” Cutprice said. “It’s like a computer game or a game of chess. You got to figure out what your opponents are going to do and all the variables around you. But it’s different than chess because you can get allies.”

Cutprice had contacted several of the NCO’s and officers he’d hand-picked and called a meeting at the Rod and Gun Club. The purpose of the meeting was to reduce the cluster fuck that clustering caused.

“I told you, sir,” Wacleva said, sipping his beer. “The old 505 hands want to go for 5th infantry regiment. Close as we can get to the 505.”

“The average numbers are higher on the 5^th,” Lt. Norris said. “The average company command at the 5^th is running better than five hundred points.”

“Nobody cares about the Dragons,” Cutprice said. “But the point is not what a unit’s history might say about it, it’s what kind of a command group it has. And I’m planning on stacking the deck.”

“You’re going to be a company commander, sir,” Wacleva said. “With all due respect.”

“Sure, but I’m also planning on picking and choosing my battalion commander,” Cutprice said, grinning. “And regimental. By getting them to agree to put their points on the Dragons. I’ve taken a look. I’ve got more points than most of the colonels on the Board. I’m going to build a regiment that we can survive in. But everybody has to be onboard.”

“That’s what a team is all about, sir,” Wacleva said. “But how you gonna wag the dog?”

“By bringing in some dark horses.”

Arkady Simosin regarded the Board grumpily. To get a battalion, he had realized, he was going to have to cluster. And nobody wanted to cluster around him.

Arkady Simosin had been a major general when the President announced that not only had the world been contacted by friendly aliens, but that they’d brought a warning that less friendly aliens were on the way. Shortly thereafter, as the Army began to bulge at the seams, he had been slotted as a corps commander.

It was a Corps that hadn’t existed six months before and getting it up and running had been a real challenge. Especially since the personnel system had gotten so wacked that most of the new soldiers were, at best, half trained and regularly mutinous. The US Army hadn’t dealt with a worse group of soldiers since the Civil War.

But he had been getting them whipped into shape when, well before they were supposed to arrive, a battlegroup of Posleen had dropped into northern Virginia.

Even then… Well, things could have gone against him in battle, the Posleen were no enemy to fight in the open. But what had really bitten him in the ass was when a smart Posleen, or some said the Darhel, others the Cyber Corps, had hacked the corps command net and sent multiple conflicting orders out to units. Artillery had fallen on engaged units, units had been ordered to retreat, or — in many ways worse — assault forward, none of those orders actually originating from him.

That had hardly mattered at the board of inquiry. It had kept him from being shot, he supposed, but he had been reduced in rank and spent most of the rest of the war shuffling paper for other more “stellar” generals.

He had been given one chance to redeem his name when the Posleen seemed about to decisively break the back of the Appalachian Defense line. He’d been given command of a division, one of the reserve divisions around Asheville, and sent in to assault the Posleen in some of the worst terrain available in the Eastern US, the Smokey Mountains.

The division had been trained for positional defense, not assault. He’d had to shoot a few people and fire many many more, to get it moving. But he’d done it and pushed and harried them through those mountains until they shown.

Alas, the War had ended shortly afterwards. As a general with a still somewhat stained reputation he’d been politely shown the door as fast as the division could be stood-down.

Now they wanted him again. But all that time in staff meant that, compared to many of his fellow lieutenant colonels, he had a relatively low point score. Heck, the only reason that he was a lieutenant colonel was that he’d been retired as his original rank. What that meant was getting a staff slot, maybe XO of a regiment. But command was unlikely. He might work his way back into it and, given the way that they were going to have to ramp up the Army again, he might even get back to being a general. But he suspected there were captains with more of a chance.

He wanted a battalion, he craved a battalion. Battalion command was one of the best slots in the Army. A battalion was just independent enough to be a functional unit on its own. In combat, a battalion commander made real decisions about operational methods. But it was still close enough to the fighting that you could know your troops, their strengths and weaknesses. You could command in a way that you never could as a general or even a brigade commander.

He’d be lucky to get a slot as assistant S-4 (Logistics) in one of the divisions.

“Incoming message from Captain Thomas Cutprice,” his Buckley said.

“Buckley, check the Board. Is that former Colonel Cutprice of the Ten Thousand?” If it was, somebody had seriously fucked up. Cutprice. A captain. Words failed.

“Yes, it is,” the Buckley said, gloomily. “You don’t want to answer. It’s Cutprice. We’re both gonna die if you answer. I can list the ways if you’d like.”

“Just put me through, Buckley,” Simosin said.

“It’s text,” the Buckley intoned. “He’s using a Dell LinSoft Forty-Four which is, in simple terms you might understand, the equivalent of a Model T Ford. You don’t want to get involved with anyone who uses one of those, right? You’re not that stupid, right?”

“Buckley, just show me the message and shut up.”

Cutprice: General Simosin?

Simosin: Colonel, Captain. What can I do for you?

Cutprice: Got a proposition. You got wheels?

Simosin: Yes.

Cutprice: Rod and Gun Club if you’re interested. We’ll be here most of the rest of the night.

Simosin: What’s this about?

Cutprice: What’s every conversation these days about? The Board.

Simosin: I’ll be there.

“Bad, bad, bad idea!”

“Shut up, Buckley.”

“Thank you for coming, sir,” Cutprice said as Simosin slid into the booth.

Arkady Simosin could not have looked less like the captain. Where Cutprice was tall and light haired, Simosin was short and barrel-built, looking something like a dyspeptic bear.

“Despite the moanings from my Buckley, I’m hoping for good news,” Simosin said.

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Cutprice replied. “Here’s the deal, sir. You saw the new regiment go up on the Board?”

“Fourteenth,” Simosin replied, nodding. “But all three of the battalion slots have already got bids against them. Bids that, quite frankly, I cannot top.”

“Yes, sir, I saw that,” Cutprice said. “But I think I’ve got enough points to push you into the running, sir.”

“Go on,” Simosin said, accepting a mug of beer from the silent master sergeant next to the captain.

“Without expending too many of my points, I’ve gotten a tiddly little company built,” Cutprice said. “But a good company doesn’t mean squat if the battalion is fucked up, sir. I’ve looked at the guys bidding on the battalions in the 14^th and I’m not impressed. But if we get the right mix in our battalion, others are going to cluster. People will start looking at the 14^th who are ignoring it, now.”

“Which will drive up the points for battalion commander,” Simosin pointed out.

“Yes, sir,” Lt. Norris interjected. “But if we get the other company commanders on board, and a staff, we can probably shave points from all of us.”

“Okay, given,” Simosin said. “But why me? I’m not going to be wagged, Captain. I know your reputation as a combat commander. I also know your reputation in general. You’re not going to get a battalion commander that’s going to accede to your every whim. I may be a bit battered, but I’m not going to be bought.”

“You got screwed in Dalesville, sir, and we all know it,” Cutprice replied. “And, just to check, I looked at your battalion command records and you were a damned good battalion commander. Like I said, I’ve looked at the guys bidding on the 14^th and I don’t like them. The thing is, sir, we need to stack the deck. We need a really good regimental commander. Preferably one with some points. I can’t carry this all on my shoulders. And we need to get some better people bidding on the other battalion slots. I didn’t pay much attention to good generals during the War. I saw way too many bad ones, though. I figure you probably have a better read on who the good ones are. If we do this right, we can build the whole unit from the ground up.”

“And you playing spider in the web?” Simosin said, finally smiling.

“Just trying to get good people around me, sir,” Cutprice replied. “Wouldn’t you prefer a good unit to a bad one?”

“Frankly, Captain, it would be a novel experience.”

“Anything else?” Mike said, sighing. It had been another long day of making bricks without straw and after the meeting with Tam he’d be working on paperwork well into the night.

But things were finally starting to come together. In a week, the SS would be shipping. The Legion was on the way along with the Second Division. With those three forces in place, and a bit of luck, they could bottle up the ground attack.

He’d had long conversations with Takao before the latter left for the Gratoola system. Most of the ship-wrights had been evacuated but enough were left to do the minimal necessary upgrade to the current fleet ships gathering in the system. With those minimal upgrade, Takao thought they might be able to manage the mission.

The additional forming units were beginning to take shape. Training camps were being stood up, the cadre for units was ready to be set. Even if they lost Gratoola, there would be another wave of human infantry and armor to face the Hedren. Better armed, hopefully as well better trained. More ships, more troops. It was going to be a war of attrition if he didn’t watch it.

“The recall program,” Tam said. “Not the whole thing, just an interesting idea.”

“Go for it,” Mike said, leaning back. He felt the need to pump some iron. He spat out his dip and started to pack down another instead.

“We only recalled the highest E and O grades,” Tam said. “And then we bumped them down, more or less, three ranks across the board.”

“Oh, that must have been interesting to explain,” Mike said.

“Because the personnel system knew it was going to be… interesting to explain, they tossed a cookie to the ones that seemed really good,” General Wesley added.

“I saw the thing about the point system in the Fleet Strike Times,” Mike said. “Now it makes more sense.”

“The thing is, when I signed off on it, and I take full responsibility, I didn’t realize the monster I’d created,” Wesley said, shrugging. “The bidding and bid rigging has gotten fierce and due to what one of my boffins called ‘games theory’, there’s going to be some really good units and some that really suck. Basically, the good guys are gathering around each other and pushing the marginal ones out.”

“If units end up marginal enough, we just won’t stand them up,” Mike said, frowning more than habitually. “Good regiments are made by good officers.”

“I have a group working on a matrix for that,” Wesley admitted. “If a unit’s total points fall below a certain minimum, they’ll be held for stand-up until the next pass. But.”

“But?”

“We only recalled the highest grades,” Tam said. “We figured, why call in guys who are going to be privates? We can use them later for positions they’re more prepared for. But we’ve had a lot of volunteers in those grades. To the point where personnel set up a website explaining that anyone coming back would be subject to a severe drop in rank. And we’ve still got volunteers. By a rough analysis, enough to fill at least one regiment.”

“Or you could spread them around,” Mike pointed out.

“We’re going to have more as the word gets out,” Wesley said. “And we’ve got a certain momentum towards stand-up. We know, more or less, who is going to what unit in the ranks of E-1 through E-5. Some of those E-5 slots could be filled with returnees, for certain. But we’ve still got… ”

“All those volunteers,” Mike said, frowning. “I don’t think it would be wise to have one regiment which is heavy on rejuvs in a division. The term ‘elite’ comes to mind.”

“Which is why the idea is to stand up a regiment with them,” Tam admitted. “Probably a separate one initially.”

“I’ll sign off,” Mike said. “But make it an RCT. I’m sure all the volunteers aren’t infantry.”

“No,” Tam said, furrowing his brow. “But we don’t have a TOE for a Regimental Combat Team.”

“Find a smart major and tell him what you need,” Mike said, looking thoughtful. “A regiment which is crewed by juvs is going to need good officers. Any idea what the cadre is going to look like?”

“I haven’t looked at the Board lately,” Tam said. “But if we have to, we can always override and direct appoint. Or we can pick the regiment that has the strongest cadre. There’s already one regiment that, for the time being, is notionally separate. If that one has the dregs, we can always shift it to one of the divisions and pull out a better one to fill.”

“What’s the regiment?” Mike asked.

“The 14^th,” Tam said. “It’s called the Golden Dragons.”

“Not familiar with it,” Mike said, frowning.

“Let’s put it this way, it got that moniker in the Peking assault. It’s motto, ‘Right of the Line’ comes from the Grand Review of the Army of the Potomac.”

“Oookay,” Mike said. “One of those. Well, history and tradition are like your family tree. It doesn’t matter worth a flip what your umpteenth grand-dad did. It only matters what you’re doing today. Hopefully, the officers in the unit understand that.”

“It reminds me of the NFL draft,” Colonel Tobias Pennington said, looking around the echoing room.

As the REMFs in personnel began to recognize the beast that had been created with the points system, they’d also realized that the last few minutes were going to get murderous. Perhaps to confine the murder to one area, they’d had a large and previously empty warehouse refitted to marginal levels of comfort. The most important thing was that there were tables, chairs and a lot of electronics. The room had about the same internet pipe as an AT T main node and the walls were lined with floor to ceiling screens showing the updated bidding totals on all units and personnel.

There was also an ample supply of coffee. For when it was done renting, there were portapotties installed at one end. Minimal comfort.

“It is the Draft, sir,” Cutprice said, grinning. “Just bigger.”

Pennington was an unknown quantity to the captain. But he’d checked him out, both on the Board and through contacts. The former 14^th Army commander had led the latter part of the defense of the Monterey Campaign. The Posleen had done well by themselves in the Valley and seriously wanted to complete their conquest by levelling San Francisco. Pennington had been sent in to relieve the commander that lost most of the Peninsula, a battle that should have been a no-brainer given the defensive conditions. The first Corps commander and later Army commander had not only held the final defense line he had, over time, pushed back as far as the terrain would allow.

Personally, the Colonel was just about the most laid-back individual Cutprice had ever met. Nothing seemed to faze him. Since Cutprice tended to be on the aggressive side in everything, he wasn’t sure they were going to get along. But one of the things that didn’t faze the possible 14^th Regiment commander was Cutprice.

“I’m thinking about scamming Norris out from under Arkady,” Pennington said, looking over at the lieutenant. The LT had three laptops open and two Buckleys going simultaneously. Former sergeants major as well as former generals and colonels were running messages to the group gathered in one corner of the building.

None of the officers and NCOs who had been recruited for the 14^th had posted their bids, yet. Not their final bids. All were on the board as looking for open positions. It was not going to be until the last moment that they all jumped on the 14^th. Security on that had held, Cutprice was pretty sure. And it had been Norris’ idea.

The lieutenant, it turned out, had spent most of his post-service career as an IT guru on various boards of trade. He knew how to game a system like the Board from decades of experience. He’d written code to automatically update bids as the final hour approached. Essentially, all of the recruited cadre for the 14^th had put their points up for the team. It was Norris’ job, right up to the last moment, to make sure that they all got into the slots they preferred.

There’d been a personal side to that as well. Cutprice had visited the various officers bidding on him and explained what a miserable pain in the ass he would be as a junior officer. “I mean, it’ll be horrible, sir. I never listen unless I want to. I do what I want to do and everyone else can go to hell. And I’m clever, so half the time you wouldn’t even suspect what I was up to until you were well and truly screwed by it. Sir, the word ‘insubordination’ in the dictionary? It has a two by three color glossy of me next to it. Sir, you have no idea just how difficult… ”

All but one had dropped their bids. That, as Norris pointed out, had dropped his effective ‘price’ on the boards. Now nobody wanted to touch him. Others had done the same thing, although in a few cases it had meant losing people when an old commander sweet-talked them into jumping ship. Nobody serious, but a damned fine company commander in the notional Second Batt had jumped over to the Eighth Regiment. Cutprice wished him well and they’d found someone just as good to replace him.

Norris tapped his main laptop one more time then leaned back, letting out a sigh.

“Looks as if he’s done,” Pennington said. “Let’s go see what he’s done.”

“There’s fifteen minutes left, Andrew,” Cutprice said, walking over to the table. “What’s up?”

“Oh, things haven’t really started, yet,” the lieutenant said, still leaning back. “But my job is done. I got all the personal information entered. At the stroke of five til, all the bids will submit. Then the program will start running interference. I think there are two other units using bots, but not at the regimental level. Fifth is pretty tight, but they don’t have anyone doing bots. We should be good to go. We may lose a few minor slots, but no company commanders or above and their respective NCOs. Frankly, I think we’ll be good down to platoon sergeants and operations NCOs. Probably platoon leaders.”

“I just love your priorities, Norris,” the possible regimental commander said.

“Do you disagree, sir?” Norris asked. “Because it’s a bit late to do so.”

“No, actually I agree,” the CO said. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“Uh, oh,” Norris said, grinning. “Second Batt, Fourth Infantry just jumped the gun. They’re going to get hammered.”

“I don’t get that,” Cutprice said. “Where?”

“Bunch of specific unit requests,” Norris said, gesturing with his chin at the screens. “Looks like they’re trying to game the system but without a bot. Watch the slot values for the Fourth fall like a rock.”

“That’s good, though,” Cutprice said. “If value goes down, your points go further.”

“Nope,” Norris said. “No clustering and aggregation. What that means is that the group has just created conditions where the lousiest are going to cluster around them. The bot kicks off in three minutes. Probably every other bot in the place will start at more or less the same time. Watch the Board go nuts, then. Whoever set this up has never worked a market board before. I hope their servers are up to it or they’re going to crash in an instant.”

Cutprice waited somewhat impatiently for the real bidding to begin and he didn’t have to ask Norris if the three minutes were up. The boards, which had been showing occasional changes, suddenly went into overdrive.

The west wall had units with all their TOE slots, the east wall held a list of names of all the personnel up for assignment in alphabetical order. But were starting to flicker so fast, Cutprice couldn’t follow them. So he concentrated on watching his own name.

“Why’d I just put in a bid for a position in Seventh Regiment?” Cutprice said, unhappily. “That is me bidding, right?”

“Pump fake,” Norris said. “I dumped bids from notable members to other units, trying to get them to cluster.”

“I thought you said clustering was good,” Pennington said. “And Simosin is up on the 14^th. Lots of points, too.”

“There’s good clustering and bad clustering,” Norris replied. “Since we’re all working for the same goal, we’re already clustered. If you want to draw people to you, you want to cluster. But a bad cluster is when you have a group that is drawn to a particular unit by a particular leader who then deserts the unit. Or where a group self-clusters then draws in a bunch of marginals around them. If they’re not clustering by bot, which most of the people here aren’t, they’re not going to have time to switch away. That keeps them from driving up the point price in the good cluster you’ve created.”

“Oh,” the colonel said. “I don’t like the word deserted.”

“Sorry, sir,” Norris replied. “They’re using an AID.”

“Excuse me?” Cutprice said.

“The system team doing this is not using a human server, they’re using an AID. I’ve seen them work before. There’s a subtle… nuance to the way that they refresh data.”

“I hope like hell they’re only refreshing,” Cutprice replied, sourly.

“If they’re not, I’ll be able to tell later,” Norris said. “I’ve been up against them before. But… ” he opened up a screen and nodded. “Based on this, I’d say that they’re playing straight. The model’s working the way I expected. And… Five, four, three, two… ”

Both of the boards went blank for a moment, showing blue screens, then they went back up with broad banners flashing “Preliminary Results.”

Everyone had had that explained to them. Just because the Board said you were in a particular unit didn’t mean that the US Army, in its infinite wisdom, would agree. But they’d also been assured that unless things were really screwy, the plan was to stick with the Board.

“Ninety-eight percent,” Norris said, holding up his hands in triumph. “Yes! Who rules?”

“Worked out fairly well,” the major said, looking at his screen. “Some units that I wouldn’t want to be in but most of them are pretty balanced… Holy Crap!”

“Sir?” the lieutenant said, looking over his shoulder.

“Look at the point total for the 14^th Regiment!”

“That’s… Damn, sir. Can I join that unit?”

“Not sure they’d take you. Or me. AID, what’s the deal with the 14^th?”

“The 14^th was structured based on a sophisticated gaming program run from the computer of First Lieutenant Andrew Norris,” the AID replied. “Expansion. Lieutenant Norris was recalled to service from the position of CIO of VenturGrant, a member of the Chicago Stock Exchange. The program was a modification of a standard stock-trading bot. Analysis indicates that approximately ninety-eight percent of the current officers and NCOs of the 14^th collaborated to ensure placement in the 14^th.”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s… ”

“Even if it’s theoretically legal, it shouldn’t be,” the major said, frowning. “I’ll have to query higher about letting it stand. But I know one change we’re going to make right now… ”

“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Wacleva said, clapping the lieutenant on the shoulder.

Norris’ shoulder was, in fact, starting to get sore. Virtually everyone in the new cadre had come over to thank him for his work.

“You’re welcome, Sergeant Major,” Norris said, nodding. “But these are preliminary results. They can change it around if they want to and… ” He paused as a pop-up jumped out on his computer. “Oh, those rotten motherFUCKERS!”

“What?” Cutprice said, turning away from his first command meeting. Until he was fairly sure he was getting the junior officers he desired, he wasn’t going to talk shop.

“They fucking scragged me!” Norris said, nearly screaming. “Oh those rotten motherfuckers!”

Cutprice looked up to the position for Assistant S-3 1/14INF and noted that Norris’ name no longer filled the slot. In fact, it was unfilled. Looking over at the personnel board he hunted until he found Norris’ name.

“What in the hell is BUPERSECINDEP?”

“It’s the office that runs the fucking BOARD,” Norris screamed. “Those dirty rotten… ”

“And, unfortunately, I guess that’s the answer to your question, Lieutenant,” Cutprice said, looking at him sadly. “The REMFs rule.”

“So we’re not sure what to do with this, ma’am,” the major said, hoping against hope for a reasonable and prompt answer. “I figured I had to kick it up to you. And it’s sort of time critical. We have to have final orders cut in twenty four hours.”

Sinda Makepeace was not happy. She had been comfortable in the Luna office of Personnel, Officer’s Pay and Adjustments. Then had come the Mutiny, which she had tried her hardest to sit out. Then the shift to a new personnel office. Then that whole Augmented Medicine and that horrible Cally O’Neal person. Then she got shuttled down to Earth as an expert in recalled personnel of all things!

She had looked at the Board and points system, determined immediately that she had no clue how it worked, and left it up to the major and his team. Now he was asking her for a decision and she wasn’t even sure what the question was!

“So this separate regiment… ”

“It’s a non-assigned regimental cadre, ma’am,” the major said, gently.

“They all got together and decided they wanted to be on one team,” Sinda said, slowly.

“Yes, ma’am,” the major replied. “But they did it, basically, by cheating. And there are other units that could use some of that expertise.”

“But it’s a separate regiment, right?” Sinda said, shuffling through the papers on her desk.

“It’s a non-assigned regiment, ma’am,” the major repeated. “It hasn’t been assigned to a division, yet. There’s not enough cadre to make up another division.”

The colonel picked up a memorandum and read it, slowly. Then she looked up.

“And that is the 14^th, right?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the major said, his brow furrowing. He wished she’d just hand him the damned memo and let him read it.

“And does it have… ‘an average point score in each grade in excess of the seventieth percentile’?”

“I think so… ” the major said, looking at his data. He sorted quickly and then nodded, frowning. “Try in excess of the eightieth percentile, ma’am. Most of the positions are in the upper eighties and into the high nineties… ” He looked up and tried not to sigh; she was getting that glazed look again. “The answer is yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said, brightly. “It’s all fine, Major. Feel free to leave it as is. I need to do some work, though, and I’m sure you need to get ready for the next round of placements. Was there anything else?”

“No, ma’am,” the major said, non-plussed. “You want to leave it as it is?”

“I think that’s what I said,” Sinda said, a bit more sharply. “If that’s all?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the major replied, getting up. He’d expected an answer next week if then. “Good day, ma’am.”

“AID, send a memo to Recall that we’re going to need those volunteers. Send a memo to General Wesley’s office that we believe there are sufficient recalled personnel to fill out one regiment. Amend the memo to recall to accept volunteers of any rank, including officers, but they all come in as junior enlisted. Usual graft and disclaimers.”

Keren scratched his head as he looked at the email from Department of the Army.

Herschel Keren had bought the farm. Looking at the way that the military was going after the War, the mortar and artillery liaison for the Ten Thousand had seen less and less of a need for former specialists with a few college credits as officers and gotten out.

The US after the War was a very odd place. Central cities like Chicago and Detroit had hardly been touched. There had been occasional scatter landings that had killed a few people and raised tensions, but in many ways it was business as usual.

On the other hand in the areas the Posleen had fully occupied, mostly the coastal plains, southern Great Plains and the south, things were back to Injun Wars days. Although every major settlement of Posleen had been reduced by orbital fire, Posleen survived, living a hand-to-mouth existence, rarely armed with much more than spears, but dangerous nonetheless.

Keren had taken a veteran’s preference and been granted a one hundred hectare plot in Northern Virginia, not all that far from where he’d first won his spurs. He’d considered the spot carefully. It was on the remnants of a main road and was flanked by a river which still had a standing bridge.

The first few years had been tough. There were few natural defenses except the river and the Posleen reproduced fast in the rapidly regrowing Virginia countryside. He’d put in a fortified house to start, hunted out the surrounding Posleen, gotten some crops started, hunted out some more Posleen.

Slowly the area around him filled up as other veterans fled the life in the Sub-Urbs or found they couldn’t adjust to civvie street. Families moved in. The well-prepared survived if not prospered. The unprepared ended up as scorched homes that were graves for their bones.

Keren Town, Herschel Keren, Mayor, was not by any stretch of the imagination pre-War Paris. But it had a population of fifty-three and supported another two hundred or so combination farmers and Posleen bounty hunters. The Six Hundred Inn did pretty good commerce with traders moving through the wilderness and better as the best source of homebrew in five counties. Keren’s Feed, Seed and Sundries turned a small but noticeable profit each year. The exception was managing bounties which Keren did at cost. He took in heads on credit, shipped them to the main bounty processing stations and only took enough off the top to pay for the handling. There weren’t no such thing as a good, live, Posleen in his opinion.

He hit print and walked into the family room. Pamela was spooning stirred peas into the gaping maw of Annie, who had an amazing fondness for the stuff.

Pamela was his third wife. As a juv you expected you were going to outlive the short-timers. But Pam was his third wife because Kathy had decided the life of a hardy pioneer wasn’t for her and gone back to the Elizabethtown Sub-Urb where he’d met her. Janice had died in childbirth before Dr. Bedlows had moved to town. Doc Bedlows wasn’t much of a doctor, but he could have saved Janice sober or drunk.

Even with that, Keren had fourteen children, about thirty grand-kids, more great grands and even three great-great grands and was slowly repopulating northern Virginia. Rappahanock County had a noticeable trend towards a coloration that was once termed ‘mulatto’.

He had to wonder if it was really in his best interests, in the best interests of the region, for him to give it all up to be a mortar maggot again. And, hell, he’d done his bit. The small shadow-box filled with medals, the collection topped by his CIB and finally a gold pin that was a simple “600” in Arabic numerals, attested to that. Can I get an Amen, brothers?

But he’d seen the media reports, read the articles. The Hedren looked like bad news. Not as bad as the Posleen; nothing was a bad as the Posleen. But they made Hitler look like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. And since Mike O’Neal was running the show, now, he had to figure that the information was more or less on the up and up.

And, hell, with the forces they were planning on raising, he’d be a captain again before you knew it. He might even get a company this time.

Thomas was full grown and managed the store just fine. Paul ran the Inn. Keren had been semi-retired for the last decade. Hadn’t been a feral in town in nearly three years. Cute new wife or no, it was getting pretty damned boring in Rappahanock County.

“What’s wrong?” Pamela said when she looked up. She’d already learned the wifely trait of reading a husband like a book.

“Me that have been where I’ve been, me that have seen what I’ve seen… ” Keren answered, holding out the email.

Pamela was the grand-daughter of Robert Crawford, a former medic in the 80^th Armored Regiment. Robert wasn’t a juv but before he died she’d heard more than enough stories to last. And she knew her husband’s fondness for Kipling.

She looked at the email and teared up slightly. But then she dashed the water from her face and smiled.

“Go,” she said, quietly. “There’s things that have to be done. We’ll be here when you get back.”

Orders had been cut. The unit, with the exception of Norris, stood.

The next day, starting very early and going on until ‘Can we fucking get this over with already?’, had been dozens of assumption of command and responsibility ceremonies. General Fortun, the BUPERS his own self, had handed over musty flag after musty flag. Actually, they weren’t all that musty. They’d been kept in climate controlled rooms for damned near fifty years. But it had taken for fucking ever since the General, who had to be a masochist of the first order, had felt it necessary to hand over every fucking flag down to the company level.

And not only the fucking flags. Somewhere along the lines they’d come up with a stupid ‘assumption of responsibility’ ceremony for the fucking NCOs! He’d gotten a flag. He had it leaning up against the wall of his quarters since he still didn’t have an office. Wacleva had gotten a cheesy little mace thing, the symbol of his ‘assumption of responsibility’ for Bravo Company, First Battalion, 14^th Infantry Regiment.

Former Sergeant Major Wacleva, who had killed his first Nazi in Warsaw at the age of not quite thirteen and jumped with the Polish Airborne into the most fucked-up portion of Market Garden when he was just past seventeen, had not been notably impressed.

But afterwards had been the to-be-expected party. And Colonel Pennington — despite being low-class enough to have spent his whole career in mech infantry — had laid on a nice spread. He’d gotten a caterer to bring in a bunch of really nice roasts, potatoes, all the fixings and the bar was open. Cutprice hadn’t asked the Colonel what he’d done on civvie street, but he had to have made some money. Feeding all the officers and senior NCOs of a brigade a nice spread like that wasn’t cheap.

But Cutprice wasn’t a newbie. He’d taken a look at the training schedule for the next day and the gleam in the colonel’s eye and put two and two together.

Higher management had figured that the ‘cadre’ wouldn’t be good for much after the to-be-expected parties. Guys who found themselves in STRAC units like the 14^th would be celebrating, the ones that found themselves in rag-bag units or staff would be drowning their sorrows. So the training schedule for the next day was grab-ass. Nothing that couldn’t be skipped.

Naturally, Colonel Pennington woke his hungover cadre the next morning and went on a Fun Run.

Defining a Fun Run is hard. How ‘Fun’ it is depends on the unit. A unit that doesn’t run very much thinks a ‘Fun Run’ is being run around for an hour or two at a slow pace. Units that run a lot think a ‘Fun Run’ is a marathon. Basically a ‘Fun Run’ is any run that is designed to make people fall out. There is no training to it. It’s a gut check.

Doing a Fun Run with Pennington, hung over, was a special kind of hell. Cutprice was pleased to see, as the unit staggered up to the Bachelor NCO Quarters, that the unit he had, to a great degree, created met the most elegant of standards. Some of the staff pukes and support had fallen out. That was to be expected. But not a fucking one of the leadership had. Some of them looked like they were about to pass-out, but they were all there.

Given that they’d just gone about twenty miles, many of them horribly hung over, he was satisfied.

“NCO’s fall out into barracks,” Pennington shouted without slowing down much. “Officers, we’re headed to the BOQ. Which is about four miles from here. And… DOUBLE TIME, MARCH!

Fucking track-heads…

Cutprice had just stepped out of the shower and was about to flop face down on his bunk when his cellphone rang. He’d have ignored it, but it was the ringtone for the Battalion Commander, the opening strains of The Internationale. Simosin = Russki. Russki=Commie. You can take the boy out of the Cold War but you can’t take the Cold War out of the boy.

“Fuuuck,” he muttered, picking up the phone and flipping it open. “Captain Cutprice, how may I help you, Colonel?”

“Get over to Pennington’s quarters,” Simosin said. “I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”

“What’s this about, sir?” Cutprice asked, already pulling a fresh uniform out of the closet.

“You’ll know when I know. He caught me in the shower.”

The Regimental Commander’s quarters were standard O-6, a small suite in a prefab two story building filled with other minor brass. About the only thing they had that Cutprice’s didn’t was a small sitting room and its own crapper. Cutprice had to share his with another captain.

The sitting room was not designed to handle a group consisting of most of the brigade staff, all the battalion commanders and their operations officers and XOs. Especially a group who had been drinking the night before and PTing hard all morning. It stank to high heaven. And looking around, Cutprice was the only company commander present. That didn’t bode good at all.

“I think I printed out enough for all of you,” Pennington said, holding up a sheaf of paper. “Pass these around and read them. That’s going to cut the time.”

When Cutprice finally got one of the sheets, having heard the murmurs before it got to him, he read it quickly.

“If everyone is done reading,” Pennington said, impatiently. “You’re all experienced senior officers; you all know what a cleft stick we’re in. In eight weeks we are lifting off, presumably for Gratoola. That is normally the sort of time that a fully trained and integrated unit would have to just prepare for off-planet movement. But between now and then we have to move to our temporary training area, get retrained, receive brand new nuggets from Basic, organize a separate combat regiment, train them and get our units integrated. Get the word impossible out of your heads. You weren’t hand-picked for this unit because you had it in your lexicon anyway. This is your warning order. I need Major Hatch, Colonel Hardy, Colonel Eckert and… Captain Cutprice to stay behind.”

When the officers had filed out the colonel looked around at the survivors.

“Major Hatch,” he said, looking at the S-3 from Third Battalion. “You’ll be leading the advance party. Which means you have to catch a flight this afternoon. We’ll figure out the rest of the crew to send with you in the next hour. But your second is Captain Cutprice.”

“Yes, sir,” the major said, looking over at the company commander.

“Cutprice, you’re the emininsce gris here,” the brigade commander said. “We all know it. But Mullins can move your officers and NCOs just fine. Hell, most of this group we just need to tell them where and when and they’ll show up if they have to E E. So go out to Kansas and figure out how we’re going to expedite this training program. It’s going to be a cluster fuck because we don’t even have a TOE on a separate regiment yet. Everybody get prepared to think fast on their feet. And Cutprice.”

“Sir?”

“Get a Buckley. Get used to using it.”