When the Devil Dances

CHAPTER 17 Newry Cantonment, Newry, PA, United States, Sol III 1928 EDT Thursday September 24, 2009 ad

“It’s a real cantonment,” Gunny Pappas said, staring out the windows of the converted bus.

Moving ACS had been a problem from the beginning. Packaging their suits and moving them separately effectively disarmed them; most ACS troopers were fairly incompetent without a suit wrapped around them. And moving the suits with people in them was a horrendous operation; even with their pseudo muscles turned “down,” suits tended to destroy normal structures when the two came into contact.

Finally, standard forty-five passenger school buses had been converted to carry the units. The seats, basically bars of raw steel welded into benches, were intensely uncomfortable for anyone not in a suit. But they had the benefit of being able to survive even a long bus trip with ACS enlisted infantry onboard.

The sole concession to comfort in the buses was an adjustable headrest. The first thing ACS troopers tended to do once they were out of combat was remove their helmets and that habit had been recognized in the design. It was a well understood action; ACS sometimes spent weeks in continuous contact with the Posleen; after that long in a virtual environment the need to breathe uncanned air and feel wind on their face became overwhelming.

Stewart picked his head up from the rest and looked at the approaching gates. “Well, with any luck we won’t have to E E our way across this one.”

“Long time,” Pappas answered with a sigh. The sergeant major had brought a platoon of new recruits with him to their former base at Fort Indiantown Gap, back when he was Gunnery Sergeant Pappas. At the time the Ground Forces were in a state of only slightly controlled anarchy and the platoon had found it necessary to sneak in and fight their way across the base to their barracks. Once there they found the acting first sergeant engaged in black-marketeering and, possibly, murder. With the help of the acting company commander they had settled that idiot’s hash and managed to maintain a semblance of order in their company until O’Neal and the new battalion commander arrived almost simultaneously.

“Roanoke?” Pappas asked.

“Harrisburg,” Stewart corrected. “I was the second platoon leader.”

“Harrisburg,” Pappas agreed after a moment. He remembered the shattered armor of Lieutenant Arnold well, but while his recollection of battles was often too clear, inessential details like where they occurred had started to fall by the wayside. “HVM.”

“Yep,” Stewart agreed.

“Quit weirding each other out,” Duncan said from the next row. He leaned forward and pointed at the barracks and the neatly trimmed parade grounds. “Garrison time. Time to get drunk and laid, not necessarily in that order.”

“If everything’s ship-shape, sir,” Pappas pointed out. “I’ll believe it when I see it. I mean, these are garrison troopers forwarded from Ground Forces. How good are they going to be? There’s probably a foot of dirt on the barracks floor.”

Mike heard the challenge of the MP at the gate distantly and the response of the driver sounded like it was at the bottom of a well. But he swiveled his vision sideways to watch the exchange.

The MP could not have known he was being watched by the battalion commander; the suit did not move and the helmet remained facing forward. But he was punctiliously correct anyway, checking the driver’s orders and receiving a confirmation download from Mike’s AID. When he was sure everything was correct he stepped back and saluted, undoubtedly waiting for the vehicle to move on before dropping it.

Mike touched the driver on the arm to keep him from pulling out and inspected the MP’s turnout minutely. Most of his gear was clearly designed to look good and stay that way. The holster for his service pistol was patent leather as was his brassard and his battle dress uniform, a pattern still called Mar-Cam, was tailored and pressed.

But he was also well shaven with a fresh haircut and in good physical condition. The fact that they were coming was well known, but up until today Mike had not been sure of their ETA. So the soldier had either cleaned up quickly or maintained good grooming even when “the cat was away.” On reflection Mike decided that it was probably the latter. After a moment, during which it must have been like looking at a statue, he returned the salute and waved for his Humvee to move on.

The MP must have called ahead because by the time the convoy reached the battalion area there was a small group of officers and NCOs gathered on the front lawn.

Mike clambered carefully out of the seat and walked over to the group, casually returning the salute of the slightly overweight captain who appeared to be in charge.

“Major O’Neal,” the captain said with a nod. “I’m Captain Gray, your adjutant; we’ve never met, but we have exchanged e-mails.”

“Captain,” O’Neal said, taking off his helmet and looking around. Besides the captain there was a single second lieutenant. Other than that there were no officers. And the few senior NCOs did not seem to have been rejuved. However, the personnel were in good looking uniforms, Mar-Cam again rather than silks since they were only seconded to Fleet, and the junior personnel were in good physical condition. All in all, it was a decent looking body of REMFs. “Do I have a part in this little ceremony?”

“Not a ceremony, sir,” the captain said. “But I thought you might want to get familiar with a few of the faces.” He gestured at a sergeant first class in the first rank. “Sergeant McConnell is the battalion S-4 NCOIC. He’s actually the regimental S-4 NCOIC…”

“But since there’s not a regiment to be NCOIC of…” Mike continued. “Good afternoon, Sergeant. And do you have a boss?”

“I think you’re it, sir,” the sergeant said. He was short and also overweight, but he gave the impression of being an india rubber leprechaun: hard, mischievous and very elastic. He had bright eyes that regarded O’Neal warily.

“We don’t have an S-4 at the moment, sir,” Captain Gray said. “We’ve been promised one a time or two but…”

“But there are places that they’d rather be,” O’Neal filled in. He looked at the group and cleared his throat. “I’m sure we’ll get to know each other very well over the next couple of weeks. For the time being, continue as you have been. I’d like you to get with the battalion command sergeant major and the company first sergeants as to billeting. The troops will need to do an issue draw,” he continued, looking at the S-4 sergeant. “We’re basically here in the suits we stand in and not much else.”

“I took the liberty of looking up everyone’s sizes, sir,” Sergeant McConnell answered. “And everyone is assigned a room and a wall-locker. The wall-lockers all have a complete issue in them. They’ll have to sign for them of course…”

“We have a team on standby to examine deficiencies,” Captain Gray said, anticipating O’Neal’s question. “I hope that your commanders find the barracks to be acceptable; I had a full unit GI of the Bravo and Charlie barracks last week and the inspection showed that they were in pretty good shape. They’re brand new so there’s some indications of that that we haven’t been able to work out; paint around the edge of the windows and stuff like that. But otherwise I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Hmm,” Mike said, not knowing quite how to respond. “Very well, get with the sergeant major, as I said.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Do officers have an issue?”

“Officers have to buy their uniforms, of course,” Sergeant McConnell said. “But there is a temporary issue in their quarters and they can choose what they want and buy it with a comment to their AID. We also have uniforms standing by in your lockers in the Morgue.”

Mike looked around again and shook his head with a frown. “Tell me that this isn’t as rikky-tik as it seems. I mean…”

“You mean ‘what the hell are REMFs doing getting something right,’ sir?” Sergeant McConnell asked with a puckish grin.

“I probably would have put it more politely,” O’Neal noted as Pappas walked up behind him.

“I’ve been a REMF ever since I got out of Delta Force, sir,” the sergeant answered. “Where I was a… not a REMF. I got recalled as my final MOS, which was supply. I decided that, all things considered, I’d stay there. I had my salad days. But, if I do say so myself, I’m a pretty damned good supply sergeant.”

“Everything okay, sir?” Pappas rumbled.

“The only thing wrong seems to be that there’s nothing wrong, Top,” O’Neal said with a shake of his head.

“We’ve had plenty of time to prepare, sir,” Captain Gray pointed out.

“And you have done so,” O’Neal agreed. “Which is all too rare.”

“There are also some combat replacements, sir,” Captain Gray said. “They’re in barracks and have been issued their basic equipment. They’ve been fitted and the lieutenant that is in charge has been having them work their suits in.”

“What did we get, sir?” Gunny Pappas asked, taking off his helmet.

Gray’s eyes fixed on the line of what looked like semi-intelligent water, or maybe a silver slug, that gathered on the side of the NCO’s head and then humped itself down the armor and into the helmet. “Ahhh… we received four NCOs and an officer from the Ten Thousand and a group of privates from other Ground Force units. All of them have had some combat experience.”

“Sounds good,” Mike said. “Sergeant Major, these gentlemen have the billeting mapped out. Why don’t you get with them and get the troops moved through in…” He paused and looked around. “Where are the Morgues?” he asked.

“In the basement of the barracks, sir,” Captain Gray said, pointing at overlarge side entrances.

“Cool,” O’Neal responded. “Company commanders and staff to battalion headquarters as soon as they’re in silks. Troops fall into the barracks and get their issue squared away.” He glanced at the sun and shook his head as he sneezed. “Damn. Shelly, what time is it?”

“Just past fourteen hundred, sir,” the AID replied out of the helmet.

“Seventeen hundred formation for all companies,” Mike continued. “I want everybody in silks and standing tall by then. The companies can release the troops to the cantonment area at that time, if they so choose, but they cannot release them off post.”

“Clear,” Pappas said. “You know that if we wait too long it’ll just build up the pressure.”

“I know,” Mike said with a slight smile. “I used to be a grunt back when, smaj. Friday night. Payday procedures. By then I’ll have had a chance to meet with the locals and get them marginally prepared. Then they can tear down the gates.”

“Man,” Mueller said, leaning back from the table. “If the troops in the corps knew you ate like this they’d be tearing down the gates.”

“They could try,” Cally said with a laugh. “I think we could probably turn ’em around with the first line of claymores though.”

Papa O’Neal looked at Shari’s half finished steak and frowned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Shari said with a wan smile. “It’s just that this is as much meat as I can remember eating in a month.”

“Well, you ought to come around more often,” O’Neal said with a smile, poking her in the arm. “You’re as thin as a board. We need to get you fed up.”

“I know,” Wendy said, scraping up the last of her baked potato. “In the Urb we both eat about the same amount and I have a problem keeping my weight down. Shari never gains weight.”

“Oh, I used to have to diet,” Shari said, wiping her mouth and setting the napkin down alongside the half full plate. “But the food in the Urb isn’t…”

“Much good at putting on weight,” Elgars finished, wiping up steak juices. “It’s also lousy for putting on muscle; the protein portions aren’t large enough. I have a hell of a time with it; I always feel like I’m being starved to death.”

“It’s one of the reasons I stopped exercising,” Shari said, pulling a sated Kelly onto her lap. The two youngest were already in bed and most of the rest were outside in the dark, having borrowed warm clothes from the O’Neals. The kids were revelling in the freedom to just run and play; that was all too rare in the Urb. “I’d just get exhausted. Between the lousy food and taking care of the kids. And there was nowhere to send them where they were safe like here; so they were always right there.” She hugged Kelly and rubbed her cheek on the sleepy girl’s head. “Not that I minded, sweetie. But it’s nice to have a break.”

“Well, you’re not getting any lousy food here,” Papa O’Neal said definitely. “And you can definitely take a break. I want you to stay over tomorrow night. And we’ll really have a feed then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shari said rocking back in the chair. “There’s so much to do…”

“There’s nothing critical,” Wendy said. “We are the creche. We don’t really ever have to go back.”

“Not true,” Shari said. “The children are in our care, but we don’t have custody. That would be kidnapping.”

“Okay,” Wendy said, admitting the point. “But we don’t have to go back in the morning. We can stay over.”

“And what about the sergeant major?” Shari asked. “He has to get back, right?”

“Nope,” Mosovich said. “If anybody wants us, they can page us; I can get to corps headquarters as fast from here as from my barracks. We’re on duty anyway; the orders that I got cut say so. And both the food and the scenery are better here,” he finished, winking at Wendy.

“So there,” Wendy said, sticking out her tongue. “And I think that Annie’s doing better here than in the Urb.”

“I do too,” Elgars said. “I don’t know if it’s the air or the food or what. But this is the first time I’ve really felt… alive. Whole.”

“Well, if we’re not an imposition,” Shari said one last time.

“If you were an imposition, I wouldn’t have insisted,” Papa O’Neal said with a grin. “I’m looking forward to feeding you up,” he continued, poking at her ribs. “You’re too skinny. Skinny, skinny, skinny.”

“That, frankly, sounds heavenly,” Shari said with an almost giggle, slapping at his hand until he desisted. She ended up holding his fingers and released them. But not too quickly.

“It is nice,” Wendy said with a smile as she leaned back and stretched. “But it has been tiring. I think we should all go to bed…”

Mueller suddenly coughed hard. “Oh, sorry,” he gasped, quickly looking away.

Wendy stopped in mid stretch and regarded him out of lowered eyelids. ”… And I was going to say, ‘and get some rest for tomorrow.’ Master Sergeant Mueller, have I ever shown you a picture of my boyfriend?”

“Oh, my,” Captain Slight muttered. “I think he must have been the biggest one in his class.”

First Sergeant Bogdanovich suppressed a snort. Bogdanovich, Boggle to a very select few veterans of the battalion, was a short, muscular blonde whose fine skin was as translucent as paper from years in suits. She had been in the battalion since before its first blooding and she thought she had seen it all. But Boggle had to admit that the first lieutenant reporting to the company commander was rather oversized. He actually seemed to have trouble making it through the door straight. She hoped there was a suit that was fittable to him. On the other hand, he looked like he could survive an HVM round to the chest without one.

“Sar… Lieutenant Thomas Sunday, Junior, reporting to the commanding officer,” Sunday said, rendering a hand salute.

Sunday wondered at the timing of this meeting; the majority of the company had been released and he could hear the racket of their settling in throughout the barracks. But the officers and NCOs were apparently still going strong. He’d noted that was usually the case in the Ten Thousand, unlike his first Ground Forces unit, and he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Slight said. “This is First Sergeant Bogdanovich. Later she’ll be introducing you to your platoon sergeant.” Slight paused and went on delicately. “It seems that you might have recently been promoted…”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sunday admitted. “I was promoted to first lieutenant about five minutes before I left the Ten Thousand.”

Slight smiled as the first sergeant chuckled. “Well, you have to admire Cutprice’s chutzpah. What were you before you were so abruptly promoted? A two L-T?”

“No ma’am,” Sunday said with a frown. “I was a staff sergeant.”

“Hmm,” Slight muttered with a frown. “I’ll have to think about that one. I think the message we were supposed to get was that he thinks you’d make a good ACS platoon leader. What do you think of that?”

“With all due respect, I don’t particularly like it, ma’am,” Sunday admitted. “Lieutenants don’t get to kill Posleen. I wanted suits to kill horses, not to pull George and ‘determine zones of fire.’ And… there are some benefits to being a Fleet sergeant or a Ground Forces staff that you… don’t have as a lieutenant. Besides getting to kill horses.”

“I tell you what, Lieutenant,” the captain said with another slight smile. “Let’s slot you in at platoon leader for the time being. And if we decide it’s not right for you, we’ll break you back to sergeant with no hard feelings; Fleet Strike moves people around like that all the time with no real effect on their record. How does that suit?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Sunday rumbled.

“Have you met the battalion commander?” she asked. “He wants to meet any officers we receive.”

“No, ma’am. I was told to report to the company commander first.”

“Okay,” she said. “AID?”

“Major O’Neal is in his office reviewing the training schedule,” the AID said promptly. It had a deep male baritone unlike most of those Sunday had heard, which seemed to be all female. “His AID says he’d be happy for the interruption.”

Mike nodded at Sunday and returned his salute. “Chill, Lieutenant,” he said as a grin violated his habitual frown. “Sit, even.”

The office was small, smaller than the company commander’s and like hers almost completely unadorned. Behind the major a private from the rear detachment was up on a step stool painting in a motto on the wall. So far he had gotten to “He who” in thick black, Gothic lettering.

The major leaned back and picked up the cigar that had been smoldering in his ashtray. “You smoke, Lieutenant?”

Sunday paused for a moment then shook his head. “No, sir.” He remained sitting rigidly at attention.

“Well, if you’ve been with the Ten Thousand for the last few years there’s no point in trying to corrupt you,” O’Neal said with another grin. “I got an e-mail about you from Cutprice. He explained that if I try to take any of your rank, he will personally… what was the phrase? ‘Boil me in my own suit like an undersized lobster.’ ” The major puffed a few times on the cigar to get it started again and peered at the lieutenant through the smoke. “What do you think of that?”

“Uh, sir…” Sunday said, frozen. “I… uh… I wouldn’t presume to comment on your interaction with Colonel Cutprice or on your decisions in regards to my position in the battalion.”

“Sunday… Sunday… ?” Mike mused. “I swear I recognize that name…”

“We… have met briefly a time or two, sir,” the lieutenant said. “The last time was at…”

“Rochester,” Mike completed. “That one I remember; your physique is… distinctive.”

“So is yours, sir,” Sunday said then froze. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” Mike said with another grin, flexing one arm. His forearms were still the size of most people’s thighs. “I take it you work out?”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy answered. “At least two hours per day, duties permitting.”

“Yeah,” O’Neal said with a nod. “You’ll be glad to hear that the suits permit weight exercise while in them. Otherwise there is no way I could maintain this. But I wasn’t thinking of Rochester or even, I think, other battles… Shelly: Thomas Sunday, Junior, encounters and relationships, not while he was a member of the Ten Thousand.”

“Thomas Sunday, Junior, is one of five combat survivors of the Fredericksburg defense…” the AID started to answer.

“That’s it!” O’Neal said excitedly. “The kid wrapped up with the blonde! Even then I knew that anybody that could survive that and wind up with the girl was going to go far.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sunday said with the first smile since he’d entered the room.

“Thomas Sunday, Junior, is also the developer of ‘Bridge over the River Die,’ ” Shelly continued doggedly. “That is all known connections.”

“Hell, that was you?” Mike said. “That’s a great module! We used it in Washington in the first landing. I remember being told that it was written by somebody from F’Burg but… well…”

“You figured they were dead?” Sunday said. “That was a good guess, sir,” he continued with a grimace. After a moment he shook his head. “You actually used it off the shelf?”

“Even the smoke,” Mike said. “Everybody thought I was some tactical genius. Thanks.”

Sunday laughed. “You’re welcome. If it makes you feel any better—” He paused and shrugged. “Well, I ripped some of your code from the Asheville Scenario.”

“I know,” O’Neal said with another grin, taking a pull on the stogie. “I reversed it and read the code; you even left in my trademark.”

“Well…”

“S’alright, it’s still a good module. So, what happened to the girl?”

“Wendy?” Tommy shook his head at the change of direction. “She’s in a Sub-Urb in North Carolina. We… keep in touch. Actually… we keep in touch.”

“Uh, huh,” the major said. “In one of the ones around Asheville?”

“Uh, no, sir, Franklin. It’s a little town…”

“By Rabun Gap,” Mike finished with a frown. “I’m from there. My dad and daughter are still in the area. I doubt they’ll meet up, though; people who go into Urbs rarely come out.”

“Well… sir, I was wondering something,” Tommy said carefully.

“Spit it out,” Mike said with another pull on the cigar.

“Well, it’s like this. Ground Force does not recognize dependents for anyone under E-6. I’d just made staff when Rochester came up. But if I’d stayed in Ground Force, we could have…”

“Gotten married,” Mike said with a frown. “You ever hear the thing ‘lieutenants shouldn’t marry’?”

“Yes, sir,” Sunday answered quietly.

“Shit,” the major said with a shake of the head. “Fleet’s started to get some very ‘old fashioned’ types in its upper echelons; and some of them are getting downright nasty on the dependents issue. I’m not sure if it will fly for a lieutenant. The fickle finger of fate, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant answered. “I still wanted to transfer, sir, I’m still glad I’m here, however that affects Wendy and I. I… killing Posleen is what I do.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement and an underestimation, son,” O’Neal answered. “I’ve seen your code. It’s good; you even know what to rip off and what not to. Killing Posleen isn’t all of what anyone should do.”

“Well, sir, with all due respect I don’t have much more,” the lieutenant said. “My mom is in an Urb in Kentucky; she and my sister were in the Bunker. But, really, we hardly keep in touch. With the exception of Wendy, everything I ever knew is gone. And it seems like to make a real life, I have to kill all the Posleen I can. Until they’re gone, we can’t begin to get back to normalcy. So… I kill Posleen.”

“Well, this conversation has taken a turn for the morbid,” Mike said with a shake of his head. He pulled on the cigar for a moment looking at the lieutenant in the blue haze then shrugged. “You’re not the only one with a story, L-T. Yours is well known, but it’s not the only one. Gunny Pappas lost a daughter to the Posleen in the Chicago drop. Duncan’s family farm is nearly five hundred miles behind the lines. Captain Slight’s lost her mother and brother to the war; both of them were civilians.

“If all that any of us do is kill Posleen, they’ve won. When this war is over, we’re going to have to go back to being humans again. If the only thing we know how to do is kill Posleen, if we’ve forgotten how to be human, to be Americans not to put too fine a point on it, we might as well not even fight it. You can feel free to hate the Posleen as long as that doesn’t eat you up as a person. Because at the end of the day what we’re fighting for is the right to wrap ourselves around a blonde in peace.”

“Understood, sir,” the lieutenant said. But Mike recognized the closed expression; the lieutenant understood the argument, but wasn’t willing to admit its validity. “I’ve got a question, if I may, sir.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you hate the Posleen?” Sunday asked warily.

“Nope,” Mike answered instantly. “Not a damned bit. They’re pretty obviously programmed to be what they are. I don’t know who programmed them — I’m pretty sure in other words that the tin-foil hat types are wrong and it wasn’t the Darhel — but if we ever meet them, I’ll damned well hate their asses. I don’t know what the Posleen were like before they got tinkered with, but I doubt they were interstellar conquistadores. The Posleen can’t help being who they are and we can’t help resisting them. Not much room for hate in that situation. But if it helps you to hate them, go right ahead.

“Look, let’s change the subject for a bit. It’s after seventeen hundred and none of this crap is really vital. Let’s go find the officers’ mess together and talk games design. I’ll think about the marriage thing and try to find an out. In the meantime I hear Mongolian Barbecue and some really lousy beer calling to me.”

“Hell, sir, it’s practically free,” Sunday pointed out. “And free beer is, by definition, good beer.”

“Boy,” the major said with a shake of his head. “You even drink love-in-a-canoe beer. You’re going to fit right in.”

On the back wall the battalion sign painter shook his head and carefully cleaned up the last part where his stifled laugh had caused his hand to slip. Then he continued with painting the new battalion motto on the commander’s wall.

But he had to wonder. Most mottos made sense. “Fury From the Sky,” “The Rock of the Marne,” “Devils in Baggy Pants” and, of course, “Semper Fidelis.”

But somehow he was having a hard time getting his head around: “He Who Laughs Last, Thinks Fastest.”