"Freehold Forces Third Blazer Regiment, yes." I was relieved even if I didn't show it. He opened the back and we tossed in our huge bags, then took seats up front.
Most "civilized" people would have been terrified of his driving. It was under different societal rules than I was used to, but just as fast. After a few minutes, we were all comfortable with his weaving, darting convolutions through traffic. He kept up a rapid-fire guided tour as he drove, pointing this way and that at things we'd never see again. Still, it was friendly and fascinating and Frank snapped some photos for us.
Things were brisk at the Chersonesi base, Ionides Army Training Center. We were thrown in like numbers, assigned, aligned and forgotten about. It was a moral imperative to us not to be considered part of the background scenery however, so we took steps to correct that deplorable turn of events. The first morning, everyone knew there were three Blazers present.
The day started early at "Iodine," as we took to calling it. It was a play on the name and on the orange tinged light we had. It was a familiar wakeup, with lots of pushups and screaming. It was great to be home, even with the twin suns a bloody stellar duel on the horizon, unlike anything I'd seen before.
Tyler responded to an instructor's smartass question with a roared "NAI, LOCHIAS!" (yes, sergeant!) that blew his ears back. He'd asked for us to be loud, so there was nothing he could complain about . . . officially. He shortly found an excuse to drop her for pushups, his obvious intent being to break this little woman physically, then emotionally. Little did he know.
She dropped at his command, getting face into the mud in less than a second. There was almost a sonic boom as she descended. I snapped, "Kinoumai!" ("Move!") over my shoulder to clear the soldier behind me out of the way of my legs, and dropped also, as did Frank.
The instructor asked for fifty pushups. Allowing for the gravitational difference, we gave him sixty. Then we did twenty more for good measure. It seemed fair, as we only used each hand half the time. We counted them loudly in Greek, popped back up in unison, and snapped back to attention. We weren't sweating. Of course, it was cool by our standards. But we'd use it as a psych advantage.
Whenever an Operative was dropped for pushups, we all dropped. When required to run extra laps, we all did. We moved as a trio, and that evening arranged to bunk together, by the expedient of telling two of the three Chersonesi troops in my room to relocate. They left in a hurry. Moments later, an anthypolochangos (second lieutenant) came in and began to whine about us screwing up his orderly chart. I snarled. He ran, tail between legs. He returned with a staff sergeant. I spoke to the sergeant in reasonable tones.
"Archilochias," I said, "the three of us are a team. We must be in close proximity to continue our language and technical studies"—I indicated our comms and a stack of ramchips—"and to properly assess this course, which is our mission here. Also, as ranking member of this team, I need to have my troops where I can be responsible for their safety and discipline."
The sergeant agreed as to how I made sense, and I apologized to the officer for scaring him, which elicited a grin from the sergeant behind him. The lieutenant couldn't see it, of course. We assured him that we were quite comfortable with coed arrangements and that Tyler didn't mind the other male's presence and he shrugged and left, towing the lieutenant with him.
There was another row the next morning when we were first in formation. Or perhaps it was our method of egress from the building—we jumped. From the third floor. It was only seven meters from ledge to ground and the gravity was lower than we had trained in, but for some reason, despite the fact we would later practice landing from that height or better, they objected to us jumping the gun.
There was an amusing aside to this. Their Ranger course was also required of their combat rescue troops. Combat rescue troops anywhere are nuts, and no one is allowed to do more pushups than they. So when we dropped, they dropped with us.
Then the Special Forces candidates decided they didn't want to be showed up, so they started dropping with us, too. That put the Ranger students in a bit of a bind, and their instructors suggested they shouldn't be shown up. That just left the Alpine contingent, who weren't going to be left out of the fun . . .
It wound up with the entire training battalion pumping out a thousand or more pushups a day. The instructors couldn't really ask us not to do so, so they had to reduce the number they awarded just to have time to get in the training. The lesson here is: teamwork wins wars.
The course was decent, we would report back. The technical capabilities of their Ranger students were comparable to Mobile Assault, although their shooting was poorer, but above average. They were not as physically active, nor did they have the emphasis on unarmed combat.
A note on unarmed combat, as I haven't mentioned this before. There's a debate on the validity of unarmed combat in modern warfare, as it is little used and some see it as outdated. I disagree. The necessity of getting into your opponent's face and beating on him, while taking damage personally, is excellent psychological preparation and of great value. The physical aspects of the training are good for strength and flexibility. Also, "unlikely" to be needed in combat is still "possibly" needed. I think our emphasis on it is valid. I will admit to a preference for shooting the enemy at a distance. It is far more cost effective in damage, casualties and speed of resolution. Martial arts will never replace good shooting, but can complement it nicely.
The course was no real strain. We learned the differences between our equipment and found a couple of useful items to consider. I liked their rucksacks better than ours. Their field shelter was to beat all hell. It was a combination insulation mat, bivouac sleeping bag, inflatable one-soldier puptent and hammock. It worked anywhere, and was no bulkier than the bag and mat we carried. I was impressed.
We only got one weekend in town. I wish we'd had more. It started off slow but was eventually a lot of fun.
There was a surplus store near base, naturally. We wandered in there to look at knives and such, that being my moral weakness, before the civilians were awake and moving. And behind the cluttered cases of knives, they had one of the combination shelters on display, hanging from pillars. It was a practical thing, just too damned cool to pass up, so I grabbed one to add to my non-issue gear. Then I grabbed two more, figuring to make gifts of them to Deni and possibly my sister for her camping trips. The shopkeeper didn't seem to mind my broken Greek, as much money as I was spending. But what the hell else did I have to spend it on? It came down to liquor, women and anything I could use in the field. I'm a practical person. As there were no women handy, and booze was cheap, it may as well be field gear.
As we left, Frank said, "Geez, Ken, three hundred credits? And not even one of those knives?"
"I know of better blades," I said. "But these are really cool. Are we ready for a drink?"
He replied with a shrug, "Hey, it's your money. And what do you mean, 'Are we ready for a drink?' We're always ready for a drink."
Tyler pointed and said, "Wine, ho!"
So we sampled the local wine at a little brick bistro. It was rich and red, their soil having a favorable chemistry. The wine was, I mean. The bricks were rich and red, though I don't think the chemistry made them any better, just a nice color. The climate was pleasant. We sat outside, the object of strange looks for our foreign uniforms, and had a good time. Frank drank liters. He said, "I plan to save up my empties, cash them in for the recycle value, and when I'm done, I'll have enough money for a regenerated liver." There was something wrong with that logic, but it made sense at the time. I was drinking, too.
The local women were not bad. Though I only have a statistical universe of one to draw data from.
The next week, we marched through a parade and got to add Chersonesi Ranger wings to our uniforms. Then we packed up and prepared to ship out, on a commercial vessel. It had been a good six weeks.
I've always thought myself a decent writer. It seems others agreed. Based on our experiences a
nd service time, we all got bumped one rank to Operative Corporal slightly ahead of the usual time in service. For leading a deployment, even a small one, I got a note in my file. It couldn't hurt at promotion time. I also wrote a glowing review of the combination shelter, and graciously donated one to the FMF field lab for testing. We adopted it on a trial basis shortly thereafter and it became standard. I was only doing my job. But it was nice to be thanked officially and credited for the discovery.
Chapter 4
Every new Operative gets assigned a tour on embassy duty. It gives us a chance to see other cultures and their militaries and practice some rudimentary skills, as all military attaches and their staff are assumed to be intelligence gatherers anyway. I was fortunate enough to get assigned to Caledonia, and had a great time.
First of all, Deni was there, too. When not on duty or filing reports, we had several free divs a week. You get one guess as to how we spent them, and the only detail you get is that those times were "scorching." We'd only seen each other a day here or a week there until now. Now we had five months together.
We had to pull guard duty, of course. It's not that bad. There's gate duty, which can be out in the weather, but weather doesn't bother me. There's duty inside both at terminals and roving, or at the loading dock inspecting shipments. Then we have someone at the door to check visitors. We rotated to all stations under supervision to get a good grounding, and read the SOPs and all relevant logs and histories.
We did this duty for three reasons. First, we were there as security as well as (in my case) a junior attaché. Second, it was great cover for our other activities. If people saw us on guard, they would not assume we were anything more. The professionals could figure us out, of course, but that made them work, which was the idea; work spent IDing us was work not spent elsewhere. When every embassy does similar things, it stretches the resources and limits other intel they acquire about you. Of course, it also limits what you yourself can acquire. No free lunch. Finally, and related, we were the best available, but were not perceived as more than the average. It wasn't admitted then and isn't common knowledge now that Operatives are assigned to embassies. We were identified as Blazers, and there are always a few Blazer qualified guards at embassies mixed in with the MA troops. Most threats would underestimate us. Once. Once would be enough.
Actually, duty at the little box out front was okay. It was molecularly surface treated black and green, bore our address and "Embassy, Freehold of Grainne" in silver and was attractive as only simple geometric designs can be. We worked in day shifts of a squad of twenty, fire teams of four, with teams taking turns on guard in the shack, patrolling the fence and lurking as backup and covering inside. The Squad Leader handled outside the building, Assistant inside with the supernumeraries as reserve and a second echelon. We all had the nanocircuit contact lenses with ghost images from the cameras. It takes getting used to, but we saw a lot more than civilians thought we did. The patrols had jump harnesses. They are only good for a few seconds of thrust, but they could be anywhere for backup in moments, albeit hindered by the harnesses after landing. A call would have the entire squad there in seconds, and a 20-troop squad of Mobile Assault and Blazers with a few Operatives added in is a better armed and more capable reaction force than what most militaries laughingly pass off as a platoon. Still, even with it being friendly territory, well-secured and with no threat warning, we felt the weight of it. We were our nation's presence and first line of defense for all Residents who were in the system. And with other duties and a night shift, we were usually a bit less than optimal numbers. But all our Citizens are veterans, as are most of the staff, and there was local security from the host nation. This assumes one can trust the host nation. We could here, but couldn't assume that fact would always hold true.
That duty was so important, that we could not go outside the gate for anything. If we saw a vehicle accident (there were a couple), we had to ignore it, or rather, report the incident and observe only. We would have to let a local bleed to death on the walkway outside rather than leave post without relief and permission. After all, a staged or faked injury would be a great distraction, if it got the guards away.
Otherwise, we spent a lot of time checking out the capital of Skye and its restaurants and bars. We wore Blazer insignia, same as we do now, and joined the Mobile Assault troops who were the regular embassy detail in their pub crawls. A Freehold uniform and MA tabs is a guaranteed way to pick up chicks or dicks or both, depending on your preference or lack thereof. Someone wearing Blazer tabs may as well have "GET SEX HERE" written across the forehead. We also got a lot of free drinks, and made some good connections among the militaries from other embassies. There was a beautiful blonde Novaja Rossian sergeant I went a few rounds with, who filled me in on the unclassified portions of their relations while I filled her in with the obvious. I passed the data along anyway, just in case there was anything new. I shared some tricks she taught me with Deni, who returned the favor with a few things she learned from a Caledonian Royal Marine. I passed that data back the other way. All in all, it was most educational.
The Novajas and Caledonians put up with us gamely. The assorted Mtalis and Ramadanians were shocked numb by our "decadence." The others fell in between. The only exception was the Hirohito contingent, who invited a select few of us to their New Year's party that was a regular orgy. Redheads are unusual and highly regarded there, and Deni wound up as the centerpiece. It took her a couple of days to recover, but she was very enthusiastic about the experience, and recommended it to some of the other women in the embassy. I enjoyed my share, too, which involved three little second generation Japanese young ladies with remarkable flexibility and muscle control. That data I kept, but I did share my findings on the state of their embassy's security. It was so-so.
The ambassador at the time was Citizen Janine Maartens. Her assistant was Citizen Mark Webber. He was smaller and leaner than I, and his ancestry was more mixed and obvious than mine. It didn't affect him at all, as he had a solid psyche, but it did cause people to either underestimate him or try to intimidate him. I've never understood the need of people to do that. If you're good, you know it. If someone is better, you know it. Posturing won't change either one. If they really don't want you to know their capabilities, they'll stay quiet until you're overextended and then cut you off. Silly. None of the nations represented on Caledonia were at war, so why a dance over self-importance?
Citizen Webber gave me an excellent example of how to deal with such fools my first week there. I accompanied him to a meal at one of the nicer restaurants, to discuss some silliness with a UN dip from the European Union. He'd wanted to talk to Maartens. He got her assistant instead. He was annoyed, and Webber had to politely reassure him while brushing him off. That is an art. Really, though, we'd made it clear we were an independent system and didn't care what others thought. Continually rehashing it was annoying, though it did give us time to anticipate the pending war.
I was along unofficially as bodyguard. We don't let our Citizens wander around where they might get kidnapped or worse. We'd have to make examples of people if that happened, and we'd prefer to avoid that. Officially I was there as junior military attaché, not needed, but present at lunch before going elsewhere. I kept quiet and listened to the discussion, while watching for threats. Do you know how many potential threats are in a typical restaurant? I was hyperaware, and as we were seated, I made sure to get my back to a wall, facing the door, and checked pistol, extra magazines, sword, knife, dagger, grenades, retch gas and radio, all of it except my sword and pistol hidden inside my uniform. And this was in friendly territory. I understood now why we were assigned this duty. It developed a healthy paranoia.
Deputy Economics Advisor to the Ambassador to the Star Nation of Caledonia Ward McLachlan was pushy, as were all the other UN dips elsewhere, trying to get some kind of leverage over us. He shook hands with Webber, nodded to me as a mere formality and accompanied it with a sniff, and sat down fi
rst. As ordered, I said nothing and kept the insult from showing by looking around the Aristocrat Pub.
The decor was antique without being kitsch, with old newspapers, banners and select advertisements mounted on the walls. The paneling was real wood, as expected in remote systems, and was a decent mock of Earth cherrywood. I made another scan for threats and turned back around in time to order baked fish with white sauce and a chocolate cake dessert with all the extras.
McLachlan pretended I didn't exist. He was a weaselfaced, soft little troll and had a whiny voice. Not that there was anything wrong with the voice, just with his inflection and attitude. He had the classic neofeudalist blame-everyone-else-for-my-problems mindset. I detest it. It's gutless and pathetic. Don't whine to me that you'd be better off dead, because I'll give you the chance to compare.
Sadly, I couldn't bump him off here. All I could do was listen to his gripes about "concentrating money in the hands of the wealthy" (that's what makes them wealthy. They exist in every society. Deal with it) and "not giving the people their basic right to franchise" (we don't have elections in the Freehold because we don't need them. Do whatever the hell you want. If you actually hurt someone else, they'll sue. If you're crazy enough and rich enough to want to rule, we'll take your money and let you. What idiotic process makes it easy for people to run other people's lives?).
He wouldn't shut up about it, either. For an alleged economist, he seemed to avoid money, probably because he had no clue how to actually handle it, and concentrate on that soundbite that the Freehold denies people the "right" to vote. Again, why would anyone let morons of unproven ability have a say in the government?
I took notes from Webber. He was a genius. To Ward's unending complaints, he replied, "It's interesting that your officials are elected to be representatives of the population, rather than chosen in a strict meritocratic fashion." I almost choked on my only glass of wine.
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