Stark's Command

by John G. Hemry

  "I know that, but I want to stop trouble before it starts, and a platoon is a lot more visually intimidating than a squad. Right?"

  He studied one platoon, three rows of menacing figures, impassive in their battle armor as so many figures on a chessboard, rifles held at port arms. "Right."

  "I know how to do this, Ethan." The words were stated in unemotional tones, but Stark still felt the implied rebuke.

  "Okay. Sorry. I'll try to keep my mouth shut."

  "That'll be the day." Switching circuits, Reynolds called the Navy personnel as Stark listened in. "Chief Wiseman? Go ahead and exit your vehicles."

  "Vehicles?" Wiseman asked sarcastically. "Okay, ground ape. I'll tell the guys in the lifeboats to debark first." A few moments later large hatches dropped open on the sides of the lifeboats, the weak lunar gravity offering only a feeble assist to the process. Sailors spilled out, most in their own shipboard battle equipment, but a few sailors were carried out, sealed into clear survival bags. Staring at the formations of ready ground troops, the clusters of sailors hesitated outside their boats. "Get those sailors into formation," Wiseman ordered over the common command circuit. Figures moved, other Chiefs standing separate to bark commands and gesture sailors into ragged ranks.

  "Oh, God," some soldier commented. "I hope those sailors ain't gonna try to march. That ought to be good for some laughs."

  "Knock it off," Stark ordered. "Those sailors just fought a battle against tough odds and came through. They deserve their pride and our respect. Keep your jokes to yourselves."

  "Get the medics forward," Reynolds commanded.

  Two APCs rose at her command, gliding forward toward the startled sailors, who watched with obvious nervousness as the armored shells of the ambulances came to rest near them. Medics spilled out, heading for the bagged wounded, throwing the sailors' formations into greater disarray. Chiefs could be seen gesturing angrily toward them, bringing an involuntary smile to Stark's lips. I know exactly what they're saying to their people, and I'm sorta glad I can't hear it.

  "Chief Wiseman," Vic called again. "You can exit the shuttles at any time."

  Stark caught an undertone of tension in her voice, something no one else would have detected. She's still worried about those shuttle weapons. Or maybe she's just afraid some sailor will push the wrong button and level half the spaceport. "We still have control of the weapons from here, Vic."

  "Thanks, Ethan."

  Chief Wiseman came on once more, her voice carrying some of the fatigue she had to be feeling after recent events. "I'll be out in a minute. We gotta secure the shuttles."

  "We handle security at the spaceport," Vic insisted. "Or is there some sort of internal threat you're worried about?"

  "Internal threat?" Wiseman didn't bother to disguise her annoyance. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You said you're securing the shuttles. That means you think there's a threat."

  "No, it doesn't."

  "Then why," Vic questioned, grinding out the words, "are you worried about security?"

  "We're not! We're just securing the shuttles!"

  "Wait a minute," Stark broke in. "Chief Wiseman, what do you mean when you say you're securing the shuttles? What exactly are you doing?"

  "Turning off the lights. Powering down systems. Closing hatches. What the hell else would it mean?"

  Vic made a strangling sound, then spoke in carefully controlled tones. "Securing something means establishing a perimeter and posting guards."

  "Maybe it does to you," Wiseman shot back, "but that's not what it means to me. I guess it just figures the ground forces have a totally different meaning for what securing involves."

  Vic shifted to a private circuit with Stark. "How are we supposed to work with these people? They don't speak the same language we do. The words sound the same, but they don't mean the same things."

  "Everybody's got their own special lingo," Stark argued. "Even in the mil. Go talk to Gordasa about supply stuff. Or talk to a lawyer."

  "No thanks. I have enough problems at the moment dealing with Wiseman. She rubs me the wrong way."

  "Gee, Vic, I hadn't noticed." Stark looked over as Tanaka waved urgently. "What's up?"

  "They're trying to shut down the shuttle combat systems, Commander. Should we let them?"

  "Absolutely. Vic, the sailors are shutting down their weapons. How's everything feel there?"

  "You can see it as well as I can."

  "I didn't asked how it looked. I asked how it felt to you."

  "Sorry, Commander." Stark could feel Vic's grin. "It feels safe. The sailors are acting a little shell-shocked. We'll break them into smaller groups and get them billeted and fed fast. Sergeant Manley's getting sections of a couple of barracks ready."

  "Great. Make sure Manley sends word to those barracks that anybody picking fights with the sailors will get to explain it to me personally." Stark took a calming breath. "Any more crises scheduled for today?"

  "Just your dinner party."

  "Oh, man . . ."

  "Right. I wouldn't hold my breath on that dinner going down."

  "Sergeant Stark?"

  Stark frowned, looked toward the query, then stood quickly. "Lieutenant Mendoza. What brings you here?" He checked the time, stifling a yawn. "At this hour?"

  "I will state my reason simply, Sergeant. I fear your social occasion was cancelled to avoid any appearance of impropriety in dining with an officer."

  "What?" Stark's fatigue shifted to aggravation. "Who the hell told you that? Sir?"

  "No one stated a reason explicitly . . ."

  "That's 'cause they didn't know any reason." Stark shoved his palmtop aside, collapsing back into his chair. "Please have a seat, Lieutenant. Hasn't word of our little Navy problem made its way around yet?"

  Lieutenant Mendoza took his own seat gingerly, still moving carefully in the low gravity. "Of course."

  "Then people should know that's why I couldn't spend tonight socializing. Wish I could've, but the Navy screwed things up for me. We'll reschedule."

  "Then you have no concerns about meeting with an officer?"

  "Lieutenant, I never cared much what people thought about what I did before, so I sure ain't gonna start caring now. My apologies for having to cancel, and we will reschedule."

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  "But," Stark continued, forestalling Lieutenant Mendoza as he began to rise from his seat, "as long as you're here, there's something I'd like to ask you." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Your son's a real sharp soldier. He could be a lot more aggressive, but he thinks good and he's dependable."

  Lieutenant Mendoza smiled with restrained but obvious pride. "Thank you again, Sergeant."

  "No. Thank you. It's been a pleasure to have your son in my unit. And I figure you've got to be sharp, too, but you've also been trained as an officer, with a lot of experience."

  "I have spent many years in the field, yes."

  Stark hunched forward, speaking with quiet intensity. "Here's the deal. We got rid of our old officers, so now we need a lot of new officers. Good officers. We want to do things right. Promote for the right reasons, train the right way, all that stuff. We know what we don't want; a lot of politicians in uniform just looking to please their bosses by saying and doing whatever they think their bosses will like the most. And to hell with the job and the people they command if they think their bosses want that. Getting what we want means doing things different. I hope you can help us figure out how to do that."

  Lieutenant Mendoza nodded once, slowly, his eyes fixed on Stark. "I will be happy to offer suggestions, Sergeant. Like you, I have had much experience with the negative side of the current system." He smiled, brief and bitter. "I still recall the particular document that triggered my decision to retire. The Pentagon issued a directive whose purpose, in these exact words, was to 'enable process improvement in warfare and warfare support.' "

  "Process improvement." Stark repeated the words, his voic
e flat. "In war? They actually said that?"

  "I have never been able to forget the phrase, Sergeant."

  "Well, Lieutenant, I've gotta tell you, I've been doing a lot of fighting, and I personally haven't noticed a lot of improvements in the process of war in the last few years."

  "I am sure your perception is correct. You see, though, that an organization which can speak in such terms has lost sight of its true function and is instead following bureaucratic imperatives focused on 'process' instead of common sense."

  Stark shook his head, reaching for the half-forgotten coffee on his desk, then flinched as he drank the cold liquid. "I'd offer you some of this, Lieutenant, but I don't think you'd ever forgive me. So, you're telling me you've seen plenty of the bad stuff, too. Can you show us how to avoid that kind of junk?"

  "I can do my best, Sergeant. However, nothing I can do or say will really matter."

  "Individuals can make a difference, Lieutenant. It may hurt a lot, but—"

  "That was not my point. I am not in command. You are.

  Only you can create the results you seek. Many people can alter them for the worse, but only you can push them through."

  Stark blew out a long breath, then laughed softly. "I should've expected to hear that. Is there anything I'm not responsible for?"

  "A commander must bear responsibility for many things, but few are harder than these matters you discussed. You have heard of von Clausewitz?"

  Stark thought a moment. "He's that German that Mendo, excuse me, that your son mentions every now and then."

  Lieutenant Mendoza smiled. "I have spent many hours discussing von Clausewitz's work with my son. I am pleased he is sharing that learning with his comrades-in-arms."

  "He shares, Lieutenant, but he's pretty careful about it. He doesn't like to talk much. A lot of times I have to drag stuff out of him."

  The smile shaded into a mild frown. "That is regrettable, but understandable. I was forced to become more outgoing by my responsibilities as an officer. It appears my son's similar introversion has instead been encouraged by his low rank."

  Stark nodded. "I did my best, Lieutenant, but it wasn't my job to remake the personalities of my soldiers. Right? But I want Mendo to speak up more. He's got a good head and knows a lot of theory I never picked up."

  "Thank you. I would suggest placing my son in positions where his opinions are required. He will rise to the occasion. As for theories, their value can be overblown, but von Clausewitz has a deserved reputation, in my own opinion."

  "So what's he say that applies to me right now?"

  "Sergeant, one of the things von Clausewitz proposed is that there are two kinds of courage a good commander must have. The first kind of courage is the type everyone thinks of—the courage of fighting well on the battlefield. The second kind of courage, though, applies off the battlefield. It is the courage to make the right decisions in leadership away from combat, in all the matters of training, equipping, and planning. To make the right decisions and to stick with them despite all the political and bureaucratic forces seeking to corrupt them. This second kind of courage is in many ways more difficult than the first, for decisions must be made and held to without the force of enemy action driving and enforcing them."

  "Huh." Stark took another drink, grimaced, and shoved the cold coffee away. "I've got to do that? Since I'm in command, I've got to make everything stick?"

  "I am afraid so, Sergeant. There are many ways to fail in command positions. I cannot claim to have been a perfect officer in any sense of the word, and I made my share of mistakes, but I like to believe I did so out of inexperience or lack of knowledge, rather than failure to adhere to higher principles when it mattered."

  Stark rubbed his eyes with one hand. "The more I learn about this job, the less I like it."

  Lieutenant Mendoza leaned forward slightly, eyes intent. "If you succeeded in everything you desired, it is not impossible that you could reach a higher command position, perhaps even command of a national military."

  "Jeez." Stark didn't bother to hide his shiver. "Don't scare me like that. You're supposed to be motivating me, Lieutenant."

  "The prospect is truly unwelcome?"

  "Damn right. I'd go back to my Squad in a heartbeat."

  "Then why don't you?"

  Stark looked around helplessly. "I can't. I've got a job to do. There's people depending on me. I can't let them down."

  Lieutenant Mendoza rose, nodding with evident satisfaction. "Sergeant Stark, I will do my utmost to aid you. Because I know what you do is right. And because I believe you when you say you neither want this 'job' nor would seek another. If you can hold to that despite the temptations of rank, you will succeed in your effort."

  "Thanks." Stark stood in turn, shaking Lieutenant Mendoza's hand as it was extended. "There's so much I've got to straighten out. It's good to know I'll have help like yours."

  Lieutenant Mendoza smiled again. "Do not discount the help of your friends, Sergeant. They appear to have aided you well in the past."

  "Well, yeah. Hey, I just figured something out. You came here to evaluate me, didn't you? Find out how I was really handling this job?"

  "You are correct. I never doubted my son's assessment of you as a squad leader, but many lower-echelon commanders have been overwhelmed by the demands of greater responsibility."

  "That I can understand," Stark chuckled. "And it might still happen. Good night, Lieutenant. We both need sleep. And don't worry, I'm gonna have that dinner."

  "I no longer doubt that, Sergeant. Good night."

  The ground trembled, quivering erratically beneath Stark as enemy shells landed all around the Knoll. Someone nearby had been screaming for a while, suffering from pain too intense for their med-kit's drugs, or maybe their med-kit had simply exhausted its supply. The screaming had that thin, wavering quality that meant the soldier making it didn't have much longer to live. Everything Stark could see seemed to be viewed through a gauzy haze formed of smoke, dust, fear, and exhaustion. They'd been under constant fire and bombardment for hours now. His system buzzed with fluctuating static from heavy jamming, providing no link to however many other soldiers still survived. Over Stark's left shoulder, the sun still hung above the tree line, crawling slowly down the sky, oblivious to the soldiers praying for the partial concealment darkness would offer.

  A hollow-eyed figure a few meters from Stark turned her head, shocking him since her extended immobility had convinced Stark she was long since dead. She'd lost her head armor somehow, and blood from a jagged wound along her temple had run down the side of her face to dry in a mottled red mask. Her lips, chapped and torn, moved, forming words that couldn't be heard over the thunder of explosions and the stutter of small arms fire. Stark stared, trying to read the words. Where. Where's. Oh. No. Our. Coming? Commander. Where's our commander? The other soldier shuddered suddenly, then buried her face in the faded green grass, oblivious to the blood spotting it.

  Stark's eyes shot open, his breath coming in heavy gusts, sweat spotting his skin. Damn. That was a bad one. Vic might have been wrong when she said I never left Patterson's Knoll, but I sure as hell visit that godforsaken spot every night. Silence reigned in the room, a strange counterpoint to the long-ago explosions he could still hear in his mind. Instead of harsh sunlight, darkness surrounded him, relieved only by the pale glow of the night-light. The air felt cool, tasteless the way only reprocessed lunar air could be.

  He frowned, grasping at a fleeting fragment of his dream. The other soldier. She hadn't been there. Not really. Had she? Asking for their commander. No, she would have said Lieutenant, or Captain. Now, he was the commander. Had she been asking him for help? Great. My flippin' subconscious is merging the Knoll with my problems right now. Just what I need. The only thing missing from the dream had been a gaggle of civs looking on and applauding the quality of the entertainment.

  But civs hadn't put him on that Knoll. Not directly. And they weren't the ones shooting at him. R
eal basic stuff. Who's the enemy? Why's that so hard to figure out sometimes?

  Stark lay on his bunk, staring upward, imagining the layer of rock above, the thin patina of dust above it, then the airless, empty expanse running away forever, dark and silent. People. We're alone out here, as far as we know, the only minds able to realize we're surrounded by endless nothing. Which should make us important. It should make us want to huddle together like Earth was our campfire, the only real light and warmth in a real big night. But we don't.

  He was missing something. By every measure Stark could think of, his soldiers and the civilians of the Colony should be natural allies, working together. Instead, they were usually at each other's throats. So, how come I don't think the civs are out to use us? How come I can talk to them? I've had the same experiences everyone else has in uniform, so it can't be just that. Was growing up civ so much different than growing up mil?