by John Ringo
They had a few moments to discuss it. The drill corporals were running the recruits ragged with grass drills and Sergeant Pappas was fairly certain that they did not expect a search. He had not found the material before during his occasional fits nor would he be expected to now. They quickly finalized and implemented their plan, then left to torment the recruits. The reconstruction of the squad areas would be carefully supervised by the drill corporals. By the time Stewart had a chance to check the hidey-hole he would be forced to wonder whether it was the NCOs who raided the stash or a trainee.
Two days later there was an unscheduled field exercise. At two a.m. the recruits were hounded out of their beds, into field gear and out into the darkness.
The platoon was broken down into squads and put through hours of murderous squad drills. This is the sprint and dash technique of the infantry, dropping to the prone to take the enemy under fire as another squad moves then leaping to their feet and running forward to the next firing position. Deceptively beautiful to watch when well performed it is brutally physical work: a tremendous aerobic exercise. Run twenty or thirty yards throw yourself to the ground, fire a few blank rounds, push yourself to your feet with fifty pounds of equipment on your back then do it over and over again for hours on end.
The squads were supervised by the drill corporals as Gunny Pappas moved quietly through the darkness from squad to squad, observing them all, yet unobserved. All the fluff was gone now, the “civvie fat” that was so evident on their arrival, even on those who were in shape. Each of them was a hard, tough little bundle of killing energy, as dangerous as so many baby rattlers. Just the way they were supposed to be.
Towards dawn the squads were well scattered and, per instructions, the drill corporals gathered each of them in and in a complete violation of doctrine built a fire. Fire was anathema to the modern infantry, revealing of your position, potentially dangerous in the form of a forest fire and, yes, environmentally harmful. But Pappas knew the infantry man is in many ways atavistic. He revels in the dirt and the mud even as he curses it and fire strikes a special cord in the human breast. Fire opens up the soul in a way that few things can, to those who are open to it, and there are times when nothing but a fire will do.
As second squad settled back against its packs relaxing in the warmth and light Pappas stepped silently out of the darkness and gestured for the drill corporal to leave.
The squad sat up and shot covert glances at Stewart. He in turn fixed Sergeant Pappas with a basilisk stare; one of his many attributes was that he had a stare to give a bull pause. He had learned the first week not to direct it at Pappas but now it seemed time to do so.
Pappas reached into his thigh bellows pockets and drew out twelve wads of bills. “I suspect you might be looking for these,” he said and tossed one to each of the recruits.
“Sir,” started one of the recruits, “this isn’t what it looks like!”
“Shut up,” said Stewart in a voice he would use to order French fries. The recruit shut up.
“I want to tell you a secret, soldiers,” said Pappas in a quiet, neutral voice. It was the first time he had used that appellation for them and they were universally startled. Technically they should not be referred to as soldiers until they completed their final tests. It was a goal they had all been striving for, whether they had realized it or not, a mark of approval more important than life in many ways.
“It’s one of the big secrets,” Pappas continued. “You know, the Sergeant Secrets. It’s one of the secrets you really believe exists even when you deny it. Recruits always believe that the sergeants have special secrets you never learn until you’re a sergeant. Like we get told the secrets on our last day at ‘Sergeant’s School.’ ” He smiled at the weak joke and puffed out his cheeks.
“Well, you don’t. You learn it just by being in a unit, by being in the military, whether it’s in the Army, Marines, Line or Strike or whatever. You learn it usually in your first few months. But it isn’t the big secret. It’s a little secret.
“Here it is in three words,” he continued, seriously. “ ‘Contraband is everywhere.’ There’s always drugs, or personal firearms, or military demolitions somewhere in any barracks. And there’s always a black market in the stuff. You guys weren’t the first or the second or the two hundred and fifty-ninth. Contraband in barracks is as old as armies.
“And the stuff that we are going to be issued is a black marketer’s dream. Everybody in the fuckin’ country wants the Galactic weapons, the combat drugs, the Hiberzine. Hell, even the littlest GalTech shit, pens, Eterna batteries, everything, is worth big bucks. So, where we’re going is the jackpot; you can get a piddly little twelve grand for one hit of regen. And that leads to another thing.” He picked up a stick and stirred the dying fire, puffing his cheeks in and out in silence for a moment.
“There’s a bigger secret,” he said in a near whisper. “One little sentence. ‘As long as it does not affect the unit’s effectiveness, no big deal.’ ”
He smiled again and looked up at the circle of recruits. As he did his eyes turned frosty and his grin turned to a snarl. “But none of you cocksuckers were a gleam in your daddy’s eye when I was in the fuckin’ Marines. Back then the fuckin’ officers in the Army had to have armed guards to go into the fuckin’ barracks because the fuckin’ drug problem was so bad, and it wasn’t much better in the fuckin’ Corp.
“If we had to fight a war during the seventies, warn’t nobody coming. There wasn’t a unit in the whole fuckin’ Army, not the infantry, not the artillery, not the armor, not the airborne, that was combat ready because the criminals owned the Army. And the Corp would have been hard pressed to carry a war on its own, especially with our own drug problems.
“If you guys go up there thinking that you’re being handed the keys to the candy shop the unit that receives you will be fucked. When they really need the shit, when lives are going down the drain and your buddies are dyin’ all around you, the shit they need won’t be there.
“The ammunition and weapons and every little bit of equipment that we depend on will be sold out from under us. And then we are fucked. It’s happened. And I’m damned if it will happen on my watch.” He looked back at the fire and poked at the flames, his rage subsiding. He made a faint motorboat sound.
“We fought long and hard to erase that,” he continued briskly. “We had to, ’cause a military like that just can’t function.
“It’s about respect. If you think you can pull one over on me, you haven’t got any respect for me and you won’t obey my orders, or the orders of your officers, when it’s time to lay it on the line.” He paused and looked at the fire for a moment, hoping that some of them were getting it. But he was really talking to Stewart and they all knew it.
“Now, you guys are good, really good, on paper. But if you think money is what it’s all about you can’t be Strike troopers ’cause you won’t be there when I need you.” He really did not want to lose the investment that he had made in them but he was deadly serious and both emotions showed. Sincerity usually does.
“So now you begin to learn the big secret, the biggest secret, maybe. I won’t tell you what it is, you have to learn it on your own. I will tell you that it ain’t ‘money isn’t everything’ or anything trite like that. But this is a start. So, here’s the bottom line: if you want to wear a combat suit, if you want to be what you’ve trained to be for fourteen weeks, you have to throw those bundles of money in the fire.”
The squad had been listening intently to him, pulling it all in. Now they clutched at the bundles, gulping spasmodically as they looked at each other. They each held several thousand dollars and they had worked hard for it. They definitely did not want to give it up.
“Or, you can stand up and walk back to camp and after graduation you’ll be cycled to your local guard forces, no pack drill, no court-martial, just a little paper shuffle.
“Statistically, you have a better chance of survival in the Guard. Unless the
Posleen land directly on you, Guard is going to be holding fixed positions and won’t be moved from battle to battle like Line and Strike. As Strike troops, you are going to be fed into the blender over and over again, and no matter how good you are, a lot of you are going to die. All you have to do to join the Guard, is hold onto the money. That ought to be easy. Right?” Having said his peace, he leaned back against the pine tree behind him and waited for a reaction. He scratched his head with a short stick, automatically brushing the resulting dandruff off his shoulder.
Stewart still had him fixed with the basilisk stare. Now he finally spoke.
“We could cut you in.”
The offer did not offend Pappas, it was fully expected and he had hoped for it to drive the point home. Also, he could tell that Stewart was offering it pro forma, without any expectation that it would be accepted.
“No, I don’t think so. You see, I already know the big, big secret.”
“Yeah,” whispered Stewart, for the first time looking down to the wad in his hand. He slowly pulled the rubber bands off and fanned the bills out. Then he stacked them again and riffled them just under his nose, smelling them. He fanned them out one more time and without a word, or change in expression, tossed them into the fire. One of the squad, it was unclear who, gave a small gasp.
“Money can never be important enough, can it?” asked Stewart.
“No, but that’s not the whole secret, either,” answered Pappas. Then he watched as the squad, one by one, some with a visible struggle, but most, strangely, with hardly a sigh, tossed the money in the fire.
“Okay,” said Pappas tiredly, “get some sleep. An’ I hope you never learn what the rest is.” Then he got up and ghosted into the night.
* * *
Now Pappas wished he had terminated their asses. Somewhere in the immediate area of the McDonalds the squad was loose and, if history served, getting in some sort of trouble. He spotted Ampele being led around a corner by a nice-looking, if slightly plump, young lady and ran him down.
“Where’s Stewart?” he asked, pulling Ampele back around the corner.
“Wha… ? I don’t know, sir. I was just talking to Rikki here. He was over by the bathrooms with his squad just a minute ago.” He started to step back inside the restaurant, then seemed to pull back as if connected to a bunjee cord. The young lady’s hand was out of sight behind his bulk and Pappas was tempted to shout “Hand Check!” just to see their expressions.
“Miss,” Pappas said gently, “if you’d just excuse us for a moment?”
Her hand reluctantly drifted back into sight and the sergeant dragged Ampele firmly away by one thick bicep.
“Focus. Worry about the wahines when we get to Indiantown Gap.” He walked into the restaurant and caught a glimpse of a second squad member ducking through the employees’ door. He caught the door before it could close then stopped, looked around and turned towards the bathrooms.
“Gunny, Wilson went that way,” Ampele pointed out, rather superfluously.
“Yeah, and this is Stewart we’re dealing with. The only thing I’m wondering is if it’s a double bluff.” He yanked open the Men’s room door, or tried to at least. Something had it stuck fast.
“Stewart! Open this damn door or face the consequences!” he snarled, dragging at the door with all his might. “Hwone! Htwo!” There was the sound of something being forcibly removed from the door and it opened just in time. Nine members of second squad were crowded into the not terribly large bathroom. One and all they were looking at him as if he had gone insane.
“What’s wrong, Gunny?” asked Stewart, stepping back from the urinal so that the next squad member could move up. “That door does stick something awful for a Mickey Dee’s, doesn’t it?”
“Okay, where is she?” asked Pappas, meeting him stare for stare. The bathroom smelled like most, a little cleaner with a smell of dilute urine and other matters best left unnoticed. But underlying them all was a faint whiff of cheap perfume.
“Where’s who, Sergeant?”
“The other half of the pair. The one you didn’t sic on Ampele.” At the reference the broad platoon leader looked chagrined; again the sergeant had proven he was two jumps ahead.
“I have not a clue what you are talking about Sergeant,” said Stewart, an absolute picture of innocence. “There are no women in this bathroom,” he continued gesturing around at the braced squad, “and you came in the only door.” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if wondering at the sergeant’s strange aberrations.
“Ampele, stay here. Stewart,” he said, sinking a meaty hand into the slight PFC’s shoulder, “we need to have another little chat.” Pappas dragged him out of the bathroom and then outside into the autumn mists.
“If I have told you oncet,” said Pappas mildly as he slammed the private into the outside wall of the burger joint, “I have told you twicet,” he continued, driving the brim of his campaign hat into the bridge of Stewart’s nose and his finger into the private’s breastbone, “do not fuck with me. I think you may be officer material, but you’re more likely to end up in Leavenworth. The stupid bitch is above the third acoustic tile from the left starting from the urinal, undoubtedly scared out of her life. There was a smell of perfume and a scattering of bits from the tile you were trying to hide behind the squad.
“Now, get your squad back out in line to eat, get her down and on her way, without any fucking around, and report to me when you’re done, is that clear?”
“As crystal, Gunny.” The hint of smugness enraged Pappas and a suddenly realized solution came as a bolt from the blue. He smiled evilly. At that sight a hint of wariness crept into the private’s eyes.
“From now on I am off duty,” Pappas said and smiled inwardly at the sudden confusion Stewart revealed. “If anything goes wrong,” he continued, “it is your responsibility,” a rock-hard forefinger drove into a breastbone again. “I am totally hands off, got it? When you fuck up,” finger, “I am taking a stripe. You’re a PFC, so you’ve got two to lose. When they fuck up, you,” finger, “are losing a stripe. You are in charge of all activities as of when we reach the hotel, I’ll announce it on the bus when we leave. That should keep you out of trouble. Is that clear?”
“Clear, Gunny,” Stewart agreed, his face turning gray.
“Me and Ampele we’re going to relax the rest of the trip ’cause you have all the responsibility. If anything goes wrong, public drunkenness, public lewdness, irate fathers, shopkeepers ripped off, vomiting in public, it is your,” finger in the chest, “ass. All night and all day tomorrow. I intend to sleep like a baby. Is that absolutely, perfectly, crystal clear?”
“Yes, Gunny.”
“Good.” The NCO smiled broadly, his white teeth bright against his wide brown face. “Have a nice day.”
And the rest of the trip was a picnic.
26
Andata Province, Diess IV
2059 GMT May 18th, 2002 ad
Lieutenant O’Neal stripped the box magazine from his M-200 grav rifle and stared unseeing at the thousands of teardrop-shaped pellets within. Then he reinserted the magazine and did the same with his grav pistol.
“Would you please quit doing that?” asked Lieutenant Eamons. Both of them waited by windows on the northwest corner of Qualtren. The angle was even greater than the FSO indicated and they had a clear view of the 1.145 miles to the next intersection. There the Naltrev megascraper cut back and blocked the view. Naltrev and its sister megascraper Naltren held the battalion scout platoon and the upper part of O’Neal’s vision systems were slaved to the view from the scout platoon leader’s.
“Where are your people, Tom?” Mike asked.
“Downstairs.”
“Are they tasked?” O’Neal continued to watch the view from the scout leader. It was unsettling because of the flicker of a personal area force-screen — the PAF set up in the anticipated direction of attack — and because Lieutenant Smith had a nasty tendency to occasionally toss his head l
ike a horse throwing a fly. The movement would swing the viewpoint right and up. I doubt he even notices that he’s doing it, thought Mike, stripping out the magazine and reinserting it, but I wish he’d quit.
“Would you please quit doing that, Mike! And why do you want to know? No, they’re sitting around with their thumbs up their butts.”
“Quit what?” Mike asked, his attention focused like a medical laser on the view from his helmet. “Start having them emplace cratering charges across Anosimo and Sisalav at the Sal Line and then start placing C-9 charges at the locations I’ll slave to their AIDs.”
“Whoa, Mike. You’re a nice guy and outrank me by a whole grade, but the hell if I’ll piss my career away for you. The colonel will have my bar if I do that.” The lieutenant tried to shake his head and stopped when he had to force it against the biotic gel filling the helmet.
The Jell-O-like material completely filled the helmet and the interior of the suit. It was responsible for more than a third of the cost of the armor and the only major part that was not, at bottom, O’Neal’s concept.
Putting on the helmet of a combat suit was something like putting your head in a bucket full of jam. However, the material completely cushioned the wearer against the most extreme shocks and had a series of other important functions. It read the user’s movement intentions through their own neural net and drove the suit accordingly. It recycled waste into potable water, edible food and breathable air. And it had enough medical technology and ability to keep its “ProtoPlasmic Intelligence System” alive as long as they did not take a direct hit to the heart, brain or upper spine.
All that did not make troopers any happier about donning the helmet. One third of all washouts in the first month of training were from troops who could not handle first putting on the helmet, then holding their breath as the underlayer humped and rippled creating pockets for breathing and vision. The wait until the suit was in position could feel like an eternity.