The War for Profit Series Omnibus

by Gideon Fleisher

  “Basic issue?”

  “I don’t know who you pissed off, but in a couple of hours you’re going from here straight out to the field. You’ll need full war gear. You just go check it out for yourself.”

  They went to the armory first. It was a low, sturdy building made of reinforced concrete, and its one small door was flanked by two armed guards.

  “Halt! State your business.”

  “Here to get our basic issue,” said Galen.

  “I.D. please.”

  They showed their assignment orders and contracts.

  “Go on in, snappers. Just don’t forget to stop by admin to have your I.D. cards made before you leave.”

  “What’s a snapper?” asked Tad.

  The guards were bored, working a slow night. They took the time to explain. The guard on the left said, “A snapper is a new arrival. Statistics show that most new guys snap from the stress within three months, if they’re going to snap at all.”

  “No,” said the other guard, “a snapper is a snapper because it takes about a year for him to travel from in-processing to out-processing, moving slow like a snapping turtle.”

  “One year here? But we’re contracted for five,” said Galen.

  “Oh, you’re in the Brigade for five years but your first year is spent here, garrisoning this rock. Gives you time to get in tune with the brigade’s way of doing things, the SOP and the jargon, and you also get a chance to show what you’re made of. Build up a file to let the people in the head shed know where to put you. Some guys like it here and keep extending their time on Mandarin. I know a Sergeant who has been here eighteen years. He claims he’ll do another two here and then retire and open a bar just outside this compound’s main gate.”

  “Sounds like he’s a shammer,” said Tad.

  The guards grinned. “Snapper!”

  The first thing Galen saw inside the armory was a sign saying, “Browsing limit five minutes. Cash purchases not allowed; warrior accounts only. Move only in the direction of the arrows. All sales are final.” He noticed the red duck-tape arrows stuck on the floor and followed them as they guided him in a zigzag through the diagonal aisles of the armory. Display racks held environmental suits, field uniforms, pistols of every make and style, a wide variety of rifles, crates of grenades, plus an assortment of war gear and battlefield cutlery. The display case for entrenching tools had pictures of grunts digging foxholes, pounding tent pegs and prying open tank hatches. One photo showed a grunt in close combat, using his entrenching tool to chop off an enemy’s head.

  Tad pulled one from the display rack and said, “This is cool, I’m buying it!”

  “No, wait until we get our basic issue. There might be one in it,” said Spike.

  They hurried, winding through all the aisles, following the arrows on the floor. Finally they reached the check-out counter. A middle-aged civilian, rotund and balding and dressed in a lightweight set of khaki coveralls, greeted them. “So what can I do you for, gentlemen?”

  “Basic issue, please.”

  “Show me your orders.”

  They placed the documents on the counter. The clerk glanced at the paperwork. “Standard stuff.”

  He went to the back room for about five minutes and then returned pushing a heavy-duty cart loaded with military gear. “This stuff’s on the house, courtesy of the Brigade. Anything else you want, you pay for. But this standard issue should suit you just fine on Mandarin. I don’t expect to see you again until you get ready to leave.”

  “So what do we get?” asked Tad.

  “Basic field kit: Bayonet, automatic pistol, three sets of combat coveralls, and your choice of either a rifle or a submachine gun.”

  Spike and Galen chose rifles.

  “I want a submachine gun,” said Tad.

  “Sign here on the hand receipt.”

  They did and then the clerk stapled copies of the receipts to their orders and handed them back. “Take those uniforms to the tailor so he can sew on your rank, name tapes and patches.”

  They thanked the man and carried their gear outside.

  “Wait here,” said Tad. “I’m going back to get that shovel.”

  “What do you think of all this, Spike?” said Galen as he reorganized his field gear to fit better in the pack.

  “Not bad. Guns and money and uniforms, just what every young man wants.”

  “My rifle ain’t too bad but it looks used.”

  “A ten millimeter assault rifle with seven clips of caseless ammo. I’m not going to complain about a couple of scratches on the stock. At least we know they’ve been tested.”

  “I wonder if we have to ever give this stuff back.”

  “Only if we get kicked out for disciplinary actions. That’s what it says on the receipt.”

  Galen followed Spike’s lead and put his pistol in its holster, then strapped the belt around his waist. Four extra magazines were on the left, the sidearm on the right. Galen felt more like a warrior already.

  “Hey guys, check this out!” said Tad, re-emerging from the armory. He brandished his entrenching tool and made a few swipes at the air to decapitate an imaginary enemy. Then he folded it up, put it in its carrying case and hooked it to the side of his field pack. “But with this submachine gun, I probably won’t need it.”

  Tad removed the pistol holster and magazines from his pistol belt and shoved them in the pack. Then he put his submachine gun magazines in the ammo pouches, clipped his bayonet and scabbard to the belt, and slung his gun over his shoulder. Quick as a flash, he un-slung the weapon, had a magazine snapped into its well and had the bayonet fixed. He practiced the action two more times, then picked up and shouldered his field pack.

  Spike said, “Let’s get over to the tailor shop. I’ll feel better when I’m in uniform, showing off my Sergeant rank.”

  They went to the basement of the in-processing building and found the tailor shop. A tired old man in a wheelchair greeted them. “Evening, gentlemen. Hold still while my sensors get your measurements.” He pressed a button behind the counter and held it for a moment. “That should do it.”

  They laid their coveralls on the counter. The tailor took them to the back of the room, laid each set carefully on a conveyor belt. The uniforms slid out of sight, passing through a half meter square opening in the wall. The tailor hit a few keys on his computer terminal and gazed intently at his monitor, occasionally working a joystick control. Galen looked around the shop. It was neat, clean and uncluttered. On the tailor’s desk was a picture of a young man in a space fleet uniform. There was enough detail in the picture, mostly from the uniform worn by its subject, to let Galen know it was taken during the Dissention War. The young man had been a crewman on a Mandarin warship. Galen realized the man in the picture was the old tailor.

  “You were in the fleet?” Galen asked him.

  “Yes, thirty five years. Then I helped train the young guns of the Panzer Brigade on how to use a Mandarin transport ship. Now I just do what I can to help out. I like being around the military. It gives my life purpose and direction.”

  Galen was stunned by his words. Galen was only here to make a fast buck then get back home to a real life and hang up the combat boots forever. The actual living proof, provided by the old tailor, that some people made the military their way of life, made his stomach knot up. Sure, there had been plenty of hard-core lifer types at the academy: Drill instructors, educators, military science instructors; they all seemed to love the military. But never before had Galen met a disabled, aging man with so little time left to enjoy life, wasting that time on the military. He pitied the old man.

  “All done,” said the tailor. “You can step into the changing booths and try them on. Make you look a whole lot better.”

  They did. Tad’s field uniform fit well, tailored to his figure. It was the first time since leaving the academy he wore something that wasn’t outrageous. Galen looked at himself in a mirror. The field uniform made him look even taller, his averag
e build made more impressive by the elastic waistline and the extra material around the shoulders and chest. The subdued name tapes and rank insignia were clearly visible, well-placed by the tailor in accordance with Panzer Brigade uniform regulations. He had to turn his body to view the unit patch sewn onto his left shoulder. It was a rectangle turned on end, showing a sword pointing down the middle, crossed by two ancient muskets with bayonets fixed. At the bottom the embroidered letters said, “Regulars, By God!”

  “Infantry?”

  “Yes. Your first year is with the infantry battalion here on Mandarin,” said the tailor.

  “Infantry. I should have known something like this was bound to happen,” said Spike, emerging from his changing booth. He looked okay, but somehow less impressive without his high boots and leather jacket. Coveralls just didn’t do much to make the short man look better.

  “Don’t sweat it, I’ll keep the enemy off you,” said Tad, performing a martial-arts roundhouse kick with ease. “Hey, it’s only for a year. Then we get tanks.”

  They went back to the welcome center and waited for the convoy to arrive.

  “Look at you,” said the Corporal behind the counter. “You Sergeants look ready to conquer the whole Mosh invasion force single-handed. Mind if I tag along?”

  “I think I hear some disrespect coming from somewhere,” said Galen.

  “More like insubordination.” said Spike.

  “I wonder what the penalty is?” said Tad.

  “Probably death. Yeah, disrespect and insubordination often lead to desertion, so we could nip the problem in the bud and just kill him now,” said Galen.

  “Hold up, I was just kidding. Lighten up, Sergeants. You got to have a sense of humor around here.”

  “Okay, we’ll forget about it this time. So where’s that convoy you promised us, Corporal?” said Galen.

  “Due to arrive in about twenty mikes, Sergeant. They made better time than expected, the last checkpoint said. So you can get on out there and stomp some bad guys into snail snot sooner than I thought.”

  “Watch your mouth,” said Tad.

  “I.D. Cards,” said Galen.

  “What?”

  “We forgot to get our I.D. cards.”

  They stepped outside and walked directly across the quadrangle to the administration building. They could hear the distant sounds of an approaching armor column, the pop and squeak of tracked vehicles on the move.

  “Better make this quick, I hear the convoy,” said Galen.

  They went in the building, consulted the directory, and then headed to the second floor.

  “Greetings, Sergeants. You here for I.D. cards?” A Troop sat behind her desk in her office, door open to the hallway, facing the top of the stairs.

  “Yes.” said Galen.

  “Come right in.” She stood and waved them towards the holo booth. Her light blond hair was in a tight French braid. She wore conservative flat-soled shoes, dark brown slacks and a khaki blouse buttoned all the way up. A small brown woman’s tie was clipped to her throat. Galen admired her figure. Breasts larger than her fists, a trim waistline and hips as wide as her shoulders. He couldn’t see any panty or bra lines, but no part of her body jiggled when she walked. The beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes showed she was no spring chicken. Galen assumed she had one of those body forming ultra-sheer things on under her class B uniform. She was just over two meters tall and looked like she could handle a big man.

  “Give me your orders and step into the booth one at a time so I can get your hologram, and I’ll have you out of here in a couple of minutes.”

  “Yes, recruit, uh…” said Galen, trailing off in hopes of getting her name.

  “Not recruit. Troop. Trooper Harover.”

  “But you wear recruit rank.”

  Spike was just stepping out of the booth. Tad smirked at him and made a subtle gesture toward Galen and Trooper Harover. Spike grinned and nodded and patted Tad on the back as he entered the holo-booth.

  “Oh, that Mandarin stuff. We use their insignia because it helps us to work with them. The liaison thought up the idea when the Panzers first came to Mandarin space. But we go by different tittles, ones that fit our TO&E. I’m a Troop. We drop the ‘lance’ from Corporal and Sergeant, ‘Gunny’ is called ‘Chief’, and he’s in charge of a platoon. ‘Master Gunny’ is called ‘Master Sergeant,’ and he’s in charge of a company,” She paused for breath, “and a ‘sub commander’ is called ‘Sergeant Major.’”

  “And officer rank?”

  “Who cares? We just call them all ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ anyway. Don’t see a lot of officers here in the infantry. I think your company is led by a Lieutenant, and the battalion is led by a Captain right now.”

  “Next!” said Tad, stepping out of the booth.

  Galen stepped in and shut the door. A red indicator light went out, an electronic buzzing sound came from the holo camera, and then a green indicator light came on. All finished, Galen stepped back out and noticed that Trooper Harover was bent over a workbench attached to the booth. He admired her haunches while she prepared the I.D. cards. She shifted her body’s orientation to give Galen a direct view of her behind. Whether the action was deliberate or not, he wasn’t sure. She stood and turned around, handing each warrior his new card. She saved Galen’s for last, gazing into his eyes as she handed it to him. “Look them over for any mistakes, then come to my desk and sign for them.”

  Her eyes were blue, a deep, clear blue with no flecks or speckles of any other color. She must have been wearing makeup, but Galen didn’t notice any. Just good, clear skin. He examined his I.D. card. The holo picture seemed to stand out of the card half a centimeter. On the front was his name, rank and the expiration date, one year away. On the back was a magnetic data strip as well as printed information about Galen’s height, weight, blood type and date of birth. “My card’s perfect, Harover.”

  “Then sign here. When you rotate out to the fleet, come see me again for your new card.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. But I’d like to see you again sooner than that, though. Socially?”

  “That suits me fine. When you rotate in for pass, look me up. I stay in building three six oh nine. Buzz the main door and ask for Inger.”

  “You can count on it. See you in about three months.”

  She smiled and waved at him as he left to join Spike and Tad outside. The rumbling of the approaching armor column was louder, closer. The purr and churn of the internal combustion engines was audible over the clank, pop and squeak of the tracks. Suddenly an armored personnel carrier rounded the corner of the in-processing building and lurched to a halt. Three more came and parked on line, dress-right-dress with the first one.

  Chapter Five

  “What the hell is that?” said Tad.

  Spike answered his question, “Those are fully tracked vehicles powered by turbine engines using liquid organic fuel. They’re armed only with a machine gun mounted on a traversing ring in the track commander’s hatch. They’re impervious to small arms fire, can take a direct hit one time from most handheld missiles, but are a sitting duck for automatic cannon fire. Their purpose is to serve as basic transportation for infantry in tactical situations.”

  “Please don’t quote the entire mounted infantry manual,” said Galen.

  “Organic fuel,” said Tad. “I hate that stuff. A fireball waiting to happen, that’s all it is.”

  “Well, maybe. But it helps us earn our pay. I just hope I’m not in one of those cans when it takes a hit from a thermal round,” said Spike.

  Troops, clean and fresh, emerged from nearly every building and converged on the vehicles. Tired and dirty troops dismounted from the Armored Personnel Carriers and walked into the welcome center. A Corporal dismounted from the top hatch of the first APC and stood about ten meters in front of his vehicle.

  “Fall in,” he ordered.

  Galen, Tad and Spike walked over and stood behind the formation. There
were four ranks of nine each.

  “You three in the back. You all deaf or something? I said fall in.”

  “We’re Sergeants, you’re a Corporal,” said Tad.

  “At ease, men. Rest in place,” ordered the Corporal. He then walked to the rear of the formation to have a talk with the three Sergeants. He was in his late twenties, dressed in field coveralls and combat gear, and looked like a competent veteran. He also looked upset. Restrained anger dominated his dark brown face. His fists were knotted in frustration.

  “Does the term ‘in charge’ mean anything to you Sergeants?” He spoke into Galen’s chest, standing only ten centimeters from him. The Corporal was nearly a half meter shorter than Galen but refused to look up.

  “Maybe you better explain things,” said Galen, giving the unruly Corporal one last chance to redeem himself.

  The Corporal stepped back, relaxed his posture and said, “You snapper Sergeants need to understand, I’m in charge of this convoy. It’s my job. If you don’t like the way I do it, you’ll have to take the matter up with my Chief. Now I ain’t just making this up as I go along, I have certain things I have to accomplish, guidelines to follow and objectives to meet. So if you can’t handle being treated like a troop, fine. Just suck it up and do what I tell you until you’re released from my command. That’s right, command. I’m running this show and have the full authority of a commander.”

  “Oh, we didn’t know all that,” said Spike, breaking the tension between Galen and the Corporal.

  “Then fall in on the right. I’m making you Sergeants my track commanders. You take second, you take third and you take fourth track.” He pointed at each Sergeant as he made the assignments. Galen moved to the right end of the second rank of troops. He looked to his left and saw nine young troops, all dressed in field uniform and ready for battle. None of them had side arms, only rifles. Corporals and Sergeants had pistols and the choice between rifle or submachine gun. The Corporal moved down the first rank, performing a pre-combat inspection on each troop. Finally he came to the second rank and started its inspection with Galen.