by John Ringo
In Keren's case it was dead easy.
"Name and social," the machine said in a low contralto.
"Herschel Keren, 078-05-1120"
"Will registered in Rappahannock County, Virginia. Living Will registered in Rappahannock County, Virginia. Designated respondee, Pamela Keren. Primary beneficiary, Pamela Keren. Is this information correct to the best of your knowledge?"
"Yes."
"Would you like to make . . . Pamela Keren your insurance beneficiary?"
"Yes."
"Would you like to increase your basic draw for insurance to increase the payment to the beneficiary?"
"No." Pam was going to be set anyway.
"Method of burial if body is recoverable?"
"In the ground."
"Religion still Baptist?"
"Yes."
"You are recorded as an assistant chaplain for the First Baptist Church of Keren Town. Would you like to be recorded as an alternate chaplain?"
"No."
"Basic immunizations are . . . not updated. Advanced immunizations are . . . not updated. Pay records are . . . updated. Thank you for your time. Goodbye."
"File into the armory and draw personal weapons," Sergeant Richards said. "Don't get all shocked that they ain't AIWs."
Keren, by virtue of being a squad leader, was issued a rifle. He looked at it and snorted, noted the serial number, then walked outside with the rest of the platoon.
"It's a fucking Postie railgun!" Adams said, shaking his head.
"Actually, it's not," Keren said, looking at the device carefully. "I've used a converted railgun and this is different. I'd say it's way better designed for humans to use."
The weapon was almost a sketch of a gun. The shoulder stock was collapsible and looked flimsy. Keren suspected it was stronger than steel. The pistol grip and trigger housing were comfortable but lightly built. The barrel was shorter than a Posleen railgun but had the same odd wideness on the horizontal access, a function of the magnetic accelerators. Sights were elevated and included optics that gave at least four power magnification. He suspected there was a way to dial that up. There was a dot reticle for fast firing. The really intimidating part was the magazine well, which looked about the size of a Barrett's. The gun, by itself, weighed not much more than an M-16 and was a touch shorter. With the magazine he wasn't going to guess the weight.
"I ain't gonna march you back," Sergeant Richards said, walking out of the armory with a railgun in his hand. "Double time back to the barracks, doff your boots and head upstairs. Then we're going to learn about these things."
They'd moved the furniture for the training room in the previous night. Simple folding chairs and folding tables were going to be the order of the day. For the next six weeks.
"M264 grav rifle," Sergeant Richards said, holding one of the rifles up. "The M264 uses linear magnetic acceleration to fire a three millimeter tungsten or steel flechette to a velocity of forty-three hundred meters per second. This is five times the velocity of an M-16 round and nearly six times that of the AIW. The maximum effective range is eight hundred meters while the maximum range is eight thousand two hundred and forty-six meters and it comes complete with a four position firing selector, safe, semi, burst and full rocking auto. The base design we took from the Posties but it has been significantly improved for ergonomics and so that it can, yes, be aimed using the M482 one to twelve power opto-digital firing scope . . ."
There was the M238 1mm grav pistol for the gunner and AG. A long-barreled weapon with more maximum range and damage than an M-16, it was a nasty thing to fire by hand with a truly brutal recoil. The non-driver ammo bearer got the M825 combination 20mm plasma grenade launcher and railgun.
Paper manuals were distributed and with Sergeant Richards's often less than helpful assistance everyone learned to field strip and reassemble their individual weapons. Particular note was taken of red comments about potential "issues." The M264 wasn't something to be fired if the barrel was blocked but that could be said of most weapons. Just more so in the case of a weapon with its power. The note about "potential capacitor accidental discharge" in "over-fire" conditions—like when you were firing as fast as you possibly could or get overrun—was not a good sign.
But the weapon could fire a round that ripped through a tank if you hit it just right and could fire four thousand rounds per minute. Both were good things. So was the five hundred round magazine with integrated battery compartment. And, yes, it was a heavy motherfucker. But adding it to the weapon actually improved balance and reduced recoil. By the end of the one-hour class the experienced soldiers were field stripping their individual weapons to standard already.
It was followed by classes on the new mortar system, the M748 120mm electrodrive mortar system, which they still hadn't set eyes upon, the M635 mortar sight, the M186 Mortar Carrier for M748, preventative maintenance, track replacement methods and repair of same and on and on and on.
By the end of the first day, which didn't stop until 2200, Keren's eyes were bleeding and his head felt stuffed with straw.
"No grab ass tonight," Sergeant Moreland said as the weary platoon filed into the barracks. "First call is at 0430 and we do it all over again. Fire guard roster is on the wall. For General Information, the cadre's already been doing all this shit on their own for a week and I'm going to be hitting the books for another couple of hours. Up to the rest of you if you want to keep going. There's lights on your bunks. But I want everyone racked out by 2400. See you tomorrow."
"Oh, I want to get my hands on that thing," Oppenheimer said as the mortar track ground to a halt.
The cadre had moved the mortar carriers over from the motor pool, possibly the last time they would get a chance to crank track.
"You'll hate it before you know it," Adams opined. "Especially the first time you have to stay late to pull PMCS."
"I wanna see the gun," Cristman said. "We'd better get a chance to work the gun soon."
They'd been manual training for a week, completing paperwork and immunizations and studying the minutiae of their new jobs. Much of it was familiar, like learning to ride a bicycle. Other parts were completely different. But they had to know both, perfectly, or their ass was going to be grass.
"And today is the day," Sergeant Moreland said. "Fall into your tracks, dismount your guns and lay them in for ground mount."
The process was slow. Everyone had read the steps but that was different from doing them. Finally, with the gunner and the primary ammo bearer carrying the barrel, the assistant gunner carrying the bipod and the primary ammo bearer carrying the baseplate, they got all the stuff out of the track. Keren, as squad leader, had the really tough job of carrying the sight.
Laying the gun in was also slow. Much of it was similar to the 120s they'd all used in the Posleen War. But that was not only a long time ago, there were subtle differences. The barrel locked in differently to both the baseplate and the bipod. The sight locked in differently. The elevation and traverse were both different.
Running out the aiming posts was still the same old pain in the ass.
"I will not ask you to attempt to remount it in the track," Sergeant Moreland said when Three Gun finally called "UP!" "That is for advanced training. So we will now go through the steps of ground mounting it again. And again. Until you are satisfactory in my eyes."
* * *
"Oh, my aching back!" Griffis said, lowering his end of the barrel to the ground.
The gun systems, in a move that truly shocked Keren, had been turned over to the squad for storage in the barracks. It was nearly 2200 and while they had not ever mounted the gun to Sergeant Moreland's satisfaction, they were getting faster. Almost up to standard according to the manual.
The problem being, any squad leader expects his team to be faster than standard.
"Your aching back is going to have to wait," Keren said, looking at the wall-mounted clock. "We have until 0430 to learn to mount this gun to my satisfaction."
; "Oh, tell me that you're kidding," Oppenheimer said.
"I don't disagree," Cristman said. "But we've got to do this all over again tomorrow. We're scheduled for two days of ground mount training. If we're up all night tonight, there's no way we're going to be optimal at end of business tomorrow."
"We'll stop at 0200 and get a couple hours' sleep," Keren said. "Or when we hit twenty-five seconds. Adams, think we can hit twenty-five seconds to mount?"
"We got to thirty at one point," Adams said. "Standard is thirty-five, you know."
"And if we're hitting thirty on the first day, the standard isn't what we should be shooting for," Keren said. "We all know it. Get the pieces and fall into the platoon assembly area."
"Easy enough for you to say," Oppenheimer said, lifting the baseplate with a grunt. "You're carrying the sight."
Oppenheimer dropped the baseplate, locking lug aligned downrange, curved to the side in a steady run, trotted to the rear, picked up the aiming posts and bolted downrange. Aiming posts were ancient technology, and there were newer and, arguably, better ways to lay a gun. There had been even before the Posleen had showed up. But there were advantages to the aiming posts, too. Several of the bigger ones were that the posts were completely passive and undetectable by sophistcated means, amazingly simple, and utterly reliable. Perhaps the biggest advantage, though, was that this crew understood aiming posts without any need for explanations or additional training. Given the schedule, this was all to the good.
By the time Opie was curving to the right Cristman and Griffis were dropping the barrel into place. With Adams holding the bipod up to receive it, they dropped it unceremoniously into the curved lower holding yoke. Adams flipped up the closing yoke and Griffis hooked it into place, spinning the locking wheel to lock it down.
While he was doing that, Keren set the sight to 2800 mils, mounted it, then stood back. Oppenheimer had planted the first pole and was hurtling downrange for the second plant point. He knelt down, eyeball aligning the second pole, then stood up, holding the stake with one hand.
In the meantime, Cristman had unlocked the sight and spun it around to align on the first aiming stake. Since the rear one was almost on line already, all he had to do was make some small gestures to get Opie to align, then give the gesture to plant, two thumbs pointing straight down. He made sure that Oppenheimer hadn't planted the stake at an angle, then stood back.
"TWO GUN UP!" Keren shouted.
"Twenty-two seconds," Sergeant Moreland said, looking over at Richards.
"One and Three aren't up, yet," Richards pointed out as first One Gun then Three shouted "UP!"
"Twenty-seven and thirty-one," Moreland said. "We've dicked around enough with this. This is one task they can train on on the ship. We need to switch to vehicles. Call the company and tell them that we're accelerating the training schedule."
"Cutprice is scary," Major Knight said as he entered the CO's office.
The 1/14 S-3 was medium built but extremely tall. In the inter-war years he'd been a high-school history teacher and basketball coach. All fifty. Same small rural high-school. Except when he got a crop of just really impossible players, after the first decade or so he stopped caring if they won the district championship. The Class C school had won the overall state championship for Michigan fourteen times. Five years in a row at one point.
The coaches in districts around him would have been surprised that Buddy Knight thought anyone was scary.
"How so?" Colonel Simosin asked. He was looking over the proposed loading schedule and trying to find any way to cut it down.
"Bravo is twenty percent ahead of the training schedule," the operations officer replied. "I know he didn't pick and choose his privates."
"Napoleon said that good regiments are the result of good officers," Simosin said, not looking up. "The truth is that it requires good NCOs as well. He picked those very carefully. Sergeant Major was down watching the mortar training. They're not just ticking things off on a sheet."
"I didn't think they were," Buddy replied. "I just think they're scary."
"It's good to have a scary company in a battalion," Simosin said. "It keeps the other ones on their toes. If you see the Smaj, tell him to stop by."
"I didn't know we could go ahead of the training schedule," Sergeant First Class Dwyer said. The Alpha Second platoon sergeant watched the fire and maneuver exercise and shrugged. "They've got movement by squads down, Smaj. You're telling me we can move to patrolling?"
"Yes," Sergeant Major Park said, trying not to roll his eyes. "If you're comfortable with their proficiency, if they can pass the test, move on. Buckley."
"Yes, Sergeant Major?" the buckley said. "You know that it's all going to end in blood, right? No matter how hard you train . . ."
"Just order an NCO call for this evening," Park snarled. "Purpose, acceleration of the training schedule. And am I gonna have to reset you again? You know how you hate it when I reset you."
Chapter Fifteen
Rest, Karthe thought. Slowly back down.
An Indowy mentat stood in the center of the training room, arms folded. Arrayed against him were Kang Chan and four human adepts. The exercise was to determine if the group could burn through Mentat Koth's shields and force him to take a step forward.
"The exercise is not complete," Chan said, slowly withdrawing his power.
"There was sufficient energy being used that I feared damage to Mentat Koth," Karthe said. The lesser adepts along the walls—there to control the secondary effects of the battle—were showing more signs of stress than the combatants. "I am the . . . referee, yes?"
"Agreed," Chan said, then bowed. "You are very strong in Sohon, Mentat Koth. You are a worthy opponent."
"As are you, Mentat Chan," Koth said, bowing back. "I, however, found the exercise very disturbing. I would request some time of meditation to regain my center."
"Of course," Karthe said, bowing. "I hope that you may return soon."
"I'm afraid this is not a good thing for your people, Karthe," Chan said, using a towel to wipe away sweat. "That is the third mentat who has withdrawn."
"We are quite unused to any form of battle as you know, Mentat Chan," Karthe replied. "It is not in our nature." I find it disturbing that you human mentats have taken to it so readily.
So do I, Karthe. So do I.
"Tell me some good news," Mike said as Michelle entered his office. "So far, all I'm getting is bad. The teleport thingy is complete on Daga Nine and they're charging it. The Himmit say that they can attack any time from four weeks from now. I'll barely have the SS on the ground by then. And a major task force has left Daga space. Presumably it's the attack force for Gratoola. Which means I'm going to have to start moving some of your people out to Gratoola and hooking them up with Fleet and the SS."
"We may need to do that soon," Michelle said. "We have determined various attack methods and defenses. But we're still unsure if they will work over large areas, such as a ship. The thing is, we are not sure if we even truly understand the offensive side of this."
"Go on," Mike said, leaning back and reaching for a can of Skoal.
"So far, we have been making it up as we go," Michelle said. "Human mentats think of attack strategies and we use them against Indowy. So far, it looks as if defense is easier than offense in many ways. That is to the good. But we don't know if our attacks are those the Imeg and Hedren use."
"You need to probe," Mike said, shrugging. "You need to find out before we get into the first battle."
"Unfortunately, we do not have an Imeg to fight," Michelle said, shrugging. "So I cannot guarantee we will succeed."
Mike pinched his temples, then shrugged.
"AID. Himmit report of Imeg being shipped to Daga Nine. I know I read it at some point but—"
"Imeg adepts along with Glandri subjugators have been slowly moving from Caracool to Daga Nine," the AID said. "A Hedren cruiser called the Gorongur has been the primary method of transfer. Himmit estimate
no more than one or possibly two Imeg per transfer with an additional fifty to sixty Glandri."
Mike looked at Michelle and raised an eyebrow.
"You have to be joking, Father," Michelle said, frowning.
"AID, time from Earth to an intercept point in Caracool space using the Des Moines."
"Six weeks at maximum warp. Himmit reports indicate that the Gorongur uses the same point to warp out each time. There should be a transfer during the near time-period of the Des Moines reaching the star system."
"How well do your guys get along with SRS?" Mike asked.