“You are the backbone of our service,” said the long service soldier, looking out over the field of a dozen platoons of newly promoted NCOs. “At the top are the generals and the marshals, then the colonels, on down to captains and lieutenants. But they cannot perform their jobs, or win the battle, without the NCO. Without you to turn the soldiers over to them in a prepared stated, to advise them on the morale and readiness of the troops. In some cases to help to train the junior officers that are established over you. So hold your heads up in pride that you have been chosen for what may be the most important job in the greatest army in the Galaxy.”
Of course it was a rah rah kind of speech. But it was the kind of speech this ceremony called for, to the men and women who would be going into service during time of war. They needed that kind of encouragement.
After the ceremony was over there was a party. Cornelius stayed for a few drinks and some talk, then headed out to the transport field for another trip to a wormhole. He was supposed to report to Ranger school the next day, and he was damned if he would be late for this one.
Chapter Seven
There is no instance of a nation benefitting from prolonged warfare. Sun Tzu.
HEAVEN, SUPERSYSTEM, OCTOBER 13TH-NOVEMBER 30TH , 1000.
Ranger School Phase I was on the planet Heaven, Sanctuary F II, the second planet of the sixth star out from the central black hole. The planet was on the inner edge of the goldilocks zone, and received a more than sufficient amount of light from the K7 star Citrus, and its point nine gravity surface pull was considered almost perfect for human habitation. Six point nine billion people called the Earth terraformed world home.
The military reservation was set in jungle terrain near a range of low mountains that were among the highest on the planet. The north side of the reservation was bounded by a tributary of the Amazon, the Congo, which itself was a mighty river.
Cornelius was ready the first morning to begin as had the other mornings of his various training assignments. He had met many of the men, there were no women in this course as they lacked the upper body strength of males, the night before. Most were Private E2s and PFCs, though there were several Specialist 4s and Corporals like Cornelius, and two buck Sergeants. All had heard horror stories of Ranger training, and all agreed that the first day would be a bitch.
So wake up was a surprise, as the instructors walked into the barracks and in calm and moderate voices woke the men up and told them that formation would be in ten minutes. Cornelius got ready along with everyone else, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead they stood for roll call, and then were given the rules of the school. The most important one was they could quit at any time, no questions asked, and would be transferred back to their military specialty without any negative mark upon their record. It was understood that Ranger training was not for everyone, and that many a fine soldier had been removed, or removed themselves, only to go on to distinguished careers of long duration.
They fell out for breakfast, again discussing among themselves the horror stories they had heard, though no one had heard one of these stories from someone who had actually been through the course, successfully or not. Cornelius was beginning to think that it wouldn’t be so bad, feeling a sort of sense of disappointment. He had expected a hardcore experience that would turn him into a killer, not what appeared to be an encounter group.
After breakfast they went back to the barracks and put on their gear, including the personal weapons they would carry through most of the course. There of course would be no powered armor in this training. Rangers didn’t use powered armor, the electronics of which detracted from their stealth. Instead they were issued uniforms that were a combination impact armor and passive stealth technology. Military Survival Suits were their name.
The chief instructor, a Master Sergeant Martinez, walked beside them calling out cadence. They had not been told where they were going, only that there would be training when they got there. Everyone was in a good spirits. The air was clean and fresh, birds were singing in the trees bordering the road, and the day looked to be trending toward a beautiful if hot afternoon.
The gas grenades came flying from out of the jungle without warning, trailing a cloud of choking stinging smoke. Most of the soldiers stood there in shock. Some looked around, trying to gauge from the reactions of others what to do. A few, like Cornelius, headed into the jungle, looking for cover.
Low velocity rounds came flying out of the jungle, striking soldier after soldier center mass. Men cried out and fell, their impact armor keeping them from serious injury, but not from bruising and pain. Those who hit the ground lay there choking and hacking, all thought of resistance gone.
Cornelius escaped all but a whiff of the gas. He crashed through the brush, feeling good about the reactions that took him out of the frying pan. As a figure rose up in front of him he realized he was now in the fire.
The man swung a hand so fast that Cornelius was not sure he had really seen it move. The open hand hit him in the chest and knocked him back, at the same time driving the breath out of his lungs. He was forced to suck a deep breath back in, and got a lungful of the hurtful gas. The man grabbed him, and Cornelius tried to fight back. It was as if he was a small child fighting a strong adult. The man carried him back to the road and dropped him there. Cornelius lay there hacking, looking up at the people who were moving about the road without any kind of breathing gear, sucking in the gas with each breath and showing no ill effects.
“Get the fuck on your feet,” yelled Martinez, running up and kicking one of the downed soldiers in the butt. The other Rangers were moving around on the road, yelling, screaming and kicking. Cornelius pulled himself to his feet before he caught a boot in his posterior. That didn’t prevent him from catching one once he was one his feet.
“Get the fuck down this road, you pieces of shit,” yelled another Ranger. “To think that such a group of sorry ass pussies could think they might become Rangers.”
The soldiers staggered down the road, some stopping to vomit and being hit and kicked for their lack of progress. Cornelius got to the point where he didn’t think anything else could come out of his stomach. That didn’t stop the vomit response from manifesting. When he thought it couldn’t get any worse a different form of gas was popped on the trainees. Now it was a burning gas, skin, eyes, mucous membranes. Walborski staggered down the road trying to relieve his eyes of the burning, not really doing anything positive.
This went on for hour after hour, the instructors calling the soldiers to run when they could barely breath, allowing no breaks. Those who fell by the wayside were treated to a barrage of screaming, and if they didn’t move they were jerked to their feet and given a kick in the ass.
They came to an open field with a hill at the back near a flowing stream. “Get to that fucking hill,” yelled a lieutenant who seemed to be the assistant instructor. The soldiers groaned and turned that way, then they started on a slow run around the field.
It came as another shock as the sonics swept the group. Soldiers fell to the ground groaning, or yelled out and fought through the low level stun effect. A foul odor permeated the air, the smell of bowels releasing. Cornelius was struck full on by a sonic, falling to his knees and groaning as he felt his own bowels and bladder release. In fury he staggered back to his feet and trudged on toward the now obvious stronghold they were meant to take.
Cornelius saw a hole in the ground ahead, then a number of them, positions that had been invisible from the road. He thought it a good idea to jump into that hole, which would allow him to rest and take the hilltop under fire at the same time. He wasn’t sure what good that would do, but if they were playing an assault game this seemed like the right thing to do.
Something fell into the hole, an object that made a whistling noise. Cornelius recognized the noise as the sound of an artillery simulator, something that had been used on them many times in basic and infantry training. It wouldn’t kill him, but he knew it would h
urt like a bitch. He scrambled out of the hole, more pissed off than frightened, and started trudging toward the hill.
Before anyone got there the instructors called the exercise and sent everyone back toward the road. They were directed to the other side of the road, where a bunch of long logs sat on the grass. Everyone groaned as they saw the heavy objects, realizing what they for. “Ten people to a log,” yelled the Master Sergeant. “Get them up people.”
Cornelius found himself on the forward end of his log. From this position he was tasked with setting the pace, not an enviable place in the line. “Move out,” yelled the Master Sergeant, and five groups of prospective Rangers started to move down the road.
At first it wasn’t too bad. The log was heavy, but not unmanageable. In the short term. After fifteen minutes the log felt much heavier. “Double time,” yelled the Master Sergeant, and Cornelius knew they were in for it now.
Cornelius started running. He was soon pulled out of the pace and rhythm that he wanted to set by someone further down the log. Cornelius cursed, but slowed his pace, realizing that it was beneficial for the other people in his squad.
“You people run like my grandmother,” yelled the Lieutenant. He charged up and pulled on Cornelius’ web gear. “Move your asses.”
Cornelius picked up the pace, and they moved that way for about ten minutes before the people in the back slowed it down again. The log was starting to become unbearably heavy. One group staggered under the log and several dropped to their knees. Moments later the log hit the ground, and the instructors were on those soldiers like they were coyotes worrying a flock of sheep.
After another hour they were brought to a stop and allowed to fall out by the side of the road. The men opened their lunch rations and tried to eat. Some failed, and a few vomited up what they tried to put down their throats. There were a lot of whispered complaints. Remembering Preacher’s super sensitive hearing he thought it a really bad idea to complain anywhere near the instructors.
Cornelius felt tired and filthy in a way he hadn’t experienced before. Most of the men had also soiled themselves, and had not been given a chance to clean up. He realized that the horror stories he had heard about Ranger training were true, and he rejoiced in that fact. Only fifteen percent of those who went through it completed the training, and now, more than ever, he was determined to be one of them.
“Everybody back on your feet,” yelled the Master Sergeant. “Get those logs back on your shoulders.”
The groaning soldiers got up and moved to the logs, lifting them and starting forward.
“Stop,” yelled the Lieutenant. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Turn around,” called out the Master Sergeant.
There was more groaning and some griping. The Master Sergeant moved to the front of the first log at a speed that seemed unbelievable. “Turn the fuck around. How the hell do you think we position the logs for the next group?”
The day went on from there. More physical torture and degradation. When Cornelius fell into his bed that night he didn’t even have time to think about the events of the day before he was out.
When he woke in the morning three soldiers were missing. He knew they had quit. He realized as he thought about it that the powers that be wanted to cut people in the first phase of training, before they went on to Phase II and augmentation. Again it was a gentle wake up followed by a day of hell. By the end of the first week the platoon had been reduced to thirty-eight.
* * *
There were no weekends off from training. It went on seven days a week, and could be called at any time of the day or night. The platoon did two overnight exercises that first week alone, roaming the nearby jungle in the darkness trying to avoid their instructors. Those caught experienced prisoner of war camp for the rest of the night, where they were questioned while being beaten and battered. Cornelius was proud to say that he had only had to serve one of the two nights in prison camp, and that only a few hours of the early morning before sunup.
Every day there was an hour of hand to hand training, which included training with knives and clubs. Cornelius was surprised that the instruction did not go much beyond what they had learned in basic and infantry training. He asked Master Sergeant Martinez the reasoning behind that one day after the man had thrown the Corporal to the ground and pulled an elbow strike into the downed man’s throat.
“We teach you the basics until they become a hardwired part of your nervous system, Corporal,” said the older man. “We don’t have time to teach you a bunch of fancy martial arts. It’s more important that you know some techniques you can execute to perfection that are there when you need them.”
“So it’s not important to master a martial art?”
“I didn’t say that, Corporal,” said the grinning Master Sergeant, motioning for Cornelius to come at him again. This time the big man hit Cornelius in the chest with a side kick. He reached a hand down and helped Walborski back to his feet, then motioned to the next soldier to come face him.
“We encourage all of our people to study at least one martial art,” said the Master Sergeant before he let Walborski leave the mat. “I’m a high ranker in five different arts, and you’ll meet many people in Spec Ops who know more. We just don’t have time to teach you much more than mastery of a couple dozen effective techniques.”
The second week started off with waterborne operations. They began with using boats, rubber rafts, canoes, primitive craft that could be used to cross rivers or move on river and lake systems. Then had come diving. At first it had been snorkelling and free diving. Then had come a variety of breathing apparatus and learning how to work under the surface. The final part of the course had been underwater movement with weapons and equipment, using the nanobubble system to survive the long period they would be under water.
Cornelius injected the nanobubbles into his arm under the supervision of a Ranger medic. It was most important that the diamonoid bubbles be injected into a vein, so the billions of tiny oxygen tanks would go into circulation through his system immediately. They were akin to the nanobubble system used by spacers on deployment. Those systems were kept permanently in the bodies of the spacers, giving them a reserve of life giving oxygen in case of a low or no atmosphere event. There was still the problem with CO2 buildup, but the bubbles also scrubbed those particles out of the bloodstream.
Cornelius went under, reminding himself that he did not need to breath in or out, something his body would want to do from reflex action. His body slipped easily into the water, the survival suit he was wearing configuring itself to provide the least amount of resistance possible. He swam with easy strokes, the memory plastic his boot bottoms, in a flipper configuration, pushing through the water.
There was some disorientation in the murky water. There was nothing to clearly mark his path, and he was cut off from the navigation link. He looked at the compass of his wrist unit and adjusted his course. To pass this objective he needed to surface in the shallows of the target beach, a narrow strip of sand along the river bank. It was a kilometer long swim, with many chances to get the approach wrong. All Cornelius could do was hope that he hadn’t made a major mistake. It wouldn’t be a disaster if he did, only a blow to his pride. That was enough to make it a serious matter.
The bottom started to slope up, and as Cornelius followed it the murky darkness started to lighten. He took his time, knowing he still had almost fifteen minutes of air according to his internal clock.
Here goes, he thought when he got to a point where the depth was no longer worth swimming in. He thrust up from the water, his weapon at the ready, and took in a breath. That breath came out as a sigh of relief as he saw that he was almost in the center of the beach.
Cornelius hurried out of the water, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being set up for some kind of ambush. He didn’t see anyone as he walked onto the sand, and he started wondering if this actually was the beach he was supposed to penetrate. With a sh
rug of his shoulders he moved off the beach and into the jungle.
“Good job, Walborski,” said the instructor, speaking out of the shadows of the jungle. “Move up the path to the rally point.”
There were several soldiers already at the rally point, and Cornelius nodded so several men that he knew were his competitors for the top student in the shrinking class. After he took a seat another came in. Over the hour more people came in, a function of them starting off at different times. A few looked down shamefaced as they entered the clearing, and Cornelius had to guess that they had come out of the river in the wrong location, or had been spotted at the surface trying to find the proper area.
That night was a river borne assault in boats. The Opfor was a unit of light infantry that was getting ready for deployment. As such they were trained soldiers without a surfeit of practical experience. What they had was high tech equipment and the ability to use it.
The platoon came ashore in five rubber rafts and faded into the jungle, leaving one man per raft to guard it. By this time Cornelius had gotten comfortable with this jungle, his experience as a hunter translating into this different environment. He led his squad on a roundabout approach to the target, one that would bring them in from an orientation perpendicular to the river.
It was a good strategy. The approaches directly parallel to the river were heavily guarded, while the inland approach was not. Cornelius sent his two best infiltrators ahead once they located the outer guards by their electronic signatures. The two best other than himself, but as squad leader for this exercise he knew better than to take the job himself, much as he wanted to. His troopers were all wearing survival suits with passive heat masking systems, including hoods and gloves, as well as the very low energy cammo exterior.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 05 - Ranger Page 10