by Tom Kratman
"Virgil, sir. The boat race."
"Ah, Virgil."
Parilla said, "You know, Patricio, there is something to be said for naming weapons rather than numbering them. Why don't we give these tanks and the other equipment names?"
"Not a bad idea. Any thoughts?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I was thinking that we could name the tanks for a predatory cat." Parilla held up his hands defensively. "Yes, I know, so did some rather unsavory characters both in our history and Old Earth's. Not all their ideas were wrong, merely for them having had them. So...yes, the most powerful predatory cat in this hemisphere."
"Smilodons?" Carrera asked. "I don't like that; having our tanks nicknamed "smilies." Or named for captive animals. Or named for a nearly extinct species."
Parilla grimaced. "I hadn't thought of smilodons. They were such a danger, and their fangs and pelts such a prize, that they're almost never found outside of a zoo anymore. How about we call the tanks . . . mmm . . . 'jaguars.'"
Carrera shrugged. The jaguars, beautiful as they are, are endangered, but nothing like old saber-tooth. They exist in zoos, of course, but they're mostly free. Maybe . . . oh, why the hell not?
"What about the lighter armor, Raul, the PBM-100s?"
Parilla thought about that one before asking, "Those things swim, don't they?"
"Yes . . . yes, they swim pretty well, I understand. They've got waterjets underneath."
"Ocelots?" Parilla suggested. "They swim, after all."
Still atop the tank, Sitnikov was coming to the end of his presentation.
"Now, gentlemen, you may recall that I began by saying this one of the best tanks in the world. Surely that is a matter of some worry to you, not being the best. Never fear, the only tank better than this is the White Eagle. That, with all the modifications I mentioned, is what you will actually receive for the fight . . . ."
Carrera and Parilla then left for a different part of Imperial Range. There the infantry, artillery, and other professional cadres were going through a training course in staggered groups, some pushing the new trainees while others learned to use the new equipment. Knowledge was power, and Carrera wanted his subordinate leaders to have power over their troops by virtue of their superior knowledge. Therefore, they had to learn the new equipment before the trainees ever laid eyes upon it.
Kirov, Volga, 15/4/460 AC
"Damn your eyes, take it back!" an infuriated Raikin demanded.
"What do you mean "take it back?" There's nothing wrong with that block. Nothing!"
Raikin reached out his right hand, grabbing a surly looking machinist by the ear. "You smelly little twat," he hissed. "I was boring cylinders when you were pissing on the floor and I know what is and what isn't a good block. Come with me."
Across the factory floored Raikin dragged the shrilly protesting machinist. A few people stopped to look briefly. Not many did, however. This had become normal. The tyranny of the quality control teams had replaced the dictatorship of the proletariat.
Reaching the block where it rested on a cart by his tank, Raikin pulled the machinists head down. "Show her, Stefan."
With a grimace, the one-eyed man set a micrometer and showed the setting to the machinist. Then he plunged it into an open cylinder and rattled it around. The machinist could not hear the rattling, of course, not over the drone of the factory. But the micrometer moved where it should not have been able to move.
"Now come with me. I am going to show you, once and for all, how to bore a damned cylinder."
Hand Grenade Range, Fort Cameron, 21/4/460 AC
Private Cruz was feeling rather pleased with himself today. He had been among the first in the century to qualify to throw a live grenade. Earlier he'd raced through the grenade assault course, proving that he could handle one of the little bombs. Now he waited in line to move up to the pit from which he would throw five live fragmentation grenades. One of the instructor corporals motioned for Cruz to stand and move up to the pit.
At about that point it really sank in, Holyfuckingshit! They want me to hold a live bomb in my hand?
When Cruz reached the pit from which he was to throw his grenades he was met by First Centurion Martinez. Martinez looked the new private up and down and asked, "Feeling a little cocky today, are we, son?"
Cruz answered, "First Centurion, I haven't felt cocky since coming to this . . . establishment."
"That's good, chico, because today cocky can get you killed." Martinez returned to business. "Private Cruz, at this station you will engage targets under a variety of circumstances with live fragmentation grenades. Do you understand why these grenades are called "defensive" grenades?"
"Yes, Centurion." He parroted, "They are called "defensive" because if you throw them while advancing or even standing you will be within the burst radius when they go off. Therefore they are only to be used while behind cover."
"That is correct, Cruz. However, cover means different things. Let me ask another question. How long after you pull the pin and release the handle will these grenades explode?"
"About four to five seconds, Centurion."
"Also good. So you understand that if you throw immediately there is a good chance the enemy will throw the grenade back at you?"
Cruz answered, "Yesss . . . Centurion," rather more slowly and suspiciously. He wasn't sure he liked the direction in which Martinez was heading.
Martinez sighed and continued, a philosophical note creeping into his voice. Idly, he tossed a grenade up a few times, catching it on the descent. "You see, Cruz, any fool can throw a grenade as far as his arm will send it. Any fool can throw one as soon as he releases the spoon. You, however, are going to learn to be a very special kind of a fool." Martinez's tone changed. "Take the first grenade in hand, Private."
Cruz, paling, took a grenade from a table in the pit. Martinez ordered him to remove the safety clip, and pull the pin. Cruz obeyed. Then Martinez grabbed the wrist of Cruz's throwing arm and said, "At my command you will release the spoon and count to three with me. Then you will throw the grenade as far down range as you can. Release the spoon."
Cruz, eyes gaping wide, looked at Martinez like he had lost his mind. Martinez repeated himself, "Private Cruz, release the spoon."
Mouth suddenly open and gone dry, Cruz removed his thumb from over the grenade safety handle and watched as the metal safety handle flew off. He followed Martinez in what seemed an impossibly slow count to three. It's possible that the count seemed especially slow because the private's heart was racing at several hundred beats per minute. Martinez then released the boy's wrist, allowing him to propel the grenade over the walls of the pit. Cruz leaned back against the wall, knees gone weak, at about the time the grenade went off.
Martinez gave the boy a few moments to let his heart stop racing. Then he said, "Very good, Cruz. Now you are going to do it again. This time, though, you will do it entirely on your own. After that, instead of throwing the grenade as far as you can, you will lob one so that it explodes just on the other side of the pit wall. Then we will go out into the impact area. There you will use one of your grenades to clear a section of trench. You will be inside the trench, but around the corner from where you throw the grenade. Then you will take out a bunker. You will not, repeat not, be inside the bunker. The amount of training we have lavished upon you is beginning to make you too expensive to just throw away. Private Cruz, take a grenade."
* * *
Later, while marching back to the company tents, Cruz reflected upon the day's events and what they meant to him. Certainly they showed that he could use a grenade. It was more than that, though. In Cruz's mind, the big lesson of the day was that he could overcome mind-numbing fear. His step acquired just a bit more spring to it.
Kirov, Volga, 22/4/460 AC
"Let her down easy. Easy, I say!"
Raikin turned from the crane lowering the fifteen ton turret to its rest. "Stefan, are you sure, sure that the recoil system is solid?"
; "I am sure, Josef. I made the bastards do it over twice. No leaks. No weak seals. I watched them from start to finish."
The one eyed man hesitated. "Josef?"
"Yes?"
"It feels good, you know . . . seeing good work done and doing good work."
And Raikin suddenly understood why the factory sounded different. "Yes, it does, Stefan."
"Stefan . . . why don't you pick up the wife and kids and come by this evening after work. A little vodka. A little food. For you are right; it does feel good. I never knew it could."
Imperial Range, 24/4/460 AC
"Move out!" crackled in Mendoza's headset. He was already shifting gear to reverse. Smoothly he backed out of his tank's hull down firing position. Another quick shift of the gears and twist of the steering yoke – I am getting good at this – and his Jaguar sprang forward and to the left. Mendoza's body was pressed back against the rough cushion of the driver's seat.
An alarm buzzed in Mendoza's ears. He swore as he brought the tank to a complete halt, brakes squealing as his foot slammed down. His hand felt for the gear shift, then threw the tank into idle. Mendoza popped the hatch and was immediately surrounded by a cloud of red smoke billowing from a canister. The acrid smoke irritated Mendoza's eyes and throat, forcing him to tear up and to cough violently.
Half out of the hatch, Mendoza twisted his body around to see his tank's Volgan trainer climbing aboard, face red with fury. With frantic gestures supplemented by curses in mixed Spanish, Russian and Azeri, Praporschik Suleymanov pounded on turret top, screaming. Reduced to their essence, his words amounted to, "Left! Right! Left! Right! Always you do the same. Don't you think your fucking enemy is going to pay attention? Shift! Vary! Alternate! Don't be so damned predictable!"
"Yes, sir," answered Mendoza's chief, Sergeant Perez, once he was made to understand the problem. To Mendoza, Perez said, "Don't take it to heart, Jorge. It's my job to tell you which way to go. So . . . my fault. We'll do better in the future."
"Right, Sergeant. Got a set of dice to randomize?" Thank you, Sergeant Perez, for not blaming me. But I could do better and I will.
Kirov, Volga, 3/5/460 AC
"Do you think we could have done any better, Josef?"
"Maybe," Raikin admitted. "But if so, I don't see where. I don't know about the others, but this tank has no flaws." He looked at the vehicle, admiring it from the fresh paint of its hull, to the gleaming treads to the spotless rubber around the road wheels. Soon a heavy transporter would come to take it to the port. He would miss it, miss the sense of purpose it had given his life.
"Did you test fire the commander's machine gun as I told you?" Raikin asked.
"Yes, even that. Two hundred and fifty rounds through the barrel, just as you insisted. Then I cleaned it. Do you think it is enough?"
"Maybe not. But we did do the best we could."
Stefan smiled. "We actually can do a little better."
Raikin twisted his head, looking quizzical.
"Well . . . I was thinking about that tank crew; the one that will get this tank. I have been out in the desert, alone and scarred shitless."
"So?"
Stefan pulled a liter bottle of vodka from his lunch pack. "Does anyone in the factory write Spanish? I'd like to leave them a note with this."
Fort Cameron Parade Field, 5/5/460 AC
For the first time since it had been formed, the entire Brigade stood together in one place. Basic Combat Training was over. The various training centuries had been reorganized into the ten cohorts, one ala and one classis – the naval squadron – that would participate in the war. As part of these cohorts and centuries – basically very large platoons that could be expanded into companies, or maniples, as money and manpower became available – the men would now train on the more advanced tactics, skills, techniques, and weapons they would actually use when they went to war.
In front of the now-formed legion the President of the Republic, General Parilla, the Defense Attaché from the Federated States, Colonel Sitnikov, and various other dignitaries – including the Roman Catholic Archbishop – stood on a reviewing stand. Off to one side of the stand, a band played a martial air as the cohorts marched onto the field under the command of Carrera. TV news cameras recorded the event.
Once formed on the field, the officers and the legionary, cohort and century eagle and guidon bearers marched to the center behind Carrera. At his command, they all marched forward to a position directly in front of the reviewing stand. After the Archbishop of Balboa had invoked a blessing, the President and Parilla presented the legion, each cohort and each century with the eagle or guidon it would carry as its colors. They were the same eagles Parilla had seen in Carrera's mess. These were gold for the legion and silver for the cohorts, ala and classis. There were miniature bronze eagles for the centuries with guidons attached. Each eagle perched atop an enameled copy of the National Shield of Balboa. The shields were attached to seven foot mahogany poles carved in a spiral design. The eagles' wings stretched upward until they almost touched overhead. A bronze plaque under the shields proclaimed the unit number and motto of each.
After presentation the men swore their oath of allegiance to, "God and the legion," rather than to the Republic. This was not lost on the President of Balboa who made a long-winded prepared speech, even so. Parilla made a rather shorter one which also had the function of promoting all the corporals in the legion to sergeant. The Archbishop prayed for God above to also bless and protect the men who would follow the eagles. Then the officers and eagles marched back to a position in front of their units. With the brass band playing – it was borrowed from the Cuerpo de Bomberos, the firefighters, as the pipes weren't quite ready yet – the legion passed in review by the stand. Then – no time for celebrations – they went back to training.
Interlude
29 July, 2067, UNSS Kofi Annan, alongside Colonization Ship Cheng Ho
The man on the view screen was plainly dying. His face was pale, sweat running down it in sheets. His voice was breaking with pain. Even so, he managed to eke out, weakly:
"Captain's log, UNCS Cheng Ho. Final entry."
"Turn up the volume, Coms," the captain of the Annan ordered. "And see if you can get rid of some of the static."
The image cleared; the volume raised. In the view screen the master of the Cheng Ho grimaced with obvious agony.
"I haven't been able to stop the troubles. Maybe . . . maybe if I'd had more Marines aboard. But rampaging youths . . . "
Did the captain of the Annan detect a sneer in the words, "rampaging youths?" She thought she did. She almost missed the next few words:
" . . . have sabotaged the reactor. We've managed . . . just . . . to keep it from going critical. We have not been able to . . . control the radiation. It overheated . . . melted the shield. The ship's been flooded . . . with hard rads."
Annan's captain winced. A bad way to go.
" . . . the Phalange flooded the reactor deck with some poisonous gas they ginned up in the labs . . . too late . . . we can't get at the reactor even to build a temp shield . . . around it."
"What the hell is a phalange?" the captain asked of the bridge crew, generally. Her question was rewarded with blank stares.
" . . . to anyone who comes after me . . . I can't explain what happened, how it all fell apart. I don't know why we can't . . . all . . . just . . . get along . . . "
The captain of Cheng Ho began to sob on the screen. Unable to speak, he clutched as his midsection for long minutes before crumpling and falling off of his chair and off screen.
"Oh, my," whispered Annan's skipper. Then, setting her face firmly, she ordered, "Major Ridilla, return here with your men. I want the complete log for the Cheng Ho brought with you. Take them to my port cabin and give them directly to me and to no one but me."
"Aye, Skipper."
Chapter Thirteen
And the plan of God was being accomplished.
—Homer, The Iliad, Book I
Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Move forward to the left. Feel the restraining straps cut into your body as it's thrown forward when the brakes bite in. Stop at the next covered position. Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Move right to the next covered position. Right, again. Left. Left. Right. Stop. Incoming! Back up fast! Pop smoke.
Perez's voice shouts in the microphone. "Two o'clock! Gunner! Sabot! Tank!" Buttons are pushed. The autoloader selects a round of kinetic energy ammunition from the carousel, lifting it easily to the breach and feeding it in. The gunner and commander shy away from the autoloader; it has been known to feed in arms, shoulders and heads. From behind Jorge Mendoza's head comes the whine of a 15-ton turret moving smoothly on its bearings. Jorge braces himself.