by Black, Alan
Standing around her in a rough semicircle were her ten second-level commanders. Misha was sure some of the unusual odors were coming from her direct reports. That was not surprising. Until a few moments before, all of her squad leaders except one had been off duty, whether officially or not. APES worked hard and APES played hard. She refused to let their drunken state inflate her already exploding horror and anger at the condition of her new command.
Misha stared at the assembled group. Bleary eyes squinted back at her. She tried to size them up, but it was too early in their relationship to gauge anything by looks alone. The red utility uniforms gave her no clues. The only distinguishing mark was the X insignia of a second-level commander on their collars. She looked slowly at each of their faces. It didn’t take long for her to realize each of her squad leaders had more time in service than she.
Second-Level Commander Moraft was the woman she had met at the gate. Even taking into account GerinAid anti-aging, Moraft looked as if she was well over the fifty-years time in service required for minimum retirement. The youngest looking of the group was a tall blond woman who, in years only, was still Misha’s senior. Age, just like size and gender doesn’t matter in command. Misha wore the triangles.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Who is the senior second?”
“I am, sir.” Moraft spoke. “I am Second-Level Commander Theda Moraft of Bravo Squad.”
“Thank you, Mr. Moraft,” Misha replied. Her whole command was down loaded onto her glass-pack. It included every piece of official data, bureaucratic detail and file image available for each APE in her unit. She recognized each of her seconds, although her whole command would take a little longer. But, she believed letting them introduce themselves would give her time and insight to get to know each one.
“Who is Mr. Aardmricksdottir?” Misha asked. Even though she had practiced pronouncing the names, she stumbled over the last name. She was not able to fathom how to pronounce the second’s first name.
A tall blond woman raised a hand. “Sir, I am Second Aardmricksdottir. I want to apologize for Trooper Beaudry at the-”
Before she could finish Misha cut her short. “I do not want to hear apologies from anyone. I am not in a forgiving mood, so save them for later. Mr. Aardmricksdottir, do you have a recall count?”
“Yes I do, sir. It isn’t pretty,” the woman answered. “And it’s Vark.”
“Pardon me, Second?” Misha replied.
Aardmricksdottir replied with a shy smile, “My name is a handful. If the Third pleases, call me Vark. It’s a nickname but since my real first name can’t be translated into Standard English, Vark will do. You know: Aardmricksdottir slid to Aardvark and onto Vark. It’s a short progression and easier on the tongue.”
Misha smiled back inspite of herself. “All right, Vark. However, I do not ever want to hear the phrase ‘not pretty’. I heard too much of it as a child.” She could hear her father telling her how a little self-depreciating humor always set the other side of the negotiation table at ease. It put your opponent at an easy state of relaxation to use for an advantage. This may not be a negotiation, but she needed to put these seconds back on their heels. She nodded at Vark, “Please get station security to locate our lost lambs. Have them dragged back by force if necessary. As you are the officer of the day, your squad is on duty. Get your communications technician in here to channel my comms unit to our outfit’s frequencies and code specifications. Who is next senior to Mr. Moraft?”
“That would be me, sir. I am Second-Level Suzuki Takki-Homi of Charlie Squad. Taks is good for me, if it pleases the Third.”
Misha continued, “Thank you, Deuce Taks. Good. And who is next senior?”
No one spoke. Moraft and Takki-Homi both started to speak, but Misha waved them off with a quick gesture. Misha clapped her hands loudly and shouted, “Too late dammit!” Startled glances confirmed she had caught them as their attention drifted. It was just as her father had predicted. The humor caused them to relax just enough for her to slap them back to the present.
She continued in a calmer voice. “Hypothetical situation: we are in combat, I am dead, both Seconds Moraft and Takki-Homi are out of commission. Your lack of understanding about your own command structure has just killed this whole outfit. And people, with the Binders creeping into our backyards, we can’t afford to lose even one more trooper through stupidity. Come on! You are in squads that are in alphabetical order. How difficult can it be?”
A tall, thin second looked as if he had just lost focus. She stepped forward and leaned into his face. Nose-to-nose, she shouted. “Can’t happen? Or you just don’t care?” The man blanched through his already pale skin. Misha spun back toward the group.
“Okay, people. I know you have heard nuggets of info about Guinjundst passed through the grapevine and those lurid tales on the newsnets. Guinjundst was not just an accident or a fluke. Some very bad stink happened there. We lost a lot of good troopers because we were not as ready as we could be. We didn’t adapt as rapidly as we should have. Some seconds lost their place in the chain of command. A flash of hesitation in combat can snowball into a shit storm of epic proportions.
“Other than Moraft and Takki-Homi, who knows who is next?”
“I do. I am Second-Level Race Jackson, sir. Next would be Bilideau, then Portland and then me. And Trey, just in case no one else has said it: welcome to the 1392nd. I, for one, am glad you’re here.”
Standing next to Jackson, Takki-Home made a small circle with his thumb and forefinger. Pressing it tightly to his lips, he generated a loud smacking noise. He winked at Misha as he nudged Jackson in the side with his elbow.
Jackson sputtered, “Dammit, Taks! I am not kissing up. I mean it. We got to get off the crapper. We got to get loaded for bear. And we got to get into this war. I didn’t join the APES to garrison some backwater dust ball with a third-level commander who has gone civilian. I lost a brother and two cousins on Guinjundst. It ain't gonna happen again if I got anything to say about it.”
Misha could see some heads nodding in agreement, a few heads nodding as a political gesture and a few heads nodding as if they had heard it all before. “I agree with Mr. Jackson. It is time,” Misha said. She held up her glass-pack. “First things first, I have engagement orders from The Sixth John Cochran, through Fifth IvanYetta Vaslov to my immediate supervisor Fourth Kema Wallace Ottiamig. We are to deploy to an undisclosed planetary destination on the AMSF T/E-716 Kiirkegaard. Lieutenant Colonel William Park Britaine in command of the Kiirkegaard will brief me on our designated target planet once we leave the Heaven System. The 1392nd, McPherson’s Second, is to then commence deployment onto the surface of said planet to engage all known and unknown enemies and hostile forces. We have dirt drops on our agenda. That is combat. And we are not ready to handle a girl sprout’s picnic much less warfare.
“Get your people squared away. Get it tight, cold and in numerical order. Get your squad bays sorted out. And ladies and gentlemen, I do mean rigid and organized, not just pretty on the surface. Then get your people in here to spit shine my training bay. This place is a disgrace. The air in here may belong to the spacers, but we have to breathe it. Get our own environmental techs on the air scrubbers, both in the bays and in this sewer. General inspection is in one hour. That is fast, so kick it into overdrive.”
Chapter Eight
Misha reached out her hand to Lieutenant Colonel Britaine as he stood to greet her. She was startled to find him so attractive. He was only a few inches shorter than she was with shoulders just as broad as hers. She tried not to stare, but she would have given her left hand to have hips as slim as his. His eyes were startlingly bluish-grey under a wild mass of dark hair. She almost winced under his careful appraisal, wishing she had a more classic look about herself. Heavy-worlders rarely entered inter-planetary beauty contests. She knew she couldn’t even pass the nomination round for a beauty pageant on DropSix, and those pageants were less about beauty and more about the speed and acc
uracy with gutting sheep.
Britaine said, “I am Lieutenant Colonel William Britaine, Commander of the Kiirkegaard. Welcome aboard, Third McPherson.”
Before Misha could answer a paper airplane sailed between them. “Hey, Muffins, don’t hog the new girl. Introduce us.”
In spite of herself, Misha blurted out, “I am Third-Level Commander Hamisha Ann McPherson, Colonel Britaine. I have just taken over command of the 1392nd Allied Protective Expeditionary Service deployed aboard the Kiirkegaard.”
Britaine's smile seemed to glow back at Misha, “Really, Third-Level Commander Hamisha Ann McPherson of the 1392nd Allied Protective Expeditionary Service, we don’t need to be so formal out of earshot of the crew, do we? Call me Bill or even William, if you have to, but Colonel Britaine seems to be a bit formal among fellow officers, don’t you think?”
Misha glanced behind him at the spacers in the Colonel’s office. There were half a dozen men and women in various chairs lounging about. By their collar insignia, she could tell they were all officers, each with a set of pilot’s wings over their left breast pocket. Even the man with the medical insignia on his collar had wings on his chest.
The man who had thrown the paper airplane spoke up, “Billy or Willy, huh? Sorry, McPherson, but we call him Muffins for reasons I am not at liberty to explain. So, what do we call you, darlin’?”
Britaine said, “Nuff, Digger. Hamisha, isn’t it?” He pronounced the first syllable as if it were a part of a cured pig’s butt, not the proper DropSix pronunciation with the long a.
She was used to having her name mispronounced, even though she had pronounced it correctly just seconds ago. She replied diplomatically, “Misha is fine, sir.”
Britaine nodded and pointed around the room at the assembled officers, “Digger Paradise is my XO. These others are Skunk, Waterboy, Tinker, Spanker, Aces, Puke and Nuke.”
Misha was not surprised to see the names given did not match the names on their uniforms. Pilots and FAC crew used nicknames, often vulgar and offensive, rather than their given names. She had seen this on other AMSF spacecraft. Her first four-year enlistment had been with the AMSF in flight intelligence where she interacted with the spacecraft command and FAC jockeys.
Britaine continued, “Puke is Doctor Richard Dimms, our esteemed fight surgeon. You are welcome to call upon his services as needed, although I do believe you have your own medical staff for the rest of your people.”
“Yes, sir. I have not been able to meet with all of my people yet, just my seconds. However, according to my organizational chart, we are sufficiently staffed for most medical problems. Does Dr. Dimms have a staffing problem that precludes inter-service medical attention? I am sure my people could lend a hand.”
“No, quite the opposite,” Britaine flashed a brilliant smile at her. “Puke has got an excellent staff. We find that on the Kiirkegaard it works best for Puke to handle mainly FAC crews, plus a few other select officers like yourself as ranking commander of your forces. He has a competent staff to handle the rest of the officers and crew. It helps to split the duties up for more specialized care.”
Britaine stepped to the hatch of his office and bellowed, “Spacer, coffee in here.” He turned back to Misha and said, “Or would you prefer another beverage? No? Well, if I recall Third Cans mostly carried his own drink.”
Misha heard sniggers from one or two of the officers in the room, but she decided to ignore it. Inter-service rivalry was as old as military service itself. However, she was surprised to see more than one officer roll their eyes or make a face behind Britaine’s back. She wondered if the facial expressions were directed at Britaine or because he mentioned Cans. It made her feel more confident to think that Britaine might not be as well liked by all of his crew as everyone pretended.
Britaine smiled. “From what I have heard of you, Misha, you are just the gal to whip his old bunch of mud crawlers into shape. About your seconds, you will find your predecessor was a bit lax about them. It seems he let them run loose. Please don’t get me wrong. I am not about to tell you how to command your people. That is your business.”
She said, “Third Cans may have been a bit lax about a few things, sir, but, I can assure you my seconds and I will get things in order well before we drop planetary.” Before she could say anything else a master sergeant brought in a tray with coffee and condiments.
Britaine said to the man, “Spacer, why didn’t you bring us some donuts or cookies from the officer’s mess? I know they have them. And get a haircut, too. Dammit, man! At least try to look good even if you aren’t any good at your job.”
Misha was aghast, but kept her face neutral. Spacer was a generalized name for the lower third of the nine enlisted ranks. It was never used on a sergeant or above. Sergeant was a title reserved for the middle three ranks. Proper military courtesy was to call a master sergeant by his full title of master sergeant, a senior master sergeant was a senior master or simply senior, and the top enlisted rank was the chief master sergeant or chief, an exalted and rarefied position. Calling a master sergeant a spacer was an insult that any enlisted man would not let pass if voiced by another enlisted. Misha could see no change of expression in the master sergeant’s demeanor. She wondered, “Surely the colonel knows the rankings of his own service.”
Britaine continued, “Now, Misha. Your seconds are sort of like our enlisted noncoms or sergeants. So, I would appreciate it if you kept them out of officer’s country unless they are on official business.”
Misha said, “Sir, I am sure you know we consider all APES to be enlisted. We don’t have officers at any command level.”
“Tut tut, Misha, we know that is the APES official propaganda, but we also all know differently, don’t we? The cream always rises to the top. And on the Kiirkegaard, we like to separate the cream from the milk.”
“Excuse me, sir. But-”
Britaine interrupted with a smile, “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Besides, I don’t think you will be deployed here very long. We can get to your engagement orders quickly. As I said before, Third Cans was a bit lax. I believe we did not start off on the right foot here, Misha.” He gave her another of his dazzling smiles and continued. “I don’t want to come across too harsh on our first day together, but my people tell me that you came aboard almost four hours ago. Why is it that you are just now presenting yourself to the vessel commander?” Before she could answer, he continued as the smile slid off his face. “No, please don’t interrupt. I really do think we should adhere to military courtesy between services. I am the captain of this vessel and its senior officer. I realize you are not of FAC crew caliber, but surely even APES report in when deploying to a new command. Perhaps you could explain yourself to me and my staff.”
Misha looked at Britaine and his assembled staff. She wondered if he was joking or serious. The return looks she got from the men and the women in the room varied enough to not provide any clues to Britaine’s sense of humor. She was sure some of the officer’s expressions were well practiced poker faces.
“With all due respect, Colonel-” Misha began.
Britaine snapped back, “Whoa! Hold on there, APE. I truly hate it when I hear a sentence beginning with ‘all due respect’. It is an inevitable indication that I am going to hear something I don’t like. Are you certain you want to continue in that manner?”
She began again, deliberately keeping her temper in check, “Yes, Colonel Britaine. With all due respect-”
Britaine held up a hand for her to stop and said coldly, “Enough, girl. Let me make this clear to you. This is a direct order. No embellishments, no ‘with all due respect’ excuses, no extenuating circumstances. You will come to attention as befits who I am. You will apologize for your discourtesy to me. And yes, I see your fine pretty little ribbon on your chest. Giving an Aires medal to a ground pounder is like feeding fine earth caviar to an enlisted man.” He looked over his shoulder for his officer’s agreement.
Mis
ha slowly counted to ten, very slowly. Then looking Britaine directly in the eyes, while remaining at a comfortable at-ease stance, she counted to ten again. Inter-service relations were often strained, but she was sure relations on this craft would get real tense if she pounded this arrogant cretin. She was even pretty confident she would come out ahead if she took on this whole bunch of flight weenies in unarmed conflict.
Most of all, Misha decided she was not going to kowtow to this petty tyrant. She had met his type many times before. They called themselves flight jocks. They were men and women who would take their tiny and deadly fast attack craft (FAC) into one on one space bound dogfights against an enemy FAC or even larger transport craft or motherships like the Kiirkegaard. To Misha, it was crazy work. Sure, she fought inside a tin can, much like FAC jocks, but she fought sensibly on the ground in an atmosphere where if, gods forbid, something goes wrong, at least she could breath.
As a rule AMSF promoted pilots into command positions and pilots promoted other pilots who in turn promoted more pilots. Many command level officers continued to fly their FACs into combat. They left control of their motherships to junior ranking flight crew, often rotating control to give them each the experience of commanding one of the large spacecrafts they called trash haulers.
A FAC jock’s rally cry was “If you ain’t a pilot, you ain’t shit.”. This seemed to fly in the face of logic. It caused many of them to treat their mechanics, engineers, and weapons technicians as serfs or second-class citizens. It was the height of foolishness to insult, even by omission, the very people your life might depend on when you went into combat. She decided it would be prudent to never get into a small craft piloted by Britaine. It might not be safe due to equipment malfunctions of the preventable sort.