by Leo Champion
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said to Blanket, Mandvi and Khaliq.
* * *
The Bravo and Delta Company officers and first sergeants, as well as a couple of the platoon sergeants, were gathered in a conference room at the Army military police station, about an hour after the brawl.
“What’s this about?” Croft asked Gardner, who shrugged.
They’d been summoned here, and it wasn’t normal. No Army officers were present, although now an Army MP major came in.
The Legion officers and senior NCOs saluted. The major, a big shaven-headed man in his mid-thirties with a black walrus moustache and a bit of a paunch, returned the salute and took a position in the front of the room.
This wasn’t good, thought Croft. Army and Legion men brawled all the time, but the Legion officers weren’t often called into police headquarters over it. Had someone been badly hurt? Or God forbid, killed?
“Gentlemen,” said the major, who had been trailed by a couple of hard-looking staff sergeants. “Effective immediately, all your enlisted men below the rank of senior sergeant are confined to quarters. Your battalion commander has been apprised of this.”
“Major,” Numminen spoke up, as the highest-ranking of the Legion officers in the room. “We have no way of knowing which men were involved, and I can assure you that a significant number of men from both companies were not.”
“Individual participation is not important given what has happened. An Article Twenty investigation has been opened and the Governor’s office has been informed. Half a dozen of the US Army’s finest personal weapons have fallen into the hands of secessionists or other troublemakers. During the brawl, six M-31 rifles vanished and are presently unaccounted for.”
Chapter Six
“So here’s what we’ve established,” the Goldneck detective said the next day to a conference room of Bravo and Delta Companies’ officers and senior enlisted. He was a wiry red-haired senior sergeant with a trace of Scotland in his accent. Next to him was the Army MP major who’d announced the stolen weapons the day before.
The detective hit something on his phone and projected video footage appeared behind him. It showed, from across the street, three Legion soldiers walking back and forth, hands in their pockets, past Army men smoking in front of an Old City bar.
“This is a known Legion misbehavior, they call it a ‘pocket walk’. Army has a regulation against hands in pockets, Legion doesn’t, Legion troublemakers deliberately provoke Army by flaunting it. These three have been positively identified as Sergeant Joseph L. Hill, Private First Class Samuel Cuyahoga and Private Sean Gartlan, all of Bravo Company’s Third Platoon.”
Eyes turned to Croft, who wasn’t all that surprised. If it was going to be Third Platoon guys it would have been those three, especially Hill.
“Video footage – this is from a security camera outside one of the bars – shows this provocation. Witness and involved-party accounts have confirmed this; while Army technically threw the first punch, these three Legion men intentionally behaved in a way calculated to provoke that.”
The detective pressed something on his phone again and the camera feed changed to a three-way splitscreen. Three different cameras showed Legion troops coming in on the scene of the fight from three directions.
“These Legion instigators had backup handy, ready to engage in a fight once the Army men, thinking they had numbers, had ‘started’ it. The individuals who have been positively identified are primarily Third Platoon of Bravo Company, with several from the company’s other platoons. Their names are as follows…”
Eyes turned to Croft as the detective began reading them off. It was pretty much the entire platoon. Croft felt himself deflating.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I apologize unreservedly for the actions of my men.”
“Don’t be, Junior Lieutenant,” said Major Ramos. “Legion troops are going to fight Army, it’s what they do. This was nothing serious until the damn guns went missing. How did that happen, Senior Sergeant?”
“As the brawl grew, the Army men were at a numerical disadvantage and called for reinforcements. Eight men from the High Gate security detail were permitted by their platoon sergeant to assist their Army compatriots. They placed their guns down, leaving one individual to keep them secured. Unfortunately, this did not happen in the line of sight of any cameras.
“However, as more Legion and Army people rushed in, the brawl grew and the individual, one Corporal Martin Davies, was overwhelmed and caught up in the fight himself. At which point the weapons were stolen by an unknown human.”
“Eight men, eight weapons, but only six were stolen?” Ramos asked.
“Yessir, that is correct. A loaded M-31 weighs just under eight pounds and it’s believed that this was entirely a crime of opportunity. The thief could only carry six.”
“Do we have any footage of this theft? Of him getting away?”
“Only this.” The detective brought up footage from a bar security camera. On the edge of it a human civilian with a sack over his head appeared, a red circle drawn around his form for easy identification. A horizontal slit had been cut open at eye-level in the sack and his arms were loaded with guns. He ran a few feet and then disappeared into the mouth of an alley.
“There’s no footage of this guy before he put that sack over his head?”
“Nothing. Only a few of the bars, and almost none of the other places on that street, have external cameras. This isn’t the Administrative Zone, it’s the Old City and ninety-eight percent of the residents are Qings. We’re actually lucky to even get that shot.”
“How about eyewitnesses?” Ramos persisted.
“Most of them were brawling, sir. The Qing shopkeepers and their customers were mostly taking cover. We’ve asked, but nobody admits to seeing anything.
“So the upshot is that six M-31 railguns have gone missing as a direct result of a fight initiated by Legion troops.”
“And people want heads,” said the Army MP major darkly. “Your two companies have been confined to quarters, but that’s only the start of it. Lieutenant Croft of Third Platoon, your men as the primary instigators of this are relieved of all duties and confined to quarters until the disciplinary hearing scheduled for two days from now.”
* * *
“This is bullshit,” Reuter was saying in Third Platoon’s break room, where a lot of the men had gathered. “This is utter bullshit. Army fucked up and lost their fucking guns, why are we being blamed for it?”
“Because Army are pampered bitches,” Sergeant Garza of Second Squad said. “Besides, rumor has it that they’re getting in trouble themselves.”
“Because we did start the fight,” Janja said. “We should accept responsibility for our actions and the consequences of them.”
“The fuck kind of an officers’ bitch are you, Janja?” Cuyahoga snapped. His voice became a high-pitched mimic: “We should accept responsibility for our actions and the consequences of them.”
Janja, who’d been perched on the arm of a sofa, got to his feet and moved toward Cuyahoga.
“Did you call me some kind of a bitch, Cuyahoga?”
“What are you going to—”
“People,” Garza snapped, and got between the two men. Tempers were definitely fraying after four days confined to quarters, however nice those particular quarters were. It didn’t help that the entire company was suffering that punishment, and Third Platoon was being solidly blamed for causing it. There’d been a few fights in the mess areas.
“People. We fight Army, not each other,” Garza went on. “Got that?”
“Cuyahoga called me a bitch,” Janja said.
“Hit him and you’ll face me.”
Dashratha moved forwards, ready. After a moment so did Mandvi.
Mullins got up from where he’d been squatting against a wall. He moved over and stood next to Garza, between Janja and Cuyahoga, crossing his arms. After a moment, Pantaleo joined them, followed by Corporal Herna
ndez then Sergeant Kalchenko.
“The last God damn thing we need to be doing right now is fighting each other,” Garza snapped, glaring at Janja then turning around to give Cuyahoga the same look. “And that includes talking shit that starts fights, you got that Cuyahoga?”
Cuyahoga opened his mouth to say something.
“Don’t wanna fucking hear it, PFC. Now, I have news for you all, so listen the hell up. I just got done talking with the jefe about what’s going to happen to us.
“Hill, Cuyahoga, Gartlan, you guys are in the deepest of shit because you started it. They can’t bring official charges because you did play it smart, but they’re pissed. This has reached the level of the Adjutant-General’s own office, you understand. Missing M-31s are a big deal.”
“Tell me,” Andrews said, “that some serious shit is coming down on Army’s head over this too.”
“Rumor says it is. The soldiers who actually lost the guns? They’re facing real charges, not just nonjudical. But shit rolls downhill, and guess who’s downhill of Army? Yeah, exactly.
“Hill, Cuyahoga, Gartlan, you guys can expect the absolute most the regulations will allow them to throw at you. And—”
There was a cursory knock at the rec room’s door before it opened and Senior Sergeant Williams looked in.
“Thought I’d find you all here,” he said. “Platoon is to report for the battalion commander in five minutes. They’ve made a decision.”
* * *
It was the first time Mullins had been up close to Lieutenant-Colonel Hall, who was a handsome brown-haired man of about Mullins’ height but a year or so younger than Mullins’ twenty-nine. Bravo and Delta Companies were drawn up in formation as the battalion commander addressed them:
“I’m disappointed in you men, to tell the truth,” he said as he slowly walked back and forth. “Most of all, I am disappointed in you all for brawling. This was clearly a planned, premeditated confrontation, and soldiers of the United States Foreign Legion are supposed to be better than that! You are supposed to have more discipline than that!
“This was a soft job and you’ve blown it. I’ll tell you, Governor Evanston herself knows about this incident, and she is pissed. The reason you’ve been cooling your heels in quarters for the last four days is because the Office of the Adjutant-General has been actively looking for charges to bring. If General Chalmers had gotten his way, every last man here would be on his way to a Black Gang right now!
“But they can’t do that without filing formal charges, and the provable offenses are limited to disorderly conduct. Punishments are as follows: Cuyahoga, Samuel: reduced in rank to E-1, five lashes. Gartlan, Sean: no reduction in rank possible, so ten lashes. Hill, Joseph: reduced in rank to E-4, five lashes.”
There was a general sigh of relief, even from Hill, Gartlan and Cuyahoga.
“Oh, hold on. I’m not done. I am not done. The Adjutant-General’s office is legally unable to bring further charges, but – this was a nice soft job for you people. And you’ve just lost it. Delta Company, effective immediately you’re reassigned to a pair of forts in the western passes. And Bravo, you’re being assigned west of there, to guard a labor battalion involved with the Central Territories Improvement Program.
“So congratulations, Bravo and Delta Companies. You had a cushy job but because you managed to piss off the Adjutant-General’s Office, you’re being reassigned to what are quite frankly going to be shit duties. I hope you all are proud of yourselves. Pack your shit from those nice quarters, because you’ve lost them.”
* * *
“On the plus side,” Mullins said to Jorgenson as he packed, “the Army guys who actually lost their guns are facing real charges. Brig time, MacGallagher told me.”
“Fuck it. Fuck that,” said Jorgenson. “They shouldn’t have done shit to us. Maybe Hill.”
“Dude, grapevine has it that the reason we were chilling for four days is because A-G’s office was scraping the books for other charges they could actually bring. That they could only get three guys on disorderly?”
“Shit flows down,” said Jorgenson. “Fuck this anyway. Fuck Hill. This was a decent fucking posting.”
* * *
Third Platoon sat in a crowded conference room, most of them on the ground. Addressing them was a captain from the Army Corps of Engineers.
“…the Central Territories General Improvement Program is intended to transform the arid ground in central and north-central Dinqing, currently empty except for various nomad tribes, into gainful and productive farmland. While the territories are dry above the ground, we have identified massive aquifers and even underground rivers flowing beneath the surface.
“The nomad tribes are American extraterrestrial subjects like any other Qings in our territory, although they’re reluctant at best. When we first colonized this world they were making a lot of trouble for the Chongdin Empire, raiding substantially inwards; we had to fight a short war with them, one that ended pretty decisively thanks to the Air Force. They know enough to leave you all alone, and you’re unlikely to encounter trouble from them.
“Within fifteen years, they shouldn’t be much of a factor anyway, or rather we’re going to turn them into good loyal cowboys. They’re already herders, and the irrigation program – as well as the system of railway lines that you’ll be building, in order to bring the product to market – is going to create massive wealth for the population.
“Now, your unit is going to be initially based out of the city of Kandin-dak.”
He hit a button, and a series of aerial photographs appeared on the screen behind him. Between them they showed a ruined city, mostly built of grey and white stone, surrounded by a broken wall.
“This is the city known to the Chongdins as that. Built on and around an oasis about four hundred miles west of the Barrier Passes in the wastelands, it was founded by a Chongdin prince six hundred and fifty years ago. It lasted three generations before the hordes overran the walls, burned the city, destroyed the irrigation and killed everyone.”
Someone raised his hand.
“Sir, what does Kandin-dak mean? Was it the prince’s name?”
“It loosely translates as ‘Hubris’, Private. Any more questions?”
“Yessir,” said Mandvi. “What are we going to be doing there?”
“Kandin-dak will be one of the focal points of our Central Territories Improvement Program. We are going to develop the wastelands, firmly assert American control over them and turn the hordes into good loyal American subjects like the Chongdins are.”
Mullins turned to Reuter and said under his breath, “Hubris, huh?”
* * *
As the ungainly ARV-220 transport plane banked steep right toward its landing, Croft got his first look at the outpost called Kandin-dak. It was built about half a mile from the southern edge of a city that even from a few hundred feet up, as the plane turned, was evidently ruined. Built out of white and yellow stone, and thoroughly empty.
The outpost itself had been built from the same stone. It was a low-slung square fort about a hundred and fifty feet to a side, walls about twenty feet high. There was a parapet on every corner, a set of heavy gates on the right; in the area inside were stacked shipping containers. On the notheast corner overlooking the gate was a big square blockhouse rising ten or fifteen feet above the twenty-foot walls, heavy weapons emplaced on top of it.
Outside of it was the runway that the transport plane was coming in to land on, and a forest of grey standard-issue Legion tents, dozens of them in orderly rows, nearby outside the fort.
Then they were coming in on the runway, bumping down as the STOL, Short Take Off/Landing, jets turned and the plane bounced down on only five hundred feet of runway.
Ortega was the first to unstrap himself and get up as the back ramp of the plane began to lower, allowing in a dry heat.
“All right, you bastards! Get out, we’re here!”
* * *
The existing Legion compa
ny, Delta Company of Third Battalion, Second Brigade, Fourth United States Foreign Legion Division, were drawn up as Bravo Company disembarked. There was a short changing-of-duty ceremony in which Gardner shook the hand of the outgoing company commander, a captain.
The Delta Company, 3-2-4 guidon was taken down from the blockhouse of what those guys were calling Fort Hubris; the Bravo Company, 1/4/4 one was raised. The 3-2-4 Delta guys were already ready to disembark.
“Where you heading, anyway?” Croft asked one of their officers as the men piled onto the transport Bravo Company had come in on. “Our old gig in Vazhao?”
“No such luck,” the other man, a lean Hispanic senior lieutenant, replied. “Hear Vazhao is sweet.”
“It was.”
“No, we’re going south. Bush war, the administrator there’s been screaming for reinforcements. Fighting guerrillas in Varren Province.”
“Good luck with it.”
* * *
“Je-thuth Croft,” said the female lieutenant in charge of the Army combat engineers platoon. She was a round-faced woman with a short blond ponytail and Croft remembered her well from West Point, where he’d hated that nickname.
“Marsha Dunwell,” Croft said back to her as they shook hands. “Good to see you again!”
“I’d heard they sent you to New Virginia,” she said.
“They did, for a bit. But after the fighting there they reassigned us here, we landed a couple of weeks ago. How’re the engineers working out for you?”
“Good job, I have good troops, but Newbauer’s a douche.”
“Who’s Newb—” Croft began.
“Dunwell!” came the voice of a big, barrel-chested blond Army officer with lieutenant-colonel’s oak leaves on the shoulders of his desert-camouflage uniform. “What have I told you about fraternizing with the garbage? And you, Junior Lieutenant, stop wasting the time of my platoon leader.”