by John Ringo
"Why?" asked Duncan, sensing a trap.
"You know how I said I'd seen that pin . . ."
* * *
"Sergeant Bogdanovich," said the first sergeant as he walked into the Swamp, "meet your new second squad leader, Staff Sergeant Duncan. He was in the Old Man's platoon on Diess."
Natalie Bogdanovich hesitated fractionally as she extended her hand, then took Duncan's in a strong grip. "Welcome to O'Neal's Traveling Circus."
Duncan sized up his new platoon sergeant and was immediately impressed. Bogdanovich was a short, heavily muscled blonde with engaging blue eyes and her hair pulled back in a bun. Her fresh good looks were barely undone by a nose that was slightly crooked from being broken some time in the past. But the energy and enthusiasm she exuded quickly drew the attention away from that tiny defect. Duncan could feel a restrained power behind her grip that reminded him of Lieutenant O'Neal.
"I didn't even know he made captain, although I'm not surprised."
"Given the size of Fleet Strike," pointed out Gunny Pappas, "we were bound to get someone who knew him on Diess. There's not that many units."
"Well," Duncan noted with a grim shake of the head, "there were only twelve of us left and three are on permanent disability."
"How do you get permanently disabled?" asked the first sergeant. "Galactic Medical can fix anything that doesn't kill you outright."
"Psychiatric," Duncan and Bogdanovich said together, then looked at each other quizzically.
"Boggle did a tour on Barwhon, first," said Pappas.
Bogdanovich nodded, somberly. "It seems there's still some things they can't cure."
"Yeah," Duncan agreed quietly. "Although I think in the case of Private Buckley, they let him off 'cause they didn't want to put up with the stories." Duncan gave a grim chuckle.
"Private Who?" queried the first sergeant.
"What, Mighty Mite never told that one?" said Duncan with a smile. Two combat vets and Mighty Mite as a commander. It looked like this might be a good place to call home for a while.
CHAPTER 16
Ft. Myer, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1825 EDT September 13th, 2004 ad
"All work and no play makes Mike a dull boy," said General Horner, leaning casually in the doorway of Mike's tiny office; his junior aide, Captain Jackson, hovered at his side.
"Well, sir, the nightlife in Georgetown ain't what it used to be."
Since being given the almost overwhelming task of writing employment guidelines for the Armored Combat Suit units in the upcoming defense, Mike had been working sixteen to twenty hours a day, seven days a week. Work was actually a relief compared to contemplating the current situation. As the world hurtled to its inevitable rendezvous with the Posleen, society had begun a slow process of meltdown.
Once the full import of the upcoming invasion became apparent, a radical shift in economic and population emphasis occurred. Seventy percent of the world's population and eighty percent of its wealth was concentrated in coastal plain zones or plains contiguous with coastal plains. While these areas had many noteworthy features, defensibility against the Posleen was not one of them.
The developing "Sub-Urbs," underground cities for the refugees from the plains, had been designed with locations for businesses, factories and all the other necessary organs of society. However, like many things Galactic related, they were not being completed as fast as originally anticipated. The waiting list for businesses and manufacturing locations was even longer than the one for residences.
Businessmen, insurance adjusters and the common man could often do enough math to make their own decisions. Areas that had become moribund due to the previous decades' shift away from montane zones suddenly began to experience a rebirth.
The faded industries of Bavaria and the American Rust Belt, especially the cities of Detroit and Pittsburgh, saw a massive influx of new plants, as GalTech and more mundane terrestrial industries relocated their fixed facilities to locations that could be defended.
With this movement of industry and services came a matching movement of labor. The workers, managers and executives of the moving firms followed the jobs, but others could put two and two together and a massive movement of people without any fixed employment flooded the Ohio Valley and the Midwest in the United States, and Switzerland, Austria and the Balkans in Europe. In Asia, more limited infrastructures and disputed borders did not permit mass migrations such as occurred in the United States and Europe, but there was significant movement towards and into the Himalayas, Hindu Kush and Caucasus.
In Japan, meanwhile, all the industry remained on the plains, but massive civilian shelters were being dug and populated throughout the country's many mountain ranges. The Japanese experiences in World War II and their extensive civil engineering infrastructure continued to serve them well.
This mass migration and the flickering disruptions it caused in supply and demand of goods, services and labor were causing every kind of shortage in one area and oversupply in another.
Many individuals were getting rich on these supply problems, most of them ethically. Shortages had always been the creators of fortune. These individuals and anyone else with an income were then faced with the problem of where to put their money.
In most cases this was still the currency of whatever country the transaction occurred in, rather than Federation Credits. However, there was no convincing evidence that banks or even countries would survive the invasion. Thus, the cautious investor would prefer placement in a Galactic bank or a Terrestrial bank in a very secure location. Although most funds were merely electrons, a brick and mortar location remained a necessity. There was more to store than money. People had valuable artworks, personal treasures, precious gems and other items of "real" value. Terrestrial banks had, early on, joined in partnership with Galactic banks and, using this conduit, funds and goods began to flow outward from Earth.
However, the inevitable law of supply and demand again reared its ugly head, and as the flow continued from Terrestrial currencies to FedCreds, the exchange rate went up and up. Now, along with a famine of hope, was the specter of inflation. There were two exceptions to this.
Switzerland, already a renowned financial center, had been given the highest possible Galactic bond rating. Not only was it a major financial center already. Not only was it seventy percent mountains. But the Swiss militia had gone through several tests against notional attacks and every single assault had been beaten off with ease. However, another player had entered the banking market.
The ancient and secretive Buddhist country of Bhutan was briefly conquered by its neighbor, Bangladesh, for the purpose of becoming a leadership haven. A single visit by a British Armored Combat Suit battalion returned things to their original structure, but the Bhutanese had learned their lesson.
Obstructed by their religion from engaging in violence, they could still hire mercenaries, and a new Ghurka regiment was born. Ghurkas were mountain troops from Nepal that had a reputation as the best light infantry in the world.
To pay for it Bhutan opened a few small branch offices of major banks. Since the kingdom was determinedly old-fashioned and environmentally rigorous the bank branches were shoehorned into millennia-old massively built stone monasteries. Now, defended by the most renowned fighters in the world, massive stone walls and terrain obstacles to daunt Hannibal, the banks began to receive a tsunami influx of precious artwork, gems, metals and funds. A fractional tithe of this flood served to pay for the most advanced military equipment on Earth for the Ghurkas. The Ghurkas, and their British mercenary officers, were only too happy to put it to use.
Inflation, deflation and shortages wracked the world, causing famines and plagues in their wake. But through all of it most continued to work and struggle: to labor for a possible victory.
"Actually," said Horner with a smile, "I hear the ratio of unmarried females is even higher than ever."
"As, I said . . ."
"Well, y
ou're getting out of this office tonight. You have to be about done."
"I am done," Mike answered, gesturing at a massive stack of hardcopy on his desk: reports and presentations. "That's it."
"Okay, good," Horner said, pleased but not surprised that everything was just so.
Mike had worked for him for two years when he was in charge of the GalTech infantry team, initially as a civilian TechRep and later as his aide. Horner had learned early that the junior officer had an intense ability to concentrate on getting a job done. He had chosen him for this job for that reason as much as for his ACS experience. Time had been short. There was a tiny list of people who could design the operational strategy for ACS employment in Fortress Forward. And there was a different tiny list of people who could pull something like that together in the bare two weeks he had had at his disposal. The only officer that Jack was aware of who was on both lists was sitting in the chair.
"As long as you're ready for the all-commands conference tomorrow, you don't have a reason not to come to the Fort Myer's club tonight, all spiffy in your Fleet Blues."
"Well, sir," said Mike with a not particularly false yawn, "actually I have about thirty reasons, starting with sleep."
Jack seemed to pay no attention to his rejection. "Besides welcoming all the Army commanders to this official kickoff of 'Fortress Forward' we will be celebrating the visit of the new French Ground Forces commander with a dining-out. I thought you might like to attend."
"Well, sir, as I said . . ."
"His name is Crenaus."
"The Deuxieme Armore commander, sir?" Deuxieme Armore, along with the Tenth Panzergrenadier and a scattering of British, Chinese and American armor units was rescued by then-Lieutenant O'Neal's platoon on Diess, when they had been encircled by Posleen in the Dantren megascraper. The platoon had dropped megascrapers on two sides of the encirclement and cracked the Posleen on the remaining side with a barrage of antimatter grenades. The French general—a gangling firecracker of a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz—had been notably impressed. Mike, in turn, had been impressed with how well the general had held his unit together in such an impossible situation. Deuxieme Armore had come out of the conflict with lower losses than any of the other units in the mobile defense, to a great extent because they retained cohesion when others broke like glass vases. The strongest reason for that cohesion was the guest of the dining-out.
"The same. When he heard you were in town he insisted that you attend," Horner said with a rare true smile.
"Yes, sir." Mike took mental inventory of his wardrobe. He had a pressed set of Fleet Mess Blues and—on the suspicion that someone would require he wear them at some point—his medals.
He had thus far succeeded in not wearing any of them, despite Ground Force regulations to the contrary, by the simple expedient of pointing out that he was not, in fact, a Ground Force officer and, therefore, the regulation did not apply. He had had to endure three more drubbings by overzealous MP officers until a special order was circulated explaining the position of Fleet versus Ground Force personnel. He probably would not have made the issue were it not for the fact that other Fleet personnel assigned to the Pentagon were under constant harassment. If his application of the old-boy network could help to mitigate that in any way he felt it worth the effort. He also hated the looks he got when people saw him with the Medal. But, what the hell, it would be a chance to see some old companions.
"Airborne, General, sir. I'll be there with bells on."
"Just be sure you're there with all your medals on." Jack smiled one of his cold thou-shalt-obey smiles. "Medals, Mike, not ribbons. And all of them."
* * *
"Absent companions," toasted Mike, as junior in the group.
"Absent companions," chorused the inebriated crowd huddled around the new French High Commander.
The main ballroom of the Fort Myer Officers' Club was jammed with the Military District of Washington's finest. The bright light of the chandeliers pulled out highlights on gold braid and jewelry throughout the room as the officers and their ladies danced the minuet of power. The room was packed with generals of every rank; full colonels were not much more than waiters. But the entire room's focus was on the small group by the head table where a circle of aides and senior subordinates clustered around four officers. Three of them were four-star generals; one of them was a mere captain.
"By rights, mon ami, you should be factored in that toast," said the guest of honor, with a companionable clap on the shoulder to Mike.
"Well, there ain't many left from my impromptu first command, that's for sure." Mike looked around at his company, only faintly uncomfortable with the situation.
In the year after his return from Diess he had been dragged around the United States as a talking head for the Public Information Office. During the tour he had intimate conversations with every kind of senior officer. He was sure at the time that the Curse of the Medal was on him; that for the rest of his career the closest he would come to the front was talking about it with a commentator. He was finally reprieved with his current command. So he was comfortable with senior officers at this point. And he had no problems with uniforms.
Before the tour began the first thing that was required of him by the PIO was the purchase, at fabulous expense, of a set of the new Fleet Strike Mess Blues. The group of designers and forward-thinking military officers that designed it rammed through some wildly successful combinations of Galactic technology and the modern mania for efficient and comfortable clothing. The daily wear uniform, combat silks, was as comfortable a set of clothes as any casual dress maniac could desire and even the standard dress uniform was extremely comfortable compared to the norm. That mania for casual comfort had ended abruptly at Mess Blues.
Designed to highlight several traditions from members of the Fleet Strike amalgam, the uniform also called on futuristic styling. A long mag-sealed tunic of Navy blue, worn flapped open, was lined with the branch color of the wearer, in Mike's case Infantry sky blue. Around the middle was worn a full sash cummerbund of "Redcoat" red (the identical shade was used by, variously, the American Marines, American artillery, French paratroopers and the Red Army) looped with gold. The shoulders and sleeves were again covered in gold loops, the number of loops denoting rank. The pants were piped with red. It was topped by a simple Americanized beret in the color of the different branches of Fleet Strike. This gave the unfortunate impression that all members of the Infantry were on a UN Peacekeeping mission, but that impression would pass with time.
This admittedly flashy uniform was, in Captain O'Neal's case, further highlighted by a frightening set of medals. In the case of most persons with multiple layers of "fruit-salad" the weight was on the lower end, the various commendation medals and other bits of colorful "I Was There" ribbons that say that the wearer has been a good boy and gone where a soldier was supposed to go. In Mike's case, the weight was uncomfortably skewed in the other direction.
Besides the Medal, specifically awarded for single-handedly taking out a Posleen command ship at the Main Line of Resistance on Diess, he had been separately awarded for three other actions during that forty-eight hours of madness that saw victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. There was a Bronze Star for organizing the demolition of Qualtren, despite the accidental consequences, a Bronze Star for organizing the survivors under the rubble left from the explosion and a Silver Star for the relief of the Tenth Panzergrenadiers at the Boulevard of Death. He had not wanted any of them and argued that, by tradition, they should all have been lumped into one award. But they came piecemeal instead.
Along with those awards, and two Purple Hearts, there was a mass of foreign decorations from countries as widely varied as England and mainland China (almost three companies of the regiment China had sent survived due to O'Neal's platoon). A single Army commendation medal, a good conduct medal and an I-Was-There medal for Desert Storm huddled at the bottom.
In any ot
her company the combination of uniform and fruit-salad would have looked maniacal, but that was in any other company.
The cluster of officers around Géneral Crenaus included the American High Commander in Ground Force Mess Dress, a veteran of Just Cause, Desert Storm and Monsoon Thunder along with so many odd little out-of-the-way missions he had long ago stopped trying to remember them all. His "fruit-salad" was also impressively high protein, low fat. General Horner, in Mess Dress, had managed to be involved instrumentally in all three operations and although he was light on "Forgot To Duck" Purple Hearts, his commendations were all about being out front leading troops.
And it turned out that Géneral Crenaus, in French Mess Dress, tails, stovepipe hat and all, had apparently been involved in every action the French had been able to think up over the last couple of decades. And, apparently, a few they were not quite willing to admit to as well.
Between the Mess Dress on all the senior officers and the medals on every chest, Mike was wondering when the Valkyries were supposed to show up and go violently mezzo-soprano.
"I like that one," said General Taylor rather thickly as he pointed to an unrecognized decoration on Captain O'Neal's chest. He had managed to ingest better than a quart and a half of scotch during the course of the evening. "I didn't think there were any Japs with you on Diess." The decoration worn just above the Combat Infantryman's Badge looked somewhat like a golden rising sun.
Géneral Crenaus laughed grimly. "That's not for saving Nip ass, bon homme. That is simply an award for being there. I have one as well." He pointed to the same medal on his own chest.
"That's not the Diess medal," pointed out General Horner, peering at O'Neal's chest. "That's our Diess Expeditionary Force medal," he continued, pointing at a normal-sized medal of tan and red.