by Rolf Nelson
“Why would they do that?” a younger man asked from the back.
“Because the contractors providing the drugs get paid based on how aggressive you are when we hit the ground, as measured by how many of you fire your guns at the enemy, not how successful you are, or how many of you survive.”
“That’s crazy!”
“You’d never guess whose lobbyists wrote the law regulating the conscript contracts,” Helton sardonically replied. “Just telling you what I know. I’ll ask who believes me again once we’re on board.” He got down off the bench, leaned back, and closed his eyes, apparently ignoring the uncertain shuffling and whispering in the cell as the men considered his words.
Boarding
The overcrowded cell slept in shifts, with two thirds standing like blades of grass, very slowly cycling around past the single toilet and sink for a sit and a drink, while the other third tried to, barely, get a little rest, with groups rotating every four hours.
The shuttle came early the following morning, finally giving the men in the hot and cramped cell a chance to move a little more freely. Automatic hall doors were opened and closed, making a cattle chute with only one way to go when the main cell door opened and bars at the back wall started moving slowly forward, forcing everyone to shuffle slowly out, with the fitter ones helping or dragging those unfit to move on their own, and carrying the two men that had fallen unconscious. Down the hall, up four flights of stairs, down another hall, and onto the roof, the cattle-chute marchers moved, to the closed doors of a waiting transport shuttle. There were no people to see, no officers to plead their case to, just impersonal walls, doors, gates, bars, and automated electro-prods to keep them moving along if they faltered.
The loading-end of a transport hovered silently a half-meter above the rooftop, glowing faintly. A hundred meters long, twenty-five wide, streamlined, and with no obvious weapons turrets or ports, it could be almost any type of robot transport ship except for the military markings and dull gray-green color. The doors on the near end swung down and sideways to open, then a wide ramp dropped down to reveal the cargo-bay interior. A big screen folded down, showing an instructional video on the ship layout, “welcoming” them as the newest members of the armed forces to serve their nation, and warning them that failure to follow orders would have severe consequences, the bullet-point listing everything up to and including execution by firing squad for treason while in uniform. Breathing the cool night air after the stifling hot cell was refreshing, watching a government-produced short film monotonously listing all the things that a court-martial could execute them for wasn’t.
A squirrely-looking young man got a boost up from the guy next to him, so he could reach the top of the fold-away chute walls. Pulling himself lithely up, he threw a leg over and started to slide down on the other side. A single slightly muffled boom and supersonic crack rang out as a bullet blew through his chest, turning his lungs to jelly and shattering ribs on both sides of his thoracic cavity, spraying blood and tissue across some of those standing closest. The lifeless body could be heard hitting the roof-top concrete on the other side of the wall with a dull, hollow-sounding thud while the introduction video droned on.
With the final words “Welcome aboard, November Company, 12th battalion, 19th Volunteers Brigade,” the movie ended and the cattle-chute gate in front of them lowered, allowing them to walk up the ramp. Kaminski and Helton, being at the front of the pack, strode quickly ahead of the rest to the top, stopping next to the coolers filled with ice and one-liter bottles of dark orange liquid. Dorek held out his hands for attention, while Helton whistled loudly.
“NOW who believes us?” Dorek shouted to the newly commissioned November Company, halting them in their tracks a moment. Before they can answer, he continued. “There’s plain water further back if you’re as thirsty as I am. I won’t stop you if you think we’re wrong. But we won’t help you live through this, either. You’ll be on your own, hoping you can trust them to have your best interests and survival at heart.” Without waiting for an answer, the two of them pivoted and headed for the drink dispenser at the far end of the cargo bay. They walked between neat rows of rucksacks loaded with gear, each with an embroidered name and “N 12/19 V” on the folded uniform shirt sitting atop it. Behind them the men of November Company shuffled uncertainly up the ramp past the oh-so-inviting ice chests, helping the weakened or incapacitated the last short distance before relaxing a bit at the back end of the of the cargo bay, spread out and leaning on their packs, letting the ship’s air conditioning dry the sweat from their damp clothing, drinking the stale-tasting water from the normal ship dispensers.
Eight men were helping themselves to the iced bottles of beverages, seven of them being some of the rougher looking drunks. They smacked their lips and talked loudly among themselves about how good it tasted.
Helton looked around at the rows of sprawled out men, seeing that only about half the packs were taken, the half at the back end of the cargo bay. Walking back toward the door, he sees that the rucksack names are arranged alphabetically, with those closer to the door which had name-tags ending with “M 12/19 V.” Without warning the ramp started rising, startling those close to it.
“NOVEMBER COMPANY!” Helton shouted, waiting only a moment to have nearly all eyes on him. He waved to the unclaimed rows of rucks. “ like we’ll be boarding MIKE company soon…. YOU!” he pointed to the biggest man near him at the ice chest. “You’re squad leader for 6th Squad!” The man looked at him in surprise. “Keep your drinks, grab your rucksacks, go claim the aft corner on the port side bunks!” He waved his hand to the port side of the ship as he faces aft. “As you face forward, port is left. Both have four letters, this cargo bay is aft on this ship. November Company, that’s us, takes the port. Mike Company, when they board, will take starboard.”
“I thought you said we’re on our own,” the newly minted squad leader, McKenny, argued, lip curled and eyes narrow.
“You are. I just need a corner for you where we can ignore you while you try to follow the vids. Grab a bunk, or wait for the rest of the squads to settle in and go last.” Helton looked at him seriously. “Cause any problems, we stuff you in your corner hard and keep you there. If you change your minds, let me know.”
With a sidelong look of dislike, McKenny started toward the line of gear to claim his own. The dozen men of his squad followed, displaying similar attitude as they climbed the stairs. Helton walked closer to the remaining men, sprawled and resting. Pointing to each as he called names, Helton let the remaining seventy people know who he and Kaminski had decided on during their whispered exchanges they had after each batch had given an entrance interview.
“Nesbit. Leader of fifth squad!”
Nesbit froze, looking at him dumbfounded. “Me?” he squeaked.
“Yes, you. You’re a programmer. All the serious techies with software certifications grab your gear, fall in with him over there.” Helton pointed to the side near the stairs. In minute, a dozen guys were lined up with him. “Go up, find bunks forward, port side. Get your uniforms on, leave your rucksack on your bed. Introduce yourselves by name and specialty. Divide into two teams however makes sense. Make a game of it if you have too, but learn each other’s names, first and last, and specialties, then get back down here. You have half an hour.” Nesbit looked at him uncertainly. “Don’t worry about saluting and all that. Follow orders as best you can, ask questions if you have them, get it done. We do have a plan, and you are key to it… Move out!” He offered a supportive grin, making Nesbit straighten up and offer something like a salute before he turned to address his new squad.
“You heard him! Let’s get settled in, find out what we can do!” he said energetically as he started trotting to the stairs and up them.
As soon as they were all in the stairwell, their geeky awkwardness providing some amusement to the remaining troops, Helton turned to the rest of them just as the ship started moving, making the footing momentarily uncert
ain as the artificial gravity shifted. “About time. I guess we’ll be heading off to pick up Mike Company, so we have to move fast and get organized before they come aboard. It will be much easier to take charge if we have our act together…. Moffet!” The old biker looked almost as surprised as Nesbit. “Fourth Squad! Ya already got a posse, you don’t want to take shit from anyone, you are mechanically inclined.”
“The Hell I’m gonna be a squad leader!”
“Everyone gives orders and takes orders, except for the grunts at the bottom who shut up and soldier. It’s either you, or your punk-ass brother, and enforced by Mr. Smith, here.”
Kell Moffet looked at the younger man standing next to him, the one with a strong family resemblance, and snorted sarcastically. “Yeahhhh, like that’s ever happening…. Shiiiit.”
“Mechanically certified guys line up with them, along with the bikers, thrashers, punks, and junkies! You’ll need muscles from time to time, Moffet, put ‘em to work. Grab your gear, find bunks down by McKenny’s 6th Squad. If they get out of line… beat them back into it, promptly and with feeling.” That evoked a few malicious grins from the newest squad. Helton waited while Moffet and his two friends were joined by fourteen other men near the stairwell. “Looks like you’ll need three teams, whatever groups makes sense. Learn names and specialties. Don’t brag, just pick brains. We might have some serious re-engineering to do, and you’ll be the go-to guys for big hardware mods. Uniforms, bunks, names, back here in half an hour. Move!”
Moffet made a sour expression, shifted his pack, weighing his options, feelings, and position for moment or two. Figuring it was the least painful course at the moment, he started tromping up the stairs, not even trying for the faintest of salutes. “Come on, ya morons. Got to find a bunk sometime anyway.”
“Ramroop, Second Squad! Florescu, First Squad! There and there! Everyone else, line up behind one of those two, make it even!” After a minute of shuffling about, with Kaminski simply grabbing a few of the indecisive ones and hustling them into one line or the other to get it done, Helton gave out similar orders: four teams of about five each, get in uniform, get a bunk, learn names and occupations, get back to the cargo deck. He’s just about to dismiss them when Florescu, a tall, wiry man with short-cropped hair and a pronounced widow’s peak, asked a question as he pointed to one of the many wall-mounted screens.
“What about that?”
The screens all have a large ground-forces service logo, and a When loaded, touch HERE to start your training sign covering most of every screen visible.
“We ignore it,” Kaminski replied flatly. “Touching that kicks off a shitload of high-volume orders to get us running around. They-” He’s cut off by a sudden siren and shouted orders echoing through the PA system. “Damn,” he muttered, striding over to the nearest screen. “Should have said that first.” Rapidly playing with the screen controls he managed to get it reset and fall silent, then yelled to all those up the stairs. “Leave the screens ALONE!” He turned back to the two remaining large squads. “Won’t be able to shut them up once the other company is aboard, so let’s move fast.” Kaminski and Helton shouldered their rucksacks and led them up the stairs to the troop quarters on the deck above.
The bunk rooms covered the entire deck above the cargo hold. They were small rooms with four bunks, four lockers, and eight drawers each. Kaminski took a room between Moffet’s squad and Florescu’s, while Helton found a spot between Nesbit and Ramroop. The uniforms mostly fit OK, and the new squad leaders appeared to be taking their new duties seriously, if not yet very confidently. Everyone’s rucksack had two complete uniforms, rain gear, entrenching tool, compass, map, three days high-density field rations, two empty two-liter water bottles, individual field first aid kit including tourniquets and bandages, and a variety of small field sundries useful for deployed battle grunts.
A noticeable change in air pressure alerted them to an imminent landing. “ON DECK!” Kaminski roared out down the corridor, “Everyone to the cargo deck!” There was a rapid scramble to get down the stairs to the cargo bay and meet their new fellow “volunteers.” As they rushed to get assembled into something like military order, the back doors started to open and the huge screen folded down from the overhead in preparation to welcome the new company aboard. After another minute, the ramp lowered and the introduction starts to play again, while Helton and Kaminski organized and lined up the squads. The recalcitrant and now wide-eyed and wired-looking 6th was just told to stand in a corner, but otherwise was ignored. Once everyone was looking more or less uniformly lined up, though some are starting to look rather sleepy- all were tired and stressed- with the video droned on about capital offenses, Helton start the ball rolling on leadership.
“Nesbit! Once Mike Company gets aboard, the automated orders and drills will start. Your squad is to hack into whatever systems you can, and at least get that stuff to be silent, or localized and quiet so the 6th can follow it. Don’t mess with life support, power, drives, anything critical. Find anything interesting, let me know. Don’t break systems, get control. Don’t be a hero, use your men as a team. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir!” Nesbit said with a smile, liking the direction things were taking, with those next to him nodding along too. “You heard him, let’s go!” The squad enthusiastically headed for one of the training rooms they’d found on the third deck.
“Moffet!” Helton is rewarded by a scowl. “Find a closet or four, anything that doesn’t look critical, but is locked up. Break in, but try not to destroy things too badly.”
“Closets?” the biker said sarcastically. “You want closets?”
“Start there. Learn the systems on things that won’t kill us if you make a mistake and break them. Kami- Mr. Smith, here, almost blew open a hatch with plastic explosives once, a hatch with a rather large warhead just the other side of it.” He paused to let the idea sink in. “Start safe, move up to weapons lockers and magazines after you know how to do it safely. I aim to have us armed a bit better than they are expecting us to be. Look for problems, ask questions, and don’t do anything stupid. Understood?”
Moffet’s brother grinned widely. “B and E? I think we can manage that.”
“Figured as much. Take care of business, gentlemen. Don’t want to waste that handsome government paycheck, now.” Fifth squad, made of people not the most disciplined in the best of circumstances, wandered off to kick around ideas as the intro movie started to wrap up.
“First and Second Squads! We’ll help our new comrades-in-arms get settled in and sorted out, while the other two start on making life a little more comfortable.”
The opening monologue on the big screen finished with “Welcome aboard, Mike Company, 12th battalion, 19th Volunteers Brigade,” and the large screen folded up and away. The cattle-chute wall at the foot of the ramp folded down, revealing the company about to board for the first time.
Mike Company looked like hell.
November Company expected seventy men because of the rucksack count, but not men that looked like they’d already been through a battle. Nearly everyone was either helping somebody else, being helped, carrying or being carried. Bruises, swollen faces, black eyes, wrapped hands, and even a couple of crutches were plainly evident. Helton’s expected pleasant welcome aboard died on his lips. Turning over his shoulder, he called back to the two squads lined up behind him. “Lend a hand, here. Lively now, November Company! Get them squared away on the starboard side!” Turning back to Mike Company as they started up the ramp, he pointed to a relatively unhurt man at the front, slight and short with no obvious injuries, but the same exhausted expression as the rest. “What happened?”
He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “One very mean drunk. Would have left him, but cops made us take him. They looked worse than we do, didn’t want to keep him. He’s unconscious now.”
“Great,” Helton sighs with heavy sarcasm. “Guess we need soldiers that’ll fight…. We can help you get settled in to your bunks
. See if you can find something to tie him in with.”
“That would be great. Thanks… you in charge?”
Helton stuck out a hand. “Mr. Jones, also a conscript. In charge by default. Have a little command experience. I’m seconded by Mr. Smith over there, who had the marvelous good fortune to have been conscripted before and knows the drills,” Helton lied to short-circuit questions. The new guy reached out and shook his hand firmly.
“Glad to meet you. Alex Karkhov. None of us has a clue, hardly even any good rumors beyond normal stuff, but we’re pretty sure the recruiting ads are not the whole truth.” A couple of passing “volunteers” laughed derisively at the understatement.
“OK, then, start off-” he cut himself off, seeing someone from Mike Company reaching for the ice chest of speed-drinks. “HALT!” The guys jerked his hand back and looked up sharply, a scared look on his haggard face. “Don’t drink that! Everyone!” The Mike Company crowd ground to a halt. “Listen up! We have a plan! That stuff,” he indicates the drink chest, “is the first step they use in brainwashing you! Laced with speed and a whole cocktail of chemicals to wire you up in the wrong ways. You can follow the ship’s programming, get dropped into landing zone flying high and jacked to the gills, with maybe an eighty percent casualty rate. Or you can follow our plan, which should improve the odds considerably. Your choice.” He shrugged, indicating he didn’t know them well enough to care or force them to make what he thought was a better decision. “In the meantime, plain water is at the back, get your rucks, grab a bunk on the starboard side, and we’ll see if we can get things organized for not just winning, but surviving.”