Posleen FanFic

by Leigh Kimmel

  Timpton grunted at that. "'Weaver' isn't Ukrainian?"

  "No, British, she just works there. He's smart, and knows his shit. Has a four year degree but doesn't like to talk about it. Thinks it ruins his image as an NCO."

  "BA in ... " the Sergeant Major looked up at the ceiling, thinking deeply, trying to remember something. From out in the hallway, through the thin walls of the hastily built building came a sound similar to that of glasses clinking, and he looked down as the memory flooded in. " ... French?"

  Audobon blinked again. "I ... How'd you know that, Sergeant Major?"

  "Let me see the 201 first. I want to check something, make sure it's him. Orderly!"

  * * *

  Tom was thinking hard as he returned to the battalion headquarters. He doubted he'd be able to maintain the act if Timpton came right out and asked, so it might be better to just admit it. What's the worst thing that could happen? It's not like I'm impersonating an officer, he thought, sardonically. Of all the dumb effing luck ...

  The specialist sitting at the desk in front of the Sergeant Major's office recognized him, and waived him up. "Sergeant Major Timpton is expecting you, Sergeant Weaver." Rather than use the intercom to announce him, the specialist had just spoken in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next room. Tom nodded and continued up to the door.

  "Come on in, Weaver," said the sergeant major as Tom tapped on the door frame.

  Tom marched up to the desk and came to attention, staring at the Sergeant Major's hairline. "Staff Sergeant Tomas Weaver, reporting as ordered, Sergeant Major."

  Timpton ignored him for the moment, and looking to the side nodded to someone. Behind him, the door closed with an ominous click.

  "So. You gonna play stupid, now, LT?"

  From behind him, Tom heard a noise that could have been a snort, a choke or a gulp, or maybe all three, as First Sergeant Audobon spun back to the desk from the door that he had just shut. Apparently, the sergeant major had succeeded in keeping the first sergeant from knowing what was up.

  Tom's shoulders dropped, as did his point of reference. He looked at the Sergeant Major in the eyes for the first time in almost ten years. "So, you recognized me."

  "Yes. I. Did. Two questions. Why the hell are you wearing the rocker of an E6, and second, what do I do with you, Sir?"

  Tom blinked away the frustration that suddenly hit him, his composure breaking down almost immediately. "Don't. Call. Me. That." Ten years of hidden anger and self-doubt slammed to the fore as Tom waived his arms around. "They yanked my commission, dammit, at effectively what was my own request. And I'm pretty sure they've lost the damned records, because my 201 only shows service up until I was discharged as an E5, but doesn't show my starting ROTC, but does show my having spent one effing afternoon in the effing Caribbean." Behind him, the First Sergeant was perfectly silent. "So when I got called back up for the duration, they brought me in as a combat veteran and a Sergeant. And here I am." Tom said, hooking a thumb at his chest and then pointing at the floor. Then he looked over his shoulder at his first sergeant. "And I'm pretty sure that Top, here, wants a reasonably competent Staff Sergeant as his Training NCO, more than the company needs a cashiered fucking First Lieutenant as its company commander."

  "Commander?" asked the first sergeant, startled.

  Tom looked over his shoulder. "I've got time in grade," he snapped, ironically, the taste of the bitterness of the situation on his tongue.

  The battalion's senior NCO leaned across the desk and opened his mouth to say something pointed, but he was interrupted as Tom heard the movement, turned back and met him half way.

  "And so," he said, bracing his fists on Timpton's desk, "you may assume that First Lieutenant Thomas Paulson is dead, Sergeant Major. If you can't make that assumption, or don't want to work under that assumption, then you can just treat it as a fucking order."

  Timpton leaned back from the vitriol in Tom's voice. Carefully, he said "1st LT Caldecourt is on the promotable list. I believe that means he ranks you."

  "Bullshit. Returning lieutenants with combat experience were bumped grades. I'd be standing here in at least captains' bars. Probably because of this," he growled, pointing at his collar and the rank there, "I'd have been bumped straight to Major by the California Guard and be sitting at the command and staff college right now." Tom looked hard at the man across the desk, his eyes narrowed. "And now, will there be anything else, Sergeant Major?" he hissed.

  Timpton leaned back forward over his desk, not giving an inch. "We will see about this, Sergeant Paulson. Sir. What ever the hell you are. Get out of my office. First Sergeant? Stick around."

  Tom came to attention, turned and stalked out of the room. He did not look at 1st SG Audobon as he passed.

  * * *

  The first battalion, hundred-forth-ninth Armor, the 'C Forty Niners', were still pretty far down the list when it came to non-combat related GalTech equipment. The command and staff were repeatedly asking the 40th's supply officer when they would be getting their AIDs, and the G5 was repeatedly telling them 'shortly after I get mine'. Until then, they were making do with standard earth technology for their communications with the world.

  Beyond the window, a grey dingy sky looked down on Command Sergeant Major Toby 'Tiptoe' Timpton as he sat, blindly regarding his computer monitor. The blinking cursor on the screen admonished his inactivity, but couldn't seem to break through the man's lethargy. What the computer didn't know was that the sergeant major wasn't lethargic, merely thinking furiously.

  If it were an AID, he thought morosely with a sigh, it would.

  Perched lightly on the edge of his chair, his fingertips together in a chapel before his face, he rocked quickly forward and back, eyes clearly unfocused. Various girlfriends and ex-wives had usually found the habit to be at first cute, but then later to be an indication that he suffered from Asberger's Syndrome.

  Occasionally, the swaying motion would freeze, and the man's hands would drop to the keyboard before him, and he'd type a few words before stilling. Then he would backspace over what he had written and return to staring blindly at the screen, fingers once again in a chapel before his face. The forward and backward rocking motions of both the sergeant major and the cursor on the screen had gone on for over an hour, and through several attempts to get the message out. Finally the man's hands clenched into fists and he looked away from the monitor, his yet unfocused gaze landing on his Love-Me wall.

  One of the many plaques there caught his eye and he focused. Azure, a Lion argent passant. He didn't need to read the banner at the feet of the silver lion as it stood there on its blue field. 'Ventre a Terre' it said. Literally the French translated to 'Belly to the ground' but it was an idiomatic expression and was used historically to mean 'with great speed'. A more modern, more creative, and actually much closer translation would be 'balls to the wall'.

  As his mind focused on what he was thinking, Timpton snorted. He leaned back into his chair and looked out the window. A gust of winter wind chose that moment to blow a wet leaf up against the window where it stuck momentarily. Eventually, it was prized up again and sent about its merry way, but before it could something about its shape triggered a memory, a memory that was as yet amorphous, but hovered on the edge of awareness.

  Just then, a civilian construction vehicle outside was shifted into reverse, and the loud peep-peep-peep of the backing vehicle ripped the vales away. It was a memory of Germany, a winter REFORGER from the mid '80s, that popped up and he remembered. There hadn't been any snow, just a lot of rain and wind and wet, slick leaves on the ground. And memories of the MILES gear, the 'laser-tag' engagement system that was worn or carried by everything from dismounted infantry to crew-served weapons to tanks and APCs, with its near-miss and kill tones. And memories, if anything, are herd animals. They chose that exact moment to stampede.

  * * *

  The observer/referee was relentless in his after-action-review, as he discussed The Plan. Or more realisti
cally, the Failures in The Plan. The Failures in The Plan that had resulted in 'Hell! This wasn't a cluster fuck, this was a god-damned Custer fuck'. The Plan that resulted in over sixty five percent of the battalion being wiped out in the first hour of the defense, The Plan that had required an E-god-damned-5 leading a counterattack made up of a scratch built tank platoon in order to free the less than twenty-five percent that were considered to have got out of the encirclement in the end.

  Eventually, the O/R finished his tirade, and then it was the Division Commander's turn. "This is," he said simply, "why we train. Where is the E5 who pulled off the counterattack, by the way?"

  Tom Paulson disengaged himself from the back of the tent where he had been standing in a loose approximation of parade rest. He posted himself before the two-star, saluted. "Sergeant Tom Paulson, Sir."

  "At ease, Sergeant. Are you a warrior? Or how much luck was involved, Son?" asked the general.

  "There were two points that if they had known I was coming, they could have shot us up bad with direct fire, Sir. But we still had some indirect available so I drove them off with that before ducking around that pond. I guess it was pretty lucky they missed when they did have us under direct. And I'd noticed that their indirect kept missing several hundred meters to the west every time they had a sensing round. Looked like their tubes weren't dialed in correctly ... so I knew that we'd be able to dodge pretty effectively."

  The general looked over at the O/R who quickly looked at his notes. There was a short pause as the man ruffled out the correct sheet of paper. "Shit howdy," he said. "He's right, Sir. They were roughly thirty mils off. At ten kilometers away, that's three hundred meters offset."

  The general looked back at Tom speculatively. "How'd you know?"

  "Just something I noticed sitting in the S3 track, transcribing the sitreps and shotreps from the various units calling in." Tom got a distant look for a moment, then nodded. "Anyway, it was a guess, actually, based on that."

  The general snorted. "And how would you have done it differently?"

  "I would have started with a different defense plan, Sir."

  The general nodded. "Brutally direct, Sergeant."

  "Yes, Sir," he replied, shrugging slightly.

  "And effectively correct. Well then, nothing left but the shouting. Once my G1 gets finished typing up the orders, Sergeant, I'll be awarding you an impact Army Commendation Medal."

  Tom blinked. "Thank you, Sir. That's a bit unexpected."

  "Just don't tell me your counterattack was a fluke, Sergeant."

  "No, Sir. It would have been a fluke if they'd actually been able to get us under direct fire, Sir."

  The general laughed. "You got any college, Sergeant Paulson?"

  "No, Sir. My platoon sergeant keeps trying to get me to go, though. Says I'd make a fairly decent lieutenant." Tom shrugged it off, though, as if to say that it didn't really interest him.

  The general looked at Tom for a long moment, then nodded. "Who's your platoon sergeant?" he asked, looking around the tent.

  Tom pointed back over to where he had been standing originally. "SFC Timpton, Sir."

  Major General Dekalli laughed. "Ok, if Timpton will go out on a limb so far as to say 'fairly decent', then I guess you've got a reasonably ok career in front of you." He looked around. "Ok, I'm through here," he said, and the tent came to attention. "Colonel Bunch? Lieutenant Colonel Gomez? Major Farington? This way, please."

  * * *

  Timpton returned to the present, leaned forward, and with a pointed smirk, started typing. After a lengthy couple of pages, he reached toward the screen and tapped the 'send' button with his index finger. The touch-command was quickly noted and acted upon.

  Timpton nodded at what he had just done, and punched his thigh with another fist.

  "Fuck your assumptions, LT. I know someone who outranks your nasty ass any way you look at it. Let's see what Dekalli has to say about this."

  * * *

  The room was an even 350 square meters in area, seventy meters long and fifty meters wide, and the holograph projectors were currently displaying a large portion of the state of California at a 100:1 ratio, centered on the fortress city of Sacramento. The projectors were working from real-time satellite data; the representation was accurate to the nearest half-centimeter on the ground. If you looked carefully, you could even see tiny aircraft flying over the top of the image.

  LTC Abraham Kuzio looked out over the Map from his podium, before nodding and saying to the room at large "AID? Center the projection at thirty kilometers due West of Angels' Camp, with a ratio of ten to one." The image flowed and reformed to show the battalion's area of operations. "Now give us the plan ... "

  Color-coded defensive fire zones, routes of march, artillery ranges from planned and existing artillery batteries, civilian and military evacuation routes, planned artillery fires, direct fire avenues, routes of ingress and egress for passage of lines operations, as well as hundreds of other details of the minutia of a planned battle appeared on the map. When viewed through the MilSpec visors, parts relevant to the visor-wearer pulsed while those not directly germane faded to grey. Tom had done his best in pre-setting the various filters available, but information overload was still a factor when trying to follow what was going on.

  And then it got really confusing.

  "AID?" requested the battalion commander. "Give us a landing in the valley, anywhere North of Fresno and South of Modesto. For the viewers at home, this will be known as a landing 'in the South-40'. AID, one lander for this time. Engage the animation."

  The lander came in this time from the west, out over the ocean, with several of its mates from a single battle dodecahedron. The eleven others dropped along the coastal range, landing both before and after the initial range, with some along the shoreline, some in the area South of Silicon Valley, some as far east as Pleasanton along the 680 corridor and the BART light rail line. The single lander that passed beyond the ranges to land in the San Joaquin valley itself, moved pretty far South and dropped onto I5 just West of Los Banos. The oolt and the pair of God-Kings that it disgorged started shooting up cars along the main North/South artery of the California transportation system, as well as west along Highway 152 towards the San Luis Reservoir and the attached hydroelectric power generator.

  Almost immediately, however, battery fire of 155mm howitzer as well as 120mm mortar fire, directed by scouts and spotters on the mountain tops, took their toll on the bodies of the exposed Posleen. Once the incoming ballistic rounds swamped the sensors on the Kessentai's tenars, a pair of sniper rounds put paid to the Kessentai themselves, and then two companies-worth of pre-emplaced, dismounted and dug-in mech infantry assets engaged the surviving, leaderless Posleen ferals in the kill sack. It was one hell of a beautifully executed ambush of an airmobile operation with a known objective.

  Meanwhile, and contrary to what the humans would expect, the civilian vehicles in the initial landing area were using precise tactical maneuver to disengage and retreat. Vehicles that got hit stayed hit of course, but the actual number taking fire rapidly dropped off as vehicles got into hidden egress routes, or failing that, the occupants jumped out and got into culverts and ditches, and "e-and-e'd" out of the way.

  LTC Kuzio was fuming. "Freeze the simulation, AID. What the hell was that?"

  There was a pause, and then the AID responded. "This device assumes some error has been committed. Probability is that the lack of pre-set initial conditions, and subsequent assumptions on the part of this device, led to an animation not desired by the leadership present. I'm sorry? Should I have let the invaders win? Instructions?"

  The battalion commander turned to the S3. "Major McKinney?" he said, shortly.

  The Major was looking around wildly, his gaze frantically searching out salvation. It found it in the stance of SFC Weaver, recently promoted and moved to the Assistant S3 NCOIC position. Tom was currently the S3 NCOIC (acting) in reality, however, since the master sergeant curr
ently on the books as the NCOIC had been arrested on suspicion of aiding and/or abetting the desertion of upwards of four of the battalion's enlisted personnel, some with their GalTech issued equipment.

  "Well?" the S3 squeaked.

  Tom looked up from his notepad and said, "Yes sir. Taking your points in reverse order, as you know we have a selection of preconceived operations plans, based on probable or even random landings, in the area specified by the battalion commander for the simulation. The majority have yet to be approved however." Tom gestured at the frozen simulation. "If you want, I can bring up one of the more interesting ones, certainly from our viewpoint." Tom's voice lacked all the keys that would have let the Battalion's staff and commanders know what he was thinking at that point about his new boss. "Keep in mind that this battle plan, the one I'm thinking about, has not yet been approved by the S3." At Kuzio's silent, short, sharp nod, Tom continued, speaking directly to his own AID rather than the Commander's ... or the S3's, as that one was nowhere in evidence.

  No doubt, it was back on the Major's desk, checking his e-mail for him.

  "AID? Battle plan simulation Alpha-Tree-South. Four lander diamond. Exact landing point not stipulated in preconditions, however it must be in the San Joaquin Valley, North of Highway 152. Time now. Equipment light. Initial Posleen axis of advance North ... Battalion initial deployment in defensive diamond, positions centered at Point Charon, Phase Line Nickel." The AID chirped at Tom in acknowledgement, while the simulation morphed back into a real-time representation of the area of operations. Corps, divisional, brigade and battalion level markers appeared, as well as company level for the First of the 149th Armor, 40th Division (Mechanized) of the California Army National Guard.

  "Excuse me, Sir. Is the auto traffic and the behavior of the civilians on the interstate realistic?" asked First Lieutenant Valley, the charlie company commander.

  The battalion commander nodded. "Good question. AID?"

  "Initial conditions not set," reminded the disembodied voice. "Also, vehicle occupant reactions show typical response patterns for humans when facing an armed force of Posleen invaders."