Posleen FanFic

by Leigh Kimmel

  "Okay Mr. Shin, let's go."

  There was no response. The battalion commander flipped his night vision goggles down, turned them on, and focused them so that he could look over at his Humvee driver. His driver, a KATUSA named Corporal Shin, was snoozing away, with his head resting against the driver's side window.

  Colonel Smith simply reached over and tugged on the sleeve of Shin's battle dress uniform. "Mr. Shin, wake up! It's time to go!"

  Shin awoke with a start. "Uh, yes suh." He seemed a little panicky, and quickly started the engine of the truck, disengaged the parking brake, and put it into "drive." He wasn't quite prepared to go however. His night vision goggles were still hanging around his neck, and he was only half awake.

  The colonel didn't mean to make Shin nervous, but the kid acted like a mouse in a room full of cats whenever the battalion commander got in the vehicle with him. He simply couldn't help it. And whenever Shin was nervous, he made silly little mistakes, like the time he drove off of a mountain trail back in Korea, and almost killed the both of them. This was maddening for Colonel Smith, but he always showed a great deal of patience with Shin. He didn't want to make his poor driver any more of a nervous wreck than he already was.

  "Alright Mr. Shin, hold on a minute." The colonel was trying to speak in a soothing tone, even though he felt utterly flustered. "Put the vehicle in park, and take a minute to get your night vision goggles on."

  "Yes suh."

  "Are you okay to drive? You aren't too tired are you?"

  "Yes suh."

  The colonel was starting to get even more frustrated. "Does that mean you are okay, or that you're too tired?"

  "Yes suh."

  "Mr. Shin, you don't understand what I'm asking you, do you?"

  "Yes suh."

  "Switch places with me Shin, I'll drive for awhile. You need to get some rest." As the colonel got out of the Humvee he couldn't help feeling that it was going to be a long goddamn day.

  0945 Hours May 18th, 2002

  Manchu Tactical Operations Center

  The ride was bumpy as hell, rattling Steve's teeth as the Humvee approached Manchu TOC. There weren't any roads or trails in the area, except for the ruts being cut in the ground by the constant vehicle traffic within the battalion. As the vehicles drove around they created huge clouds of dust. Steve, Jenkins, and Kim all wore green cravats around their mouths and noses, to cut down on some of the "Moon Dust" that they were constantly inhaling. Inside of the truck, it covered everything.

  The climate in this part of Diess was harsh. The sun would rise each morning and begin the slow process of turning the surface of the planet into a massive hotplate. The ground everywhere was covered in boulders and seared clay, that was not only a terrific conductor of heat, but was also hard as hell. The Manchus had a wonderful time trying to dig into the stuff. Each and every day the soldiers of the task force, and of the expeditionary forces in general, wondered what crimes they had committed to justify banishing them to such an awful place. And just when they would resign themselves to their fate, the sun would go down, and things got worse.

  The same adobe-like clay that baked them during the day, sucked every bit of warmth from the air at night. They spent the hours of darkness wrapped in cold-weather clothing fighting off the effects of hypothermia. The one saving grace of the mechanized infantry was that with all of the vehicles, came heaters, and they ran constantly. Except if you were one of those pathetic dismounted infantry types. Then you just suffered. It was your lot in life.

  The battalion was in a very hilly and mountainous region of the planet, which made it an ideal area to defend, no matter how much the arid peaks were cursed by grunts with heavy packs.

  In all, Diess was universally hated by every poor soul who was unfortunate enough to be deployed there. More than a few asked themselves why they were risking their lives for such a terrible place. The least they could do is build a bar or two, and maybe ship in a few women. Preferably women of low morale character.

  As they neared the perimeter, Steve could make out the TOC, and the growing parking lot of tactical vehicles right next to it. The TOC was the center of planning for the battalion. It was run by the battalion executive officer, and a significant portion of the staff lived and worked there. It physically consisted of three M577 command vehicles, which were grotesque looking armored personnel carriers, with very high profiles, and bristled with antennas. They would be backed up, rear ends facing each other, ramps down, and connected by a series of lightproof "boots." These would then connect to a medium sized modular tent, and outside would be several long-range antennas. The whole monstrosity would be surrounded by concertina wire, and guarded by some of the young soldiers who worked in the staff. Inside of the TOC were radios, maps, tracking charts, computers, a bunch of staff pukes who never saw the light of day, and one humungous coffee maker.

  This was the realm of the battalion executive officer, or "XO" for short. The XO's name was Major Charles Jaeger and he was an intellectual, a rarity in the infantry to be sure. He held a couple of doctorates, and had been a history professor at West Point for several years. He was average height, a bit chunky for infantry standards, and had a generous number of "scare badges" adorning his BDU blouse. He was almost always in a good mood, except whenever the S-4 was around, and he was a commensurate professional.

  When Captain Murphy entered the TOC he removed his heavy Kevlar helmet and hung it by the chin-strap on one of his canteens. He then removed his other canteen, retrieved the metal canteen cup from the bottom of the canteen pouch, replaced the canteen, and made a beeline for the spectacularly huge coffee maker.

  As he poured steaming hot coffee into his canteen cup, he looked around the inside of the TOC, trying to see who else had arrived for the daily meeting with the colonel. This was the best opportunity during the day to meet with his fellow company commanders, some of whom he considered friends, and shoot the bull.

  The inside of the tent was starting to get warm. Steve had ditched his cold weather garments, nicknamed "snivel gear" about fifteen minutes prior, and it felt like he was going to be uncomfortably hot within the hour. He wasn't enamored with the local climate, it was akin to some of the less hospitable deserts back on Earth-- the temperature extremes within a single day on Diess were brutal. Steve imaged that the TOC monkeys were going to be rolling up the sides of the tent pretty shortly. If not, they would be stewing in their own juices. And Lord knows, those guys smelled bad enough already.

  Steve walked over to the refreshment table to get himself something to put in his coffee. Somehow, the TOC always had goodies like doughnuts, or cakes, to go along with their coffee. Steve always wondered how it was that the staff geeks could get doughnuts, yet there were none to be had for the guys in his company. He made a mental note to bust HHC commander's balls over that one. Sitting next to a recently emptied box of doughnuts were packets of cocoa powder mix. He opened one up and stirred it into his coffee with an ink pen. It made for a decent field expedient mocha. He took a sip, and felt contented for just one short moment. The cocoa covered the badly overcooked coffee taste.

  He took a look around at the battalion's maps and overlays, hung up by the radios. The intelligence NCO was at a field table, penciling in some graphics. In the back of the fire supporter's M577 the fire support officer, Captain Frandsen, was playing cards with the S-2, Captain Gaston. Next to the maps were the tracking charts listing the battalion's maintenance status, its current personnel status, logistical stats, and an 8x10 digital photo of the Charlie Company Commander, Captain Assgaard. On the bottom of the photo was scrawled "The Ass-Master." Next to that were hung several other pieces of sophomoric humor, that were infinitely funnier at two o'clock in the morning when everyone in the TOC was suffering from sleep deprivation, and certifiably slap-happy.

  As he took another sip of his noxious brew, Steve checked the dry-erase board that was prominently displayed with the title "Word of the Day" written on top. One of many ins
ide-jokes among the staff was the "Word of the Day." The battalion XO, who had an IQ like a phone number, would think of a vocabulary word to teach the officers and men who frequented the TOC. It was the running joke that everyone in the infantry was a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal, with a strong back and a weak mind. This point was almost always reiterated by other members of the battalion task force, such as the engineers, air defenders, tankers, and artillery folks—all of whom were convinced beyond a doubt of their intellectual superiority among their less refined brothers in arms. The battalion XO, who was not only the smartest guy in the task force, was also an entertaining fellow with a rapier wit. In order to dispel the myth that infantrymen were incapable of learning, and that they were not completely devoid of any sort redeeming academic qualities, he started posting the "Word of the Day." The "Word" was almost always some fancy fifty-cent word, with a couple dozen syllables. The word on the board was "BUCOLIC," and it was the same word that had been up since yesterday. Steve was mildly disappointed; it was one of the few things he looked forward to when he came to the TOC each day.

  "This shit sucks."

  Steve looked over to see the Captain Jake "The Snake" Rodriguez standing next to him. Jake was the Bravo Company Commander and he was one of the few people that Steve considered a "friend." Jake was a bit short, very stocky, and always, always, had a big fat dip in his mouth. He had the gait of a weightlifter, and physical strength to match. His subtle humor and his direct approach made him a great leader of men, and those in his command regarded him highly. He was also one of the crudest individuals that Steve had ever met.

  "What shit sucks?" Steve asked.

  "This fucking coffee man, have you tasted this crap?"

  Steve smirked a little. "Yeah dude, I had to cut it with a little cocoa just to make it drinkable."

  "Cocoa? You drinking that mocha shit again?"

  "Of course, you got a problem with that?"

  Jake had two paper cups, one in each hand. One held some very awful coffee, and the other was his "spit cup" half full of putrid tobacco juice. Jake chose that moment to spit some more brown saliva into his rapidly filling cup. "Real men drink their coffee black. That mocha shit is for limp-wristed, poetry reciting, clove cigarette smoking queers that hang out in tea houses."

  Steve took another sip from his cup. "You make it sound like a bad thing. Sometimes you have to get in touch with your feminine side."

  Jake set his coffee cup down on nearby field table scratched his butt and farted. "I get in touch with my feminine side every chance I get. Usually it's in private with a naughty magazine and a tub of petroleum jelly. I touch myself a lot."

  Steve almost choked on his field expedient mocha. "Dude, you're a funny bitch!"

  "I try."

  It was at that moment that the "Currahee" company commander approached the two of them. "Good morning fellas." He was way too chipper.

  Steve didn't answer, he simply hated Captain Marcel's guts, and he didn't hide it very well. Jake however, hid his contempt for his "peer" very well, and reciprocated the greeting. "What's up Matthew?"

  "Just getting ready for Colonel Smith's meeting. I really enjoy coming to briefings here, the command and staff in my battalion is so boring. They don't have any sense of humor, you guys are totally different."

  Captain Marcel commanded Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 506th Infantry (Air Assault). His battalion was also in the same brigade as the Manchus, and for the time being his company had been cross-attached to 1-9 Infantry. That meant that the battalions had swapped a company; 1-9 Manchu gave up a company of mechanized infantry to 1st of the 506th, and in return they received a company of air assault infantry from the Currahees. This was quite a normal procedure in the mechanized infantry and armor communities, but not nearly as common in the light infantry world.

  Jake spit in his cup again. "Yeah, us Manchus are a bunch of funny little bitches."

  Marcel just smiled and nodded. A pregnant pause followed. It was a bit uncomfortable. Marcel took another drink of nasty coffee. "Well, I'll talk to you guys later." He then left and went to the other end of the TOC where the briefing was to be conducted.

  Steve watched him leave. "Dude, I hate that fucker."

  Jake shifted his dip from the left side of his lip to the right. "I couldn't tell. You hide your emotions so well."

  "Whatever dude."

  * * *

  The meeting was about to begin, and all the commanders within the battalion were seated in folding chairs, lined up in front of a couple of maps and a "butcher board." The XO was standing with a wooden pointer in his hand, telling an off-color joke with the Assistant S-3, while the company commanders, the command sergeant major, and the battalion S-3, were seated in the front row, leaving the middle seat for Manchu Six.

  Everyone that didn't work in the TOC was covered in a fine layer of yellowish dust and grime, which made for a quite obvious contrast between the staff guys, and everybody else.

  "Everybody listen up!" The battalion XO was trying to get the attention of the assembled group.

  About half of the people in the room shifted their gaze over to Major Jaeger, while the rest continued with their sidebar conversations.

  "Can I have it quiet for a second?" The XO continued.

  Still the talkers in the back of the room continued to yack away, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the XO was speaking.

  "I SAID, SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The XO yelled.

  Silence.

  "That's better then." Major Jaeger pushed his thick glasses back up his nose with his index finger and began to smile; he had the look of a mischievous child.

  "While you gentlemen have been toiling away making the planet safer for the freedom loving peoples of the universe, the staff and I have been working round the clock to provide you with the utmost support that you in fact deserve. But still some of you persist in complaining about the inconsequential. I hear things like 'Sir, the coffee in the TOC tastes like camel piss,' or 'Sir, I haven't taken a shower in over three weeks,' or 'Sir, why can't we get Porta-Johns in our company areas so we can beat-off in private like the staff?' Gentlemen, I hear your cries, but alas, I cannot work miracles. I can only give you a brief respite from your labors, and point of light if you will, to brighten your miserable, stinky, little lives. Therefore, I give you this."

  He then walked over to the "butcher board" and flipped the cover sheet over, revealing a very long word, written in big, black, bold letters.

  "The 'Word of the Day' today is 'JUXTAPOSITION.' Can everyone say it with me? 'JUX-TA-PO-SI-SHON.'"

  Everyone in the room was sporting a toothy grin as they said the word along with the XO. Everyone that is, except the Sergeant Major. He didn't think anything was funny.

  It was at that time that Lieutenant Colonel Smith entered the "room." He had the S-2 in tow and was taking long determined strides. He had a very business-like look on his face, and the room sobered immediately upon seeing him.

  Major Jaeger came to attention immediately and sounded off like a drill sergeant. "Gentleman, the battalion commander!"

  "As you were!" The colonel barked. "Take your seats!"

  Colonel Smith stood in front of the room with the S-2 right behind him. He looked his commanders over for a moment before he began.

  "Listen up, we don't have time for the typical battle update briefing this morning. We're going to cut to the chase and start off with the meat and potatoes of this thing." The colonel turned to the S-2. "Deuce, take it away."

  The XO handed the pointer to Captain Gaston as he took position in front of the assembled group. "Manchus Gentlemen. Well, the time has finally come. We have received word that enemy action within our sector is imminent. Indications are that we will be attacked within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours." The atmosphere within the tent cooled.

  "As you already know, we are arrayed here generally along Phase Line "Axe" oriented to the Northeast, covering this major mobility corridor." As the S-2 spoke,
he used his pointer to indicate positions on a large map.

  "When enemy elements move forward they will be canalized mostly by terrain and with the help of some of Bulldog Six's obstacles. They will have to eventually move through this large defile which Manchu Three has nicknamed 'The Valley of Death.'"

  Colonel Smith looked grim while Captain Gaston spoke. On the battalion operational graphics, "The Valley of Death" was actually listed as "Engagement Area Pistol," and it was covered by fires from both the attached D Company, 1-72nd Armor, and elements of D Company, 1-9th Infantry. The two companies straddled the valley, with the tank company team on the north side of the defile, and the infantry company team on the south. It had a series of obstacles in it, and it was well covered by fires. None of this information was news however, except for the revelation that the enemy attack would kick off very soon.

  The S-2 then flipped over a sheet of paper on the "butcher board" revealing a detailed course of action sketch. "Sir, based upon new information we have come up with this as the enemy's most likely course of action." The sketch roughly outlined the terrain and units occupying their area of operation, with several enemy units and icons drawn in with large arrows, indicating their probable axes of advance. "This is very similar to the Course of Action briefs that you were given before, except adjusted for the new information we have received on the enemy."

  Colonel Smith interrupted the S-2. "Where is this information coming from Deuce?"

  "Sir, this intel is being given to us by our alien allies. How they are gathering it is not known to me at this time. Brigade and Division has assured me that it is in fact accurate."

  Colonel Smith smiled like a caged predator. "And we all know how accurate information from Brigade and Division usually is."

  The S-2 didn't quite know how to respond. "Uh, roger sir. Hopefully this time they are correct."

  "Okay Deuce, that's enough. Go ahead and take a seat." The battalion commander finally removed his helmet, and scratched his head. He seemed tired, and it looked as if a few more gray hairs had sprouted on his small head. "Guys it's like this; the enemy courses of action that you have been briefed up until now have not changed appreciably. The thing that has changed is the number of Posleen we should expect to see in our Area of Operations. It's bad. And it ain't specific either. The numbers could be anywhere from the hundreds of thousands to millions attacking our itty bitty task force." Everyone in the room had been briefed on the Posleen, their doctrine, their tactics, and most importantly, their numbers; but it was like a splash of ice water in the face to hear the colonel say it out loud.