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"I think the troops will adjust," Gu
"We'll do all of that," Mike said. "My basic plan is this. We should arrive, transportation being available, on Monday or Tuesday. We'll spend a day cleaning up the barracks and our gear and morguing the suits. Then a day or two on short days around the barracks, getting used to wearing silks again and working on our dress stuff. Friday we'll have a real honest to God 'payday activities' with an inspection of the barracks and dress uniform inspection followed by a battalion formation and dismissal by noon. Everybody to be back in formation no earlier than noon the next Tuesday."
"You know, I don't know how that will go over," Captain Holder said. "Frankly, I think some of the troops will view it as . . . well . . ."
"Chickenshit, sir?" Gu
"So do I," Stewart interjected. "And I disagree as a former troop. All of these troops are volunteers. You don't get to the point that we're at without realizing that there's a reason for all the happy horseshit in garrison. Sure, you ignore most of it in combat, but the best, the most elite troops, have always been the snazziest dressers."
"Waffen SS," Duncan noted. "Now there were some guys who knew how to wear a uniform."
"The 82nd," Captain Slight noted. "They were chosen for the role of Honor Guard in post-WWII Europe mainly on the basis of how well they dressed out. And nobody can fault their combat record."
"Rhodesian SAS and the Selous Scouts," O'Neal said in agreement. "Two of the baddest groups ever to come out of the Cold War and they were like peacocks in garrison; Dad still has his uniform and it looks like something from a Hungarian opera."
"Okay, okay," Captain Holder said, holding up his hands. "But do the troops know that?"
"We'll give 'em evenings off," Mike said. "Short passes; they'll need to be back to barracks by a curfew. There's a reason for it. Gu
"You don't just rip soldiers right out of combat and drop them on a town, sir," Gu
"We'll give them a week of 'chickenshit' to acclimatize, and a week for the town to get used to the idea and more or less prepared, and then we'll let them go for a weekend. I don't see us having more than a couple of weeks, maybe a month, in garrison. We'll let them unwind for a bit then train back up and then . . ."
"Back to killing Posleen," Duncan said with a growl.
"Back to making Posleen sausage," Mike agreed. "What we do best."
"We getting any replacements, sir?" Pappas asked. "We're . . . getting a little low on bodies in case nobody had noticed."
"There are twelve suits in the pipeline," O'Neal said. "They're all supposed to be waiting for us when we get to Newry."
"And bodies?" Captain Slight asked. "Even with the troops we picked up from Alpha, we're under ma
"And bodies," Mike agreed. "Given that we have some mopping up to do, the bodies should be there in time to get the suits fitted and even dialed in. I understand we're even getting a couple from the Ten Thousand."
* * *
"Ten shut!" Sunday called as Colonel Cutprice entered the room.
The conference room was in the offices of a factory, long since abandoned, just west of the Genesee River. The blasts from SheVa rounds, which had levelled practically every prominence east of the Genesee, had blown out the windows of the room and Cutprice strode across crackling glass as he entered. But it was better than being outside; the rains had set in again and it looked to be turning to snow soon.
"At ease, rest even," Cutprice said, striding over to the group of four troopers. He was trailed by Mansfield, carrying a set of boxes, and the sergeant major, similarly weighed down.
"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," he continued, suiting action to words as he pulled out a pack of Dunhills. They were getting hard to find so he saved them for special occasions.
"You might be wondering why I called you here and all that . . ." He smiled and nodded at the boxes. "All of you transferred in from other units, and when you got here we took a rank away from you to make sure that you could cut the mustard, that you weren't just garrison rangers with great counseling statements and no damned heart for war." He looked at Sunday and shook his head.
"As it turned out, you all were what the Ten Thousand wanted; warriors to the core, psychotic motherfucking Posleen killers, willing to walk into the fire over and over and never flinch." He shook his head again, this time in sorrow. "And now we're losing you to those ACS bastards.
"Well, those ACS bastards do the same thing," he noted, taking the first box. "They take a stripe away when you get there, just to make sure you're what they need in a warm body. Then they stuff you in a can until you look like a worm that crawled out from under a rock." He glanced at the note attached to the box and nodded.
"Sunday, get your ass over here," he growled. "I don't know if your old unit did this before you came here, but they should have. Most of you is getting bumped a rank before you leave, that way when you get to the damned clankers you'll end up at the rank you have, by God, earned.
"The exception," he continued, looking up at Sunday, "is you, Tank. I'd been thinking about doing this for a while and I don't know what took me so long." He glanced at Mansfield then looked away. "Some paperwork problem. Anyway, I'm going to screw you for all time. You ready?"
"Yes, sir," Sunday said in confusion. "Whatever you think is best."
"Okay, if you're that trusting," Cutprice said with an evil grin, "you deserve this. Attention to orders!
"Staff Sergeant Thomas Sunday, Junior, is released from Service of the United States Ground Forces September 17, 2009, for the Purposes of accepting a commission as a Regular Officer of the United States Ground Forces and concurrent reentry to the United States Ground Forces as First Lieutenant. First Lieutenant Thomas Sunday, Junior, is ordered to active duty this September 17, 2009, with date of rank September 17, 2009." Cutprice stopped reading, reached in his bellows pocket, pulled out a battered pair of first lieutenant's bars and replaced Sunday's staff sergeant collar stripes. "You don't owe me anything for these, by the way. I had them rattling around in the back of my desk."
* * *
"Very well, Orostan," Tulo'stenaloor said. "I'll send Shartarsker in to make sure they are not coming closer to the base." He looked at the map and considered the report the oolt'ondai had sent in. "Good luck."
Goloswin looked up from the sensor readout. "It does not go well?"
"The team apparently has escaped," Tulo'stenaloor said. "After ravaging Orostan's oolt'ondar."
"Well, they are not in the sensor region," Goloswin said, gesturing at the map. "Or at least not marking themselves as such. I'm not sure if they can at this point. There is a way to communicate with these boxes without other devices, but this assumes the humans are as clever as I am."
"So even if they are in the sensor net, we might not know it?" Tulo'stenaloor asked.
"Yes," Goloswin answered, ruffling his crest. "There is a way to modify their software to make them detect humans. The sensors 'see' the humans, but they also see the thresh of the woods and all the greater thresh of this planet. The 'deer' and 'dogs' and such-like that have survived. The humans have designed the systems, quite efficiently I might add, to sort through the information they collect in several different ways. And it sorts out anything but Posleen and humans that are 'in the net' and telling it they are there and want to be tracked. Thus I would have to tell all the boxes to change their filters to find humans. And even then it would assume the humans are not cloaking themselves in any of several ways. I could do it—I am, after all, clever. But the humans might, probably would, notice. They, too, have clever technicians."