Lieutenant Colonel Page 7

  Lon had no difficulty arranging access to training areas for Saturday morning. In general, Saturday training was remedial, for individuals or units that failed to meet the standards of the Corps during the normal work week.

  Trucks carried the battalion’s companies to prearranged points in the forested training area east of the main base. The men had been briefed in the scenario they would act out. Observers drawn from other units would travel with each company, to referee the small-unit encounters and to report on unit effectiveness afterward. Lon split the headquarters detachment. He would take half to monitor the bout between Bravo and Delta Companies. Vel Osterman would take the rest to monitor Alpha and Charlie.

  The DMC went to great lengths to make training as realistic as possible. Slug-throwing rifles and pistols were loaded with soft chalk bullets propelled by minimal powder charges—enough to be felt, not enough to cause serious injury. Beamers, coherent energy weapons, were restricted in power—a hit by one of those would leave the equivalent of a minor sunburn on skin.

  “Working on Saturday’s gonna make for some mean fighting,” Phip told Lon as they drove toward the center of the area that Bravo and Delta would be contesting. “You tellin’ ’em they’d do it again this afternoon if they screwed up didn’t help.”

  “We’ll work it out of them here,” Lon said. “If we’re going out in a week or two, we can’t baby anyone. I want to see all the weak spots now.”

  The two men were in full combat gear, except for weapons. They spoke over a private radio channel. DMC battle helmets offered a variety of communications channels—more for command personnel, officers, and noncoms. Lon planned to scan channels to eavesdrop on operations. At every level.

  “Bravo and Delta both have new COs,” Phip said, as if the boss might possibly have forgotten such a basic fact. “I expect they’ll do most of the screwing up.”

  “We’ll know where to put the effort then, won’t we,” Lon said. “I’m trying to set up a full battalion exercise against another unit for Thursday or Friday. It means juggling some schedules, but the General okayed it. Just need to pull the wrinkles out of the rope.”

  “By the time we get through that, some of the men will be wishing they were still pulling fatigue detail, even whitewashing the rocks in front of headquarters.”

  It was three in the afternoon before Lon released the men, after relaying the deficiencies the referees had noted. When Lon got home, he found that Sara and the children had gone to visit with Lon’s parents. Lon called, talked to his mother for a few minutes, but decided against driving over. “I’m too beat to walk out to the curb,” he said. “We’ve got tomorrow free. We’ll all do something together then.”

  When Sara and the children got home two hours later, Lon was asleep in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa. Sara left him there until supper was ready.

  “Your mother and I have it all worked out,” Sara said while they were eating. “If you’re on contract, we’ll go to Bascombe East over the Christmas break. The five of us. I’ve already introduced your parents to mine over the net. We spent thirty minutes chatting, letting them get to know each other.”

  “That’s good,” Lon said. “If this contract works out the way I expect, we might not be back till the end of February.”

  “Are you going to miss my birthday again, Daddy?” Angie asked.

  “I’m not sure, princess,” Lon said. “It’s going to be close, I’m afraid. If it looks like I will, we’ll move your birthday up a few days, okay?”

  “The whole time I was on Earth, and especially on the way back, I thought a lot about what we could do when I got home. I figured I could take a month’s furlough after my parents arrived so we could do some sight-seeing, spend a lot of time together. Maybe travel to Deradine Falls,” Lon said after he and Sara went to bed. Deradine Falls, named after the pilot who first saw it, was the natural wonder of Dirigent—as broad as Niagara Falls on Earth, but dropping half a mile in one clear fall down the escarpment of a rift valley two thousand miles from Dirigent City.

  “Hasn’t any of it worked out,” Lon said. “The new command, then this Bancroft thing. I can’t even be sure that when we get back from Bancroft I’ll be able to take that much time, not right away. It depends on how the contract goes.” There was no need to define that qualification—how many casualties the battalion took, how much rebuilding was necessary when it got home.

  “So we’ll work it in when we can,” Sara said. “We’re getting to be good at that.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Just go to sleep.”

  Sleep. Although he was tired, Lon had difficulty finding the void. At first, it was thoughts of what he needed to do, what the battalion needed to do, to get ready for Bancroft: training, drills, lectures, planning. He recalled the rough terrain on Bancroft, the forested valleys and hills where most of the mining settlements and camps were, the difficulty of moving men on the ground. That led to memories of Dean Ericks, the friend who had died there. In his mind, Lon saw Dean lying on the ground dying; dead. He could almost hear Dean’s voice. He remembered happier times, pub crawls in Camo Town, the area of Dirigent City that existed to serve off-duty soldiers…at almost anything they might want. The Three Musketeers and D’Artagnan they had been at the beginning. Phip, Janno, and Dean had been the musketeers. Lon had been the new man, D’Artagnan. Janno got married and left the Corps. Dean got killed…

  Sleep, when it came, did not end the memories. They continued in Lon’s dreams. So many friends and comrades had died over the years, or left the Corps—for one reason or another. It was not a restful night.

  A day of rest that was not restful, away from the Corps in body but not in thought. Then, Monday, Lon was back to the grind, along with every man in the battalion. Vel Osterman substituted for Lon at Colonel Black’s regular Monday conference. Lon was at Corps headquarters, sitting in on yet another session in the negotiations with Governor Sosa. Those had reached the technical stage, money and assets, details. By the time the meeting recessed, Lon was convinced that agreement could not be far away, perhaps no more than a day or two. After that, departure would likely come quickly—within seventy-two hours. It was traditional, when possible, to give men going out on contract two days off before departure, time for a last fling in Camo Town or a last visit with relatives.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to worry about working the men this Saturday,” Lon told his executive officer as they ate lunch together in the officers’ club on Monday. “I suspect we’ll either already be aboard ship or on notice to leave.”

  “That close?” Vel asked softly.

  Lon nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the final draft of the contract is drawn up tomorrow, signed tomorrow afternoon or Wednesday morning. After that, I’m sure Governor Sosa is going to be in a hurry to get us moving toward Bancroft.”

  “We are in pretty good shape, Lon,” Vel said. “A little rough around the edges, but it’s not as if we had twenty percent new people. We’ve had a long time to get most of the rookies integrated into the companies.”

  “I know, but I hate going in not being confident that we’re one hundred percent. Basically, this will be counterguerilla warfare, and that can be more difficult than squaring off against another army in an open fight.”

  “It’s what we do, like beer and chips,” Vel said. He shrugged. “I understand how you feel. We wouldn’t be worth much as leaders if we didn’t want our people at their best. It gives everyone a better chance to get home safe.”

  Lon nodded, then finished his drink and signaled for another scotch and water. The waiter had just arrived with the new drink when Lon had a call from Colonel Black.

  “Governor Sosa just okayed the deal, Lon. They sign the contract this afternoon. You leave Friday morning.”

  8

  There was the usual caravan of buses, led by two limousines and several staff cars, across Dirigent City from the DMC base to the spaceport—the usual parade leading up t
o the departure of soldiers on contract. Governor Sosa, his aides, and the General were the reasons for the limousines. The Bancrofters would be going home aboard the Dirigenter ship.

  Second Battalion formed up next to the runway at the spaceport, dressed the formation, and stood at attention in their battledress uniforms with the faceplates up on their helmets and their rifles on their shoulders. There was a short ceremony, with the governor of Bancroft and the General each saying a few polite words. The band played. Nine shuttles stood waiting to carry the battalion and the Bancrofters up to Long Snake, the transport that would carry them to Bancroft. Baggage and supplies had been carried up to Long Snake earlier.

  After the ceremony ended, the order was given to board shuttles—a maneuver carried out with well-practiced precision by the mercenaries. Lon’s shuttle, which carried his staff, headquarters detachment, and the Bancrofters, was the first off the field. With outsiders aboard, the pilot made a more decorous takeoff than he might have otherwise. Forty-five seconds later, the other shuttles started taking off, two at a time, thirty seconds between pairs.

  Here we go again, Lon thought as his shuttle quit accelerating to coast toward its rendezvous with Long Snake. He no longer kept track of the numbers, how many combat contracts, how many training contracts, the interstellar passages, the jumps through Q-space. He no longer wanted to remember.

  There were formalities when the shuttle docked and was brought into one of Long Snake’s hangars. The ship’s captain, Eldon Roim, was on hand to welcome Governor Sosa and Lon. Lon went to the launch and recovery center, which protruded from the side of the ship, offering a view of the hangars. Captain Roim escorted the Bancrofters to their cabins forward, in the crew section of Long Snake.

  The last pair of shuttles were just being hoisted inboard by the ship’s grapples. The launchmaster, Long Snake’s number three officer, was in control of docking operations. Lon stood out of the way and waited until the last hatches had been closed and the hangars pressurized. The launchmaster turned to Lon then, saluted, and said, “All shuttles aboard, sir. No problems.”

  Lon returned the salute and thanked him. “How long before we head out-system?” Lon asked.

  “We’ll be under way within minutes, Colonel,” the launchmaster said. “Taranto and Tyre will follow us out.” Taranto was a fighting ship; it carried a squadron of sixteen Shrike fighters as well as beam and projectile weapons of its own. Tyre was a transport being used to carry additional munitions and supplies for the battalion. “Captain Roim is task force commander.”

  The command structure included a little fine balancing. The naval arm of the DMC was considered an auxiliary service. Once the task force reached a contract world, the senior army officer—in this case, Lon—was in command of the operation, even though one or more naval officers might theoretically outrank him. The skippers of both Long Snake and Taranto were captains, the naval equivalent of a full colonel in the Corps. Tyre was captained by a commander, theoretically equal in rank to Lon. Interactions between Lon and the ships’ commanders would be conducted with extreme diplomacy, built up from protocols that were centuries old.

  Once Long Snake secured from recovery stations, the launchmaster escorted Lon to his quarters near the front of the battalion’s section of the ship. Vel Osterman and Phip Steesen were waiting.

  “Everyone is aboard and accounted for,” Major Osterman said. “The men are getting squared away in their quarters now.”

  Lon nodded. “We’re under way, heading toward our first jump point.” With Long Snake’s Nilssen generators providing artificial gravity inside the ship, there was no sensation of movement. “Phip, get the meal arrangements confirmed and start working on training schedules for the trip.” Facilities aboard the ship were limited, even though Long Snake was five miles long. The soldiers would eat, exercise, and train in shifts. Dirigent’s Dragon-class transports, such as Long Snake, were being phased out—one every four years. Their replacements, the Raptor-class transports, were 10 percent larger, more modern, and better armed. In five years, the last Dragon would be retired.

  “I’ll get right to it, Colonel,” Phip said. There could be no informality between them on duty with anyone else present. The forms had to be observed.

  “I’ll speak with the men at lunch today,” Lon said. The officers and noncoms had gone through an intensive mission briefing—and everyone knew the basics of the contract. Lon would give more than a pep talk to the lower ranks, though. It was Corps policy to keep everyone as fully informed as practical. No matter how badly the command structure might be shattered on contract, the Corps will be prepared to continue at whatever level of command might remain, even if the senior soldier is a private, was how it was phrased in the contract manual.

  Lon’s luggage had been delivered to his cabin. The duffel bag stood next to the bed; the suitcase lay on it. That was one of the perks of command, allowance for more than just one duffel bag. Another perk was that the cabin was slightly larger than those the battalion’s other officers were assigned, and Lon had a small office attached to his cabin and a private bathroom—”head,” in naval parlance.

  A few minutes alone. Lon shoved the suitcase to the end of the bed and sat next to the suitcase. He leaned back until his head and shoulders rested against the metal bulkhead of the cabin. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. Lon was not at all surprised to find that he had the beginning of a headache. He knew it was psychological. The nanosystems that kept him healthy would prevent a physical headache, or cure it almost before he could notice a pain, but this kind…

  It was always the same, heading out on a contract with the lives of others depending on his decisions, his abilities—his mistakes. A prayer that he not fail his men, that no one die because he wasn’t up to his job. Each time out, the prayer was more intense, more deeply felt.

  Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t tried to be an officer, if I had stayed in the ranks, let others make the big decisions, he thought. Maybe Phip has the right of it, bitching every time he gets promoted. That brought the edge of a smile. I wanted to be a soldier, just a soldier, and being an officer gets in the way, more with every promotion.

  Lon was surprised by a knock on his cabin door—surprised because he had actually dozed off. He hadn’t slept well the last two nights at home. Each night he had lain awake, worrying, wishing that he didn’t have to leave his family again so soon.

  “Come in.” Lon sat up straight as the door opened and Phip entered.

  “I’ve got the eating arrangements set up with the mess officer,” Phip said. “The first shift eats in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll eat with Alpha, this meal,” Lon said. He made no apology for the fact that he had a soft spot for A Company. He had spent most of his career in that company, until promotion to major had sent him to battalion. “Make my talk after I get some food down. I’ll have to have supper with the ship’s captain and Governor Sosa.” The military commander eating that first supper with the ship’s commander was hidebound tradition in the Corps.

  “Alpha’s the first shift for lunch today,” Phip said. Phip had spent even more years in that company than Lon had. The order in which the companies ate would rotate each meal so the same men didn’t get to eat first all the time.

  “You ever ask yourself if it’s all worth it, Phip?” Lon asked. He closed his eyes for an instant.

  “All the time, Lon,” Phip replied very softly. “What usually gets me out of it is thinking if it wasn’t me doing the job, it’d probably be someone less qualified than I am. The same goes for you. You wouldn’t have made it so far so fast if you weren’t one of the best to come along in a lot of Q-space jumps.”

  There was no mirth in Lon’s taut laugh.

  “I mean it,” Phip insisted. “I’ve got no reason to grease your boots. Another ten years and you’ll be General.”

  Lon shook his head. “Don’t put money on it, Phip. It’ll never happen. I’m first-generation Corps, fi
rst-generation Dirigenter. Even if, by some wild chance, I do make it to the Council of Regiments someday, they’ll never vote me in as General. I couldn’t count on even one vote because I’m not sure I’d vote for myself. You’ve got a better shot at getting elected General than I do.”

  “They don’t make sergeants General.”

  Lon got to his feet. “Nothing says you’ll always be a sergeant, Phip.” There was almost humor in his laugh this time. “You might wake up a lieutenant some morning. After that, it would just be a matter of time.”

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say to a friend,” Phip said, a look of something approaching terror on his face. “What’d I ever do to deserve a threat like that?”

  He’s right about one thing, Lon thought as they left the room. We take the promotions because deep inside we figure we can do the job better than someone else might. It’s the pat on the shoulder we always need.

  Nearly half the men in A Company were veterans of the previous contract on Bancroft. Most of the rest had heard stories about that contract—if only since the unit had been alerted for this job. That made the initial briefing easier for Lon. Most of his listeners had points of reference. It got a little more involved with the other companies.

  “The people of Bancroft have good memories of the Corps,” he told each group as he concluded his talk. “We did a job for them, and we behaved. I don’t want anyone spoiling the image the Bancrofters have of us, either for the way we do our job or for the way we behave if—if—we get a chance to socialize off-duty. Best behavior. That means no ‘drunk and disorderly,’ no attempts to undermine the virtue of the local lasses. Anyone gets out of line, he’ll think a shuttle landed on his head before I get through with him.”

  The pep talks did as much good for Lon as they did for his men; perhaps more. After repeating the same general spiel several times, he stopped thinking of his own doubts, started concentrating on what the battalion would need to do when it reached Bancroft.