Stark's Command

by John G. Hemry

  "Elegantly expressed, Ethan," Reynolds noted with a smile. "Good point. Still, that leaves a lot of job openings."

  "What's wrong with the people holding those jobs now?"

  "You're kidding, right? There's nothing wrong with some of them. But some of the others are way out of their depth. Others can handle the job but don't want it."

  "Tough." Stark leaned back, pitching his empty cup expertly into the recycling chute. "My heart bleeds for them. Nobody better complain to me about having to do a job they don't want. I know all about it."

  "Then," Vic continued, "there's the ones who just don't belong in their positions."

  "Like who?"

  "Like Kalnick."

  "Oh, yeah." Stark scowled. Unfinished business. Gotta deal with that, and soon. "Okay, you've made your point. But how do we turn Sergeants, Corporals, and Privates into Colonels, Majors, and Captains?"

  "There's on-the-job experience," Vic pointed out, "like we had yesterday."

  "I'm not sure I could take many more experiences like that. And since I don't intend launching any offensive actions, there ain't gonna be a lot of opportunity for people to learn that side of the job in the field."

  "Agreed. So we need to set up a training program."

  "A training program? What kind of training?"

  She shrugged. "Large unit command and control, I guess. We'll have to depend on the simulators up here to teach maneuvering large units. Once we get the sims fixed, that is."

  "Fixed? What's wrong with 'em?"

  "Nothing if you prefer fairy tales to reality."

  Stark frowned. "I thought they were supposed to have the latest and greatest combat sims up here."

  "Nah. These are pretty damn good, but the latest and greatest never goes to the front lines. It always ends up in the Pentagon or somewhere else in the rear. You want to know what's wrong with the sims?" Vic leaned to trigger the display again. "You can access them from here." The display sprang to multicolored life, cluttered symbology marking American and enemy positions. "This look familiar?"

  "Yeah." Stark fought down a shudder. "That's what things looked like just before Meecham sent Third Division forward."

  "Very good. This is the sim they ran to, if you'll pardon the term, 'test' Meecham's plan. Watch." She activated the sim, letting Stark watch as the initial brigade assault began.

  Stark shut his eyes, trying to block out memories of futile slaughter. "Vic, I don't think I can watch this."

  "This is the sim, Ethan. Look."

  It took a lot of effort, but Stark forced his eyes open again, then almost immediately furrowed his brow. "This shows the enemy, too?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "How come those units in their rear are jittering back and forth instead of heading to counter our attack?"

  "Because," Vic explained patiently, "Meecham's theories said they'd be confused by our little diversionary actions. Remember those? So the enemy, in the sim, can't decide where to commit its troops."

  Stark snorted in derision. "Hey, there's a lot of enemy positions missing. Meecham's plan needed that to work, too, right?" As Vic nodded, Stark pointed at the symbols marking the advancing American brigade. "Look at that! They're maintaining perfect formation! That's ridiculous. Those soldiers were incapable of that up here."

  "They had to be able to maintain perfect formation for Meecham's plan," Vic reminded him. "Ethan, I talked to the ape geeks who run the sims. Their orders are always to make the plan work, so they program the sim so the plan works. Get it?"

  On the display, only scattered enemy fire met the American charge, then enemy units began falling away, retreating in ironic mimicry of the recent disaster Stark had narrowly avoided. "No. I don't get it. These sims are supposed to be so good they show exactly what would happen in the real world."

  "Uh-uh," Vic chided, wagging one finger at him. "Not the 'real world,' Ethan. Whatever world needs to exist to make the plan work. See? To make Meecham's plan work, the enemy needs to react just the way his theory says they have to. Our forces have to perform just the way he needs them to, regardless of things like terrain and training. And when push comes to shove, the enemy has to be overwhelmed by the force of our . . . what'd they call it, our clustered paradigms?"

  "Somethin' like that." Stark shook his head, jaw slack. "I don't believe it. Those damn Generals really did think they were gods. If the world don't match the plans, you change the world to fit."

  "Right. Then you declare the plans good because, hell, you ran them on a state-of-the-art simulator, right?"

  Stark rubbed his palms into his eyes. "Then the sims have always been run like that? That's why so many real-world ops went to hell even after they'd supposedly been sim'd to death?"

  "I expect. Most people figured the sims were being run to get real answers. Instead, they've been designed to produce whatever answers the guys in charge wanted to get."

  "Why didn't we hear anything about this?" Stark ground out. "Those ape geeks are enlisted. How come they never passed word around?"

  "Security, Ethan. Everything about the sim designs has been slapped with high-level, compartmented security protection. The ape geeks were subject to the highest levels of security screening so they couldn't breathe a word to anyone for fear of flunking the screens. That was supposedly so the enemy wouldn't learn anything about us from the sims. I guess it was also to keep us from learning about the sims."

  "Nothing like security rules to cover up mistakes, arrogance, and just plain stupidity," Stark agreed sourly. "Okay, but the sim guys can fix this junk? Program sims so that they reflect the real world?"

  Vic hesitated. "They say so."

  "But you don't think so. Why not?"

  "Because I've been thinking about it, and I'm not sure we can ever make a sim do what's advertised." Vic leaned back, apparently watching the sim unroll as the virtually unscathed simulated American troops continued to simulate triumph in every direction. "Take terrain. You ever walk someplace where the map exactly matched the ground?"

  "Hell, no. There's always differences. Even up here where nothing's supposed to change and the whole surface is supposed to be digitized to hell and gone. There's always a rock where one ain't supposed to be, or no rock where the map says there is one."

  "Right. The Rock Gremlins." Stark laughed at her reference to the mythical creatures that altered terrain every time an allegedly definitive map had been produced. Since senior officers always insisted the maps had to be right, the enlisted joked that there had to be something moving rocks, hills, trees, buildings, and bodies of water around after the maps had been created. "So even terrain in a sim can't be exactly right," Vic continued. "What about fuzzier stuff, stuff you can't just scan from orbit and digitize? You know, how well a weapon works, how fast a soldier will move, how much ammo they'll need, how often they'll hit what they aim at. And that's fuzzy enough for our side. Now think about trying to input that data for the enemy. What the hell's so precise about any of it?"

  Stark thought about it. "Not much. You're saying a sim's just a bunch of guesstimates being run against other guesstimates, right?"

  "Exactly. Guesstimates precise to the tenth decimal point, but they're still guesstimates. Even when you're trying your damnedest to make it reflect some impartial reality, which apparently doesn't happen all that much."

  "Huh. I guess that's why the fantasy games some of the troops play seem just as real as the sims."

  "Yeah. As far as the computers are concerned, they're the same thing."

  "Great. So the sims aren't a magic bullet, even if we do our best to make them realistic. How else can we teach our people to be officers?"

  Vic canted her head to indicate her terminal. "I've been browsing around a little. There's a whole mess of Staff Education Courses in the files. I guess officers were supposed to do them in their free time."

  "Staff Education Courses? SECs?" Stark pronounced the acronym as one word in standard military fashion. "Who thought up that name f
or the courses?"

  "I wouldn't care to guess, but I'd bet somebody suggested it as a joke, and when some Generals liked it, everybody was afraid to tell them."

  "So what kind of SECs did our officers enjoy?"

  "Ethan, behave. Look. Here's one on Effective Battle Management."

  "You're kidding." Stark leaned to look closer, twisting his face skeptically as he did so. "How the hell do you 'manage' a battle? I always thought they were too big a mess for managing."

  "No idea, Ethan. But they apparently not only figured out how to 'manage' a battle, they figured out how to do it 'effectively,' too."

  "Uh-huh. If our officers were so good at managing battles, how come our battle plans were usually screwed up, and we had to fight like hell to win?"

  "You can't have everything, Ethan. Do you want your battles well-managed or do you want them well-planned?"

  "You're right. What was I thinking? What other kind of courses have they got in there?"

  "Let's see." Vic paged rapidly through menus. "Here's a whole bunch of courses on leadership."

  "Leadership? Officers were supposed to learn leadership from education courses?"

  "Guess so. We got Leadership Fundamentals, Leadership for Commanders—"

  "Who else leads? They got a 'Leadership for Followers' course?"

  "Haven't seen one yet, but it might be there. Then there's Advanced Leadership, Basic Leadership, which must differ somehow from fundamental leadership, Leadership for Field Grade Officers, Crisis Leadership, Effective Leadership—"

  "All the other kinds of leadership aren't effective?"

  "Based on our experience with officers, I'd say no. Hmmm. Here's Total Quality Leadership."

  "Which is also different from effective leadership, I guess. Do they have to call it 'total quality' so nobody will think it's half-ass quality?"

  "Midcareer Leadership!" Vic continued, ignoring Stark's latest jibe, "for those officers who haven't learned any leadership during the first half of their career, I suppose. Leadership Case Studies—"

  "Oh, for cryin' out loud," Stark complained. "These guys were supposed to be leading us. Who the hell thought they'd learn more from 'case studies' on their computers than they would from actually spending time with their troops?"

  Vic made another face. "I guess it was one of those 'sounded good when it started' things that got out of hand, like they usually do. Oh, I don't believe it."

  "Now what? More how-to-be-a-leader-on-your-computer junk?"

  "No." Vic leaned back so Stark could see the screen. "New course series, I guess. Combat Management"

  Stark found himself laughing. "Sure. When it comes to actual combat, all that leadership garbage just doesn't apply. For combat, you gotta be a manager. Or if you want to run an effective battle. Why in God's name would anyone waste time on this stuff?"

  "I don't know. Maybe one of these codes along the top . . . ah, here you go. 'Course completion mandatory for promotion eligibility to O4.' "

  O4 was the rank code for an Army Major or Navy Lieutenant Commander. "So an officer couldn't make Major unless they took all these courses?"

  "A lot of them, anyway. Now we know some of what our officers were doing when they were supposed to be leading us."

  Stark pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to push away an incipient headache. "Okay, then. These courses are mostly crap. The sims are self-justifying junk. And we already know that officers were taught that command and control somehow meant the same thing as micromanagement. So, basically, we gotta throw out just about everything that's already there and build our own training system."

  "Ummm, yeah," Vic agreed reluctantly.

  "I guess we do all that in our copious free time?"

  "Ethan, it's not like we have a choice."

  "Yeah, we do. I could just shoot myself. Or surrender and let our former officers shoot me. But I ain't gonna do either one."

  "You're not alone in this," Vic pointed out.

  "Which is probably the only thing keeping me sane." Stark reached out to grab her wrist, giving it that brief squeeze that signified friendship. "Okay. We'll get it done. Somehow. Right now, you need a workout, and I need a shower."

  "I wasn't going to call attention to either fact." She stood, smiling wryly. "Guess we're both going to be doing a lot of things that are unpleasant, but good for us."

  "Guess so. See ya later." Stark slumped in his chair after Vic left, wondering why lunar gravity sometimes seemed so heavy. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out memories of battle, but seeing them replayed in the dancing lights behind his eyelids, explosions and swarming symbology mingling in a never-ending dance. Opening his eyes revealed the unfamiliar surroundings of the headquarters rec room, an unmistakable reminder of endless current problems. The buzz of his comm unit came as a welcome distraction and relief. "Stark?"

  "Yeah. What's up, Bev?"

  Sergeant Manley sounded apologetic. "I know you're real busy, Ethan, but the civs are calling again."

  "The civs." Civilians. Inhabitants of the Colony. The people Stark and his soldiers fought to protect, but met only rarely.

  "Yeah. They want to talk to somebody in charge. That's you."

  "That's me," Stark agreed wearily. Guess I can't put the civs off any longer. One more thing I gotta deal with. "Any administrative issues need addressing right now?"

  "Sorry. My office is humming with its customary awesome efficiency, so I can't give you any excuses for not calling the civs."

  "Okay, okay. Give me their number, and I'll call them." The vid screens here in headquarters were bigger and fancier than Stark was accustomed to, so that he needed a few frustrating seconds to figure out the extra controls. Eventually, the screen cleared, showing two civs seated at a metal conference table. One of the civs, a man, had a harried but determined look that somehow matched his graying hair. The other civ Stark recognized immediately. He'd met her once, an eternity of a few days before. "Ms. Sarafina. Long time no see."

  Sarafina stared back in obvious surprise, then whispered quickly into the man's ear. He nodded, then looked straight at Stark. "My name is Campbell. James Campbell. I'm the Colony Manager."

  "Pleased to meet you. Ms. Sarafina told me a little about you."

  "Are you an authorized speaker for the lunar military forces?"

  Stark mustered a half-smile. "I suppose you could say that. Sorry I've been too busy to talk before this. We've had a few problems."

  "So we've guessed." Campbell visibly hesitated. "There's been a very large amount of military activity in the last few days. Our sensors have picked up a tremendous level of surface explosive activity."

  "We've been fighting like hell, if that's what you're trying to say."

  "Is the Colony . . . that is, how secure—"

  "We're holding, Mr. Campbell. The Colony's safe."

  "Thank you. Now . . . your proper title is Sergeant?"

  "It is if you want to get on my good side."

  Campbell looked briefly puzzled. "Sergeant Stark, exactly what has happened to your leaders?"

  "You mean our officers?" Stark found himself reluctant to speak or even look directly at the civilians. First time I'm talking to somebody who wasn't in on it all and shares the guilt. God, what have we done? "They're safe."

  "I don't understand. We haven't seen or been able to communicate with any officers for days. Our only contacts have been with enlisted personnel such as yourself, and they've refused any information. Normal communications with Earth have been cut off without explanation. Shuttles have been blocked from departing and no new shuttles are arriving. What is going on, Sergeant Stark?"

  Stark lowered his gaze, concentrating on the lower frame of the comm terminal. "Mr. Campbell, I regret to inform you that our officers have been disarmed and imprisoned. We are no longer following their orders."

  The statement seemed to confuse both Campbell and Sarafina, who looked at each other for possible enlightenment before focusing back on Stark.
"Whose orders are you following?" Sarafina finally asked.

  "Our own."

  "Your own." Comprehension suddenly entered Campbell's eyes as he held up a hand to forestall any further questions from his aide. "Sergeant Stark, are you telling us you are no longer acting under lawful authority? That your forces are in a state of mutiny?"

  Stark closed his eyes momentarily, then nodded. "Yeah. Yes, sir. It's a long story," he added as Campbell's and Sarafina's faces paled with shock. "Let's just say things got too bad. Way too bad. It came down to taking over in order to survive."

  "I don't . . . but all those new soldiers we've seen arrive recently—"