A Hymn Before Battle lota-1

by John Ringo

  “Why would they do all that?” The commander turned back around and pierced the procurement officer with a stare.

  “The question of production forced many pieces of the Galactics’ puzzle to the surface. Our staff anthropologist now believes that the ‘home sector’ of the Darhel is the one hundred or two hundred planets inward from Earth. All five of the planets currently being assimilated or about to be attacked are Darhel. The others lost over the last hundred fifty years, the ‘more than seventy planets’ they always complain about, are all Indowy colonies, Galactic sweat shops. With the exception of Diess, they were poor and considered unimportant. Now the Posleen are striking at the core worlds of the Federation. Do not let the Darhel fool us again; they are desperate and will pay anything to stop the Posleen.

  “And there is one other thing to consider.”

  “Yes?”

  “With humans that are like these Darhel, there is rarely one layer of deception. It is more often a complex web.”

  * * *

  “Brad, what do you think?” The President had his back turned to his advisor, staring out through the green-tinted armored glass windows of the most famous small room in the world.

  “Well, Mr. President, I say we go with most of the Chinese plan, but hit a little lighter on the negotiations.” The secretary of state consulted his notes. “They want the Darhel to foot the whole bill for planetary defense and I don’t think they’ll do it. And even if they do, the negotiations will be really drawn out and meanwhile we’re not producing zip. I think we can get salaries upped pretty easily and the facility grants but let’s not get greedy. With progressive taxes on Federation-paid troops, the expeditionary force troops and the space facility corporations, we’ll be much better set financially anyway.”

  “Finance is Ralph’s call, Brad, yours is international negotiations,” snapped the President. He had been getting uncomfortable with some of the decisions the secretary of state had been making lately. “And I would like you to keep in mind that you work for the United States, not the Darhel. It’s our country we stand to lose, Brad, our planet, our children.”

  “Yes Mr. President, but if we negotiate too long we stand to lose it also. Let’s start at full funding but settle for the production equipment grants and, maybe, full funding for planetary defense equipment. As it is we’re looking at some pretty tough terms on the loans for the equipment. It would help out a lot.”

  “Fine Brad, but that’s the minimum. If they don’t take it, no expeditionary forces, no technical support for their fleet. We’ll fight in our boxer shorts before we’ll fight as slaves.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  * * *

  “I got him to hold at grants for the production facilities and the expeditionary force equipment.” The secretary of state carefully did not watch as the Darhel attempted to eat something very much like a carrot. Bits fell to the table and onto the Darhel’s fine robes as the razorlike teeth shredded the vegetable into slivers.

  “That is good. Those are judicious expenditures. We will not stint in our payment.” The wide cat-pupil eyes dilated in an emotion unreadable by the human as six-fingered hands picked bits of vegetation out of the being’s throat crest. “But, full funding for local defense… far too generous.”

  “Don’t get stingy,” said the secretary, picking at his steak. Something about eating with the Darhel always took his appetite away. “Humans can be stubborn to the point of spite. If you get the image of a Scrooge, nobody will fight for you; at least, nobody who is any good.”

  “We are aware of this.” Again the pupils dilated and the long foxlike ears twitched. The secretary decided he would pay just about anything for a primer on Darhel body language. “It was my contention that the terms were unreasonable from the start but I was overruled. No matter, all will be resolved with time. A favor is owed.”

  “I trust the payment will be circumspect.” The secretary knew that the boss was suspicious of his contacts as it was.

  “Assuredly. Your granddaughter is very bright. Perhaps an invitation in about four years to study at an off-planet university?”

  “You read my mind.” There were some things that money couldn’t buy.

  * * *

  For those who kneel beside us,

  At altars not Thine own,

  Who lack the lights that guide us,

  Lord, let their faith atone.

  If wrong we did to call them,

  By honour bound they came;

  Let not Thy Wrath befall them,

  But deal to us the blame!

  —Kipling

  10

  Ft. Benning, GA Sol III

  2321 December 23rd, 2001 ad

  Mike looked up as General Horner entered his tiny office.

  The space was barren without any personal items, workstation, or any other objects that indicated it was in use except a combination-locked filing cabinet. The lieutenant had spent so little time in the office in the last few months that he felt it was more of a convenient place to call an office than an actual workspace. Instead of a conventional computer he had his AID, which was capable of any form of input but direct neural and had more processor capacity than the entire Intel Corporation. As for family pictures, every video of the girls from before he had the AID, along with every contact he had had with them since, was in permanent storage, available for retrieval.

  And as for an “I-love-me” wall, he did, and he could care less who knew it.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked. He could see the general’s new senior aide hovering in the background.

  The sight that greeted the general might have been comic before the advent of the Galactics, but now it was as commonplace as a mouse. The lieutenant was tapping at the top of an empty desktop, eyes fixed on a spot in midair. The wraparound glasses he was wearing interacted with the AID on his desk to create the illusion of a keyboard and monitor. Horner could not see the items, projected directly onto the lieutenant’s retina by a microscopic laser projector in the glasses, but — since he used the same system — he was well aware of the reality.

  “Are you finished with the upgrade proposals?” he asked Mike, ignoring the new aide.

  Although Mike was officially his junior aide, the general had made it abundantly clear to the newly-assigned lieutenant colonel that Lieutenant O’Neal was his day-to-day alter ego. Once the colonel had his feet on the ground he might be half as helpful as Mike, but in the meantime the colonel could just pass the canapés and stay out of their way.

  The way the non-Airborne officer had been shoved down his throat was unpleasant and ominous. It meant that the Ground Forces’ personnel department felt it was gaining enough of an upper hand on GalTech to begin dictating personnel policies, even traditionally “personal” ones like the choice of an aide. Once the ACS units were detached to Fleet the problem would subside, but in the meantime it was another political battle and one Horner did not choose to fight at this time. However, since he wrote the evaluation review for the officer in question, the colonel had better be able to swallow the implied insult and pass the damn canapés.

  “Yes, sir,” Mike answered. “Since they definitely will not permit the use of AM as an energy source, the only remaining suggestion is incorporation of enhanced cloaking mechanisms. My prototype has shown a four percent higher survivability in every reasonable simulation that we have run. I think that pouring a little more money into tactical deception systems just makes sense.”

  “What about the officer and enlisted training time issue?”

  “I say a thousand hours; personnel wants a hundred and fifty. I say in the field or simulated in the field; they say book learned is okay. Impasse,” Mike concluded.

  “All right, time to wave my stars in somebody’s face. Time or type?”

  “Type,” replied O’Neal, meaning to try for realistic training. “Try for longer than one-fifty, but not at the expense of type. Good training over short periods is probably better than long bad tr
aining.”

  “Good training, huh?” Horner frowned in amusement.

  “Yes, sir,” Mike smiled, remembering how they first met.

  “And that’s the GalTech promise,” continued Horner. “ ‘If it ain’t good training, it ain’t GalTech.’ ” He paused and smiled humorlessly.

  “The Expeditionary Force evaluations also fall under GalTech. The NATO units of the AEF will comprise, for now, one corp using current generation weaponry. The main force components will be 2nd Armor, 7th Cav, and 8th Infantry.

  “There will also be a battalion of ACS drawn from the 82nd Airborne Division, the 2nd Battalion 325th Infantry. They’ve got most of their equipment and — having passed an ORS” — Operational Readiness Survey — “and an inspection by the IG — are designated as ready for combat.”

  “What about an ARTEP?” Mike asked. The Army Readiness Testing and Evaluation Program was the final exam of all units in the area of combat readiness. “We specified an ARTEP before a unit could be designated as combat ready.”

  “We got overruled. The rest of the EF is ready for deployment and the ACS batt goes with them, ready or not.”

  “Do they have Banshees?” The anti-grav armored fighting vehicles were critical for strategic mobility in the ACS.

  “Very few and the artillery support is 105, 155 and MLRS. The HOW-2000 is being held back.”

  “Jesus,” Mike shook his head and picked up his gripper. “Are they going to Barwhon or Diess?”

  “Diess.”

  “How are we going to do the eval?”

  “Well, Lieutenant, you know that prototype ACS command suit you have stashed somewhere?”

  “Pack my bags?”

  “You’re scheduled to be at Pope Air Force base a week from next Tuesday, by 2400 hours. At least you’ll be able to spend Christmas with Sharon and the kids.”

  “Then Diess?”

  “There’s going to be a briefer at Pope from USGF TRADOC” — United States Ground Forces Training and Doctrine Command — “to go over the details. Your orbital lift is scheduled for seventy-two hours afterwards.

  “Now, besides the evaluation, you have another mission. The unit is woefully undertrained and they don’t have any in-house experts; for all practical purposes only the members of the design team and the infantry board can be called such. So, your other mission will be training and advisement of the battalion on employment and tactics. The problem is that you are a lieutenant. I happen to have the acquaintance of the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Youngman. Remember my predecessor in the battalion?”

  “Yes, sir. I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Youngman has an excellent record and previous combat command experience. He is also a good leader. But, he’s just a little bit arrogant about his abilities and knowledge for my taste. I also suspect he may be phobic about the new technologies. That may cause some problems.”

  “Then why did he get the first ACS battalion?”

  “They knew that it was going in harm’s way so they assigned a good solid combat commander; there aren’t that many choices. And, as always, there are political considerations. The Marines got to decide what unit got the first ACS on Barwhon and Airborne got to decide who got it on Diess. I would have preferred someone who was a little more flexible, but older and wiser heads decided, for whatever reason, that the first group should be the two/three twenty-fifth and the commander should be Youngman. Lieutenant Colonel Paul T. Youngman wouldn’t like another lieutenant colonel ‘advising’ him, much less a lieutenant, so you’re just going to have to use as much tact as possible. I can’t get free right now and you’re the next best choice.”

  “What about Gunny Thompson?” The senior NCO of the GalTech infantry team had been pulled out of Fleet Marines for the program. Initially pessimistic about the armored combat suit program he had become one of its major proponents.

  “He’s taking the same position with the Marine detachment on Barwhon, so, Tag! you’re it. And you won’t have much support here or there; since the design phase is over and production is in gear, our star is on the wane.”

  “So after the eval what happens?”

  “What I hope happens is that we both get combat commands. You deserve a company. But running rough shod over the design and procurement process has had a negative effect on my career. I expect I’ll get something like ‘J-3, Mid West Guard Command.’ ”

  “That’s stupid, with all the old war-horses they’re rejuving, that should go to somebody who last heard a shot fired in anger in ’Nam.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mike. You and I are warriors. If there is anything that history teaches us, it’s that at the beginnings of wars the career officers are divided into two camps, the managers and the warriors, and the managers rule. It’s happened in every war; Halsey was a captain at the beginning of WWII and Kusov was a colonel. As the war goes on the managers go back to personnel and logistics and the warriors take command. Our stars will rise again when the shit hits the fan. Bet on it.”

  11

  San Diego, CA Sol III

  0822 November 5th, 2001 ad

  Ernie Pappas was a United States citizen born in the Territory of American Samoa. In 1961 at eighteen years of age, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corp as a private. Samoans are an odd and desired commodity in the United States military. Odd because along with generally Herculean physique they have distinctive Polynesian features that stand out among a sea of medium-sized black and white. They are desired because along with the aforementioned Herculean physiques come sharp intellects and unflappable personalities. Samoans attain rank fast and commanders with Samoan NCOs argue strenuously for their unit stabilization beyond normal periods. Their reenlistment rate is high.

  In 1964, Lance Corporal Pappas married sixteen-year-old Priscilla Walls of Yemassee, South Carolina. This marriage violated several taboos in the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Walls. First, although not Negro, Lance Corporal Pappas was of “color.” In 1964 in Yemassee, South Carolina, white girls, even lower income white girls, did not marry people of color. Second, Missy Priscilla, their Baby Prissy, was underage for such things; although marriage among her peers, and her parents’ peers, had occurred as early as fifteen. Third, the young man was an enlisted marine. Although Priscilla considered this a step up in life — her peers could be most kindly referred to as “lower income rural” — her parents were of the opposite opinion. Lower income rural had been good enough for her grandfather, a share cropper, and great-grandfather, a share cropper, and it was better than a “chink jarhead.” (Mr. Walls’ knowledge of the Territory of American Samoa rivaled his knowledge of nuclear physics.)

  Despite these facts, the Walls signed the obligatory papers and stood before the justice of the peace with Prissy’s sister acting as matron of honor and Lance Corporal Pappas’ gunnery sergeant as best man, because Prissy had missed two periods and appeared to be in a family way.

  It was now November 5, 2001 ad and retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Earnest Pappas sipped hot, black Kona coffee in his own kitchen and appeared to contemplate his Saturday San Diego Times. Intermittently he would blow his cheeks out and puff the resultant air with a gentle motoring sound.

  Mrs. Earnest Pappas was clearing the breakfast dishes and from thirty-seven years experience correctly judged his mood as black. She even knew the reasons for his mood.

  The reasons were twofold. Despite the fact that he had given them three good-looking grandchildren, all college graduates, had never raised a hand to their daughter, had been faithful to her and had attained for her a standard of living the envy of her siblings, he was still intensely disliked by his in-laws. The fact was unstated but obvious that the feelings were mutual. He therefore regarded her parents’ upcoming visit both with annoyance and the resignation he applied to all situations that were unavoidable. Change the things you can, don’t worry about the things you can’t. Which brought him to the other thing he couldn’t change
. Age.

  For thirty years Earnest Pappas had trained for a defining moment: the defense of the United States. But the war bearing down on his country would be borne upon the backs of the young men, the hale. He was just a broken down war-horse, too old to be of any use.

  His, he thought, carefully concealed dank mood was shattered by his wife handing him a mailgram. It had his name and social security number in the address window and the return address of a well-known Department of Defense bureau located in St. Louis, Missouri. With a feeling of utter disbelief, under the shuttered eyes of his wife he carefully wiped off a knife, most recently used to section a grapefruit, and applied it to the envelope. Within was a multifolded document which read:

  Dear Sir:

  Pursuant to Presidential Directive 19-00, you are ordered to report to Camp Pendleton, CA Marine Base, no later than 2400 Hours, 20 November, 2001, for duty. Failure to report will be prosecuted under Section 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice: Failure to report for hazardous duty. All requests for waivers on the basis of age, civilian position, health or compassion shall be considered after reporting.

  Public transportation may be compensated using the attached vouchers. These are good for air, train, bus or taxi, but may not be used to reimburse travel by personal vehicle.

  Do not bring: personally operated vehicles, personal weapons, radios with attached speakers, large musical instruments or ANY communication devices to include cellular phones or pagers.

  Do bring: 1 (One) week’s civilian clothing, uniforms, toiletry items, small entertainment devices, radios or music players with headphones, small musical instruments and/or reading material.