by John Ringo
There were about sixty people milling around in the large room that was to be used for the battalion’s tactical operations center. The machinery and tanks of mysterious liquid had been moved against the walls and a set of folding chairs erected facing a low dais; the front row included an upholstered easy chair. On the back of the chair was a sign depicting a silver oak leaf and the words “2 Falcon 6.” A rooster in a cage clucked on one side of the dais. As Mike inspected it balefully, it crowed.
Also on the dais were several junior NCOs and enlisted men referring to clipboards and updating easeled maps. They were being supervised — Mike was reminded of the rooster with his hens — by the battalion S-3, Major Norton. A tall, distinguished-looking man, Norton, Mike had quickly come to realize, was not nearly as intelligent as he looked. Extremely energetic and able to parrot doctrine well, he responded poorly to novel situations and ideas. He and Mike had come to verbal blows several times during the battalion’s work-up.
Mike dialed up the zoom on his glasses and looked at the battle plan being drawn on the board. “Christ,” he whispered, “has anyone talked to the fire support officer?” Just then Captain Jackson, the FSO, got a good look at the board and walked over to Major Norton. When Captain Jackson tried to draw him aside, the S-3 brushed him off. He was, after all, Artillery, there for the battalion’s support, and a captain; thus, he could be ignored.
Mike looked around the room filled with camouflage-clad officers and NCOs. There were the commanders of the five companies, with their executive officers, the staff with their assistants and senior NCOs, the attachment leaders, engineering, fire support, medical and artillery. They were all pointedly ignoring him; in the case of a few of them he knew it was for mutual good. Consorting with the company commanders would have drawn fire for both of them from the S-3. Then he started counting chairs.
“Michelle,” he queried, “how many personnel first lieutenant and above in the room?”
“Fifty-three.”
“And how many chairs?” he asked.
“Fifty.”
“Michelle, who was in charge of setting up the seating?”
“The Battalion Operations section.”
“Bloody hell.” His relations with the battalion commander and his staff had not improved; if anything they had worsened. His, he thought, tactful and constructive critiques of communications and control were viewed as inappropriate to his experience, despite the fact that he limited his comments to subjects directly affected by the combat suits. He did not, for example, comment on the commander’s proclivity to place the battalion in a movement to contact formation after the enemy’s axis of advance had already been determined. Despite the enormous casualties caused by the resultant open field fighting, the colonel had apparently decided that the suits were invulnerable to the Posleen’s weapons and preferred to meet them mano y monstruo. The training scenarios were, after all, “theoretical”; no data on Posleen behavior in combat had yet been gathered by human units. His disdain for the research involved in developing the scenarios had only heightened since Mike’s abortive attempt to have the battalion held out of battle.
Mike had felt it necessary, however tactless it might have been, to comment on the communications structure. Lieutenant Colonel Youngman’s lack of practice with the suits and general technophobia caused him to fall back on a communications section and RTOs for communications control instead of training his AID to communications tasking. The RTOs were designated for specific nets and the only personnel permitted direct contact with the commander were certain members of the staff and the battalion executive officer, Major Pauley. Further, Youngman had designated the battalion as the sole source to authorize all requests for support except medical and logistics. Company commanders were to contact him to request fire support, for example, and he would determine if the request was valid. The commanders, in fact, had to practically contact him for permission to pass gas. The colonel had discovered that the suit systems gave him an Olympian view of the battlefield, and the ability to control the movement of every platoon if he so chose. He chose. Thus he controlled all aspects of the operation. Perfect micromanagement.
Unfortunately, the resulting managerial and information overload he had chosen to blame on the suit instead of the process. He had responded by placing more layers between himself and the company commanders while continuing to deny them their normal initiative. Thus, in every single combat scenario run to date the battalion had bogged down around its inability to maneuver or respond effectively. And now they were going into battle.
At a few moments before 0900 the groups started to break up and find seats. Surprising him not at all, when everyone was done, Second Lieutenant Eamons, the engineer platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Smith, the scout platoon leader, two of the company XOs and himself along with all the enlisted from the sergeant major to the privates with red pencils were sans chairs. The sergeant major looked really pissed.
A few moments later Major Norton called attention and Lieutenant Colonel Youngman entered and strode down the aisle to his spot. Reaching his seat 2 Falcon 6 sat, accepted a cup of coffee from a hovering mess private and called “As you were,” permitting everyone to resume their seats.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Major Norton. “Our mission is as follows: Task Force 2nd 3-2-5 Infantry has been tasked with defense of the III Corp flank in the area of the Deushi megalopolis where it is contiguous with the Nomzedi massif. The S-2 will brief on the threat situation.”
The S-2 was First Lieutenant Phil Corley. Dark of hair and slightly below average height, he was highly intelligent but lacked in great order common sense. He stepped up to an easel and threw back its canvas cover dramatically. The canvas cover had been thrown on moments before the colonel’s entrance. It was liberally covered with large red top secret stamps. Mike was not sure who the map was supposed to be kept secret from since the Posleen did not, as far as anyone could tell, use operational intelligence.
“In the big picture, to the southeast the ‘Bordoli Line,’ comprised of Chinese, Russian, southeast Asian and African troops has withdrawn to strategic positions near the Bordoli massif in the Aumoro megalopolis. They are anchored by the massif and the sea. This is their second strategic withdrawal in the week since they landed but the line is now less than sixty kilometers wide. Since it is now held by nearly three quarters of a million troops, further withdrawals are not anticipated.
“The NATO associated Allied Expeditionary Force with attached Chinese and Japanese troops is currently completing its movement to jump-off positions. Delays in landing will force the units to prepare in two phases. The main line of resistance is intended to be in an area similar to the Bordoli Line in the Deushi megalopolis. At that point the Deushi massif stretches to within forty-five kilometers of the sea. NATO forces are to establish a line at that location and hold it. However, the Posleen speed of advance is such that they must be slowed in order to prepare the defenses. Mobile combat units of the Allied forces will, therefore, take up positions in the area of the Nomzedi massif along Avenue Qual.
“The line will be held by the 3rd Armored Division, 2nd Infantry Mechanized, 10th Panzergrenadiere, 7th Cavalry Regiment, Deuxième Division Blindèe, 2nd Lancers Regiment and the 126th Armored Regiment, PRC. The 1st of the 26th German Armored Combat Suit battalion will act as a mobile reserve. The defense plan requires that the line hold, or withdraw no more than six kilometers for twenty-four hours. The Posleen are expected to reach Avenue Qual in twelve hours. Are there any questions?”
Captain Brandon’s hand snapped up. “What are the numbers and location of the Posleen along the line?”
“Right now we don’t know. As you know, the Posleen landing craft keep up a constant energy weapon sweep of the overhead into deep space. So far we can’t get any overhead imagery. The information we are getting is from the Darhel administrators’ reports of evacuating megascrapers and a little information from Himmit deep recon scouts. The information from
the Darhel do not list any enemy numbers and the Indowy run if they get a sniff of the Posleen in the neighborhood. The Himmit give excellent reports, but their view is limited.”
The S-2 answered a few other questions and stepped down.
Major Norton stepped back up to the dais, picked up a pointer and directed attention to the map board.
“The mission of Task Force 2/325 is to establish defensive positions along the Qual Line and coordinate with flanking units to hold a defensive line for a minimum of six, maximum of twelve hours. Our battalion has been tasked with a sector that normally would be held by a regiment, the same area as the entire 7th Cav for example. With our new weapons and equipment it is our belief that holding the sector will be relatively easy. Therefore:
“Task Force 2/325 will take up positions as follows. Alpha 2/325 will take up positions on the northeast corner of the Qualtrev megascraper with zones of fire covering the approach vector along the Sisalav Boulevard. Charlie company will take up positions in the northwest corner of the Qualtren megascraper coordinating overlapping fire on the Sisalav Boulevard with Alpha.
“Alpha Company will hold responsibility for integrating support with Bravo Troop, 7th Cavalry holding positions to seaward in the Qualtrek and Saltrek megascrapers. Charlie will provide fire support for flank interdiction. As you can see on the map, Qualtren is anchored in the massif, which will secure our flank. Battalion lasers will disperse themselves to Charlie and Alpha to provide fire support. Battalion scouts will take up hide positions in Naltrev megascraper to give approach warning and initiate the battle. Battalion mortars will locate to the rear of the Qualtren megascraper to provide fire support, company mortars to collocate.
“Upon positive location, as determined by battalion scouts, Multiple Launch Rocket Systems from Corp and 105mm artillery from our task force battery will fire artillery support missions on call to the slot between Daltren and Daltrev. There, final protective fire will start. Fire plans are in the briefing packets. Bravo company will remain in reserve, split between Qualtren and Qualtrev. The reserve will be deployed only on direct orders from the battalion commander.
“Direct fire may be ordered by the company commanders when the enemy is within one thousand meters or when they are in view, whichever is less. No direct fire over a thousand meters; we want a maximum punch on the initial volley. Indirect fire once the Posleen are in view of the battalion will be under direct control of the battalion commander and the FSO. There are to be no visible fortifications erected, no barb wire, concertina or visible bunkers. The idea is to strike with shock and surprise, not give away our MLR. Are there any questions?”
Mike turned to Lieutenant Eamons and whispered, “How ’bout ‘Did yo’ momma drop you on your head?’ ” Lieutenant Eamons snorted without changing expression. Major Norton glanced angrily his way and Mike schooled his features like a child misbehaving in class. Every simulation he had run and every story he had read about fighting the Posleen told him that the battle was a prescription for defeat. Deploying the battalion vertically, as the plan called for, opened your forces up to being fired upon by the entire advancing force without any countervailing improvement in the battalion’s effectiveness.
The basic tactic recommended for battling “swarming” Posleen was two dimensional. Get a heavy position, get packed in fairly tight — how tight depended upon how resistant your position was to HVM fire — and set up a wall of fire between your position and the Posleen. One of the Scottish GalTech officers had called it “sloshing them with Martinis,” a reference so old that everyone but Mike had had to look it up. Fighting Posleen had also been likened to fighting a wildfire, and with good reason. And then there was the other problem.
Captain Jackson, the fire support officer, stood up. “This is not a question, Major, it’s a comment. No-Can-Do.”
“What do you mean, ‘No Can Do,’ Captain?” the major responded, snappily.
“Well, the Multiple Launch Rocket System is fully dedicated to 10th Panzer Division. Corp intelligence, at least, thinks the Posleen will strike with the greatest weight on their location. We might, would, be able to get them for FPF, except for one thing: the damn megascrapers. There’s only seventy-five meters between them and they’re nearly a mile damn high. That presents an angularity problem that artillery can not overcome. The artillery firing support for the other units is just backing up a few klicks and firing right down the avenues. We can’t do that because of the dogleg that Sisalav takes from the mountain. So, basically, forget arty.”
Major Norton looked stunned for a moment then rallied. “Okay, we’ll forget artillery. Any other questions or comments?”
“No,” whispered Mike, “ ‘Who thought up this abortion?’ would be tactless.”
25
Fredericksburg, VA Sol III
1342 August 4th, 2002 ad
The first part of the trip from Fort Benning, Georgia to Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania was a nightmare. Without a second drill sergeant, Pappas had run himself ragged keeping track of the recruits. PFC Ampele and Drill Corporal Adams became his right arms, chivvying the distracted recruits, who were seeing “real life” again for the first time in fourteen weeks, back into line. He felt less like a platoon sergeant during those two days than a cowboy, and he swore that when he had the troops back under his thumb in barracks they were going to pay dearly.
The entire trip was by bus, and it seemed that the driver insisted on a break every fifty miles. Since the bus had an on-board latrine, for most of the first day Pappas kept the platoon on the bus, but at last they had to debark for dinner. Since Line and Fleet Strike troops were entirely volunteer, the military propaganda machine had let itself go quite thoroughly and the recruits in their gray and silver battle silks drew the locals like honey. Pappas found himself deluged with questions, most of which he felt compelled to answer. Suddenly he realized that he could only count twenty or so of his forty troopers and swore when he realized that most of the missing troops were from the notorious second squad.
He had thought about breaking up second squad three or four times but each time he talked himself out of it. The problem with second squad was that they were about as good as they thought they were. In every training class the members learned the lessons spot on first time. Second squad members never fell asleep, their equipment was always perfect, their details were always done on time or early. They scored higher as an average than any but two or three other individuals in the company. It was one of those unfortunately rare occasions when a group in the military was uniformly competent and capable. Unfortunately the squad leader, PFC James Stewart, as charming a rogue as ever a young maiden could hope to meet, was quite possibly the Antichrist.
Shortly after the basic training group arrived inspections of the company and several companies around revealed increasing amounts of hard alcohol in the possession of recruits. While it was impossible to completely cut off the flow of illicit liquor in basic training usually a bottle would turn up once every few weeks in a training battalion. Suddenly several were being uncovered every week. Intensive interrogation of the frightened recruits could not reveal the source; the bootleggers were using dead drops.
A recruit would place an order at any one of innumerable locations. Small slips of paper along with the payment were slipped into a crevice in the barracks wall or in the bathroom or in the bleachers. The next day the bottle would appear in the recruit’s equipment locker or he would find instructions on where to pick it up. CID, the Ground Force Criminal Investigation Division, was called in and tried for weeks to catch the smugglers in the act but was always just a little off in timing. Once investigators covertly watched a dead drop for three days only to find out that the hole in the wall went all the way through.
Alcohol, cigarettes, candy, pornography, but, strangely, no drugs. In the twelfth week the training for Alpha company included a two-week field exercise. By the second week there were no full bottles found in the company or the battalion. Obviou
sly the bootleggers were centered in Alpha company.
The agents of CID descended in force on Alpha company but Gunnery Sergeant Pappas had known in his heart all along who the ringleader was. In the last week of training over an imaginary fault during Saturday inspection he threw the sort of raging fit usually associated with the first few weeks in basic. Ordering the platoon out of the barracks, physically hurling a few out the door, he and the company’s first sergeant, a doggie Special Forces veteran with a longer and even more varied career than his, tore the barracks apart.
Beds were hurled out the windows to be followed by wall lockers, equipment lockers, clothes, equipment and anything else moveable they could find. As each item was ejected it was subjected to a brief but intense inspection. Nearly stumped, they finally found what they were looking for hidden in a hollow in the cinder block wall itself, concealed behind the wall locker of none other than the second squad leader.
It was a leadership challenge for the veteran NCOs. On the one hand, the violations of regulations were innumerable, but on the other hand the individuals were otherwise as good as any NCO could dream. The worst part was that being a military leader depends, strongly, upon respect. To order troops into a situation quite probably resulting in their deaths requires that those troops respect, love, fear you more than practically anything in the world. Sending a group of recruits off to battle believing that they could pull off a caper like this would be worse than giving them no training at all. But they were so good at the business of soldiering — Stewart particularly — they had such a knack that sending them all off to the stockade would be a waste of training and talent.
