A Hymn Before Battle lota-1

by John Ringo

  “Now, I personally promise you something,” he said, his voice dropping to a malevolent whisper, “and in case you haven’t noticed, I may be an asshole, but I get things done. And I keep my promises.

  “This is what I promise, nothing more. We are going to stick this operation up the Posleen’s ass, sideways. I guaran-fuckin’-tee that. I don’t guarantee that any of us will be around to see it. That is not part of the bargain,” he hissed.

  “So, to do that, we are going to get up on our damn feet and go out and dance with the devil. We may lead, or we may follow. But we are gonna do the damn dance, am I understood?” he whispered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “God dammit, quit sounding off like a bunch of fuckin’ hairdressers!” he shouted.

  “Yessir!”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Fight?” “Get our asses kicked?” “Kick some butt?”

  “We’re gonna dance, sir,” said Wiznowski, disconnecting from the power system.

  “We are gonna dance. Now, what are we gonna do?”

  “We’re gonna dance, sir.”

  “Dammit…”

  “WE’RE GONNA DANCE, SIR!” they sounded off.

  “WHO’RE WE GONNA DANCE WITH?”

  “THE DEVIL!”

  “WE GONNA LEAD OR FOLLOW?”

  “WE’RE GONNA LEAD!”

  “DAMN STRAIGHT! SCOUTS OUT!”

  33

  Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III

  0305 August 5th, 2002 ad

  The officer and NCO accommodations were at the end of the battalion area opposite the battalion headquarters. The trailers were no different from those of the troopers, they just had fewer people in them. NCOs who were E-6 and under, staff sergeants and sergeant squad leaders, were quartered with the troops. Platoon sergeants, battalion staff NCOs and first sergeants, the senior noncommissioned officers, had quarters on one side of the area and the platoon leaders, company commanders and battalion staff had quarters on the other. The two groups were separated by a small quadrangle. The battalion commander had his own fancier trailer on one side of the quadrangle at the very end.

  The intent of the setup was that the battalion commander and his staff would be forced to travel through the battalion area on their way to the headquarters, thereby forcing a daily cursory inspection of their battalion.

  Unfortunately there was no battalion commander and very little in the way of staff. And, from the looks of things, most of the quarters were empty. Trash littered the area and most of the trailers showed some signs of damage; one of the trailers in the NCO section was completely off its foundations.

  Lewis led them across the quadrangle and into a maze of trailers on the far side. As they entered the maze, Pappas noticed furtive movement on the edge of the area. Immediately afterwards a group of five or six looters burst out of one of the trailers and ran off into the night. The whole base seemed to be a mass of scavengers picking at the body of the beast.

  Lewis finally came to a trailer indistinguishable from the others. He stepped up on the rickety stairs to the trailer, knocked on the door and stepped back. A moment later there was a shuffling sound from in the building. A window blind flickered as someone checked to see who the visitors were, then the yellow porch light clicked on.

  The man who opened the door, .45 caliber pistol in hand, was tall and prematurely balding. He looked at Pappas then at Lewis and the CQ between two burly privates and raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes?” he queried dryly.

  Pappas saluted. “Lieutenant Arnold?”

  The officer looked Pappas up and down, then cast his eyes over the squad following him before responding. “Yes.” He returned the salute, permitting Pappas to drop his.

  “I’m your new first sergeant, sir. Gun — Master Sergeant Ernest Pappas, reporting with a group of forty enlisted.” Pappas was unsure what it was about the solemn figure in the doorway that was so unsettling. Although he was neither formidable in appearance nor even particularly fit, there was an aura of depth to him. He was older than the standard first lieutenant and had not received regen; that was part of it. But there was an immediate impression of humorful wisdom and caring in his light brown eyes. Considering the obviously screwed up condition of the company, it was hard to believe this officer was the acting company commander.

  The officer regarded him for a moment longer then a broad smile split his face. “Samoan?” he asked. There was a slight note of glee in his voice.

  It was the last thing Pappas had expected out of his mouth so he simply nodded.

  “Are you trying to tell me,” the officer said with the beginnings of a chuckle, “that the Fairy Godmother Department,” he continued, obviously having a hard time controlling his laughter, “has seen fit—” he broke off to choke on a deep laugh.

  “To send me a marine! Samoan! First sergeant?!” he finished with a shout of joy.

  * * *

  “So that’s the situation Top,” said the lieutenant, watching his new first sergeant for a reaction.

  They were in the kitchen of the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters for Bravo Company 1st Battalion 555th Infantry. The “Quarters” was a sixty-six-foot trailer subdivided into four single rooms with a shared kitchen, living area and bathroom. The rooms were the approximate size of a walk-in closet and the sole light fixture in the kitchen was an overhead outlet that had arrived sans cover.

  The acting company commander was sharing these munificent quarters with the company’s sole additional officer, the leader of first platoon. That worthy along with Michaels and fourth squad had been harried off into the night with the almost impossible task of securing transportation for the first squad and baggage at the front gate.

  Arnold tried to read the mind of the veteran NCO, his face an expressionless mask in the yellow light of the exposed bulb.

  Pappas, meanwhile, was trying to figure out how to get his ass out of a cleft stick. Everything would be fine if he had the backing of the commander, but if Arnold played it light things would get sticky.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight, sir,” he said carefully. “You just got here five days ago. The other El-Tee, Richards?”

  “Rogers.”

  “… Rogers got here two weeks ago. Until then the company was being run by this Sergeant Morales?”

  “Yup.”

  “And, might I ask your personal evaluation of the ability of this Sergeant First Class Morales?” Pappas asked carefully.

  “Well, Gunny,” said the officer with a note of precision in his voice, “I try not to have personal evaluations. I prefer everything to be aboveboard and out in the open. Might I add that thus far Sergeant Morales has managed to avoid turning over to me document one on the state of personnel training, counseling, leadership skills or, for that matter, the company’s inventory. Every time I ask him about it there is another set of papers to shuffle that are much more important.”

  “Oh,” said the NCO and blew out his cheeks. That settled that hash. There were to be no “unofficial” actions taken in regards to the House That Morales Built. “But,” he paused. Saying the next thing could very well get him into trouble. But there were loose ends to tie up. “Well, sir, why haven’t you already called him to heel?”

  “And then what, Sergeant? Sergeant Morales has had six months to sew this company up. All of ‘his’ people are in the key positions. Anyone who disagreed with him during those six months, such as Lewis, has been stripped of rank or rotated out to another unit. The door to his office is locked, deadbolted, and he is apparently the only one who has a key. And he has numerous meetings that he has simply had to attend over the last week.” The frustrated lieutenant paused and ran his hand over his buzz-cut hair.

  “And then there was the whole problem of what to do about it,” he continued, meeting the eye of the somber NCO. “Let us say that I got up on my high horse and insisted that he hand over the documents forthwith. And let us say that he did. And let us imagine that, be
tween the drying lines of newly set ink,” he said, with a wry grin, “that I found clear evidence of missing inventory, falsified administrative punishments, what have you. What then, Top?”

  Pappas had never been down this precise path before but he knew the general regulations. He pulled a Skillcraft pen from his breast pocket and started to scratch his head with it. “I guess you would call the battalion commander, sir, maybe the IG, for a full investigation. If there’s major evidence of a crime or crimes, maybe call the MPs or the CID.”

  Arnold smiled tiredly and glanced at his watch. “Well, I think we don’t have a lot of time to discuss this, since you, or I now rather, have a platoon scattered to hell and gone and some housecleaning to do. So I’ll keep it brief. There is no battalion commander.”

  Pappas stared at him in perplexity. “Sir, even with missing officers and NCOs there is still a chain of command,” he said definitively. It was a Rock of Gibraltar to the military. There is always a chain of command.

  “The battalion commander is also the Charlie company commander. For all practical purposes that is all he is. Captain Wolf is hard at work keeping his company together. There is no ‘brigade’ commander because although we are a separate combat regiment, we are effectively three separate battalions; there is no regimental commander or even regimental staff. The next actual commander in the chain of command of this company, after Captain Wolf, is General Left at Titan Base.”

  “Oh, shit,” whispered Pappas.

  “You think perhaps I should call him? ‘Excuse me, General Left, this is Lieutenant Arnold. My first sergeant is being mean to me and I don’t know what to do.’ ” The officer smiled again.

  “There is one, count ’em, one, field grade Fleet officer on the east coast, Major Marlowe, the S-3 and acting battalion commander of Second Batt down at Fort Jackson. I called him day before yesterday. He stated that he understood I had a problem, that he had so many he couldn’t begin to count them, and that I was on my own until my own battalion staff started to show up. The ‘Triple Nickle’ is the last ACS unit to be formed from American units. It is last in line for equipment, it is last in line for training and, especially, it is last in line for personnel.”

  Pappas was shaking his head. Not in disbelief, but rather in horror. “I didn’t know we were that fucked up.”

  “Believe it, Sergeant. I can’t believe you got rejuvenated. You are definitely one of the lucky ones. Over four million enlisted personnel have been recruited and trained in the last year. But,” he smiled and threw up his hands, “because the Galactics ran out of rejuvenation drugs, only five percent of the positions designated for majors, lieutenant colonels and full bird colonels have been filled.

  “There was an article in the Army Times,” he continued, “on the filling of unit positions. Only three percent of the combat arms and combat support brigade and lower positions are filled.”

  “Ouch!”

  “The same thing goes for the equivalent enlisted ranks. Congratulations by the way, you are the acting battalion command sergeant major.” He paused and ran his hand over his hair again.

  “So, Smaj, where should I go? Oh, the CID and MPs. In case you didn’t notice, there is something very like a war going on out there,” he gestured with a thumb out into the darkness. “The MPs patrol in squads. At night they stay in their armed Humvees and the Humvees stay in reaction range of each other. A cantonment of this size would normally have an MP battalion. We have a company. We should have a platoon of CID, possibly a company. We have three personnel. Less than a squad.

  “So,” Lieutenant Arnold smiled with grim humor, “as I said before, goddamn am I glad you showed the fuck up.”

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t?” asked Pappas.

  “Braced him, probably tomorrow or the day after.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’d probably have been dead by morning,” the officer answered with complete seriousness. “Four personnel in this company who were sergeants and above are officially carried on the roster as deserters. I overheard one of the men say that they did not want to end up like Sergeant Rutherford,” he smiled grimly once again. “I think I was supposed to overhear it. One of the first pieces of paperwork the operations NCO gave me was the record of desertions. Losing a staff sergeant with eight years in the Army Airborne and a chest full of medals stands out.”

  Pappas shook his head. “Fuck, sir. It’s the seventies all over again.”

  The officer wrinkled his brow. “What?”

  Pappas shook his head again and took another scratch. He dusted the resulting dandruff off the table. “Never mind, sir. Way before your time.” He thought for a moment and glanced at his own watch. “When does Morales usually show up?” he asked.

  “He usually manages to roll in by nine,” the lieutenant said with a chuckle. “Officially he does ‘solo PT.’ The one remaining staff sergeant handles the formations. Sergeant Ryerson is probably all right, he’s just learned to keep his head down and his eyes shut. I don’t know about the CQ, though, he might have tried to contact Morales.”

  “Well, sir,” Pappas said glancing at his own watch, “in that case maybe you could come on over to the barracks with me. I need you to verify the fact that I am now in the chain of responsibility. After that you can just sit back and watch. Sir.”

  “Oh, with pleasure, Gunny,” said the acting company commander with a tight smile. “And I think we will make a stop by the Arms vault,” he continued, the smile going quite feral. “It only responds to properly coded individuals. Morales was never coded for it and he has been asking me for my codes for the last week.”

  “Weapons, sir?!”

  “We don’t have suits yet, but we’ve already received our full supply of weapons. M-200 grav rifles, M-300 grav guns, terawatt lasers, mortars, grenade launchers and a basic load-out came in one package including the vault.” The lieutenant smiled tightly again. “If I had to brace him this week, I was preparing a coup de main with certain elements of the company. As it is I’m glad to have you aboard; it would have gotten messy. We need to hurry. I doubt he knows you are here yet, so do you think we can do this without a full Operations Order?” he finished with a wry grin. His eyes were somber as he slipped his silks top on over the holstered .45.

  “Aye aye, sir,” said the gunnery sergeant grimly, standing up and heading for the door. “Semper fuckin’ Fi. Adams! Front and center!”

  34

  Andata Province, Diess IV

  0821 GMT May 19th, 2002 ad

  I think I should have waited to motivate them until now, Mike thought. Diess’ rising primary cast a fierce green fluorescence over the tableau on the roof. Fifty-eight sets of combat armor were planted at various distances from the edge of the roof, some of them slightly crouched as if trying not to face something. One was parked right on the edge. The roofs could be seen stretching in a continuous checkerboard from the inland mesas to the far green sea. In the extreme distance to the west Mike noticed some breaks and of course there was the missing set against the mesa, the fallen Qualtren and Qualtrev. Almost the length of a football field away was another megascraper roof at the same level.

  “How far away is that megascraper, Sergeant Wiznowski?”

  The NCO focused his range-finder crosshairs on the far wall and confirmed his rough guess. “Seventy-two and a hair meters, sir,” he answered, reading off his Heads-Up-Display.

  “And do you happen to know the maximum jump range of a Warrior Combat Suit?”

  “No, sir, sorry, sir.”

  “Right, well it just so happens that the maximum jump range in the specifications we called for was one hundred meters for warriors, one twenty for scouts and one fifty for command.” Mike crouched and whispered an order. His suit rolled backward over the mile high drop and sprang outward. In apparent defiance of gravity it shot out and over in a back flip and landed neatly on the far roof. He then sprang back, landing with a thump in their midst.

  “Se
rgeant Wiznowski, I want you to take a running jump to the other roof…”

  “Uh, Mike, sir…”

  “You can do it, Wiz. If I can, you can. Back up a couple of hops, take a running jump at it and as you jump, tell your suit to jump. Do it.” His visor faced that of the NCO, two blank surfaces, armor unreadable. He wondered what was going through the mind of the scout at that moment. Wiznowski had always been the consummate airborne NCO, brave to the point of suicide. Now he apparently was facing a challenge he was not fully prepared for. “Do you want me to jump again?”

  “No sir, I’ll do it.” The tall suit backed up from the group and ran at the edge. There was total silence on the net as he reached the edge and whispered, “Jump.” Again, the suit soared upward in defiance of gravity and common sense. This time with his additional speed, far greater than an unarmored man, he soared far onto the roof, almost a hundred meters from the edge.

  “That was a little excessive, Wiz. I said we spec’ed them for one hundred and twenty meters; it turned out to be a bit better than that.” Mike bounded farther into the roof to get a running start. He said, “Michelle, command run and maximum jump, execute.”

  The legs of the suit began to blur. In the hundred meters from his position to the roof’s edge it accelerated to over one hundred kilometers per hour in a series of ground-devouring bounds. As the boots of the suit came in contact with the roof, a grappling field would engage to prevent slippage, therefore maximum energy was applied to each thrust. When he reached the roof’s edge the suit’s AID automatically launched him into the air. Under the combination of forward momentum, his inertial compensators’ contragravity function, and thrust from the inertialess thrusters built into the suit, he was carried over two hundred meters onto the far roof. With a return series of bounds he reached the edge of the roof and bounced effortlessly back to the platoon.