“I’ll look at smaller contracts, for units of a hundred up to eight hundred troops. I’ll hire out task forces of company size up to battalion size, commanded by a Captain or Major or Lieutenant Colonel, accompanied by their enlisted equivalents to serve as XO. But I’ll be selective, and send out no more than one unit at a time, based on which unit most needs the experience.”
“It doesn’t seem like that would generate much revenue,” said the board member to the left of the chairman.
“That is not my goal for the next year. My primary concern is to cover operating costs and get contract experience for relatively new troops.”
The board member on the far left said, “On Grinder, you dealt a serious blow to the Mosh ability to produce combat units. There has already been a ten percent decrease in Mosh activity this month. With Tuha operating in the Mosh back yard, I don’t think there will be many opportunities for lucrative contracts for an extended period of time.”
Galen smiled. “Thank you for pointing that out. I’m sure my strategy of scaling down our combat operations for the foreseeable future meshes nicely with the reduced demand for mercenary services, for the time being.”
The president said, “Aw hell, relax, Galen. You talk like you’re trying to graduate from business school.”
The board members leaned back in their chairs. The one on the far right took off his jacket and tie, another stood and stretched and sat back down and drank some water. Galen leaned back, crossed his legs.
“Gentlemen, I’ve come to the conclusion I don’t care if I ever go on another contract.”
“You’re quitting?”
“I didn’t say that. I can stay right here and take contract bids and send units out. There’s no real need for me to go.”
The chairman said, “So you’d like to sit back here and make money off the troops you send out on contracts.”
“I wouldn’t be the only person in this room doing that.”
The board members nodded, not insulted one bit.
“Like so many of you, I’ve done my time. Until it becomes a problem for unit morale, I’d prefer to stay here and do the job of managing this Brigade the way it should be done. That last contract, it was pure luck. I came within a millimeter of being nothing but a statue in the museum.”
The chairman said, “Don’t flatter your self. You’d have been a picture with a name under it, that’s all.”
Galen laughed along with the board members. “So it’s okay with you all. I’ll hold a cash reserve for the next year to make quarterly dividend payments, not take any contracts until my personnel and equipment strengths are back up to a hundred per cent, and then starting next quarter I’ll look at taking company and battalion sized contracts.”
The chairman said, “That’s good with me. Everyone else?”
The other board members nodded. Galen stood.
The chairman asked, “Before you go, is there anything else you’d like to add?”
Galen said, “You’re all invited to my wedding tomorrow, at seventeen hundred hours in the Brigade chapel.”
“We’ll be there, Colonel, that’s a promise. Dismissed.”
Galen saluted, took a step to the left, executed an about face and marched out of the board room.
Chapter Sixteen
Galen stood in the front of the chapel wearing his full dress uniform. The saber at his side was necessary, for cutting the cake at the reception later; otherwise Galen wouldn’t have worn it. The gold Commander’s epaulets were distracting him, shiny objects just out of view of the corners of both eyes at once, but he’d managed to ignore them so far. The red sash of the Order of Distinguished Mercenary Colonels looked impressive, but made Galen feel awkward; he was the only member of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade to ever have that honor bestowed, and he felt he really hadn’t done anything to deserve it. He was proud of the nine battle stars on his campaign ribbons. After much debate and fuss, Tad had convinced Galen to wear the Victory Medal awarded by the Tuha. Actually, Tad threatened to refuse the honor of Best Man if Galen didn’t wear the medal. But Galen placed it on his rack as his lowest award, arguing that it was awarded by an entity not recognized as a professional military unit by the Bonding Commission.
Tad stood to Galen’s right, the Chaplain stood a full step behind to Galen’s left, behind the Alter. Farther to Galen’s left were two bride’s maids, Karen’s combat skimmer driver and Major Polar’s sixteen year old daughter. Mozart’s “Nachtmusik” played softly on the chapel sound system. Karen’s mother sat in the front row, along with her sister and Karen’s two sisters. Galen’s mother and her husband was in the front row as well, and the chairman of the board, Karen’s grandfather. In the second row sat the rest of the board members and their spouses. Behind that, more friends and family members and mercenaries; Galen’s tank crew, along with troops, NCOs, and officers from across the brigade, as well as a half a dozen Mandarin soldiers.
The chapel was full. The ushers, Major Sevin and Major Polar along with four Captains stood flanking the entrance, three on each side. The crowd, the guests come to witness the wedding, sat quietly, a profusion of military uniforms dotted here and there by the few women who were not military members. Even the Board members wore their dress uniforms, and Galen recognized three female troops in dress uniform seated among them. Perhaps they were Board Member’s daughters, surely too young to be the wives of the doddering old men. Galen would look into it some day…
The doors to the chapel opened and “Wedding March” replaced the Mozart on the sound system, louder and more clear. Karen walked with Spike at her side, her arm looped through his. The Chaplain had made it clear that since Karen’s grandfather was also in a position of authority over Galen, he could not give the bride away. Galen was the groom as well as Karen’s commanding officer, so certainly he couldn’t give her away. That left Spike, the Executive Officer, to perform the duties of the Commanding Officer when he was not able. Behind Karen walked Polar’s eight year old daughter holding up the hem of the wedding gown.
Galen smiled. Karen’s gown did nothing to hide the fact she was seven months pregnant with twins, and in fact it seemed modified to emphasize the pregnancy. Even the low cut on the front, although covered with gauzy fabric, emphasized a pregnant look. And her face, thinly veiled at the moment, showed the glow of impending motherhood. In just a few moments Galen would be able to say, “That’s my wife.”
Spike led Karen to the Alter, handed the wedding rings to the Chaplin, and then stepped away to sit at the far end of the front row. Galen executed an about-face, mindful of the swing of the scabbard on his right side. The Chaplain, a Master Sergeant who had served in the Brigade for twenty six years beginning as a Chaplin’s Assistant, signaled for the music to stop. The Chaplin couldn’t take a commission because his degree was with a seminary university rather than a military academy. He cleared his throat and began the blessing.
“Friends, family, and comrades at arms, we are gathered here today to witness the joining in holy matrimony of these two souls, Colonel Galen Raper and Lieutenant Colonel Karen Mitchell.”
The Chaplain slipped a simple 22K gold wedding band first on Karen’s ring finger, then on Galen’s.
“Galen and Karen, you have come here today to seek the blessing of God and of his Church upon your marriage. I require, therefore, that you promise, with the help of God, to fulfill the obligations which Christian Marriage demands.”
The Chaplain turned to Galen and said, “Galen, you have taken Karen to be your wife. Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, to be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”
Galen looked the Chaplain in the eye and said, “I do.”
The Chaplain turned to Karen and said, “Karen, you have taken Galen to be your husband. Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, to be faithful to him as long as you both s
hall live?”
Karen said, “I do.”
The Chaplain raised his voice and said, “You who have witnessed these promises will do all in your power to uphold these two persons in their marriage.”
The assembled group said, “We will.”
Karen and Galen extended their left hands toward the Chaplain, who clasped their hands together. The wedding bands made a click.
The Chaplain said, “Lord, bless these rings to be a symbol of the vows by which this man and this woman have bound themselves to each other; through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”
The Chaplain then joined the right hands of Karen and Galen and said,
“Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”
“Amen.”
Karen and Galen faced away from the Chaplain, towards the exit. Tad handed Karen a bouquet of flowers, and she looped her arm through Galen’s.
The Chaplain leaned forward and whispered, “You may kiss the bride.”
Galen reached to lift Karen’s veil and pulled a little too hard. It fell to the floor, but he ignored it and pulled her close and gripped the back of her neck and kissed her full on the lips.
The ushers marched outside and assembled on the steps, facing inward, their sabers drawn and held forward overhead to form an arch. Karen tossed her bouquet over her shoulder to the bride’s maids. Major Polar’s sixteen year old daughter caught it. Galen and Karen walked arm in arm out of the chapel. Major Sevin was the last saber-wielding usher on Galen’s side of the arch, Major Polar the last saber-wielding usher on Karen’s side of the arch. As Karen and Galen went by them Sevin said, “Have fun.”
Major Polar brought down her saber and lightly swatted Karen across her ass with the flat of the blade. “Welcome to wifehood, sister!”
Galen and Karen climbed into the back seat of the tactical skimmer and sat holding hands and waving back to the wedding guests who’d spilled out onto the lawn of the chapel. Karen’s bride’s maid got in the driver’s seat and drove them away. The reception took place at the lake house, at sunset.
Stallion Six
by
Gideon Fleisher
Copyright © 2012 Gideon Fleisher
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Prologue
The Jasmine Panzer Brigade museum curator felt that the story of Stallion Six could best be told by me. Because my duty position put me close to Stallion Six but from an objective vantage point, because I had the bad habit of forgetting to shut off my personal communicator and it recorded a lot of things, audio for the most part. Regardless, I was able to dig through its archived files to help me remember many parts of the story more accurately. Plus I had access to initial reports because it was my job to screen and file them, and it was my job to track battlefield movements in real time. So the curator was right. And now I’ll start at the beginning.
Chapter One
I first met Lieutenant Colonel Guillermo Camacho, comms call sign Stallion Six, right before my first Battalion staff call. I’d been assigned as the assistant operations Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge of Tasking, Training, Schools and Movement for the Stallion battalion two months before. Stallion Six had been on convalescent leave, and then ordinary leave, for a total of three months and this was his first day back and he wanted to hold staff call. I sat at my desk and dug through a plethora of data, sculpting it into what I hoped would be a presentable snapshot of the status of the Battalion’s tasking, training, schools and movement at that point in time. I felt a hand on my left shoulder and swiveled in my chair and saw Lieutenant Colonel Camacho. I stood and faced him. He was about twenty centimeters shorter than me and muscular, his upper arms bigger around than my thighs. And he was bronze, square-faced, with a full head of close-cropped coal-black hair and a dense mustache that covered his upper lip. He wore combat coveralls, his side arm in the holster of his pistol belt. I wore my class B dress uniform, appropriate for my assigned duties as a desk jockey.
“Sergeant Slaughter, how you doing?”
“Fine, sir.” I shifted my posture to rigid attention. I looked over his head and he spoke into my chest.
“So you were the Colonel’s gunner for three years. You like that job?”
I did. It was a sweet job. “Yes sir.”
“As much as I could use a good gunner in my tank, I need you right here. This job takes brains and you have brains. Relax.” He extended his right hand and I gripped it firmly. He shook once, then released. “We’re cool. Only time you have to stand like that is if you’re in trouble or someone who outranks me is around.”
“Roger, sir.” I relaxed.
He turned and strode off toward the conference room. As he passed through the doorway I overheard his boisterous voice, “Hey! A-Three! Get some doughnuts in here!”
The assistant operations officer, a Captain, moved briskly out of the conference room and used his personal communicator to call the chow hall, then stood in front of the battalion headquarters building and waited for the delivery of doughnuts to arrive.
Calling it the ‘Battalion Headquarters Building’ makes it sound like some grand structure, but really it’s a converted old motor pool maintenance bay. Along its back wall is the new motor pool fence and the back wall was the bay door, the opening bricked up with concrete blocks now. Interior walls were put up to sector off the work areas and offices, space set apart for S-1 Personnel, S-2 Intelligence, S-3 Operations and S-4 Logistics. Plus office space for the Executive Officer and the Commander. A drop ceiling three meters above had been put in over all that framing. The floor was still bare concrete. All that work was done twenty years before, when the Brigade first came to the planet Mandarin. The restroom was an attached structure around the side, which meant going outside to get to it and then knocking on the steel door to determine the gender of its occupant, if any, before entering. But overall, it was a comfortable place to work.
I’ll take this opportunity to explain the rank structure of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade. Troops, or Troopers, are the same as Privates. That’s the lowest rank, bearing the least amount of responsibility. Next up are Corporals, generally in charge of fire teams or tactical vehicles, and then the Sergeants, usually in charge of a squad or team or patrol, generally, or a sophisticated piece of equipment. Sergeants are commonly assigned as tank commanders.
Now here’s the part of the rank structure that confounds Government troops and causes confusion for indigenous armies, and often drops a jaw amongst other mercenary units as well. The commissioned officer ranks have enlisted equivalents. Okay, I’ll explain that. A Chief is enlisted, a Lieutenant is commissioned. They are of equal rank in this Brigade. In most other units, a Lieutenant will have an enlisted platoon sergeant assigned as his sidekick, his little buddy, his executive assistant, a whipping boy to be used and abused at the whim of the Lieutenant. And so on up the chain; a Captain has his own little Master Sergeant at his beck and call, a Major would have a Senior Master Sergeant to assist him, and a Lieutenant Colonel would have a Sergeant Major to advise him, that sort of thing. But not here; it’s a luxury the Jasmine Panzer Brigade would rather not provide. Why have two mercenaries assigned to basically do the same job?
This continues all the way up the chain. A Master Sergeant is the enlisted equivalent of a Captain, and like a Captain, outranks a Lieutenant. A Senior Master Sergeant, equivalent to a Major. And a Sergeant Major, the equivalent to a Lieutenant Colonel. A Command Sergeant Major is the designation for a Sergeant Major in command of the entire Brigade, but that rarely happens. It only happened once in this Brigade and that Command Sergeant Major was later commissioned by the Brigade’s Board of Directors as the current commander, Colonel Galen Raper. As for commissioned officers who don’t like the rank structure, they can go ahead and buy back their contracts and seek employment elsewhere. Some have, and I was glad to see them go.
For pay, that’s simple. All enlisted mercenaries receive the same pay regardless of ran
k. Those bearing greater responsibility face less personal risk. Look at a list of casualties and the obvious pyramid of the dead sorted by rank proves this beyond a shadow of a doubt. Over the past twenty years, 87% of the Brigade’s casualties have been Troops. 6% Corporals, 4% Sergeants, and the remaining 3% were Chief/Lieutenant and above. But then again, the Brigade has kept its casualty rate for combat contracts below the 5% mark. So a Trooper who spends a full twenty years as a Trooper and goes on an average of ten combat contracts during that twenty years stands a 67% chance of making it to retirement without being disabled or killed. Pretty good odds compared to most units.
When not on a contract, the enlisted receive a subsistence allowance geared toward matching the median entry-level working-class income of the host planet’s population residing near the installation. Here on the planet Mandarin, that’s cheap but adequate. More like an allowance than a paycheck, since the Brigade provides chow and billeting. But for deployment on a unit contract, mercenaries receive a share of the contract’s revenue. One half goes to the unit and the remaining half is shared equally by all the enlisted personnel participating in that contract.
The Brigade uses an insurance agency to handle death, disability and retirement benefits. That’s required as part of the unit charter with the Bonding Commission. Sort of ensures the benefits will still be available in the event the Brigade ceases to exist. Commissioned Officers are paid a competitive monthly salary on a graduating scale that goes up with each promotion. And that’s it. Real simple.
I went into the conference room and took my place to the left of the Operations Officer, Major Deskavich, the S-3. The A-3 sat at the front of the room next to the screen to operate the display controller. The A-3 was all right, a career officer who had managed a direct commission with the Brigade. Most Academy graduates had to enlist as a Sergeant and serve a year as enlisted before applying for a commission, but Captain Blythe managed to slip in without doing that. Perhaps it was because he’d attended a military high school and because he’d later graduated top of his class at a two-year academy. But anyway, he was a short guy who seemed slender at first glance. But not really. Strong, tough, thick skin. Nothing seemed to bother him. The A-3 job is a spring board to Company command. A recently promoted Captain or Master Sergeant is brought up to see what a Company looks like from the Battalion’s perspective. They already saw a Company from the inside, as a Platoon Leader and a Company Executive Officer. So the A-3 is treated more like an intern, just here to observe and learn and perform menial tasks. Like run Audio-Video gear and fetch donuts and coffee. Generally a Captain or Master Sergeant gets stuck working A-3 for three to six months, waiting for a Company command slot to open up.
The War for Profit Series Omnibus Page 57
