The Best Defense

by Todd A. Stone

  Officer Dining Facility

  Master Warrior School

  Ditchnesk Training Area

  Konstantin Stanev chewed quickly and swallowed, forcing down his food before its taste made him gag. Alongside the stack of vegetables on his tray was a gray lump of something masquerading as meat, and next to that was a mushy green-brown blob of unknown origin. To wash it all down, he’d been given a glass filled with a lukewarm, dull yellow liquid.

  In resignation, he scraped the piece of gray matter off his fork and went after the vegetables. Unlike his counterparts, he’d been unable to stomach the facility’s concoctions. The appearance, texture, and flavors were tolerable, but the overwhelming chemical aftertaste was too much for him. He’d often looked at the other officers in wonder as they shoveled down huge mouthfuls, and he noted that after they had come out of surgery—and the physicians had operated on all of them for one minor injury or another—they ate with even more relish.

  He, on the other hand, was not scheduled for surgery to repair a minor knee ligament tear for three or four weeks. He thought it odd that the tear hadn’t been discovered in the comprehensive physical exams he took before coming to the school, and that the Special Security doctor unhesitatingly scheduled an operation even though the knee gave him no pain, but then the doctors here were experts in performance medicine. Stanev sadly decided that until then he would do what he had been doing: existing on the fresh vegetables and water while surreptitiously dumping the unpalatable food and drink.

  Captains Kurt Ravchuk and Bruno Volodymr, Dimonokov’s protégés, interrupted his thoughts. The two burly officers sat down roughly, one on each side of Stanev, spilling his drink onto his food.

  “It seems the new fellow has used his drink to season his food,” Ravchuk mocked.

  “Perhaps he is trying to win back Dimonokov’s favor,” Volodymr retorted. “But there is little chance, you know, now that Stanev’s guardian angel has gone to the devil.”

  Stanev rose to leave, but each man grabbed a forearm and pulled him back.

  “Tell us,” Ravchuk sneered, “‘I-cannot-bear-to-see-the-men-suffer’, how do you intend to remove the total disgrace that Dimonokov has placed upon you? If I were excluded from the planning of an upcoming mission, if I were placed in command of a reserve company because I had not only coddled the troops but also attempted to demonstrate that I knew more about fighting than my instructors, I would drown myself in my own piss.”

  “Before the relic Roskotovitch died,” Volodymr chimed in, “Stanev might have appealed to him.”

  “General Roskotovitch is dead?”

  “Very dead.” Ravchuk chewed noisily. “Did you not hear? Obviously not. And so I am sure you did not hear that Dimonokov finally has evidence of what we have known for years—that the Americans and the Jews have infiltrated every inch of the government. That due to their machinations Russia has been held in check for the last fifty years. That their aim is to keep us as prostrate doormats for the greasy foreigners who are sucking us dry. That it is the sacred mission of the Special Security, as vanguards of a New Russia, to reverse this, and that we shall very shortly take the steps necessary to rid all foreigners from our soil. No, I forgot that you were excluded from these meetings. You have not heard.”

  “I have heard enough,” said Stanev. Again he tried to stand. Volodymr put out an arm, but Ravchuk waved him off.

  “Let him go. We will have our place in history, and the weakling will have his.”

  Stanev took two steps away from the table, then turned back to the pair.

  “Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.” He walked away and scraped the chemically laced mess into a garbage can.

  Chapter Seven

  Vicinity warehouse complex 12

  Infernesk Munitions Depot

  Under the covering fire of the rest of the squad, three women dashed across the open ground between the two deserted buildings and huddled beneath a window. While the middle soldier slung her rifle over her shoulder and prepared a grenade, the other two bent down, grabbed opposite ends of a roughly five-foot long piece of lumber, and hoisted it about a foot off the ground. As they stood facing each other, the middle soldier stepped on the board, steadied herself, and nodded. The two women on the ends heaved, the soldier on the board rose to window height, and fighting to keep her balance she tossed in the grenade, half-ducked, and then followed it in. A few seconds later another soldier jogged to the two with the board. As they had done with the previous soldier, the pair boosted her up and through the window.

  Christine frowned as she scribbled quick notes on her three-by-five card. Never ask an infantryman to make a mental note, Christine thought. That’s what the major said. Now I see why. There’s just too much going on—and going wrong—to remember it all. Good thing it’s only practice.

  Each soldier in the mock battle wore a MILES—Multiple Laser Engagement Simulation— headband on her helmet and over her equipment harness. Their rifles were fitted with laser emitters that shot an invisible laser beam whenever the rifle fired a blank. Practice MILES hand grenades worked the same way—they “exploded” with a two-firecracker-loud bang and sent laser beams out in all directions. When a soldier was hit—when a laser beam struck a receiver on her helmet headband or equipment harness—a speaker on the harness let out a high, shrill tone, signifying a kill. The only way to stop the noise was to take a small key from the rifle transmitter and insert it into a special receptacle on the harness. The weapon would no longer fire, and the soldier was “dead.”

  Three weeks of tough training, Christine thought. You’d think they’d be better than this.

  From inside came widely-spaced grenade explosions, followed belatedly by a few desultory shots—a burst of five, then three, then just a couple of single pops. Outside, one by one the rest of the squad half-heartedly trotted across the open ground, and one by one the two women with the board heaved them through the window. The two women’s strength quickly failed. Soldiers stacked up—waiting their turn—and a small gaggle formed. Christine’s frown turned to a scowl. When the squad members finally hoisted the last two soldiers up and in, Christine hustled around the building, entered through a side door, and quickly climbed the stairs.

  Inside two teams of two soldiers each meandered through the hallways, working over the rooms. Christine watched with concern as, instead of moving quickly from room to room, the women shuffled forward like robots. No one talked, no one issued orders, and no one seemed to be moving with a purpose; the squad was merely mechanically executing the drill that Christine had earlier demonstrated with her plastic soldiers. In the process the teams bypassed two rooms.

  They’re tired, Christine thought, and with good reason. We’ve done this a dozen times already. Where’s the OPFOR? They’re not shooting back; they must be tired, too. Christine felt the ache in her own legs. Maybe, she thought, we’ve practiced this too much.

  She was about to call off the exercise when the rest of the squad entered the hallway. They zombied along with their heads down, their weapons drooping as much. They’re way too close together, thought Christine, one grenade and they’ve all had it. Grenade, hell, they’ll do it themselves. That third soldier has her weapon in the back of the woman in front of her; if she pulls the trigger she’ll zap her partner.

  One of the doors of the two bypassed rooms opened just enough for two training hand grenades to sail into the hallway, startling Christine and completely surprising the numbed attackers.

  The grenades’ blasts and resulting wash of laser beams triggered a cacophony of high-pitched beeps and steady “kill” tones from the squad’s sensors. Not more than two seconds after the grenades blew, two OPFOR soldiers burst in, crouching low and firing full automatic. At first both hosed down the hallway, setting off the sensors on the only two women who survived the grenades, then the second soldier, who like the first held her weapon up in a good firing position with the butt stock tucked tightly into the pocket of her
shoulder, spun around to cover her OPFOR partner’s back. Christine shook her head. It was over faster than she could blink, and definitely faster than she could write.

  The dazed “dead” squad of attackers looked around, wondering what had hit them. Christine scratched a few more notes onto her card, then shoved it into her pocket.

  “Let’s put the keys in, people,” Christine ordered, “and turn off the noise.” Slowly the shrill tones died out. The pair of OPFOR still held their positions, their weapons trained up and down the hall.

  “End of mission,” Christine pronounced, trying not to let her disgust show. “Weapons on safe. NCOs, check your people. Recover the grenades and redistribute ammo.” With her words the two OPFOR soldiers relaxed and stood. The gray sweatshirts they wore to mark them as enemy were sweat streaked, and each pulled out a canteen and drank. Christine thought it was a good idea. “Everyone form outside on the mock-up, and on the way out, drink. After-action review in fifteen minutes. I want one canteen half-emptied and then refilled by then.”

  The smaller of the two OPFOR soldiers wiped her mouth with a sleeve. “You drink it too fast and it goes right through you.”

  “Water discipline,” replied the other, taller soldier. “A long-lost concept.”

  “Let’s cut the chatter and move it, people.” Christine said harshly. She turned and tromped off down the stairs.

  The two OPFOR soldiers just looked at each other, grinned, then shoved their canteens back into their pouches.

  The after-action review was long, and for the squad and its leader, more than a little painful. How do you cross an open area? Christine asked. Two or more at a time. Why? Because, someone in the group answered, the enemy will miss the first group, but get the second or third individual. Do we ever send a soldier out alone? No, she’s too easy a target and she’s got no one to back her up—always maintain eye contact with your partner. When do we sling arms? Only as the exception. When going through a window? No, the grenade goes in first, then right after the blast you sweep the room with at least three three-round bursts, even if you have to just stick the weapon barrel in and shoot. Why do you think you now have two women with sore arms and aching backs? They didn’t lift with their legs, and we didn’t change off and put fresh people on. That’s especially important for us because? Because women have generally much less upper body strength than men. And because we ended up in a cluster outside—a great big target. Did anybody notice that? Yes. Did anybody notice that you’d bypassed two rooms? Yes. Why didn’t you tell the squad leader? Getting tired, fatigue makes you less alert. Are you going to get more tired? A few low groans. Probably. Yes. What slowed you down? Tired, and the OPFOR had been in more or less the same location on the previous runs. Were they there this time? No. Who passed back that info? Nobody. Who passed back any info, who called out where they were or what was happening? Nobody.

  A light rain fell. A drop went down the back of Christine’s neck and she shivered.

  “What made you think we’d be in the same place again?” the male OPFOR soldier asked. He got back only shrugs.

  “The enemy isn’t dumb, regardless of how we’ve portrayed him,” his partner commented. “You have to pay attention, because the enemy learns, and when the shooting starts they learn quickly. And they’ve been at this a lot longer than you have.”

  The weary troops nodded. The rain picked up.

  “It’s getting late, Ma’am,” came a voice from the squad. “It looks like the others are packing it in.” He gestured over his shoulder.

  A warehouse away Christine could see MSG Rich’s section, their plastic ponchos covering them against the rain, trudging back towards the central area. She felt the cold water soaking through her battle dress and the beginnings of a chill.

  “We don’t want to be the last in line for chow, Ma’am.”

  Christine looked at the two OPFOR soldiers, but there was no guidance in their eyes. Her own stomach rumbled. The rain came down in sheets.

  “The local counterattack is a key to the defense,” Christine said, now having to speak louder against the noise of the rain. “We have to be able to execute sharply, crisply, precisely, each time and every time.” There was no look of inspiration in her soldiers’ eyes, only end-of-a-long-day tiredness and resentment at being kept out in the weather. “Precision and teamwork save lives, and I don’t want to lose any of you because you couldn’t execute with precision.”

  She knew what she had to say, and she didn’t want to say it. At that moment Christine Tampier wanted more than anything for the long walk back to the Central area to be over and to be in her warm bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and with her hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee. Is it, Christine asked herself, so much to ask? Can I ask any more out of these people and of myself?

  She did.

  “And lose you I won’t. OPFOR, you have fifteen minutes to find and prepare hasty positions in that building. Squad leader, you’ve practiced this before. Your mission is to counterattack, seize that building, clear it, and be prepared to defend it against another attack. Do you need more than fifteen minutes to issue any changes in your order or your procedure?”

  “No,” came a sulky reply.

  “No ‘what’?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Good. OPFOR, move out. We will do this drill, people, until I’m satisfied that we can execute with precision. If that means I coordinate with the Major so that we stay out here all night, then we stay out here all night and move bullets later when we should be sleeping. But we will execute, and execute the way we need to. You can choose to do it right, or you can choose to stay out here and get colder and wetter. But choose. Questions?”

  None.

  “Then let’s get to it. The weather’s turning lousy.”

  As the soldiers got to their feet, Christine pulled the squad leader out of earshot and laid down the law about giving orders, taking charge, and keeping things moving. The two OPFOR soldiers, their sweatshirts now soaked through from the rain, moved off towards the building.

  “Damn change in weather makes my old joints ache.”

  “Mine too, especially this knee. I took shrapnel in it in the mountains. Hasn’t been right since they dug it out.”

  “Whaddya think about the el-tee?”

  “Almost grown up.”

  She seemed to read his mind. “Seems too bad, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  They slipped in through the side door, picked their initial positions and routes back to the next set, then settled in to wait.

  Denight stretched out on the floor, arranged some sandbags to improve his cover, and took out a MILES hand grenade. Claire Horowitz tapped a magazine against her helmet to seat the blank rounds, then shoved it into her rifle’s magazine well, chambered a round, and slipped the weapon’s selector switch off safe.

  Outside, the overhang of a storage building sheltering her from the drizzle but not the cold, Val watched her lieutenant train her squad.

  Commander’s Office

  Infernesk Munitions Depot

  Val sat behind her desk, waiting for an answer.

  Annette Rich stood facing her commander.

  “What this is all about, Ma’am, is the discriminatory manner in which you’ve treated both me and the members of my detachment.”

  Val screwed up her face in astonishment. “Run that one by me again.”

  “You confiscated several two-way radios that we needed to properly perform our mission and used them without permission. You changed the training schedule without my approval, and the tasks my detachment’s personnel were being trained in today have no relevance to their mission here. The allotment of missions and tentative areas to defend that you gave at the warning order clearly overtasks my people, and you embarrassed me in public. I cannot tolerate a continuation of such actions. If they do continue, I will feel it necessary to report them to the CENTCOM Provost Marshall and the CENTCOM executive officer.”

 
Val took three deep breaths, then two more. She counted to ten. Twice.

  “Sergeant Rich,” Val said in a voice she held just above a whisper. “Come closer.”

  Rich took a step toward the desk and stopped short, like a two-year-old vying for control.

  “No, Sergeant. Right up next to it.”

  Rich took another step and halted six inches from the desk’s edge.

  Val had to check herself to keep her hands from trembling. Slowly, conscious of her every move and keeping herself under control by sheer force of will, Val stood. She leaned over, her hands on the desktop, until mere inches separated her face from Rich’s.

  Val’s words came out fast, low, and hard.

  “Take your sorry whining and all your discrimination crap and get the hell out of my office. On your way out, Sergeant, look at the door. You’ll notice it says ‘Commanding Officer’. I command here, I don’t ask permission, I don’t ask approval, I’m the one who decides what’s relevant and what’s not and who uses what equipment. You follow orders.”

  “I’m sure, Ma’am, that the Inspector General would be interested in the activities that have occurred over the last several days.”

  “I’m sure, Sergeant, that a relief for cause review board would be interested in the number of complaints lodged against you. After, of course, your report went through the appeals process. I’m two inches away from slamming you so hard you’ll be a blot on my carpet. Consider yourself counseled, and consider yourself a candidate for relief. Now vanish.”

  Annette Rich’s salute carried as much hate as her eyes.

  Val had to unball a fist to return it.

  Rich was three-quarters of the way out the office door when Val stopped her.

  “Don’t fight me, Rich. You know what the threat is. There’s too much at stake for anybody here to be on a power trip.”

  Val got nothing for her words but a last hard look.