Freehold

by Michael Z. Williamson

  She went home to Marta's that night after a brief appearance at the party. Both her lovers were expecting her to be tired, but eagerly romantic. One look at her and Marta stripped her, dunked her into the hot tub and proceeded to massage her shoulders. "Goddess, love, you're as stiff as a board," Marta said. Rob handed her a drink and jumped in across from her. He began rubbing her calves.

  After a few segs of relaxation, she described the situation to them. Marta sounded angry. Rob just nodded. "I've seen the type before," he said. "They tear a unit apart, generally drive about five people into resigning, then get sent elsewhere because no one can prove anything worthwhile. They suck too much cock to be properly nailed," he swore.

  "So you're the officer, how do I handle it?" she asked.

  "Keep on it. Of course, you may get sucked in yourself. He's good at passing the blame, I'll bet," he mused.

  Marta complained, "Rob, you're making her tense again. Now I have to start over!"

  "Sorry," he said.

  Getting back on track, Kendra said, "Nothing sticks to him. He rides right on the edge of allowable behavior and never quite crosses it!"

  "Which is more annoying than a bona fide insubordinate," Rob nodded agreement.

  "Yes," she said and explained Wayland's admission of error and her surprise at it.

  Rob looked thoughtful, "Well, that's not unusual. He doesn't mean to be an asshole, he's just insecure and sociopathic. He'd do well in Earth politics," he half joked. "Do you want me to talk to Naumann? As a reservist and an officer, I can say things you can't," he suggested.

  "I don't want to pull favorites," she replied, "but thanks."

  She was far too wound up to do anything romantic and lay in the bed in sleepless frustration, listening jealously to Mar moan and pant in impassioned fury through an allegedly soundproof wall. She waited for sleep to come.

  * * *

  Jackson managed to avoid trouble over the incident. Kendra found herself in Naumann's office with Sirkot, promising to counsel her troop to double-check anything handed to him.

  "I apologize for having teams split across shifts," Sirkot said. "I was trying to balance experience levels. No harm was done and I don't want you feeling responsible for an error that wasn't under your control."

  "Yes, sir, thank you," she said. "There's one more item I need to address," she added to Naumann.

  She told him of Wayland's lack of an emergency oxy bottle. "I thought it was just an accident," she said, "but he did it at least three times and also wasn't carrying a basic load for his weapon. He said if he fired it, he'd have to clean it."

  Naumann ran his hand through his hair. "Right. Warrant Sirkot? I'll take it from here, if you don't mind?" he said rather than asked. Sirkot agreed, looking grateful. Kendra saluted and left in a hurry.

  Back at the shop, there was more trouble. Someone had posted a sign on the wall that read,

  Why Jim Wayland is like a fart:

  He's loud

  He stinks

  He rose above his point of origin

  No one knows where he came from

  He won't go back there

  We never wanted him in the first place

  Any asshole could produce another one.

  It was obviously Jackson's work. Sirkot was over talking to Naumann, which left Wayland in charge. He was out back, berating Jackson quietly. As she approached, he said, "Kendra, would you come here please?"

  She sighed and nodded. He continued, "This is for the record." He turned back to Jackson, who looked like a dog that had been kicked. "Private Jackson, I don't like doing this, but I don't have any choice. From now on, you will address me as 'Sergeant' at all times. You will not use any terms of familiarity. You will not make any comments. You will follow my orders to the letter and you will address any concerns through the chain of command. Do you understand?"

  Eyes almost tearing, Jackson replied, "Yes, Sergeant Wayland."

  "Good," Wayland replied, sounding sad. "I'm sorry it's come down to this, but I don't have any choice. I've tried to be friendly and there's one or two people who just can't deal with it. So we'll just be formal and avoid any trouble."

  Kendra was furious. She turned, looked up at him and said, "Then may I suggest, Sergeant Wayland, that you address issues with my troops through me or the squad leader. That is what the chain of command is for. And you can immediately cease any comments of a sexual nature, no matter how funny you think they might be, to either Private Jackson or myself, since we have asked you repeatedly to stop."

  He looked stunned. Then he came back with, "I don't know how they do things in the UN, Pacelli, but this is the Freehold. You have to learn to joke. They aren't issued from the government here." He grinned the stupid grin she wanted to hit.

  Jackson suddenly cut in. "Look, you conceited piece of shit," he shouted. A couple of the loading crew and drivers turned their heads at that. "If you can't take it, you better not dish it out in the first place. You're an obnoxious bigot, utterly incompetent and a disgrace to the uniform!"

  Kendra hadn't known he had it in him. She applauded inside, while sighing. "Be sure of your language, Jackson," she said, knowing it was too late.

  Wayland got an angry gleam in his eyes. "All right, asshole, if that's how you want to play it," he said. "I will be filing formal charges of insubordination. Since you seem to be the only person here who can't tell a joke when you hear one and can't seem to keep a military bearing, we'll just see where we go. First, you stand at attention when I am talking to you," he stormed. His voice was much louder. The loaders looked over again. Jackson tiredly stiffened to attention. Wayland strutted back and forth as he continued, "You haven't been able to act in a proper military fashion since the day I got here, you keep sneaking behind my back, trying to ignore my authority," he stopped pacing and stared down at the young troop, "trying to write up every little infraction you think you've found, posting insults in public . . ." He went on, but Kendra tuned him out. She'd flipped her comm to record and was letting it hear all this for later.

  It was just then that Naumann appeared, Sirkot behind him. He silently approached, directly behind Wayland, and stopped to listen to the monologue.

  "Attention," he said.

  Wayland turned and threw a quick salute. "Oh, hello, Commander. Getting things ready for the rescue exercise?" The change in manner was instantaneous and amazing. His posture and body language immediately became open and friendly.

  "I said 'attention,' " the commander repeated, raising his voice just barely, his expression blank.

  Wayland slid into a belated brace and looked down at the far shorter officer. He looked confused and a bit worried. Almost as if discipline was a foreign concept to him. Well, it was.

  Naumann paced around the trio as he said, "I spoke to Commander Lewis at First Legion. He warned me that you like to suck up."

  He indicated Kendra and Jackson should back out of his way with a glance and walked through the space they'd occupied then turned around in front of Wayland again. Sirkot simply watched. "Not that I need such a warning. I've seen your type before. You crawl under the desk and try to blow the commander's ego."

  He was behind Wayland now, who looked very confused. It might be the first time he'd ever been dressed down publicly. Naumann leaned to speak up toward his ear. "I already have a big enough ego without your help," he said.

  "I've given you several chances and I know Warrant Leader Sirkot has mentioned it to you. In fact, I have complaints from several sources, including at least two outside the unit. Also a few blind idiots who think you are the greatest leader since Napoleon. But they're all young and impressionable or layabouts going nowhere.

  "So, we'll make this easy. You'll sign a resignation and get out. I understand they usually reassign you. I don't want to be embarrassed by passing you off on anyone else."

  "Sir, if there's a misunderstanding, I—" Wayland said and was cut off.

  "I may be the first commander you've had who a
ctually has understood you," Naumann said. "You moved into a smooth unit and turned everything upside down. You're not even a BTB clown," he said, using the acronym for "by the book." "You use the regs to hurt anyone who won't kiss your hairy ass and ignore them when they get in your way. I won't argue with you. I'm just kicking you out."

  "I'm not aware of any violations, sir. I think I'll have to insist on formal charges," Wayland replied. He sounded a lot meeker, his voice thinner and less sure.

  Naumann spoke without looking up. "Pacelli."

  "Sir."

  "You can provide documentation of Sergeant Wayland's actions?" It wasn't really a question.

  "Yes, sir!" she agreed. She was enjoying seeing him nail the jerk. A grin kept trying to cross her face.

  Naumann continued to his victim, "I can easily support charges of conduct prejudicial to good order, conduct unbecoming an NCO, abuse of authority for personal gain, provocative speech or actions, sexual harassment . . ." He glanced at Kendra and Jackson. Yes, they'd been jokes, and the Freehold gave much more leeway along those lines, but the intent of them was to establish control. That made them technically actionable. Kendra wondered how he'd heard? Or was he assuming based on available evidence? " . . . Violation of safety regulations in a hazardous environment for your stunts in orbit and your platoon leader's report of your inability to accomplish assigned tasks in a timely manner."

  Wayland opened his mouth, but Naumann continued, more loudly, "All of which are utter bullshit charges. Which is no reflection on the charges. It is a reflection on you. I prefer not to smear the unit with that kind of crap, which is why I want your resignation. I don't give a damn about you. You've abused my good graces."

  Wayland's eyes were actually damp. Clearly he'd never been called out before. His whole mock-friendly manner and size intimidated people into giving him what he asked for or charmed then into willingly going along with his schemes. "Yes, sir," he whispered. He looked stunned.

  Naumann flipped his comm open and said, "Security."

  "Yes, Commander Naumann?" came the reply.

  "Mister Wayland is to be escorted from the base. All his personal effects and he are to be out the gate by five. And I need an escort for him now."

  "Yes, Commander," was the acknowledgment.

  There was a pregnant silence for the long seconds until a private from security jogged over. Naumann said, "Escort Mister Wayland to the orderly room to resign. Observe but do not help as he gathers his personal gear and see him out the gate by five. And get him out of that uniform." He didn't bother to wait for acknowledgment.

  Finally turning to the others, he said, "Private Jackson."

  "Yes, sir!" Jackson snapped. He might be cocky, but Kendra had to admit he was earnest.

  "Did you use inappropriate language to an NCO?" He stared levelly at the young man.

  "Yes, sir," Jackson admitted.

  "You will serve three divs extra duty this week. Since Corporal Pacelli has to cover additional work, you can do whatever grunt labor she has. In future, address complaints through your chain of command."

  "Yes, sir," he agreed, obviously relieved.

  Naumann continued, "Pacelli."

  "Yes, sir?" she asked.

  "We do not have another NCO lined up for that slot. You have been doing the NCO's work. I will be asking Warrant Sirkot to move you into that slot. That's an additional pay grade," he said.

  "Yes, sir," she acknowledged. That was fast. She was now the number two person in the logistics front office.

  "You will not be coming on the search exercise," he said. "I will be sending you to NCOLS. Don't screw up. I need you back here ASAP. We'll borrow a reservist or two for the time being."

  "Yes, sir!" she agreed.

  Chapter 21

  "The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war."

  —old military proverb

  The Freehold Military Forces Noncommissioned Officer Leadership School was known informally as "Tac Tech." Kendra had been surprised to find technical mathematics a prerequisite. She heard talk of "Tactical Calculus" around her unit and it had taken a while to realize it was an actual subject. Not only that, but it was heavily stressed for the entire four weeks of the course.

  She caught a commercial flight on a ballistic shuttle. It was quick, jolting from high gees to emgee to maneuvers and landing. She was picked up by the base taxi and taken to billeting. This time, she had an NCO's room to herself, with standard hotel housekeeping service. She handed over the chip with her orders and her military credcard and checked in.

  She arrived at class and was grateful to find coffee. Not instant, either. That boded well. Her class had barely ten students and they exchanged assessing looks. There was curiosity about her UN medal and questions for the lone soldier from Special Warfare, who looked far too meek to be a professional killer.

  Seconds later, their instructor arrived.

  "Communications is the key to modern warfare," Senior Sergeant Instructor Hugh Oleg announced as he strode into the room. "When I say, 'Room, ten shut!' you all know what I mean. As you were," he said, releasing them from their instantaneous reactive brace. They resumed their seats.

  "You'd probably understand it delivered in any language in this environment. If, however, I'd used, say, Russian to order everyone to stand on one foot, it's doubtful you'd understand it in this context."

  He handed out three cards. Kendra got the second one. "Turn around and face the back wall," he ordered them. After they did, he said, "Mr. Langston, please stand at the board. You will be advised to draw the images the other students are holding. They will not be able to see your work for feedback. You may not speak. Ms Anderson, please begin."

  Corporal Jenny Anderson hesitated only a moment then said, "This image is an equilateral right triangle, with sides at right and below as I look at them. The sides are approximately twelve centimeters long by estimation." Langston easily drew what she described.

  It seemed simple enough to Kendra. Oleg was not satisfied. "What about this break in the line?" he asked her.

  "I thought that was just a smudge. Sorry, sir."

  " 'Sorry' won't save lives. Every detail is important. Mr. Dubois, you're next."

  Dubois began, "Langston, the image in front of me is a square constructed of translucent panels. We are going to rearrange them to form the shape of a capital T, sans serif," he said. There were a couple of snickers at the detail. "Place the red triangle at upper right. Immediately to its right, place the yellow triangle, below the corner and with the hypotenuses facing." There were giggles and chuckles at this point, because the instructions were not clear. "To the left place the blue rectangle, horizontal and aligned with the upper edge . . ." He went on and the laughs turned into hysterical guffaws.

  After several segs, Oleg halted the proceedings. "Ms Pacelli, let's see if you can unravel this."

  She turned her own card over and stared at it. It was the same problem, but the instructions Dubois had given made no sense. Then everything snapped into place. "Langston, ignore all colors. The large triangle goes at upper right, one side horizontal, hypotenuse to the right and underneath. The smaller triangle aligns hypotenuse to hypotenuse and at the right edge to create the right bight of the T's cross. The smaller of the two rectangles aligns with the figure so far and is horizontal to create the left bight . . ."

  In seconds she was done and when she turned, Langston had it correct. He had one set of colors for his components, Dubois another and she a third. "Color blindness," she said aloud.

  "That's one consideration," Oleg said. "Or the parts may actually be painted different colors from different generations of production. Each culture has its own assumptions regarding color, too. Lack of feedback can be due to either technical problems or because of assumptions that mean the mistake is overlooked until much later . . ."

  It was a busy first morning. The afternoon was spent on tactical calculus. " 'It is impossible to predict all factors, but maximum acc
urate appraisal of the ones available will minimize errors.' That's what the book says. Now let's see where we go." It was fascinating, and there was a definite irony to reducing people to numbers for calculating battles. Kendra bogged down at first, but then caught on suddenly.

  Oleg was flashing loads of data across their screens. "General terrain is represented by this algorithm and by entering grid coordinates of features here, their shapes and heights here, you can get a fair assessment of where to place your troops for a given objective. Then, plug in the relative numerical strengths of the units and enter any support weapons known. Now this is important," he paused to drive the point home. "You must honestly rate the estimated skill and training of the engaged units. If you lie to yourself about how great you are, you'll get killed that much faster. Too low and your attrition rate can suffer or you may fail the objective by not moving fast enough. Now, desired time to completion goes here . . ."

  It did not, Kendra discovered, make command decisions any less complex. It created additional problems of finding the best data possible from all sources. They ran through numerous practice problems. They were reminded that this was simply introductory and that they'd be expected to practice further, with and without a comm, to improve their skills. "Wait until Senior NCO Academy," Oleg promised.

  The day was a solid four divs long, eleven Earth hours, she thought, still converting occasionally. Kendra was exhausted, collapsed at once, and was barely conscious in time for the second day. As she sat moping into her coffee, Oleg strode into the room. "Logistics is the key to modern warfare," he said to begin the second lecture.

  Communication, logistics, air power, intel, artillery, engineers, forward support, special warfare and other force multipliers. Every day another subject was thrown at them. Every evening, they read books from their required lists, while hyped on stims to improve their comprehension rate. It was a grueling, mind-numbing course and they had little time off even on the weekends. Twenty days of intense cramming was harder on the body than starvation and confinement. Kendra found herself eagerly looking forward to the mandatory exercise times, simply to work the knots out.