by John Ringo
"Nein, Herr Oberfeldwebel," Hagai replied, spitting dirt out of his mouth. "It was not covered in my training documents."
"Herr Florian Geyer was a nobleman who led the Black Company and took the side of the peasants in an uprising," Ginsberg said. He was on top of the Panzerjaeger and as far as Hagai could tell he was sitting on his fat ass. "That was the time of the Protestant Revolution when the peasants rose up against the Catholic Church and the nobles that supported it. They lost, of course, and he was killed. But his spirit lived on. We carry that spirit of battle against tyranny into the future, the small Panzerjaeger against the unstoppable Juggernaut."
"Jawohl, Herr Oberfeldwebel," Hagai said, shaking his head to get mud out of his eye. Then he thought about the Oberfeldwebel's words and took a chance. "So, what you're saying, Herr Oberfeldwebel, is that our history is to always be outnumbered, outgunned and generally getting the shitty end of the stick. And I thought this unit had no Jewish traditions at all."
"Very funny, Schutze," the Oberfeldwebel replied.
Chapter Ten
"Can you send a message on this thing?" Cutprice asked.
"When you pull up a service record there's an icon," Norris said, taking a pull off his beer. "That connects to his buckley so you can either send a text message or just call him."
"Don't use a buckley," Cutprice said, shaking his head. "Can't stand the goddamned things. What if you want a particular unit? Can you look at who commands it?"
"No," Norris said. "Because the final choices haven't been made. But you can look who's in the lead in points. What's starting to happen is clustering. Like you went to your friend the master sergeant and bid on him. Well, if you bid on a particular company, people will start clustering around you. There's a way to look up anyone and put a flag to see where they're going. People see you take a particular company and a lieutenant colonel who wants to be your commander puts in a bid on the battalion. Somebody who's looking for an S-3 slot might decide if you're going to be in the battalion it's going to make his headaches less. Points start going up across the board any time someone who's got a real rep like yours bids on a unit. Guys get together and combine points to make sure they get the grouping they want. You can even add points to a guy's bid on the battalion if you'd rather have him than someone else."
"We're electing our officers," Cutprice said.
"In a way," Norris said. "But the real problem with clustering is that you end up with some really elite units, elite companies, elite battalions, and some that are just the dregs. That's the sort of unit I'll end up in even if I get some points from you and just bid for a random platoon. The sort of unit where all the guys who have just enough points to scratch their way into a unit end up. That means guys with minimal combat experience or crappy evaluations, no medals, stuff like that. Whereas we might be right next to a battalion that's filled with nothing but medal of honor winners. If you get what I mean."
"I get it," Cutprice said as a message icon popped up. It was from Wacleva so he opened it. "Oooh, it's worse than you thought, Lieutenant. How do I pay you?"
"If you mean points, sir," the lieutenant said, wincing. "You open up my service record. Norris, Andrew."
Cutprice typed slowly and laboriously and finally got a screen.
"Third one down, sir," the LT said.
"Damn, you don't have many points," Cutprice said, looking at his record. "You had a platoon. But those are a string of really sucky OERs, son." He could figure that out already.
"I managed to overcome them to an extent," the LT said. "And I'd whine about it being a crappy chain of command. Which it was. But I wasn't a great platoon leader. See the points link? Click on that and it will take you to a screen where you can transfer points."
"If I was you, I'd take all my points and try to get a good staff position rather than a crappy platoon," Cutprice said. The transfer was easy enough. "How many do you need for a platoon?"
"At least thirty, sir, if you can spare them."
"Done," Cutprice said. "I'll keep you in mind, Norris. But I'm not promising anything. When you were staff, what was your specialty?"
"Ops," Norris said. "I did some time in personnel, but I did my best work in Plans."
"Shoot for an assistant S-3 position," Cutprice said. He saw a look of pain cross the lieutenant's face. "Yeah, I know. You really want a platoon. Or think you do. Maybe to make up for what you consider to have been failure in the past. But let me give you some advice: people are good or bad at different levels. There were some kids who can handle a platoon, but are lost with a company. They tend to migrate over to Special Forces, where they can be glorified squad leaders. Some people suck moose cock as platoon leaders, but as company commanders they walk on water . . . Hell, they create clouds and walk on those. Some people are just best on staff. Son, last words: insanity consists of doing the same thing over and over again, the same way, and expecting a different result. Don't be a loonie. Now I've got to get down to building a unit."
"Sir," Norris said, sighing. "I can probably help out quite a bit. And if you text the most probable S-3 and ask him to bid on me I can escape getting in one of the rat-trap units."
Chapter Eleven
"You know, I'm gonna have to nail yo feet to de floor," Mike said as Michelle appeared in his office. "Where've you been all week? Recovering still?"
Michelle gave a rare giggle before answering. It had been a long time, but she still remembered watching The Little Mermaid on her daddy's lap.
"I have been attempting to convince a very hidebound group of Indowy that if they didn't fight for their beliefs they were going to end up learning to act like the Hedren," Michelle said, rubbing her temples. "It was not easy."
"And did they eventually agree?" Mike asked.
"Some did, some didn't," Michelle admitted. "The consensus was to let those who wished to help do so. It looks as if we're getting about three hundred masters and an unknown number of students. The masters and their senior students will be arriving over the course of the next couple of weeks. The others are going to have to take ships. We're going to have to find somewhere to house them."
"AID, find a nice resort in the middle of nowhere and tell them they've been commandeered," Mike said. "Open up a budget item for Sohon master support. Masters get assimilated grade starting at O-7 and ranging up, pay to same spec. Apprentices range down. Michelle, you're going to have to set up the command structure for them and figure out their assimilated grades."
"Even with the pay, they're not going to be able to keep up their debt payments," Michelle noted. "I'm about to go into default myself."
"AID, send a message to the Tir telling him to arrange debt suspension for all the mentats that are coming in to help, and their students, even if still in transit. Michelle, we're going to need a list. And, AID, start paying them as of when you get it."
"Done," Michelle said. "Your AID already has it."
"AID, ensure that the resort maintains support. Get a unit over there to provide security and start integrating with the mentats. Try to find someone with background with mentats."
"You look like the lead singer of a Goth band."
Mosovich lifted his combat goggles up and shook his head. The goggles, which looked like a pair of welding goggles, were the best thing the new War Board had been able to produce in quantity to overcome the Hedren cloaking system. Since the forces below were all using the new cloaking uniforms, he had to wear them to see his own troops.
"With your name I'd be careful who you go around joking about," he replied, looking over at Widdlebright.
The combat exercise was over for the former members of DAG, now the core of the Strategic Reconnaissance Section, gathering up to get debriefed and tell war stories.
Greenville had been their training base before DAG went rogue, and the survivors were back again, using the demolished buildings of the city as a gigantic live-fire exercise zone. The individual team members, via the support of the Bane Sidhe and their
base in the wilderness of Venezuela, had maintained most of their skills. What they were working on, now, was team integration and notional methods of fighting the Hedren. Everyone knew, though, that when they met the foe things were going to crop up that hadn't been anticipated. Every enemy was different. But they'd adjust.
"You know the good news and bad news routine?" Widdlebright asked.
"The good news is the mission is scrubbed," Mosovich replied. "There is no bad news."
"The good news is the mission is changed," the colonel said. "And you're going to be spending some time in a five star resort."
"The bad news must really suck, then," Mueller muttered.
"It's pretty bad," the colonel admitted. "You're going to be pulling security for some super secret group. You are also to learn to 'integrate' said group. Since I don't even know what group we're talking about, you're going to have to run this pretty much on your own."
"All of us are going?" Mosovich asked.
"Yep," Widdlebright replied. "SRS is now in the baby-sitting business."
"We've been commandeered for the war effort," Rudolf Van Dorn said, looking at the e-mail.
"What? Again?"
Greenbriar Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, had been one of the preeminent resorts for the high and mighty since the Revolutionary War days. Located conveniently close to Washington, DC, it had been a "congressional retreat" in the Cold War.
However, the resort had an even longer history with the U.S. government. During World War II it had been used as a rest and refit post for servicemen, primarily escaped POWs. It had also been used by the OSS as a training facility. During the Cold War, bunkers were installed underneath to take in members of Congress in the event of a nuclear war. During the Posleen War it had been a high-level "rest and refit" hospital for colonels and above who had just seen too much.
The resort had been refurbished after the Posleen War, raising it back to its preeminent position. It had enjoyed fifty years of plying its trade in relative peace. Now it looked as if that was going to change. Again.
"The first arrivals will be a special operations group that is going to maintain security," Rudolf continued, smoothing the lapel of his dark gray suit. The manager of Greenbriar was a rotund man with a slight, and entirely fake, German accent. He had been born with the name Rudi Cherry. He'd worked as a bellman and just about every other position possible in one hotel chain or another. Managing Greenbriar was the apex of his career. And now he was going to be hosting soldiers. It could make you cry. The only good news was that soldiers tended to be pretty.
"Get with their designated liaison to figure out how they're to be roomed. I think that the military calls it 'quartering.' The rest are supposed to turn up over the course of the next week. We'll have to send out cancellation notices to our incoming guests. Usual apologies. Due to an emergency we have to undergo renovations. Apology, apology, abject groveling, 'mea culpa' . . ."
"I can handle it," Rolando Prevatt said, smiling slightly. Rolando was at least fifty years Van Dorn's elder. Being in the hotel business was his third major career since getting out of the Marines although he tried to keep the fact that he was a juv quiet. He respected Van Dorn for his knowledge and experience in the inn business but always found the fussy little manager just too much of a good thing. He'd caught him once, pretty drunk, talking in a thick New Yorker accent.
"I know you can Rolando, you're such a dear," Van Dorn said, smoothing his collar again. "But . . . soldiers." The manager sighed.
"I'll handle that side, sir," the assistant manager said, sighing as if in agreement. "Leave it to me."
"Fuck," Mueller said. "It's got a golf course!"
Golf had become a game only for the very rich or the very settled. Golf courses, by their very nature, created an inviting area for Posleen to target. They were spread out and tended to have plenty of cover. Just as keeping deer off of one was nearly impossible, so was keeping ferals away.
Therefore, the only remaining golf courses were normally in areas which were so settled there were no ferals for miles and miles. That meant, of course, that land values were extraordinarily high. Greens prices were equally high.
"And one big-ass electric fence to keep the ferals out," Mosovich noted. "This was never Injun country but with all the woods around here there's got to be some."
An LZ for the DAG shuttles had been laid out actually on the golf course, a large Y sprayed into the grass. Mosovich hoped that some advance party dude hadn't made the decision. The landing jacks of the shuttles were bound to tear up the grass and he didn't want to start off the mission with a pissed off management.
As the shuttles hit, the DAG members unassed, carrying their personal gear and a broad assortment of weapons. Since they didn't know the security level of the resort, Mosovich had made the decision to go in mildly hot. He wasn't going to lose a troop to a wandering feral. He made the decision knowing that it might throw off the locals. He hated playing politics so this mission was probably going to be a major pain in the ass.
On the first tee there was a group of bellmen waiting as well as a guy in a very nice suit. Mosovich trotted over, his MP-7 slung barrel down.
"Lieutenant Colonel Mosovich," he said, walking over to the guy in the suit. "I'm the commander of the SRSDAG."
"Strategic Reconnaissance something or another Direct Action Group," the man said, holding out his hand. "Rolando Prevatt, assistant manager. Welcome to Greenbriar, Colonel."
"Thank you," Mosovich said, shaking the guy's hand. He'd spotted him as a juv immediately. "Do I have you to thank for the LZ?"
"Indeed," Prevatt replied. "I've got quarters set up for you. With the anticipated influx, we're going to be stuffing you in every corner. Sorry about that. The porters are here to lead the way."
"We'll deal," Mosovich said. "Mueller! Fall into teams and follow the porters! Officers on me!"
"So, what's your deal?" Mosovich asked as the group was led into a conference room. "You're a juv."
"Marine," Prevatt said. "First Recon Battalion. Spent some time after the war in the electronics industry. Got a divorce, got out, took a long vacation. Went back into finance. Got married. Got divorced. Took a long vacation. Now I'm working my way up in the hospitality industry and trying to avoid getting married."
"Gotcha," Mosovich said, chuckling. "Right," he said, sitting down. "We've gotten more information on this group we're going to be babysitting. It's all TS shit and that but it's not like we're going to be able to keep it secret from you guys."
"On that matter," Prevatt said, shrugging eloquently. "Greenbriar has a reputation for keeping secrets. We have all sorts visit us, at least all sorts with money. Some of them have various reasons that they don't want people prying into their personal life. CEOs with their mistresses, actresses recovering from bad plastic surgery, you get the picture. I'm not going to guarantee we're entirely secure. But I'd be very surprised if anything got out."
"Well, the group we're going to be hosting is Sohon mentats," Mosovich said. "Know what they are?"
"Sohon's what the Indowy use in manufacturing," Prevatt said, his brow furrowing. "I'm not sure what a mentat is."
"They're the top level Sohon practitioners," Major Frederick Kelly said. The XO of DAG was pale—a trait he'd gotten from his maternal grandmother—dark-haired and massive—two traits of his fraternal grandfather. "It's best to just think of them as wizards and be done with it."
"Oh," Prevatt said, nonplussed. "So we're hosting a wizard convention?"
"Close enough," Mosovich said. "And what they're doing here I'm actually hoping to keep really secure. But we're going to need some facilities for that. Preferably ones that are robust. Any suggestions?"
"Well," Prevatt said, standing up. "In that case, you may just be in luck. Care to take a walk?"
"What the hell is this place?" Mosovich asked, looking down the concrete tunnel.
The elevator to the underground bunker was concealed in a loc
ked supply closet. And it was a big elevator, capable of holding the whole command group and staff. The concrete corridor, though, was a bit of a surprise.
"During the cold war, Greenbriar's management agreed that in the event of a nuclear war, they would house the Congress," Prevatt said, walking into the corridor. "There are quarters for the Congressmen and their families, meeting rooms, a kitchen which is, admittedly, not hooked up, and so on. It's quite an extensive facility. If you need to do anything truly secure, I'd suggest using this area. We'll quarter everyone up top, of course."
"Damn," Captain Jarrett King said, opening a door. The XO of Alpha team was medium height with dark auburn hair and a mottled face from major acne problems as a teenager. His nickname, Aquaman, had less to do with his abilities in the water than the opposite. He'd inherited a very heavy musculature from his fraternal grandfather if not the Redman addiction. The room beyond looked to be a guard room but it was musty with disuse and the floor was covered in grime. "This place is going to be perfect as soon as we get it cleaned up."
