Eye of the Storm

by John Ringo

  And not only the fucking flags. Somewhere along the lines they'd come up with a stupid "assumption of responsibility" ceremony for the fucking NCOs! Cutprice had gotten a flag. He had it leaning up against the wall of his quarters since he still didn't have an office. Wacleva had gotten a cheesy little mace thing, the symbol of his "assumption of responsibility" for Bravo Company, First Battalion, 14th Infantry Regiment.

  Former Sergeant Major Wacleva, who had killed his first Nazi in Warsaw at the age of not quite thirteen and jumped with the Polish Airborne into the most fucked-up portion of Market Garden when he was just past seventeen, had not been notably impressed.

  But afterwards had been the to-be-expected party. And Colonel Pennington—despite being low-class enough to have spent his whole career in mech infantry—had laid on a nice spread. He'd gotten a caterer to bring in a bunch of really nice roasts, potatoes, all the fixings and the bar was open. Cutprice hadn't asked the colonel what he'd done on civvie street, but he had to have made some money. Feeding all the officers and senior NCOs of a brigade a nice spread like that wasn't cheap.

  But Cutprice wasn't a newbie. He'd taken a look at the training schedule for the next day and the gleam in the colonel's eye and put two and two together.

  Higher management had figured that the "cadre" wouldn't be good for much after the to-be-expected parties. Guys who found themselves in STRAC units like the 14th would be celebrating, the ones that found themselves in rag-bag units or staff would be drowning their sorrows. So the training schedule for the next day was grab-ass. Nothing that couldn't be skipped.

  Naturally, Colonel Pennington woke his hungover cadre the next morning and went on a Fun Run.

  Defining a Fun Run is hard. How "Fun" it is depends on the unit. A unit that doesn't run very much thinks a "Fun Run" is being run around for an hour or two at a slow pace. Units that run a lot think a "Fun Run" is a marathon. Basically a "Fun Run" is any run that is designed to make people fall out. There is no training to it. It's a gut check.

  Doing a Fun Run with Pennington, hung over, was a special kind of hell. Cutprice was pleased to see, as the unit staggered up to the Bachelor NCO Quarters, that the unit he had, to a great degree, created met the most elegant of standards. Some of the staff pukes and support had fallen out. That was to be expected. But not a fucking one of the leadership had. Some of them looked like they were about to pass out, but they were all there.

  Given that they'd just gone about twenty miles, many of them horribly hung over, he was satisfied.

  "NCOs fall out into barracks," Pennington shouted without slowing down much. "Officers, we're headed to the BOQ. Which is about four miles from here. And . . . DOUBLE TIME, MARCH!

  "I don't go out with girls anymore!

  "I live a life of danger!

  "I sit in a tree and play with myself!"

  "WEE, I'M A RANGER!"

  Fucking track-heads . . .

  Cutprice had just stepped out of the shower and was about to flop face down on his bunk when his cell phone rang. He'd have ignored it, but it was the ringtone for the battalion commander, the opening strains of "The Internationale." Simosin = Russki. Russki=Commie. You can take the boy out of the cold war but you can't take the cold war out of the boy.

  "Fuuuck," he muttered, picking up the phone and flipping it open. "Captain Cutprice, how may I help you, Colonel?"

  "Get over to Pennington's quarters," Simosin said. "I'll meet you there in five minutes."

  "What's this about, sir?" Cutprice asked, already pulling a fresh uniform out of the closet.

  "You'll know when I know. He caught me in the shower."

  The regimental commander's quarters were standard O-6, a small suite in a prefab two-story building filled with other minor brass. About the only thing they had that Cutprice's didn't was a small sitting room and its own crapper. Cutprice had to share his with another captain.

  The sitting room was not designed to handle a group consisting of most of the brigade staff, all the battalion commanders and their operations officers and XOs. Especially a group who had been drinking the night before and PTing hard all morning. It stank to high heaven. And looking around, Cutprice saw he was the only company commander present. That didn't bode good at all.

  "I think I printed out enough for all of you," Pennington said, holding up a sheaf of paper. "Pass these around and read them. That's going to cut the time."

  When Cutprice finally got one of the sheets, having heard the murmurs before it got to him, he read it quickly.

  Department of the Army Special Order 47839

  Date: 14JUN61

  So much of 14th Infantry Regiment activated 13JUN61. Should read, 14th Regimental Combat Team activated 14JUN61.

  Department of the Army Special Order 47839-A

  Cadre, 14th Regimental Combat Team will proceed to Camp Ernest Pappas, Kansas, to begin special retrain program, 38592: Retraining of recalled Cadre personnel. Movement will be effected NLT 17JUN61.

  Department of the Army Special Order 47839-B

  Cadre will be prepared to receive junior enlisted personnel under BUPERS special order 723481-A NLT 21JUN61.

  Department of the Army Special Order 47839-C

  14th Regimental Combat Team will commence special retraining program, 41486: Retraining and processing of Rejuvenated Personnel for Integration of Combat Teams NLT 28JUN61 for completion NLT 25JUL61.

  Department of the Army Special Order 47839-D

  14th Regimental Combat Team will be prepared for off-planet movement NLT 01SPT61 for purposes of combat operations in the Gratoola Zone of Combat (GZC).

  End Department of the Army Special Order 47839

  Ken O. Wilson, Major, DAOPSSPECCENT

  For the Chief of Staff

  "If everyone is done reading," Pennington said, impatiently. "You're all experienced senior officers; you all know what a cleft stick we're in. In eight weeks we are lifting off, presumably for Gratoola. That is normally the sort of time that a fully trained and integrated unit would have to just prepare for off-planet movement. But between now and then we have to move to our temporary training area, get retrained, receive brand new nuggets from Basic, organize a separate combat regiment, train them and get our units integrated. Get the word impossible out of your heads. You weren't hand-picked for this unit because you had it in your lexicon anyway. This is your warning order. I need Major Hatch, Colonel Hardy, Colonel Eckert and . . . Captain Cutprice to stay behind."

  When the officers had filed out the colonel looked around at the survivors.

  "Major Hatch," he said, looking at the S-3 from Third Battalion. "You'll be leading the advance party. Which means you have to catch a flight this afternoon. We'll figure out the rest of the crew to send with you in the next hour. But your second is Captain Cutprice."

  "Yes, sir," the major said, looking over at the company commander.

  "Cutprice, you're the eminence grise here," the brigade commander said. "We all know it. But Mullins can move your officers and NCOs just fine. Hell, most of this group we just need to tell them where and when and they'll show up if they have to E & E. So go out to Kansas and figure out how we're going to expedite this training program. It's going to be a cluster fuck because we don't even have a TOE on a separate regiment yet. Everybody get prepared to think fast on their feet. And Cutprice."

  "Sir?"

  "Get a buckley. Get used to using it."

  Chapter Thirteen

  "What is this, Feldwebel?" Frederick asked, accepting the strange device from Harz.

  "It's a 'buckley,' " the juv replied. "It's a human artificial intelligence machine. We just received a supply of them. We are to begin using them for personal messaging as well as general orders. You will not lose it, Ox."

  "Yes, Feldwebel," Erdmann said, pocketing the strange device.

  The company had been gathered in front of the barracks in preparation for movement. Their personal baggage had already been stored in shipping containers. All that remain
ed was loading up in the vehicles and matching up with their shuttles.

  It was raining, naturally. But it was a light rain, comfortable rather than unpleasant. Frederick looked over the next company's barracks at what they had come to call "the Tiger," the massive jut of granite on which had once sat Fortress Ehrenbreitstein and now sat the headquarters for the Vaterland Division and Freiland. This might be the last time he saw the Rheinland. He wished that he could visit Marta one more time.

  "Company, attention!" Senior Oberfeldwebel Bansbach boomed. Like Harz, Bansbach was a juv. But he was one of the few of the SS who had actually come over from the Bundeswehr. Originally trained as a Leopard crewman, the company's senior NCO had been incredibly helpful in the transition to the new systems.

  "All present or accounted for," the Oberfeldwebel said, saluting the company commander.

  "There is not much to say," Hauptmann Thayer said, looking the company over. He was not a juv but this was his third company command. The scars on his face had come from a long ago encounter with a group of feral Posleen that had been gathered by a God King. "In fifteen minutes we are scheduled to fall onto our vehicles. Get a good look on the way up; some of you won't be seeing the return trip. But we have all faced danger in securing Freiland. Though we are on far planets under alien stars, we shall still be securing Freiland. Be true to your comrades and true to your Fatherland and most of us will return, God willing. If not, we shall die in Panzers and that's not all that bad, is it?"

  "Fall out and fall into your vehicles," Oberfeldwebel Bansbach shouted.

  The company had marched to the motorpool and now the group broke up and pounded to their various equipment.

  Frederick clambered onto the Leopard, unslung his personal weapon and dropped into his seat. The small compartment had a rack for his weapon and he locked it down carefully. The R-28 Vehicle Crewman Rail-System submachine gun had what he felt was a pleasant similarity in appearance to the WWII Schmeisser machine-pistol. The difference being that its long, thin, ribbed magazine carried two-hundred rounds of 1mm mini-flechettes and that it could dump them all out in under a second.

  He picked up his crewman's helmet and buckled it on, then swung the microphone into place. "Driver is up."

  "Ox, if you screw this movement up . . ." Harz growled.

  "All we are doing is driving to the pick-up zone, Feldwebel," Frederick pointed out, hitting the start button. The Leopold rumbled into life and all was well.

  "That is what I mean," Harz said.

  As Two Track pulled out, Harz pulled out behind it, falling into march position.

  "Feldwebel, we were not briefed on whether we should use ground effect," Frederick said.

  "If they want us to use ground effect, they will tell us to use ground effect," Harz said. "Now shut up and pray for your soul. I just had an update."

  "Yes, Feldwebel," Frederick said, then thought about what the sergeant had said. "May I ask what the update was?"

  "We are not boarding shuttles," Harz said.

  "Excuse me, Feldwebel?" Frederick said as there was a sonic boom overhead. He looked up and then frowned, tilting his head quizzically. "Feldwebel . . . what are those?"

  "Those, my yellow-shit friend, are Myrmidon assault shuttles," Harz said, apparently quoting. "They are a medium armor lifter variant of the Hellion combat shuttle, designed for moving medium armor units rapidly into and out of battle from orbit or in atmosphere. Aren't they pretty?"

  "They aren't big enough to load . . ." Frederick started to say then stopped.

  "Ah, you just saw the lifting clamps did you not?"

  There were only eight of the Myrmidons available. Thus the tanks of the battalion had to wait as one flight after another lifted off. That gave those still on the ground a degree of comfort and discomfort. They could see that the clamps actually held the tanks and didn't let them drop to the ground from thousands of meters in the air. On the other hand, they could see the tanks being lifted up into the air, their crews still inside. And then, presumably, up into space and into a ship.

  It was not going to be fun.

  The remaining family and friends of the Michael Wittmann had turned out to see the battalion off. Frederick searched and searched for Marta but could not see her. Certainly her superiors would have given her time off?

  "I can't see him," Marta said.

  "I can, barely," her mother replied. "If I could get some of these idiots to get out of our way . . ."

  "I need to get through," Marta said, elbowing an oldster.

  "Marta?" former Oberfeldwebel Brutscher said. "Here, here, let Marta through! She cannot see the Ox."

  "Our turn," Harz said as the shuttles descended again. Most of the battalion had already loaded into shuttles. Lucky them.

  "I don't see Marta," Frederick said.

  "If you don't pay attention to your job, Schutze, you will see nothing but my fist."

  The clamps had specific contact points. Frederick had been briefed on them but had assumed they were for cranes or internal lifting systems on ships. Not for lifting him up into space.

  "I have clamps one through six set and locked," the private said, looking at his telltales.

  "Confirm, one through six set and locked," Harz said. "Pilot, we confirm set and locked."

  "Roger," a female voice said. "Standby. All shuttles set and locked. Lifting."

  Then Frederick saw her, struggling to the front of the, on average, much taller crowd. He wasn't sure she saw him but he waved, wildly. Then her eyes caught his and he could only hold his arm overhead.

  "You look as if you are giving your girlfriend a Nazi salute, Schutze," Aderhold said. "Blow her a fucking kiss, man!"

  Frederick shook himself and did just that.

  Marta caught the kiss and held it for a moment as her fiancé's massive tank lifted into the air, then waved in farewell.

  "She's out of sight, Schutze," Harz said. "And since we're getting rather high, you might wish to close and lock your hatch. Because if you pass out, you will then be subject to space's cold and vacuum. And we will be sending your fiancée a corpsicle as a present."

  "Thank you for that reminder, Feldwebel," Frederick said, dropping the hatch and dogging it. Supposedly the environmental system of the tanks was rated for brief exposure to space. Supposedly.

  "This is great," the gunner said. "Swivel the vision blocks around. It's a great view."

  "I will take your word for it, Gefreiter."

  "This is easy stuff, Schutze," Harz said. "This is the easy part."

  The shuttles dropped the eight tanks in a cavernous hold that was open to space.

  "Wait until Three has moved out then follow the red line," Harz said. "Keep it centered on your treads."

  Frederick followed the orders, following Three Track down the red line. Just as he was approaching a massive hatch the red light above it started to blink.

  "Stop," Harz snapped. "We have to wait for the others to get cycled through."

  The hatch closed and they waited for a moment in the, presumably, vacuum and cold of space. The temperature in the panzer had dropped slightly, but it wasn't unpleasant.

  "Feldwebel?" Frederick said.

  "Ja?"

  "How is it that the engine is running?" Frederick asked.

  "I'm going to take the manual and shove it up your ass, Schutze," Harz growled. "Section Thirty-Two, sub-paragraph nine. There is a pressurized air system to feed the engine. Remember the big bottle, idiot?"

  "I thought that was our air," Frederick admitted. "For if there was poison gas. I never expected to be in space, Feldwebel."

  "Ours is being recycled by the scrubbers, yellow-shit," Harz said. "You will learn that fucking manual by heart, Schutze, if I have to feed it to you page by page."

  The hatch opened and Frederick started forward.

  "Pull it well to the right," Harz said. "That is the hand you beat your tiny dick with."

  Frederick complied, pulling the tank in hard against the right
wall. Two Track pulled in next to him on the left and there was a rumble through the floor.

  "Right, pressure coming up nicely," Harz said. The doors in front of them opened and Frederick almost gasped. The interior of the ship was filled with platforms and ramps onto which the whole mass of the Michael Wittmann was being loaded.