Eye of the Storm

by John Ringo

  What he at first took to be a green teddy bear walked out in front of the panzer and waved red-lit wands at him. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at an Indowy.

  "Follow the Kobold," Harz said. "Slowly. Do NOT run him over. They get very particular about that sort of thing."

  Harz followed the Indowy down the length of the hold and into a hard right turn. There was a ramp that the Kobold gestured him up, and for a moment he hesitated. It seemed impossible that the fragile looking ramp could hold the full weight of a Leopard.

  "What are you waiting for, Schutze?" Harz asked. "Follow the Kobold."

  Frederick gunned the tank gingerly onto the ramp, then all the way up onto it. The rickety looking thing didn't even flex.

  "The Indowy can build fine materials," Aderhold said. "Too bad they can't fight worth a crap."

  "If they could we would be outnumbered about sixty billion to one," Harz noted. "And we'd be up against the guys who make all our stuff. Let them make the weapons; we will use them just fine."

  Finally, the vehicle was juggled into position, hard between Two and Four Track. It was on a shallow platform that looked like aluminum but was probably some GalTech super stuff. As Frederick watched, a line of similar, if slightly smaller, platforms was laid down by a team of Indowy in front of the line of tanks. The platforms had small boxes on their rear. If he had to pull out, he was going to break the box off.

  "You can pop your hatch, now, yellow-shit," Harz said. "We're home."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Getting to Camp Ernest Pappas was not the easiest thing in the world.

  First of all, it was being built near the former town of Steelville, MO, which was about as bumfuckaround as you could find.

  With the exception of a few bounty farms the area had yet to be resettled. Which meant that all of the land was in eminent domain, owned by the U.S. Government. Which meant all that the Army had to do was tell a civilian construction company to go in and start building. Security was provided by the same company, which had long experience of building in unreclaimed zones.

  The road to the facility from the nearest airport, which was in East St. Louis, was a long damned drive. St. Louis, on the west bank of the Mississippi, had been a fortress city and had held out for nearly two years before the Posleen put in an overwhelming attack. It was starting to rebuild, but slowly.

  The road, following the trace of I-44, was four-lane black-top as far as the site of the former town of Cuba. From there it was an "improved" road, dirt and gravel, to the camp. Since there were numerous streams and small rivers in the area, Cutprice figured the camp was going to get cut off at the first big rainstorm.

  But the road sure had plenty of traffic. There were tractor-trailer trucks running in both directions, some of them carrying construction equipment but many of them carrying combat systems and support equipment. He had to hope like hell the guys guarding them were honest. Not much hope, but it was something.

  There were civilian security guards manning the gate-house. They waved the trucks ahead of the party of soldiers through, but stopped the rented Expedition.

  "Advance party for the Fourteenth Regiment," Sergeant Major Stiffey said. The Smaj for the brigade was a humongo guy. Cutprice hadn't known him but Wacleva vouched for him and that was all that counted. He'd been the 101st Division sergeant major during Vietnam, after two tours at lower positions, and retired as the First Army sergeant major. Which was why he was Wacleva's boss instead of the other way around. Wacleva had still had more points, just as Cutprice had more points than the Brigade CO. The Army was funny that way.

  "Yes, sir," the gate guard said. She was a cute little thing and Cutprice hoped she had the stones to face a charging feral. "If you'll follow the signs to the Office of Military Liaison. They said that you were coming."

  "How's it been?" Stiffey said, ignoring the "sir."

  "I just got here," the guard admitted. "I'm told by some of the older hands it was pretty Wild West at first. But we haven't had a really serious incident in weeks. We've got electrified fence up around the construction zones so it's safe enough in the base. If you're going to be training out in the boonies, though, it might get interesting."

  "Thanks," the CSM said, pulling out.

  "Buddy who's still in told me it's generally live ammo and weapons free past the perimeter on most bases," Major Hatch commented.

  "The cadre aren't going to be a problem with that," Cutprice said. "Not so sure about the recruits."

  "Cross that bridge," Hatch said.

  The signs pointed south then curved back east and up around to the north. All long the road, hardtop this time, there was construction going on. Motorpools arrayed on the flats were already being filled with equipment and logistics areas were lining up with CONEX after CONEX. Equipment might not be a problem. Guys to use it might be a problem, but not equipment. Even if there was some pilfering, and looking at the laborers he suspected that was likely, they couldn't steal it all. There was just too much. If they didn't have the schedule they were looking at, this might even be a decent war.

  "What I want to know is where all this stuff is coming from," Sergeant First Class Abe Sanders said. The Ops sergeant from Second Batt was medium all over. Medium height, weight, build. He had brown hair and brown eyes and regular features. He also had a mind like a steel trap. He'd gotten out as a master sergeant, NCOIC for Twentieth Corps Operations and had spent most of his time in the Army in one Ops shop or another. "Not knocking it, but that's one hell of a lot of equipment if you start extrapolating."

  "Fleet Strike put some Panamanian guy in charge of a War Board," Major Hatch replied. "He's using Posleen forges to produce stuff and Indowy for the bigger stuff. But not their usual way of building. It's full up mass production. With enough Indowy and Posleen forges . . ."

  "What I don't see is ranges," Cutprice said.

  "I'm sure they're around here, somewhere," Hatch replied.

  As the road curved back north they could see more construction up on the hills overlooking the Meramec River. There was a big three-story pre-fab structure going up with smaller buildings stretching down the hill. Down the hill from it were a series of construction trailers inside another fence. From the look of it, the fence had been neglected recently. The gates were hanging off their hinges. But there was a parking lot and a sign:

  Camp Ernest Pappas Central Office

  Borgon-Cummings Construction Offices

  Office of Military Liaison

  Ask about Employment Opportunities!

  Se Habla Espanol!

  "Something funny, Sergeant Major?" Major Hatch asked as the foursome got out of the SUV.

  "Sorry, sir," Stiffey said, still chuckling. "Just thinking about the likelihood of somebody walking all the way the fuck out here to apply for a job."

  "One thing we ain't gonna have to worry about is fights in town," Cutprice said, grinning. " 'Course, that just means we'll have them on post instead."

  The left-hand trailer had the sign for Office of Military Liaison. Hatch led the way as they entered.

  "Sir," the lieutenant behind the desk said, standing up. "Welcome to Camp Ernest Pappas. I was told to expect an advance party but I hadn't expected you so soon."

  "We've got a very tight schedule," the major said. "We've got about eight hundred officers and NCOs coming in this week. I hope you've got rooms for us all."

  "We can find them, sir," the lieutenant said. "The actual quarters that the cadre are supposed to fill are not entirely complete. But we have barracks prepared that we can put the cadre in until officer and NCO quarters are complete. I'm not sure, though, that all the barracks will be complete when the troops arrive. This is the craziest schedule I've ever seen, sir. Not that I've been at this long."

  "Why don't I tell you what we need to know," Major Hatch said. "Then you can tell us where to find the information."

  "Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "Whatever I can do to assist."

  "
You know, somewhere there's some dude in charge of making sure everybody has a bed to sleep in," Sergeant Major Stiffey said, looking at the just completed barracks. They were a shambles to a military man. There was still dust everywhere from the construction, parts weren't fitted properly, there was paint on the windows . . .

  But that was what troops were for.

  "It is sorely lacking in bunks," Sergeant Sanders said, nodding. He walked down the open bay to the end and looked in the bathroom area. "But there's shitters and showers." There was a sound of running water and he came back out. "And, more importantly, they work."

  "Now if we only had bunks, it would be like home."

  "We were supposed to get an additional crew for moving furniture and other small items," the lieutenant said, pulling out a memo. "But there's a shortage of labor. I've got it all, it's in trailers that got dropped at one of the log points. That's assuming a bunch of it hasn't been stolen, but I've been doing random checks and most of it's there. But I don't have a way to move it into place."

  "It was a question of priorities," Bill Hammond said. The site manager for Borgon-Cummings shrugged. "Did you want roofs over your heads or beds? For that matter, none of the furniture in the messes has been moved in or the clubs. Or the offices. It's all here, it's just not in place."

  "We'll handle it," Hatch said, nodding. "One way or another. The most important thing is to have barracks and messes for the troops when they arrive."

  "We should make it," Hammond said. "We're about three days behind schedule—there were rains that slowed us way the fuck down—but we should make it before the troops arrive. I'm not going to say that there won't be problems, but we'll deal with those when we have to. But there should be roofs that don't leak and four walls. Probably working electric and plumbing. Furniture? Computer set-up? I just don't have the fucking hands."

  "We'll set up the in-process for the troops so that . . ."

  He paused as his buckley began to chime.

  "Sorry about this," Hatch said, looking at the device. "It's the Regimental S-3. Yes, sir? Yes, sir." He set the buckley down and hit the speaker button. "Go ahead, sir."

  "You guys all there?" Lieutenant Colonel Hardy asked.

  "Myself and Captain Cutprice, sir," Hatch said. "The NCOs are checking out the facilities."

  "Good enough," Hardy said. "You know what a cluster fuck this is. There is, however, finally some good news."

  "That would be nice, sir," Cutprice said, frowning.

  "We just got additional information on the supplemental personnel roster," Hardy said, a grin in his voice. "We are not the only guys getting fucked . . ."

  "All juvs?" CSM Stiffey said, his eyes gleaming.

  "All juvs," Cutprice agreed, nodding. "That's why they figure we can stand-up a regiment so fast. All juvs, all with experience as the positions they're taking, all from higher ranks. The privates are going to be former sergeants, some of the sergeants are going to be officers with prior service as enlisted. It's not true, you can't make a unit that fast. But it's better than getting troops straight out of Basic."

  "Volunteers?" Abe asked. "Because it's a world of difference between that and unwilling recalls."

  "All volunteers," Cutprice said.

  "And volunteers that are willing to take a cut in pay to get back in uniform," Stiffey said, nodding. "They'll probably do."

  "They're going to be out of shape," Sergeant Sanders said.

  "We can fix that," CSM Stiffey said. "Although running off-base may be interesting."

  "They're going to have forgotten most of the skills," Sanders said, still frowning.

  "It's like riding a bicycle," Cutprice said. "Former platoon sergeants as buck privates. Think about it."

  "They're going to want to tell us our jobs," Sanders said. "Old soldiers, Captain."

  "Older soldiers, Sergeant," Cutprice said, grinning.

  "There's bound to be problems, sir."

  "Sergeant, we're lifting off-world to fight an invading force that outnumbers us, has better technology and has overrun three worlds with laughable ease. In seven and a half weeks. Starting from scratch. Everybody's trained soldiers but not trained on this equipment. You betcha there's gonna be problems."

  "Wow! I have an office," Colonel Pennington said, gesturing at the empty room.

  The office smelled of new paint and there was dust everywhere. But it had a great view across the Meramec. On the far side he could see laborers setting up a pop-up target range. He'd better get along with the troops. If anybody wanted to, and they were a good enough shot, they could nail him in the back of the head while he was at his desk.

  "Yes, sir," Major Hatch replied. "And your furniture is sitting in the trailer out front. Somewhere."

  "Wellll . . . let's go find it. Actually, the first thing to find is the cleaning supplies."

  "Sorry I'm late, sir," Staff Sergeant Garland said. The Brigade Information Systems NCOIC was covered in dust. "I had to re-run some cable then pull a buggy server . . ."

  There were no regular troops for a working party. The officers and NCOs of the various units had worked in teams to set up those same offices. Colonel Pennington had not even ended up putting in his own desk. All that being said, the former command sergeant majors of high positions, Army generals, commanders of corps and divisions, had had a high old time working into the night on a good old-fashioned GI party. As the regimental adjutant had said at one point: "It's good to get your hands dirty from time to time." And then they'd gotten up early the next morning to discover what new disaster had hit.

  "Not a problem, Sergeant," Colonel Pennington said, not looking up. "I'm on the nonsecure server. I need to get my password and username for the secure side, through."

  "Right here, sir," the sergeant replied, handing over a form. "Glad you're comfortable with the systems, sir. I'm having to do a bit of hand-holding."

  "Know what I did between wars, Sergeant?"

  "No, sir."

  "I was a systems design manager for Cisco. Made VP of systems integration before I got recalled. I've got a Ph.D. in this shit."

  "Holy shit," the sergeant said. "Sorry, sir. Dammit. I knew your name was familiar, sir. I worked for you for a few years."

  "If I have a scrap of time and you need a hand, don't hesitate to ask . . ."

  "Herschel Keren," Keren said as he sat down. He'd stored his civvie bag in the overhead and now held out his hand to his seatmate.

  "David Balmoral," the guy said. He was slight of stature, like Keren, but with white blond hair and looked about fourteen. "Thirty-Third Division."

  "I was in the Thirty-Third," Keren said, grimacing. "At Daleville."

  "I heard that was a cluster fuck," Balmoral said, nodding. "I joined when it was rebuilding. You get out in it?"

  "No," Keren said. "Ten Thousand."

  "Fuck," Balmoral said, chuckling. "You really love punishment, don't you?"

  "And now this," Keren said as the bus pulled out. The volunteer recallees had been assembled at Fort Bragg, which had been rebuilt since the war, then flown by military shuttles to an assembly area near St. Louis. Which told Keren that the base they were headed for didn't even have a place to set down a shuttle.

  "Yeah," Balmoral said. "You gotta fucking wonder about us. I mean, sure, putting the uniform back on's one thing. But taking a cut from platoon sergeant to spear carrier?"

  "Heh," Keren said, fingering his left breast where a certain patch used to reside. "Try taking a cut from captain to sergeant."

  They didn't chat much on the rest of the drive. There wasn't much to chat about. Keren caught up on his e-mail.

  The road turned to gravel as they turned off what was probably an old interstate trace. The Posleen pulled up roads like nobody's business, but they generally left the road metal in place. By the time humanity got around to rebuilding the roads way out in Posleen-controlled areas, they'd started to develop decent sized saplings. But with the road metal in place, it was easy enough to grade th
em off, replace some bridges and lay down either more gravel or blacktop.

  They were on the gravel road, though, for over an hour. This place had been dumped way out in the boonies.

  The convoy of buses was accompanied by a pair of gun carriers, which said it all about the area they were passing through. There was an occasional bounty farm, none of them looking as prosperous as the ones around Keren Town. This was serious Wild West shit. It got Keren feeling nostalgic.

  "Tried bounty-farming for a while," Balmoral said. "Was not for me. Too much like work. You?"