by John Ringo
“I hope like hell they’re only refreshing,” Cutprice replied, sourly.
“If they’re not, I’ll be able to tell later,” Norris said. “I’ve been up against them before. But… ” he opened up a screen and nodded. “Based on this, I’d say that they’re playing straight. The model’s working the way I expected. And… Five, four, three, two… ”
Both of the boards went blank for a moment, showing blue screens, then they went back up with broad banners flashing “Preliminary Results.”
Everyone had had that explained to them. Just because the Board said you were in a particular unit didn’t mean that the US Army, in its infinite wisdom, would agree. But they’d also been assured that unless things were really screwy, the plan was to stick with the Board.
“Ninety-eight percent,” Norris said, holding up his hands in triumph. “Yes! Who rules?”
* * *
“Worked out fairly well,” the major said, looking at his screen. “Some units that I wouldn’t want to be in but most of them are pretty balanced… Holy Crap!”
“Sir?” the lieutenant said, looking over his shoulder.
“Look at the point total for the 14th Regiment!”
“That’s… Damn, sir. Can I join that unit?”
“Not sure they’d take you. Or me. AID, what’s the deal with the 14th?”
“The 14th was structured based on a sophisticated gaming program run from the computer of First Lieutenant Andrew Norris,” the AID replied. “Expansion. Lieutenant Norris was recalled to service from the position of CIO of VenturGrant, a member of the Chicago Stock Exchange. The program was a modification of a standard stock-trading bot. Analysis indicates that approximately ninety-eight percent of the current officers and NCOs of the 14th collaborated to ensure placement in the 14th.”
“Sir, I don’t think that’s… ”
“Even if it’s theoretically legal, it shouldn’t be,” the major said, frowning. “I’ll have to query higher about letting it stand. But I know one change we’re going to make right now… ”
* * *
“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” Wacleva said, clapping the lieutenant on the shoulder.
Norris’ shoulder was, in fact, starting to get sore. Virtually everyone in the new cadre had come over to thank him for his work.
“You’re welcome, Sergeant Major,” Norris said, nodding. “But these are preliminary results. They can change it around if they want to and… ” He paused as a pop-up jumped out on his computer. “Oh, those rotten motherFUCKERS!”
“What?” Cutprice said, turning away from his first command meeting. Until he was fairly sure he was getting the junior officers he desired, he wasn’t going to talk shop.
“They fucking scragged me!” Norris said, nearly screaming. “Oh those rotten motherfuckers!”
Cutprice looked up to the position for Assistant S-3 1/14INF and noted that Norris’ name no longer filled the slot. In fact, it was unfilled. Looking over at the personnel board he hunted until he found Norris’ name.
“What in the hell is BUPERSECINDEP?”
“It’s the office that runs the fucking BOARD,” Norris screamed. “Those dirty rotten… ”
“And, unfortunately, I guess that’s the answer to your question, Lieutenant,” Cutprice said, looking at him sadly. “The REMFs rule.”
* * *
“So we’re not sure what to do with this, ma’am,” the major said, hoping against hope for a reasonable and prompt answer. “I figured I had to kick it up to you. And it’s sort of time critical. We have to have final orders cut in twenty four hours.”
Sinda Makepeace was not happy. She had been comfortable in the Luna office of Personnel, Officer’s Pay and Adjustments. Then had come the Mutiny, which she had tried her hardest to sit out. Then the shift to a new personnel office. Then that whole Augmented Medicine and that horrible Cally O’Neal person. Then she got shuttled down to Earth as an expert in recalled personnel of all things!
She had looked at the Board and points system, determined immediately that she had no clue how it worked, and left it up to the major and his team. Now he was asking her for a decision and she wasn’t even sure what the question was!
“So this separate regiment… ”
“It’s a non-assigned regimental cadre, ma’am,” the major said, gently.
“They all got together and decided they wanted to be on one team,” Sinda said, slowly.
“Yes, ma’am,” the major replied. “But they did it, basically, by cheating. And there are other units that could use some of that expertise.”
“But it’s a separate regiment, right?” Sinda said, shuffling through the papers on her desk.
“It’s a non-assigned regiment, ma’am,” the major repeated. “It hasn’t been assigned to a division, yet. There’s not enough cadre to make up another division.”
The colonel picked up a memorandum and read it, slowly. Then she looked up.
“And that is the 14th, right?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the major said, his brow furrowing. He wished she’d just hand him the damned memo and let him read it.
“And does it have… ‘an average point score in each grade in excess of the seventieth percentile’?”
“I think so… ” the major said, looking at his data. He sorted quickly and then nodded, frowning. “Try in excess of the eightieth percentile, ma’am. Most of the positions are in the upper eighties and into the high nineties… ” He looked up and tried not to sigh; she was getting that glazed look again. “The answer is yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said, brightly. “It’s all fine, Major. Feel free to leave it as is. I need to do some work, though, and I’m sure you need to get ready for the next round of placements. Was there anything else?”
“No, ma’am,” the major said, non-plussed. “You want to leave it as it is?”
“I think that’s what I said,” Sinda said, a bit more sharply. “If that’s all?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the major replied, getting up. He’d expected an answer next week if then. “Good day, ma’am.”
* * *
From: Colonel Sinda Makepeace, OIC, BUPERSECINDEP
To: Major General Fortun, BUPERS
“Dear General Fortun,
“I’m pleased to inform you that pursuant to your query, the 14th Infantry Regiment, meets the parameters of your outlined needs… ”
* * *
“AID, send a memo to Recall that we’re going to need those volunteers. Send a memo to General Wesley’s office that we believe there are sufficient recalled personnel to fill out one regiment. Amend the memo to recall to accept volunteers of any rank, including officers, but they all come in as junior enlisted. Usual graft and disclaimers.”
* * *
Keren scratched his head as he looked at the email from Department of the Army.
“Dear Captain Keren:
“At this time, due to a lack of junior enlisted personnel, the Department has on hold recall of personnel below the grade of O-4. However, there is a critical need for trained soldiers in the grades of E-1 through E-5 . In consideration of your prior service and the current crisis, you are asked to volunteer for voluntary reduction to the grade of E-5 with purpose of immediate recall as 11C5P. Also in consideration of your prior service, it is anticipated that as forces expand your prior rank will be reactivated at a future date. If you are willing to be recalled at the rank of Sergeant, please visit the attached website and use the attached log-in to register your interest.
“Thank you for your service and your desire to serve again.
“James Rolson, CPT, BUPERS
“For the BUPERS”
Herschel Keren had bought the farm. Looking at the way that the military was going after the War, the mortar and artillery liaison for the Ten Thousand had seen less and less of a need for former specialists with a few college credits as officers and gotten out.
The US after the War was a very odd place. Central ci
ties like Chicago and Detroit had hardly been touched. There had been occasional scatter landings that had killed a few people and raised tensions, but in many ways it was business as usual.
On the other hand in the areas the Posleen had fully occupied, mostly the coastal plains, southern Great Plains and the south, things were back to Injun Wars days. Although every major settlement of Posleen had been reduced by orbital fire, Posleen survived, living a hand-to-mouth existence, rarely armed with much more than spears, but dangerous nonetheless.
Keren had taken a veteran’s preference and been granted a one hundred hectare plot in Northern Virginia, not all that far from where he’d first won his spurs. He’d considered the spot carefully. It was on the remnants of a main road and was flanked by a river which still had a standing bridge.
The first few years had been tough. There were few natural defenses except the river and the Posleen reproduced fast in the rapidly regrowing Virginia countryside. He’d put in a fortified house to start, hunted out the surrounding Posleen, gotten some crops started, hunted out some more Posleen.
Slowly the area around him filled up as other veterans fled the life in the Sub-Urbs or found they couldn’t adjust to civvie street. Families moved in. The well-prepared survived if not prospered. The unprepared ended up as scorched homes that were graves for their bones.
Keren Town, Herschel Keren, Mayor, was not by any stretch of the imagination pre-War Paris. But it had a population of fifty-three and supported another two hundred or so combination farmers and Posleen bounty hunters. The Six Hundred Inn did pretty good commerce with traders moving through the wilderness and better as the best source of homebrew in five counties. Keren’s Feed, Seed and Sundries turned a small but noticeable profit each year. The exception was managing bounties which Keren did at cost. He took in heads on credit, shipped them to the main bounty processing stations and only took enough off the top to pay for the handling. There weren’t no such thing as a good, live, Posleen in his opinion.
He hit print and walked into the family room. Pamela was spooning stirred peas into the gaping maw of Annie, who had an amazing fondness for the stuff.
Pamela was his third wife. As a juv you expected you were going to outlive the short-timers. But Pam was his third wife because Kathy had decided the life of a hardy pioneer wasn’t for her and gone back to the Elizabethtown Sub-Urb where he’d met her. Janice had died in childbirth before Dr. Bedlows had moved to town. Doc Bedlows wasn’t much of a doctor, but he could have saved Janice sober or drunk.
Even with that, Keren had fourteen children, about thirty grand-kids, more great grands and even three great-great grands and was slowly repopulating northern Virginia. Rappahanock County had a noticeable trend towards a coloration that was once termed ‘mulatto’.
He had to wonder if it was really in his best interests, in the best interests of the region, for him to give it all up to be a mortar maggot again. And, hell, he’d done his bit. The small shadow-box filled with medals, the collection topped by his CIB and finally a gold pin that was a simple “600” in Arabic numerals, attested to that. Can I get an Amen, brothers?
But he’d seen the media reports, read the articles. The Hedren looked like bad news. Not as bad as the Posleen; nothing was a bad as the Posleen. But they made Hitler look like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. And since Mike O’Neal was running the show, now, he had to figure that the information was more or less on the up and up.
And, hell, with the forces they were planning on raising, he’d be a captain again before you knew it. He might even get a company this time.
Thomas was full grown and managed the store just fine. Paul ran the Inn. Keren had been semi-retired for the last decade. Hadn’t been a feral in town in nearly three years. Cute new wife or no, it was getting pretty damned boring in Rappahanock County.
“What’s wrong?” Pamela said when she looked up. She’d already learned the wifely trait of reading a husband like a book.
“Me that have been where I’ve been, me that have seen what I’ve seen… ” Keren answered, holding out the email.
Pamela was the grand-daughter of Robert Crawford, a former medic in the 80th Armored Regiment. Robert wasn’t a juv but before he died she’d heard more than enough stories to last. And she knew her husband’s fondness for Kipling.
She looked at the email and teared up slightly. But then she dashed the water from her face and smiled.
“Go,” she said, quietly. “There’s things that have to be done. We’ll be here when you get back.”
* * *
“I don’t know but I’ve been told!”
“I DON’T KNOW BUT I’VE BEEN TOLD!”
“Ranger shit ain’t good as gold!”
“RANGER SHIT AIN’T GOOD AS GOLD!”
“I don’t know but it’s been heard!”
“I DON’T KNOW BUT IT’S BEEN HEARD!”
“Every Ranger’s a yellow turd!”
“EVERY RANGER’S A YELLOW TURD!”
Orders had been cut. The unit, with the exception of Norris, stood.
The next day, starting very early and going on until ‘Can we fucking get this over with already?’, had been dozens of assumption of command and responsibility ceremonies. General Fortun, the BUPERS his own self, had handed over musty flag after musty flag. Actually, they weren’t all that musty. They’d been kept in climate controlled rooms for damned near fifty years. But it had taken for fucking ever since the General, who had to be a masochist of the first order, had felt it necessary to hand over every fucking flag down to the company level.
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! He’d 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.
“NCO’s 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 cellphone 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 was the only company commander present. That didn’t bode good at all.
