by Rick Partlow
“I am the commandant of the Guard, Captain Al-Masri, but even I do not have the power to reform the system at that high a level,” Kage said with a wry smile. “So, how would you suggest this be changed?”
“I have seen reports of the changes you have made to officer training, sir and they are excellent ones,” Ari acknowledged. “But if I were to make a suggestion, it would be that you do two things: one, create some sort of…ceremonial positions, an honor guard for dignitaries or some such thing, and staff it with those appointees who are simply not suited to combat command; and two, use the newly-open junior officer slots to promote more competent NCOs to officers’ training.”
Kage regarded him for a long moment, before nodding with satisfaction. “Well, it is easy to see why you are so highly recommended, Captain. You are unafraid to speak your mind and you are one hundred percent right. In fact, I have already begun to expand recruitment of good NCOs to officers’ training. Your first suggestion though is a very good one, and one I had not thought of. I will sit down with my staff and give it serious consideration.”
“Thank you sir…if I may, General Kage, my orders were not very specific. They said I was to report to you here, now, but they did not say where you intended for me to be stationed, or in what capacity.”
“Captain, I considered that very carefully. There are several colonial garrisons that could use your leadership, but given your experience, I think you would best serve the Guard by training other officers. You will be stationed here; over at the Junior Officers’ Basic Course…you will be the new Executive Officer of the training cadre, under Colonel Ibrahim Gambari. He’s a very able commander and under my instructions to let you try whatever new training methods you think may be effective as long as you run them by me first. You report to him in the morning. In the meanwhile, sign out a groundcar and find yourself a room at the Officer’s Quarters.” He stood and offered a hand. “Welcome to the Colonial Guard, Captain Al Masri.”
Ari shook it. “Thank you very much, General. I will not let you down.”
It was perfect…he was in just the right place to carry out his assignment. But the funny thing was, Ari thought, part of him wished he really had the job.
Chapter Five
“Cease fire! Cease fire! Cease fire!” The loudspeaker cut through the din of shouts and the stutter of blank rounds and the thirty men and women in dark-colored body armor scattered around the forest compound stopped in their tracks, looking around in confusion.
“Recruit Manning!” Tom Crossman bellowed, stalking down from the top of the rise from which he’d been observing, hands on his hips. “Can you tell me exactly why you thought it would be a good idea to fire a grenade into a building you knew to hold a store of hyperexplosives? Particularly when you were standing in the open not ten meters from it?”
One of the armored figures safed and slung a rifle, then paused to pull off a visored helmet. Beneath it was the face of a twenty-something female, her black hair cut short and spiky, her normally pale face red with embarrassment.
“Sorry Sergeant Crossman,” she stuttered. “I just knew that one of my squads was taking fire from the building…”
Crossman took a deep breath, visibly trying to control his temper, then ran a hand across his swept-back brown hair. He had a movie star’s face, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones and usually an easy smile, though not at the moment.
“Noble sacrifices are very romantic, Recruit Manning,” he bit off, “but this skirmish is only part of your mission. If this were a real op, and you got yourself killed early in the action, your team would be a troop short and missing a leader. So next time you’re faced with this situation…” He pointed behind her, where fifty meters away the ground dropped off into a gulch. “Get to cover, then blow up the damned building.”
He looked around at the rest of the recruits. “No matter how little time you have, there is always time to think.” He checked his watch, sniffed in irritation. “All right, we’re doing this again. Get formed up and move back to the LZ, get resupplied from the shuttles and we’re kicking off the raid at No Later Than 2000 hours. Which means it’s now a low-light attack, so take the opportunity to adjust your tactics, Manning.”
“I’m still Team Leader, Sergeant Crossman?” she asked, surprised.
“Till you get it right, Manning,” he confirmed. “Get them moving and don’t get yourself killed this time. Unless you have to.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
Crossman shook his head as he watched her yelling at the rest of the recruits to get them moving back down the game trail.
“She remind you of anyone, Tom?” A voice came from behind him and that easy smile returned.
“Just some reckless, ballsy LT I once knew.” He turned and saluted as Shannon Stark walked down the hill. She was dressed for the field in dark battle utilities, a sidearm holstered at her waist. Not that she’d need it in the Canadian wilderness, but it was regulation for Intelligence, thanks to Colonel McKay. “How’ve you been ma’am?”
“Busy,” she sighed. “Always busy, especially now that Colonel McKay got the itch to be a field op again. How are Rosalita and the kids?”
“Doing great ma’am…little Jimmy started preschool and Mira is walking now. So what brings you out this way? Don’t usually see the big brass until selection time gets closer.”
“I needed to run something by you. I know you’re busy, but Vinnie and Jock went off with Jason, so you got a minute?”
He checked his watch, grinning. “I have exactly three hours and twenty four minutes, ma’am. Let’s go sit down.”
Tom led her into the buildfoam dome they had been using as part of the “enemy compound,” shoo-ing out the Op-For personnel that had been firing simulators at the recruits. They sat at a table next to stacks of bricks of fake hyperexplosives and Tom poured her a cup of coffee.
“So what’s eating you, Boss Lady?” he prodded, taking a sip from his own mug.
“Tom, we have some chatter that there’s going to be trouble with the Colonial Guard. A lot of them don’t like the new emigration policies and the new rules in place limiting their authority in the colonies, and a lot of the parents of the officer corps don’t like the fact that they aren’t getting kickbacks from the Multicorps anymore for funneling them cheap labor. So the word is, there’s going to be a mutiny, that the CeeGee armories on all the colony worlds are going to seize power from the local governors.”
“I can believe it,” Crossman nodded. “Things aren’t too great for anyone right now and it’s worse in the Developing Blocs.”
“I have Ari working that angle already,” she went on, “but the other shoe is, the mutiny is supposed to coincide with an attempt on President O’Keefe’s life.”
Crossman whistled in surprise, his face thoughtful. “That’s a pretty ambitious move for the CeeGee officer corps,” he mused. “And what’s the endgame here? Do they think that Vice President Dominguez is going to reverse the emigration policies just because he’s from Central America? Or maybe they have something on him that won’t work on O’Keefe…”
“That’s something I am going to have to check out,” Shannon nodded. “And it’s going to be a bitch doing it without the President finding out. But the reason I came to you has less to do with the why and more to do with the how.”
“Right, like if they actually think they have a chance of succeeding, they gotta have an inside guy,” he said. “Unless they’re planning on crashing a cargo ship into the President’s mansion out of orbit, and even the CeeGees can’t be crazy enough for that. So who has access and opportunity that we think would want to do it?”
“And do they plan on getting away with it?” Shannon pondered, rubbing a hand on the back of her neck tiredly. “If you’re willing to sacrifice yourself, you can use any method…hell, a sharp stick would do it.”
“But if you want to get away with it,” Crossman amplified, “you have to use something undetectable, something that can
’t be traced back to you. So let’s take three approaches here…what could you use if you wanted to get away with it, what could you use if you didn’t care and what couldn’t you use at all?”
“Well, this stuff’s out the window,” Shannon laughed, kicking at the stack of fake hyperexplosives. “There’s chemscanners all around the President, wherever he goes, and there’re too many different people running them to fake them all out. Same goes for conventional firearms.”
“Most poisons too, and those aren’t sure kills, not with the medical facilities he always has available around him. So, we’ve ruled out bombs, guns and poisons,” he ticked off on his fingers. “You could try for a long-range, coldgas-launched missile, but the automated defenses the Security Service sets up wherever the President goes should be able to detect those and shoot them down. Maybe,” he mused, “a Gauss gun could do it, if it was powerful enough and you could set it up far away enough to escape detection during the security sweep. No way the defenses could shoot down a tungsten penetrator going that fast. They wouldn’t even detect it till it was past.”
“Getting a clear shot from that far away would be difficult to set up though,” Shannon pointed out. “That’s one of the things the Security people look for right away when they’re scouting a location.”
“Wouldn’t necessarily have to be a clear shot,” he pointed out. “A penetrator slug launched from an electromagnetic cannon could go right through a couple buildings and take out the President easy.”
“You’re right,” she admitted, nodding thoughtfully. “Okay, we’ll mark that down as a possibility. We can always have Security widen their scans and look for power readings that could fire a gun that big. Anything else? Anything that could get him when he’s at home? In Capital City?”
“Well, we’re back to a sharp stick or an orbital strike there,” Tom said with a shrug. “I just don’t see a way for the killer to get away, so it would have to be either up close and personal and he doesn’t care if he dies in the attempt, or it’s something so big that it’s more a coup than an assassination.”
Shannon frowned and her eyes narrowed. “That’s an interesting thought, Tom.” She shook her head clear, then smiled warmly. “So, how’s this class looking?”
“Lots of promise in this one,” he told her, accepting the abrupt change of subject without flinching. “Gonna’ be hard to keep the normal cull rate. I’d like to graduate half of them, to be honest.”
“Take them, then,” she told him. He raised an eyebrow. “If Jason does find Antonov somewhere out there…well, we may need all the help we can get.”
* * *
Shamir watched the line of Colonial Guard officer candidates through his binoculars as the camouflage-clad, armored men and women moved through the tall grass of the wide, open plane, their weapons held listlessly, fatigue plain in their gait and pace as the afternoon sun beat down on their heads. They’d been in the field for three days, little of it spent sleeping, and they were not used to it. They were only three weeks into the four-month training course and most of them had never even picked up a weapon before their trip to the range in week one, much less humped one through the boonies.
“Sergeant Chen,” he transmitted over the ‘link microphone attached to his collar, “whenever you’re ready.”
“Yes, sir,” came the laconic reply from the training NCO. Less than a minute later, the tall grass parted in a dozen spots arrayed in a semicircle to the front of the trainees and he could faintly hear the chatter of simulator rounds as the platoon of officer candidates scattered, some running, some hitting the ground, others standing where they were and returning fire. Only three did the correct thing: they charged into the ambush, laying down suppressive fire as they bounded forward. But there were too many attackers and eventually they were overwhelmed, the joints of their body armor locking up and freezing them in place when the lasers from the simulator guns hit the sensors built into the armor.
“All right,” Ari sighed, “let’s get down there for the After Action Review.”
He jumped into the open-topped utility groundcar, taking a seat beside the enlisted driver. Behind him, Captain Adedotun Odawale and First Lieutenant Alida Hudec climbed into the rear seats and the driver set off down the hill toward the ambush site. Odawale was a tall, somewhat gangly African male, his skin dark as ebony, his head clean-shaven and his eyes harsh and business-like. Hudec was a dark-haired, dark-eyed eastern European woman with an athlete’s build and piercing green eyes. Ari had just met them both yesterday, but his first impression was that they were professionals…probably more of Kage’s new breed.
By the time the groundcar arrived at the site, training NCOs were already freeing the officer candidates from their armor-induced paralysis and the thirty-six men and women were mostly resting on the ground, helmets in their laps, some gulping down water, others merely grumbling in low voices. The other platoon, the ambushers, was in much better spirits; laughing, trading stories and slapping each other on the back. Ari stepped into the midst of them, trailed by the other two officers.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, hands clasped behind him. “Can anyone tell me what the proper response to an ambush in open country is?”
One of the men in his platoon, a handsome young Argentine, raised his hand. “You are to assault through the ambush, Captain Al Masri.”
“That is correct, Candidate Matienzo. And you did just that, as did Candidates Calderon and Maathai. It didn’t work, however…because the rest of Fourth Training Platoon seems to have forgotten that lesson. At least a few of you bothered to return fire, although standing in the middle of an open field and returning fire is a quick form of suicide. The rest of you either hit the ground and hid or ran outright. Tell me, ladies and gentlemen, what do suppose the punishment is for doing such a thing in actual combat?”
Maathai raised his hand. “Court-martial and possibly execution, sir, if your actions caused the deaths of your fellow Guard troopers.”
Ari nodded. “At the very least, you would be kicked out of the Guard for good, and sent back to your homes with your tails between your legs, any respect you may have had now gone forever.” He spread his hands before him demonstratively. “You have only been here a few weeks. I can forgive a mistake…that can be rectified with training, with practice. I cannot forgive innate cowardice. We will forget this happened, just this once. If it happens again, those in question will be sent home and it will be a minimum of six months before they are again allowed to re-apply for training.” He looked them over, back and forth. “Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” came the disjointed mumble of replies.
“I said,” he barked, louder, “am I clear?”
“Yes, sir!” The response was louder and more uniform. He smiled thinly.
“You are tired,” he went on. “You are hungry. You are hot, your muscles ache, your weapons are heavy. You are not used to this. That is why you are here, my children. To get used to it. Let me ask you, do you suppose that a Panamanian Liberation Front terrorist will allow you the luxury of a rest break before they attack? I can personally assure you that they won’t…they are without mercy and without remorse. They are worse than animals, for at least animals have rational, logical needs and follow predictable means to achieve them. If they get the upper hand, they will not hesitate to kill you. You must not allow them to have the upper hand. If you give in to fatigue, to pain, to confusion, you are defeated before you fire a shot. If you want to kill these terrorist bastards, you must be harder than them.”
“Now,” Lieutenant Hudec stepped forward, “as for you, Third Platoon. You executed the ambush well…but when the three members of Fourth did the proper thing and assaulted into the ambush, how many casualties did you take? Candidate Ramirez?” She addressed the platoon leader.
“Five, ma’am,” the young man admitted. “Two dead.”
“And if more than three had assaulted, if they had been better organized, how many casual
ties do you think you would have received?”
“At least twice that, ma’am.”
“So tell me, how do you prevent that? How could you set up your ambush to prevent it?” Her question was met with silence. Finally, she looked to Ari. “Captain Al Masri, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“There are two ways,” he told them. “The first, and simplest, is to array your forces in an ‘L’ shape, so that to attack either arm of the ‘L’ requires exposing your flank to enemy fire. The other is to set up in a broad ‘V,’ which would do the same for both flanks. When you put the bulk of your ambushing force in one spot, as you did, you invite an assault and you have no counter to it.”
“So we see,” Captain Odawale spoke up for the first time, his voice clear and full, “that both the ambushers and the ambushed have made mistakes today. But do not allow this to frustrate you, or make you angry. This was not a test that you pass or fail, this was a lesson, as much as any you have received in the classroom or simulator, and it was meant to teach you. The tests will come, both here and later in the field, where to fail is death. Think on this and learn, and you will pass these tests.” He looked up, shading his eyes from the sun with his hand, towards the horizon and a cloud of dust raising on a dirt track. “And I see the transports are here, to take you back to the barracks.” That drew a ragged cheer from the trainees. “Platoon leaders, take charge of your platoons and load them onto the trucks. Weapons maintenance and then dinner.”
“And what are your plans for dinner, Captain?” Lieutenant Hudec asked him quietly as they watched Odawale see the troops loaded onto the vehicles.
He glanced at her with unfeigned curiosity in his eyes. “I had thought to take it in the Officer’s Mess,” he admitted.
“I know of a place in the city that has excellent Moroccan fare,” she smiled, and he couldn’t help but notice the way her face lit up when she smiled. “Do you like Moroccan food?”
