"Right, Sergeant. Got a set of dice to randomize?" Thank you, Sergeant Perez, for not blaming me. But I could do better and I will.
Kirov, Volga, 3/5/460 AC
"Do you think we could have done any better, Josef?"
"Maybe," Raikin admitted. "But if so, I don't see where. I don't know about the others, but this tank has no flaws." He looked at the vehicle, admiring it from the fresh paint of its hull, to the gleaming treads to the spotless rubber around the road wheels. Soon a heavy transporter would come to take it to the port. He would miss it, miss the sense of purpose it had given his life.
"Did you test fire the commander's machine gun as I told you?" Raikin asked.
"Yes, even that. Two hundred and fifty rounds through the barrel, just as you insisted. Then I cleaned it. Do you think it is enough?"
"Maybe not. But we did do the best we could."
Stefan smiled. "We actually can do a little better."
Raikin twisted his head, looking quizzical.
"Well… I was thinking about that tank crew; the one that will get this tank. I have been out in the desert, alone and scarred shitless."
"So?"
Stefan pulled a liter bottle of vodka from his lunch pack. "Does anyone in the factory write Spanish? I'd like to leave them a note with this."
Fort Cameron Parade Field, 5/5/460 AC
For the first time since it had been formed, the entire brigade stood together in one place. Basic Combat Training was over. The various training centuries had been reorganized into the ten cohorts, one ala and one classis- the naval squadron-that would participate in the war. As part of these cohorts and centuries-basically very large platoons that could be expanded into companies, or maniples, as money and manpower became available-the men would now train on the more advanced tactics, skills, techniques, and weapons they would actually use when they went to war.
In front of the now-formed legion the president of the Republic, General Parilla, the defense attache from the Federated States, Colonel Sitnikov, and various other dignitaries-including the Roman Catholic archbishop-stood on a reviewing stand. Off to one side of the stand, a band played a martial air as the cohorts marched onto the field under the command of Carrera. TV news cameras recorded the event.
Once formed on the field, the officers and the legionary, cohort and century eagle and guidon bearers marched to the center behind Carrera. At his command, they all marched forward to a position directly in front of the reviewing stand. After the archbishop of Balboa had invoked a blessing, the president and Parilla presented the legion, each cohort and each century with the eagle or guidon it would carry as its colors. They were the same eagles Parilla had seen in Carrera's mess. These were gold for the legion and silver for the cohorts, ala and classis. There were miniature bronze eagles for the centuries with guidons attached. Each eagle perched atop an enameled copy of the national shield of Balboa. The shields were attached to seven-foot mahogany poles carved in a spiral design. The eagles' wings stretched upward until they almost touched overhead. A bronze plaque under the shields proclaimed the unit number and motto of each.
After presentation the men swore their oath of allegiance to, "God and the legion," rather than to the Republic. This was not lost on the president of Balboa who made a long-winded prepared speech, even so. Parilla made a rather shorter one which also had the function of promoting all the corporals in the legion to sergeant. The archbishop prayed for God above to also bless and protect the men who would follow the eagles. Then the officers and eagles marched back to a position in front of their units. With the brass band playing-it was borrowed from the Cuerpo de Bomberos, the firefighters, as the pipes weren't quite ready yet-the legion passed in review by the stand. Then-no time for celebrations-they went back to training.
Interlude
29 July, 2067, UNS Kofi Annan, alongside
Colonization Ship Cheng Ho
The man on the view screen was plainly dying. His face was pale, sweat running down it in sheets. His voice was breaking with pain. Even so, he managed to eke out, weakly:
" Captain's log, UNCS Cheng Ho. Final entry."
"Turn up the volume, Coms," the captain of the Annan ordered. "And see if you can get rid of some of the static."
The image cleared; the volume raised. In the view screen the master of the Cheng Ho grimaced with obvious agony.
"I haven't been able to stop the troubles. Maybe… maybe if I'd had more Marines aboard. But rampaging youths…"
Did the captain of the Annan detect a sneer in the words, "rampaging youths?" She thought she did. She almost missed the next few words:
"… have sabotaged the reactor. We've managed… just… to keep it from going critical. We have not been able to… control the radiation. It overheated… melted the shield. The ship's been flooded… with hard rads."
Annan's captain winced. A bad way to go.
"… the Phalange flooded the reactor deck with some poisonous gas they ginned up in the labs… too late… we can't get at the reactor even to build a temp shield… around it."
"What the hell is a phalange?" the captain asked of the bridge crew, generally. Her question was rewarded with blank stares.
"… to anyone who comes after me… I can't explain what happened, how it all fell apart. I don't know why we can't… all… just… get along…"
The captain of Cheng Ho began to sob on the screen. Unable to speak, he clutched as his midsection for long minutes before crumpling and falling off of his chair and off screen.
"Oh, my," whispered Annan 's skipper. Then, setting her face firmly, she ordered, "Major Ridilla, return here with your men. I want the complete log for the Cheng Ho brought with you. Take them to my port cabin and give them directly to me and to no one but me."
"Aye, Skipper."
Chapter Thirteen And the plan of God was being accomplished. -Homer, The Iliad, Book I
Ranges Eight and Ten, Imperial Range Complex, east slope of Hell Hill, Republic of Balboa, 10/5/460 AC
Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Move forward to the left. Feel the restraining straps cut into your body as it's thrown forward when the brakes bite in. Stop at the next covered position. Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Move right to the next covered position. Right, again. Left. Left. Right. Stop. Incoming! Back up fast! Pop smoke.
Perez's voice shouts in the microphone. "Two o'clock! Gunner! Sabot! Tank!" Buttons are pushed. The autoloader selects a round of kinetic energy ammunition from the carousel, lifting it easily to the breech and feeding it in. The gunner and commander shy away from the autoloader; it has been known to feed in arms, shoulders and heads. From behind Jorge Mendoza's head comes the whine of a 15- ton turret moving smoothly on its bearings. Jorge braces himself.
"Target!"
"Fire!" The crash of the gun ripples Mendoza's internal organs.
"Hit! Hit!"
"Eleven o'clock. Gunner! Sabot! Tank!"
"Miss!"
"Repeat!" The loader recycles with a fresh round. Again the crash sends Jorge's stomach bouncing against his backbone.
"Hit!"
"Driver, move out!"
Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Forward. Forward. "Ten o'clock! Gunner! Sabot!…" An alarm goes off in Mendoza's ears. "Shit!" As always after a failure, red smoke floods Jorge's compartment as soon as he opens his hatch. Shit!
Jungle-covered for the most part, Cerro de Infierno jutted up between the Gallardo Trench of the Transitway and the road that ran generally alongside it. The hill overlooked the relatively open maneuver areas of Imperial Ranges Eight and Ten. From his vantage point above the road, Carrera watched one of the legion's tank sections going through its paces. While the rest of the legion had been going through basic training, the tank and PBM-100 crews, largely composed of long service professionals with Basic far behind them, had been doing their individual and crew training on the Jaguars and Ocelots. They were now working up to section and century level operations.