“I suspect that Alpha and Bravo’s brass is unshined and they haven’t met their PT norms, sir.”
“Sarcasm, Lieutenant?”
“Sorry, sir. Maybe a little.”
“As a matter of fact, when I asked Lieutenant Colonel Youngman about Bravo company, he commented that he was considering relieving his Bravo company commander.”
“Jesus!”
“Do you normally interrupt generals, Lieutenant?” the general asked, dryly.
“No, sir. No excuse, sir,” said Mike. He took a deep breath and tried to get hold of his temper. Relieving Captain Brandon would cut the entire pipeline he had been using to get the battalion any decent training.
Infantrymen were past masters at disappearing. Partially it was a matter of their mission; being “ghosts” was half of what being infantry was all about. Another part of it was that without a war or heavy-duty training schedule, they were always first to be handed the worst details. So experienced individuals in infantry units learned to become functionally invisible outside of real training times.
Mike and Wiznowski had used this ability to the fullest. The companies were holding regular morning, early afternoon and recall formations, per battalion orders. However, some of the empty holds were practically right next door to the battalion area. Every day NCOs from Bravo and later Alpha company had slipped out of the battalion area and into the abandoned holds. There they had begun to master the myriad facets of their new specialty, the better to pass it on to their juniors. One of the ironic items was the fact that they bitched and moaned about not having the “GalTech expert” available to help them. Mike meanwhile was monitoring the entire process through his Milspecs or armor, down to listening to the bitching. Whenever he felt that the situation needed something pointed out he filtered it through Wiznowski. As far as anyone knew, Wiz was running the whole training program.
If Captain Brandon were relieved, the entire masquerade would go down the tubes.
“I was informed of your habitual frown,” General Houseman continued quietly, “but you are currently turning red and smoking at the ears. And would you kindly avoid drilling holes through the wall with your stare?”
“Bulkhead, sir. On a ship it’s a bulkhead.”
“Whatever. Now to return to my original question, did you in fact violate direct and indirect orders by interfering in the tactical training of one of Lieutenant Colonel Youngman’s subunits?”
“Partially, sir,” Mike equivocated. He was thinking furiously.
“By helping Captains Brandon and Wright with ACS training?”
“Sir, I have not discussed training or Galactic technologies with any officer of the battalion.”
“Would you care to explain that?” asked the general with a raised eyebrow.
“I have not spoken directly to any officer about training, sir. That was in fact my order. Nor have I entered the battalion area, nor have I entered any training area. I have, in fact, obeyed the letter of the order.”
“I see.” The general smiled. “I suppose there is a reason that the NCOs and enlisted in the companies are doing better, overall, than the officers?”
“Possibly, sir.”
“Related to your influence?”
“Possibly, sir. Then again, to be honest, it might have something to do with the officers spending more time in the ‘club’ than they do in suits.”
“But you have influenced training,” the general pointed out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Despite the training schedule authorized by the Battalion S-3?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you aware of the published training schedule?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m glad you didn’t turn a blind eye to your misdeeds.” The general shook his head, looking suddenly harried.
“Son, I’m going to tell you this by way of an apology. The battalion is an attachment as opposed to one of ‘my’ units, a III Corp unit that is. Therefore, it would be damned difficult for me to relieve Lieutenant Colonel Youngman, much as I would currently like to.” He raised an eyebrow inviting comment, but Mike remained silent. He shook his head again and went on.
“It’s a hell of a fix to take a unit into battle where I distrust the entire command team. So I’ve done what I can. Disregarding my long-standing rule against micromanaging my subordinate units, a rule the colonel has apparently never heard of, I gave Lieutenant Colonel Youngman a written order to initiate a vigorous training program in ACS combat. It states that, given his failure to date to train in vital areas, if the battalion fails to score eighty percent or better in ACS training norms by the date of our landing it will give me no choice but to relieve him for cause. He did not take it well at all. He seems to feel that since there is no way to prepare adequately because of ‘grossly inadequate preparation time’ on Earth, the battalion should be reissued standard weaponry and deployed as regular airborne infantry.”
“Good God,” Mike whispered. The upcoming battle was sure to be a bloodbath for ACS, going in as lightly weaponed airborne infantry would be suicide.
The general smiled coldly again. “I cannot tell you how much I agree. Trust me: I had disabused the colonel of that concept by the time I was done.
“Before some of this came up I sent a personal e-mail to Jack Horner. He said that your only problem was that you needed someone holding your leash. If there is a problem that requires a juggernaut all I should do is release the leash. That is why we are having this conversation.
“Now, I’ve given Colonel Youngman all the guidance I think he needs; I did not order him to use you as a training asset. So, if he doesn’t contact you within a week, leave a message with my AID. I’ll make an unannounced visit and drop a question about ‘that GalTech expert, whatsisname?’ Clear?”
“As crystal, sir.”
“If I feel it necessary, I will tell you that you have carte blanche. At that point I will have to relieve the colonel. I don’t have a replacement for him I trust that has any ACS time. You do understand the implications of having to place a captain like, for example, Brandon, in command of a battalion.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike was feeling weak in the knees. The personnel and policy wonkers in Washington would go ballistic. The repercussions for GalTech, which already had a bad reputation for ramming through conventions, might be worse than losing the battalion. The entrenched bureaucracy could throw up the damnedest obstacles when they felt threatened and did not seem to give a damn that there was a war on.
“Thank you for coming, Lieutenant. We did not have this conversation. This compartment will self-destruct in thirty seconds. Get lost.”
“Yes, sir. Where am I?”
21
Camp McCall, NC Sol III
0917 July 25th, 2002 ad
“Afternoon, Gunny, siddown.” Like many of the buildings springing up to support the expanding war effort, the company commander’s combined office and quarters was a sixty-six-foot trailer. The office occupied one end, with the living quarters on the other. Among other things, this arrangement meant one less piece of housing that had to be allocated for the burgeoning officer corps. The company commander was a recycled second lieutenant and the only officer in the training company.
With the new-old disciplinary techniques and the paucity of officers on the training base, the gaps that had been closing between officer and enlisted corps in the past decade were beginning to widen again. Despite the fact that their CO was a basically nice if stupid second john, the recruits looked upon him as sitting at the right hand of God; the battalion commander was, of course, God.