"Get down! On your face! Move it! Move it!" he boomed, much louder and more forcefully than the corporal, louder than their whole group. "Bend your elbows! You! Off the ground! Get yer butts down you pansies! Hold that! Look directly forward, heads up, eyes focused in the distance. Now, when I give an instruction that you understand the response is `Clear, sir.' I expect it to be readily audible on Mars! Clear?"
"Clear, sir!"
"Now, I have found this position to be remarkably centering of attention. But, I can see that at least one of you is a body builder." He walked over to this unfortunate, a hulking youth with a build like Hercules and lank black hair and squatted down so that he could look him in the eye. "I suspect that this is little strain for you, big boy. Is it?"
"No, sir!"
"Ah, truth, very good." Sergeant Pappas stood up and then stepped carefully on the recruit's back, centered on the shoulder blades. The burly youth grunted when the two hundred fifty pound drill instructor stepped on, but he held. "In the next sixteen weeks, Get yer head up asshole! it will be my duty to turn you pussies into Strike troopers. Get yer butts down, faggots! Strike units will be deployed from their home bases as formed units Get yer butts up! You pussies! If this asshole can hold me up, you can stay up yourselves! as formed units to engage the Posleen whenever and wherever they are badly needed. That means that while Guard and Line units may see combat, You! I said get up off your belly, cocksucker! Corporal Adams!"
"Yessir!"
"That fat cocksucker in the second row! See how far he can run before he throws up and passes out!"
"Yessir! On yer feet, asshole! Move it!" The drill corporal yanked the unfortunate recruit to his feet and trotted him off into the distance.
"Where was I, oh yes . . . While Guard units may see combat, you will see combat. My mission is to make you pussies hard enough and fast enough that some of you may survive." He stepped off the recruit. "On your feet! I am about to fall you out into the barracks. There is no bunk assignment or shakedown. Inside the barracks there are two red boxes. If you have any contraband, drugs, personal weapons, knives, anything you suspect you shouldn't have, put them in the box. If you keep them I will find them. Then I will send you to a place that makes boot camp seem friendly and homelike. Everybody but this asshole," he indicated his erstwhile soapbox, "Fallout!"
As the recruits grabbed their gear and pounded into the barracks he looked the remaining recruit up and down, noting the high wide cheekbones.
"What's yer name, asshole?"
"Private Michael Ampele, sir!"
"Hawaiian?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Daddy a marine, howlee?"
The recruit blanched at that insult, where the expected "asshole" had little effect. "Sir, yes, sir!"
"Think that's gonna make me easier on you, howlee?"
"Sir, no, sir!"
"Why not?"
"Sir, the strongest steel comes from the hottest fire, sir!"
"Horse shit. The strongest steel comes from a precise combination of temperature, materials and conditions including a nitrogen fuckin' atmosphere. I'm gonna kick yer ass for two reasons. One, nobody's gonna accuse me of favoritism and two, these mainland wahines need an example."
"Yes, sir!"
"Okay, yer the platoon guide," he decided. "You know what that means."
"Yes, sir," said the private, his face slightly green. "They fuck up, I get my ass kicked, sir."
"Yerright," said Pappas with a smile. He puffed his lips out and grinned. "We got no time to fuck around with training, you little yardbirds are gonna be driven harder and faster than any group in history. Comprende? You think you can handle that and the responsibility of a platoon guide?"
"Si, sir," agreed the private
"I'll take it on faith, howlee. I think you're full of shit. Fall out."
Pappas shook his head in resignation as the private followed the others into the barracks. They kept dropping the training time, pushing the pipeline to deliver the recruits no matter what. Well, he would train them, as well as anyone could expect in the time allowed. But he was glad he was not going to war with them. It was too chancy a business.
16
Ttckpt Province, Barwhon V
0409 GMT, September 28th, 2001 AD
The second objective of the Special Operations recon was a two-week hike through a killer swamp; more than half the time they were up to their necks in frigid water. Their brief halts at night were broken by involuntary shivering, and by the time they reached the objective area even Master Sergeant Tung was looking wan. The previous area's foragers did not seem to be in evidence, but the team increased their caution as they neared the Tchpth town. Soon the regular buzz of an encampment could be heard through the sound-devouring mists, and Mosovich sent Trapp and Ellsworthy forward to investigate. The wait seemed interminable until the irrepressible SEAL suddenly appeared out of the muck in their midst. With a muddy grin he gestured them forward and led the way to the edge of the wetland.
Peering through the curtaining lianas at the edge of the hummock, the team was greeted with a view of determined activity. In most places the fragile towers described in their briefing were scattered on the ground, being demolished to mine the base materials. In a few places, ziggurats or pyramids of metal and stone were rising. They were well spaced and in between were low barracks of stone and mud. In the distance a causeway through the swamp was being constructed and what looked like defensive works were under construction near them. By the nearest ziggurat was a series of pens but what the pens held could not be seen from the team's angle.
"Ellsworthy," murmured Mosovich, "what's in the pens?"
"Little posies in most," she whispered from her accustomed over-watch. "A few Crabs in one."
As she was talking, a Posleen walked over and dumped a double handful of squirming Posleen nestlings into one of the pens then trotted away.
"Mega gross," whispered Ellsworthy.
"What?" asked Mueller.
"The other ones are eating new ones, mostly. I think some of 'em survived."
"Yuck," muttered Richards.
"Get it on tape," ordered Ersin. The video would in fact load onto a Flash BIOS memory chip.
"I've got a feed going off my scope, don't worry."
"Okay, we're gonna pull back a little and get up and dry," whispered Mosovich. "We'll trade off observers until it seems like we've got it all and then pull back to the pickup." He began moving back into the swamp. "Ellsworthy, you've got first watch."
"Yessa, massa. I keep a good watch."
* * *
Two days later they were mostly dried out and badly confused.
"You're sure of what you saw?" asked Mosovich for the fifth time.
"Y-y-y-es, dangit!" Martine was by turns angry, disgusted and horrified.