"Sarge, Sergeant," the MP corrected quickly, "the fuckin' place is out of control." He stopped and shook his head.
"Sergeant," said the backup, "I'm sorry we were so fucked up on our answer. But we really don't know where to send your troops."
The original MP nodded his head in agreement. "The first thing is last week they had to move a bunch of the units 'cause their barracks got burned out in the riots. Then they lost some of the troops and the rest were shacking up in open barracks. When they tried to move 'em there was riots over that. An' whenever we break up a riot, the rioters tend to fire the trailers when they're runnin' away. So, where youse was supposed to go might not even be there . . ."
"Holy shit," whispered the former Marine. He could hear the troops getting off the bus behind him and raised his voice. "Get me Stewart, Ampele, Adams and Michaels." The squad leaders. "The rest of you yardbirds get back on the bus!"
While the squad leaders assembled he watched the flickering flames at a position of parade rest. He gently blew his lips in thought. "You guys getting any help?" he asked.
"Not much, Sergeant," said the MP. "There's about three or four battalions that have their troops under order, but even they have problems. And we can't really use them for riot suppression, 'cause we can't tell the sheep from the goats." The private stopped and shook his head. "It's a real rat-fuck, Sergeant."
"Gunny."
"Okay, it's a real rat-fuck, Gunny." The MP chuckled.
Pappas wheeled on the assembled squad leaders. "This is a fuck-up, folks, but it's one we gotta work with. Apparently the Army has lost control of its units." He turned back to the MP. "How many units are we talkin' about?"
"Two divisions, some attached Corp units and the Fleet Strike battalion. We're havin' most of our problems out of the support units and a couple of the infantry battalions, though. The problem is that most of the senior officers and NCOs haven't got here yet, so all we got is a bunch of fuckin' recruits and castoffs from other units. If we had a full officer and NCO Corp we'd be okay, at least that is what our provost says, but until all the officers and NCOs get here and we start havin' some court-martials it's just gonna continue like this."
Pappas nodded his head and continued. "Here is how we're gonna handle it. First, we ain't takin' the bus into that rat-fuck. So we gotta walk. But we ain't gonna try to find where we're supposed to be loaded down with baggage. So, Ampele, First squad is baggage guard."
"Gunny . . . !" the large private started to protest.
"It's more important than you think. We're gonna unload all the baggage here." He looked around. "Down by the stream." He gestured with his chin. "Hunker down and wait for support. When we find our quarters and unit I'll send back transport and most of the platoon to pick up the baggage. But be aware that you could be attacked." He looked at the MPs and they nodded.
"Yeah," said the now fully awake backup. "We've had groups out here before. If you get hit, we'll back you up," he continued, "but we can't fire without being fired on," he finished sourly.
"So be prepared for anything. I'm leaving you here because you're the one I trust to keep his head and hold onto his people best. Don't bitch about a fuckin' compliment. And you better guard our shit good." Pappas thought for a moment and decided to ask the question. "Umm, have they briefed you guys on something about Fleet Strike being under different rules . . ."
"Yeah, Gunny," answered the first MP. "You guys are hands off. Fortunately other than fights in the barracks area Fleet Strike hasn't caused a lot of problems." He paused and thought about it for a moment. "Well, for us," he amended. "CID's another story."
"Okay," said Pappas, wondering about the comment. "We're gonna take the other three squads into that," he gestured with his chin, "in movement to contact formation." He puffed his cheeks in thought.
"I'll take three members of first squad as a headquarters group. Move slow, stroll. But keep your eyes open and looking around. Designate one team for primary forward movement and one team for security. Have buddies carry on conversation, don't bunch but don't get scattered. If one squad gets into something they can't handle, the other two pile on. If we get bogged down in someone else's turf we are dog-meat, so kick their ass, don't pee on them, we have to cut through any opposition fast." He took a proffered map from the MP and had a quick conversation.
"Okay," he continued, looking at the map in the subdued light and wishing for a set of Milspecs from the equipment they were going to be issued. "We're probably way over by the old heliport right at the base of the mountains." He glanced into the darkness. "Right by the fires." He shook his head.
"Stewart," he turned to the diminutive private. "Second squad has point. Don't do any looting along the way; it's not only against regulation, we don't have fuckin' time. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," said the young man. He stood at parade rest, his face as serious as a statue.
"You don't call me `sir' anymore, Stewart," said Pappas, dryly. "It looks like I'm back to working for a living," he sighed deeply. "Well, it can't be worse than Hue, right?" He thought about that for a moment. "Do they have firearms?" he asked the MP, deep in memory.
The private winced. "Not many. We generally take those away as fast as they turn up. That is the one thing that really lets us drop a load of hurt on their head. Lots of clubs and knives though," he warned.
Pappas nodded his head. "Pick up anything that looks like a weapon as you go. The order of movement will be second, fourth, third. I'll be moving between second and fourth. Third, Adams, keep an eye on our backtrack. If we're being tracked we need to swing around and nutcracker them."
"Right, Gunny," said the former drill corporal.
"Okay, remember, try to look casual as possible, but keep in sight of the other squads. Go get your people briefed." He paused for a moment and shook his head in resignation. The expression on his face was lugubrious. "What a fuckin' nightmare."
"We can handle it," said Stewart, confidently. "We've got the training, we've got the teamwork and we've got the leadership." He smiled at the gunnery sergeant, obviously wondering why he was so shaken by the situation.
Pappas turned calm eyes on the private and smiled cheerfully. Since the situation was totally screwed up, Stewart instantly realized that he had said something the sergeant considered particularly boneheaded.
"Stewart, you are an idiot," he said, gently. The sergeant gestured towards the distant rebel units. "In a year or two we are going to be depending on those fuckers for support. Think of it this way. What would happen if the Posleen landed tomorrow?"
"Oh." The private looked back at the fires and scratched his head. He blew out his cheeks and rocked back and forth at parade rest. "Yeah."
Pappas had not seen Stewart pick up the two lengths of broom handle. But the way he twirled them in both hands bespoke forms of training that surprised the veteran NCO. The aggressive drunk had not even had time to cry out before he was down and being dragged into the darkness by two other members of second squad. That obstacle overcome, the platoon continued its slow movement into the maelstrom.
It seemed as though the world was on fire. Wood and siding ripped from the trailers that made up the majority of the barracks were piled in courtyards and parade grounds burning. The substance of the soldiers' homes was being consumed to warm the autumn night.
Small groups wandered everywhere, some of them bearing bottles, others smoking fragrant substances. From the darkness a squeal told of other pleasures being dispensed. Since it sounded consensual, Pappas ignored it. He frankly was not sure what he would do if it were not consensual. The mission was to find and join up with their unit. Once they were attached things would get easier. Or so he hoped.