The drug was a combination of a Terran antinarcolepsy drug and a Galactic stimulant. The Terran drug prevented sleep from forming. However it was believed that the stresses of combat were such that more than an antinarcotic was necessary.
When the powerful and persistent Galactic stimulant started coursing through their veins, the troops started to move. Some of them popped their visors to wipe gritty eyes and sniff uncanned air, but they were mildly surprised to find that the storeroom they had occupied was black as night. The AIDs had automatically been enhancing ambient light or using the ultraviolet suit lights for so long the troops had lost all sense of light or dark outside their private environments. The few troops who had sustained noncritical injuries, including the luckless trooper with only one hand and Private Slattery, now forever immortalized in combat suit statistics, were visited by the medic, more for human reassurance than because he could do anything the suits could not do.
Meanwhile Mike gathered the NCOs around and sketched out an initial order of movement. The engineers suddenly became critical to the success of the mission. Withal they could move nearly as fast as the infantry they supported, their armor was so bulged with storage they looked like walking grapes. Most of the storage was detonators and triggering devices. When it came down to it, there were lots of things that one could convince to explode, if one had a detonator and, although there were a number of ways to convince a detonator to explode, the best ways involved being far away at the time. So, rather than load up on explosives and light on detonators, they went the other way. They did carry twenty kilos of C-9, reduced somewhat from the tunneling, but it was a minor chunk of their storage.
The armor was circled with storage compartments, each designed precisely for explosives storage. The store points had blow-out panels and two of them had blown out on one of the engineers during the explosion under Qualtren; it gave him a lopsided look. Now they opened the compartments and started distributing their packages of good cheer. Every troop took fifty detonators and triggering devices. The triggering devices were fairly intelligent receivers that could be set to detonate by time or on receipt of a signal. In addition, the platoon redistributed their own C-9 so that each of them had at least a half kilo; that would be enough for their purposes.
The trickiest part was that they needed to move on the surface to the encirclement. There was not enough time to use the water mains. If they went that way the units would be dead and digested by the time they reached the area. Mike had a plan and he would have to overcome vocal and severe objections when he told them about it. His stock, however, had gone up since the first bound in the tunnels and especially when he led them to relative safety. Now they had to go back into the fire, but like troopers immemorial they faced that each as he needed to and got up and danced.
31
Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III
0243 August 5th, 2002 AD
"Sergeant," said Pappas patiently, "I have had a long goddamn day. And I am not in the best fuckin' mood to handle bullshit. I have got a platoon spread to hell and gone and I need somewhere to put them up. I need transportation and quarters. What I don't need is bullshit from you."
He was actually glad to see that the company was maintaining a Charge of Quarters. The NCO in question was half out of uniform, had obviously been asleep when Adams found him and was being a pain in the ass, but it was still good to find. Now if he could only get the CQ to enter some vague condition of reality.
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," said the overweight NCO, mulishly. He waved the copy of their orders that Pappas had handed him. "This is not sufficient authority for me to allow your troops into the barracks. For all I know they might be forged." He looked at the gathered squads standing in the darkness.
The discussion was being held under the pool of radiance from a yellow bug light on the porch of a trailer, one of many in the area. Each of the trailers held a platoon. They were gathered into five trailers to a company. There were, in turn, five company areas gathered in a battalion area with a battalion headquarters at one end and trailers for senior NCOs at the other. The battalions were separated from each other by a street on one side and a parade ground on the other. The lack of lighting turned the whole mass into just another maze of buildings.
Pappas turned purple and started to throttle the stupid jerk but stopped himself with difficulty. "You do realize, I hope," he said with a dangerously quiet voice, "that you are dealing with your new first sergeant?" The naked threat dropped to the floor like an anvil.
"Well," said the NCO in a priggish voice, "we'll just have to see what First Sergeant Morales says about that."
Pappas looked momentarily nonplussed. "You have another E-8 in the company?" he asked. It was not the information he had been given, but none of the conditions at Indiantown Gap matched any briefing he had received.
"Well," said the CQ with a slightly flustered expression, "Sergeant Morales is a Sergeant First Class," he admitted. "But he is the first sergeant of this company," he ended confidently.
Pappas simply looked at the sergeant for a moment. Then he put his hand over his eyes. What did they do, dump a loony bin in here or something? he thought. He leaned into the NCO's face then turned to the side. "I want you to look right here," he snarled, pointing at his upper arm. "I want you to count these rockers! How many do you count?"
"Three," whispered the NCO, all confidence fled.
"And how many does Morales have?"
"Two."
"Do you know what that means, you fuckin' pissant?" snarled Pappas, turning and putting his face right in that of the other NCO.
The sergeant's mouth turned into a wide rubbery frown and his eyes started to tear up.
Pappas' eyes widened. "Are you starting to cry?" he asked, incredulously.
A tear started to roll down the CQ's face and he gave a sob.
Pappas stepped back and looked heavenward. "God in heaven, why me?" he asked. "Where the fuck is the SDNCO?" he snapped.
"I don't know what that is," said the chubby sergeant.
"How the hell could a sergeant not know what the battalion Staff Duty NCO is?" asked Pappas. Then a thought struck him. "How long have you been a sergeant?" he asked.
"A month." The sergeant continued to snuffle, but the tears had stopped.
Pappas shook his head and continued the interrogation. "Is this the first unit you've been in?"
The sergeant nodded mutely.
"And how long have you been here?"
"Since April."
"April! You've been in the fuckin' Fleet six months and you made sergeant?!"
"Special circumstances, Top," said a voice from the darkness. A tall soldier stepped into the puddle of yellow light.
"You'd better stay out of this, Lewis," hissed the CQ. "Or you know what'll happen."
"Shut up," said Pappas conversationally. "If I want any more shit out of you I'll squeeze your head 'til it pops." He examined the soldier in the yellow light. His gray silks were neat and trim and he had a fresh haircut. He wore the rank of a specialist, but there was clear indication that another rank, probably the chevrons of a sergeant, had been in place recently.
"What special circumstances?" he asked. He glanced at the roly-poly NCO. "I mean . . . ?" He gestured at the example.
"The company is a little short on NCOs right now," the specialist answered wryly. "Shit, the only thing we're not short on is trouble."