None of the officers said anything, and Booty wondered what they were thinking. That he was crazy?
That the whole exercise was a joke? Maybe. One thing was for sure however, even if he didn’t manage to get their attention, Drang sure as hell would.
Mondulo killed the motor, allowed the boat to coast, and felt it slide onto the mud bank. None of the occupants noticed the sleek head that surfaced behind them, the yellow eyes, or the ripple left when the creature submerged.
Booly stood, scanned the area ahead, and noticed boot prints in the muck. He eyed the tree line, saw something move, and flicked the safety off his assault rifle. “We have movement in the trees, Sergeant.. . you make the call.”
“Not bad for an officer,” the noncom said grudgingly.
“There’s an entire squad concealed in the undergrowth along with three T2’s. They secured the area just before daylight. This is the last time we’ll have that kind of support.”
Mondulo nodded towards Booly *s subordinates. “Safe your weapons and deass the boat.. The general gets a word with you, then it’s my turn.”
Booly felt mud suck at the bottom of his boots as he stepped out of the boat and climbed the gently rising bank. He hadn’t carried a full combat load in a long time—too long, judging by how heavy it felt. The training exercise, if that’s what the evolution could properly be called, was scheduled to last three days. Shorter than he would have liked but all the time that could be spared. No one knew when the Sheen would make their next appearance, and he wanted to be there when they did. Like the others, Booly carried a waterproof corn set capable of reaching the firebase from any location on Drang, an extensive first aid kit, six days worth of rations, two canteens, a hammock made of superstrong netting, a dozen hand grenades, an assault rifle with a built-in grenade launcher, twenty magazines, each containing thirty rounds, twenty shotgun style 40 mm rounds, his favorite sidearm, two extra clips, a combat knife that hung hilt down from his harness, and numerous odds and ends. No big deal when he was twenty-three—but a pain in the ass now.
MorlaKa looked as if he were underloaded, Seebo wore a self-confident smile, and Hebo, who carried his gear in something that bore a resemblance to a pair of saddlebags, appeared unaffected. The Ramanthian was something of an enigma. What was the insectoid sentient thinking? There was no way to know.
The officer met each set of eyes in turn. “One of my people’s greatest military thinkers, a man by the name of Sun Tzu, wrote a book called the Art of War. It begins:
‘The Art of War is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin.
Hence under no circumstance can it be neglected.’ “
“Another great warrior, this one Hudathan, wrote, ‘The survival of the Hudathan race cannot be left to chance. Anything that could threaten our people must be destroyed. Such is the warrior’s task.’ A little more preemptive than humans would prefer—but to the point.”
A look of newfound respect had appeared in MorlaKa’s eyes. The words had a sibilant quality. “Those words were written by Mylo NurtonDa in standard year 1703.”
Booly nodded. “Yes. The Life of a Warrior should be mandatory reading for anyone who takes up the profession of arms. And that’s what this is all about.
“We represent different races, come from different military traditions, and share a common enemy. In order to fight that enemy and defend those who depend on us, we must operate from a set of common values. The concepts I’m about to put forth may be consistent with your native culture, or they may not. I don’t care. They are the precepts by which you will lead our troops. Fail to do so at your peril.
“So here they are ... First: Strategy and tactics will be formulated and implemented for the greater good. That means what’s good for the Confederacy as a whole. Not Earth, not Alpha001, not Hudatha and not Hive.
“Second: We will lead by example and never order our troops to do something we would refuse to do ourselves, and treat them respect. Regardless of what species or group they represent.
‘Third: We will think first—and fight second. The Sheen will be as smart as someone was able to make them. We must be smarter.
“And fourth,” Booly continued, “is the need to conserve lives, options, and supplies. Our resources are limited. Use them wisely. Any questions? No? Then it’s time to hear from the sergeant. He has orders to treat us the same way he would treat raw recruits, so the next few days will be a bit rough, but it will teach us to work as a team. Listen to what he says—it could save your life. Sergeant? We’re all yours.”
Mondulo nodded. “Sir! Yes, sir.” He took three paces forward, performed a crisp rightface, and stood at parade rest. The voice was the same one perfected on parade grounds at a dozen forts. “You pukes want know what my claim to fraxing fame is? Well, I’ll tell you what my claim to fraxing fame is... I’ve been on this pus ball for two years, and I’m still alive. That’s my claim to fame, and there ain’t a fraxing one of you who can say the same thing. That makes me numero uno, the big dog, and the main enchilada.”
Booly watched his officers out of the comers of his eyes and fought to restrain a smile. With the possible exception of Seebo; none of them had ever run into a noncom like Mondulo before.
“Now,” the sergeant said, gesturing to the verdant foliage. “That’s the jungle ... My fraxing jungle, and it’s full of nasty-assed shit. Take a look around. See those trees? Tall suckers ain’t they? Tall enough and thick enough to block out the sun. That means a low tight level down on the ground, damned little undergrowth, and relatively easy walking. The frogs aren’t very comfortable on land so you’re relatively safe from them.
“You gotta watch for reptiles, though, includin’ the dappled Drang adder, the vine viper, and a nasty piece ‘o work called the stick snake, cause that’s what the bastard looks like, till you grab his ass and he kills you.”
Mondulo looked from one face to the next. “You got any questions? No? Okay, then. Once we leave the jungle, we’re gonna travel through some suckass swamps. The fraxing frogs love the swamps so they’ll be waitin’ for us.”
Mondulo glared at them from under a craggy brow. “That ain’t the only problem—not by a long shot. I don’t how many of you have dicks, you bein’ XTs an all, but take my word for it, don’t pee when you’re wadin’ through the water. Not unless you want a tiny wormlike critter to swim up your uretha and lay eggs in your bladder. The medics tell me that the young ‘uns eat their way out.”
The noncom shrugged. “Course we got water snakes, blood suckin’ plants, and some nasty-assed parasites all waitin’ to take a bite out of your ignorant butts as well. . . That’s why you’re gonna do what I say, do it fast, and do it right. You got any questions? No? Then saddle up. Booly, you take the point. MorlaKa, Hebo, and I will follow. Seebo has drag. Practice those hand signals—you’re gonna need
‘em.”
Booly experienced a strange sense of deja vu as he eyed the jungle, spotted a break in the foliage, and headed that way. A heavily camouflaged human peered out of the undergrowth, offered a thumbs up, and faded from view.
Then, some fifteen or twenty steps later, the friendly forces were behind them, the lake was little more than a memory, and the jungle wrapped the interlopers in its warmwet embrace. Booly—worried lest he miss something and lead the team into a disaster—focused on the environment around him. Memories came flooding back. Memories and knowledge. The kind gained the hard way. The trail had been used many times before. That made for some easy walking. But Booly, mindful of similar patrols twenty years earlier, knew that easy things were dangerous. Once the enemy knew where you were likely to go, it was easy to lay traps, set mines, or establish ambushes. None of which would be good for their health.