I stayed in the cockpit for most of the flight. When I finally came down, I found my Marines gathered around Sweetwater. He looked like a coach prepping his team before a big game.
“Oh, Lieutenant Harris, we were just explaining to your men about the nature of the Avatari miners.”
“I see,” I said.
“Is it true?” Thomer asked. “We never fought the real aliens, it was just their reflections all along?”
I sighed. I had come to brief the men, but Sweetwater had already handled most of the briefing. The problem was that while he had all the information, he would not know how to couch it so that it would motivate the men.
“Doctor, Freeman wants to talk to you,” I said.
“What does Raymond want to discuss?” Sweetwater asked, sounding nervous.
“He’s ponying the equipment,” I said. “I think he wants to plan out his part of the mission with you.”
Satisfied that Freeman would not leave him tied up in the transport, Sweetwater said, “Excellent idea. We really do need to plan out what to take and what to leave behind. Excuse us, gentlemen.” And he waddled to the ladder and climbed to meet Freeman.
I looked at Major Burton and noticed the relaxed way in which he leaned back on the bench. It was dark in the kettle, so I could not be sure, but Burton did not look pale or sick. In fact, the entire company looked ready for action.
“Put on your helmets,” I said. “Let’s test the gear.
“Sound off, Marines,” I said.
The fire teams answered to their team leaders. The team leaders reported to their squad leaders. Squad leaders sounded off for platoon leaders. Platoon leaders reported to Major Burton, who reported to me. With only forty-seven men, we had enough men for one full platoon with a little spare change, but we organized the men into two miniature platoons.
Major Burton told the men to remove their helmets, then came over and took his place behind me and to my right, and I began the mission briefing.
I’d seen many briefings during my stints with the Marines. They were generally conducted by officers who had nothing but disdain for clones. The officers often began by insulting our intelligence, then proceeded to play off our emotions to work us into a frenzy. The meetings were somewhere between a pep rally and an evangelical revival with homicidal overtones. This one would be different, I decided, I would show these men the respect they deserved.
I took a moment to arrange my thoughts. “Who knows what’s in these crates?” I asked.
Herrington raised his hand. “Those would be our nukes.”
“Yes, these would be two fifty-megaton nuclear devices,” I said. “We have a matching set. Any of you ever set off a nuke in battle?” No one raised his hand. “No?
“Here’s the drill. We are going to hike into a hollowed-out mountain that is filled to the gills with giant spiderlike creatures. Some are six feet tall and some are ten feet tall, any of them can tear a man in half without thinking twice about it, and your combat armor won’t even add any challenge.
“If we can hoss these big bombs in there, we will fry those motherspeckers. These bombs will bring the whole damn cave down on top of them. These bombs will make the insides of those mountains so hot the rocks will melt and the dirt will turn to ash.”
I could tell my briefing was not going over well. The men looked confused. They looked nervous.
“Are we planning on hanging around to watch that happen?” asked Private Peterson.
“No, Private, we are not,” I said. “The plan is to deliver our little presents and beat it out of there rapid, quick, and pronto. I don’t know about you, Peterson, but I plan on being halfway back to Valhalla before that big bang goes off.
“Any other questions?”
No one responded. They looked confused.
Burton laid a hand on my shoulder, and whispered, “May I, Lieutenant?”
“Be my guest,” I said.
“Okay, Gyrenes!” he shouted in a voice that was several decibels louder than it needed to be. “You, Sergeant. What’s your name?”
“Herrington, sir.”
“So, Sergeant Herrington, can you tell me why we are taking a couple of nukes on this little joyride?” Burton asked. “What’s so good about nukes?”
“They make a really loud bang, sir,” Herrington said.
“Damn specking right it makes a big bang. Gyrene, you are specking officer material. You’re a goddamned genius. Nukes make big, hot bangs. They make big, hot, radioactive bangs. Tell me, Herrington, what do you think about giving the specking Mudders a big, hot, radioactive bang?”
“I like it, sir.”
“You say you like it? That’s all? Shoving a nuke up these planet-stealing motherspeckers’ asses is just okay with you. Is that what you just said?”
“Sir, no sir,” Herrington yelled. I could hear Herrington’s confidence building. He did not want to be treated with respect; he wanted to be cudgeled. “It makes me horny all over!”
Burton’s disdainful approach made Herrington feel relaxed. It had the same effect on the entire company. Men sat up straight, they smiled. The verbal beating placed them in territory they knew.
“Just so you assholes know, I believe in the big bang theory,” Burton said. “I believe we should shove something that makes a big bang up every one of our enemies’ asses.”
The funny thing was that giving the briefing, Burton’s confidence also seemed to grow as he went on. Until this moment, I had never realized the yin and yang in the relationship between natural-born officers and general-issue clones. These boys did not want respect and honesty. They deserved the truth; but going into battle, what they really wanted to hear was assurance. Burton, an experienced officer, gave them what they needed instead of what they deserved.
“We reserve the really big bangs for the pecker speckers we hate the most. And let me tell you, Gyrenes, fifty-megatons is the biggest bang of them all. Now what does that tell you about Mudders?”
“We hate the speckers,” yelled Thomer—mild-mannered Kelly Thomer, the Boy Scout.
“Damn straight, we goddamn hate those pecker speckers. There is no one and nothing we hate more than those speckers. I hate those bastards more than my wife’s time of the month. Do you read me, you mean horn-dog sons of bitches?”
Burton sent the men into a frenzy. They didn’t just respond, they ignited.
“Listen here, Gyrenes; these nukes are the second-worst weapon in this man’s universe. You ugly sons of bitches are the specking worst. You are the cruelest, meanest, most lowdown, dirty weapon in the Unified specking Authority’s arsenal.”
As Burton put on his show, Sweetwater shambled down the ladder and came to stand next to me. He looked scared but determined. He glanced over at me, then mimicked my stance and posture—feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, chest out. The stance looked unnatural with his short, dumpy posture, thick glasses, and lank hair.
“We are going to shove you forty-seven sons of bitches so far down those speckers’ throats that nothing else will ever fit. You got that, Gyrenes?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” the company shouted so loud that their voices frayed.
“Did you Gyrenes say something? I think I almost heard you. Think you peckerwoods can put enough voice into it so I can hear you?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” they screamed.
Burton took a step back, and whispered to me, “Tell them what you need to, but for God’s sake, try to keep them warmed up.”
I explained what we would do, and the briefing ended. The men went back to speaking among themselves, clearly more relaxed than before. As I headed toward the cockpit, Major Burton quietly whispered, “You Liberators may be killing machines, but you don’t know shit about giving briefings.”
Looking ahead through the windshield, I could see the serrated silhouette of the distant mountains. “I’m going to park us next to Breeze’s plane,” Freeman said. Sweetwater leaned over the copilot’s seat for a look below. He did not speak a word.