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  As the driver swung around the back side of the battalion area he saw that the last company was quite neat. Furthermore it had posted guards clad in Fleet Strike gray “combat silks” outside the company offices and was running two-man patrols between the barracks. Since the weapons were M-300 grav-guns the show of force was impressive. The M-300 weighed twenty-three pounds — the same as the Vietnam-era M-60 machine gun which it resembled — but most of the soldiers in sight handled them easily. Their obvious fitness and gray combat silks were the first good news he had seen.

  The thin uniforms were supposed to be proof against any normal cold and so it seemed; the lightly clad soldiers were handling the windy winter day with aplomb. Although combat silks were officially the daily uniform of Fleet Strike units, most personnel elsewhere in the battalion seemed to be wearing BDUs and field jackets. It also answered the question of whether any GalTech equipment was available. What the acting battalion commander had to say about wearing the uniform might be instructive. Colonel Hanson wondered why the rest of the battalion was out of uniform and where he was going to get his own set of silks.

  He gestured for the driver to pull up in front of the company headquarters.

  “Go take my bags to my quarters. Then head back to headquarters.” He wished he could keep him — the kid seemed well turned out and smart — but the G-1 had been specific, “Send the driver back along with his Humvee, clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If anybody gives you any flack over at my quarters, come get me. I’ll be with the Bravo Company commander.” He gestured at the company headquarters with a thumb.

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Colonel Hanson headed up the snowy path to the trailer the two guards came to attention to a barked “Atten-hut” from the right-hand guard. The guard could see that it was just a baby-faced kid walking into the headquarters, but the kid had been riding in a Humvee and wheels were hard to find. Ergo, it was not a kid; it was a rejuvenated officer or NCO and it looked like an officer. When the private first class finally determined that the black rank on the kid’s BDU collar was oak leaves, he blessed his prescience. The two dropped back to parade rest at a returned salute and traded shrugs after the colonel entered the trailer. The senior private blew on his frigid hands and gave a quiet smile. By the appearance of the commander, things were going to go either very well or very poorly for Bravo Company. And he was willing to take book which it would be.

  Colonel Hanson was surprised and pleased to see a CQ — a sergeant detailed for a twenty-four-hour period to be in charge of the company area — standing behind a table inside the door at the position of attention. The slight, dark-haired sergeant, who did not look old enough to shave, saluted.

  “Sir, Sergeant Stewart, Bravo Company, First Battalion, Five-Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry. How may I help you, sir?”

  The sergeant was either a refurb, or well trained, and Colonel Hanson could not tell off-the-cuff which it was.

  “Well, Sergeant,” he said, returning the salute, “you can show me to the company commander’s office and get me a cup of coffee if it’s available. Water if not.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, rather too loudly. Fred wondered why, until he realized that it would probably be audible through the paper-thin walls. He smiled internally as the sergeant continued in the same loud tone. “If the Colonel will just follow me to the commander’s office, I’ll see about the coffee!” Colonel Hanson kept from laughing with only marginal success as a small snort slipped out.

  “Pardon, sir?” asked Sergeant Stewart as he led the colonel down a corridor on one side of the trailer.

  “Cough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The narrow passage to one side of the trailer passed one door labeled “Swamp,” a second labeled “Latrine” and a third, which showed signs of repair, labeled “First Sergeant.” At the end of the corridor the area opened out to reveal a desk with someone who was probably the company clerk behind it at attention. On the table was a cup of coffee and the private’s position was ruined by having a pitcher of cream in his left hand. He saluted.

  “Cream, sir?”

  “Black. Do you have sugar?”

  “Sir!” The private held up a handful of packets.

  “One, please.” The sugar was dumped and stirred as Sergeant Stewart knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” came a raspy voice from the interior.

  Normally on taking over a unit the incoming commander had the option of studying his officers’ open records — their 201 files as they were called — and the officers’ efficiency reports. In addition he was able to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of his subordinate personnel with the outgoing commander. In this case the G-1 admitted he was only able to provide the officers’ names, and that with difficulty. The information systems were as confused as everything else and in most cases officers’ files were still in storage in St. Louis. All that Colonel Hanson remembered was that his Bravo Company commander was named O’Neal.

  “Sir, a Lieutenant Colonel Hanson is here to see you,” Stewart said through the doorway, respectfully.

  Colonel Hanson had pegged Stewart immediately as one of those individuals in any command who can make or break a small unit. He would have to be in charge of something and needed to respect his leaders or he would be running all over them in short order. So the deference he showed towards his company commander told Fred something. Of course the condition of the company had told Colonel Hanson something already but that could be due to several causes. This Captain O’Neal could have an enormously effective senior sergeant, he could be a martinet, and so forth. But O’Neal had at least one hard case eating out of his hand and that said everything necessary about his leadership. Now if he only had some tactical sense.

  Thus Fred Hanson thought he showed admirable control when a squat juggernaut who, despite the faint sheen of sweat from a recent workout, was immediately recognizable from numerous TV appearances rolled through the door. Hanson noticed in passing the scars still on O’Neal’s forearm as the captain saluted.

  “Captain Michael O’Neal, sir, Commander, Bravo Company First Battalion, Five-Fifty-Fifth Mobile Infantry Regiment. How may I help you, sir?”

  Fred Hanson slowly returned the salute, as properly as he had ever done in his life. That’s how you do it when returning the salute of a holder of the Medal of Honor.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Frederic Hanson,” said the colonel into the silence. “I’m about to assume command of the One-Five-Five-Five and I thought you might like to come along.”

  Fred thought he saw a brief flash of suppressed glee go across O’Neal’s face but the shuffle of Stewart’s boots was the only sound in the silence that followed that announcement.

  “Yes, sir. I’d like that main well. Stewart, go find the Gunny then come up to battalion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shall we?” asked the baby-faced battalion commander.

  “After you, sir,” answered O’Neal, his eyes shining.

  * * *

  “I think that went rather well,” said the colonel, shutting the door on the departing major.

  “Yes, sir. I think Major Stidwell will be a real asset at post headquarters,” agreed O’Neal. “Although he might want to be a tad more careful about who he calls a ‘snot-nosed kid’ next time.”

  “I also suspect,” continued the colonel with a slight grin at the memory, “that despite whatever damage this might have done to his career, any complaints that Major Stidwell might voice will be pro forma.”

  “Surely you’re not questioning the major’s, uhm, intestinal fortitude are you, sir?”

  “Not really,” Colonel Hanson said, glancing over the battalion commander’s desk at his most junior company commander. The new battalion commander started taking down the late Major Stidwell’s extensive “I-love-me” wall. As a piece or individually it was impressive. From his West Point diploma to his graduation from Command and Staff College Major S
tidwell seemed to have all the merit badges any field-grade infantry officer could ever wish. A graduate of both Ranger School and Special Forces Qualification Course, when in uniform Major Stidwell would be entitled to wear the “Tower of Power”: the three stacked tabs of Ranger, Special Forces and Airborne qualification. He was a holder of the PT badge and probably could make a fire with only two sticks.

  But somewhere along the line the major had somehow missed the whole concept. What was conspicuously absent were plaques from previous commands. There were two possibilities and, without having seen his personnel file, Colonel Hanson could not decide which was more likely. Either Stidwell was so disliked by his commands that they celebrated his leaving without any sign of regret or he had had very few leadership positions. On second thought, it had to be the latter; some sycophant would always gin up a plaque no matter how disastrous your tenure.

  “Although Major Stidwell seems to have all the requisite abilities to be a commander,” the colonel professed, gesturing at the wall, “sometimes that does not mean a person has command ability. Often an inability to command can be masked in peacetime by an able staff. However, during times of stress when quick and accurate decisions must be made without benefit of objectively correct answers or able staff support, the inability to lead becomes crystal clear. I suspect that Major Stidwell can function as a junior officer quite well and may even be exemplary as a senior staff officer but is incompetent as a commander, especially a combat commander.” He concluded the lecture with a shrug. “It happens.”

  “Are you supposed to discuss the merits of senior officers with junior officers, sir?” Mike asked, leaning back in a rickety armchair, probably acquired from post stores after being rejected by a dayroom as too old and worn out.

  “Well, Captain,” the colonel responded, “there are junior officers and junior officers. In your case you can be sure that I will discuss with you anything that I believe will help you in your military development and I will in turn solicit your advice on ACS tactics on a regular basis. I don’t intend to take everything you say as gospel. But I will listen.”

  “Because of the Medal?” Mike asked with studied casualness as he pulled a cigar out of the sleeve of his gray silks.

  It was not the first time Colonel Hanson had heard of Michael O’Neal. He was That O’Neal. Mighty Mite. Ironman O’Neal, the hero of Diess. Colonel Hanson had known more than one real hero in his military career and he knew that without being there it was impossible to determine what actions might or might not have occurred when a medal, especially the Medal, was handed out. Sometimes the most heroic stories turned out to be so much bullshit while others that seemed simple turned out to be unexpectedly complex. Some real heroes were braggarts, some quiet. Often heroes were simply in the wrong place and survived. Sometimes everything was exactly as indicated.

  In the case of Michael O’Neal, the sequence of events that led to him being showered with medals was as analyzed, dissected and researched as any sequence in the history of military operations. When the media got as carried away as they did with O’Neal’s story there was an inevitable reaction. First he was idolized, then the media tried to pick the story apart. It never found any detail to be any less than it appeared at first glance. Arguably the story had been understated.

  As an advisor on armored combat suit tactics to the Diess Expeditionary Force, then-Lieutenant O’Neal had taken command of remnants of the Armored Combat Suit battalion to which he was attached after it had a drastic encounter with the first wave of Posleen. The platoon-sized band, initially weaponless due to a fuel-air explosion that had swept away their suit-mounted weaponry, ended up breaking the Posleen siege of the armored divisions of the expeditionary force. Along the way they killed a plurality of the Posleen in the attack and destroyed a Posleen command ship that had come in for close support of the Posleen forces. O’Neal had accomplished this last feat by the simple expedient of flying his command suit up to the ship and detonating an improvised antimatter limpet mine by hand.

  The armor enclosing the young man across from him, who was now examining a cigar as if it were a weapon on guard mount, had been blown five kilometers through the air and several buildings. Finally that particular bit of detritus along with what was left of O’Neal had skipped a further two kilometers out to sea and sunk. Weeks later it was found by a SEAL recovery team homing in on the automated beacon and glad to find a half a billion credits’ worth of combat suit partially intact. To their surprise the armor announced that the occupant was viable.

  “Not just the medal. More the way you kept your company together. That’s the sign of a good commander.”

  “Good command team, sir, pardon the correction. Gunny Pappas is tops.”

  “They sent us a Marine? I thought they were mostly going to Fleet.” The way that the Galactic Federation fought the war against the Posleen had caused numerous schisms in the way the United States military did its job. The aliens’ Federation supported their Fleet from funds drawn on all two hundred-plus planets of the Federation.

  However, planets that were actively engaged against the Posleen had to fund their own ground defenses. In the case of established planets, corporations whose trade would be affected drew on multiple planets to fund the defense. The planet Diess, which O’Neal had served on, drew forces from the spectrum of Earth’s armies. However, the planet Barwhon, which despite its lack of industry had more monetary resources to draw on, was being defended only by “NATO” troops.

  Since Earth had only heard of the Federation three and a half years before, it was without any monetary support other than whatever it could raise by selling its military forces to the highest bidder, which also served to train Earth’s forces for its own impending invasion, now less than two years away. Despite the situation, it seemed impossible to become politically cohesive and prepare as one planet for the invasion. This caused a number of compromises.

  Some Fleet Strike forces were detailed directly to the Fleet, while others were detailed to the planets either under attack or about to be attacked. In the case of the Earth, those units detailed to Terran defense were to be retained for their parent countries’ usage, while still being under the Fleet’s regulations and chain of command. However, Fleet personnel were drawn primarily from Terran navies. And Fleet Strike forces — the ground combat, special operations and fighter forces — were drawn from each country’s Marine, Aviation and Special Operations units.

  Because of the size of the United States and NATO’s Navy, Marines, Airborne and Special Operations, the defense Fleet was heavily influenced by NATO with Russia and China a close second. Virtually every Fleet Strike ground unit was found in those four areas with one battalion in Japan. There were howls of outrage over the patent injustice from the Third World, but this time nobody had time to listen.

  The force situation and alien technology had modified some long-standing traditions in the United States military. Fleet Strike’s American contingent now consisted of the First through Fourth Fleet Strike Divisions, drawn from the Marines, the 82nd, 101st and 11th Divisions along with the 508th, 509th, 555th, and 565th Separate Regiments, all drawn from the Airborne. The Marine and Airborne Units were or would soon be Armored Combat Suit units, mobile infantry units whose personnel fought encased in powered battle armor and wielded grav-guns that hurled depleted uranium teardrops at relativistic speeds or plasma cannons that could go through the side of a World War II battleship.

  Since the Fleet Strike personnel placement system no longer recognized a difference between Marine and Airborne there were occasional situations that were extremely nontraditional. A Marine Gunnery Sergeant might be ordered to a unit that was drawn from the Airborne tradition or an Airborne commander put in charge of a Marine unit. There were more Airborne personnel and senior officers than Marine, so to cantilever the Airborne influence all senior battalion and brigade NCOs could be called “Gunny” although the actual rank was being slowly phased out. Fleet Strike’s American Comm
and Post, however, was at Twenty Nine Palms, a former Marine base. And their dress uniforms, while drawing heavily on certain well-known science fiction TV shows, were dark blue piped with red, the color of Marine Dress Blues. The Airborne establishment found itself busy playing catch-up.

  A small ceremonial contingent of American Marines remained, passing back and forth between Fleet and the Presidential Guard. They were the only Terran forces under the sole and direct command of a country that wore battle armor. America, with not only tremendous economic clout but equally great military renown, was the only country with an off-planet credit high enough to afford the incredibly expensive suits.

  “Yes, sir,” said O’Neal with a characteristic frown. “An actual Marine Gunny, long, long service. He’s a hippie.”

  “Hippie?”

  “What they call a Vietnam vet. Real old timer.”

  “Well, I suppose us hippies will have to talk over old times,” said the commander with a smile.

  “Jesus, sir!” said Mike, looking at the apparently teenage colonel in surprise. “You’re for real?”

  “I took a company of the One-Oh-One into Happy Valley in Vietnam,” said the colonel with a suppressed shudder at the memory. “I started off as a butter bar with the One-Eighty-Seventh.”

  “Hmmm. Well, at least I won’t have to explain who Janis Joplin is.”

  “It is damn strange, isn’t it?” said the commander, tossing another piece of “I-Love-Me” claptrap into a box. “How the hell do you separate the wheat from the chaff? The regimental commander is forty years younger than me. When I was retiring he was a second lieutenant. I’m glad I didn’t know him; I can imagine what my memories of him would do to our relationship.”

  “What about his memories of you, sir? Can you imagine if you wrote him a bad OER back when?”

  “However, like your first sergeant…”

  “He’s a Marine,” said O’Neal with a chuckle. “Yes, sir, I know. Well, as long as we don’t have to take any beaches everything should be fine. Actually I kind of prefer a Marine for this.”