“Lieutenant, if I thought we were going to lose the battalion I’d hold them in training despite all the bureaucrats in Washington.”
After the drab interior of the colony ship and the megascraper’s plain exterior, Mike was unprepared for the lavish decoration of the interiors. Despite the fact that the room was utilitarian, possibly the Indowy equivalent of a machine shop, the walls, floors and ceiling were covered with intricate paintings, friezes and bas reliefs. All of the corridors he had traveled and the rooms he had poked his head into were equally baroque. The Indowy love of craftsmanship apparently extended to interior decoration. Unlike similar decorations by humans, there were no scenes or portraits. All the decorations were intricate abstract curves and geometrics. Despite their alien nature they were pleasing to the human eye and surprisingly similar to patterns on Celtic brooches.
There were about sixty people milling around in the large room that was to be used for the battalion’s tactical operations center. The machinery and tanks of mysterious liquid had been moved against the walls and a set of folding chairs erected facing a low dais; the front row included an upholstered easy chair. On the back of the chair was a sign depicting a silver oak leaf and the words “2 Falcon 6.” A rooster in a cage clucked on one side of the dais. As Mike inspected it balefully, it crowed.
Also on the dais were several junior NCOs and enlisted men referring to clipboards and updating easeled maps. They were being supervised — Mike was reminded of the rooster with his hens — by the battalion S-3, Major Norton. A tall, distinguished-looking man, Norton, Mike had quickly come to realize, was not nearly as intelligent as he looked. Extremely energetic and able to parrot doctrine well, he responded poorly to novel situations and ideas. He and Mike had come to verbal blows several times during the battalion’s work-up.
Mike dialed up the zoom on his glasses and looked at the battle plan being drawn on the board. “Christ,” he whispered, “has anyone talked to the fire support officer?” Just then Captain Jackson, the FSO, got a good look at the board and walked over to Major Norton. When Captain Jackson tried to draw him aside, the S-3 brushed him off. He was, after all, Artillery, there for the battalion’s support, and a captain; thus, he could be ignored.
Mike looked around the room filled with camouflage-clad officers and NCOs. There were the commanders of the five companies, with their executive officers, the staff with their assistants and senior NCOs, the attachment leaders, engineering, fire support, medical and artillery. They were all pointedly ignoring him; in the case of a few of them he knew it was for mutual good. Consorting with the company commanders would have drawn fire for both of them from the S-3. Then he started counting chairs.
“Michelle,” he queried, “how many personnel first lieutenant and above in the room?”
“Fifty-three.”
“And how many chairs?” he asked.
“Fifty.”
“Michelle, who was in charge of setting up the seating?”
“The Battalion Operations section.”
“Bloody hell.” His relations with the battalion commander and his staff had not improved; if anything they had worsened. His, he thought, tactful and constructive critiques of communications and control were viewed as inappropriate to his experience, despite the fact that he limited his comments to subjects directly affected by the combat suits. He did not, for example, comment on the commander’s proclivity to place the battalion in a movement to contact formation after the enemy’s axis of advance had already been determined. Despite the enormous casualties caused by the resultant open field fighting, the colonel had apparently decided that the suits were invulnerable to the Posleen’s weapons and preferred to meet them mano y monstruo. The training scenarios were, after all, “theoretical”; no data on Posleen behavior in combat had yet been gathered by human units. His disdain for the research involved in developing the scenarios had only heightened since Mike’s abortive attempt to have the battalion held out of battle.
Mike had felt it necessary, however tactless it might have been, to comment on the communications structure. Lieutenant Colonel Youngman’s lack of practice with the suits and general technophobia caused him to fall back on a communications section and RTOs for communications control instead of training his AID to communications tasking. The RTOs were designated for specific nets and the only personnel permitted direct contact with the commander were certain members of the staff and the battalion executive officer, Major Pauley. Further, Youngman had designated the battalion as the sole source to authorize all requests for support except medical and logistics. Company commanders were to contact him to request fire support, for example, and he would determine if the request was valid. The commanders, in fact, had to practically contact him for permission to pass gas. The colonel had discovered that the suit systems gave him an Olympian view of the battlefield, and the ability to control the movement of every platoon if he so chose. He chose. Thus he controlled all aspects of the operation. Perfect micromanagement.
Unfortunately, the resulting managerial and information overload he had chosen to blame on the suit instead of the process. He had responded by placing more layers between himself and the company commanders while continuing to deny them their normal initiative. Thus, in every single combat scenario run to date the battalion had bogged down around its inability to maneuver or respond effectively. And now they were going into battle.
At a few moments before 0900 the groups started to break up and find seats. Surprising him not at all, when everyone was done, Second Lieutenant Eamons, the engineer platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Smith, the scout platoon leader, two of the company XOs and himself along with all the enlisted from the sergeant major to the privates with red pencils were sans chairs. The sergeant major looked really pissed.
A few moments later Major Norton called attention and Lieutenant Colonel Youngman entered and strode down the aisle to his spot. Reaching his seat 2 Falcon 6 sat, accepted a cup of coffee from a hovering mess private and called “As you were,” permitting everyone to resume their seats.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Major Norton. “Our mission is as follows: Task Force 2nd 3-2-5 Infantry has been tasked with defense of the III Corp flank in the area of the Deushi megalopolis where it is contiguous with the Nomzedi massif. The S-2 will brief on the threat situation.”
The S-2 was First Lieutenant Phil Corley. Dark of hair and slightly below average height, he was highly intelligent but lacked in great order common sense. He stepped up to an easel and threw back its canvas cover dramatically. The canvas cover had been thrown on moments before the colonel’s entrance. It was liberally covered with large red top secret stamps. Mike was not sure who the map was supposed to be kept secret from since the Posleen did not, as far as anyone could tell, use operational intelligence.
“In the big picture, to the southeast the ‘Bordoli Line,’ comprised of Chinese, Russian, southeast Asian and African troops has withdrawn to strategic positions near the Bordoli massif in the Aumoro megalopolis. They are anchored by the massif and the sea. This is their second strategic withdrawal in the week since they landed but the line is now less than sixty kilometers wide. Since it is now held by nearly three quarters of a million troops, further withdrawals are not anticipated.