“What’s wrong, Gunny?” asked Stewart, stepping back from the urinal so that the next squad member could move up. “That door does stick something awful for a Mickey Dee’s, doesn’t it?”
“Okay, where is she?” asked Pappas, meeting him stare for stare. The bathroom smelled like most, a little cleaner with a smell of dilute urine and other matters best left unnoticed. But underlying them all was a faint whiff of cheap perfume.
“Where’s who, Sergeant?”
“The other half of the pair. The one you didn’t sic on Ampele.” At the reference the broad platoon leader looked chagrined; again the sergeant had proven he was two jumps ahead.
“I have not a clue what you are talking about Sergeant,” said Stewart, an absolute picture of innocence. “There are no women in this bathroom,” he continued gesturing around at the braced squad, “and you came in the only door.” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if wondering at the sergeant’s strange aberrations.
“Ampele, stay here. Stewart,” he said, sinking a meaty hand into the slight PFC’s shoulder, “we need to have another little chat.” Pappas dragged him out of the bathroom and then outside into the autumn mists.
“If I have told you oncet,” said Pappas mildly as he slammed the private into the outside wall of the burger joint, “I have told you twicet,” he continued, driving the brim of his campaign hat into the bridge of Stewart’s nose and his finger into the private’s breastbone, “do not fuck with me. I think you may be officer material, but you’re more likely to end up in Leavenworth. The stupid bitch is above the third acoustic tile from the left starting from the urinal, undoubtedly scared out of her life. There was a smell of perfume and a scattering of bits from the tile you were trying to hide behind the squad.
“Now, get your squad back out in line to eat, get her down and on her way, without any fucking around, and report to me when you’re done, is that clear?”
“As crystal, Gunny.” The hint of smugness enraged Pappas and a suddenly realized solution came as a bolt from the blue. He smiled evilly. At that sight a hint of wariness crept into the private’s eyes.
“From now on I am off duty,” Pappas said and smiled inwardly at the sudden confusion Stewart revealed. “If anything goes wrong,” he continued, “it is your responsibility,” a rock-hard forefinger drove into a breastbone again. “I am totally hands off, got it? When you fuck up,” finger, “I am taking a stripe. You’re a PFC, so you’ve got two to lose. When they fuck up, you,” finger, “are losing a stripe. You are in charge of all activities as of when we reach the hotel, I’ll announce it on the bus when we leave. That should keep you out of trouble. Is that clear?”
“Clear, Gunny,” Stewart agreed, his face turning gray.
“Me and Ampele we’re going to relax the rest of the trip ’cause you have all the responsibility. If anything goes wrong, public drunkenness, public lewdness, irate fathers, shopkeepers ripped off, vomiting in public, it is your,” finger in the chest, “ass. All night and all day tomorrow. I intend to sleep like a baby. Is that absolutely, perfectly, crystal clear?”
“Yes, Gunny.”
“Good.” The NCO smiled broadly, his white teeth bright against his wide brown face. “Have a nice day.”
And the rest of the trip was a picnic.
26
Andata Province, Diess IV
2059 GMT May 18th, 2002 ad
Lieutenant O’Neal stripped the box magazine from his M-200 grav rifle and stared unseeing at the thousands of teardrop-shaped pellets within. Then he reinserted the magazine and did the same with his grav pistol.
“Would you please quit doing that?” asked Lieutenant Eamons. Both of them waited by windows on the northwest corner of Qualtren. The angle was even greater than the FSO indicated and they had a clear view of the 1.145 miles to the next intersection. There the Naltrev megascraper cut back and blocked the view. Naltrev and its sister megascraper Naltren held the battalion scout platoon and the upper part of O’Neal’s vision systems were slaved to the view from the scout platoon leader’s.
“Where are your people, Tom?” Mike asked.
“Downstairs.”
“Are they tasked?” O’Neal continued to watch the view from the scout leader. It was unsettling because of the flicker of a personal area force-screen — the PAF set up in the anticipated direction of attack — and because Lieutenant Smith had a nasty tendency to occasionally toss his head like a horse throwing a fly. The movement would swing the viewpoint right and up. I doubt he even notices that he’s doing it, thought Mike, stripping out the magazine and reinserting it, but I wish he’d quit.
“Would you please quit doing that, Mike! And why do you want to know? No, they’re sitting around with their thumbs up their butts.”
“Quit what?” Mike asked, his attention focused like a medical laser on the view from his helmet. “Start having them emplace cratering charges across Anosimo and Sisalav at the Sal Line and then start placing C-9 charges at the locations I’ll slave to their AIDs.”
“Whoa, Mike. You’re a nice guy and outrank me by a whole grade, but the hell if I’ll piss my career away for you. The colonel will have my bar if I do that.” The lieutenant tried to shake his head and stopped when he had to force it against the biotic gel filling the helmet.
The Jell-O-like material completely filled the helmet and the interior of the suit. It was responsible for more than a third of the cost of the armor and the only major part that was not, at bottom, O’Neal’s concept.
Putting on the helmet of a combat suit was something like putting your head in a bucket full of jam. However, the material completely cushioned the wearer against the most extreme shocks and had a series of other important functions. It read the user’s movement intentions through their own neural net and drove the suit accordingly. It recycled waste into potable water, edible food and breathable air. And it had enough medical technology and ability to keep its “ProtoPlasmic Intelligence System” alive as long as they did not take a direct hit to the heart, brain or upper spine.
All that did not make troopers any happier about donning the helmet. One third of all washouts in the first month of training were from troops who could not handle first putting on the helmet, then holding their breath as the underlayer humped and rippled creating pockets for breathing and vision. The wait until the suit was in position could feel like an eternity.
The underlayer also acted as an ersatz sensory deprivation device, another negative that led to occasional mishaps. The weapons and equipment of the units had to be specially modified all around. With no feedback from contacts, the suits had a tendency to destroy anything they touched.
Since there was no way to actually see through the underlayer, the helmet was totally opaque. What the user saw was a high-quality representation cast by tiny laser diodes that threaded out of the helmet wall. Instead of turning his head, when a trooper made a movement to look from side to side the viewpoint shifted. It was somewhat like controlling a point of view with a joystick. Again, it took getting used to. There was no feeling of motion, so it could induce motion sickness, and a trooper could suddenly find himself looking backwards by overdriving the viewpoint controls. Similar leads tapped the mastoid bone for sound conduction.