"I said, Am I understood?"
"Yeah." "Sure." "Yes, sir."
Mike looked around at the gathered suits. The slumped postures clearly bespoke fatigue and resentment. "I asked if I was understood?"
"Yes, sir," the platoon responded tiredly.
"I'm sorry, my AID must be acting up," he said, twisting one finger against the side of his helmet, as if cleaning out an ear. Michelle helpfully transmitted a squeaking sound effect. "I can't HE-ar you."
"Yessir!" The general tone was angry for a change, which beat tired or mulish from Mike's point of view. Now to redirect the anger.
"Up until this moment we have been taking it in the ass," he stated. "I do not care for that, no offense to any of our sexually open-minded politicians. And whatever your orientation, I don't think anyone in this room cares for taking it in the ass either.
"Now, I personally promise you something," he said, his voice dropping to a malevolent whisper, "and in case you haven't noticed, I may be an asshole, but I get things done. And I keep my promises.
"This is what I promise, nothing more. We are going to stick this operation up the Posleen's ass, sideways. I guaran-fuckin'-tee that. I don't guarantee that any of us will be around to see it. That is not part of the bargain," he hissed.
"So, to do that, we are going to get up on our damn feet and go out and dance with the devil. We may lead, or we may follow. But we are gonna do the damn dance, am I understood?" he whispered.
"Yes, sir."
"God dammit, quit sounding off like a bunch of fuckin' hairdressers!" he shouted.
"Yessir!"
"What are we gonna do?"
"Fight?" "Get our asses kicked?" "Kick some butt?"
"We're gonna dance, sir," said Wiznowski, disconnecting from the power system.
"We are gonna dance. Now, what are we gonna do?"
"We're gonna dance, sir."
"Dammit . . ."
"WE'RE GONNA DANCE, SIR!" they sounded off.
"WHO'RE WE GONNA DANCE WITH?"
"THE DEVIL!"
"WE GONNA LEAD OR FOLLOW?"
"WE'RE GONNA LEAD!"
"DAMN STRAIGHT! SCOUTS OUT!"
33
Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III
0305 August 5th, 2002 AD
The officer and NCO accommodations were at the end of the battalion area opposite the battalion headquarters. The trailers were no different from those of the troopers, they just had fewer people in them. NCOs who were E-6 and under, staff sergeants and sergeant squad leaders, were quartered with the troops. Platoon sergeants, battalion staff NCOs and first sergeants, the senior noncommissioned officers, had quarters on one side of the area and the platoon leaders, company commanders and battalion staff had quarters on the other. The two groups were separated by a small quadrangle. The battalion commander had his own fancier trailer on one side of the quadrangle at the very end.
The intent of the setup was that the battalion commander and his staff would be forced to travel through the battalion area on their way to the headquarters, thereby forcing a daily cursory inspection of their battalion.
Unfortunately there was no battalion commander and very little in the way of staff. And, from the looks of things, most of the quarters were empty. Trash littered the area and most of the trailers showed some signs of damage; one of the trailers in the NCO section was completely off its foundations.
Lewis led them across the quadrangle and into a maze of trailers on the far side. As they entered the maze, Pappas noticed furtive movement on the edge of the area. Immediately afterwards a group of five or six looters burst out of one of the trailers and ran off into the night. The whole base seemed to be a mass of scavengers picking at the body of the beast.
Lewis finally came to a trailer indistinguishable from the others. He stepped up on the rickety stairs to the trailer, knocked on the door and stepped back. A moment later there was a shuffling sound from in the building. A window blind flickered as someone checked to see who the visitors were, then the yellow porch light clicked on.
The man who opened the door, .45 caliber pistol in hand, was tall and prematurely balding. He looked at Pappas then at Lewis and the CQ between two burly privates and raised an eyebrow.
"Yes?" he queried dryly.
Pappas saluted. "Lieutenant Arnold?"
The officer looked Pappas up and down, then cast his eyes over the squad following him before responding. "Yes." He returned the salute, permitting Pappas to drop his.
"I'm your new first sergeant, sir. Gun—Master Sergeant Ernest Pappas, reporting with a group of forty enlisted." Pappas was unsure what it was about the solemn figure in the doorway that was so unsettling. Although he was neither formidable in appearance nor even particularly fit, there was an aura of depth to him. He was older than the standard first lieutenant and had not received regen; that was part of it. But there was an immediate impression of humorful wisdom and caring in his light brown eyes. Considering the obviously screwed up condition of the company, it was hard to believe this officer was the acting company commander.
The officer regarded him for a moment longer then a broad smile split his face. "Samoan?" he asked. There was a slight note of glee in his voice.
It was the last thing Pappas had expected out of his mouth so he simply nodded.
"Are you trying to tell me," the officer said with the beginnings of a chuckle, "that the Fairy Godmother Department," he continued, obviously having a hard time controlling his laughter, "has seen fit—" he broke off to choke on a deep laugh.
"To send me a marine! Samoan! First sergeant?!" he finished with a shout of joy.
* * *
"So that's the situation Top," said the lieutenant, watching his new first sergeant for a reaction.
They were in the kitchen of the Bachelor Officers' Quarters for Bravo Company 1st Battalion 555th Infantry. The "Quarters" was a sixty-six-foot trailer subdivided into four single rooms with a shared kitchen, living area and bathroom. The rooms were the approximate size of a walk-in closet and the sole light fixture in the kitchen was an overhead outlet that had arrived sans cover.
The acting company commander was sharing these munificent quarters with the company's sole additional officer, the leader of first platoon. That worthy along with Michaels and fourth squad had been harried off into the night with the almost impossible task of securing transportation for the first squad and baggage at the front gate.
Arnold tried to read the mind of the veteran NCO, his face an expressionless mask in the yellow light of the exposed bulb.
Pappas, meanwhile, was trying to figure out how to get his ass out of a cleft stick. Everything would be fine if he had the backing of the commander, but if Arnold played it light things would get sticky.
"Let me see if I've got this straight, sir," he said carefully. "You just got here five days ago. The other El-Tee, Richards?"
"Rogers."
" . . . Rogers got here two weeks ago. Until then the company was being run by this Sergeant Morales?"
"Yup."
"And, might I ask your personal evaluation of the ability of this Sergeant First Class Morales?" Pappas asked carefully.