“Not that I was going to be able to give you a fail, even if you deserved one.” The mahogany face was covered with two inches of plasteel and another two inches of underlayer. But Mike could still see the angry grimace.
“I hope that is not the case.”
“Don’t worry, Captain, your company seems well prepared for the invasion,” the major admitted. O’Neal’s reputation as a tactical innovator and near-god of suit combat had only grown since Diess. There were plenty of people in Fleet who felt that O’Neal’s reputation was so much bull. The major, at least, was starting to be a convert.
Mike watched his company assembling in the valley as visions of silver fire and swarming yellow centaurs swept across his memory. “I wish I could agree, sir. I wish I could agree.”
“Captain O’Neal,” the battalion commander’s voice chirped in his earpiece.
“Yes, sir?”
“Report to battalion, on the double.”
“Yes, sir.” He saluted the major. “Sir, I have to go.”
“Roger, Captain,” said the major, returning the salute, “good luck.”
“And to you, sir,” said Mike. He dropped the salute and took off down the ridgeline, legs blurring into run mode.
The colonel was waiting outside the command vehicle, a converted Humvee since they had not yet received updated combat shuttles. The first generation of combat shuttles was determined to be deficient even before deployment when the humans discovered that one of the Galactic races, the Himmit, had incredibly effective stealth technology.
The Himmit were an inquisitive species of cowards. Although curiosity might have killed the cat, it never killed the Himmit because they were very, very good at hiding. They had reconned multiple Posleen worlds without ever getting caught. It was a success which humans did not even consider until the first human special operations team went to do the same thing and failed miserably. One small note in the resulting multihundred-page report caused more changes in the war effort than the entire rest of the mission.
The weapons that the Posleen God Kings mounted on their saucer jeeps had continental range and autotargeting ability. While they seemed to have a blind spot where ballistic weapons were concerned, they would sweep away any item under power that crested the horizon. Therefore, tactical operations involving aircraft were basically out the window.
The original teams that designed the Galactic equipment that humans would use, such as the combat suits and the space dreadnoughts, designed a combat shuttle that was heavily armored, incredibly fast and surprisingly maneuverable. But on Diess they discovered it was still vulnerable to the God King launchers; of nine combat shuttles sent to succor then-Lieutenant O’Neal’s cut-off ACS platoon, only one survived.
The answer was stealth. Using a combination of human and Himmit stealth technologies a new generation of combat shuttles was being created that would be slightly less heavily armed and armored, but even faster and more maneuverable. Best of all it would be extremely stealthy.
The shuttles had a negative radar cross-section to human systems and only showed up as ephemeral ghosts on Galactic detectors; projectors even smoothed turbulence zones at subsonic speeds. The first prototypes had been fielded on Barwhon, where the humans were engaged in a desperate struggle in the swamps. While they continued to take losses, the rate was much more acceptable.
But until Terran Fleet Strike units received them, the battalions used a mixture of modern and futuristic equipment, such as the converted Humvee with a Galactic communications and battle planning center on the back deck. It affected their strategic mobility, but not local combat.
Colonel Hanson high-fived his Bravo Company commander with a resounding metallic clang! “Airborne, Captain! They’re trying to find a fault to discuss!”
“Well, I think I should have salvoed the third fire mission just a little earlier,” said Mike soberly. “The wave that made it through the fire on that one caused about three percent higher casualties than it should have. I have got to find somebody to delegate fire control to.”
“Well, I’ll just have to send you to bed without supper!” laughed the ecstatic battalion commander. All his other companies were performing well within expectations, but O’Neal’s performance had definitely been the cherry on the sundae. He had exceeded every pretest estimate of the highest possible marks. “I don’t think they’re gonna notice that one, frankly, and neither did I. I don’t think they can find a thing negative to say.”
“I didn’t think you could max an FSTEP, sir,” Mike said.
“I think you might have set a new standard. But that wasn’t what I called you back for.” The battalion commander proffered a hardcopy of e-mailed orders. “Nightingale is going to have to deal with the ORS and IG on her own; you’ve been ordered to CONARC on temporary duty. Your master’s voice, I guess.”
Mike glanced at the bald prose of the orders. It had Jack Horner’s touch all over it.
“Yes, sir, it sure looks that way. Well, the company’s as squared away as it’s gonna get. When do I leave?”
“There’s an evening flight out of Harrisburg direct to D.C.; you’re on it.”
“Yes, sir. By your leave?” he asked, saluting.
“Get outta here, Captain,” chuckled the colonel, returning the salute.
The flight into D.C. turned out to be a connecting flight full of uniforms. If there was a male of military age not in uniform, Mike thought he should be shot, stuffed and put in a museum as a rarity. The variety of uniforms was a surprise. Although most of the military on the flight seemed to come from Ground Force Guard and Line units — notable by their essentially unchanged United States Army greens — there were also “wet” navy officers and chiefs in black uniforms, Air Force in their blue, and Fleet officers in high-collar black uni-seals and beret. Mike was the only one on board in Fleet Strike blue and red, and felt conspicuous. He was glad that his seat companion, a forty-something female Fleet captain, either did not recognize him or did not care.
After the flight reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants came around with drinks. When the flight attendant passed him the requested Coke, she did a double take, but continued on, apparently dismissing the idea that Michael O’Neal would be on her plane. Afterwards, however, as the plane was just beginning its descent into Washington National, she came forward and did the approved stewardess squat by Mike’s seat.
“Excuse, me, sir. I was wondering something…” she said, diffidently.
“And that was?” Mike had cycled into a foul mood. Although the company was in good shape for an ORS and IG he wanted to be there to smooth out any wrinkles that might come up. He wanted the company to do as well on the inspections as they did in their readiness test. Although he respected Nightingale’s organizational abilities, he was worried about how she would manage the “problem children” in the company, even with Gunny Pappas riding herd. In that kind of mood, he didn’t give anyone any slack, much less a stewardess who just wanted to rub elbows with notoriety.
It was the very reason his tunic, against regulation, was totally unadorned with ribbons. He was wearing a Combat Infantryman’s Badge, with one star, indicating that he had been in two major conflicts, and a pin that was still so unusual as to be nearly unrecognizable: a half starburst. The pin had been developed by Fleet to recognize persons who had been in the path of a nuclear blast. Despite the fact that it was authorized to both Fleet and Terran personnel, there were not many people vertical who wore them.
“Are you the Michael O’Neal that was on Diess, the one who got the Medal of Honor?” she asked quietly.