But the Posleen not only boasted incredible masses of troops so fanatical they would happily take any ordered loss to achieve any ordered objective, they also had weapons capable of negating the utility of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Although the weapons of the normal Posleen were unaimed, fired “from the hip” without careful sighting, many Posleen carried heavy railguns, capable of penetrating side armor on an M-1 tank, or hypervelocity missile launchers capable of penetrating frontal armor. And the God King leader caste carried either automatic HVMs, laser cannons or plasma cannons. A plasma cannon, even if it struck a modern tank with a glancing blow, raised the interior temperature so high it cooked the crew to death.
But all that senior officers heard was “wave charges” and “unaimed weaponry” and they assumed it would be like fighting Napoleonic-era human troops. It might even have been true were it not for the God Kings and their systems. It seemed to those senior commanders as if a modern, well-trained and equipped force should be able to slaughter them.
On that point Michael agreed; the Posleen were going to be slaughtered. What he could not get across to the senior leadership was that the Posleen couldn’t care less how many they lost. They came in such masses that reducing their numbers by ninety percent often left them still outnumbering defenders, and with superior weaponry. Well, the powers-that-be would discover the error of their ways soon enough. Unfortunately Mike expected blood baths aplenty in the near future.
The bus finally pulled up to the side entrance of the Pentagon, disgorged a mass of uniformed personnel and prepared to take on another mass headed back to the airport. Mike stared at the busy, scurrying officers, so intent on superior performance of their little niches, and wondered what they all did. What in the world were thirty captains, majors and colonels, most of whom wore the Military District of Washington shoulder patch, doing flying out to distant places at ten o’clock at night?
“Their contribution to the war effort, I guess,” he muttered as he stomped wearily over to the MP-guarded entrance. His day had begun at 3 a.m. and had included a prepared attack, a hasty defense and a prepared defense. He had fought three virtual “murthering great battles” and it was, in his opinion, getting nigh on to bedtime.
“Can I help you, Captain?” asked the MP lieutenant in an oddly supercilious tone, as he stepped in Mike’s way. Mike recognized the symptoms. Many Army and Navy personnel resented the whole concept of Fleet Strike, effectively American units being put under a broader command, some of them removed from America and not directly defending it. And the difference in pay scale did not help matters.
Since Fleet and Fleet Strike were paid by the Federation, as opposed to Terran governments, they were paid in Federation credits. The Federation had a fixed payment scale for every level of worker throughout the Federation and the soldiers and spacemen of Fleet and Fleet Strike were given positions in that hierarchy.
Through one of those quirks of Federation law that was so beneficial to humans, military personnel had an automatically advanced caste position. Federation law legitimized differing legal structures for differing societal rank; what was illegal for a lower-rank Galactic might be legal for a higher-rank Galactic.
Since the Galactics did not recognize the difference between the legality of things civilian and military, most military activities, such as terminating sentient life, required special permissions. These, in turn, required a higher “caste.” That being the case, the lowest ranked soldier or spaceman was ranked the same as an Indowy junior master craftsman. The higher ranks were thus extremely advanced in the overall Galactic hierarchy.
Given these advanced ranks, the Galactic pay scales were equivalent. A Fleet Strike captain made as much as a junior Darhel coordinator-nearly as much as an Army major general. On the other hand, with the tax increases for the war he was being taxed at almost eighty-seven percent of his income. It was a reasonable contribution to the war fund by anyone’s estimation. Mike had also heard something about a Federation-mandated bonus from the Diess action. That would further add to the disparity in pay scales. Whatever the case there was extreme prejudice over the pay structure.
It was an attitude that would slowly dissipate after the war, if anyone survived, as Army units were subsumed into Fleet Strike. In the meantime it was just another hassle to be shrugged off.
“Yes, you can, Lieutenant. You can check me in. I’m supposed to report to CONARC.”
“I’m sorry, Captain, you seem to be in the wrong place. CONARC is based at Fort Myer. There will be a shuttle in about forty-five minutes.”
Mike handed over his copy of the e-mail and fingered the AID wrapped around his wrist. “As you can see, the orders clearly state to report to the CONARC commander at the Pentagon, not Fort Myer. So, where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t know, Captain, I’m just the gatekeeper. But these aren’t authority for Pentagon entry.” He did not seem a bit displeased by the problem. “And in case no one ever explained this sort of thing to you, when it says report to the commander, it actually means report to someone at the command who will report you as arrived.” The lieutenant proffered another smug smile, having to explain such a simple item to one of the lords of the Fleet.
Mike fingered the AID for a moment. “Would you care to try to find out?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start, Captain. I suppose you could call CONARC,” he finished, pointing to a rank of pay phones outside the entrance.
“Okee-dokee.” Mike slipped the AID off his wrist and set it on his head. It automatically conformed into a headset/microphone array. “Shelly, get Jack, please.”
“Yes, sir,” the AID chirped. There was a brief pause, then, “General Horner on the line.”
“Mike?” came the clipped tones.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you?” asked General Horner.
“At the side entrance.”
“Tell the MP to clear you through to the High Commander’s office, ASAP.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked at the MP. “Okay, Lieutenant, the Continental Army Commander say, go to dee High Commander’s office, ASAP. Whadda you say?”
“I have to have an authorized clearance to permit you entry to the building, sir,” said the MP, obviously calling the snotty Fleet jerk’s bluff.
“Jack, he says he has to have clearance.”
When Mike used the Continental Army Commander’s first name, without being rebuked, the MP’s face turned as white as milk. It was obviously not a bluff.
“Give him the phone,” General Horner said, icily.
Mike handed over the AID, which the MP accepted gingerly, and watched as the lieutenant basically melted into the concrete. After three “yes, sirs” and a “no, sir” he handed the AID back and waved over one of the guards.
“Sergeant Wilson, take the captain directly to the High Commander’s office,” he said quietly.
“Have a nice day.” Mike waved airily as he snapped the shiny, black AID back around his wrist.
“Yes, sir.”
REMF, thought Mike.