“He told me to keep my damn comments to myself and listen to Commander O’Neal and I might just live to see Terra again.” She shook her head and swore. “This is the only damned frigate circling Earth that has all its weapons on-line and a fully capable drive! And if you don’t think Fleet notices that, you’re not as smart as they say you are.
“We are currently the only frigate that is more or less ready to sail in harm’s way!” continued the captain, seriously. “If there is an emergence of Posleen ships, the fighters and the other frigates will try. But most of the frigates, if they’re not limping on one reactor their launch systems are off-line!”
“Oh, joy!” said Sharon as anger built in her system. “So, what you’re telling me is I’ve been stuck in this hell-hole for doing a good job?”
“No, Commander!” said the captain, determinedly. “I’m telling you that you are stuck for doing an incredible job! And you are now going to have to teach still another sea-sucking regular Navy asshole how the hell you do it!”
“Oh, God,” said Sharon, with a laugh for the accuracy of the phrasing. The laugh held a note of despair.
“And I, in turn,” said the officer quietly, “will give you all the support I can. So, maybe, we can turn this into something other than a flying rat-hole sardine-can.”
Sharon nodded and sighed. “Well, ma’am, in that case we’d better get you accustomed to the paperwork.”
“Not the systems?” asked the captain. It was a test. The captain might learn a smattering of the equipment, but for the moment getting the parts out off the supply chain was much more important.
“Not if you want to have any running in a month,” said Sharon, shortly. “The Fleet floats on electronic paperwork. And my AID is about to give your AID a crash course. Starting with how messed up the parts program is.”
CHAPTER 15
Ft. Indiantown Gap, United States of America, Sol III
1427 EDT September 13th, 2004 ad
“Yes, Ampele?” First Sergeant Pappas looked up at the image of the operations sergeant displayed by his AID. The call had interrupted his attempt to reduce the mass of paperwork that had built up while he was on leave and he suppressed an illogical snarl; the recently promoted ops sergeant was famous for not wasting his time.
“Top, battalion PAC just called and we’re getting another E-6.”
“We’re up to strength,” responded Pappas as a knee-jerk reaction.
“No, we’re down one, according to PAC, and technically they’re right.”
“If you’re talking about Stewart’s squad, you’ve got to be joking.”
“I don’t know what else we’re going to do with him. He’s senior to Stewart and all the other squads have staffs as squad leaders.”
“Do we have his two-oh-one? And where are we on getting Stewart his Six?”
“The two-oh-one’s still queuing from all the transfers, but PAC is ‘very confident’ that we will have it in hand by the time he arrives, and he has a hardcopy with him. And there is no way that battalion is going to board Stewart. He’s barely out of basic!”
“So are you, and I got you your five stripes. Never mind, I’ll take another hammer to the sergeant major. When the new guy arrives, send him straight in.”
“Roger.”
“Staff Sergeant Duncan,” said the new NCO, from the doorway, “reporting to the first sergeant as ordered.”
Duncan had been around — he was entering his twelfth year in the military — and he knew that when you reported to your company, whatever the procedure might say, you usually saw other NCOs before you were introduced to your new first sergeant or commander. Because they were very busy people with tight schedules, if you were ordered to report directly to one or the other on arrival, it usually meant trouble. And he really had no interest in trouble. Especially from the big son of a bitch that was his new Top.
“Come on in, Duncan was it? Pull up a chair.” Ernie Pappas, who still thought of himself as a gunnery sergeant, could tell when someone was on pins and needles and suspected he knew why.
“No big problem,” he continued. “If you’re wondering why I asked to see you right away, just a couple of things I wanted you to be aware of. Termites in your new home, so to speak.”
First Sergeant Pappas did a quick perusal of his newest NCO and came away with varying first impressions. For one thing, the guy was no rejuv. Pushing thirty probably, though it was hard to tell with his eyes. He had a battered look, kinda shocky, that reminded him of the Old Man when he first arrived, and a pin that he had only ever seen before on the captain, the one that meant that the person had been in nuclear ground combat. Despite how bad it was on Barwhon, the pin had only been earned in one engagement.
He held out his hand for the hardcopy personnel file clutched in the new NCO’s hand. “Diess?” he asked, softly.
“Yeah. And I just got back from Barwhon,” the staff sergeant replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve seen the pin before.” Pappas let it lie at that and started reading the file. He skipped all the marketing bullshit at the front that was mainly for promotion boards and went straight to the military history file. Several items leaped off the page. After a few moments’ scan he closed the file and smiled.
“What?” Duncan asked. He knew that his new first sergeant had seen something that made him adjust his first impressions, probably either the Article 15 just before Diess, or he had read through the lines on his most recent transfer. The smile could mean anything.
“Well, I have the old good news, bad news routine,” said Pappas with a slight smile. “And I’ll lay it out with the intermediate news first. I wanted you to know that your platoon sergeant is a female.
“Sergeant First Class Bogdanovich was an instructor for the Marines before they opened up the combat arms and she jumped at the chance to go to Strike. She is extremely competent and runs a helluva platoon. I doubt that you’re going to have problems, but you’re not prejudiced against women, are you? I’d appreciate an honest answer; I can shuffle things if you are.”
Like I could say yes? thought Duncan. “No, that’s fine. I’ve never worked with a female boss, but we were having them trickle in as I was leaving Diess. The ones who are professional are fine.”
“You got a problem with some that aren’t professional?” asked the first sergeant cautiously.
“Top, if one of my troops starts bawling because I told them they fucked up, that’s their problem,” said Duncan with a frown. “I do not coddle my male troops, I damn sure won’t coddle any female ones. Yeah, I had a little problem with that on Diess, not one of my troops. She eventually decided that maybe Fleet Strike wasn’t the place for her.”
The first sergeant decided to take that one on faith. It sounded like a couple of incidents he’d heard about, but not in Bravo since they’d received their first group of women. Fleet Strike was composed of multiple countries’ forces, some of which had a tradition of women in combat. It made no allowances for feminine virtues or perceived weaknesses. It was not that what was generally considered a feminine approach did not have merit, it was just that it had no merit in combat. The Fleet forces were slowly coming to terms with that fact, the American forces generally much slower than others. From Pappas’s point of view, it was up to the Bogdanoviches and the Nightingales to prove that they had a place. There were no freebies in the infantry. Not with a war on.