The ancient and secretive Buddhist country of Bhutan was briefly conquered by its neighbor, Bangladesh, for the purpose of becoming a leadership haven. A single visit by a British Armored Combat Suit battalion returned things to their original structure, but the Bhutanese had learned their lesson.
Obstructed by their religion from engaging in violence, they could still hire mercenaries, and a new Ghurka regiment was born. Ghurkas were mountain troops from Nepal that had a reputation as the best light infantry in the world.
To pay for it Bhutan opened a few small branch offices of major banks. Since the kingdom was determinedly old-fashioned and environmentally rigorous the bank branches were shoehorned into millennia-old massively built stone monasteries. Now, defended by the most renowned fighters in the world, massive stone walls and terrain obstacles to daunt Hannibal, the banks began to receive a tsunami influx of precious artwork, gems, metals and funds. A fractional tithe of this flood served to pay for the most advanced military equipment on Earth for the Ghurkas. The Ghurkas, and their British mercenary officers, were only too happy to put it to use.
Inflation, deflation and shortages wracked the world, causing famines and plagues in their wake. But through all of it most continued to work and struggle: to labor for a possible victory.
“Actually,” said Horner with a smile, “I hear the ratio of unmarried females is even higher than ever.”
“As, I said…”
“Well, you’re getting out of this office tonight. You have to be about done.”
“I am done,” Mike answered, gesturing at a massive stack of hardcopy on his desk: reports and presentations. “That’s it.”
“Okay, good,” Horner said, pleased but not surprised that everything was just so.
Mike had worked for him for two years when he was in charge of the GalTech infantry team, initially as a civilian TechRep and later as his aide. Horner had learned early that the junior officer had an intense ability to concentrate on getting a job done. He had chosen him for this job for that reason as much as for his ACS experience. Time had been short. There was a tiny list of people who could design the operational strategy for ACS employment in Fortress Forward. And there was a different tiny list of people who could pull something like that together in the bare two weeks he had had at his disposal. The only officer that Jack was aware of who was on both lists was sitting in the chair.
“As long as you’re ready for the all-commands conference tomorrow, you don’t have a reason not to come to the Fort Myer’s club tonight, all spiffy in your Fleet Blues.”
“Well, sir,” said Mike with a not particularly false yawn, “actually I have about thirty reasons, starting with sleep.”
Jack seemed to pay no attention to his rejection. “Besides welcoming all the Army commanders to this official kickoff of ‘Fortress Forward’ we will be celebrating the visit of the new French Ground Forces commander with a dining-out. I thought you might like to attend.”
“Well, sir, as I said…”
“His name is Crenaus.”
“The Deuxieme Armore commander, sir?” Deuxieme Armore, along with the Tenth Panzergrenadier and a scattering of British, Chinese and American armor units was rescued by then-Lieutenant O’Neal’s platoon on Diess, when they had been encircled by Posleen in the Dantren megascraper. The platoon had dropped megascrapers on two sides of the encirclement and cracked the Posleen on the remaining side with a barrage of antimatter grenades. The French general — a gangling firecracker of a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz — had been notably impressed. Mike, in turn, had been impressed with how well the general had held his unit together in such an impossible situation. Deuxieme Armore had come out of the conflict with lower losses than any of the other units in the mobile defense, to a great extent because they retained cohesion when others broke like glass vases. The strongest reason for that cohesion was the guest of the dining-out.
“The same. When he heard you were in town he insisted that you attend,” Horner said with a rare true smile.
“Yes, sir.” Mike took mental inventory of his wardrobe. He had a pressed set of Fleet Mess Blues and — on the suspicion that someone would require he wear them at some point — his medals.
He had thus far succeeded in not wearing any of them, despite Ground Force regulations to the contrary, by the simple expedient of pointing out that he was not, in fact, a Ground Force officer and, therefore, the regulation did not apply. He had had to endure three more drubbings by overzealous MP officers until a special order was circulated explaining the position of Fleet versus Ground Force personnel. He probably would not have made the issue were it not for the fact that other Fleet personnel assigned to the Pentagon were under constant harassment. If his application of the old-boy network could help to mitigate that in any way he felt it worth the effort. He also hated the looks he got when people saw him with the Medal. But, what the hell, it would be a chance to see some old companions.
“Airborne, General, sir. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Just be sure you’re there with all your medals on.” Jack smiled one of his cold thou-shalt-obey smiles. “Medals, Mike, not ribbons. And all of them.”
“Absent companions,” toasted Mike, as junior in the group.
“Absent companions,” chorused the inebriated crowd huddled around the new French High Commander.
The main ballroom of the Fort Myer Officers’ Club was jammed with the Military District of Washington’s finest. The bright light of the chandeliers pulled out highlights on gold braid and jewelry throughout the room as the officers and their ladies danced the minuet of power. The room was packed with generals of every rank; full colonels were not much more than waiters. But the entire room’s focus was on the small group by the head table where a circle of aides and senior subordinates clustered around four officers. Three of them were four-star generals; one of them was a mere captain.
“By rights, mon ami, you should be factored in that toast,” said the guest of honor, with a companionable clap on the shoulder to Mike.
“Well, there ain’t many left from my impromptu first command, that’s for sure.” Mike looked around at his company, only faintly uncomfortable with the situation.
In the year after his return from Diess he had been dragged around the United States as a talking head for the Public Information Office. During the tour he had intimate conversations with every kind of senior officer. He was sure at the time that the Curse of the Medal was on him; that for the rest of his career the closest he would come to the front was talking about it with a commentator. He was finally reprieved with his current command. So he was comfortable with senior officers at this point. And he had no problems with uniforms.
Before the tour began the first thing that was required of him by the PIO was the purchase, at fabulous expense, of a set of the new Fleet Strike Mess Blues. The group of designers and forward-thinking military officers that designed it rammed through some wildly successful combinations of Galactic technology and the modern mania for efficient and comfortable clothing. The daily wear uniform, combat silks, was as comfortable a set of clothes as any casual dress maniac could desire and even the standard dress uniform was extremely comfortable compared to the norm. That mania for casual comfort had ended abruptly at Mess Blues.