As an advisor on armored combat suit tactics to the Diess Expeditionary Force, then-Lieutenant O’Neal had taken command of remnants of the Armored Combat Suit battalion to which he was attached after it had a drastic encounter with the first wave of Posleen. The platoon-sized band, initially weaponless due to a fuel-air explosion that had swept away their suit-mounted weaponry, ended up breaking the Posleen siege of the armored divisions of the expeditionary force. Along the way they killed a plurality of the Posleen in the attack and destroyed a Posleen command ship that had come in for close support of the Posleen forces. O’Neal had accomplished this last feat by the simple expedient of flying his command suit up to the ship and detonating an improvised antimatter limpet mine by hand.
The armor enclosing the young man across from him, who was now examining a cigar as if it were a weapon on guard mount, had been blown five kilometers through the air and several buildings. Finally that particular bit of detritus along with what was left of O’Neal had skipped a further two kilometers out to sea and sunk. Weeks later it was found by a SEAL recovery team homing in on the automated beacon and glad to find a half a billion credits’ worth of combat suit partially intact. To their surprise the armor announced that the occupant was viable.
“Not just the medal. More the way you kept your company together. That’s the sign of a good commander.”
“Good command team, sir, pardon the correction. Gunny Pappas is tops.”
“They sent us a Marine? I thought they were mostly going to Fleet.” The way that the Galactic Federation fought the war against the Posleen had caused numerous schisms in the way the United States military did its job. The aliens’ Federation supported their Fleet from funds drawn on all two hundred-plus planets of the Federation.
However, planets that were actively engaged against the Posleen had to fund their own ground defenses. In the case of established planets, corporations whose trade would be affected drew on multiple planets to fund the defense. The planet Diess, which O’Neal had served on, drew forces from the spectrum of Earth’s armies. However, the planet Barwhon, which despite its lack of industry had more monetary resources to draw on, was being defended only by “NATO” troops.
Since Earth had only heard of the Federation three and a half years before, it was without any monetary support other than whatever it could raise by selling its military forces to the highest bidder, which also served to train Earth’s forces for its own impending invasion, now less than two years away. Despite the situation, it seemed impossible to become politically cohesive and prepare as one planet for the invasion. This caused a number of compromises.
Some Fleet Strike forces were detailed directly to the Fleet, while others were detailed to the planets either under attack or about to be attacked. In the case of the Earth, those units detailed to Terran defense were to be retained for their parent countries’ usage, while still being under the Fleet’s regulations and chain of command. However, Fleet personnel were drawn primarily from Terran navies. And Fleet Strike forces — the ground combat, special operations and fighter forces — were drawn from each country’s Marine, Aviation and Special Operations units.
Because of the size of the United States and NATO’s Navy, Marines, Airborne and Special Operations, the defense Fleet was heavily influenced by NATO with Russia and China a close second. Virtually every Fleet Strike ground unit was found in those four areas with one battalion in Japan. There were howls of outrage over the patent injustice from the Third World, but this time nobody had time to listen.
The force situation and alien technology had modified some long-standing traditions in the United States military. Fleet Strike’s American contingent now consisted of the First through Fourth Fleet Strike Divisions, drawn from the Marines, the 82nd, 101st and 11th Divisions along with the 508th, 509th, 555th, and 565th Separate Regiments, all drawn from the Airborne. The Marine and Airborne Units were or would soon be Armored Combat Suit units, mobile infantry units whose personnel fought encased in powered battle armor and wielded grav-guns that hurled depleted uranium teardrops at relativistic speeds or plasma cannons that could go through the side of a World War II battleship.
Since the Fleet Strike personnel placement system no longer recognized a difference between Marine and Airborne there were occasional situations that were extremely nontraditional. A Marine Gunnery Sergeant might be ordered to a unit that was drawn from the Airborne tradition or an Airborne commander put in charge of a Marine unit. There were more Airborne personnel and senior officers than Marine, so to cantilever the Airborne influence all senior battalion and brigade NCOs could be called “Gunny” although the actual rank was being slowly phased out. Fleet Strike’s American Command Post, however, was at Twenty Nine Palms, a former Marine base. And their dress uniforms, while drawing heavily on certain well-known science fiction TV shows, were dark blue piped with red, the color of Marine Dress Blues. The Airborne establishment found itself busy playing catch-up.
A small ceremonial contingent of American Marines remained, passing back and forth between Fleet and the Presidential Guard. They were the only Terran forces under the sole and direct command of a country that wore battle armor. America, with not only tremendous economic clout but equally great military renown, was the only country with an off-planet credit high enough to afford the incredibly expensive suits.
“Yes, sir,” said O’Neal with a characteristic frown. “An actual Marine Gunny, long, long service. He’s a hippie.”
“Hippie?”
“What they call a Vietnam vet. Real old timer.”
“Well, I suppose us hippies will have to talk over old times,” said the commander with a smile.
“Jesus, sir!” said Mike, looking at the apparently teenage colonel in surprise. “You’re for real?”
“I took a company of the One-Oh-One into Happy Valley in Vietnam,” said the colonel with a suppressed shudder at the memory. “I started off as a butter bar with the One-Eighty-Seventh.”
“Hmmm. Well, at least I won’t have to explain who Janis Joplin is.”
“It is damn strange, isn’t it?” said the commander, tossing another piece of “I-Love-Me” claptrap into a box. “How the hell do you separate the wheat from the chaff? The regimental commander is forty years younger than me. When I was retiring he was a second lieutenant. I’m glad I didn’t know him; I can imagine what my memories of him would do to our relationship.”
“What about his memories of you, sir? Can you imagine if you wrote him a bad OER back when?”
“However, like your first sergeant…”
“He’s a Marine,” said O’Neal with a chuckle. “Yes, sir, I know. Well, as long as we don’t have to take any beaches everything should be fine. Actually I kind of prefer a Marine for this.”
Colonel Hanson looked at him quizzically as he dropped the last plaque into the box. “Pourquois?”
Mike suddenly looked grim as he held up the cigar with his own querying expression. At a nod he lit it with a Zippo emblazoned with a black panther on a rock. Drawing in a series of puffs he said, “Well, sir…” puff, “the Airborne has a tradition,” puff, puff, “of in and out. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.” Puff. “Also, the Airborne tradition is, practically, for hit and run.” Deep draw, puff. “Hmmm, El Sol Imperials. Damn hard to find, what with the shortages.” He dropped the affectation with a sudden intensity, stabbing the cigar as if to drive in the points.