“Well, vehicle fuel, expended rounds, consumable expenditures, food, special field equipment, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, sir. The first thing to remember is that the Army had no idea what training budgets for an ACS unit would be, so they kept the budgets that they would have had as Airborne, Marines, whatever. What wasn’t considered is that the suits are fueled off a dedicated fusion plant at company level that is rated for forty years use with on-board fuels. The cost is part of our capital budget including the fuel, just like suits. Suit food is cheap, a basic supply comes with the suit and recycles itself so the cost of the whole battalion’s food for the year, if we stayed in suits, would come out of my pay, easy. No field toilet paper, no MREs, no vehicle fuel, no disposable plastics, the suits take care of it all, garbage in garbage out. For that matter, food comes out of the general battalion expenditure. And no ammunition costs.”
“What do you mean, no ammo costs?” Colonel Hanson replied, still trying to assimilate all his other assumptions about training costs being stood on their ear.
“When we start suit training, or even VR training, you’ll see, sir. The suits are absolutely awesome training vehicles; there is virtually, pun intended, no point in having a live-fire. So, we are so far overbudgeted that we could all buy Cadillacs out of the ammo budget and leave plenty to go around. So, anyway,” he concluded, “the big problem is not that we don’t have equipment, it’s that we haven’t received all of our personnel.”
“I wasn’t aware that, except for senior officers and NCOs, there was a personnel shortage. It sounds like you’re talking about troops or company-grade officers.”
“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. We’re still waiting on twenty percent of our junior personnel consisting of females and recalled enlisted and current training cadre.”
“You did say females? Females?”
“It was recently decided to open the Combat Arms to females,” O’Neal answered with another puff. He was tempted to chuckle, since the colonel had gotten quite red faced at the concept of females in his battalion. But he finally decided that discretion was called for. “We are expecting four female junior officers, that I am aware of, two transfer first lieutenants from other arms and two butter bars; hell, I am getting two of them. We’re also getting a slew of privates and rejuv or current-service NCOs including one of my platoon sergeants. All the girls are going through infantry training at the moment. The others are either going through retraining if they’re recalled or still at their units.”
“Oh, joy.”
“Yes, sir. Better now than when we were having the riots; I hate to think of what would have happened then. And then when they get here we have to retrain in ACS. There is still no ACS training center.”
“Right, well I do not intend to wear myself ragged trying to be my entire staff. Until there is a qualified replacement, you are the acting G-3. Get the other company commanders up here one at a time. I am taking them all on sufferance given the condition of the battalion.”
“It’s only partially their fault, sir. In many cases conditions resulted from direct orders of Major Stidwell.”
“Well, we’ll see if I agree. Okay, who is senior?”
“Captain Wolf, Charlie Company.”
“Get him up here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get started on revising the training schedule. We don’t have any duties to interfere and I believe in training. As soon as the new chums arrive, I want us out in the field, twenty-four/seven until Momma makes us come in from the rain. Create a training schedule beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And in your planning, keep one thing in mind. Our job is to put ourselves between the Posleen and civilians. The mission is to save our people. And we will not fail.”
CHAPTER 3
Atlanta, GA, United States of America, Sol III
1025 EST January 15th, 2004 ad
“My name is Sergeant Major Jake Mosovich.” The lights of the hall glinted from the silver badge on his green beret.
It was, Jake had decided, a singularly inappropriate environment. But the reception hall of the First American All Episcopal United African Church was packed to overflowing with a mixture of the very old, the very young, and women. All of them were gathered at tables piled with an odd assortment of weapons, household items and general bric-a-brac. The new Special Forces team, with a few old faces, was scattered throughout the room prepared to train or intervene, whichever seemed necessary. There was a jarring note to the room; there were no young men. Virtually every male of military age in the United States was already inducted into the military and if any of the local teens had gone AWOL, they certainly were not going to turn up at a Special Forces local defense training clinic. Even if it did mean a hot meal on a cold day.
“I am a twenty-five-year veteran of the United States Army Special Forces: We’re called The Green Berets. We are one of the special operations units your tax dollars have supported for years, so now you get to get some of your own back.” As usual that was good for a small laugh.
“The mission of the Special Forces is to train indigenous forces in irregular tactics. What that means is that we are supposed to go into countries and teach guerillas that are friendly to the United States how to be better guerillas. Officially, we have never performed our stated mission.” He smiled grimly and there was another chuckle. Some of them got it.
“But it is what we are trained to do. And guerillas, in general, do not have access to regular weapons or equipment. They have to make do with what’s around. And they don’t work with huge supply systems, the ‘tail’ as we military folks call it.”
His face turned grim. Combined with the scars it made him look like something from a nightmare. “We all know what’s coming,” he said, gesturing at the ceiling and by extension into space. “And we all know that the Fleet won’t be ready when it hits. The ships are taking a long time to build. And unless they are all ready, throwing the few that are ready at the attacks would not help us at all and would set the plans back for years.
“And the politicians have finally admitted that there won’t be much of a chance of defending the coastal plains.” He chuckled grimly at the simple term. “In case any of you are not aware, that includes Atlanta. And Washington and L.A. and Baltimore and Philly and just about every other major city in America.” He didn’t completely agree, and he wondered who thought that it wasn’t political suicide. But the decision had been made.
He shook his head again. “And I know that most won’t be leaving.” He looked around the room at the assembled faces. Old women and men, boys and girls. A smattering of women between twenty and fifty. Two men in the same range, one with both legs missing and the other showing signs of palsy. “At least not right up until the invasion. I’ve seen more wars than most of you have seen movies and don’t nobody leave until right up to the last minute. Then there’s always a mad scramble. Something always gets left or forgotten. Somebody is always at the back of the line.” He shook his head again, face gray and grim.