A short story he had read in high school, one of the few he remembered, flashed through Spengler's mind. "Lennington vs. the Ants," it was called, and told the tale of a plantation owner's fight against the advance of a force of army ants. Watching the Legionnaires advance steadily on his position, the sergeant experienced a chilling moment as his mind's eye superimposed the image of that merciless, unstoppable swarm over the black-uniformed figures jogging toward him. This Space Legion troop no longer seemed quite as comical as they had this morning. If they were...
The dull whump of a nearby explosion made the master sergeant duck reflexively. At first he thought there had been some sort of catastrophic accident on the course, but then the truth dawned on him.
They were blowing up the obstacles!
Horror and outrage warred within the sergeant as he witnessed another barrier, the three-meter wall this time, disappear in a flash-boom, followed by a shower of splinters and debris. Before the echoes of the explosions had fully died away, the advancing black company appeared, maintaining their dogged advance through the clouds of dust, unnervingly close now.
With the iron discipline of a combat veteran, the master sergeant turned his back on the spectacle and began loading the first belt of ammunition into the machine gun.
Let the major fight it out over whether or not the Legionnaires' tactics were acceptable. His job was to see to it that they kept their heads down while they went under the wire. Nobody passed this position rapidly. Not with tracers whining around their...
The world suddenly went topsy-turvy around him, as the sergeant was violently upended and slammed down on the platform. Shaken and confused, he tried to struggle upright, only to be pushed flat again, this time with teeth-rattling force.
"Mmmm... You... stay down. Okay?"
A berry brown face with obsidian-dark eyes swam into focus. One of the black-uniformed Legionnaires was squatting over the sergeant's fallen form, and Spengler could feel the light prick of a knife point under his chin.
"W-what do you think you're doing?" he gasped, trying hard to speak without moving his chin. "You can't..."
He broke off speaking as the pressure under his chin increased sharply.
"The captain tell me, he say 'Escrima, I want you to help remove the obstacles.' Here, you are the obstacle... yes? I remove you by capturing. You want, I kill you instead."
Reviewing his options quickly, for the sergeant was unwilling to bet his life that the Legionnaire was joking-or bluffing-Spengler opted to lie quietly where he was. This did not, of course, keep him from seething inwardly as he watched wire cutters clear the barbed wire from his position, and, scant seconds later, the entire company sweep by this supposedly challenging obstacle without breaking stride.
"You can't mean you're going to let them get away with it... sir. "
Sprawled in one of the "guest rooms" of the Space Legion's incredible facilities which had been assigned to them for use during the competition, Major O'Donnel favored his master sergeant with a scowl.
"I didn't say we were going to let them get away with it," he said tightly. "I said I wasn't going to lodge a protest."
"But they didn't run the confidence course... they totaled it!"
"And we could have, too... if we thought of it," the major snapped back. "We had the equipment in our packs, and it was declared as combat conditions. It's what we would have done in combat. We just got trapped into conventional thinking, is all."
"Well, what they did sure wasn't regulation," the sergeant growled.
"Neither is the Exhibition Manual of Arms we used this morning. All right, we had our chance to show off without them whimpering about it, and now they've had theirs. At the moment, we're even."
"So we're going to let it stand as a win for the Space Legion?" Spengler said, trying to sting the officer's pride.
"Face it, Sergeant. We lost. They beat our time without passing up any obstacles... and they did it with ten times as many troops. Of course, we helped them. That was a pretty lackluster performance our boys put on today. Frankly I don't think we deserved to win this event. We goofed off while they busted ass. That's no way to come out on top."
The master sergeant had the grace to look embarrassed.
"We didn't think they could come on that strong, sir," he muttered, avoiding the officer's gaze.
"Uh-huh. We got cocky and overconfident to a point where we badly underestimated an opponent," O'Donnel clarified. "If anything, Sergeant, we owe these Legionnaires a vote of thanks for teaching us a valuable lesson. I think we were damn lucky not to have learned it in real combat. At least this way, we're still alive... and we get another chance."
"You know, sir," Spengler said carefully, as if surprised by his own words, "I never thought I'd say it, but I don't think I'd relish taking that crew on in a real brawl."
The major grimaced. "Don't feel bad. I've been thinking much the same thing. Wouldn't mind having them covering my flank, though... as long as we were sure they wouldn't confuse us with the enemy."
He grinned mirthlessly at his own joke, then shook his head.
"Enough of that, though. I've got to start concentrating on the fencing match tonight. It's going to be our last chance to pull the Army's chestnuts, not to mention our own reputation, out of the fire."
"Do you think there might be a problem, sir?" The master sergeant frowned. "I mean, we do have Corbin on our side."
"Yes, we do." O'Donnel nodded. "But that's only one bout out of three. After this afternoon, I wouldn't bet the rent money that those clowns are going to hand us the other two on a platter."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Journal #130
It is doubtful that you have ever attended a fencing tournament unless you are directly involved in the sport, either as a participant or through some emotional or professional relationship with a fencer. This is due to the simple fact that fencing is not a spectator sport, the action being far too fast and subtle for the uneducated eye. (It might be of interest to note that fencing is one of the few sports where the competitors pay a fee, but the spectators get in for free.)
Usually such an event is held in a large gymnasium or field house, with anywhere from six to several dozen "strips" laid out. The competitors are divided into groups or "pools" and fence each person within their pool. The top two or three advance to the next round, where they are reassigned to new pools and the process begins again. The bulk of those attending are in the competition area, consisting almost entirely of competitors and coaches, while a smattering of spectators made up of friends and parents of the competitors loll about in the bleachers getting bored. Only the final bouts generate much interest, but even then there are few spectators, most competitors packing their equipment and leaving as soon as they are eliminated.
Needless to say, this was not the situation for the final event between the Red Eagles and my employer's company.
Major O'Donnel paused in his limbering-up exercises to glance at the growing crowd of spectators. Despite his resolve to ignore any distractions while mentally preparing for the competition, he found his mindset giving way to amazement.
Crazy!
The Legionnaires' tactics on the confidence course had been unorthodox, but this... This was unheard-of! It looked like the entire company of the Space Legion was in attendance, filling the bleachers at one end of the floor, while his own Red Eagles, unhappy at not having a direct hand in the deciding event, were fidgeting impatiently in the rows of chairs provided for them at the opposite end. What really surprised him was the audience.