"I believe your own acceptance of the patch is sufficient, sir. Rather like a father showing appreciation for his children by hanging their artistic efforts on the wall of his office."
Phule shook his head again, more emphatically this time.
"It goes way beyond that. Even my best-case scenario didn't cover how fast the crew is coming together. I'll tell you, Beeker, I couldn't be more proud of them if they were my own kids."
"Well, sir, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. How did they take the announcement that the Regular Army is arriving tomorrow?"
"I never made it." The commander sighed, sagging slightly in his chair. "They sprang this on me before I got around to it, and I couldn't bring myself to change the mood once they got rolling. I decided to let them celebrate tonight... tomorrow will come soon enough."
It might be of interesting historical note to some that use of the expression "hookers" as a designation for prostitutes originated during the Old Earth American Civil War. At that time, General Hooker maintained an entourage of "soiled doves" who accompanied him on his campaigns. If anyone visiting his encampment happened to ask one of the soldiers who these "ladies" were, they were simply informed, "They're Hooker's," and the phrase took root.
Realizing this, it should come as no surprise that when the Legionnaires under my employer's command roamed the streets of the settlement, they were explained by the locals by the simple expression "They're Phule's"-a nickname that was to follow them for some time.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Journal #122
While I have noted that my employer is not immune to surprises, it should be mentioned that upon occasions, he has also been known to outsmart himself. Though normally he excels at dealing with the media, it is his particular love of coverage that more often than not leaves him vulnerable.
A marked air of nervousness hung over the Legionnaires as they waited in full company formation for the arrival of the shuttlecraft. Though they were officially "at ease," meaning they could move one foot and talk with their neighbor, there was no conversation at all. Rather, they stood fidgeting anxiously in silence, each individual lost in his or her own thoughts.
"Are you sure this is such a good idea, Captain?"
The officers of the company were able to wander freely, though Phule forced himself to remain in front of the formation, trying to set a good example for the company by projecting calm rather than yielding to his natural desire to pace. He welcomed Lieutenant Rembrandt's soft question, however, as it gave him something to focus his attention on.
"Don't you think it's polite to be on hand to welcome our opposite number on their arrival, Lieutenant?" he said with mock severity.
"I suppose so, sir," Rembrandt returned, taking his statement seriously. "To be honest with you, though, I've never seen any politeness on the part of the Regular Army toward the Legion. "
"Neither have I," Phule admitted grimly. "For your information, Lieutenant, the real reason we're out here has nothing to do with courtesy."
"Sir?"
"Think about it. Everyone's nervous because they're afraid the Army's going to kick our butts in the upcoming competition. That's not surprising, considering how they've been conditioned into believing the Regular Army is manned by supermen, while the Space Legion scrapes the bottom of the barrel for their manpower. Well, if we're going to give a decent accounting of ourselves, we're going to have to shake that belief, and our presence here is the first step. I want everyone to see the competition as soon as possible, so they can realize that Army troops are human and put their pants on one leg at a time like everyone else. See my point?"
"I... I guess so, sir."
Though obviously still unconvinced, the lieutenant was spared a further lecture by the cry that went up from the formation.
"Incoming!"
"Here they come!"
"Send my body to my first wife... she could use a decent meal!"
The shuttlecraft had dropped through the cloud cover and was maneuvering toward the end of the runway.
"All right, everybody. Stand ready!"
Though still "at ease," this was the signal to get ready to be called to attention. Those Legionnaires who had been sitting in place rose hurriedly and dusted off the seats of their uniforms, squaring away their position in the formation.
All eyes were on the shuttlecraft as it touched down and taxied slowly up to the terminal, coming to a halt a scant fifty meters from where the company stood waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, the hatch opened and a ramp lowered. Seconds later, the first passengers stepped into view.
There was a heartbeat before recognition sank in, and then a buzz began to ripple through the formation.
"Sir!" came Lieutenant Armstrong's urgent whisper. "Do you know who they are?"
"I know, Lieutenant."
"Those are the Red Eagles!"
"I said I know, Lieutenant!"
"But, sir..."
"Company... atten-hut!"
Phule bellowed out the command as much to stop the conversation as to present a proper military picture. Mostly, however, he wanted time to try to collect his own thoughts.
Resplendent in their dress uniforms and crowned with the red berets that were their trademark, there was no mistaking the identity of the soldiers filing down the ramp. The Red Eagles! For some reason, the Army had decided to send their elite combat unit on this assignment!
Unusual for the Regular Army, the Red Eagles were in some ways more like the Space Legion in that they represented a cross section of planetary cultures rather than being a single-planet unit. There, however, the similarities ended. Highly decorated and publicized, the Eagles were considered the creme de la creme of the Regular Army. Competition was fierce for inclusion in their ranks, as literally hundreds of soldiers vied for the honor each time there was an opening in their roster. More than one effort to "introduce a more equitable mix" in the unit was repelled when it was pointed out, and defended, that the Red Eagles only had one bias: They required the best!
All this and more swirled through Phule's mind as he watched the soldiers mill aimlessly about at the foot of the ramp. The Eagles, in turn, ignored the formation of Legionnaires completely, not even sparing them a curious glance as they chatted back and forth.
Finally an imposing figure strode down the ramp. Looking neither left nor right, it stalked across the runway with the easy, rolling gait of a trained athlete, setting an unswerving course for Phule.
"Captain Jester, I assume? I'm Major Matthew O'Donnel."
Startled at being greeted by name, Phule nonetheless managed a snappy salute.
"Welcome to Haskin's Planet, Major."
O'Donnel neither returned the salute nor offered to shake hands.
"Yeah. I'm sure," he said with a tight humorless smile. "Look, Captain, I imagine you're about as happy to see us as we are to be here. Now, is there somewhere we can talk? Somewhere air-conditioned, if possible. I'd like to get this foolishness settled as fast as possible."
Numbly Phule gestured toward the terminal, and the major brushed past him with his now familiar stride.
"Lieutenant Armstrong, Rembrandt," the commander called, beckoning to his junior officers.
"Sir?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Get the company back to the compound and wait for me there. I'll be along as soon as I find out what the hell is going on."
"But, sir."
"Just do it! But be sure to leave me a driver. I have a hunch I'm not going to feel like walking back once this is over."