Come on, he thought. Make up your mind.
"First Pla—I mean one-one."
Sten keyed his mike.
"Go."
"The ship is a Class-C patrolcraft. That means we go in through the drive tubes. I had my first sergeant take a reading. They're cool."
Sten unclipped from the asteroid he and his platoon were "hiding" behind and drifted out a little.
The old hulk hanging in blackness two kilometers away had been more or less tarted up to look like a C-Class, right enough. But…
Sten went on command. "Six? This is one-one. Request seal."
Gregor grunted and shut the rest of the company off the circuit.
"Going in the tubes is a manual attack, sir."
"Of course, Sten. That's why…"
"You don't figure those bad guys maybe read the book? And have a prog?"
"DNC, troop. What do you want? Some weird frontal shot?"
"Clot, Gregor! We go up the pipe, somebody'll be waiting for us, I figure. If you could put out a screen, I'll take my platoon on the flank."
"Continue…one."
Sten shrugged. No harm in trying.
"We'll tin-can it. Peel the skirt and bleed internal pressure off. That'll throw 'em off, and maybe we can double-prong them."
More wheezing. Sten wondered why Gregor's father couldn't afford to get his son an operation.
"Cancel, one. I gave orders."
Sten deliberately unsealed the circuit.
"Certainly, captain. Whatever the captain desires. Clear."
Carruthers' voice crackled.
"One. Breaking circuit security. Kitchen detail." Sten heard Gregor bury a laugh in his open mike.
"This is six. By the numbers…leapfrog attack…maneuver element…go."
Sten's platoon jetted into the open. Sten checked the readout and automatically corrected the line.
Diversion fire lasered overhead from the other two platoons. Sten tucked a random zig program into the platoon's computer. They continued for the hulk.
By the time they closed on the hulk's stern, half the platoon hung helplessly in space, shut down as casualties by the problem's computer.
Sten rotated the huge projector from his equipment rack and positioned it. He figured to go in just below the venturi and—
And there was a massive flash in his eyes, Sten's filter went up through the ranges to black, and Sten stared at the flashing CASUALTY light on his suit's control panel.
By now he'd gotten used to being "killed." As a matter of fact, this was the first time he'd enjoyed it. He did not think any of the casualties would collect the usual scut details when they got back to the troop area.
Lanzotta had a much bigger fish to barbecue. Or maybe much smaller, now.
Lanzotta was stone-faced and standing very still. Sten relaxed, and flickered an eye toward Gregor. "You went in by the book, recruit company commander?" "Yes, sergeant."
"Did you bother to check EM range?"
"No, sergeant."
"If you had, you could have seen that your enemy modified those solar screens into projectors. Aimed straight back at their normally undefended stern. Why didn't you check, recruit company commander?"
"No excuse, sergeant."
"Did you consider an alternate assault?"
"No, sergeant."
"Why not?"
"Because—because that's how the fiche said to assault a C-ship, sergeant."
"And if you didn't do it by the manual, you might have gotten yourself in trouble. Correct, Recruit Company Commander Gregor?"
"Uh…"
"ANSWER THE GODDAMNED QUESTION."
Sten and the others jumped about a meter. It was the first time Lanzotta had ever shouted. "I don't know, sergeant."
"I do. Because you were thinking that as long as you stuck by the book, you were safe. You didn't dare risk your rank tabs. And so you killed half a company of guardsmen. Am I correct?" Gregor didn't say anything.
"Roll your gear, mister," Lanzotta said. And ripped the Guard Trainee patch off Gregor's coveralls. Then he was gone.
Carruthers double-timed to the head of the formation.
"Fall out for chow. Suit inspection at twenty-one hundred hours."
Nobody looked at Gregor as they filed back into the barracks. He stood outside a very long time by himself.
But by the time Sten and the others got back from chow, Gregor and his gear had disappeared as if they'd never existed.
"First sergeant! Report!"
"Sir! Trainee Companies A, B, and C all present and accounted for. Fifty-three percent and accounted six in hospital, two detached for testing."
The trainee topkick saluted. Sten returned the salute, about-faced to Lanzotta, and saluted again.
"All present and accounted for, sergeant!"
"It is now eighteen hundred hours, recruit captain. You are to take charge of your company and move them via road to Training Area Sixteen. You will disperse your men in standard perimeter defense. You are to have them in position by dusk, which is at nineteen-seventeen hours. Any questions?"
"No, Sergeant Lanzotta!"
"Take charge of your company."
Sten saluted and spun again.
"COMPANY…"
"Platoon…'toon…'toon…" chanted Sten's platoon leaders.
"Right HACE! Arms at the carry! Forward…harch !…double-time…harch."
The long column snaked off into the gathering twilight. Sten double-timed easily beside them. By now he could walk, march, or run—eyes open, seventy percent alert—and be completely asleep. Lanzotta had been exaggerating when he said the trainees would only get about four hours sleep a night.
Maybe that'd been so at the beginning. But as the training went downhill toward graduation, the pace got harder. There were fewer washouts now, but it was far easier to go under.
Lanzotta had explained to Sten after he'd given him the tabs of a recruit company commander. "First few months, we tried to break you physically. We got rid of the losers, the accident prone, and the dummies. Now we're fine-lining. The mistakes you make in combat training are ones that would get you or other guardsmen cycled for fertilizer.
"Besides, there are still too many people in this cycle."
Too many people. Assuming—which Sten didn't necessarily—the one-in-a-hundred-thousand selection process, three companies of a hundred men each had been cut down to sixty-one.
Great odds.
Not everybody had been washed out. A combat car collision had accounted for four deaths, falls during the mountain training killed two more trainees, and a holed suit had put still another recruit in the awesomely large regimental ceremony.
Lanzotta thought it was impressive that a trainee was made a full member of the regiment before burial. Sten thought it was a very small clotting deal. Dead, he was pretty sure, was a very long time, and worm food isn't much interested in ceremony.
Ah, well.
By now they'd progressed from squad through platoon to full company-size maneuvers.
Sten wondered what joyful surprises Lanzotta had planned for the evening. Then he put the dampers back in his mind. He needed the rest. He let his mouth start a jody, put his feet on autopilot, and went to sleep.
Eyes closed, Sten sonared his ears around the hilltop. Four minutes, twenty-seven seconds. All night animal sounds back to normal. All troops in stand-to positions. Not bad.
Lanzotta crawled up beside Sten and flickered on a map-board light. "Fair. You got them out and down nicely enough. Second Platoon still bunches up too much. And I think you should've put your CP closer to the military crest. But…not bad."
Sten braced. Lanzotta was being very polite. He knew for sure this exercise would be a cruncher.