Number Three scowled. "Are we overly concerned with casualty rates? It's not as if we are likely to run out of cogs any time soon."
"It's not the recruits; it is the wasted cost and program capacity used on trainees who are going to end up in bodybags and not the battlefield." Warren was annoyed, but he tried to hide it. He was almost as scared of Number Three as he was of Number One. We already have to start with 4,000 recruits to graduate two battalions. If we could cut down the loss rate to parity with the Marines, we could more than double our output of combat-ready units."
Number One made a face. "Are they really combat ready?" He started to turn to the hologram, but stopped himself again. "Number Four, you've had a chance to review the reports on our first two battalions. Would you characterize them as combat ready?"
The laser-generated image turned toward Number One. "It depends on how you define the term." The Number Four projection paused for a second, then continued. "Against planetary militias or armed rebels I am certain they would acquit themselves satisfactorily. They have a substantial advantage in equipment over second rate or reserve units and would likely be used in situations where we had total local space superiority."
There was a moment of silence before Number One spoke. This time he forgot to catch himself, and he turned to face the hologram. "And against better adversaries?"
The image coughed twice before speaking. Wherever the real Number Four was, he had a dry throat. "If they faced a Marine assault force or Caliphate front line units they'd get cut to pieces unless they had a substantial numerical advantage."
"How substantial?" The hologram turned around. The question had come from Alex, who asked it mostly because she knew that's what Number One wanted to know. It never hurt to remind him what a good team they made.
"At least three to one. More if they are facing real combat veterans. Their unit tactics are simply not good enough to go up against elite troops. But the worst problem is the lack of any blooded veterans in the organization. Not the non-coms, not the officers. We don't have anyone at all in the formations with combat experience. We're recruiting cogs as footsoldiers and pulling the non-coms and officers from the terrestrial army, but these guys haven't fought a war in a century. They're glorified internal security."
"Thank you, Number Four." Stark spoke up more quickly this time, before Number Six could say anything else. He enjoyed Alex's games…to a point. But he had to get moving, so it was time to wrap things up. "I want the training program ramped up now so we're moving six battalions through at a time. Number Five, I want you to consult with Number Four on how to improve our training program. In five years, seven outside, these troops are going to have to be able to take on any enemy - the CAC, Caliphate, even our existing Marines if they resist demobilization."
Number Five was going to argue, but he decided against it. "Yes, sir."
"Number Six, I will be in London until tomorrow. I have a mission for you after you finish on EE-4. Let's discuss tomorrow night before you leave." He looked out over the table. "If there's nothing else…" He knew there wouldn't be; he'd already signaled the meeting was over. "Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I will see you all in a month."
Chapter 4
Cain wasn't sure what he thought of the new Gordon II landers. They were bigger, which not only allowed one craft to carry a whole squad instead of just a fire team; it also increased the storage space available. Remembering back to his squad leader days, he was sure he would have liked having all his men with him during an assault. As an officer, however, he wondered if it wasn't better to have a squad combat loaded on two separate craft. In a pinch, a team could fill in for a squad, at least for a while, but if you lost the entire unit you had a hole in your line.
But battles had gotten bigger. The first time Erik Cain stepped into the launch bay of a troopship, he was part of an assault with two companies. His most recent battle had seen 18,500 troops hit the ground, 1,400 under his direct command. Larger landers helped get more troops planetside, and the enhanced storage capacity was useful for the sustained campaigns that were becoming the norm.
The escalation in the scale of war was everywhere. Erik's early drops were made from the AS Guadalcanal, a fast troopship that carried a single company and about 60 sailors. During Operation Sherman, his regiment had been billeted on the Pendragon and two of her sister ships, massive kilometer-long transports, each carrying a full battalion with heavy weapons and an atmospheric fighter squadron, plus 280 naval crew and supplies for a protracted campaign.
He smiled wistfully as he thought of the Guadalcanal. He'd served on a lot of ships since then, but he still had a soft spot for his first posting. She'd been blown to plasma in the final stages of Operation Achilles, the worst military disaster in Alliance history, but she'd gone down fighting and taken a couple enemy ships with her.
He was standing in the control center staring at a bank of monitors, watching the activity in the bays of the Pendragon and the other five transports holding his brigade. His first wave was about to launch. As always, it made him uneasy not being bolted into one of those landers, but he'd been told in no uncertain terms that a colonel did not go down in the first assault. He didn't suppose it was any different now that he was filling in as an acting brigadier general. He obeyed General Holm's orders, but it still pissed him off to be standing there when his men were going into battle. Even simulated battle.
At least that political officer was leaving him alone. Cain did his best to do as General Holm had asked, and he'd actually managed to get along with Captain Warren or, more accurately, he pretended to get along with him. Warren was full of suggestions on how to better handle the troops day to day, but he seemed willing to step aside when they were actually fighting…or pretend fighting at least.
Cain sighed. These were only wargames, but men and women would die anyway. You didn't land 3,600 troops from space under combat conditions - even simulated combat conditions - without taking losses. Accidents and mechanical failures would claim their toll. He knew this training session would save lives later, when his troops were attacking enemies that fired back with real weapons. He knew it intellectually, but that wasn't going to make it any easier when he got the first fatality report. Erik Cain had led thousands of troops, but he still had trouble dealing with the ghosts of those who didn't come back. Sleep was a sporadic thing for Cain, and it was at night he usually hosted his old comrades. They held a place for him in Valhalla; he knew that. One day, brothers, he thought grimly. One day when there is less work to do.
His eyes were fixed on the monitors, but he needn't have bothered - he knew by heart what was happening in those bays. First, the troops would stand there, armor deactivated, the crushing weight held up only by the locking bolt attached to the lander. That's when the claustrophobia is the worst. Even those who aren't bothered by tight spaces are uncomfortable encased in several tons of Osmium-Iridium polymer hanging there like dead weight.
Then the nanotech nuclear plants that energized the armor would come alive, and power would flow into the various circuits and systems of the suit. The Marine was still bolted in, but now the servo-mechanicals were working, and the crushing feeling of weight around you was gone. Armor looks bulky and cumbersome but, the truth is, a well-trained Marine is fairly comfortable in his suit.