Tad looked out the window. “No, they’ll probably put us right out in the field together in a recon troop. Give us a chance to show them what we’re made of. I heard the Panzers are getting old and need some young blood to get the unit moving again.”
The driver became smug and seemed to giggle under his breath when he hit bumps and potholes. Finally the long ride was over. “Here’s where you get out, Colonel Norbert Theil’s Jasmine Panzer Brigade’s welcoming center. Good luck.” They stood in the parking lot and faced the side of the building. The driver beeped his horn and waved as he drove off.
“Let’s see what they have for us,” said Galen, leading his buddies down a sidewalk and around to the left end of the building. It was still warm, a steamy level of humidity making the heat uncomfortable. Galen checked his personal communicator: almost midnight, local time.
Chapter Four
A door stood open, yellow light spilling from it onto the grass of the quadrangle. Galen walked up to the doorway, mounted its two steps in one stride and stepped inside. Spike and Tad followed. Inside were four men wearing field uniforms, the tops of their coveralls pulled down around their waists. They sat on two couches flanking a coffee table. It was covered by paperwork and electronic clipboards.
“Who the hell are you?” asked the oldest one. His dark green t shirt was soaked with sweat and his semi-grey hair was damp, bangs hanging over his forehead and hair covering his ears, long enough in the back to hang below the base of his neck. Galen was disgusted with the slovenly appearance of all four men, old men. If they were more squared away, they wouldn’t be up half the night doing their jobs, they’d have it all done during duty hours.
“We’re tankers. We’re here to in-process.”
“You young men have just made a very unusual entrance. Do you know who I am?”
“No.” Probably some of the old duds we’re here to replace, or a bunch of clerking jerk rear echelon bums, thought Galen.
“My name is Colonel Norbert Theil. This is my executive officer, my logistics officer, and my training/tactical officer.”
Galen looked around the office. The back wall was covered with military decorations and certificates. A shield and crossed sabers, a sniper rifle, a tattered and dirty Regimental standard, a diploma from a military academy, a framed certificate awarding a high order of valor to… Captain Norbert Theil, dated about ten years earlier.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize…”
“You have two seconds to get out of my office. In-processing is handled by the other end of the building. Move it!”
They darted out of the room and raced to the entrance at the other end of the building. This time they passed through double-doors into a well-lit corridor. Barring their way was a counter attended by an alert Corporal.
“Greetings, gentlemen. What may I help you with?”
“We’re here to in-process.”
“Good. Put your contracts on the counter, go get your bags and put them by the coat rack, then wait here.”
“We don’t have bags.”
“Where are your clean clothes, your toothbrushes?”
“Well, we put our clothes in the cleaner when we shower, and use the water pick on our teeth. No need for excess baggage. You’d learn that, if you went to an academy,” said Tad.
“We do things differently here. You’ll learn. The tech level at this garrison is primitive. Use what you learned about field hygiene at your academy.”
“What do you mean?” Galen hung his coat on the rack and thought about leaving it there.
“I mean, we have old running-water showers, laundry ladies wash our clothes in a sink, and you’ll need a toothbrush or your teeth will rot out of your head. But we do live better here than in the field.”
“Oh.” They laid their paperwork on the counter. The Corporal hit a buzzer and a Troop came out and collected the paperwork. The three new mercenaries stood waiting for him to return.
“So Corporal,” said Spike, “any idea where we’re going?”
“Probably up north. Been some trouble up there lately.”
“How long will we be here?”
“About two hours. The next convoy should leave at zero two hundred, provided they don’t foul up your paperwork, or if nobody decides to keep you here. If you waited five more days to come, you might’ve got my job. That’s when I’m due to rotate out.”
Tad said, “No thanks, we’re not here to hang around garrison. We want action.”
Spike shrugged. Despite the sultry weather, Tad and Spike still wore their jackets. Tad began pacing, his red-orange hair brighter than ever, longer than Galen had ever seen it at the academy. Spike’s hair was the same, as though it never grew and was never out of place. His moustache was getting longer at the ends, starting to grow into handlebars. The Red Baron, remembered Galen. That’s who Spike looked like, the Bloody Red Baron.
“Hey, you all can go out and move around the compound and get your war gear ready. Just don’t wander off too far, like stay within a couple hundred meters. Come back when you hear the convoy.”
“What’s the convoy supposed to sound like?” asked Tad.
“Don’t worry; you’ll know it when you hear it.”
“And where are we supposed to go at this late hour?” asked Galen.
“Oh, this is the welcome center. We deal with a lot of transient troops processing in and out of the Brigade. Twenty four hour operations on everything. Maybe you want to visit the exchange, pick up some field essentials. Also open an account at the armory, pick up your basic issue plus whatever extra armaments you think you’ll need.”
“Basic issue?”
“I don’t know who you pissed off, but in a couple of hours you’re going from here straight out to the field. You’ll need full war gear. You just go check it out for yourself.”
They went to the armory first. It was a low, sturdy building made of reinforced concrete, and its one small door was flanked by two armed guards.
“Halt! State your business.”
“Here to get our basic issue,” said Galen.
“I.D. please.”
They showed their assignment orders and contracts.
“Go on in, snappers. Just don’t forget to stop by admin to have your I.D. cards made before you leave.”
“What’s a snapper?” asked Tad.
The guards were bored, working a slow night. They took the time to explain. The guard on the left said, “A snapper is a new arrival. Statistics show that most new guys snap from the stress within three months, if they’re going to snap at all.”
“No,” said the other guard, “a snapper is a snapper because it takes about a year for him to travel from in-processing to out-processing, moving slow like a snapping turtle.”
“One year here? But we’re contracted for five,” said Galen.
“Oh, you’re in the Brigade for five years but your first year is spent here, garrisoning this rock. Gives you time to get in tune with the brigade’s way of doing things, the SOP and the jargon, and you also get a chance to show what you’re made of. Build up a file to let the people in the head shed know where to put you. Some guys like it here and keep extending their time on Mandarin. I know a Sergeant who has been here eighteen years. He claims he’ll do another two here and then retire and open a bar just outside this compound’s main gate.”
“Sounds like he’s a shammer,” said Tad.
The guards grinned. “Snapper!”
The first thing Galen saw inside the armory was a sign saying, “Browsing limit five minutes. Cash purchases not allowed; warrior accounts only. Move only in the direction of the arrows. All sales are final.” He noticed the red duck-tape arrows stuck on the floor and followed them as they guided him in a zigzag through the diagonal aisles of the armory. Display racks held environmental suits, field uniforms, pistols of every make and style, a wide variety of rifles, crates of grenades, plus an assortment of war gear and battlefield cutlery. The display case for entrenching tools had pictures of grunts digging foxholes, pounding tent pegs and prying open tank hatches. One photo showed a grunt in close combat, using his entrenching tool to chop off an enemy’s head.