“Move out slow, Boggs.”
The tank crept along. When the map showed a craggy draw ahead fifty meters to the right, Boggs stopped the tank. One squad of infantry approached the draw by getting on line parallel to it and then they crawled up to its edge to look inside.
“All right, they got it covered. Pull past it and stop.”
Boggs moved ahead and waited for the grunts to get back in behind the vehicle before moving up the valley at a crawl.
“Slow going,” said Boggs.
“Well, that’s how it’s done,” Galen lowered himself into the turret and checked his status screen. The two empty infantry carriers followed him a hundred meters back. Another draw was ahead. Sergeant Boggs stopped and let the grunts clear it. The marker for an enemy ambush patrol disappeared from the screen. Galen stood in his open cupola hatch and fought an extreme case of drowsiness.
After the maneuver training they drove back to the box canyon as the sun set. After he took off his combat suit, Galen turned his turret to the rear, elevated the laser cannon to two hundred mills and stretched a plastic tarp over it. Sergeant Boggs and Trooper Jones secured two edges of the tarp to the sides of the hull. They stretched their bed rolls out on the flat rear deck of the tank and slept. It was still dark when Galen woke up. His thigh still hurt from the auto-injector Tad had stabbed into it. He climbed onto the turret and put his boots on. It was dark but a faint glow lit the sky above the eastern edge of the high box canyon. Tad was awake and climbed onto the turret of Galen’s tank.
Tad said, “So how’s it going, hero?”
“Okay. I just kind of thought we’d be in some heavier tanks.”
“These Hornets haul ass.”
“That’s true but there’s nothing like picking off a target at twenty klicks with the main gun of a Hercules.”
“The Brigade has a heavy tank company. Maybe we’ll get assigned to it.”
Galen stood and stretched. “Maybe. I wouldn’t mind it.”
“You’d have to get in tight with the Colonel. He commands that company personally and uses it as his Brigade headquarters.”
“How does he run the Brigade from there?”
“A Major runs the battle from the Brigade HHC op center. The Colonel leads from the front and relegates the overall battle command to his staff. Logistics, maneuver, fire support, stuff like that. The Colonel gets right in the fight.”
“Guess when you own the Brigade you can do that.”
“He has to. He has to get the respect of the mercenaries under his command. A paycheck inspires only a certain amount of loyalty. If he just sat back in the corner and gave orders the unit might lose heart in a real knock-down battle. That could be fatal to the unit’s reputation and jeopardize future employment prospects.”
“Well, he’s not out on this contract.”
“This is considered low intensity combat, a small contract not requiring the whole unit.”
It was light enough to see. The company commander broke the morning calm when he yelled from the front of his tent. “Chiefs, meeting.”
Tad, Galen, and Chief Dawson walked over to the Master Sergeant’s tent. Inside, two field tables were pushed together with six camp stools placed around it. The commander greeted them. “We haven’t formally met. This is Chief Childress, my XO.”
A short, skinny man with a rag of yellow hair above his face leaned forward in a curt, partial bow.
“Chief Raper, Chief Miller, Chief Dawson.” The commander pointed at each in turn, “I am Master Sergeant Sevin, commander of the reconnaissance company. Have a seat, gentlemen.”
They sat, Galen facing Childress, Tad facing Dawson and Sevin at the head of the table.
“Let’s go over a few things before the Captain shows up. Number one, we’ll stay with three-troop crews. Replacement tanks aren’t available. Two, we will stay with three platoons, three tanks in a platoon. Losses were even across the board so it’s not a shuffle game. Leave the bumper numbers as-is. Three, we discuss the auxiliary gunners.”
“Mine are fine,” said Dawson.
“Me too.”
“Mine are okay.”
“Good. Just make sure the junior ranking man in each vehicle is the driver. Next item, we shoot the bull.”
“Who’s this Captain commanding the battalion?” said Galen.
“Captain Rothschild is the infantry battalion commander, our task force commander actually. He has a first loot as his XO.”
“Not many officers around.”
“That’s a good thing,” said Childress. “They just get in the way. The Captain wanted to lead the charge yesterday but couldn’t because we skid-dropped in.”
Sevin rolled his shoulders and said, “That would have been a cluster, him leading the charge.”
Galen felt ambitious. “So there’s a shortage of officers?”
“Yes. The Brigade’s lack of prestige doesn’t attract a lot of top-notch officers. We do some dirty missions that few mercenary regiments will take. Like now, chasing down raiders. Not much glory or political advancement in it, no headlines in the news. It’s just a job that needs to be done and cash flow to keep the unit operating in the pink.”
“So where do our officers come from?”
“They’re spoiled rich kids with families influential enough to get them through academies, despite their lack of aptitude. The rest come from the ranks, worked up through the Panzer Brigade officer development school. I was offered a commission but I turned it down. I worked too hard for my stripes to give them up.”
Tad looked indignant, “Why wasn’t I offered a commission? I’m a graduate of the Ostwind Armor Academy.”
“You have to be with us a year before you can apply for a commission. What the rich kids do is take a home-guard reserve commission and then apply to join the Brigade. We either have to reject them or honor their commissions. It’s part of our charter with the bonding commission.”
Galen suddenly felt foolish about his decision to turn down the reserve commission offered him when he graduated. He perceived a reserve commission as a career stopper, not a ticket-punch. But it wasn’t a total loss. He would have bragging rights, would be able to say he was enlisted before becoming an officer. If, after being a proficient NCO, he still wanted a commission.
“On your feet.”
Chapter Fifteen
The group of NCOs stood at attention while Captain Rothschild entered the tent and sat at the head of the table opposite Master Sergeant Sevin. Captain Rothschild wore a fresh, clean uniform. Starch held creases down the front of his pants and along the outside of his sleeves. His small-featured pink face was clean-shaven, making his upturned aristocratic nose the most prominent feature. The odor of cologne filled the tent. His eyes were pale blue, the whites a clear white, not at all bloodshot like everyone else’s in the tent. His bleached white hair was trimmed into a flat top. His delicate hands were just as soft on the palms as the back. Galen wondered if he even had finger prints.
“Take your seats, men.” They sat. “Okay, are we ready for another mission?”
“Yessir,” in unison.
“Very well. Extraction should be at about eleven o’clock this morning. We’ll stay on the same boats all the way to Rochelle and the ship will jump with us docked. Rochelle is nice, I hear, developing nicely into a beautiful planet. The gravity, I hear, is point nine six. Almost like Earth. I suppose that’s fine with you all?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. There are some more bushwhackers there. The fleet ran them to ground. We’ll be joined by the medium tank battalion. Hellcat tanks, I think.” Captain Rothschild picked at his manicured fingernails. “Men, if there are no further questions?”