“Okay, that’s settled. Take the Fuente de la Juventud contract if you want. I can’t stop you anyway. Now, about our dividends.”
“I suspended dividends last quarter to make payroll, hire and train replacements and make capital improvements to the units defending Alamo. Specifically, hiring a second battle cruiser and purchasing eight Interceptors to replace the ones we’d lost.”
The chairman folded his arms across his chest, which made his belly look bigger. “Sergeant Major, those costs are less than half what the Brigade will realize as income from the sale of captured enemy equipment. Your suspension of the dividend was vindictive, and completely unnecessary.”
“That income has not yet been realized. I would have had to borrow money in order to make the dividend payment, which clearly would reduce the Brigade’s profits over time. The expense of unnecessary borrowing is not justified, in my estimation.”
“As I said before, your position as commander is tenuous at best.”
Galen didn’t want to, but he smiled. “Look, gentlemen, and lady,” he looked at the junior executive in the corner, then back to the chairman. “The Brigade would suffer a brief period of unemployability while a new commander takes over. You’d have to find a Colonel, or a senior Lieutenant Colonel at least, and hire all his staff officers and any other old friends, commissioned officers most likely, that he wants to bring with him. Or her, depending on who you hire. The short-term costs would be enormous.”
The chairman said, “The possibility of winding down this Brigade, disbanding the soldiers, selling off its property, is on the table.”
“As it stands now, as long as I am the Commandant, because I assumed command in response to an act of treachery by the previous commander, the Bonding Commission has granted this Brigade an exception to policy that allows the Brigade to continue to function as a licensed and bonded unit, for up to sixteen more months, with no commissioned officers. But the moment I cease to be the Commandant, that loophole slams shut.” The board members all knew this. Galen wanted to make it clear he knew it too.
The board member on the left said, “Will we get our dividend next quarter, or will something else come up?”
Galen looked at the chairman and said, “Approve my request to extend my enlistment as Commandant for the next sixteen months, and I’ll see what I can do about paying dividends next quarter.”
The chairman said, “Very well, that will be all, Sergeant Major. You may go now.”
Galen gave an audible half-cough. “I have one more point to make.”
The chairman stared, blinked once, sat down.
“Good.” Galen looked around the room, then back at the chairman. “Now that I have your attention… I do recognize that each and every shareholder in this room has retired from mercenary service, and I respect that. Your money is invested and you want a return, a dividend. I invite each and every one of you to make use of your prior military experience and your social connections to add value to this Brigade. I ask that this board construct a plan for refilling the commissioned officer positions of the Brigade with capable men and women who will have the best interest of the Brigade foremost in their minds. I’m sacrificing more than a year of my life so you can have the time you need to do it right. I trust you to make the most of it.”
Galen then stood at attention and waited.
“Dismissed,” said the chairman.
Galen executed an about-face and walked out of the board room.
He walked past the elevators and took the stairs instead, down three flights to the first floor of the Jasmine Panzer Brigade business headquarters building. He left through the back entrance and walked across the lush grass of the quadrangle and kept walking until he came to the exterior door of his office, his Commander’s Entrance. He entered and sat at his desk. There were two couches, one either side of a sturdy coffee table, where four men sat waiting. Mr. Burwell, an aging businessman, was employed as the Brigade’s designated agent to recruit new members and handle personnel management; Sergeant Major Tad Miller, the Brigade’s operations non-commissioned officer, Sergeant Major Marion Spike, the executive non-commissioned officer, and Master Sergeant Sevin, the Brigade’s troubleshooter, for lack of a definable job description.
Galen drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well, don’t talk all at once.”
Sevin took his biker-booted feet off the coffee table and leaned forward and looked to his left toward Galen. He wore faded jeans and a plain white t-shirt under an epauletted brown leather jacket hung on broad shoulders. Long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, the goatee beard and mustache showing some grey. “You just came from the meeting, you tell us.”
Galen said, “Fair enough. We’re taking the Juventud contract, and I’ll be Commandant for the next sixteen months. The board will coordinate with Burwell to get our officer slots filled, a process that will be finalized some time next year. Until then, we will continue to function as-is.”
“Just like I wanted,” said Tad. His red hair was still cropped short, academy style. Multi-colored reflective running shoes, bright orange cargo pants and a light jacket, lime-green. Today he also wore oversized mirrored bronze-lens sunglasses with bright yellow plastic framing. And a tie-dyed t-shirt under the jacket, a counter-clockwise swirl pattern starting at the midpoint between his belly button and chest.
Spike said, “Any air assets for this contract?” He wore knee-high boots, dark blue wool trousers tucked into them, a brown flannel shirt under a black bomber jacket. His handlebar mustache and conservative haircut seemed almost plastic, held in place with styling spray.
Galen nodded. “Nope. The air on Juventud is too thin for effective use of Helos. We’re taking everybody but the year-one troops and the training and admin staff. And Alamo, that’s a separate contract, and it ties up all our Interceptors.”
Mr. Burwell chuckled. His white hair and dark grey business smock and soft-soled shoes made him the most respectable looking man in the room. With fingers interlaced, hands held with palms on his belly he said, “Well somebody will be busy, overseeing operations here on Mandarin.”
Galen leaned back and rolled his shoulders. “I have retained the services of one Mister Ross, whom you all know as a former officer of this Brigade.”
Sevin put his feet back on the coffee table. “He’s all right.”
Mr. Burwell said, “I signed him as a Master Sergeant. I hope that’s okay?”
Galen nodded. “He’ll do well, and I trust him. Where is he?”
Master Sergeant Ross stepped into the office, wearing his class B garrison uniform. “Right here.”
Galen stood. “Your timing is good, too good. Where have you been?”
“I just got back from the bathroom, and then stood outside the door and listened when I realized you were talking about me.”
Galen gestured at the overstuffed chair to the left of his desk. “Have a seat; we’ll talk about the Juventud contract.”
Ross sat. Galen picked the remote control off the desk and said, “All right. Let me direct your attention to the flat screen at the end of the room.”
“Okay,” Galen hit the power button and the red light at the bottom of the frame around the screen pulsed, then changed to orange and finally became a solid green indicator light. The screen illuminated, a field of sky blue, and then text of menu options appeared. Galen selected ‘Fuente de Juventud Presentation’ and waited as its cover slide appeared.