Finally, standard forty-five passenger school buses had been converted to carry the units. The seats, basically bars of raw steel welded into benches, were intensely uncomfortable for anyone not in a suit. But they had the benefit of being able to survive even a long bus trip with ACS enlisted infantry onboard.
The sole concession to comfort in the buses was an adjustable headrest. The first thing ACS troopers tended to do once they were out of combat was remove their helmets and that habit had been recognized in the design. It was a well understood action; ACS sometimes spent weeks in continuous contact with the Posleen; after that long in a virtual environment the need to breathe uncanned air and feel wind on their face became overwhelming.
Stewart picked his head up from the rest and looked at the approaching gates. "Well, with any luck we won't have to E&E our way across this one."
"Long time," Pappas answered with a sigh. The sergeant major had brought a platoon of new recruits with him to their former base at Fort Indiantown Gap, back when he was Gunnery Sergeant Pappas. At the time the Ground Forces were in a state of only slightly controlled anarchy and the platoon had found it necessary to sneak in and fight their way across the base to their barracks. Once there they found the acting first sergeant engaged in black-marketeering and, possibly, murder. With the help of the acting company commander they had settled that idiot's hash and managed to maintain a semblance of order in their company until O'Neal and the new battalion commander arrived almost simultaneously.
"Roanoke?" Pappas asked.
"Harrisburg," Stewart corrected. "I was the second platoon leader."
"Harrisburg," Pappas agreed after a moment. He remembered the shattered armor of Lieutenant Arnold well, but while his recollection of battles was often too clear, inessential details like where they occurred had started to fall by the wayside. "HVM."
"Yep," Stewart agreed.
"Quit weirding each other out," Duncan said from the next row. He leaned forward and pointed at the barracks and the neatly trimmed parade grounds. "Garrison time. Time to get drunk and laid, not necessarily in that order."
"If everything's ship-shape, sir," Pappas pointed out. "I'll believe it when I see it. I mean, these are garrison troopers forwarded from GroundForces. How good are they going to be? There's probably a foot of dirt on the barracks floor."
* * *
Mike heard the challenge of the MP at the gate distantly and the response of the driver sounded like it was at the bottom of a well. But he swiveled his vision sideways to watch the exchange.
The MP could not have known he was being watched by the battalion commander; the suit did not move and the helmet remained facing forward. But he was punctiliously correct anyway, checking the driver's orders and receiving a confirmation download from Mike's AID. When he was sure everything was correct he stepped back and saluted, undoubtedly waiting for the vehicle to move on before dropping it.
Mike touched the driver on the arm to keep him from pulling out and inspected the MP's turnout minutely. Most of his gear was clearly designed to look good and stay that way. The holster for his service pistol was patent leather as was his brassard and his battle dress uniform, a pattern still called Mar-Cam, was tailored and pressed.
But he was also well shaven with a fresh haircut and in good physical condition. The fact that they were coming was well known, but up until today Mike had not been sure of their ETA. So the soldier had either cleaned up quickly or maintained good grooming even when "the cat was away." On reflection Mike decided that it was probably the latter. After a moment, during which it must have been like looking at a statue, he returned the salute and waved for his Humvee to move on.
The MP must have called ahead because by the time the convoy reached the battalion area there was a small group of officers and NCOs gathered on the front lawn.
Mike clambered carefully out of the seat and walked over to the group, casually returning the salute of the slightly overweight captain who appeared to be in charge.
"Major O'Neal," the captain said with a nod. "I'm Captain Gray, your adjutant; we've never met, but we have exchanged e-mails."
"Captain," O'Neal said, taking off his helmet and looking around. Besides the captain there was a single second lieutenant. Other than that there were no officers. And the few senior NCOs did not seem to have been rejuved. However, the personnel were in good looking uniforms, Mar-Cam again rather than silks since they were only seconded to Fleet, and the junior personnel were in good physical condition. All in all, it was a decent looking body of REMFs. "Do I have a part in this little ceremony?"
"Not a ceremony, sir," the captain said. "But I thought you might want to get familiar with a few of the faces." He gestured at a sergeant first class in the first rank. "Sergeant McConnell is the battalion S-4 NCOIC. He's actually the regimental S-4 NCOIC . . ."
"But since there's not a regiment to be NCOIC of . . ." Mike continued. "Good afternoon, Sergeant. And do you have a boss?"
"I think you're it, sir," the sergeant said. He was short and also overweight, but he gave the impression of being an india rubber leprechaun: hard, mischievous and very elastic. He had bright eyes that regarded O'Neal warily.
"We don't have an S-4 at the moment, sir," Captain Gray said. "We've been promised one a time or two but . . ."
"But there are places that they'd rather be," O'Neal filled in. He looked at the group and cleared his throat. "I'm sure we'll get to know each other very well over the next couple of weeks. For the time being, continue as you have been. I'd like you to get with the battalion command sergeant major and the company first sergeants as to billeting. The troops will need to do an issue draw," he continued, looking at the S-4 sergeant. "We're basically here in the suits we stand in and not much else."
"I took the liberty of looking up everyone's sizes, sir," Sergeant McConnell answered. "And everyone is assigned a room and a wall-locker. The wall-lockers all have a complete issue in them. They'll have to sign for them of course . . ."
"We have a team on standby to examine deficiencies," Captain Gray said, anticipating O'Neal's question. "I hope that your commanders find the barracks to be acceptable; I had a full unit GI of the Bravo and Charlie barracks last week and the inspection showed that they were in pretty good shape. They're brand new so there's some indications of that that we haven't been able to work out; paint around the edge of the windows and stuff like that. But otherwise I think you'll be pleased."
"Hmm," Mike said, not knowing quite how to respond. "Very well, get with the sergeant major, as I said." He paused and thought for a moment. "Do officers have an issue?"
"Officers have to buy their uniforms, of course," Sergeant McConnell said. "But there is a temporary issue in their quarters and they can choose what they want and buy it with a comment to their AID. We also have uniforms standing by in your lockers in the Morgue."
Mike looked around again and shook his head with a frown. "Tell me that this isn't as rikky-tik as it seems. I mean . . ."
"You mean 'what the hell are REMFs doing getting something right,' sir?" Sergeant McConnell asked with a puckish grin.
"I probably would have put it more politely," O'Neal noted as Pappas walked up behind him.
"I've been a REMF ever since I got out of Delta Force, sir," the sergeant answered. "Where I was a . . . not a REMF. I got recalled as my final MOS, which was supply. I decided that, all things considered, I'd stay there. I had my salad days. But, if I do say so myself, I'm a pretty damned good supply sergeant."