Freehold

  They neared the range, the din of small arms fire increasing from subliminal pops to a steady crash as they approached. There was a recruit battalion burning off its daily crate of ammo, so they picked ten lanes as far from them as possible. "Okay," Joly said, "let's fire a basic course of fifty and get to class."

  The students nodded and stood waiting. "Yes?" Joly prompted.

  "We need ammo, Senior," Kendra reminded.

  "Why? You all plan to be in logistics, don't you? You were given the mission parameters, it's your job to provide the materials. I guess you better break into your basic loads and make it up later," she suggested.

  Kendra and two others, including one of the crosstrainees, had left their basic loads in their rooms. They'd expected naturally that ammo would be supplied, as always. She flushed crimson, and burned more as she took a written reprimand for not being armed in accordance with regs. The class shared ammo from the open packs—basic load was one thousand rounds, so there was more than enough. Then Joly berated them for opening seven packs when one would have supplied everyone. "Wasting resources already. This is not the way we do things in the FMF!" she snapped. Then she dropped them for pushups. Technically, that wasn't done beyond initial recruit training, but no one felt inclined to argue with her. Fifty pushups was not the chore it had once been for Kendra, merely a reminder. She vowed to pay better attention to details.

  Once done firing, Joly said, "We'll be doing a field exercise for the rest of the day. Pacelli, maybe you can redeem yourself by taking charge of logistics."

  "Yes, Senior," she replied. "Where do I get supplies?"

  "Training Depot Logistics, of course. Sign it out to this class number," she advised.

  "Yes, Senior," she acknowledged, and headed off to gather everything.

  She found the Logistics building, gave her class number and requested ten basic loads of ammo; seven to replace the opened ones and three more for any firing they might do. She added marking pens, map chips of the area, ten field rations and some incidentals.

  She lugged it all back in a crate, sweating, and distributed it to everybody. She'd gotten a pad of paper receipts and made everyone sign for everything she'd brought. Joly looked over and nodded. "Okay, we'll head out and see what you missed," she said, still with a faintly amused undertone to her serious countenance.

  It was fifteen kilometers to the mark Joly made on the map. They were about three kilometers out when Joly commented, "This would've been easier with a couple of vehicles."

  Kendra said, "I didn't realize we were allowed to."

  "Allowed?" Joly replied. "We're logistics. If it isn't real property, which belongs to the engineers, it's logistics, and belongs to us. We don't ask. Everyone else asks us."

  Kendra flushed again and slogged on. She'd remember that. Even without the snide comments from other students, who hadn't thought of it either, she'd remember.

  Once at the mark, more or less, they sat and ate. Kendra handed out nine rations and Joly snagged the tenth, leaving her without one. Fuming, Kendra said nothing and grabbed a few crackers and pieces of candy from her gear. She'd been carrying them as emergency supplies. It was habit from recruit training and she made a note to never get rid if it.

  They slogged back and Joly said to meet her at the club in half a div in civvies. They scattered to their rooms to clean up. At least, Kendra reflected, there was hot water here, and proper private facilities. Much like a hotel room, actually, and the staff gave them much more freedom . . . and much more responsibility.

  At the club, Joly was quite charming. The class gathered around one large table and got acquainted. No one now seemed too bothered by Kendra's gaffe of not getting vehicles; it hadn't occurred to anyone else, either. Sergeant Carl Edwards, the student who ranked her, did suggest loudly but with a grin that she should buy a round. Shrugging, Kendra agreed. Joly politely refused, paying for her own. "Ethics," she said. No gifts from individual students.

  The next day, more equipment was needed, and the students on the spot signed out kilograms of gear, forgetting items and being gigged. They learned to pin Joly down and figuratively beat details out of her. "Your commander knows what he wants," she said, "but you will need to make sure he gives you that information. Then add ten percent as a margin. Then stock anything you think somebody might ask for or has forgotten. And do it under budget and mass allowance." It didn't even sound simple. Kendra was somewhat familiar with the approach and offered advice the other students furiously entered as notes.

  The last three days of the week was an exercise. They took vehicles, temps for sleeping, food, assorted field gear and extra fuel. There was a strict mass allowance, since they were being lifted out. It went quite well, except the student in charge of incidentals forgot toilet paper. There was much abuse heaped on him. Some had brought a little, others made do with the stuff from their field rations. Joly had apparently seen this before. She had a few rolls, which she sold at a stiff premium. All payments went to the Logistics Training Battalion unit fund.

  Kendra packed her bags on Yewday night, waited for Marta to pick her up, and they flew back to Jefferson. She would start at Heilbrun Base on Rowanday morning. "How you doing?" Marta asked as she drove across town to the civilian port.

  Kendra was glad beyond words to be done with that nightmare and said so. "I'm exhausted. Mind if I sleep?" she asked as she reclined her couch after liftoff.

  "Sure," Mar replied, to her already snoring form.

  Marta's coupe was waiting at the Jefferson Starport and she lifted as soon as she cleared the safety zone around the facility. Kendra barely noticed. She was used to far stiffer maneuvers, now.

  Rob greeted her at the door with a touch that indicated she'd soon be naked and sweaty if he had anything to say about it. She stalled him temporarily by showing him her sword.

  "Great Goddess!" he exclaimed. "That's unreal." He examined it minutely, wiped the blade clean and dropped into stance. He made ten cuts in less than three seconds and whistled. Then he grinned what seemed a meter of teeth. "Wow," he finally whispered reverently. He read the enclosed certificate from Cardiff and looked up suddenly. "Riggs," he said.

  "What?" Kendra asked. Marta looked over, too.

  "Sergeant Lisa Riggs, squad leader of Seven Alpha Three. She and her squad died on Mtali, taking out the Shiitim air defense that was tearing our vertols out of the sky. Good friend of mine. The old blade Cardiff worked into this was hers," he explained, gazing deeply into the pattern on the sword as he spoke, as if looking for her there. Finally he scabbarded the blade, reversed it and passed it back and locked eyes with her.

  "Time for you to participate in the Oath of Blades," he said.

  Chapter 19

  "Human nature is bad. Good is a human product . . . A warped piece of wood must be steamed and forced before it is made straight; a metal blade must be put to the whetstone before it becomes sharp. Since the nature of people is bad, to become corrected they must be taught by teachers and to be orderly they must acquire ritual and moral principles."

  —Sun Tzu

  Once signed on-base, Kendra took a glance at the list on her comm. It was a fairly familiar format of inprocessing. She memorized the base map and got cracking.

  The commander's office was in a knock-down building. The structures on base were either solid permanent fixtures or permanent-use "temporary" structures. This was a recent polymer shell on a fused foundation. She entered what was clearly an orderly room, saw a sign of light tubes that read "Assault Commander Alan D. Naumann, Regimental Commander."

  She approached a desk, introduced herself and was told to head right in. She turned to the door and knocked twice.

  "Enter," he said and rose as she walked in.

  She saluted and said, "Corporal Kendra Pacelli reports to the commander."

  He snapped his arm back and she beat him to lowering the salute. He looked at her with interest. "We've met before," he stated.

  "Yes, sir," she agreed. He was
just shorter than she, tanned and lean, brown hair cropped close. He had arrived at Mtali just as the UN was departing, and he'd swapped words with General Bruder in front of her. He was completely unintimidated then and completely in control now. "On Mtali," she confirmed. They'd met for about ten seconds, but he remembered her.

  He walked slowly around her. "At ease," he said and she snapped down. "We are much more professional than the UN."

  "Yes, Commander," she agreed.

  "Familiarity is not tolerated on duty. I drive people hard. I expect performance with no excuses," he itemized, coming around in front again. He turned to face her, "And there is no embezzlement."

  Before she could protest, he continued, "I know you were not involved. I want you to understand that that does not happen here. If you see anything inappropriate, you will address it to the chain of command or to me or to the IG, but it will not be unsettled. Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

  "Yes, sir," she said. He was intimidating and she hoped he'd get done so she could get to her duties.

  "You aren't wearing the Expeditionary Medal," he noted.

  "But that's a UN medal, sir—" she said and was cut off.

  "It is a combat decoration, is it not?"

  "Yes, Sir," she confirmed.

  "You're in logistics, arrange to have a few made up for yourself. Foreign combat decorations may be cleared for wear, as you should have learned in basic. And that one is certainly listed."

  "Yes, sir," she agreed. That wasn't all bad, she thought. It would make her look more experienced.

  "Now, your rank," he said, still standing. "Sorry, my manners first. Please sit and relax," he said, indicating the chair. He moved behind his desk and sat casually but straight. "The recruiters promised you corporal, so a corporal you are. The problem is, you have neither the training nor the experience. As soon as we can, we will send you to NCO Leadership School. In the meantime, you will have to manage. You are in a corporal's slot, so you will just have to do it. They should have bumped your pay and left you a private, but I don't know what they were thinking. If you can't manage to do the job, however, you will either be transferred or reduced. We do not carry people in Third Mob, unless they are casualties."

  "Yes, sir," she said and swallowed. Already on the spot and not even here a day.

  "There may be hassle from people, considering our current strained relations with Earth, and you having that accent. Let the chain of command know. I do not tolerate it. You are a professional and will be treated as such."

  She was quickly introduced to the Executive Officer, Regimental Sergeant and orderly room staff and walked over to her section. Introductions all over again. It was becoming a habit. She entered and was met with stares.

  "Corporal Pacelli?" someone finally asked.

  "Yes," she agreed, and added, "Warrant," when she saw the speaker was a Warrant Leader. He looked to have Indonesian roots, and was of average height and lanky.

  "Glad to have you. Where you transferring from?" he asked as he came out from behind a workstation and shook hands.

  "Uh, pipeline," she replied, referring to the initial training course. "I'm a corporal because I have prior service. Sort of. UNPF. Mtali," she stuttered out.

  He stared for a second only before saying, "Good, we need more combat vets. I'm Aman Sirkot. This is Sergeant Ron Davis," he introduced. Davis was clean-cut American looking and about eighteen local years. "You'll have the second NCO slot," he explained as she shook hands with Davis, "and this is Specialist Beker and Private Greer." Beker looked Russian and was about fifteen local years. She had tangled black hair in a thick growth on top. Greer was an unremarkable brunette, average features and height and was about twelve, Kendra guessed.

  She was taken back to the warehouse where four more enlisted people were using a lift pod and brute force to shove containers around. "Everything the Third Mob needs to fight with, anywhere in space," Sirkot said proudly. "The rest of the warehouse squad is scattered about either accounting for gear or running errands." They watched for a few seconds until the other troops came over to be introduced. They all noted her accent, but no one commented. As far as they were concerned, if she'd made it through training and was a combat vet, she was acceptable.

  * * *

  She had slight trouble fitting into the unit. She'd assumed it would run as her UN unit had. Show up, do the work, take an occasional class in a military subject, go home. There were many differences she'd never considered.

  The Freehold forces had no civil service employees as support. They had occasional contractors, but only for specific tasks such as construction. All their regular operations were geared for war; there was no peacetime mission except training and support. The UN forces also assisted various government agencies, did charitable missions and other incidentals.

  The Freehold forces started at a reasonable time, too, except during exercises. At 2:75 Rowanday they reported to the marshaling yard outside supply for a formation. They all signed in and received a briefing from Naumann. Some units did it by vid. Naumann insisted on a face-to-face. He said it reminded them they were soldiers.

  From there, they all went to the range. The base firing range was huge, and they rotated from the precision short range, to precision long, pop-up target range, support weapon ranges—machineguns, automatic cannon, mortars, tactical rocket and missile—to foreign weapons, then a by-squad combat run through a course with surprise targets that changed every time.

  After that, physical training, including unarmed combat practice. That was the end of a very busy day.

  Mistday they took care of all administrative details and training vids, promotion tests, medical exams and any bookkeeping at the unit. The Logistics Company was kept busy handing out gear to new arrivals—including Kendra—inventorying tools, weapons, ammunition and other gear.

  Ashday was parachute day, followed by PT and unarmed combat. Oakday they did rappelling and assault, then maintenance of their gear. Yewday was vehicle operations and loading practice, then PT again. Sageday was a short field exercise in squads and occasionally platoons, involving orienteering, simulated raids, finding objectives, rescue and first aid and infiltration/exfiltration. They finished the week with Berday, which was a day for PT and optional sports or a monthly party for arrivals and departures. That was where she first had problems.

  She'd thought she was fitting in well and had no reason to be concerned when Naumann stopped by Logistics at the end of the first month and asked to talk to her. She followed him to the dock area.

  "This is unofficial and friendly and I apologize for skipping the chain of command," he began. "You aren't doing well in PT."

  "I'm qualified, sir," she protested.

  " 'Qualified' is marginal. We don't do marginal in Third Mob. One purpose of unarmed combat training is to get one used to violence, to be comfortable with the idea of pain. I want you to spend more time building muscle and fighting, and less time with the soft sports. And that means weight training, not stimulators," he ordered.

  "Yes, sir," she confirmed.

  "Second," he continued, "Social functions are optional, but you need to attend more of them. The correct phrasing is 'you may pass if other duty makes attendance impossible, otherwise appearance is mandatory.' It is important that NCOs set the example and be available for the other troops, and it is good for esprit de corps and unit cohesiveness to participate. And don't be afraid to drink at least socially. It loosens inhibitions and encourages talk, including that about problems. And an occasional drunken idiot is a challenge to keep things interesting and test our responses." He grinned as he said it.

  She agreed to attend more functions. It would cut into more of her time.

  "Also," he continued, less sternly, "I understand you have knowledge of machine tools."

  "Yes, sir," she said. "Fixed and mobile robotic coordinate machines, mechanical, laser, electron beam and force beam," she said.

  "How would you feel about qualifying as a machinist as a
secondary war skill?" he asked. His phrasing made it clear she'd need a good excuse not to.

  "How long is the school, sir?" she asked, sighing inside.

  "No school," he said, shaking his head. "We'll have Warrant Chilton give you the end of course test. If he's happy, we'll document it for headquarters."

  "Uh, sure. sir," she agreed. "If it'll help."

  "It's impossible to have too many trained personnel," he replied. "And if you develop other skills or can act as a unit instructor, let Sirkot know. We'll keep you busy."

  "Yes, sir," she acknowledged.

  She took the test, impressing Warrant Leader Chilton and surprising herself. Then she found out that her pay would be bumped an additional five percent for each secondary skill she had. No wonder people competed for slots in the military, she thought. Free training in as many skills as one could manage and extra pay based on it. She'd already seen that employers preferred veterans. On Earth, she'd found out during her hitch that propaganda to the contrary, most employers regarded the military as a pool for losers.

  The Freehold forces were paid far better than the UN. There were no taxes or other deductions, either, but there were additional expenses. One had to furnish housing, unless ordered to lodge on base, when duty required immediate availability. All meals had to be provided, except during exercises or combat. Kendra had planned on living with Rob and Marta and commuting, but the difference in their schedules made it awkward, as did traffic. From Marta's on the far south side of the metroplex to Heilbrun was about 150 kilometers, or 280 going around the bustle of downtown. It was just too far to commute twice a day with the heavy workload and no automated mass transit.

  She paid the minimal amount of Cr5 a day to stay on base the first month and went home on weekends, then bought a small unicar. It was a ground-only; flight fees added up quickly. She still only made it home on weekends and a couple of days a week. She lived out of a duffel bag, kept her ready gear in the car and her battle gear at the unit.