Tulo'stenaloor gazed back at the receding planet and calculated all he had lost—better than half his oolt'ondai on the bloody retreat as the threshkreen pressed them hard, his oolt' posol, and his eson'antai. His net-granted fiefs were back in the hands of the green thresh; he had even lost his castellaine, who had followed him for over fifty years. He limped away in this claptrap oolt' posol, fit only for a scout, and if he could not find a oolt' Posleen to bind to he would be left in the system to be hunted down like an abat.
All in all if he never saw another gray-clad thresh or, gods forefend, a metal one, it would be far to soon. He caught a transmission from a wandering oolt' Posleen searching for oolt' pos. It spoke of a distant world, far from these hated thresh and the asa' endai seem reasonable. Whatever, a ride was a ride and the farther from this misbegotten star the better.
Mosovich raised his eyes and nose above the muck and peered around the clearing. The first rendezvous had been a bust, the AO covered with hunting Posleen. He had been holding position for two days awaiting pickup at the second and last rendezvous point and was about to give up. Twice Posleen patrols had swept the area. He knew that the Himmit were about as courageous as mice; if they had a sniff of a hot LZ they were didee-mao and so much for Momma Mosovich's youngest.
His protein converter was gone along with his communicator. Already looking like a death camp survivor from malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies, there was absolutely no way he was going to survive another year until the AEF arrived. If the Himmit waved off he might as well just blow his brains out and get it over with. He dipped back down and began to breathe off a snorkel again.
Precisely on time he felt the muted rumble of a Himmit stealth ship transmitted through the muck. As he cautiously raised his head above the scummy surface, he sensed movement through the violet Barwhon mists.
Crap. That close. If the fuckin' mules had held off two fuckin' minutes, he raged to himself. Maybe if I snuff 'em quick enough the Himmit will land anyway, he mused doubtfully.
He raised the misbalanced Posleen shotgun to his shoulder and waited for a target. The rumble of the stealth ship continued to build and he felt amazement.
If he heard Posleen, the supernaturally effective detectors of the Himmit surely had acquired them. Maybe Rigas is having a brave fit, he chuckled grimly.
He raised the shot cannon out of the swamp and took up slack just as the scout shimmered into sight. The ramp dropped and two camouflage-covered figures darted out of the violet cover and pounded through the swamp towards it. Mosovich did not let shock slow him as he threw the shotgun over one shoulder and the cached bag holding a single surviving nestling over the other.
Mueller stopped long enough to take the bag and Ersin threw one arm under his shoulder as the three survivors lurched into the scout ship. It lifted out with a barely noticeable hum, the holographic distorters reengaged. All three sprawled to the floor in an untidy heap of mud and soldiery.
"Ironic, idn't it," Mueller gasped, spread eagle on the plasteel, violet mud and eel-leaches cascading to the floor. "Sometimes the diversion is the best place to be."
Ft. Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania was seeing a rebirth unlike any since World War II. Beyond the MP's shack Mike could see work crews in fatigues and civilian clothes erecting temporary quarters on Utility Road. He handed his orders to the MP along with his ID and waited blank faced as the VW muttered. The scars were nearly invisible now but he could still feel weakness even with the time in the ship gym and in numerous gyms since landing. He longed to get back into a suit and do some serious cranking, to hop on a motorcycle and just open it up.
It was taking the MP an awfully long time and he waved several cars past as Mike waited. O'Neal could see him talking animatedly on the phone and wondered what was up. No more receptions, please, no more hand shaking. No more banquets or speeches. Just give me back a suit.
Since his triumphant return, he had been showered with awards. When he complained that he just wanted to get back to preparing for the next battle, the PAO shit-head major who had been put in charge of him told him that the public needed a hero. He was the best available, so shut up and soldier.
The campaign on Barwhon dragged on, and the factors that made Barwhon a tough nut to crack—relative lack of relief, and high levels of resources for the Posleen to draw on—were magnified on Earth. The victory on Diess, the victory that required thousands of the Earth's finest soldiers, was being spun as the work of one man. No matter how he protested, no matter how he stressed the importance of teamwork, he knew better than to mention the problems of training; in his speeches, it always came out as "O'Neal, O'Neal, O'Neal."
And, in the "briefings" to senior officers—actually dog and pony shows for brass hats who wanted a good war story—when he pointed out the mistakes in training and doctrine they stopped being so friendly. He had yet to meet one senior officer on Earth that could find his ass with both hands. And now this.
He did not even know what unit he was reporting to. His orders just directed him to report to 555th Fleet Strike Infantry for duty. "The Triple-Nickle" was a separate regiment, ACS and even Fleet Strike, but it was the last one to be formed before the invasion. Last on the list for equipment and personnel, last on the list for duty. A crap regiment handed crap duties in World War II and inactive ever since. No regimental honors, no decent history, unsupported by other ACS.
And now receiving a lieutenant, battered and more than a little shocky, for duty. Duty, training and preparation. The next time he would be ready and so would the men he commanded. He swore that on the souls of his dead.
He had taken the time in the hospital, immediately after the general left, to start on the letters to the families. The information was sketchy on who exactly had been in the platoon. Sergeant Green and he had the only complete rosters. Sergeant Green had bought the farm and Mike never memorized his, depending upon the "late" Michelle to remember it for him.
He remembered the total well, fifty-eight. But the total that the survivors could remember only came up to fifty-five and he had never been able to reconstruct who those other three were. It ate at him. Three of his men, MIA and unknown soldiers. Was there anyone he should have written letters to?
Letters to mothers and fathers, letters to wives, letters to sweethearts. Who had come up with that masochistic custom? Tell me that the Mongols personally told the wife that her husband would not be coming home? Well, yes, probably and then married them to keep them from poverty. Probably the British, it was a properly masochistic tradition; their style if anyone's. Or maybe an early American officer, knowing that the congressman would be writing a letter to ask anyway and then the tradition started . . .
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Creyton, I was your son's commanding officer when he lost his life and I wanted to tell you what a fine and honorable young man he was. He was covering the retreat of the German Panzer Grenadier . . . etc." Thirty-two letters. He was saved from writing three because they listed no next of kin. One of them was Wiznowski. Well, I remember you, Wiz. Drink one for me in Valhalla. I'll be there shortly.
"Sorry about that, Captain," said the MP, breaking Mike out of his daze. His expression was different. Mike saw the now-to-be-expected hero-worship, but there was something else. Mischief?
"We have to call in all the officers coming in under orders, to find out where they go. The units keep moving and we don't have the central processing facility set up yet. Anyway, Captain, the problem was that your orders had changed and they had to find the new ones."
"It's Lieutenant, Sergeant, and where do I get the new ones?"
"I wrote them down, Captain." He cleared his throat. "So much of paragraph 13587-01: 'O'Neal, Michael L., First Lieutenant USAR to report to the 555th Mobile Infantry, Fort Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania, for duty.' Now to read 'Captain O'Neal, Michael L., Federation Fleet Strike assigned Bravo Company, 1st Battalion 555th Mobile Infantry, Fort Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania, for purposes of assuming command.' "
"Damn!"
"Congratulations, sir!"
"Uh, thanks."
"Are you who I think you are, sir?"
"Yeah, probably," Mike shrugged.
"Is it as bad as they say, sir?" asked the MP, his voice lowered.
"Worse, Sergeant, worse," said Captain O'Neal, shaking his head. "It's dancin' with the Devil, Sergeant. An' the Devil's leading."
E'en now the vanguard gathers,
E'en now we face the fray—
As thou didst help our fathers,
Help Thou our host today.
Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
In Life and Death made clear—
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of battles, Hear!
—Kipling