"My logisticians are a humorless lot . . . they know if my campaign fails, they are the first ones I will slay."
—Alexander of Macedonia
Logistics training was a forty-two-day course, but Kendra only had to attend the first week, since she'd tested proficient in all the software, accounting and technical matters. She was glad. These people never stopped training. So one more week would do it, then she'd finally be serving in the military again.
The first week was the combat logistics course. She wasn't sure what to expect. The barracks she was assigned to had small rooms of four trainees rather than bays, so she hoped it would be less intense than the previous courses. The hope didn't last, and she found the first day very confusing.
She and seven other "pipeline" trainees met outside, she wearing corporal's hashes and holding a sign with their class number. Two older students who were crosstraining came over, one a sergeant, who nodded but let her keep authority for now. They cautiously introduced themselves, wondering also at the new environment. Kendra had learned that that was a fact of military life and quickly identified with the crosstrainees. The other recruits weren't familiar to her or each other at all, and formed their own clique. Well, it meant she was fitting in, she hoped.
A woman almost as tall as Kendra, with a heavier, lanky build as opposed to her angular one approached. She wore senior sergeant stripes and was as immaculately made up as all instructors. Without preamble, she read their names off her comm and made notes. "I'm Senior Sergeant Logistics Instructor Joly. Senior Joly is sufficient. We'll get introduced as we go. We will leave for the firing range in ten segs, so grab everything you need and let's go. I'll wait here," she told them.
Kendra grabbed her weapon from her room; she'd been carrying only a Merrill pistol. She added helmet, field harness and a cloak. It was fair so far, but might rain later, and a cloak was handy to lie on for prone fire. She was back downstairs and outside in less than five segs to wait as the others trickled in.
Once everyone returned, Joly lead them on a run toward the firing range. The pace was unhurried, just fast enough to get the circulation going. The day was hot, but a light, steady breeze kept them comfortable and wafted the scent of mountain blossoms to them. On the whole, Kendra enjoyed it, and running a few kilometers was no longer a strain.
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.