ships do we have flying?”
“Four
aksai
are at full readiness. Maybe five in a day or so. And we’ve got ten pilots trained on them fairly well. They probably’d get nailed in a dogfight with experienced Musth pilots, but I think they’d at least give the furry ones a tough way to go for a few minutes.”
“Good. Disperse those to Balar, with their pilots, and give the force one of the freighters for a mother ship. Offworld, they can maybe be a bit of a hole card, and give us an inch of the gravity well if we’re attacked, or anyway some surprise. Put three or four Zhukovs, the patrol craft, and a couple of the yachts with ‘em.”
“Yessir.”
“One more thing I should’ve taken care of — with all these extraneous aircraft, we’re a bit short on pilots. Tell the regimental commanders to link up with the local flight schools for support — they can invoice PlanGov with their expenses — and get any of our soldiers who want to fly into training. Also, get our recruiters banging the drum for recruits who’ve got any sort of flight experience or who’re interested in leaving a perfectly good planet behind.
“And we’re going to have to figure out some way to start building a navy. But that’s for PlanGov and me to figure out.
“That’s all I can think of.”
“What about the civilians, sir?” Angara asked.
Rao thought for a moment. “That’s PlanGov’s department, but I don’t see what good we can do telling them the shit’s going to come down maybe soon, except start a wave of hoarding and maybe panic. Plus I don’t think … emphasis think … the Musth will start strafing the innocent. At least, not in the beginning.
“So wake up the hundering third, and get them rolling.”
“On my bike, sir.”
Mil
Angara hurried out, and a few seconds later alarms began to gong monotonously. Rao pictured soldiers tumbling out of bed, cursing and wondering where the hell their blasters and alert gear were.
“You know any prayers, Hedley?”
“Not a flippin’ one, sir.”
“Me either. This may get interesting.”
• • •
Normally, graduation from Infantry and Reconnaissance Qualification was a private, verbal ceremony, followed by a three-day pass and extended drunkenness.
Six days after the fight with the Musth,
Caud
Rao ordered Headquarters onto the massive parade ground at Camp Mahan, plus representatives from the fielded regiments to return for the ceremony.
Five men and women stood at attention in front of
Caud
Rao, with Jaansma and Yoshitaro flanking him. All wore full-dress uniform: midnight blue trousers, belted tunic and kepi, yellow piping on trousers, cap, and epaulettes.
Next to the five were three blasters, stuck muzzle down into the ground. Hung on their stocks were the dress kepis of the recruits who’d died in the Highlands, their highly-polished boots in front of the weapons.
There was a pickup, casting the ceremony to the two soldiers graduating long-distance and on their backs in the Force hospital.
“You made it,” Jaansma said. “Things got a little grimmer than usual, but that’s the way soldiering always seems to go. Congratulations. You did well, all of you. I’m proud to welcome you to the company.”
Yoshitaro just nodded, said nothing.
Rao’s remarks were almost as brief.
“Striker Darod Montagna, for bravery and coolness when brought under fire by an element of the Musth race while on a training maneuver, you’re given the Order of Merit, and promoted to
finf.
Striker Baku al Sherif, you’re awarded the Combat Legion award. All of you are promoted Striker First Class, and your performance commended in dispatches. Those who died in the line of duty, Strikers Joanes, Zelen, Hathagar, and those who were wounded, Strikers Mahue and Seelam, are awarded wound stripes.
“I’m afraid this is just the beginning. I warn all of you, not just the men and women honored in this ceremony, to soldier well and carefully in the days, weeks, and months to
“Four
aksai
are at full readiness. Maybe five in a day or so. And we’ve got ten pilots trained on them fairly well. They probably’d get nailed in a dogfight with experienced Musth pilots, but I think they’d at least give the furry ones a tough way to go for a few minutes.”
“Good. Disperse those to Balar, with their pilots, and give the force one of the freighters for a mother ship. Offworld, they can maybe be a bit of a hole card, and give us an inch of the gravity well if we’re attacked, or anyway some surprise. Put three or four Zhukovs, the patrol craft, and a couple of the yachts with ‘em.”
“Yessir.”
“One more thing I should’ve taken care of — with all these extraneous aircraft, we’re a bit short on pilots. Tell the regimental commanders to link up with the local flight schools for support — they can invoice PlanGov with their expenses — and get any of our soldiers who want to fly into training. Also, get our recruiters banging the drum for recruits who’ve got any sort of flight experience or who’re interested in leaving a perfectly good planet behind.
“And we’re going to have to figure out some way to start building a navy. But that’s for PlanGov and me to figure out.
“That’s all I can think of.”
“What about the civilians, sir?” Angara asked.
Rao thought for a moment. “That’s PlanGov’s department, but I don’t see what good we can do telling them the shit’s going to come down maybe soon, except start a wave of hoarding and maybe panic. Plus I don’t think … emphasis think … the Musth will start strafing the innocent. At least, not in the beginning.
“So wake up the hundering third, and get them rolling.”
“On my bike, sir.”
Mil
Angara hurried out, and a few seconds later alarms began to gong monotonously. Rao pictured soldiers tumbling out of bed, cursing and wondering where the hell their blasters and alert gear were.
“You know any prayers, Hedley?”
“Not a flippin’ one, sir.”
“Me either. This may get interesting.”
• • •
Normally, graduation from Infantry and Reconnaissance Qualification was a private, verbal ceremony, followed by a three-day pass and extended drunkenness.
Six days after the fight with the Musth,
Caud
Rao ordered Headquarters onto the massive parade ground at Camp Mahan, plus representatives from the fielded regiments to return for the ceremony.
Five men and women stood at attention in front of
Caud
Rao, with Jaansma and Yoshitaro flanking him. All wore full-dress uniform: midnight blue trousers, belted tunic and kepi, yellow piping on trousers, cap, and epaulettes.
Next to the five were three blasters, stuck muzzle down into the ground. Hung on their stocks were the dress kepis of the recruits who’d died in the Highlands, their highly-polished boots in front of the weapons.
There was a pickup, casting the ceremony to the two soldiers graduating long-distance and on their backs in the Force hospital.
“You made it,” Jaansma said. “Things got a little grimmer than usual, but that’s the way soldiering always seems to go. Congratulations. You did well, all of you. I’m proud to welcome you to the company.”
Yoshitaro just nodded, said nothing.
Rao’s remarks were almost as brief.
“Striker Darod Montagna, for bravery and coolness when brought under fire by an element of the Musth race while on a training maneuver, you’re given the Order of Merit, and promoted to
finf.
Striker Baku al Sherif, you’re awarded the Combat Legion award. All of you are promoted Striker First Class, and your performance commended in dispatches. Those who died in the line of duty, Strikers Joanes, Zelen, Hathagar, and those who were wounded, Strikers Mahue and Seelam, are awarded wound stripes.
“I’m afraid this is just the beginning. I warn all of you, not just the men and women honored in this ceremony, to soldier well and carefully in the days, weeks, and months to
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