The War for Profit Series Omnibus (6 page)

A door stood open, yellow light spilling from it onto the grass of the quadrangle. Galen walked up to the doorway, mounted its two steps in one stride and stepped inside. Spike and Tad followed. Inside were four men wearing field uniforms, the tops of their coveralls pulled down around their waists. They sat on two couches flanking a coffee table. It was covered by paperwork and electronic clipboards.

“Who the hell are you?” asked the oldest one. His dark green t shirt was soaked with sweat and his semi-grey hair was damp, bangs hanging over his forehead and hair covering his ears, long enough in the back to hang below the base of his neck. Galen was disgusted with the slovenly appearance of all four men, old men. If they were more squared away, they wouldn’t be up half the night doing their jobs, they’d have it all done during duty hours.

“We’re tankers. We’re here to in-process.”

“You young men have just made a very unusual entrance. Do you know who I am?”

“No.” Probably some of the old duds we’re here to replace, or a bunch of clerking jerk rear echelon bums, thought Galen.

“My name is Colonel Norbert Theil. This is my executive officer, my logistics officer, and my training/tactical officer.”

Galen looked around the office. The back wall was covered with military decorations and certificates. A shield and crossed sabers, a sniper rifle, a tattered and dirty Regimental standard, a diploma from a military academy, a framed certificate awarding a high order of valor to… Captain Norbert Theil, dated about ten years earlier.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize…”

“You have two seconds to get out of my office. In-processing is handled by the other end of the building. Move it!”

They darted out of the room and raced to the entrance at the other end of the building. This time they passed through double-doors into a well-lit corridor. Barring their way was a counter attended by an alert Corporal.

“Greetings, gentlemen. What may I help you with?”

“We’re here to in-process.”

“Good. Put your contracts on the counter, go get your bags and put them by the coat rack, then wait here.”

“We don’t have bags.”

“Where are your clean clothes, your toothbrushes?”

“Well, we put our clothes in the cleaner when we shower, and use the water pick on our teeth. No need for excess baggage. You’d learn that, if you went to an academy,” said Tad.

“We do things differently here. You’ll learn. The tech level at this garrison is primitive. Use what you learned about field hygiene at your academy.”

“What do you mean?” Galen hung his coat on the rack and thought about leaving it there.

“I mean, we have old running-water showers, laundry ladies wash our clothes in a sink, and you’ll need a toothbrush or your teeth will rot out of your head. But we do live better here than in the field.”

“Oh.” They laid their paperwork on the counter. The Corporal hit a buzzer and a Troop came out and collected the paperwork. The three new mercenaries stood waiting for him to return.

“So Corporal,” said Spike, “any idea where we’re going?”

“Probably up north. Been some trouble up there lately.”

“How long will we be here?”

“About two hours. The next convoy should leave at zero two hundred, provided they don’t foul up your paperwork, or if nobody decides to keep you here. If you waited five more days to come, you might’ve got my job. That’s when I’m due to rotate out.”

Tad said, “No thanks, we’re not here to hang around garrison. We want action.”

Spike shrugged. Despite the sultry weather, Tad and Spike still wore their jackets. Tad began pacing, his red-orange hair brighter than ever, longer than Galen had ever seen it at the academy. Spike’s hair was the same, as though it never grew and was never out of place. His moustache was getting longer at the ends, starting to grow into handlebars. The Red Baron, remembered Galen. That’s who Spike looked like, the Bloody Red Baron.

“Hey, you all can go out and move around the compound and get your war gear ready. Just don’t wander off too far, like stay within a couple hundred meters. Come back when you hear the convoy.”

“What’s the convoy supposed to sound like?” asked Tad.

“Don’t worry; you’ll know it when you hear it.”

“And where are we supposed to go at this late hour?” asked Galen.

“Oh, this is the welcome center. We deal with a lot of transient troops processing in and out of the Brigade. Twenty four hour operations on everything. Maybe you want to visit the exchange, pick up some field essentials. Also open an account at the armory, pick up your basic issue plus whatever extra armaments you think you’ll need.”

“Basic issue?”

“I don’t know who you pissed off, but in a couple of hours you’re going from here straight out to the field. You’ll need full war gear. You just go check it out for yourself.”

They went to the armory first. It was a low, sturdy building made of reinforced concrete, and its one small door was flanked by two armed guards.

“Halt! State your business.”

“Here to get our basic issue,” said Galen.

“I.D. please.”

They showed their assignment orders and contracts.

“Go on in, snappers. Just don’t forget to stop by admin to have your I.D. cards made before you leave.”

“What’s a snapper?” asked Tad.

The guards were bored, working a slow night. They took the time to explain. The guard on the left said, “A snapper is a new arrival. Statistics show that most new guys snap from the stress within three months, if they’re going to snap at all.”

“No,” said the other guard, “a snapper is a snapper because it takes about a year for him to travel from in-processing to out-processing, moving slow like a snapping turtle.”

“One year here? But we’re contracted for five,” said Galen.

“Oh, you’re in the Brigade for five years but your first year is spent here, garrisoning this rock. Gives you time to get in tune with the brigade’s way of doing things, the SOP and the jargon, and you also get a chance to show what you’re made of. Build up a file to let the people in the head shed know where to put you. Some guys like it here and keep extending their time on Mandarin. I know a Sergeant who has been here eighteen years. He claims he’ll do another two here and then retire and open a bar just outside this compound’s main gate.”

“Sounds like he’s a shammer,” said Tad.

The guards grinned. “Snapper!”

The first thing Galen saw inside the armory was a sign saying, “Browsing limit five minutes. Cash purchases not allowed; warrior accounts only. Move only in the direction of the arrows. All sales are final.” He noticed the red duck-tape arrows stuck on the floor and followed them as they guided him in a zigzag through the diagonal aisles of the armory. Display racks held environmental suits, field uniforms, pistols of every make and style, a wide variety of rifles, crates of grenades, plus an assortment of war gear and battlefield cutlery. The display case for entrenching tools had pictures of grunts digging foxholes, pounding tent pegs and prying open tank hatches. One photo showed a grunt in close combat, using his entrenching tool to chop off an enemy’s head.

Tad pulled one from the display rack and said, “This is cool, I’m buying it!”

“No, wait until we get our basic issue. There might be one in it,” said Spike.

They hurried, winding through all the aisles, following the arrows on the floor. Finally they reached the check-out counter. A middle-aged civilian, rotund and balding and dressed in a lightweight set of khaki coveralls, greeted them. “So what can I do you for, gentlemen?”

“Basic issue, please.”

“Show me your orders.”

They placed the documents on the counter. The clerk glanced at the paperwork. “Standard stuff.”

He went to the back room for about five minutes and then returned pushing a heavy-duty cart loaded with military gear. “This stuff’s on the house, courtesy of the Brigade. Anything else you want, you pay for. But this standard issue should suit you just fine on Mandarin. I don’t expect to see you again until you get ready to leave.”

“So what do we get?” asked Tad.

“Basic field kit: Bayonet, automatic pistol, three sets of combat coveralls, and your choice of either a rifle or a submachine gun.”

Spike and Galen chose rifles.

“I want a submachine gun,” said Tad.

“Sign here on the hand receipt.”

They did and then the clerk stapled copies of the receipts to their orders and handed them back. “Take those uniforms to the tailor so he can sew on your rank, name tapes and patches.”

They thanked the man and carried their gear outside.

“Wait here,” said Tad. “I’m going back to get that shovel.”

“What do you think of all this, Spike?” said Galen as he reorganized his field gear to fit better in the pack.

“Not bad. Guns and money and uniforms, just what every young man wants.”

“My rifle ain’t too bad but it looks used.”

“A ten millimeter assault rifle with seven clips of caseless ammo. I’m not going to complain about a couple of scratches on the stock. At least we know they’ve been tested.”

“I wonder if we have to ever give this stuff back.”

“Only if we get kicked out for disciplinary actions. That’s what it says on the receipt.”

Galen followed Spike’s lead and put his pistol in its holster, then strapped the belt around his waist. Four extra magazines were on the left, the sidearm on the right. Galen felt more like a warrior already.

“Hey guys, check this out!” said Tad, re-emerging from the armory. He brandished his entrenching tool and made a few swipes at the air to decapitate an imaginary enemy. Then he folded it up, put it in its carrying case and hooked it to the side of his field pack. “But with this submachine gun, I probably won’t need it.”

Tad removed the pistol holster and magazines from his pistol belt and shoved them in the pack. Then he put his submachine gun magazines in the ammo pouches, clipped his bayonet and scabbard to the belt, and slung his gun over his shoulder. Quick as a flash, he un-slung the weapon, had a magazine snapped into its well and had the bayonet fixed. He practiced the action two more times, then picked up and shouldered his field pack.

Spike said, “Let’s get over to the tailor shop. I’ll feel better when I’m in uniform, showing off my Sergeant rank.”

They went to the basement of the in-processing building and found the tailor shop. A tired old man in a wheelchair greeted them. “Evening, gentlemen. Hold still while my sensors get your measurements.” He pressed a button behind the counter and held it for a moment. “That should do it.”

They laid their coveralls on the counter. The tailor took them to the back of the room, laid each set carefully on a conveyor belt. The uniforms slid out of sight, passing through a half meter square opening in the wall. The tailor hit a few keys on his computer terminal and gazed intently at his monitor, occasionally working a joystick control. Galen looked around the shop. It was neat, clean and uncluttered. On the tailor’s desk was a picture of a young man in a space fleet uniform. There was enough detail in the picture, mostly from the uniform worn by its subject, to let Galen know it was taken during the Dissention War. The young man had been a crewman on a Mandarin warship. Galen realized the man in the picture was the old tailor.

“You were in the fleet?” Galen asked him.

“Yes, thirty five years. Then I helped train the young guns of the Panzer Brigade on how to use a Mandarin transport ship. Now I just do what I can to help out. I like being around the military. It gives my life purpose and direction.”

Galen was stunned by his words. Galen was only here to make a fast buck then get back home to a real life and hang up the combat boots forever. The actual living proof, provided by the old tailor, that some people made the military their way of life, made his stomach knot up. Sure, there had been plenty of hard-core lifer types at the academy: Drill instructors, educators, military science instructors; they all seemed to love the military. But never before had Galen met a disabled, aging man with so little time left to enjoy life, wasting that time on the military. He pitied the old man.

“All done,” said the tailor. “You can step into the changing booths and try them on. Make you look a whole lot better.”

They did. Tad’s field uniform fit well, tailored to his figure. It was the first time since leaving the academy he wore something that wasn’t outrageous. Galen looked at himself in a mirror. The field uniform made him look even taller, his average build made more impressive by the elastic waistline and the extra material around the shoulders and chest. The subdued name tapes and rank insignia were clearly visible, well-placed by the tailor in accordance with Panzer Brigade uniform regulations. He had to turn his body to view the unit patch sewn onto his left shoulder. It was a rectangle turned on end, showing a sword pointing down the middle, crossed by two ancient muskets with bayonets fixed. At the bottom the embroidered letters said, “Regulars, By God!”

“Infantry?”

“Yes. Your first year is with the infantry battalion here on Mandarin,” said the tailor.