Phule's Company Part 20

"What did you find?"

Both lieutenants were crowding in next to Phule now, staring at the paper as if the names listed were some kind of coded message.

"I thought O'Donnel was awfully eager to agree to a fencing match!" the commander muttered, almost to himself. "See this name? Third from the top? Isaac Corbin! He was Tri-Planetary saber champion for five years running! What in the h.e.l.l is he doing in the Army?"

"Getting ready to cancel our checks, I'd say." Armstrong grimaced. "At least it's just one bout out of three."

"Maybe, maybe not," Phule murmured thoughtfully. "I think we'll-"

The shriek of his wrist communicator cut him short.

"Colonel Battleax wishes to view your cla.s.sic features sir!"

"Oh great . . . just great. On the way, Mother."

"I see you're getting your usual amount of press coverage, Captain. Certainly taking on the Regular Army in a public challenge is an ambitious effort."

"Look, Colonel. I didn't know they were going to run the Red Eagles in on us. I'll even admit it's my fault for letting the media wave a targeting flag over us, but . . ."

"Whoa. Relax, Captain," Battleax insisted. "I'm not trying to ha.s.sle you. I just called in to wish you luck in tomorrow's compet.i.tion. If you don't mind my saying so, I think you're going to need it."

"You can say that again," Phule said with a snort. "Sorry, ma'am. Didn't mean to snap at you, there. I'm just a bit pressured trying to get ready for tomorrow."

"Well, I won't keep you, then. Just between you and me, though, Jester, do you think there's any chance at all you can pull it off?"

"There's always a chance, ma'am," he replied automatically. "But seriously . . . I'd just go ahead and concede the close order drill except for the fact that I don't think we should ever give up without a fight. I would have bet we could hold our own against a normal Army unit on the confidence course, but now . . . I don't know. About the only thing that's definitely in our favor is that, even though it's supposed to be impartial judging, my crew has gotten in pretty good with the locals here on Haskin's. It just might give us the home court advantage."

"I'm surprised at you, Captain." Battleax laughed. "And with your business background, too. You may have inadvertently set yourself a rougher road to hoe. I don't mean to rain on your parade, but we both know that an expert is someone from off-planet with a briefcase. I just hope your success with the locals hasn't made your troops too familiar figures, so that they only make the Red Eagles seem that much more exotic . . . or expert!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Journal #129

I was fortunate enough to witness the events which made up the Legion vs. Army compet.i.tion firsthand . . . though as a spectator, not as a judge. Though I normally try to stay emotionally detached from the antics of the company beyond what has immediate effect on my employer, I will admit to having formed a certain affection for the Legionnaires as individuals and as a group, and felt they might need whatever moral support they could get in the conflict. As it turned out, I was right.

The compet.i.tion itself took place at the Legion facilities, which seemed to impress the Red Eagles even if the Legionnaires did not. Governor Wingas was on hand, along with the entire Settlement Council and a.s.sorted other local dignitaries who were to serve as judges . . . and, as might be expected, the media.

The less said about the close order drill event, the better, save to note that it took place. The Legionnaires managed to stagger through their portion without too many mistakes which would be noticeable to a civilian eye, and thus managed to avoid any actual embarra.s.sment. There was no question, however, as to which group had the greater expertise.

Rather than restricting themselves to the normal Manual of Arms-right-face, left face, about-face, that sort of rubbish-the Red Eagles dipped into their knowledge of the Exhibition Manual of Arms. Again, for the enlightenment of my fellow nonmilitary creatures, this consists of a series of rifle spins, ripple movements, and toss-exchanging of rifles, more often than not carried out while the partic.i.p.ants are marching in a bewildering variety of directions. Needless to say, this impressed the judges and spectators in the reviewing stand, who rewarded the Eagles with frequent and loud bursts of applause. I somehow managed to restrain myself, but noticed I seemed to be the only one of the spectators who exercised such control.

As a finale, it was announced that the Eagles would repeat one of their more intricate maneuvers, only blindfolded and without the benefit of anyone counting cadence or calling orders . . . which they proceeded to do with chilling precision.

It might be expected that this display would move the already nervous Legionnaires to the depths of despair. Strangely enough, it seemed to have the exact opposite effect. From where I sat, I was able to overhear some of the comments the company whispered back and forth within their formation while the Eagles were performing. The general thrust of the comments was that they felt that the Eagles could have won the event without resorting to "the snazzy stuff," but that the soldiers had chosen their specific routines to "show off" and otherwise make the Legionnaires "look worse than we really are"! By the end of the Red Eagles' exhibition, a new, dark resolve had settled over the Legionnaires. What had been a contest for a soft contract had suddenly escalated in their eyes to a full-blown vendetta.

I felt this boded ill for the upcoming confidence course event.

Standing at his post by the barbed-wire and machine-gun portion of the confidence course, Master Sergeant Spengler shook his head again in wonderment. Of all the crazy things he had seen and done during his years in the Army, today had to be in a category all its own. These Legionnaires had guts . . . he'd give them that. More guts than brains, though. After the sh.e.l.lacking the Eagles had given them at close order drill, he wouldn't have been surprised if they had simply conceded the rest of the events rather than suffer additional humiliation. Instead, they had not only been willing to continue the compet.i.tion, they had insisted on some of the roughest rules for running the confidence course that Spengler had ever heard of!

The sergeant momentarily slipped off his cherished red beret and ran a sleeve across his brow before replacing it. He was still sweating from the Eagles' run at the course, and, though they might look jaunty, the berets tended to seal the heat in.

If he hadn't been standing within earshot to hear it all for himself, he never would have believed that the Legionnaire commander had posed these rules himself.

First of all, they were supposed to run the course in what he called "full combat conditions," which mostly meant they had to do it under arms and carrying a full field pack. There had been some discussion as to whether some of the Legionnaires could use their glide boards and hover cycles, but the major had stood firm and those particular pieces of equipment had been barred from the course.

The real surprise, though, came when the black-uniformed officer had insisted that the groups run the course and be timed as a unit rather than as individuals, with time penalties for any "skipped" obstacles. The major had protested, pointing out that as there were only twenty Red Eagles and nearly two hundred Legionnaires, his rival could lose most of his "dead weight" while paring his force down to an equal size, sending only his twenty best through the course against the Eagles. Sergeant Spengler had thought that even yielding this advantage to the Legionnaires would have little effect on the outcome, though at the time he held his silence rather than intervene in an argument between officers. Incredibly, however, the Legionnaire commander declared that he had no intention of paring down or otherwise reducing the number of his company, that he wished to match the timed run of his entire command against that of the twenty Red Eagles! The major had been so dumbfounded at this revelation that he agreed to the terms without further attempts at modification.

Even now, thinking back on it, the master sergeant found himself shaking his head with disbelief. Though he occasionally felt momentary flashes of admiration for a commander who had that much faith in his troops, the overwhelming evidence said that the man was crazy. Even if the forces were evenly matched in ability, which they weren't, trying to run that many bodies through a confidence course in one wave, much less while being timed, was logistically suicidal!

The Red Eagles' performance on the course had suffered a bit from the "full combat conditions." Not that they were particularly hampered by their packs and weapons, mind you. They had lived and slept with those implements often enough in actual combat that the extra bulk and required maneuvering s.p.a.ce were almost second nature to them. Trying to perform the Mickey Mouse, basic training maneuvers of a confidence course while so enc.u.mbered, on the other hand, was a real pain in the b.u.t.t. While the obstacles in the course were specifically designed to test and exercise the partic.i.p.ants, such challenges were rarely encountered once one cleared training. As an example, in the master sergeant's entire combat experience, he had never been called on to swing across a ditch on a rope while holding a rifle . . . until this afternoon, that is. Then, too, there was the problem, and the sergeant had felt it himself, of taking the compet.i.tion seriously. Every one of the Red Eagles knew that the s.p.a.ce Legion was a bunch of clowns, and nothing they had seen since arriving on Haskin's Planet had served to convince them otherwise. As such, it was difficult, if not impossible, to generate that hard drive and push necessary to really excel at an exercise. Rather, there was a tendency to loaf or coast whenever possible. The Eagles had run the course in a presentable time, and, of course, had not skipped any of the obstacles, but it was far from their top performance.

Shading his eyes against the sun, Spengler peered toward the starting line where the company of Legionnaires was ma.s.sing.

It wouldn't be long now. Another half hour at the most and this whole harebrained compet.i.tion would be over. He a.s.sumed it wouldn't take the Legionnaires longer than that to run, the course . . . or give up. The Army would have its contract-and publicity-and the Eagles would have their promised night on the town.

With the conscientiousness that earned him his stripes, the sergeant began checking over his position. When the Legionnaires reached this point in the course, it would be his job to fire a steady stream of machine-gun bullets above their heads as they crawled under the strands of barbed wire, which were conveniently stapled to posts, something else one never saw in real combat. The obstacle was designed to demonstrate to the partic.i.p.ants that they could move and perform minimal functions while under fire. It was also, invariably, the biggest bottleneck on the course and the one that ate up the most minutes during a timed run. There was simply no way to crawl under barbed wire fast, especially since the maneuver called for lying on your back and pushing through with your feet, all the while using your hands to guide the lower strands of wire up and over the rifle lying on your chest.

Stepping onto the raised platform that housed the machine gun, set back some twenty meters from the wire itself, Spengler immediately noticed something amiss. Specifically the small frame that normally held the weapon's muzzle at a pre-set height was missing! What that meant was that all that was keeping the weapon from raking the course partic.i.p.ants with live ammo was the steady hand of whoever was firing it!

The sergeant cursed softly under his breath.

He had thought the tracer fire looked awfully low while he was going under the wire. Well, two could play that game. When this was all over, he'd have a word or two with the Legionnaire sergeant who had manned the weapon during the Red Eagles' run. What was her name again . . . Brandy? Yes, that was it.

Spengler allowed himself the ghost of a smile as he recalled the magazine spread that had been pa.s.sed around when they got this a.s.signment.

He had to admit, they didn't have anything that looked like that in his unit. While there were women in the ranks of the Red Eagles, their build and manner was from flat-faced, big-boned, muscular genes that would look more at home behind the wheel of a truck or a bulldozer than on a dance floor or in a centerfold. Maybe he wouldn't lean on this Brandy girl too hard. Perhaps a sociable drink or five . . .

The sharp report of a starting gun drew the sergeant's attention. The Legionnaires had started their run. There were many obstacles to clear before they reached his position, and since there was no sense in spraying bullets over the barbed wire when there was no one there, the sergeant had time to watch for a while before settling in behind the machine gun.

At first, he thought the Legionnaires had gotten their signals crossed and were following the normal procedure of running the course in "flights," as half a dozen figures darted out from the starting line. Then he realized that the entire company was, indeed, moving, but in a steady, ground-eating jog rather than a headlong sprint.

Interesting. The force was better organized and disciplined than he would have expected. Sending scouts on ahead, since that was the obvious role of the lead runners, was an innovative idea. Almost as if-well, yes-like real combat conditions. Who would have thought to find such conscientious roleplaying in the s.p.a.ce Legion?

Spengler was amused to note that the two weird-looking nonhumans-what were they again? Sinthians?-were literally being carried by some of their teammates. The sergeant had both performed and supervised similar exercises as a drill for carrying wounded comrades, but had never seen anyone attempt the practice through an entire confidence course. And wasn't that . . . Yes! The unit's commanding officer he had seen earlier was running the course along with his troops! For that matter, so were the other officers and what looked like the entire cadre!

The master sergeant's normal disdain for the s.p.a.ce Legion was slipping away and being replaced by a growing, though grudging, admiration for this sc.r.a.ppy crew. They weren't the Red Eagles, to be sure . . . not even close. Still, if one couldn't make the grade in a real outfit, this wouldn't be a bad outfit to belong to.

A flicker of motion on the course ahead of the main force caught the sergeant's eye.

What the . . . ? One of the "scouts" had apparently climbed up the wooden framework of the first obstacle and was cutting down the "swinging ropes," tossing them to his teammates on the ground who, in turn, scampered off down the course bearing their prizes.

They couldn't do that! What were they trying to pull, anyway? More to the point, how were the rest of the Legionnaires supposed to cross the ditch with the ropes gone?

As if in answer to his mental question, the first runners of the main body reached the edge of the ditch. Ignoring the remaining ropes, they simply stepped off the bank into the chest-deep slime . . . and just stood there! The Legionnaires behind them stepped on their shoulders, then dropped into the ditch taking similar positions farther on, until . . .

Stepping-stones! Even as Spengler realized what they were doing, the chains were completed, and the main body was moving across the ditch with next to no loss of speed, stepping from shoulder to shoulder of their teammates standing in the slime. The maneuver had obviously been painstakingly practiced from the smoothness of its execution. There were even a couple chains where the "stones" were standing closer together to accommodate the smaller members of the company.

A short story he had read in high school, one of the few he remembered, flashed through Spengler's mind. "Lennington vs. the Ants," it was called, and told the tale of a plantation owner's fight against the advance of a force of army ants. Watching the Legionnaires advance steadily on his position, the sergeant experienced a chilling moment as his mind's eye superimposed the image of that merciless, unstoppable swarm over the black-uniformed figures jogging toward him. This s.p.a.ce Legion troop no longer seemed quite as comical as they had this morning. If they were . . .

The dull whump of a nearby explosion made the master sergeant duck reflexively. At first he thought there had been some sort of catastrophic accident on the course, but then the truth dawned on him.

They were blowing up the obstacles!

Horror and outrage warred within the sergeant as he witnessed another barrier, the three-meter wall this time, disappear in a flash-boom, followed by a shower of splinters and debris. Before the echoes of the explosions had fully died away, the advancing black company appeared, maintaining their dogged advance through the clouds of dust, unnervingly close now.

With the iron discipline of a combat veteran, the master sergeant turned his back on the spectacle and began loading the first belt of ammunition into the machine gun.

Let the major fight it out over whether or not the Legionnaires' tactics were acceptable. His job was to see to it that they kept their heads down while they went under the wire. n.o.body pa.s.sed this position rapidly. Not with tracers whining around their . . .

The world suddenly went topsy-turvy around him, as the sergeant was violently upended and slammed down on the platform. Shaken and confused, he tried to struggle upright, only to be pushed flat again, this time with teeth-rattling force.

"Mmmm . . . You . . . stay down. Okay?"

A berry brown face with obsidian-dark eyes swam into focus. One of the black-uniformed Legionnaires was squatting over the sergeant's fallen form, and Spengler could feel the light p.r.i.c.k of a knife point under his chin.

"W-what do you think you're doing?" he gasped, trying hard to speak without moving his chin. "You can't . . ."

He broke off speaking as the pressure under his chin increased sharply.

"The captain tell me, he say 'Escrima, I want you to help remove the obstacles.' Here, you are the obstacle . . . yes? I remove you by capturing. You want, I kill you instead."

Reviewing his options quickly, for the sergeant was unwilling to bet his life that the Legionnaire was joking-or bluffing-Spengler opted to lie quietly where he was. This did not, of course, keep him from seething inwardly as he watched wire cutters clear the barbed wire from his position, and, scant seconds later, the entire company sweep by this supposedly challenging obstacle without breaking stride.

"You can't mean you're going to let them get away with it . . . sir. "

Sprawled in one of the "guest rooms" of the s.p.a.ce Legion's incredible facilities which had been a.s.signed to them for use during the compet.i.tion, Major O'Donnel favored his master sergeant with a scowl.

"I didn't say we were going to let them get away with it," he said tightly. "I said I wasn't going to lodge a protest."

"But they didn't run the confidence course . . . they totaled it!"

"And we could have, too . . . if we thought of it," the major snapped back. "We had the equipment in our packs, and it was declared as combat conditions. It's what we would have done in combat. We just got trapped into conventional thinking, is all."

"Well, what they did sure wasn't regulation," the sergeant growled.

"Neither is the Exhibition Manual of Arms we used this morning. All right, we had our chance to show off without them whimpering about it, and now they've had theirs. At the moment, we're even."

"So we're going to let it stand as a win for the s.p.a.ce Legion?" Spengler said, trying to sting the officer's pride.

"Face it, Sergeant. We lost. They beat our time without pa.s.sing up any obstacles . . . and they did it with ten times as many troops. Of course, we helped them. That was a pretty lackl.u.s.ter performance our boys put on today. Frankly I don't think we deserved to win this event. We goofed off while they busted a.s.s. That's no way to come out on top."

The master sergeant had the grace to look embarra.s.sed.

"We didn't think they could come on that strong, sir," he muttered, avoiding the officer's gaze.

"Uh-huh. We got c.o.c.ky and overconfident to a point where we badly underestimated an opponent," O'Donnel clarified. "If anything, Sergeant, we owe these Legionnaires a vote of thanks for teaching us a valuable lesson. I think we were d.a.m.n lucky not to have learned it in real combat. At least this way, we're still alive . . . and we get another chance."

"You know, sir," Spengler said carefully, as if surprised by his own words, "I never thought I'd say it, but I don't think I'd relish taking that crew on in a real brawl."

The major grimaced. "Don't feel bad. I've been thinking much the same thing. Wouldn't mind having them covering my flank, though . . . as long as we were sure they wouldn't confuse us with the enemy."

He grinned mirthlessly at his own joke, then shook his head.

"Enough of that, though. I've got to start concentrating on the fencing match tonight. It's going to be our last chance to pull the Army's chestnuts, not to mention our own reputation, out of the fire."

"Do you think there might be a problem, sir?" The master sergeant frowned. "I mean, we do have Corbin on our side."

"Yes, we do." O'Donnel nodded. "But that's only one bout out of three. After this afternoon, I wouldn't bet the rent money that those clowns are going to hand us the other two on a platter."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Journal #130

It is doubtful that you have ever attended a fencing tournament unless you are directly involved in the sport, either as a partic.i.p.ant or through some emotional or professional relationship with a fencer. This is due to the simple fact that fencing is not a spectator sport, the action being far too fast and subtle for the uneducated eye. (It might be of interest to note that fencing is one of the few sports where the compet.i.tors pay a fee, but the spectators get in for free.) Usually such an event is held in a large gymnasium or field house, with anywhere from six to several dozen "strips" laid out. The compet.i.tors are divided into groups or "pools" and fence each person within their pool. The top two or three advance to the next round, where they are rea.s.signed to new pools and the process begins again. The bulk of those attending are in the compet.i.tion area, consisting almost entirely of compet.i.tors and coaches, while a smattering of spectators made up of friends and parents of the compet.i.tors loll about in the bleachers getting bored. Only the final bouts generate much interest, but even then there are few spectators, most compet.i.tors packing their equipment and leaving as soon as they are eliminated.

Needless to say, this was not the situation for the final event between the Red Eagles and my employer's company.

Major O'Donnel paused in his limbering-up exercises to glance at the growing crowd of spectators. Despite his resolve to ignore any distractions while mentally preparing for the compet.i.tion, he found his mindset giving way to amazement.

Crazy!

The Legionnaires' tactics on the confidence course had been unorthodox, but this . . . This was unheard-of! It looked like the entire company of the s.p.a.ce Legion was in attendance, filling the bleachers at one end of the floor, while his own Red Eagles, unhappy at not having a direct hand in the deciding event, were fidgeting impatiently in the rows of chairs provided for them at the opposite end. What really surprised him was the audience.

He had, of course, known there were going to be spectators, but had never imagined the crowds jamming the bleachers on both sides of the gymnasium floor . . . for a fencing match, for G.o.d's sake! Even the media had their holo cameras set up to record the event! This looked more like a gathering for a basketball or volleyball game . . . or a coliseum waiting for the gladiators to start!

The major quickly put that disquieting thought out of his mind, along with the nagging suspicion that he had somehow walked into a trap. He had been surprised by the confidence course, to be sure, but there was only so much you could do on a fencing strip. Here, at least, there were standardized rules!

Apparently this Phule, or Captain Jester, as he was called, was not surprised by the turnout. In fact, a few minutes ago he had announced a demonstration of stick forms by one of his men to hold the crowd's attention while waiting for the formal compet.i.tion to begin.

The costumed figure who took the floor at that point created a small ripple of interest among the Red Eagles, as he was quickly recognized as the Legionnaire who had held their own Sergeant Spengler at knife point during the afternoon exercise. After watching the small brown figure twirl his sticks in a blurred, bewildering net of interweaving circles and strikes, however, whatever concerns O'Donnel might have had about an unofficial "meeting of retribution" between his force and that notable quickly vanished. The Red Eagles were all hand-to-hand experts, and that expertise included the wisdom not to pick a fight with someone who used a martial arts form you were not familiar with.

Ignoring the flashing display being performed on the floor, the major took a moment to study the diminutive figure warming up quietly against the back wall.

He had been surprised (again) when the lists of compet.i.tors were exchanged and he realized the Legion was fielding a woman for the foil bout. Recovering quickly, he had offered to subst.i.tute one of his own women for the compet.i.tor listed in that event, but the rival commander refused to take him up on it. "You've chosen your best, and we've chosen ours," was his only comment.

Strangely enough, though it was the most commonly fenced weapon, foil was the Eagles' weakest event. Normally O'Donnel would have fenced that weapon, being the second best fencer in the unit behind Corbin, who would, of course, fence saber. That would have possibly brought the compet.i.tion to a close after only two bouts, without having to field their weakest fencer. As it was, Jester had boxed him into fencing epee, and there was a chance it would all come down to the third and final bout. The problem there was that epee was an "iffy" weapon. If your point control was not clicking or your timing was a hair off . . .