John Ringo - Eye of the Storm

She was as aware as Mentat Chan of Pawle’s problems. He had always been brilliant at the theory of sohon, but unconfident of his ability to execute it. She had seen vast improvement in the last week and considered his answer carefully.

Do you feel ready to face the Imeg ? she asked.

I don’t know, Pawle replied. We don’t know their power. If they are no more powerful than Master Chan, then yes. Especially if you guys give us cover fire.

She could feel the doubt in his answer but it was not the usual self-doubt she had come to expect. It was simply rational unsurety based on their lack of knowledge of the enemy. It also lacked his usual arrogant tone.

The Indowy trained on the basis of interest. They used the open hand, from it you could take what you wished or were able. They encouraged, they praised but they never pressed or stressed. Pressure was anathema to their methods of training.

She was forced to wonder if that was the best way to train humans .

Or at least human males , come to think of it.

“Is the force going to make the schedule?” Mike asked, looking up at his daughter.

“Yes,” Michelle said, looking at him carefully. “The actions should be in close time proximity.”

“Then we’d better start shifting,” Mike said. “You said four days, right?”

“Yes,” Michelle said. “But, really, we won’t know what the true capacity of the Imeg are until the attack on the transport.”

“Never give cousel of your fears,” Mike said, picking up his AID. “AID, I need General Tam, Tir Dal Ron and Rigas.”

“I’m going to go join the assault force,” Mike said as soon as the three-some had joined them.

“Even using a destroyer… ” Tam said, his brow furrowing.

“Michelle’s taking me,” Mike said. “And on the basis that even if it slips out, the Hedren can’t get the information in time, the target of the assault force is not Gratoola.”

“What do you mean,” Tir Dal Ron asked, angrily. “Gratoola is the… ”

“Capital of the Federation,” Mike said, sighing. “I know that, Clerk. And that it’s strategically vital. I didn’t say I’m not going to stop the attack on it. I’m just not going to defend from there.”

“Daga Nine,” Tam said, his face paling. “I was trying to figure out why you had the damned SS load all those pallets and field projectors. Are you nuts ?”

“Crazy like a fox, Tam,” Mike said. “You’ve got the reins while I’m gone. Don’t let the Clerk screw you over. I will be watching.”

He winked at Rigas and then they were gone.

“The condemned ate a hardy last meal,” Harz said, taking three more slices of succulent pork.

The troops had been brought out of Hiberzine practically on top of the objective. They’d been told that after the meal and a brief preparation period, mostly to let the food settle, they were going to be loading up. The major portion of the prep involved reconfiguring their gear. Normally, personal gear was primarily hung on the outside of the vehicles. In combat it might be destroyed, but with so little room inside the vehicles it was practically a necessity. The order, though, was firm. No personal gear on the outside of the tanks and AFVs.

They were assured that, if possible, additional gear would be brought to them on-planet. But they were only to take what would fit.

Frederick was picking at his first plate of food. He knew that as a soldier he should eat when there was food and sleep when there was security. But soon the Hedren would come. When he couldn’t know and that bothered him.

“I think the yellow-shit does not have the stomach for good food,” Joachim said, taking a bite of curry wurst.

“He will not be a yellow-shit much longer,” Harz said, cutting into the pork. “That is, if we don’t send his fiancee an urn of his ashes.”

“I have asked to be given a decent burial,” Frederick pointed out.

“When one of the modern tanks burn there is rarely much left to bury,” Harz said. “The ashes are going to be mixed with those from your seat and personal gear.”

The rejuv was no longer looking at his food but off into the distance as muscle-memory that was burned deep shoveled food into his mouth without the slightest slip or any need for thought.

“Actually, sometimes the drivers were almost intact. It depended on what hit. An HVM would sometimes kill them from pure overpressure. A plasma blast? Well, if it hit the turret often they survived. Direct hits and it was find any bits of bone that hadn’t been turned to gas and scrape some of the char up. The ones that were really write-offs were the inhabitants of the turret. The blow-out panels worked more often than you’d think. But when they did not it was not worth looking for the bodies. I recall… damn, can see his face but I can’t think of his name. Berlin was what we called him. Anyway, they took a plasma hit directly in the ammunition compartment and the blast penetrated into the turret. At least that was what we figured out later probably happened. The turret didn’t jump. You saw that often. This time it stayed on but the ammunition just… burned. Very very fast. The cupola blew off, but not the turret. It was a pillar of white flame. Night-time… cold. Just this thing like returning lightning to Thor. It seemed to go on and on but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. It heated up the tank so much we couldn’t touch it. When we came back through a few days later, retreating as we generally were, it was still warm but we could look inside. And there was nothing . At least nothing that wasn’t heavy metal. Even the springs for the seats were gone; the fire had been so hot they’d been turned into iron gas. All the electronics, the sights… Just gone. Crew? Heh. The driver, though, he was still there. Sort of. We got him out in pieces. It must have been hell for him… ”

He stopped and blinked his eyes, looking at his two crewmen.

“What, Joachim? Lost your appetite?” Harz said, taking another bite of pork. “Damn, am I done already? I must get more. This pig was raised with care just to feed me… ”

“Yellow-shit,” Feldwebel Ginsburg said, sitting down with a filled plate. “Nothing kosher?”

Hagai had a plate of fruit and salad with a small beef steak. That was it.

“No, Feldwebel,” Hagai replied, shrugging. “It will be fine. I don’t have much appetite, anyway.”

“Of course you don’t, yellow-shit,” Fredrik said, grinning as juices ran down his face. “My, this pork is good… ”

“And of course if it is not kosher, you must not enjoy it,” Ginsburg said. “You can eat it as a last resort, but it must be eaten only to push off starvation.”

“Yes, Feldwebel,” Hagai said, looking at his quizzically.

“I had a friend in school who was a Maccabean,” Ginsburg said, shrugging.

“Is he in the Maccabeus, Feldwebel?” Hagai asked.

“No,” Ginsburg said, taking a bite of weiner schnitzel. “He was killed by a Posleen when we were on a training patrol. He used to try to jokingly convert me. He told me all I had to do was cut off the end of my dick and I was in with God. And I’d point out that that was the God who got so pissed at you guys for bitching about being out of water in the desert that he made you wander for forty years in same. Adding cutting off my dick was a bit much.” He reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a package.

“It’s not much,” the Feldwebel said. “Just some rugelach. But you should have a good last meal before an operation. If you can’t eat it, though, hold onto it. You’ll find soon enough that you’ll eat snails if they’ll slow down enough. And be too tired to chase them.”