John Ringo: Gust Front

It was not hard to spot deserters. Police forces were exempt from call-up, being effectively an extension of the war effort when the Posleen landed, and they were on the lookout. Military personnel were, as in the old days, required to be in uniform at all times and, although the local commanders were lenient about weekend passes, if there was a male of military age not in uniform who was spotted by the police he was invariably stopped and asked for his deferment card. Since deferment was now a line on the driver’s license, a false deferment card turned up with a simple call to the station or a check of the carcomp. It was a nerve-wracking stop for the cops; the deserters knew what could await them, and most reacted violently. Usually if a suspected deserter was spotted the cop would call for backup and shadow; only when enough force was in place would the stop would be made.

It occasionally made for a comic opera when some poor unsuspecting policeman from another force would find himself suddenly surrounded by fellow officers with drawn guns. But it made the cops pretty damn mad at the Guard commanders when the suspect just said “Fuck you,” and pulled out a pistol, suicide being preferable to hanging.

So now the gangs were extinct and only the young, old, female and frail were left. And those people needed better health care than they were getting. The medic looked in question at the boy’s mother.

“Ain’t no dentist, no doctors neither. They either in the Army or they too expensive. It’s a all-day wait at Grady, an’ maybe they do something, maybe they don’. So, what you say, soldier-girl?”

The matronly Sergeant Gleason, a recent graduate of the all-inclusive Special Forces Medic course and mother of four, smiled pleasantly. “I say I pull the tooth and do an implant. That way he’ll grow back a new, good one. While I’m in there, I’ll do any fillings he needs and a general preventive work-over.

“For you, son, since I see your eyes getting round at the thought, I’ll be putting you under, so you won’t feel a thing. And for you, Mom, I’ll tell you it won’t cost you a blessed dime.” A military nurse for fourteen years, Gleason jumped at the first chance to move to Combat Arms. The choice of Special Forces was difficult for her family, her children especially, to understand, but if she was going to be a combat medic it was going to be the best there was to offer.

Special Forces was designed from its very inception to be a unit that spent most of its time away from the regular force structure and logistic tail. That meant that the team must be self-reliant when it came to medical support. Since it was generally difficult to find an MD willing to go through Special Forces Q course, the SF had to grow their own. While SF medics were not and never would be MDs, they were nearly as well-trained as Physician’s Assistants in the area of trauma medicine.

While on a mission they were authorized to perform minor surgery, prescribe drugs and perform minor dental procedures. What actually went on was something else. Although every medic really did know that they were not the equal of a drunk MD on his worst day, sometimes they were all that was available. In situations just like this, throughout the world, SF medics had saved lives with emergency appendectomies, tonsillectomies, tumor removal, benign and malignant, and other actions that would have them burned at the stake by the American Medical Association.

Sergeant First Class Gleason was acting in the best tradition of SF canker mechanics since the Berets had been in existence.

“Thank you, soldier-girl. He says, Okay!” said the relieved mother.

“I do not!”

“Don’t you sass your mother. That tooth’s just gonna hurt worse if’n you don’t get it fixed.”

“She’s right, you know,” said Gleason. “Always trust your mother.”

“Okay, I guess,” said the child, nervously. “You gonna put me out, right?”

“Yep, with new Galactic medicines so I don’t have to worry about dosage and you don’t have to worry about aftereffects. When you want to do it?”

“Can it wait ’til tomorrow?” asked the mother. “I gotta go to work an’ I wanna be there.”

“Sure, anytime. In the meantime, son, you brush good tonight with this toothbrush, and rinse your mouth with this rinse. I’ll see you tomorrow at, say, ten?”

“Dat be fine, doctor,” said the mother.

“That is one thing I am not. I am, however, licensed to perform minor procedures and I put this in that category. See you tomorrow.” The two walked out, the youngster clutching his toothbrush and mouthwash like talismans.

“Last client, doc,” said the team leader, Captain Thompson, stepping aside to let the pair through the door.

“Good, I’m about done for. We got any new orders?”

“Yeah, I’ll detail it at the team meeting, but we’re supposed to wrap up Atlanta. We’re going to Richmond next.”

“I wondered if they’d consider sending us overseas.”

“I think, given our area of responsibility, that we’ll probably stay in country.”

“Meaning let Africa go hang?” asked Gleason with a grimace.

“Hell,” said Master Sergeant Mark Ersin, wandering into the room and the conversation, “let Africa hang. We’ve got enough to do here.”

“Agree,” said Captain Thompson, his ebony face somber. “The cities are going to get hit hard. The more prepared our own people are, the better. The Mideast is bristling with weapons and not really attractive and Africa will never get its shit together in time. Let ’em hang.”

Ersin’s scarred Eurasian face creased in a grim smile. “Trust me, we do not want to be away from supports if the Posleen land early.”

Along with Mueller and Mosovich, Ersin was a survivor of humanity’s first contact with the oncoming threat. The three were members of a joint service special operations force sent to recon the planet Barwhon. They had survived when the mission was changed from reconnaissance to snatch, had survived when the other five members did not. And along the way they had gathered an immense fund of information about the Posleen rear areas and how they organized themselves. One piece of information all three reinforced was that fighting the Posleen was not a pleasant proposition.

“When the Posleen land,” he continued, “we want to be somewhere we can go to ground behind defenses. Once they are down and deployed, I’ll be happy to go mess around in their rear. Until then, I want a roof over my head and a wall around me.”

“Well,” continued Captain Thompson, “after Richmond we’ll be finished with our outreach program. We’re slated to come back here and act as command and control skeleton for the militias. Cadre.”

“What?” gasped both Gleason and Ersin. It was the first time that the cadre idea had been mentioned.

“Apparently the militia training program is working well, but they want professionals in place,” the captain explained with a shrug.

“I thought that was what the Guard was for!” Ersin snarled.

“Hey, Sergeant, these are the civilians you are supposed to protect!”

“Excuse me, sir, but I don’t think I can do that if I’m dead! If I fight the Posleen again, I want it to be from fixed defenses!”

“Whatever your wants might be, Sergeant, those are our orders,” the captain answered with an iron clang to his voice.

“Our orders friggin’ stink, sir. Oh, Jesus! We have just been royally corn-cobbed. Have Jake or Mueller heard this yet?”

“No. I didn’t realize you would have such an extreme reaction,” said the captain with a tone of bemusement.

“Oh my word, sir, you haven’t seen extreme reaction yet.”

“What pissant son of a bitch came up with this fuckin’ cadre bullshit?” shouted the irate sergeant major.