The Lotus Eaters

Samsonov sighed. 'My friend, every man is a fool sometimes. Especially concerning women. And it wasn't exactly your fault. The regiment called you; you had to go. I'd wager you are not the only one; even in your company. You were just unfortunate . . . or maybe fortunate . . . to have found out.'

Samsonov was silent for a moment. 'But I do see your problem. Stay with the regiment and risk being laughed at behind your back, or go back to Volga . . .'

'There is nothing left for me there, sir. It's a place where foreigners speak the same language you do, nothing more.'

'Yes. Well, I only mentioned it as an option. Or, maybe . . . ?'

Again Samsonov grew quiet, thinking. After a few moments he said, 'Victor, I have a requirement to provide several officers, six initially, to become a sort of cadre for 'second formations' at the military schools. I don't know any of the details. Duque Carrera already thinks well of you. How about if I call him tomorrow to nominate you for one of those positions?'

'You mean I have to leave the regiment?' Chapayev looked, if possible, even more crushed.

'No, no, I don't think so. I had the impression you would still be part of the regiment, but on detached duty for some years. We have no combat action in the offing, just helping train the legions here. This might be more challenging work. You would, I imagine, be working with boys for the most part.'

'Veronica always said she wanted children,' Chapayev said, his voice dripping with half drunken bitterness. 'I actually did, but it was 'never the right time.' Very well, sir, call Carrera.' The tribune shrugged, hopelessly. 'After all, as low as my life has fallen, what have I got to lose?'

Loma Boracho, Fort Tecumseh, Balboa, Terra Nova

It was a low hill, with a pleasant sea breeze, overlooking the southern terminus of the Transitway. Its name had come from the parties of construction workers, a century previously, who had taken advantage of the breeze for their drunken revels on their infrequent breaks from construction work. Now, it was a training area. Also was it a designated mosquito feeding area. Similarly, it was a howler monkey breeding reservation. The last two designations were unofficial, but real for all that.

With monkeys howling their rage in the distance, and mosquitoes coming in for suicide runs altogether too close, machine gun fire, blanks, rattled in the moist night. Xavier Jimenez listened to the fire, trying to judge its exact direction.

Jimenez keyed his radio to the controller push and asked what the trouble was.

'Monkeys, sir,' came the answer. 'Stinking monkeys spooked the troops and caused them to go to full stand-to and then to open fire.'

'Roger.'

Tsk, thought Jimenez. That will cost you, boys.

* * *

On the hill itself, grumbling headquarters troops cleared their weapons and filed back to the bunkers and bedrolls. Before being spooked, they'd been fully clothed and had their weapons nearby. Now-

'That's right, sweetie-pies,' said the regimental sergeant major, his booming voice carrying clearly across the hill. 'Off with the boots and uniforms. You spooked once. The price of that is war is a slower reaction the next time. So we're making your reaction slower by having you strip down.'

* * *

Patricio said in his last training brief that this would be a way to train people to take advantage of surprise, thought Jimenez. I confess, I have my doubts. Still, worth a try.

* * *

There were a number of things, in training for war, that were simply hard as Hell to simulate. One of these was to provide an opposing force that was both challenging and realistic when training people for reconnaissance patrolling. Another was giving them a realistic portrayal of surprise, so they would learn to recognize when they'd achieved it and to take advantage of it.

Carrera's last training guidance had addressed both.

'Look,' he'd said. 'When you send troops out on a recon, in training, you've got a choice of either no realistic probability of them running into opposition, or you have the very unrealistic technique of vectoring an enemy patrol in on them. Or . . .' he hesitated a moment to see if anyone had figured it out. When no one offered a solution, he'd said, 'Or, you can have the patrols, for a company say, start around the edge of a rough circle and the objectives be toward the center. That way, there's a strong chance of chance contact and they will have to act as though there is.

'You've got a similar problem—a little similar, anyway—when you try to train to create and take advantage of surprise. You can choreograph it. You know what? The troops know choreography when they see it. And they don't believe in it. And they don't think, not deep down, that the training was legitimate.

'Or, you can—'

* * *

By three in the morning, the defenders—who had had to defend nothing yet—were tired, and frustrated. All three moons had gone down, leaving the area plunged into complete blackness, except for the distant glow from Cristobal, across the bay. Worse, they were bootless and stripped down to their skivvies (that was from the first false alert), their weapons' slings were tangled (from the second), and their body armor, their loricae, were piled up (from the third false alert). In each case, the speed with which they could react to a real attack had been artificially but realistically slowed. Thus—

* * *

Jimenez swatted at a mosquito buzzing his left ear when he heard over the other radio, 'Zulu Six Seven this is