Field Marshal Erwin Rommel
The Rommel Papers
Standard year 1953
Planet Drang, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
General William Booly climbed the same metal stairs that he had climbed more than twenty years before, opened the naval-style hatch, noticed the fact that the hinges had been heavily greased, and knew why. The indigs, more commonly referred to as the frogs, owned the lake in which Firebase Victor had been constructed, and loved to take potshots at anyone unfortunate enough to “pull the O,” which was slang for walking endless circles around the metal observation deck. The locals had excellent hearing, which meant that the sound of a squeaky hinge could attract a bullet from a pre-registered sniper’s rifle, about head-high straight through the hatch. How had that lesson been learned? The hard way—from someone who had been dead for a long time.
The legionnaire stepped out onto the metal grating, nodded to a heavily armored private, and knew she was an old hand. Newbies, also known as “frog food,” had a tendency to salute officers and thereby pick them out for the snipers. She smiled and a network of creases exploded away from her bright blue eyes. “Welcome back, sir. The name’s Harris. I hear you’ve been here before.”
Booly nodded. “They sent me here right out of the Academy. Said I’d learn a thing or two.”
“And did you?”
“Hell, no. I was a second lieutenant.. . and you can’t teach them anything.”
Harris laughed. “Well, you survived, sir, and that’s more than some can say.”
“Yes,” Booly replied soberly, “it sure is.”
The legionnaire continued her rounds as the officer scanned his surroundings. The water had a dark, oily look, mist hovered like ectoplasm, and some unseen thing sent ripples radiating in all directions. The firebase sat at the exact center of the lake, which seemed like a stupid place to put it unless you were familiar with Drang and its relentless jungles. The water kept the vegetation back and provided a natural firefree zone.
That didn’t stop the indigs from swimming in close, though . .. They liked to take potshots at the sentries, ambush Trooper IPs as they returned from patrol, and place charges against the tower’s supports. If they got that close— which was a rarity. The firebase was protected by sensor arrays, robotic weapons emplacements, and some pretty sophisticated booby traps.
Something clanged off the metal behind him, and Booly heard the report of a distant gunshot. Harris materialized at his elbow. “It doesn’t pay to stand still, sir. A gunrunner managed to land about two months ago. Sold the frogs some fairly decent hunting rifles. Scopes, infrared, the whole shebang. That shot came from the jungle. The swimmers get in close. Nailed Oki last week. Miserable bastard.”
There was no way to know if the “miserable bastard” was Oki or the sniper who shot him. Booly thanked the trooper and started to walk. His boots clanged on metal. Dark gray clouds merged to produce a spattering of rain. Each drop hit the surface of the lake and gave birth to concentric rings. A lot like recent events. Who would have envisioned a time when Hudathans, Hegemony, and Confederate forces all came under a single command? His.
Not because Booly was best qualified, not in his judgement anyway, but because better men and women had been killed, or, as was the case with officers like Colonel Leon Harco, were rotting in prison. All of which left the officer with little choice but to muddle through. The challenge was enormous. He had what? Weeks? Months at most to deal with the Thraki military bases, fold three vastly different military cultures into one, and mount a credible defense. In the meantime, the Sheen could do as they pleased. Including roll over the Confederacy in less than a month, should they decide to move more aggressively. That’s why Booly had selected the best officers he could find and tasked them with building the command, communications, and logistics systems necessary to unify such a diverse force. And they were hard at work, doing the sort of things he could have done, would have preferred to do, rather than risk his life on Drang.
But that’s where he was because leadership starts at the top and is built on trust, plus a set of common standards, beliefs, and values. The task, his task, was to select officers from each of the disparate military traditions, assess their strengths, understand their weaknesses, and forge a single blade. A weapon so strong, so sharp, that it would cut the Sheen to pieces. Was he up to the task? Were they up to the task?
There was no way to know. All he could do was try.
The officer paused and allowed the rain to hit his face. The rail felt cold beneath his fingers. Something screamed in the jungle . . . and night swallowed the sky.
The rain stopped just before dawn, and the sun came out of hiding. It rose through a clear blue sky, claimed its place in the heavens, and bathed everything in gold. A layer of mist floated over the surface of the take, jerked in response to the ebb and flow of the early morning breeze, and parted for the flat-bottomed boat.
