The scow was constructed of aluminum, was twenty-two feet long, and heavily loaded. General William Booly sat toward the bow, War Commander Wenio MorlaKa occupied the next seat back, General Jonathan Alan Seebo346 shared a seat with Battle Leader Pasar Hebo. Staff Sergeant Mordicai Mondulo commanded the stem. He steered the boat and kept his eyes fixed on the shoreline. The small electric motor whirred, water rippled away from the bow, and the Jungle waited. The trees were taller now, hosts to a tangled mass of intertwined vegetation that was involved in a nonstop slow-motion working out of complex symbiotic, commensualistic, and predatory relationships. Here was an enemy even more implacable than the frogs—a biomass eager for nourishment. Booly had survived the forest once before, but just barely, and felt something cold trickle into the bottom of his gut. Mondulo had black skin, wore tattoos on both brawny forearms, and possessed a deep resonant voice. It carried all the way to the bow. “The water looks real nice, don’t it? Well, it ain’t. There’s all kinda critters in there . . . some of which have mighty sharp teeth. That bein’ the case, don’t stick nothin’ in there you wanta keep.”
None of the officers said anything, and Booty wondered what they were thinking. That he was crazy?
That the whole exercise was a joke? Maybe. One thing was for sure however, even if he didn’t manage to get their attention, Drang sure as hell would.
Mondulo killed the motor, allowed the boat to coast, and felt it slide onto the mud bank. None of the occupants noticed the sleek head that surfaced behind them, the yellow eyes, or the ripple left when the creature submerged.
Booly stood, scanned the area ahead, and noticed boot prints in the muck. He eyed the tree line, saw something move, and flicked the safety off his assault rifle. “We have movement in the trees, Sergeant.. . you make the call.”
“Not bad for an officer,” the noncom said grudgingly.
“There’s an entire squad concealed in the undergrowth along with three T2’s. They secured the area just before daylight. This is the last time we’ll have that kind of support.”
Mondulo nodded towards Booly *s subordinates. “Safe your weapons and deass the boat.. The general gets a word with you, then it’s my turn.”
Booly felt mud suck at the bottom of his boots as he stepped out of the boat and climbed the gently rising bank. He hadn’t carried a full combat load in a long time—too long, judging by how heavy it felt. The training exercise, if that’s what the evolution could properly be called, was scheduled to last three days. Shorter than he would have liked but all the time that could be spared. No one knew when the Sheen would make their next appearance, and he wanted to be there when they did. Like the others, Booly carried a waterproof corn set capable of reaching the firebase from any location on Drang, an extensive first aid kit, six days worth of rations, two canteens, a hammock made of superstrong netting, a dozen hand grenades, an assault rifle with a built-in grenade launcher, twenty magazines, each containing thirty rounds, twenty shotgun style 40 mm rounds, his favorite sidearm, two extra clips, a combat knife that hung hilt down from his harness, and numerous odds and ends. No big deal when he was twenty-three—but a pain in the ass now.
MorlaKa looked as if he were underloaded, Seebo wore a self-confident smile, and Hebo, who carried his gear in something that bore a resemblance to a pair of saddlebags, appeared unaffected. The Ramanthian was something of an enigma. What was the insectoid sentient thinking? There was no way to know.
The officer met each set of eyes in turn. “One of my people’s greatest military thinkers, a man by the name of Sun Tzu, wrote a book called the Art of War. It begins:
‘The Art of War is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin.
Hence under no circumstance can it be neglected.’ “
“Another great warrior, this one Hudathan, wrote, ‘The survival of the Hudathan race cannot be left to chance. Anything that could threaten our people must be destroyed. Such is the warrior’s task.’ A little more preemptive than humans would prefer—but to the point.”
A look of newfound respect had appeared in MorlaKa’s eyes. The words had a sibilant quality. “Those words were written by Mylo NurtonDa in standard year 1703.”
Booly nodded. “Yes. The Life of a Warrior should be mandatory reading for anyone who takes up the profession of arms. And that’s what this is all about.
“We represent different races, come from different military traditions, and share a common enemy. In order to fight that enemy and defend those who depend on us, we must operate from a set of common values. The concepts I’m about to put forth may be consistent with your native culture, or they may not. I don’t care. They are the precepts by which you will lead our troops. Fail to do so at your peril.
“So here they are ... First: Strategy and tactics will be formulated and implemented for the greater good. That means what’s good for the Confederacy as a whole. Not Earth, not Alpha001, not Hudatha and not Hive.
“Second: We will lead by example and never order our troops to do something we would refuse to do ourselves, and treat them respect. Regardless of what species or group they represent.
‘Third: We will think first—and fight second. The Sheen will be as smart as someone was able to make them. We must be smarter.
