understand why these grenades are called 'defensive' grenades?'
'Yes, Centurion.' He parroted, 'They are called 'defensive' because if you throw them while advancing or even standing you will be within the burst radius when they go off. Therefore they are only to be used while behind cover.'
'That is correct, Cruz. However, cover means different things. Let me ask another question. How long after you pull the pin and release the handle will these grenades explode?'
'About four to five seconds, Centurion.'
'Also good. So you understand that if you throw immediately there is a good chance the enemy will throw the grenade back at you?'
Cruz answered, 'Yesss… Centurion,' rather more slowly and suspiciously. He wasn't sure he liked the direction in which Martinez was heading.
Martinez sighed and continued, a philosophical note creeping into his voice. Idly, he tossed a grenade up a few times, catching it on the descent. 'You see, Cruz, any fool can throw a grenade as far as his arm will send it. Any fool can throw one as soon as he releases the spoon. You, however, are going to learn to be a very special kind of a fool.' Martinez's tone changed. 'Take the first grenade in hand, Private.'
Cruz, paling, took a grenade from a table in the pit. Martinez ordered him to remove the safety clip, and pull the pin. Cruz obeyed. Then Martinez grabbed the wrist of Cruz's throwing arm and said, 'At my command you will release the spoon and count to three with me. Then you will throw the grenade as far down range as you can. Release the spoon.'
Cruz, eyes gaping wide, looked at Martinez like he had lost his mind. Martinez repeated himself, 'Private Cruz, release the spoon.'
Mouth suddenly open and gone dry, Cruz removed his thumb from over the grenade safety handle and watched as the metal safety handle flew off. He followed Martinez in what seemed an impossibly slow count to three. It's possible that the count seemed especially slow because the private's heart was racing at several hundred beats per minute. Martinez then released the boy's wrist, allowing him to propel the grenade over the walls of the pit. Cruz leaned back against the wall, knees gone weak, at about the time the grenade went off.
Martinez gave the boy a few moments to let his heart stop racing. Then he said, 'Very good, Cruz. Now you are going to do it again. This time, though, you will do it entirely on your own. After that, instead of throwing the grenade as far as you can, you will lob one so that it explodes just on the other side of the pit wall. Then we will go out into the impact area. There you will use one of your grenades to clear a section of trench. You will be inside the trench, but around the corner from where you throw the grenade. Then you will take out a bunker. You will not, repeat not, be inside the bunker. The amount of training we have lavished upon you is beginning to make you too expensive to just throw away. Private Cruz, take a grenade.'
Later, while marching back to the company tents, Cruz reflected upon the day's events and what they meant to him. Certainly they showed that he could use a grenade. It was more than that, though. In Cruz's mind, the big lesson of the day was that he could overcome mind-numbing fear. His step acquired just a bit more spring to it.
Kirov, Volga, 22/4/460 AC
'Let her down easy. Easy, I say!'
Raikin turned from the crane lowering the fifteen-ton turret to its rest. 'Stefan, are you sure, sure that the recoil system is solid?'
'I am sure, Josef. I made the bastards do it over twice. No leaks. No weak seals. I watched them from start to finish.'
The one-eyed man hesitated. 'Josef?'
'Yes?'
'It feels good, you know… seeing good work done and doing good work.'
And Raikin suddenly understood why the factory sounded different. 'Yes, it does, Stefan.'
'Stefan… why don't you pick up the wife and kids and come by this evening after work. A little vodka. A little food. For you are right; it does feel good. I never knew it could.'
Imperial Range, 24/4/460 AC
'Move out!' crackled in Mendoza's headset. He was already shifting gear to reverse. Smoothly he backed out of his tank's hull-down firing position. Another quick shift of the gears and twist of the steering yoke- I am getting good at this- and his Jaguar sprang forward and to the left. Mendoza's body was pressed back against the rough cushion of the driver's seat.
An alarm buzzed in Mendoza's ears. He swore as he brought the tank to a complete halt, brakes squealing as his foot slammed down. His hand felt for the gearshift, then threw the tank into idle. Mendoza popped the hatch and was immediately surrounded by a cloud of red smoke billowing from a canister. The acrid smoke irritated Mendoza's eyes and throat, forcing him to tear up and to cough violently.
Half out of the hatch, Mendoza twisted his body around to see his tank's Volgan trainer climbing aboard, face red with fury. With frantic gestures supplemented by curses in mixed Spanish, Russian and Azeri, Praporschik Suleymanov pounded on turret top, screaming. Reduced to their essence, his words amounted to, 'Left! Right! Left! Right! Always you do the same. Don't you think your fucking enemy is going to pay attention? Shift! Vary! Alternate! Don't be so damned predictable!'
'Yes, sir,' answered Mendoza's chief, Sergeant Perez, once he was made to understand the problem. To Mendoza, Perez said, 'Don't take it to heart, Jorge. It's my job to tell you which way to go. So… my fault. We'll do better in the future.'
'Right, Sergeant. Got a set of dice to randomize?' Thank you, Sergeant Perez, for not blaming me. But I could do better and I will.
Kirov, Volga, 3/5/460 AC
'Do you think we could have done any better, Josef?'
'Maybe,' Raikin admitted. 'But if so, I don't see where. I don't know about the others, but this tank has no flaws.' He looked at the vehicle, admiring it from the fresh paint of its hull, to the gleaming treads to the spotless rubber around the road wheels. Soon a heavy transporter would come to take it to the port. He would miss it, miss the sense of purpose it had given his life.
'Did you test fire the commander's machine gun as I told you?' Raikin asked.
'Yes, even that. Two hundred and fifty rounds through the barrel, just as you insisted. Then I cleaned it. Do you think it is enough?'
'Maybe not. But we did do the best we could.'
Stefan smiled. 'We actually can do a little better.'
Raikin twisted his head, looking quizzical.
'Well… I was thinking about that tank crew; the one that will get this tank. I have been out in the desert, alone and scarred shitless.'
'So?'
Stefan pulled a liter bottle of vodka from his lunch pack. 'Does anyone in the factory write Spanish? I'd like to leave them a note with this.'
Fort Cameron Parade Field, 5/5/460 AC
For the first time since it had been formed, the entire brigade stood together in one place. Basic Combat Training was over. The various training centuries had been reorganized into the ten cohorts, one ala and one classis- the naval squadron-that would participate in the war. As part of these cohorts and centuries-basically very large platoons that could be expanded into companies, or maniples, as money and manpower became available-the men would now train on the more advanced tactics, skills, techniques, and weapons they would actually use when they went to war.
In front of the now-formed legion the president of the Republic, General Parilla, the defense attache from the Federated States, Colonel Sitnikov, and various other dignitaries-including the Roman Catholic archbishop-stood on a reviewing stand. Off to one side of the stand, a band played a martial air as the cohorts marched onto the field under the command of Carrera. TV news cameras recorded the event.
Once formed on the field, the officers and the legionary, cohort and century eagle and guidon bearers marched to the center behind Carrera. At his command, they all marched forward to a position directly in front of
