2nd Platoon, 1st coy, 1st batt, 1st Solent Rifles. 2/3rds of a mile East of Coy CP. Port Stanley. 08:49 Zulu
'The MoD has always prided itself on its ability to think and breath at the same time; creating the 9 series radios is an example of that. The operations surrounding the breaking of the stalemate caused by General Nicolas Lawerson's indecision were another.' The personal recollections of Field Marshal James Williamsons 3110
THERE WAS AN ALMIGHTY BOOMING SOUNDas the first light of the day also crashed over the company in Stanley. The sound was so loud and persistent that it made the entirety of 2nd platoon drop what they were doing and pull their rifles into their shoulders. Scanning the crystal-clear sky above them, which was in place of the roof that should have been there, they slowly lowered them again when they couldn't see anything untoward.
The 2nd platoon commander woke up abruptly because of the rushing around of her riflemen, while the platoon's three corporals silently directed them into defensive positions. She looked around at the ruins they were in for the first time in the light. It was a large supplies depot in which all the floors had collapsed to its bottom, creating plenty of cover from broken beams and wrecked machinery that also had a direct line of sight to the target building. She had been asleep curled up between a slab of floor concrete, a roll cage and the remains of an automated forklift. Her eyes were a little gummed up in sleep and dust, so she rubbed them clear, her contacts squealing in protest at the change in light intensity. She shook her head and threw her hair back, and pulled it into a ponytail, and looped it into a bun as she walked to her kit.
She picked her rifle and walked over to the 'pit', a mess of radio equipment and two men quietly bickering. "Brown, what is going on? Neville, get me some caffeine and missive the Colonel about that bang." She ordered the younger man, breaking them apart.He nodded and disappeared behind a fallen I beam and properly into the pit. Sergeant Brown put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a packet of mints and placed one in his mouth.
"That was," He shrugged, "well, no idea Colour." He conceded.
"Well, find out if it was something we did. And find out if it was outbound artillery fire." She ordered. Brown nodded and disappeared.
The Colour Sergeant walked toward the outer wall on the side opposite the barracks they were staking out. She reached for her left ear to touch her micro-radios earpiece's push to talk switch. The earpiece was filling her canal, as they acted as both headphone and ear protection. She had the radio off currently, and the lack of the peculiar sound deadening that the earpiece usually gave was disconcerting. It felt like the world was too loud and real. It made her skin crawl with just a touch of fear. Throughout training, an officer was only a radio call away and they could confirm or squash her ideas instantly. Now she was by herself, and it scared her. She didn’t want to fuck it up. However, she strove to never show that self-doubt. She stood behind the wall and started leaning against it, watching the road in front of the ruins, when her radio operator walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder.
"Colour..." The radio operator got no response from the woman, her face half in shadow, which made it look somewhat devilish. He tapped her shoulder again, and this time called her by her name. "Macpherson.".
This got a response.
"Sorry, what is it, Neville?" she leaned away from the window. Her hand moved from her ear as she rotated enough for him to talk to her.
"We still have no idea what that bang was. It didn’t come from us. At least, according to Sergeant Brown, and none of the sentries have reported any activity." He whispered into her ear as she nodded. He stood back as he saw Corporal Cook cross the rubble from the window on the far side. Macpherson went back to staring out the window and her hand went back to resting on the radio set. Corporal Cook, by this point, had crossed the room and was standing behind Macpherson.
"Colour,"
Macpherson fully turned away from the window and looked at the Corporal talking to her.
"Lance-Corporal Lincoln reports that boom was a commonwealth reconnaissance plane, probably a Nimrod GPR.5., flying Mach 2 at 5000 feet. ID’d by Flyboy, so it is accurate. Plus, the snipers report that the noise unsettled the enemy troops at the target building." Macpherson stood away from the wall and returned to the control station, the two other soldiers following close by.
"Right Corporal, tell Sergeant Brown to put the Platoon on stand-too, and to get the snipers giving early warning, CIN on. Neville, did we get a reply to our missive?" Macpherson asked, as Cook scrambled off to find the Sergeant, as Neville sat down next to his equipment.
"No Colour, want me to send another one?"
The Colour Sergeant was about to respond to the Specialist when the radio spat out a piece of paper.
"What’s the reply?"
"The Colonel is confirming that that bang was a Nimrod, and according to the FAC, it will be back around in twenty-five minutes," Neville said, as he re-fed the paper back into the machine, allowing it to be reprinted on, and flipped one switch on the front up, ready to type in a new message, the physical keyboard under his fingers. "Anything to respond with?" He looked at the woman, who just shook her head as she drank the cup of tea. Just as she sipped the last dregs of liquid, she had a strange shiver all over. Instinctually, she turned the power knob of her radio on. It was barely two seconds until her earpiece squealed, crackled and groaned, in that slightly ominous way that signals something awry.
A little way away from the Colour Sergeant was Corporal Cook. She had been informing Sergeant Brown of his orders when one of her Lance Corporal's skidded into them, his boots slipping on the dust and grime. He whispered something in her ear. She nodded, turning back to Brown, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Sergeant, 1st and 3rd section DMs have spotted an enemy patrol coming from the target building. Orders?"
"Hold your fire. Wait for orders from Colour." He said, before disappearing into the ruins, looking for Macpherson.
Cook slinked back to her section, her own feet sliding across the rubble as she leant over to pick up her rifle from her kit before crawling over to the firing line. The section had formed up in deep cover in front of the open windows, the remains of the roof casting shade on the platoon, leaving them all but invisible. Taking her place in the section, she got herself into a narrow cranny between two massive steel bars, her rifle pulled into her shoulder. Next to Cook was a very thin, but muscled, young man who was Charlie team’s DMR, Private First Class Gareth Jones. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, not much older than her youngest brother. Buried in concrete debris, having been on over-watch most of the morning. His helmet was in front of him because he was using it to stabilise his EM-5D, as his bipod had been broken in the drop. This revealed his ubiquitous platinum hair, which had become barely distinguishable from the dust that was slowly covering everyone. As she looked sidelong at him, he raised his right hand, signalling to Cook the numbers.
Five metres to the right of him, 1st section’s DM was doing the same. Slowly, they both raised each finger, then flashed them twice. Fifteen targets. Over their shoulders, Cook locked eyes with the 1st section corporal for just a moment, who winked, just before she shifted her rifle around in her shoulder. After a deep breath, she looked down her SUSAT towards the outside world. As she did so, the reticule flashed with little red boxes that moved behind the ruined building in front of her, despite that building being in the way, showing the DMRs were transmitting their scopes IR targeting data. Just as the first head came into her scope directly, her radio rolled in static.
"Hold," was the single word the squeal commanded. Out of instinct, the entire platoon shuffled back another foot or so, into the dark ruins and breathed again, as the patrol made no effort to enter their building.
Command Post, 1st coy, 1st battalion, 1st Solent Rifles. Port Stanley, 09:05 Zulu.
THE COMMAND POST was a mess of activity caused by the flyby of the Nimrod. The three men were no longer alone and the shock of the sighting of Lovett meant they were now joined by another two men and a woman. Four of them were lying against the back wall, having an incredibly quiet, but intense conversation, safe in the knowledge that the rubble pile made it exceedingly difficult to see them. The youngest man and the woman were fiddling with intent with one of the two radio backpacks.
Jack Anderson and the newcomer were frantically pulling apart her Mk-6A5 backpack radio/missive transceiver. This was because the quantum encoder, used for sending secure text-based missives, had failed. He was unsure what had failed in the encoder that had led to a loss of ability to send such messages, so the easiest thing to do was replace the complete unit. They only had fifteen minutes to reply to the message that the Nimrod had sent to them explaining its flight path and according to the manual, it took ten minutes to replace a failed quantum encoder in the Mk-6A5, which was cutting it finer than Macgregor would like. However, Anderson prided himself on being able to do an encoder replacement for his Mk-12 in half that time, and, in a moment of extreme common sense, the Mk-6A5 long-range Air to Ground radio shared the same basic architecture as the Mk-12 Infantry Command radio, which shared the same architecture as the Mk-9 platoon radio. This allowed both him and Squadron Leader Heywood-Floyd to work on the repair, meaning it took even less time. He pulled a squat black box out of his Bergan, flipped the lid off with his thumbs, and revealed his only spare encoder. He placed it on the ground next to the Squadron Leader's radio, then pulled his bayonet out, using it as a screwdriver to remove the electronics cover plate. There was a tangled mess of wires that filled the back of the radio, hiding the failed encoder. He went back into his pack again and pulled out his codebook and a pencil.
"Squadron Leader, run that the line of coding through the Bios." He held out his codebook, having found and ringed the line of code necessary. A sense of urgency must have crept in to in his voice, as Heywood-Floyd raised an eyebrow at his tone.
"Was that an order, Specialist?" She asked, as she took the book from him and placed it on the floor, next to the plugged-in physical keyboard, trying her hardest to be stern, but his earnest face made her fail. Jack was a good kid, and it would be like punching a puppy, she thought.
"No, it was a suggestion. I like my bollocks," He replied sheepishly, after she stuck her thumb up, having completed the code line. The computer had accepted the request, and beeped, prompting jack to unplug the data and power cables of the old encoder unit. He removed it and placed it in the box which had held the replacement. There was a barely audible hum as the unit's capacitors drained over the next three minutes, muffled even further when Anderson slipped the box back into his Bergan. Turning back to the naked radio in front of him, he quickly attached the cables to the new encoder. He sighed in satisfied relief when its lights started blinking, which was a good sign.
The Squadron Leader quietly laughed, as she flipped the codebook to the next set of instructions keyboard for the acceptance of the spare encoder as he slammed it into the back of the radio set. To the right of Anderson and leaning against the back wall whilst watching them both, Macgregor joined in the laughter and, with a careful and measured tone, chastised the woman.
"Leave the poor kid alone, Laura. He is doing a good job. Anyway, if I did things properly, he'd be the same rank as you. Just remember that."
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir." It was her turn to look sheepish, causing her to turn red, and she quietly typed away while Jack replaced the faceplate by tightening the screws with his bayonet, a slight look of vindication on his face.
"Not that you've done anything properly in your career, Alastair," Ironsides said.
Usage of the Colonel's first name caused Anderson to feel uncomfortable. Of course, it was ridiculous to feel like that when it was the RSM calling the Colonel by his first name.
Ironsides laughed, joined by an enthusiastic BSM Constantine, and an equally uncomfortable-looking Captain Toby Brandon, the young American officer commanding of 1st company. Unlike Captain Johar, Anderson wasn't sure whether Brandon had previously worked for Colonel Macgregor. Macgregor merely shrugged in response to the RSM.
"Anyway, Jack, that’s just a myth about her ripping balls off. It was an event that happened on previous service. Didn't you threaten to remove Edward's balls when he supposedly tried to order you to run across a courtyard on what? Boston, Concorde?" Ironsides carried on, chewing on a protein bar. Heywood-Floyd nodded as she watched the encoder reinitialise.
"Concorde." Heywood-Floyd replied, "We had infiltrated the..." Just as she had got to the good bit, the radio set finished its restart and was flashing for a final reset code. So she stopped talking as her fingers started flying over the keys.
"Not even sure how you heard about that, Jack. That's one of many classified stories." Macgregor chimed up again, looking confused. Jack always found Macgregor's facial expressions interesting to watch. It was a mixture of morbid fascination about how Macgregor had received the amount of scar tissue on his face and watching that tissue pull in bizarre ways as his facial muscles tried to arrange said face into a chosen expression. In this case, perplexity. After a moment, Macgregor's face relaxed as his brain resolved the mystery. "Oh, wait, was that Battalion Rush himself?" He added. "What was he trying to teach? Don't be a fucking dickhead and order commissioned officers to do something absurd, like getting their arse shot at." He chuckled, then paused, "Well, unless they are me and then volunteer. But I am a very rare breed, even today." He mused, somewhat downhearted. Anderson knew what the Colonel meant. He was a career soldier, not just a career officer. From what he had heard, Macgregor had mustang'd up from the ranks, because of a particularly horrible battle with the Tarquin.
Despite there being no formal limitation against late entry, or Mustang officers, it was still a rare enough occurrence that Macgregor and Major Michaels were the only ones in the regiment's experienced officer cadre who had risen. In the entire corps, there were less than a handful. Anderson found that fact odd when the professional retirement of most officers was at least 70.
"We've got comms back, Macgregor. What are we sending again?" Heywood-Floyd's voice cut across Jack's train of thought, just as he had finished tightening the last screw in the faceplate.
Macgregor quickly jotted a reply on a slip of paper and handed it to the squadron leader. She had just read it when an unbidden missive came spewing out of Anderson's radio. In autopilot, he ripped it off and passed it straight to Macgregor. After just a second of reading, Macgregor balled up the message and held up his fist. Everyone looked stopped what they were doing as he started making hand movements. The five other soldiers scattered and disappeared into the concrete rubble. The missive was from 2nd platoon, and it informed Macgregor that an enemy patrol had swung out wide away from the building that she was in and was now closing in on the CHQ. Anderson grabbed his Bergan and radio before he shoved them into the dust beneath the metal bars of the collapsed second floor. He watched as Macgregor picked up his sniper rifle and rolled behind a large fallen section of flooring, completing the disappearing act.
It was not a moment too soon.
Anderson could feel and hear, rather than see, the Argentine patrol sweep by the eastern wall as they circled the building. There was lots of concrete crunching underfoot as they came up the old car ramp. Anderson's heart was in his mouth as he could see booted feet kicking pieces of rubble away, searching for something. Anderson had quickly buried himself and his kit next to the entrance to their rubble alcove and the patrol passed right in front of him. Out of instinct, Anderson pulled out his combat knife. The black steel blade resting on its sheath. He shifted around just enough to flick his micro-radio on. The radio's power dial had an audible detent, so Anderson tried to twist it as quietly as possible, although the click got drowned out by the chatting and crunching of the fifteen enemy combatants and their boots on the concrete gravel. Anderson stopped breathing when he saw the reflection of his hiding spot in a man's boots as they stopped right in front of him. He could have sworn he could see his own eye in the reflection. It was that close. The soldier wearing the boot was rummaging around in the concrete rubble above Anderson with his rifle butt.
Suddenly, one static word cut across the radio, a deep and resonating 'No'. The Colonel could read his mind, as Anderson had just been about to stab the soldier in the ankle because the guy was mid-action to kick him in the face. Anderson felt the crunch of the boot against the concrete block covering his torso and felt the pain irradiate through his ribs from the force that the block transmitted as it smashed against them. Winded, but with no actual damage caused because his body armour and webbing cushioned the blow, Jack suppressed a groan of pain. Above him came shouts in Spanish, a language he didn't speak, and as quickly as they had arrived, the patrol disappeared.
Because of the winding that Jack was suffering from, he couldn't move and the next thing he knew there was a large amount of sunlight irradiated downwards onto him, blinding him for a second, his contacts struggling with the sudden change in white balance.
"You ok, Jack? That kick looked pretty fucking painful. You'll be glad to know I think the fucker broke his toe," said Macgregor.
He looked down at the young man. Between the dust and his pale skin, Jack looked like a very confused ghost in the sunlight. Macgregor grabbed Anderson's arm and pulled him up out of the dust, his face set against the bright light as his combat contacts couldn't quite cope with the extreme change in light levels.
"Never better, Sir. Let's finish this fucking job." Jack said grimly, as he nodded, and picked up his Bergan and radio out of the dust. He returned to his favourite corner of the alcove, and set his radio down on the ground, and pulled down the keyboard. He immediately started sending missives to all platoons, asking for status reports and patrol tracking information. Heywood-Floyd baseball slid into the alcove next to him and also started frantically typing into her radio's keyboard, sending the reply to the Nimrod Recon plane. The rest of 1st platoon joined the little group, slipping in over the shattered windows, as they moved in the opposite direction to the patrol. Anderson didn't notice, as he was busy responding to status calls from the company.
"Sir, need you." Anderson pulsed through his micro-radio, causing Macgregor to look up at him from his position between Ironsides and Constantine. Anderson leant as far forward as he could without uncrossing his legs and passed his CO another slip of missive paper that had just been spat from his encoder.
"Ah, good news, ladies. Bolingbroke is returning from France. He should arrive on the Humber at 11," Macgregor said to his little unit, as he could feel his confidence, still shaken after spotting Lovett, returning to his bones. "Right. Who wants to come with me to beat the shit out of that little weasel?" He rubbed his hands together in a rare moment of sadistic joy.
Anderson inwardly sighed another sigh of relief; the Army was coming to get them. The Squadron Leader had also just received a reply.
"Who is Bolingbroke?" Piped up Brandon.
Regimental Headquarters, the 1st Solent Rifles, Solent Corps (the Royal Black Jackets), 11:30 Zulu.
"CHARLES, WHERE DID you learn to tell time?" Bartlett laughed as the commanding officer, 4th battalion, the Household Cavalry Regiment, jumped down off the roof of his Odysseus Command LCV, while the turbine APU spooled up and the fusion reactor slowed down. "You said 11, Old Man." he continued, offering the taller, but also much stocker man, his hand.
Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Lomo joined the laughing with his own deep laugh that made Bartlett's sky seem to rumble, as he shook the offered hand, pulling Bartlett in for a man hug. This was an ongoing joke that they had shared for about 5 years, Lomo being only a day older than Bartlett. He looked fitter than the last time Bartlett had seen him, but he was such a big, strong Māori, that it was extremely hard to tell. Especially under the heavier CATAPHRACT armour the tankers, and armoured infantry, wore. The distinct clinking sound of glass on glass was heard as they embraced, their armours colliding - Bartlett's heavy armour from his time in the Scot's Guard and Lomo’s own. Panels of the CATAPHRACT glass armour don't flex. Unlike HOPLITE scale glass armour, CATAPHRACT panels form into a rigid barrel-like shell around the wearer's torso, making actions like hugging strange. The only torso articulation point was a socket system around the natural waist, which allowed twisting and bending.
"Aye, that I did, young man. But the roads are pretty washed out from the torrential rain, so we had to improvise. I still don't get why we are fighting over these godforsaken planets. I heard one of my intelligence officers joking about strategic sheep purposes." said Lomo, taking off his helmet
The two walked a short way from where the rest of the battalion, in various variants of the Light Combat Vehicle, was pulling up. The increasing din of the whining APUs made unaided speech impossible. A thick layer of mud covered all the tanks that Bartlett could see, subtly reinforcing Lomo's point.
"How is the Doctor?"
"Last we heard, infil had gone swimmingly, with all target buildings covered. But that was at 11:30 last night, so hard to tell," replied Bartlett, his face cold in the rising wind. "We are already to saddle up. My lot has saddled up in our Jasons, but the two remaining companies of Macgregor's lot are going to need a ride."
"Go, find Major Michaels, get his lads on board," Lomo said to one staff officer, who had now disembarked and was next to him in the huddle. At his words, Lomo's adjutant and S-3 disappeared. "Well, that is some sort of good news. When are the targets supposed to appear?" He turned back to Bartlett.
"Intelligence suggests," Bartlett started, but didn't get to finish. Major Johnson had just walked up to them.
"Oh, hey Old Man... sir." He said, also holding out his hand to Lomo. After having it shook, Johnson turned to his CO, "Sorry for interrupting, sir, just want to say we are all ready to rumble. The battalion has their kit onboard their vehicles and is just waiting for their orders." As he spoke, Bartlett could see that 1st battalion was climbing on to the closet tanks, with the HCR battalion adjutant and the company commanders organising where to fit the 20 platoons.
"Ha, I see they let you out of spook central after all, Thomas," Lomo said, clapping Johnson on the back with his large hand. The force, even though Johnson had been expecting it, knocked him forward just slightly. Johnson nodded, and Bartlett saw the moment his 2i/C's throat closed up. It must have been about 10 years since Johnson had seen Charles Lomo up this close, at least a year or two before he had married Ken and certainly before their first son was born. Johnson had forgotten the absolute visceral reaction that his former commanding officer's body caused him. "Go on, live a little, give the order,"
His laugh was so hearty that it was hard to not join in, Bartlett had to stifle his own.
"Yes, sir," Johnson stammered. Lomo was an extremely good-looking man, and it was always funny to see the usually so well-buttoned-up Thomas Johnson lose his composure around a pretty man. He looked at Bartlett, who merely waved in a sign of just go.
"As I was saying," Bartlett tried to start again when this time one of Lomo's squadron commanders came and asked a question. As Lomo answered it, Bartlett stood, one hand on his hip, tea-potting as Macgregor would call it, looking shockingly like his BSM. Lomo finished with his squadron commander and turned back to Bartlett with a wry grin, who had barely begun to breathe in to start his report again, when, from underneath his arm, he felt the rush of air as a mass moved towards Lomo.
"Hey, big boy, you miss me?"
Bartlett just sighed and shook his head as Lomo gave the tiny Irish woman a bear hug so tight it looked like it was going to pop her shoulders out of her sockets, if not for the scale of her armour.
"Do any of my staff like me more than you?" Bartlett asked, his stifled laugh cracking into a giggle as Alice rag-dolled in Lomo's arms. She had to hold on to her peak to stop it from falling off her head. Lomo laughed too, winking at Bartlett over Alice's head. When Lomo let go, Locke pulled her armour down, checking the interlocks were still tight, and turned to Bartlett.
"Rick, should I stay with you or go with John?" Alice asked Bartlett. She looked at him and unconsciously licked her lips while studying his tired face. Fortunately, Bartlett didn't notice because Lomo's S-3 had just returned. Colonel Alex Macgregor, Majors Michaels, Maclaren, Bolton, Smith, and Captain Cheoung were with him, distracting Lomo as well.
The present senior staff from the three battalions were now gathered in a circle, their bodies covered in armor, carrying weapons and equipment, making space tight.
"If you're offering, Ms. Locke, I'll take you," Major Michaels said to her. The group was shocked and then burst into laughter. Macgregor and Locke shared smirks at each other as she egged Locke on.
"Oh, I thought you'd never ask, John." She said, turning to him, running her finger down his chest when he still didn't get the joke. It took him a moment, and then his face fell.
"You are all disgusting." He said, rolling his eyes at them as she stuck her tongue out, and everyone sniggered again.Luckily, none of the impressionable young enlisted troopers heard this exchange. Bartlett laughed. What would the enlisted think of their senior staff officers laughing as they teased another with dirty sex jokes? "Seriously, though, I'd love to have you along for the ride. Rick doesn't need you to do his job." He said, as the laughter died out.
The Major looked at Bartlett, who just shrugged. He was right, of course; Bartlett didn't need Locke at this point of the operation. Getting the battalion settled into their trench billets would go smoothly enough just with the company commanders and CSMs; Johnson and Bartlett had the experience to make sure it did. Michaels did not. He slowly nodded his assent.
"As long as you give her back before the shooting starts, John," Bartlett said, looking at John before turning to face back into this pre-game huddle.
"Right, this is it. This is the first time in a few years that most of us have fought a proper large-scale war. I don't need to, but I want to, remind you that your job as senior staff and command is to look after those troops under you by creating and executing orders effectively and efficiently. Keep morale up, keep the intelligence flowing up and down the chain, and we will get the job done." They all nodded, even Lomo, who hadn't stopped fighting on the front-lines for 25 years. "Good. Right, John take Alice. You and Martin are the only staff you guys have, so you will need all the help you can get." Alice mock saluted. She was the only person who could do that to Bartlett and not get a quiet ear full. "I take it everyone is on board some sort of transport?" He turned to his operations officer, who was an average height, 39-year-old woman, currently sandwiched between Lomo's own S-3, a tall athletic-looking man, and John Michaels, a similarly Lomo-sized man, which made her average height look tiny.
"All except us, sir," Johnson replied, as he pushed his way into the circle, in his place between Bartlett and Michaels. There was a quiet moment as the senior staff all looked at each other, quietly hyping each other up. They broke apart at a nod from Bartlett. He clambered up into his Odysseus, his staff minus Locke following him. Dropping into the commander's seat in the crew cabin, he waited a moment before he tapped the foot of the driver to let everyone get sat and strapped. He looked at Locke's empty seat, the booster cushion conspicuous by its presence. She was going to have an uncomfortable ride.
"All call signs, this is Bolingbroke. Prepare to roll out." Lomo's voice echoed in Bartlett's ear. There was a brief roll call from the company commanders performed by Lightmore, who stuck his thumb up to mean good to go. "Flavius, give the word."
"Excellent. Let's go," Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Bartlett said, his voice quiet. He had missed this, the calm before the storm. He was going to do his job once more, as the IFVs scattered around the Regimental HQ revved, lurched, and drove off. As he leant back into the backrest of his seat, he felt settled and best of all, for the first time since planetfall his arm didn't itch, and as the Odysseus rocked and rolled along the road, he fell asleep, in the steel beast's belly.
8th Platoon, 1st coy, 1st batt, 1st Solent Rifles. 2 miles west of Coy CP. 12:15 Zulu.
COLOUR SERGEANT LEWIS closed her eyes and sighed for the fiftieth time that day. They and 10th platoon, under Freda Callaghan, were holding down the far eastern flank of the company, having had to move further east from their warehouse ruin. She had called the evac order when several patrols in succession came sauntering through their warehouse with the risk of them looking up, becoming increasingly likely. They had met up with Freda's unit as they had been repositioning to defend the flank better.
With permission from The Boss, the two platoons moved into the 25 storeys of an abandoned high-rise flat block, allowing them to perform over-watch for the entire company as, although not the tallest, the chosen building looked out over the right parts of the city. The two rail-rifle snipers with their high-magnification scopes spent the time watching troop convoys move in and out of Port Stanley. With their less powerful optics, the EM-9D armed designated marksmen hunted around closer to the city for signs of the generals and staff officers they were here to eliminate. Lacking the Combat Information System units, an unusual oversight by Macgregor, who was used to CIS being standard on all long arms from his time as QOARC lead, the DMs were struggling to identify the targets.
Luckily, the ten bored radio operators of the company had been performing some electronic warfare using their radios. This meant they were sweeping through the spectrum using their Mk-9A2s, tracing RF sources and mapping their frequencies, bearing and range. One signal that was mapped by the radio operators was the Port Stanley Spaceport, Instrument Landing System's close-range beacon Broadcasting a high-energy data burst every 45 seconds at a frequency that was only a few 10s Hz from the transmission frequency of the Combat Information Network, its usual role was to guide spacecraft down from orbit to landing.
For the Rifles stuck behind lines, this sudden activity gave them the ability to send more data than just the text available to them via the Quantum encoder system, such as the scope images. As such, the DMs had linked their scopes to the platoons' Mk-9A2 radios. This allowed them to dump images into the CIN every so often, for any CISs also on the network to identify the targets. The CIN then re-uploaded to the DM scopes.
The frequency of these exchanges had to be less for 8th and 10th than when they had been closer to the company HQ, because of the assumption that the Argentinians were performing their own signal intelligence detecting the power spike. However, so far, the CIN had detected no counter-intelligence activity. Circling Nimrods could barely hear the data exchanges, even though they were looking for them, specifically because of the strength of the ILS beacon. 9th platoon, 10 miles on the other flank, could hear the ILS blast at 4/5ths strength.
However, this was not the cause of this current discussion.
"How close is that new signal?" Asked Lewis, who opened her eyes and looked at her radio operator.
"It is pretty far, we think," Specialist Omenn gestured between himself and Specialist Hannson, 10th platoons' radio operator, sat next to each him, their radios linked by data cables, "the source is about 60 miles out of the city, north-northeast based on the bearing. I am trying to confirm with Anderson now, but we think it might be a ground-to-space radio system, probably the old Deep Space Network dish for this planet. We can't break into the encryption, but according to Anderson, the Navy is moving to intercept a relief fleet that it detected coming from Pan-American space, so we are assuming it has to do with that." He said, looking at his notepad, the waterproofing making the pages shiny.
"Can we get a more accurate bead than that, or is the signal too strong?" asked Corporal Eastwood, as he slid into the conversation circle.
"As I was just explaining, Specialist Anderson is working with the FAC to get the Nimrod overflights to divert to the expected location of the signal source once we've triangulated, but we are struggling to get a distance because of the strength, it isn't decaying anywhere in the city. Hell, if the signal strength is right, 3rd Battalion can probably hear this at about 7/8ths strength and give a more accurate distance measurement. However, if it is the old DSN dish, then it shouldn't be hard to spot. It will be at least 70 metres across, and it might even be a triplet of 70 metre dishes." Specialist Omenn continued, paraphrasing the text conversations he had had with Jack Anderson.
"So, a flight along the bearing axis would probably be enough to find it." Colour Sergeant Callaghan said, her hands-on her hips, pen being chewed to death in her lips.
"Indeed, Colour," said Hannson.
"How close is this new transmission in frequency to ours?" Lewis asked.
"Oh, Miles away, it's several GHz slower, Colour Sergeant. It's a miracle that we even spotted it. But, well, Hannson here could hear a distortion in the ILS Beacon like it was being drained of power." Omenn said, backhand slapping Hannson in the centre of their front plate.
"Well, I thought I was going a little mad. But I set my radio for a low spectrum sweep anyway and lo, this signal nearly burnt out my receiver."
"Ok, what's the upshot?" Callaghan asked the huddle, confused as to the entire point of this conversation. "Do we have to scout this?"
Lewis was scribbling the important points, in her particular barely distinct spider scrawl, on her body armour in china pencil. The Army did not recommend this, but it was a habit that most commanders had.
"Currently, nothing Colour. The Boss is going to keep us apprised, but it is a bit too far to get to on foot, even to just get eyes on. We just wanted to keep you both up to date."
"Ok, impressive job, boys," Lewis said, feeling more than somewhat like an in-awe schoolgirl. Which, she guessed, she was.
"Thank you, Colour Sergeant." the two radio operators said together.
Frontline trench, one thousand miles away from Regimental HQ, Spring Point, 3rd Battalion HQ. 13:05 Zulu.
THE MIDDAY SUN was beating down on the Spring Point trench network, roasting the thick mud found at the bottom of the trenches dry. Wrecks of the Argentinean tanks, scattered across no-man's-land, had only just stopped burning; their aluminium hulls did not respond well to the super-heating caused by laser pulses from an EM-5D. The riflemen of 3rd battalion were busy with the usual hustle and bustle of trench life: eating, sleeping, cleaning, ensuring rifle batteries were charging, and exchanging sniper and counter-battery fire with the enemy. In all, it was looking like it was going to be a quiet afternoon compared to the intensity of the previous night.
Lieutenant-Colonel Kerry Pieterson, codenamed Hannibal by Colonel Macgregor, was in a rapid telephone call with her second in command, Major Lily 'Kit' Reed. She draped her booted feet languidly across her cot as she sat in her desk chair. Her long black hair, which was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, laid across her shoulder and covered her prison-gaunt face. Once in a while it twisted pain, as she fidgeted in the chair.
"Yes, Kit, which is what Major Maclaren was saying. The Pan-American units have left the Stanley defence lines, and are coming here. Stephen is trying to get a straight answer from Colonel Beatrice regarding DHQ's operational plans. But as seems to be standard in this war, our position as Macgregor's lot seems to afford us second-class citizen status," Pieterson said, grateful for the landline connection between the Coy HQs allowing for these plain speech chats. She was looking at the intelligence data that the regimental S-2, Maclaren, had shared with her 3rd battalion S-2, Major Miles Dickens, regarding the Argentine troop movements. Dickens was off with her S-3, Major Stephen Dent, trying to get a straight answer from divisional command as to the next action. So, she was filling in Lily Reed with the intelligence update, as she was 5 miles away with 2nd Coy maintaining contact with the Royal Cypriots and unable to get away from her own CP.
The behaviour of 2nd division's HQ staff was aggravating. It was almost like they were intentionally being obstructive. She had to respect Maclaren. His squirrelling around the Divisional staff was the only way anything was getting done. The intelligence data he was supplying whilst he was on his way to his own operational area was incredibly helpful and must have taken some favour pulling. She found herself, much to her chagrin, admitting that Macgregor was an expert judge of character.
Holding the phone's handset between her ear and shoulder, she was absentmindedly fiddling with her load carrier and webbing, fingering a hole that a laser round had put through it on its way to her armour when she had taken a laser pulse. She had slept encased in the glass armour, which meant she was going to have one hell of a telling-off from the doctors. Pieterson didn't particularly want to take it off because of the lack of pressure on the full-thickness burn that was currently still forming would hurt like hell. She was so busy playing with this hole that she nearly missed Kit's response.
"That makes sense, Sir. Ties with the information I have just been given by my Cypriot liaison officer. They are also screaming for intelligence from Division, so I don't know what is going on there, but it would be worth informing Martin that it isn't just us that are struggling." Kit's kiwi accented voice phased in and out as the phone crackled with EM interference caused by ongoing bombardments. Improper shielding meant that the whump whump whump of the railguns' capacitors discharging as they fired echoed in the phone cabling. "Their LTC is preparing to send their reconnaissance and scouting units to get a feel for the Argie frontline trench to prepare for a counterassault, with a possible general advance before the reinforcements appear. I believe he is doing this above divisional command's heads. From my side of the river, and therefore my recommendation, it seems it would be prudent to help the Cypriots, giving them support by sending our R&S teams." Kit continued, "Of course, it is up to you, sir. But personally, I don't want to be sat on my arse before those reinforcements appear in their lines and if we can capture their frontline, it gives us some room to manoeuvre and fall back if necessary. We might even get a breakthrough to their back lines."
"R&S is a good idea, Kit, but we cannot think about a general advance without divisional orders, even with the support of the Cypriots and the Americans. That's asking for trouble. Apart from the fact that it is insubordination, a lack of armour support will do us in when the inevitable counterstrike comes in. I'll talk to Stephen and Miles when they get back about coordinating with you about creating the R&S OpO for the battalion?" Pieterson wanted to sound like she had faith in her 2i/C, which she genuinely did, but it just came out as patronising.
"Yes, Sir. I can handle that; you want me to get Awen and Jasper involved?" Reed replied, ignoring Pieterson's tone. She had worked for Pieterson long enough now that it was like water off a duck's back.
"Of course, we need a full intelligence pattern. How are 2nd Coy's supplies looking?" Pieterson asked, jogged by the appearance of Rush in the doorway. She moved her feet off the bed, trying not to groan in pain but failed, which caused Rush to stand with his hands on his hips, judgement all over his tanned face. Pieterson held her hand up in a motion of not one word.
"Food and water aren't ideal. We redirected our last resupply to the Cypriots because one of their major rear line stores that was by a 155mm shell, and I've not been able to get hold of Divisional S-4 to get replacements. Been too busy fighting. Our solid ammunition quantity is ok, but we could do with more before a general advance. Battery life for KM-9 and 18s is so far good."
"Ok, will get Kelly to hammer on Division. If no success, will get Mr Rush to rearrange battalion supplies a little, get you more water."
"Tu Meke, Kerry. I'll try not to do anything stupid until we've orders. With permission, Roshan is after some attention. You wouldn't believe he has more infantry experience than this old bridge builder."
"Ha," Pieterson genuinely laughed, "If you could Kit, that be fab. Kulungile ke, Major. Will get staff to talk to you ASAP."
She put the phone down and turned to look at Rush.
"Yes, Mr Rush?" She asked as Rush's teapot impression got increasingly exasperated.
"I take it you are another extremely bloody stupid, and stubborn command officer, that I am going to have to pull by the scruff of the neck until you are in front of a medic?" He said, getting down to her level by squatting in front of her, looking into the bloodshot, sleep-deprived eyes. It was a vastly different sight from yesterday evening, when they were so full of fire. "Where did you get shot, Kerry?"
"How dare you suggest such a thing?" She said, the annoyance rising in her throat, her voice rising to match. "I am more than capable of looking after myself. I don't need coddling by you." She tried to push him away, but only a scream happened. Her UBACS finally pulled away from the burn under her armour as she fell forward. He caught her and gently got her to her feet.
"Sorry, sir, what was that?" He said as he dragged her out into the sunlight, guiding her down the closet communications trench to one of the regiment's full doctors.
"Shut up, Mr Rush." She replied, conviction less.
"What do have we here?" Asked Major Hillard, as the BSM unceremoniously dumped the Lieutenant-Colonel into a chair in the surprisingly spotless medical dugout. Major Leslie Hillard was the 2iC of the battalion's medical staff, and her presence allowed for more advanced stabilisation of patients before medevac could occur than the CMTs could manage alone.
"She was shot last night by an Argie. She won't tell me where, but she just screamed her billet down in pain." Rush explained before Pieterson could say anything for herself.
"Oh god, not another one."
Hillard couldn't help but roll her eyes. Bloody infantry officers.
"Yes, Macgregor would be proud. Knew he must have seen something in her. Clearly not her cuddly personality."
"Oh, shut up, both of you. I am fine. Stop fussing and let me do my job." Pieterson said, which did nothing but reinforce Rush's point.
He had experience with stubborn COs, and Macgregor wasn't even the first. Pieterson tried to get up a few times, being pushed back down each time by Hillard or Rush as they talked over her head.
"Now, Sir. You sit here like a good soldier and let the MO heal you, or I'll have you medevac'd." Rush said, looking down at her in a tone like he was dealing with a toddler. She stopped trying to escape and just sighed in resignation. Her breathing became rapid and shallow, belying she was now in a lot of pain. Battalion Sergeant Majors have that effect on people, and as one of the few people who could get away with talking shit to a battalion commander, often their role is forcing their commanders to look after themselves. By blackmail or force- if necessary.
"Right. I heard most of the call with Major Reed. I will tell the Staff to get in contact with her, and I will tell her she's in direct tactical command for a bit." He carried on saying to Pieterson, who merely nodded, her face white with pain. Specialist Bergström appeared, holding a data pad and a missive slip. She tried to hand it to Pieterson, but Rush clicked his fingers and after a just moment of internal conflict, she passed them to him. He made a loud hmm noise as he read.
"She's all yours." He said to the Major, keeping the pad out of the reach of Pieterson, who had tried to snatch it with her left hand, her grasp pretty weak by now.
"Ok, thanks for bringing her BSM," Hillard nodded to Rush as he slipped out of the dugout, Bergström following in his wake. "Right now, Colonel, GSB, to the front right?" She asked, as she pulled on some nitrile gloves, and turned back to Pieterson.
"Yes, shot at about 15 metres by a rifle. The pulse entered my armour just above my right breast and exited at the armour skirt on my left hip. But I think I've just pulled the burnt skin away. It went with my UBACS and not my body because, fucking hell, it hurts." Pieterson could barely whisper through gritted teeth, talking as rapidly as she could.
"I see. So, I assume you slept in your armour if you haven't changed your UBACS?"
Hillard unbuckled the LTC's load-carrying rig. She eased it off Pieterson, who didn't stand up, dropping it on the floor. The next step was getting Pieterson's HOPLITE chest armour off her. The normal way was to pop one set of latches on either side and pull the plates off over the head, the scales allowing it to come off like awkward medieval mail. But as the burn was on Pieterson's shoulder, limiting her movement range, Hillard pressed the armour's emergency lock release under Pieterson's left arm. Both sets of side latches released instantly, leaving the glass armour as a back and front scale sheet. The immediate lack of pressure on the burn when the interlocks opened did indeed make Pieterson squeal and writhe in pain. Hillard pushed the wicking material of Pieterson's UBACS against the burn, as she lifted the front plate of the armour off, to keep up the pressure.
"Stupid old soldier's habit." Pieterson conceded as she started crying in pain as Hillard eased her up out of the chair and onto the examination bed across the room. Pieterson closed her eyes against the high-power exam light that was flipped on, bathing her in bright white light.
"Yes, well, you aren't the first and won't be last. I'm gonna have to cut you out of your shirt Kerry, it's going to hurt, but it will hurt a lot less than taking it off the classical way," She grabbed a pair of emergency scissors from the supplies drawer next to the bed, and an opioid painkiller autoinjector. "levophine, my dear?" She asked, rolling up Pieterson's left sleeve.
"Shut the fuck up Leslie and inject me already."
Hillard laughed and stuck the LTC with the autoinjector in the upper arm. Pieterson groaned as a numbness seeped into her body, the burn being reduced to a dull ache slowly over five minutes. Her limbs became weightless.
"So, why didn't you come in earlier, Kerry?"
She started cutting the UBACS at the bottom, along the seam under Pieterson's right arm.
"You were busy. I was busy. There were intelligence reports to send into HQ and POWs to ship rear and a green battalion to command. And honestly, I didn't think it was bad."
Pieterson's eyes were barely open as she looked at the burn that was being slowly revealed as Hillard cut away the material. The partial burn area was extensive, covering most of her right shoulder and the upper part of her breast, but the worst of the damage was a mercifully small patch. Parts of her blackened, blistered and puckered skin peeled off with the remains of the UBACS, revealing the burnt and blood-matted fatty tissues underneath the destroyed epidermis.
"Clearly, I was wrong." Her voice was even fainter, her eyes shut again, the numbness overwhelming.
"Clearly. I am going to have to abrade this and give it an antibiotic wrap before I can give you a temp graft."
Hillard walked away from the table, grabbing a metal scalpel and the antibiotic wrap material. She moved the examination light around, changing the cross lighting, trying to highlight how necrotised the LTC's shoulder was.
Looking at Pieterson, after giving the edges of the burn a quick scrape with the blade, Hillard continued saying, "You should count yourself lucky Kerry, the worst part of the burn is less than 2% of your surface area. That's good. The body armour did its job and means I should be able to treat here in situ. I am going to give you a local anaesthetic and begin." Pieterson didn't hear this, as by this point, she had almost passed out from the Levophine. Hillard noticed this and called a nurse into the room. She ordered him to clean the wound as Hillard monitored Pieterson's vitals during the procedure as she had finally passed into a deep sleep, as exhaustion and the opioids took their toll.
Frontline trench, Spring Point, 7th Platoon, 3rd Company, 3rd Battalion. 15:46 Zulu.
SINCE LAST NIGHT 7th platoon had not been hard-pressed. Colour Sergeant Holmes had been sitting in an ammo dump for most of the day, playing cards with his sergeant, one of his corporals, and his radio operator. He had been losing terribly. Luckily for him, they weren't playing for cash. They were playing for cigarette packets. He didn't smoke, but they came as part of the ration kits. One packet of thirty for a week and the smokers in the regiment smoked more than that. Not that there were many, one or two a platoon, so most of the poker matches used the stored collection of the non-smoker's packets. That morning, he had all of his back collection since they had been on the planet, about eight weeks' worth, plus fourteen more that he had won in the last match. Now he had just two packets left. Luck was fickle, and it loved teasing him. He looked down at his hand. He had a double five whilst on the table. There was a double ace and another five giving him a full house. He bet his only two cartoons. Corporal Nagle, who did smoke, was the last player left, and she called him. They both turned their cards over and Ashley had won. Nagle groaned as she pushed all the cartoons toward her Colour Sergeant.
Holmes looked at his watch, stood up, took his winnings, and threw a handful back at Nagle before stuffing them into his bag. He had to go to the coy dugout for the briefing with Captain Scholfield, down about a mile of trenches, once the zigzags were added in. He picked up his helmet and body armour, pulled it over his head and allowed the armour's clasps to engage, encasing him in the hard glass of the HOPLITE armour. Holmes always enjoyed watching the scales flip back and forth between the transparent glass front and the alloy backing, as the armour did its start-up checks. The flipping was part of the armour scheme. In an overpressure event, such as an HE shell detonating, the armour flipped to the alloy's backing to prevent the glass from cracking. The scale allowed for more flexibility and movement, as well as being used as a stealth mode, by forcing the armour to stay flipped on the alloy. The alloy wasn't as good at reflecting beams, and the glass at not transferring the heat but in a pinch; well, it worked good enough for government work, as the saying went. When the armour latched together into one contiguous unit, the on-board computer tested the flipping action.
Holmes nodded to his NCOs once more and stepped out of the dugout. His combat contacts instantly darkened in reaction to the bright sunshine. These were a necessary piece of equipment for all the ethnically Solent troops, and Holmes was glad that the Army had thought about the issue. He didn't want to imagine the headaches that would result without them, caused by the high solar radiation on this world. His unit, hell, the entire corps, would be crippled without them. As it was, they also all had all-day sunblock on every part of their body to prevent burning, but two riflemen had already had their hands and face burnt. And it was winter!
Pulling on his helmet, he looked around at the riflemen that were busy scurrying around. His platoon was busy, removing Argentine bodies from the trench, and standing guard around a group of ten-or-so prisoners that they were still waiting for the MPs to appear and collect. He had a quick word with Corporal Hannaford about the prisoners, seeing if there was any intelligence that he had gleaned from them, making a quick note on his datapad, then left.
He didn't like the 3/4 of a mile walk through the winding zigzags to the Coy CP for a few reasons. The fact he had to walk through other platoons caused a large part of his discomfort. At almost 29, he was the oldest of the new recruits, and he felt like the rest of the company looked at him like an old man. It wasn't true, of course, but it made him feel uncomfortable all the same.
He wondered what it was like for Cara Lewis in the 1st battalion. She was just 17, the youngest platoon commander in the entire regiment. He had trained with her and knew she was a tough cookie; she could take any abuse and give it out five times harder. Even so, she was only a child. Hell, compared to his grandfather, who was 150, Holmes was still basically a child. However, because of the damage that being on active duty caused even without being shot, and the chances of that were low, the army had the youngest average age of retirement for all the services, with most retiring at about 75. So, with all that, Holmes felt old. It wasn’t long until Lewis's 18th birthday, but as part of 1st company, her platoon dropped into Port Stanley. He hoped she’d make it to it, to make him feel even older.
"Captain Scholfield, afternoon, sir," Holmes said. He saluted the captain. Sat on his cot, Scholfield waved him down. The man was obviously ethnically Solent, like Holmes, with pale skin, bright platinum hair, and vivid blue eyes. Whilst lanky, again like most of the Solent men, the Captain was very muscular. With his UBACs sticking to his torso, everything popped. Holmes wasn't jealous; the intense training of the last year had forged his own body into just as good shape. However, the spectre of his age kept screaming in his head. Taking off his helmet, it took his contacts and his eyes a minute to adjust to the dimmer room. There was a tiny metal desk in the right corner, sat on a pallet, covered in papers and Scholfield's data pad.
Scattered in any free space were 11 chairs or stools. Sat quietly in the corner was 10th platoon's commander, Colour Sergeant Victoria Blakely. Smaller than most in the regiment, she almost blended into the furniture, her frizzy black hair down, framing her tanned face. Not a native to the Solent subsector, though she had lived most of her life there, she was darker skinned than most in the regiment. Her eyes were a stunning shade of green, made even more stunning by her lack of contacts covering them up. She spotted him and ushered him over to next to her, tapping the seat next to her.
"I hate these housekeeping meetings. 15-minute walk for ten seconds of meeting. And I had just turned my losing streak around," Holmes complained to Blakely as he sat down, his armour riding up, making his posture rigidly up-right. It pulled a little on the burn, but he tried his best not to wince.
"Luck is a fickle bastard, Ashley." She laughed, before adding, "I heard you had fun last night. Allegedly, you melted a tube on one of the 155mm gun emplacements."
"If you can call being attacked with an entire combined arms force ‘fun.’ I heard you managed to get away scot-free last night, Victoria."
He hadn't heard about the barrel, but from conversations he had with some of the Warrant Officers and majors, they melted all the time. "Even with the fucking rain? Remind me to send a thank-you card to them."
He was being flippant but, in all honesty, the Royal Artillery saved their lives last night. He now understood why artillery was called the King of Battle.
"Yeah, sort of. I moved my 3rd section to support 9th platoon." She rolled her flat palm as she talked, showing a level of so-so-ness. "They got a little roughed up. No casualties, but lots of bloody noses."
"Aye, I lost a trooper when his battery and detonated, luckily the shrapnel only hit him."
His face flitted between sadness and amusement as his contacts were still trying to find a respectable white balance. This made his irises look like a confused chameleon as Blakely looked into them. The sunlight caused this rapidly coming and going as a new body filled the main door, blocking out the light and then moving to allow the light to spill back in.
"Who was it?"
He took a moment to respond.
"Ah, it was Luke Bell, pity. He didn't even see the end of his first firefight."
"Ah, that's going to be a loss for Pvt Graham." Victoria fell into silence, lost for words. The reality of their situation soaked into the space between them.
The pair looked at each other and sighed, not realising they were practically holding hands as they settled into a quiet conversation, talking about the intelligence that the POWs had given, as more of 3rd company's platoon leaders came in. Eventually, the command dugout was full, with all ten platoon commanders, plus the CSM and the HQ radio operator.
"Ok, good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Scholfield said, causing Holmes and Blakely to jump out of their skins, having got so engrossed in their conversation. "Orders from batt HQ have changed. Pieterson wants us to get setup for a general advance on the enemy position for when Divisional gets its head out of its arse and makes a decision. We believe orders will be to hold their frontline trenches for as long as possible to pull the enemy reserves that have moved into this sector straight into an engagement. With this in mind, the plan is for rotational scouting missions nightly, until that order. 2nd, 7th, and 8th platoons. You are scouting this evening. Try and keep a tight arc and just raise a little hell. Questions?" There was a general murmur of assent. Holmes looked super uncomfortable in his seat, causing Blakely to tap his leg, knowing what was bothering her friend.
"Sir? Not to be that arsehole, but 7th was fighting all night, and 6th was unscathed and in the same line area. Shouldn’t they be on patrol?” Holmes spoke up, before adding wryly. "Sorry, Epsilon," to one of the other Colour Sergeants, a tall, well built, mononymic non-binary person sat across from him. They shrugged, with a manner of no bother.
"We are ready to go, sir." They said, willingly.
There was some back and forth about precise details on routes, codewords, general objectives. Holmes and 5th platoon's Colour Sergeant laid out the intelligence they had gathered from the captured enemy, allowing them to formulate a more detailed plan for the platoons. Soon, they finalized the plans and brought the meeting to a close.
"One point I want to reiterate," The Company Sergeant Major said from her chair in the shadows, her voice much more powerful than her willowy frame would have implied. "Well done for last night. You all performed your duties with as much talent and skill as anyone could have asked for. Keep it up and carry on."
"Indeed, well said Sergeant Major. Don't let me keep you, and of course, good luck."
Everyone nodded, throwing small salutes as they filed out. Blakely squinted, as she stepped out into the sunlight, followed by Holmes and Epsilon, their contacts whirring as they reacted once more to the change in light, allowing them to see normally.
"I should requisition a pair of those contacts," Blakely said, her face still screwed up against the light, a funny sight compared to the two ghost-like figures of Holmes and Epsilon standing next to her their faces relaxed in mockery of the sunlight.
"I have a couple of spares I can give you; I will send you them with a runner, save you waiting, oh, and mine have no prescription," Epsilon replied, between good lucks sent their way by the other platoon leaders filing out and then milling about.
"Oh, yes please, the Army assumed I wouldn't be so sensitive, not being of the subsector originally. But seems I lived there long enough that I get a headache every time I show my face to the big fuck off thermonuclear reactor in the sky." She said, pointing at the sun.
"Ah, good shout Epsilon, I'd offer my spares, but I am literally blind as a bat without them. You wouldn't need a SUSAT, everything would already be huge." Holmes laughed, the other two joining in. "Nice to see you as always, young lady."
Holmes and Blakely shook hands.
"You too, Old Man."
She winked at him, clearly wanting to say something else, but holding back the words. She sighed, sadly. They all shook hands once more, and she went in opposite directions, returning to her command.
As Epsilon and Holmes strolled side by side, back to their own companies, they were engrossed in conversation about their plans for the reconnaissance mission, and Holmes's unwavering promise to assist Epsilon whenever needed. Standing outside 6th command dugout, they exchanged parting words before Holmes ventured further out of 6th's territory. It was then that a faint whistling sound pierced the air, causing Holmes to look up. In an instant, darkness engulfed him and the ten riflemen nearby. A tremendous force pressed against their bodies, leaving them disoriented and overwhelmed.
63rd Forward Operating Base, Reserve Trench Lines, Hill 246, 190 miles out of Port Stanley. 21:00 Zulu.
"SO, THAT'S WHEN you hit him?" The booming Māori voice filled the tiny room, his bottle sloshing over himself. They weren't drinking alcohol, just there was much enthusiastic gesturing in a small room with a handful of large guys and a couple of women.
"Ha, no," said an Irish female voice, "that's when Rick here was saved by lil' old me. I walked up to that psychopath, tapped him on the shoulder, and said 'Get your hands off him, you damn dirty yank!' And head-butted him." Alice said, her exuberant storytelling and flailing causing her to smack the others in the room accidentally. She mimed head-butting an invisible man. She halted mid-mime. "Of course, he was a full foot taller than me, so it wasn't as graceful as I'd have liked, but it was still badass." The shrug associated with this caused Lomo to howl with laughter. "My head connected with his chest, causing the Zealot to drop to the floor, as Macgregor shoved a rifle into his face and broke his nose. He was lucky. We took him to trial, unlike most of the rebellion. I mean, he was still executed for treason, but."
Locke swigged a large amount of her tea, looking suddenly sheepish.
"I had my arm cut off, blood gushing everywhere, and most of my ribs shattered into a million pieces. It was a miracle that I was alive, and you expected me to defend myself. Talk about unrealistic expectations." Rick said, in mock hurt, his upper-class English accent clipped through the others.
"Well, then it's a good thing I came to your aid, isn't it?"
"Didn't I say something like 'Oh, kill me now?' When I saw you and Alastair had come and rescued me."
"You didn't even know me back then. I was a nameless, faceless trooper," Locke said, in mock hurt.
"Well, If I didn't, then I certainly should have. Saved me some earache," Bartlett said, deadpan, grinding the axe just a little harder.
"Fuck you too."
"That's Colonel-Fuck-You-Too, Alice."
"Ha, Promises."
"Hey, Bev? Are these two still always like this?" Lomo said, turning in his seat to look at two other women who were deep in conversation, leaning over so he could be quiet as Bartlett and Locke carried on their bickering.
"Eh, what? The wee stupid walking sexual tension brigade?" Said the younger of the two, conspiratorially, "Yeah, for about what? 6 years now Alex?" she asked the older one.
"Aye, fucking hell, yeah. And it's got worse now they've lost the protection of being in a secret unit, where even though she was still his subordinate, naebodie would find out anyway. The lack of choice has made them both insufferable." Macgregor laughed, a little too loudly, causing Locke to shoot eye daggers at her in only that way best friends can when they know the other is talking loving shit about them.
"Alastair should have insisted Alice went to someone else, Kerry or me, Eh. I'd have loved to take Al as my RSM. They could give up this facade, this merry-go-round of star-crossed colleagues. Eh." Beverly Fletcher carried on, oblivious to the look that their conspiring was receiving from the tiny warrant officer.
"Aye, I suggested it. But the wee stupid bastards like the tease each, don't they? So even if they were out of each other's direct command, they'd still be like this."
"Wait, wait. You are saying they haven't fucked?" Lomo's mind had whiplash from trying to reconcile the teenage infatuation behaviour of otherwise perfectly sensible people and this news. "Considering the goo-goo eyes, they are giving each other right now, you have to be joking!" He said, nudging his head in that general direction.
"Ha, no. God, it would make life so much easier if they did just fuck. But no. Wee fucking nuns, the pair of them." Macgregor rolled her eyes. Fletcher sniggered, and Lomo suppressed a bark of a laugh.
"Ha. Well, I should be off. My Battalion has to refit and refuelling in the morning and invariably I'll get dragged in to sort some bullshit. Oh, before I go, Bev, how are your Bellerophons treating you? I hear you have the new A5 version."
"Aye, pretty good. I don't have much experience with either the Bellerophon or Pegasus system as a whole, so can't really compare, though basic was done using some A3 three stars. But they seem to do the job. Not gunna lie. The CIC data bus, and the AI, are literally my favourite thing since telling my mums I was moving to an active war zone. I've called mine HAL, because some goit, taught it that my name was Dave, so now when I tell it to go fuck itself because it isn't connecting to the battle net like it is supposed to it's like, 'Sorry Dave, I can't let you do that.' Which of course is still fucking funny, but when I work out which one of my staff officers that did that, I am going to send them to div as liaison.".
"No! Not Division HQ, anything but that!" Macgregor mocked. Despite being in the Army for 23 years, she still didn't understand the threat of desk work that the frontline officers all threatened each other with. She had asked Alastair a few times, trying to understand, but his explanations made her more confused.
"No, no. She's got a point." Lomo said, laughing again. "Yeah, my LCVs are being slowly upgraded to the BERNERS-LEE system. Makes gun-laying much easier on concealed targets. But the fact that it's an AI worries me a little, especially as mine has made his own battle playlist. My tank should not be able to choose its own tunes as it zooms around. Anyway, I'll be back when we go to kick off. See you around, POME." He stood up, and said his goodbyes to Bartlett, Locke, Johnson, and Michaels, before slipping from the ersatz officers' mess into the pissing rain, to the dying echoes of 'I am Canadian, you Aussie bastard.'
"So how goes life as a regimental commanding officer then, Colonel?" John Michaels said, sliding into the seat left vacant by Lomo.
"Wait, when did I become a line officer? Quickly, teach me what enfilade means." Macgregor interjected before Fletcher could reply, pulling the word Enfilade from deep in the dark recesses of her mind. "Sorry, Sorry. I've been spending too much time with my husband lately. I love him dearly, but fuck, I'd forgotten how goddamn shite his jokes are." She said when the other two looked at her.
"That was fucking awful, Alex. You should be ashamed of yourself."
Both Michaels and Fletcher laughed when Macgregor held up her hand and nodded. Her head hung in shame. "I mean, it's stressful as fuck, Eh. Quite different from before, but I got all the good battalion officers. So, it's relatively easy managing them, letting me get on with staffy things.".
"Ha, you won't get under my skin that easy, Fletcher," Bartlett said, moving his chair, so he too was sitting with them, due to Locke calling it a night, having barely slept for three days solid. "We all know it was a pity billet. Glad to see you here, was worried you wouldn't make it on time."
"Yeah, yeah. You keep telling yourself that. I was just asking Alex how the Old Man is doing."
"Infil went smoothly. They've had some close calls with patrols, but they are still undetected. The first group of targets have made it into the city. So, in all, as well as we can expect anything from the Boss." Bartlett said, in his staff officer briefing drone. Everyone, including the medical officers in the room, faked sleeping.
Moments later, the officers' evening meal was brought to them by some of the RLC guys stationed in the rear lines. It could be the last complete cooked meal in several weeks and so they all ate heartily whilst Bartlett was busy calling them all bastards.
