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  "It seemed like a good idea, sir. Look, sir, there were ten hoppers. I figured if we each took out one it would cut the odds against us almost in half." A wild grin split his face. "If it worked, it sure would have shaken up the rest of 'em. That had to be all of Mike Company, and the four of us might have been able to stop the whole company by ourselves."

  "Haven't you ever heard about escort hoppers?" vanden Hoyt asked with exaggerated patience.

  MacIlargie shrugged uncomfortably. "They all looked the same. I didn't think they had a gunship with them."

  Bass couldn't take it anymore. In two strides he was nose-to-nose with MacIlargie. "If one of them looked like a gunship, everybody would know which one to shoot at. Or were your D.I.s deficient in their training and nobody told you that?"

  MacIlargie flinched. "I forgot," he said in a small voice.

  "YOU WHAT?" Bass bellowed.

  "I forgot."

  "Louder, I can't hear you," Bass roared.

  "I FORGOT!" MacIlargie shouted.

  Bass shook his head and took a step away, muttering, "He forgot. That young man's going to get people killed." Then he spun back to Chan. "You were in charge," he shouted, "why'd you let him do something so stupid?"

  "Because I didn't think he was that stupid," Chan snapped back defensively.

  Bass blinked. That was a good answer, but he still got in the last word. "Never underestimate anybody's capacity for stupidity." With a quick glance at vanden Hoyt, he returned to his previous position and resumed his glower.

  Vanden Hoyt silently studied the four of them for a long moment, then calmly said, "You had a frightening experience when MacIlargie fired at that hopper. Now you know why almost nobody ever fires on a hopper formation—and nobody is ever stupid enough to do it a second time."

  He gave them time to dwell on that before continuing. "Third platoon failed to achieve its mission—to stop Mike Company. In part because the first of our teams to come into contact with them, the team that could have done the most to tie them up while the rest of the teams maneuvered to hurt them, got itself caught immediately and put Mike Company on full alert." He looked directly at MacIlargie and added, "I hope at least some of us learned something."

  The full company stood at ease in morning formation behind its barracks. Everyone wore the dull-green garrison utilities that hadn't changed much in appearance from the field uniforms of the twentieth century. Captain Conorado, the company commander, stood front and center, the company's other officers arrayed behind him. Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher was at his post to the left of the officers. Even Top Myer, the company first sergeant who was rarely seen at morning formation, was present.

  "We have a deployment," Captain Conorado announced. There were few murmurs and fewer visible reactions in the ranks. Most of the men had been on enough previous deployments for the announcement to be almost routine. The only thing out of the ordinary was that a new mission had come so soon after the last one. "In three days, 34th FIST will board ship for transit to Confederation member world—" He looked at the paper in his hand to make sure of the name. " Wanderjahr." That did cause murmurs—if the skipper had to double-check the name of the place they were going to, it must really be out of the way. "All I can tell you about the mission at this time is Wanderjahr has an insurgency problem and has requested Confederation assistance."

  Conorado looked sharply to his left. "Company Gunnery Sergeant," he barked, "front and center!"

  Gunny Thatcher snapped to attention, took three brisk steps to his front, pivoted, and marched to the company commander.

  "Company Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours," Conorado said sharply.

  "Sir, the company is mine," Thatcher acknowledged. "Aye aye, sir." He brought his hand up in a sharp salute.

  Conorado returned the salute equally sharply, executed a training manual about face, and marched toward the entrance to the barracks. The other officers and the first sergeant fell in behind him.

  Thatcher about-faced and barked out, "Comp'ny, a-ten-TION!" He quickly scanned the company. There were a few new men who had never deployed before, but most of them had already been in combat. His chest swelled; he knew they'd acquit themselves well once more, whatever this mission entailed. "Platoon sergeants, you have your orders. Comp-NEE, dis-MISSED!"

  First and second platoons broke ranks and headed for the barracks to begin preparations for the deployment.

  Before third platoon got away, Bass snapped out, "As you were, third platoon." The men, who had already broken formation, shuffled back into position. None of them stood quite at attention, though they were all attentive. Bass waited until the rest of the company was far enough away that he could speak without shouting. "Claypoole, Dean, on me." The two men stepped out of ranks and ran to stand at attention in front of him. Bass looked to his left, to the first squad leader. "Sergeant Hyakowa, the platoon is yours. Get them ready."

  "Aye aye," Hyakowa said. He stepped to the front of the platoon and dismissed the men from formation. As they left they all looked at Bass and the two men standing in front of him, wondering what was up.

  "The skipper wants to see you," Bass said when the others were gone. "So let's go and see the skipper."

  Claypoole and Dean looked at each other. Dean wondered if Claypoole had screwed up in some way and gotten them both in trouble. He wished they were in their dress scarlets with their medals shiny on their chests, not that they had many, only two apiece. But one of those two was a Bronze Star, won for bravery in the face of the enemy. Still, he thought an officer wouldn't be as hard on a man whose chest showed he was a hero.

  Claypoole had no idea why the company commander wanted to see them. But he knew neither of them had done anything wrong.

  "What's he want us for?" Dean asked as the three of them headed for the barracks.

  "He didn't say" was all Bass replied.

  Claypoole and Dean stood at attention in front of Captain Conorado's desk, staring at a spot on the wall above and behind the seated company commander. Bass stood casually behind them. Ensign vanden Hoyt stood at one side of the desk. Top Myer at the other side with his arms sternly folded across his burly chest.

  Conorado looked at the two PFCs expressionlessly and thumped the end of a stylus on his desktop a few times. He didn't look happy. "At ease," he said after a moment. He smiled slightly at the two young Marines who now looked at him nervously. "Relax, you're not in trouble."

  Dean was visibly relieved. Claypoole perked up.

  "I've got a special job for the two of you. You know that FIST HQ got hit hard by raiders on Elneal, don't you?"

  "Yessir," they said together.

  "I heard they got chopped up pretty bad," Claypoole said.

  Dean grimaced at Claypoole's forwardness. Top Myer glowered at Claypoole; Bass nudged him in the kidney.

  "You heard right," Conorado confirmed. "They lost so many men who haven't been replaced yet that Brigadier Sturgeon has ordered each company-size unit in the FIST to detacth two men to FIST HQ for our upcoming operation. After all due consideration, and full consultation with the company's officers and senior NCOs, I've picked you two."

  Dean blanched at being told he was going to leave the company.

  "What?" Claypoole exclaimed. "We didn't do anything wrong, we're good Marines. How come you want to get rid of us?"

  Conorado held up a hand to forestall reaction from the others in his office. "As you were, PFC," he said in a commanding voice.

  "Aye aye, sir." Claypoole snapped to attention, followed half a beat later by Dean.

  "I said 'at ease,' so relax. That's right, Claypoole, you didn't do anything wrong." He leaned back in his chair. "The brigadier was very specific about the kind of men he wants. Sharp, intelligent, quick learners who have been on at least one operation and know how to fight. You two fit that description. You probably know that headquarters types think that infantrymen are pretty dumb. Well, they think that because we routinely do things they're afraid to do. Th
e fact that each of you has a Bronze Star should impress them enough for them to show you some respect." He sat straight again and said briskly, "I'm giving you this assignment because I know you'll do a good job and will reflect well on this company. Then, when you rejoin us, you'll be able to do that much better a job because you'll have a deeper understanding of what goes on at higher levels. Do you have any questions?"

  "Nossir," Dean said. Claypoole shook his head.

  "Good. Then you're dismissed. Get all your gear ready and report back to the office at fourteen hours. Top Myer will arrange for your transportation to FIST."

  When they were out of the captain's office. Dean pulled Corporal Doyle, the chief clerk, from where he was supervising PFC Palmer in getting the company office ready to mount out. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

  Doyle pulled a face. "Yeah, I heard."

  "You should be the one going to FIST," Claypoole said, disgruntled. "You know all that office stuff."

  "You're a quick learner too," Dean said. "You proved that when you were humping across the Martac Waste with us." Corporal Doyle, the company's senior clerk, had been with the two of them. Staff Sergeant Bass, and four other Marines on a patrol on Elneal that was involved in some of the fiercest fighting in that campaign. Like the others, he had earned a Bronze Star for heroism.

  "Right," PFC Palmer broke in. "I think he should have picked you too." Before Corporal Doyle joined the company, Palmer had been the chief clerk—the only clerk. He wanted to be top dog again. They ignored him—Palmer was only a clerk, not a fighting Marine. Doyle was "only" a clerk too, but he had fought alongside the blastermen, and they had a respect for him they had for no other clerks.

  "Well," Doyle said, "they didn't pick me. But listen, if they need someone else, put in a good word for me, will you?"

  "You know we will."

  Claypoole clapped Doyle on the shoulder and the two left the office to pack their gear, grumbling about being picked for office duty.

  On the appointed day, the 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team boarded Essays, the navy's surface-to-orbit shuttles, and lifted off to mate with and board the medium cruiser CNSS Denver.

  "A cruiser?" MacIlargie asked. "What are we doing on a cruiser? Do they expect us to man the crow's nest and repel boarders?"

  "Shut up, MacIlargie," said Corporal Dornhofer, his fire team leader. "You wouldn't understand even if somebody told you." To himself, Dornhofer was wondering the same thing. Why were they going on a medium cruiser instead of a troop transport?

  But they had neither time nor energy to worry about the reason. They had to get to their quarters, stow their gear, and prepare for the first jump. All of which was more difficult than it should have been since they weren't familiar with a cruiser's layout and the ship was in null-g orbit.

  The Denver was a confusion of sounds: metallic pings rang throughout the ship from crews working on its hull to repair the ravages of interstellar flight; gears clanged as great chain drives mysteriously moved strange objects to unknown destinations; sweaty chief petty officers bellowed orders at greasy sailors to urge them on in their portside preparations; motors whirred and squealed as bulk movers shifted loads from hither to yon.

  Not a man among the thousand Marines of 34th FIST had a good idea of what the bustle around them was all about. All they could do was allow the navy ratings to snap them into draglines, then float along behind them through endless passageways to wherever they were bound. Some of the passageways went this way, others that, still more in a third dimension. Under powered flight within a planetary system, some passageways would go fore and aft or side to side while others went up and down. During time in warp-space some horizontals would become verticals, and vice versa. The Marines had no way of knowing which was which at this time, and few of them cared; they knew they wouldn't spend much time wandering the ship.

  Eventually they reached the holds where they were to be berthed. Holds, not troop compartments. The Denver was a combat ship and had compartments for its crew, not for passengers. At least the holds had berthing, row upon row of narrow cots stacked five high. Lockers were just small-item containers stacked between the cots. The Marines didn't voice much in way of complaint, most of them having suffered worse accommodations at the hands of the navy. Even the officers and senior NCOs didn't feel badly used at finding that their quarters were sections of the holds incompletely walled off by stacks of small-item containers.

  "Secure your gear," the platoon sergeants bellowed as they propelled themselves through the air in their platoon areas.

  "If it can fit in your lockers, fit it in your lockers," the squad leaders shouted as they flitted from man to man, slowing only to show the newest men how to do it. Blasters, truly safetied because their batteries wouldn't be issued until the end of the journey, were locked into place at the heads of the cot stacks. Crew-served weapons were secured in the senior NCO quarters.

  The Marines were given less than a half hour to settle in before Klaxons blared and a well-modulated female voice announced, "The ship is about to leave port. For safety's sake, everyone secure yourselves into your launch couches. I say again, the ship is about to leave port, secure yourselves in your launch couches."

  "Launch couches?" someone shouted. "What launch couches?"

  "Belay the mickeymouse, people," the platoon sergeants and squad leaders ordered. "Everybody, in your cots." The platoon sergeants added, "These aren't automatics, strap yourselves in," and the squad leaders took up the cry. Fire team leaders hustled their men into their cots, made sure they were all strapped in, then took care of themselves. The squad leaders checked the fire team leaders' work, then secured themselves. The last Marines to strap in were the platoon sergeants. In Kilo Company, one platoon sergeant wasn't fast enough and the abrupt acceleration of the Denver slammed him to the deck, breaking his arm.

  It took two days for the Denver to reach its first jump point, where its crew and passengers were subjected to the trials of transition into warpspace. A day after that, each company was assembled separately in whatever area its commander could locate for a briefing on the upcoming mission. Company L was lucky enough to get the ship's gym.

  * * *

  The ship's gym wasn't the largest space on the Denver, and the exercise apparatus and fitness-testing equipment that filled it made it seem smaller. But it was big enough. Squad leaders picked spots and had their men make themselves comfortable on the machines or the surrounding floor space. They were packed tightly, but didn't have to sit on each other. Unobtrusively, the platoon sergeants stood at the main hatch, blocking egress to anyone who might have ideas about skipping the briefing. Gunny Thatcher blocked entry to the shower room by himself. A small platform was set up at the secondary entrance, which led to officer country, and Top Myer stood on it, burly arms folded across his beefy chest, looking over the men of Company L. Everyone quickly quieted under the first sergeant's scrutiny and looked attentively toward him.

  Noises came through the hatch at Myer's back. He looked toward it, then faced the company again and bellowed, "COMP-ny, A-ten-TION!" just as Captain Conorado, followed by the other officers, burst through the hatch. Myer stepped off the platform to give the captain space. All present scrambled to their feet and snapped to as close an approximation of attention as they could manage in the cramped space.

  "As you were," Conorado shouted as he bounded onto the platform. He stood feet spread and arms akimbo, bent forward slightly at the waist, looking every bit the Marine combat commander as his men settled themselves back down. Then he took a long moment to look around the compartment, giving the impression that he looked each man directly in the eye. The other five officers, who stood against the bulkhead behind him, looked at their own men.

  "We are on a nominal training mission to the world of Wanderjahr," Conorado finally said when everyone was back in place. He didn't shout, but his voice carried loud and clear to every man in the compartment, undampened by the 120 bodies that filled it. "There is
an internal conflict under way on that planet. Officially, the Confederation classifies it as a rebellion, not a civil war. Wanderjahr's ruling oligarchy calls it banditry. Wanderjahr doesn't have an army, it has a heavily armed paramilitary police force called the Feldpolizei, which is German for 'field police.' The Feldpolizei are getting their tails whipped by the opposition forces, whether they are bandits or rebels. The oligarchs have requested that the Confederation send in Marines to train the Feldpolizei in combat tactics so they can fight more effectively." He shook his head. "From what I've read in the reports, it sounds like the Feldpolizei go into the hills and try to use urban riot control measures to fight guerrilla bands. As you can imagine, that doesn't work very well. We are going to teach them how to fight like soldiers." He had to pause as his Marines nudged each other and whispered what an easy job they had coming up if all they had to do was teach cops how to fight like soldiers; that they'd probably wrap it up in a week or so and then pull some liberty.

  "All right, belay the mickeymouse," Conorado ordered after a few seconds. "We're going to teach them how to be good soldiers, the kind who can do serious fighting. One thing that means is, when the Feldpolizei sends out patrols against the guerrillas, we will go with them to make sure they do it right." He held up a hand to forestall any questions. "You will not be going along as noncombatant advisers. I won't subject any of my people to that kind of danger and neither will the brigadier. Any Marine who goes into the hills goes as a fighter.

  "Now, we estimate that this operation will last three months. I know, I know, three months isn't anywhere near as long as the training you had to become Marines. But the Feldpolizei is already organized along paramilitary lines, and they have probably mastered the basics of garrison soldiery and know how to use weapons, so those are things you won't have to train them in. This will be more on the lines of an advanced infantry course. And the newest one of you knows a lot more about being an infantryman than almost any of them. When we reach Wanderjahr there will be a short period of orientation and organization. Then you will be assigned to the Feldpolizei units you'll be training.