Ralph Peters (34 page)

Manny Martinez missed laughter. In peacetime exercises, even during the Mexican deployment, he had always been able to deliver his support briefings with a touch of humor. It was a tradition in any unit commanded by Taylor that the S-4 briefed last. And Martinez had always managed to brighten even the bad days with smiles and small jokes, with banter that made fun of himself or the world. But the humor was gone now, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, awaiting his turn to speak as he might await his turn in the dentist's chair. Nothing he had experienced had ever been this serious, and he felt only the weight of his problems—growing problems—within the support and maintenance system, doubt about his personal adequacy, and the deepening worry that he would let down Taylor and all of the other men who depended on him.

He war-gamed possible realignments and shortcuts that might better accomplish the ever greater number of required repairs, that might more efficiently move the regiment's extensive support infrastructure to the new assembly areas, that might begin to ready the maintenance crews for the still-not-quite-imaginable challenges they would face in the aftermath of combat. Martinez had always had a light, clever way with solutions to support problems, the ability to see the obvious answers hidden by the camouflage of regulations and routine, and he had been vain about his talents. Now he saw only the possibility of failure on a dozen fronts.

He half-listened through the series of other briefers, as the chemical officer reported on the latest strikes and the types of agents employed, and as the regimental surgeon warned of typhus among the refugees and lectured the warriors yet again on the uses and abuses of the stimulant pills they had been issued and on the limitations of the fear suppressants given to the dragoons and other junior enlisted soldiers—tablets the troops nicknamed suicide pills because they were convinced, despite all assurances to the contrary, that they impaired a man's judgment. If the pills were so hot, the soldiers asked, how come the officers didn't have to take them?

Martinez listened, wishing the briefings could go on forever, suspending them all on the edge of war, on the verge of action, forgiving them their impending duty. Despite the kidney-penetrating chill in the warehouse, he felt himself sweating.

It never occurred to him to be afraid for his life. He was only afraid of failure.

Then it was time. A startling voice said:

"
I will be followed by the S-4.
"

It was time.

"
Manny?
"
Taylor said, turning his discolored face down the row of chairs.

Martinez sprang to his feet, surprised to find his body as ready and buoyant as ever.

"
Good afternoon, sir, gentlemen . . .
"
he began,
"
. . . as of 1600 local all combat systems have been fully fueled and their weapons suites calibrated and loaded. From the logistics and maintenance standpoint, there is nothing to interfere with the immediate mission, although there is still some question as to how many M-l00s we'll actually get across the LD. Assuming the parts swap-out allows First Squadron to get Zero-eight up, that leaves us with a present strength of forty-five operational systems of fifty assigned. There
is
a possibility that we'll be able to get one more of Third Squadron's birds up by lift-off time, but I can't guarantee it.
"

"
Now, damn it, Martinez,
"
Lieutenant Colonel Reno cut in,
"
you and the motor officer told me you'd have all three of my down birds back up.
"

It was a lie. Martinez knew it, and he knew that Reno knew it. Reno, the general's son.

"
Sir,
"
Martinez said,
"
I told you we'd do our best. But—
"

"
That's the damned trouble with this army,
"
Reno said,
"
you can't count on—
"

Reno, who, as Martinez knew, had joked that,
"
That little spic's going to find out that logistics means more than stealing car parts in some back alley.
"

"
Colonel Reno,
"
Taylor entered the exchange in his stark, commanding voice,
"
I agree it's worth a fight to get every damned machine in the air that we possibly can. But I'm personally convinced that regimental maintenance is doing a good job for all of us. No, a
great
job. As the Seventh Cavalry commander I'm about to go into battle with a ninety-five percent ready rate. I'll tell you frankly, that's better than I expected.
I'
m
going to cross that LD confidently tonight—and I think everybody else who's going along on the mission can feel the same way. There was a quality about Taylor's presence that seemed ready to leap into an audience, like one of the big cats. At times like these, Martinez realized, it was not Taylor's relatively subdued words that invoked discipline, but the ferocity of his silences, the intensity of the pauses between the mannered sentences, expressing exactly what his language masked.
"
Anyway,
"
Taylor went on,
"
I'd cross that line of departure tonight if I had to walk south throwing stones at the enemy. So I'm not sure we should complain about having forty-five of the most powerful combat systems ever built ready for action.
"
Taylor took his eyes off of Reno.
"
Manny, I'm one hell of a lot more concerned about the problem with the calibrators. What's going on there?
"

After being so firmly defended by the old man, Martinez felt doubly bad about the problem he now had to address.

"
Sir,
"
Martinez said,
"
as you know, the regiment's authorized four calibrators for the electromagnetic gun system on the M-l00s. Due to deficiencies, the first issue was recalled in July, but so far we've only received two of the A2-variant replacements. We deployed with both of those
.
Now one of them has gone down. The motor officer's been working on it personally, and we've got an emergency requisition in to the States. But it looks like we may only have a single calibrator to rotate between the squadrons at the follow-on assembly areas.
"

"
And there's no way the recalibration can be done manually?
"
Taylor asked.

"
No, sir. The system's far too complex. It's not just a matter of sights and a gun tube like in the old days—we've got to reset the control electronics, and it takes the recalibration computer to do that.
"

"
All right. Assuming we'll have only one calibrator. How long until we can have the entire regiment ready for a follow-on mission?
"

"
That depends,
"
Martinez began. He was about to say
"
on the number of losses we take,
"
but thought better of it. It seemed like bad luck.
"
There are a number of variables. We have to factor in the distances between the assembly areas. We can re-cal a bird in fifteen minutes. But there's mounting time too. My best guess would be between thirty and thirty-six hours. With most of that being displacement time between sites.
"

"
Shit,
"
Taylor said.
"
I don't want to be down that long. Based on range firings, what's the maximum number of targets a system can engage before degradation becomes noticeable—and at what point is that gun nothing more than an expensive noisemaker?
"

Martinez thought. He knew that range firing was not as stressful as combat. But Taylor knew that too.

"
Sir, technically speaking, degradation begins with the first round downrange. But it only becomes pronounced after the expulsion of approximately three hundred to four hundred projectiles. Every system is a little bit different. They almost seem to have personalities. The best birds might still be hitting at a fifty percent kill rate out to six hundred rounds. But you can't count on it.
"

Taylor turned in his chair to address the assembly.
"
I'm sure most of you feel fat, dumb, and happy with those numbers. Sounds like a lot of killing power. But my gut feeling is that we're going to go through ammo at a far higher rate than either the contractors or Fort Leavenworth figured.
"
Taylor nodded to himself.
"
Best system in the world. But even if it works exactly as advertised, gentlemen, those neat little war games back at the Combined Arms Center don't factor in the redundant kills, the
inexplicable misses, the confusion, and the just plain fucked-up nature of combat. We've got a big mission, spread out over a geographically vast area. And I do not expect that it will be our only mission. So, what it means to me, is that systems commanders have to closely monitor their automatic acquisition systems to make sure we're getting the kind of kills we want—and that we're not all killing the same range car a couple of dozen times. You can use technology, you can even believe in it—but, in the end, you can't trust it.
"
Taylor stared out coldly from under his ravaged brow.
"
Keep your eyes open out there.

And
think.
"

Taylor's last word had the ring of metal, and it hung in the frozen air.

Settling back into a more relaxed posture, he continued:
"
All right. The operational calibrator goes first to Second Squadron at Platinum, then to First at Silver, finally to Third Squadron at Gold, unless the evolving mission dictates otherwise. You have anything else that's not covered in your annex, Manny?
"

"
No sir. Nothing for the group as a whole. The intent remains to be clear of this place by sunrise, but the work to get the M-l00s back on-line is keeping us from uploading the maintenance shop.
"
Martinez lifted his shoulders.
"
But that's my problem.
"

"
Don't be afraid to crack the whip. There's a good chance the Japanese strategic systems will pick us up as we break out of our hide positions, and I don't want to leave any courtesy targets back here on the ground. As soon as you can manage, Manny, I want you and your log animals and all of the motor officer's grease monkeys out of here. Move in even smaller increments, if you have to. But get them out of here. We're going to need you at the new sites.
"

"
Yes sir
,
"
Martinez said. But he did not know it he could pull it off. There was still so much to do. There was no end to the work, no clear-cut point at which you could say, well, that's all done, now we can pack up our tools and be on our merry way. You fixed one problem, and turned around to find a pair of nervous lieutenants waiting to tell you about two more.

Be strong, man, Martinez told himself. Be hard. Like the old man.
El Diablo.

This is the real thing, this is the real thing.

As he left his briefing position at the front of the assembly, Martinez suddenly laughed inside, remembering, with the blackest of humor, what Taylor had once told him.

"
You can always tell when combat's coming your way,
"
the old man had said.
"
Everything starts going wrong.
"

Taylor had said that to him in a cantina in an ugly little Mexican mountain town called Bonita. And Martinez had laughed, thinking that
that
was combat, chasing bandits in fatigue uniforms through the desert mountains. He had laughed happily, drinking a thin, sharp margarita, certain that he had everything under control, that he would always have everything under control. And Taylor had smiled his dead man's smile, with his spurred boots up on the table.

Taylor had known. He had known far more than a young quartermaster captain had imagined there was to know.

The real thing.

Taylor stood in front of his officers. He knew all of their names, even of the newest and most junior man. But that was not the same as knowing the men themselves. In his audience there were varying degrees of anxiety and bravado, of ignorance and enthusiasm. Even now, combat was not merely a tournament of machines, but the result of the countless unanticipated decisions made by a human collective. It had been his responsibility to prepare this group of men for war. He had not had them long, and he knew he had not prepared them adequately. But he also knew that there was never sufficient time for this, and that no man was ever fully prepared.

He knew that many of them, especially the younger ones, expected him to make a speech. If it were a film, there would surely be a speech. But he suspected that no amount of oratory on his part would be quite as valuable to them as time spent with their own subordinates, explaining, correcting, assuring. His purpose in bringing them together had been accomplished. They were reassured that they were not alone, neglected, forgotten. Each man was part of a greater work. And the briefing had
dragged on long enough to content even the hungriest of them, to make every man anxious to rise from his seat and immerse himself in doing.

Manny was nervous, but that was all right. Taylor had faith in him. And in Meredith, who was frustrated by his inability to count each last hair on the enemy's heads. In Heifetz, whose bravery was born of despair. In the lieutenant in the back row who had embarrassed Taylor one night at the officer's club by apologizing profusely because his parents had seen to it that he had the best available cosmetic surgery to cover up his scars from Runciman's disease. He said he didn't want Taylor to think he wasn't a real man. And Taylor had been startled into silence.

He trusted Tercus to lead his squadron with vigor and dash, so he had assigned Lucky Dave to ensure that Tercus did not grow too dashing or vigorous. He even had faith in Reno to do his best when the chips were down with his father's demanding ghost at his shoulder. He had faith in the grinning young troopers with their tough-guy tattoos in the mechanics and ammunition handlers. He had great faith that the majority of the men before him would find more in themselves than they had ever expected.

But he did not have faith in himself to speak well to them now He had read too many books in his lifetime, and he feared that the words he would say would come from long-digested pages and not from his head and heart, that his words would ring false.

Better to say nothing at all.

He would have liked to tell them about the worn red and white pennant he carried folded small in his pocket. To tell them how he had taken it from a rooftop where it had been forgotten in the African wastes, and how he had carried it with him across the miles, through the years. He would have liked to draw it out and show them, the way a man might show his children or grandchildren. Here. This is what I am.

But he knew he did not have the words for that either. Or to tell them that he had waited a long time for this day, dreaming of it, when he knew in his intellect that no sane, decent man should wish for anything but peace.

He touched the Soviet greatcoat he still wore, feeling
through the heavy material to the place where he had nestled the old cavalry guidon. It was still there, he reassured himself.

He did not draw it out. Instead, he began to unbutton the greatcoat, looking out at the rows of officers similarly dressed.