Stark's War (24 page)

"You guys need any help?" Murphy offered as a Third Division Squad moved into part of his old quarters.

"Not from you," one of the new Privates cracked, drawing laughs from his comrades.

"What the hell's that mean?" Murphy demanded.

Stark stepped in before the Third Division personnel could answer, staring them down with a steely gaze. "It didn't mean anything, right?"

The new soldiers exchanged uncertain glances before one answered. "No, Sergeant."

" 'No, Sergeant' what?"

"Uh, no, Sergeant, it didn't mean anything."

"Good. You'd be well advised to accept any help lunar vets can give." Stark turned to Murphy. "Why don't you and the rest of the Squad take the night off? Go out and have a good time. Probably be your last chance for a while."

Murphy shot a now hostile look at the Third Division soldiers, then nodded. "Okay, Sarge. You coming along?"

"Nah. I need a drink right now." The All-Ranks Club down the hall no longer felt large, not with the floor cluttered with gear belonging to the new troops and most of the chairs occupied by the same. Stark tried to ignore the eyes that followed him as he headed for the bar, suddenly aware again of how easily he could move in the low gravity compared to the stumbling, uncertain efforts of the recent arrivals.

"Stark? Ethan Stark?"

Stark turned, already smiling as he did so. "Rash Puratnam? Where'd you come from? I haven't seen you since—"

"Since I transferred over to Third Division?"

"Yeah. Why the hell did you do that, anyway?"

"My kid sister got sent to that outfit and I wanted to kinda watch over her." Puratnam grinned. "Now she's tough as nails. She's the one who watches over me." He gestured toward the nearby wall unit. "You want some coffee, tough guy?"

"Sure you don't want a beer?"

"Nah. On duty. Got to get back to my unit soon." They sat at a small table, nursing their steaming cups, while Puratnam stared into his drink morosely, as if oblivious to the crowd around them.

"You sure you're in Third Division?" Stark finally teased. "You don't seem all rah-rah, like the rest of them."

Puratnam didn't smile. "That's because I saw combat up until I transferred in. The rest of these guys . . . hell, they're trained real good, Ethan. Maybe overtrained. But they're not veterans. They've been the Continental Reserve so long they've never seen action." Puratnam grimaced as if in pain. "They don't know. They think being ready to kick butt means you will kick butt."

"That's part of it," Stark offered. "Yeah, you need combat time to really learn the ropes, but if your morale ain't high enough, you can't win."

"Morale alone won't do it, Ethan. I saw you walk in here, and I saw how the guys in my unit are trying to walk. There ain't no comparison."

Stark waved depreciatingly. "I been practicing for a few years."

"That's the point. We've been told to be ready for offensive action within a week. A week! They gave us more time than that to acclimate to jungle countries back on Earth."

"Yeah." Stark gazed into his own drink for a moment.

"What do you want me to say, Rash? That you're gonna suffer a lot of casualties just because your people can't move up here? If it was up to me this wouldn't be happening."

"Sergeants don't run the army," Puratnam noted.

"No, they don't. What can I do? You tell me, and I'll do my damnedest."

Puratnam grinned suddenly. "You would. Of course, when any officer heard Sergeant Stark wanted to talk to them they'd just run the other way."

Stark laughed back. "You saying I got a reputation in Third Division, too?"

"Let's see, how'd the Colonel put it? He said, 'I don't want to see any wise-ass senior enlisted in this unit. I expect you people to follow your orders and keep your mouths shut.'"

"I follow orders. Usually."

"Hah." Puratnam grinned again before turning serious. "Thanks for the offer, but I think we've got to fight this battle."

"Rash—"

"No. Please. Don't offer anything you can't hope to deliver." Sergeant Puratnam turned his coffee cup slowly, first in one direction, then the other. "You ever been to Greece, Ethan?"

"That's in Euro, right? I don't think so."

"I have." Puratnam bit his lower lip. "A border-protection op, I think it was. Or maybe something else. Anyway, there's this place where a bunch of guys died a long time ago. I forget what they called it, but these soldiers were named Spartans."

"Never heard of 'em."

"Like I said, it was a real long time ago. About a hundred of these Spartans were ordered to hold a pass against an army, a real big army, and they did for a while. They were like the very best troops around in those days. Then they got overrun and all died right there. They wouldn't retreat or surrender." Puratnam nodded to himself, confirming the memory. "There's a monument at the pass. Kinda nice. It says something like 'go tell the Spartans we're still here just like they ordered.' "

"Huh. What made you think of that?"

"I was wondering. Those Spartans stayed and fought just because they were ordered to. I mean, the Greeks with us told me their home was a long ways from this pass. Would we do the same thing, stand and die like that?" Puratnam suddenly looked embarrassed. "Oh, hell, I know you would, Ethan."

"Knock it off. I did my job."

"No," Puratnam corrected. "You did something you thought you should, and you did it to save your unit, right? The soldiers you fight with. But suppose some Colonel or General had ordered you to do that? Ordered you to hold alone and die right there?"

Stark's laughter rang out harshly. "Hell, they'd just be trying to cover up something they'd screwed up, and make me the fall guy."

"See what I mean? We don't trust the people who give us orders. We do our job, do our duty, but would we do that Spartan stuff? Or would we fight our damnedest for a while and then fall back because we can't assume what we've been told to do is really important?"

Stark thought about it for a long moment, then for another long moment. "I dunno," he finally admitted. "I wouldn't let down anybody who was depending on me. You know, just surrender and leave the grunts on either side hanging or let the apes in the rear get overrun. I'd hold the line."

"Yeah. Me, too. But I get the feeling there's another line out there somewhere. A line I might cross someday. I never even thought about that line when I first enlisted, but now I know it's out there." He sat silent for almost a minute while Stark waited patiently. "It's kinda weird. Charging into the attack is pretty easy. You don't have time to think. You just do it. But holding is hard. You've got to sit there and take it. They're going to order us to attack, Ethan, and we're going to do it. Can you guys hold if need be?"

Stark glared back. "Why the hell are you asking me that?

Damn right First Division will hold. There's not a grunt in the unit who would let you guys down."

"Sorry. Sorry. Didn't mean it to sound that way. We've been fed a lot of crap about you guys being worn out and unreliable."

"Tell that to the enemy soldiers who get real bloody noses every time they try to push us."

"Good point. I didn't believe it, not really, not about you guys, but I know what years of combat can do to even the best units." Puratnam drained his cup, rising from his chair and wobbling as he did, so that he had to grab for balance. "Nice seeing you, Ethan, but I got to get back to my unit. Get them settled in. We're supposed to start low-gravity training tonight."

"Headquarters going to let you guys sleep anytime?"

Instead of laughing, Puratnam looked weary. "Probably not. Full press, you know, hit the ground running, keep the momentum going."

"Slogans don't stop bullets, Rash."

"I know that. You got any advice?"

"None that'd help," Stark stated flatly. "Getting prepped to conduct ops on the Moon takes time and practice. A lot of practice. Moving around up here has gotta be almost reflexive. You make a mistake, push off too hard or too high, and you're a target, a slow-moving target. We survived long enough to learn how to move up here because the other side had to learn the same lessons, but now they're vets, just like us. You're not, and you're not gonna learn how to be vets in a week or two."

Puratnam turned red, squeezing his empty cup so hard it crumpled into a small cylinder as his fingers quivered. "I know," he finally whispered. "I told 'em, my officers. They don't care. We got our orders, and we're going to follow them, come hell or high water."

"There's no water on the Moon, Rash."

"Then that only leaves the other alternative, doesn't it? See you around, Ethan."

"Yeah. Take care of yourself."

Puratnam shook his head. "I got a lot of other people to take care of first, Ethan, just like you do." He moved out of the room, staggering from table to table, bumping into other Third Division soldiers, who were bumping into him at the same time.

Stark lowered his head to the table and closed his eyes, trying to see only the darkness, trying not to think. After a while he rose and walked out, once again ignoring the curious/disdainful eyes of the Third Division soldiers.
I've got to get out of here. How many of these fools are going to be dead within a few weeks?
He headed on out of the barracks area, his feet carrying him down raw stone corridors toward the Out-City bars.

The bars presented uniform faces to the world, usually a one-window/one-door facade formed from local materials, their only distinguishing features the small signs that hung outside, some illuminated by weak spotlights and others buzzing erratically in neon colors. Stark paused before a half-dozen entrances, hesitating at the sounds of loud voices that could only be those of the new Third Division personnel, then headed on again. Finally he stopped at one that seemed relatively quieter than the others. Glancing inside, he saw why.

The bar, as cramped inside as the other "establishments" in the Out-City, held four small tables. Two of them had been pushed together to form a larger focus for a squad from Third Division, while the other two served the same role for several members of Stark's Squad.
Oh, yeah. I told them to head out and have a good time. That might have been a mistake.
Stark hesitated again, watching from just outside the doorway for a moment.

Billings stole a sidelong glance toward the noisy celebrants from Third Division. "Kinda loud, aren't they?"

Gomez shrugged. "They're just off the transports, Nance. And they're green. Give them time to blow off steam."

A voice rose above the buzz from the other table. "Hey, First Division, you guys need any help getting home safe tonight?"

Murphy, flushing, started to reply but was restrained by Gomez's hand on his shoulder. "The Sergeant wouldn't like it," she cautioned, then turned to face the other group. "Take it easy, you guys. The low gravity and the canned air make you a little disoriented at first."

"I feel fine," one of the new soldiers stated. "Ready to win this damn war."

"That's a big job. How about we buy you guys a round to welcome you up here?"

"I don't need advice or beer from gutless wonders," someone muttered.

Gomez jerked, lips in a snarl, eyes tracking for a target. "Now you're getting personal. Which one of you Earthworms said that?" Silence and smirks answered her. "So you can talk but not fight, eh? I'd heard that about Third Division."

Feet hit the floor, soldiers rising at both tables. A big Sergeant came over from the Third Division table, moving carefully but still making slightly ridiculous bobbles as he walked, until he stood looming over Gomez. "What did you say?"

Gomez stayed seated, denying her foe the chance to compare heights directly. "I said fighting the enemy is hard enough. We don't need to be slamming each other."

"That's not what I heard."

Gomez shrugged, pretending indifference. "That's what I meant,
compadre."

The big Sergeant leaned forward, one blunt finger hovering near Gomez's chest. "I guess you've been up here too long to remember military courtesy. I'm not your damn
compadre.
I'm a Sergeant. Remember that."

Gomez's eyes flicked from the offending finger to the angry visage of the Sergeant. "Get your hand out of my face . . .
compadre."

"I said I'm a Sergeant—" the Third Division man began ominously.

"So am I." Stark strode into the bar and over to the table. The other Sergeant had perhaps an inch advantage in height, but Stark somehow overtopped him in presence. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Your Corporal—" the Third Division man started.

"He's an asshole," Gomez interrupted casually.

The strange Sergeant's face darkened to match the lunar sky as his fingers closed into a fist. Stark raised his own hand, flat palm interposed like a wall between his Corporal and the Third Division noncom. "That's enough. Gomez, you're out of line."

"But—"

"But nothing. You know what to do."

Gomez's own face darkened, but she came to her feet, facing the Third Division Sergeant. "I apologize for my lack of respect, Sergeant. It won't happen again."

Stark switched his attention to the Third Division soldier. "Satisfied?" he challenged.

The other Sergeant shook his head like an angry bull facing a red cloth. "She—"

"I asked if you were satisfied by Corporal Gomez's apology," Stark stated forcefully.

Something about Stark's tone penetrated the anger of the other man. He began to speak again, then caught sight of the decorations on Stark's blouse. His eyes shifted, reading the name tag on the other breast. "Stark? Oh. Okay." Biting his lip, the Third Division Sergeant nodded sharply. "Yeah. If
you
say so." Turning, he stomped back to his table, or attempted to do so. Unaccustomed to the low g, his heavy steps only resulted in propelling the Sergeant into high, slow arcs, as if he were skipping across the distance. "Come on," he announced loudly to his companions. "Let's find another place." The Third Division contingent filed out, trying to look tough as they went.

Gomez followed their progress with eyes like lasers targeting sights. "Why'd you make me apologize to that big, fat—"