Stark's War (27 page)

"So you set up this meeting. Good; now I understand."

"It makes you happy to know this?"

"I like knowing what's going on and why it's going on," Stark confirmed. "It's one of the things that helps keep me alive. As for what you can do for the mil, I've got no idea. You've got no control over our officers, and you say you can't vote, so none of the politicians will listen to you, and the corporations that seem to be driving a lot of this mess are driving you, too. So I don't know. Maybe just be nice when you see one of us."

"We hardly ever see any military personnel," Sarafina noted. "They pass through the spaceport and on out to your restricted areas." She paused, suddenly pensive. "There seem to have been a very large number of them arriving lately."

Stark glanced downward. "That's something I can't talk about."

"There's a lot of talk about a big offensive," Robin chimed in. "The newscasts are full of it."

"The newscasts." Stark simply stared back.

"There was an interview with one of your, um, Generals? the other day. He talked a lot about winning the war and applying some new way of fighting."

"A General? Some guy named Meecham?"

"I think so. He seemed very confident."

Stark choked down a reply.
Confident. I guess it's easy to be confident when you have no idea what the hell reality is. Just like those poor, ignorant bastards in Third Division. The difference is they'll bleed and die and that General will sit back at headquarters and watch it happen.
He shook his head. "I'm sorry. Can't talk about it. Don't want to talk about it."

Robin began to say something else, but Sarafina forestalled her with a raised hand. "Certainly, Sergeant. We respect your wishes."

"Thanks." Stark stood, feeling awkward again. "I ought to be going."

"Of course." Sarafina rose as well, extending her hand once more. "Thank you, Sergeant Stark. Good luck and Godspeed."

"Sure." Stark shook her hand. "But don't wish luck to me, wish it to all those new arrivals. Robin, hope you get to visit Portland Area soon." He left, standing once again in the civ corridor of the civ building, where civs stopped to stare as he walked by, a uniform where uniforms did not belong. For the first time in a very long while, Stark stared back briefly, surprised to see more of curiosity in the civ eyes than fear and hostility.
Some mil are different from other mil, like the Third Division apes are different from us. Maybe some civs are different from other civs, too.
The thought disturbed him on some level where the way the world worked sat engraved in his mind.
Is it possible the mil up here could have something in common with the civs up here? I guess stranger things have happened.

The corridor leading to Stark's cubicle in the temporary barracks ran by a small lounge area that was basically just another cubicle with no door, a few more chairs, a drink dispenser, and no bed. As he passed the lounge, Stark spotted Vic sitting in a chair that gave her a view out the door. "Hey. What're you doing around here?"

Vic twisted up one corner of her mouth in a noncommittal expression. "Nothing much. Just taking a break."

"Funny place to take a break. You weren't waiting up for me, were you?"

"Why would I bother with that?" she noted carelessly. "You're a big boy."

"Sure." Stark came in, sitting opposite her. "You gonna ask?"

"No."

"Okay. All she wanted was to talk to me, her and this friend of hers who's some high-ranking civ."

Vic raised one eyebrow. "They just wanted to talk? Ethan, you're not exactly the greatest conversationalist."

"I know, but it wasn't that kind of talk. They had a bunch of questions they wanted to ask me."

"Questions?" Vic frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What kind of questions?"

Stark waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Nothing operational or anything. No secrets. Get this, Vic: The civs have been told by our officers that the reason the war's still going on is because we, enlisted like you and me, insist on fighting until we win."

Vic chuckled, shaking her head. "Come on."

"I mean it. They were serious as hell, and really surprised when I told them nobody cared what we thought and we didn't particularly want any war to go on any longer than necessary." Stark paused, noting the expression on Vic's face. "What's wrong with that?"

"Ethan," Vic stated with more than a trace of anger, "what do you think our officers are going to do when some high-ranking civs tell them you said our officers are lying?"

"I wouldn't want to guess," Stark declared indignantly. "But it won't happen. The civs promised they wouldn't tell any officers they'd talked to me."

"And you believed them?"

"Yeah. Not at first. But they convinced me."

"They're civs, Ethan!" Vic's face tightened as her anger flared. "They think we're some kind of gladiators who die for their entertainment! They won't vote for enough money to support us properly! They don't care about you or any of us."

"Vic, these civs don't watch the mil vid, they aren't allowed to vote, and, believe it or not, they seem to care about us."

"Bull. Ethan, you are such a sucker for a pretty face—"

"Listen to me! I may not be the smartest guy in the world, or up here for that matter, but I do know when someone's trying to work a scam on me. They didn't ask for anything, Vic."

"Sure," Vic grumped. "And next time she calls you she'll have the vid waiting to take down every word you say. Either that or she'll scream 'rape!' and get her own vid time."

"I know she's a civ, but. . ." Stark hesitated, trying to find the right words and failing. "She, and the other civ, they didn't act like I was mil and they were civ. It was different, Vic."

"Just what does 'different' mean?"

"I don't know." The admission seemed to mollify Vic somewhat. "Just something wasn't the same as it usually is. Hell, Vic, on the way back through the civ areas I swear a couple of them smiled at me, like they wanted to be friendly. And this civ cop, he acted nice, Vic."

"Stranger things have happened, I suppose"—Vic sighed in unconscious mimicry of Stark's own thoughts—"though I don't know what. Still, Ethan, you probably shouldn't see that woman again."

Stark grinned. "What, are you jealous?"

"Oh, please!" Vic looked incredulous.

"Well, we do spend a lot of time together."

She shook her head and rolled her eyes simultaneously. "Ethan, that's because we're friends. Friends, Ethan. Even if we weren't, I'd still feel obligated to hang around you so I could warn off any other female who saw you and suffered a momentary lapse of judgment by thinking you'd be a good catch."

"Thanks. I really like you, too." Stark stared at his hands for a moment. "They told me something else, Vic. Seems our General Meecham has been on the newscasts talking about the offensive."

"I'd heard that."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I couldn't quite believe it. The civs saw it, though, huh?"

"That's what they said. Guess that program got censored from the stuff we get to see." Stark clenched one fist. "Keep us from seeing what a General says on security grounds but let every civ and foreign viewer watch it all. That makes a helluva lot of sense. Vic, why do I feel like somebody watching a train wreck happening in slow motion?"

"Probably for the same reason I do." Vic held up her palmtop so Stark could see the screen. "Get ready to watch some more. There's a lecture tomorrow morning by Meecham's staff. All Sergeants in First Division who aren't on the line are required to attend personally. Sergeants on the line will be linked in."

"Oh, man." Stark narrowed his eyes to read Vic's screen. "Why do I think this is gonna be real ugly?"

Whether the lecture proved to be ugly or not, the lead-up to the talking heads on Meecham's staff developed in the tortuous fashion common to most major briefings. Only the military, Stark thought sourly, could design chairs capable of being highly uncomfortable even under the gentle tug of lunar gravity. He shifted position for perhaps the tenth time since taking a seat, then turned his head questioningly in response to a tap on one shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Stark, what're you doin' here? I thought you knew everything about fighting wars."

Stark smirked in exaggerated comradeship. "Sergeant Yurivan. I thought you were locked up in the stockade again, Stacey."

"Me?" Yurivan mimicked Stark's expression. "Nah. Me, I'm innocent as can be."

"Sure," Reynolds chimed in from her seat. "Does that mean you destroyed all the evidence, Stace?"

"Every piece." Sergeant Yurivan waved grandly toward the stage that dominated the front of the hall. "Now I'm trying to learn all the secrets Stark here has been keeping from the rest of us."

"What makes you think I know any secrets?" Stark wondered.

"You're alive," Yurivan pointed out, "and you ought to be dead several times over. There's usually a limit on how many dumb things a grunt can do without getting taps played over his or her heroic funeral, but you, Stark, you just keep on rolling. You're either very, very smart, or very, very lucky."

Sanchez tilted his head just enough to take part in the conversation. "Maybe he's just very, very dumb."

"Could be," Yurivan agreed cheerfully. "How come you guys look so glum?"

"Because," Stark stated with forced solemnity, "we are here to be lectured on some General's theories for revolutionizing warfare. I'd rather be shot at."

Yurivan beamed happily. "Me, I love it."

Reynolds raised one skeptical eyebrow. "You got a concussion, Stace? Or are you just trying for a mental discharge?"

"Neither," Sergeant Yurivan insisted. "I just love the concept this General dreamed up. 'Sin energetically.' What a great idea!"

Stark stifled a laugh. "Stacey, it's synergy, not sin energetically."

"You fight your way, I'll fight mine." Yurivan sat back with the self-satisfied grin of a class clown who'd scored a joke while circles of smiles and guffaws radiated out from her position as surrounding soldiers repeated the gag to their neighbors.

"Attention!" The Sergeants leaped to their feet, standing rigid as a full Colonel in a faultlessly tailored and creased uniform strode onto the stage, an entrance flawed by the Colonel's staggering attempts to move in low gravity.

"Seats," the Colonel commanded with an air of great dignity. "I am Colonel Penter, Lunar Expeditionary Force Joint Command Headquarters staff. I have the pleasure and duty of providing you with an overview of the brilliant revolution in operational military activity that has been developed by General Meecham." Fumbling beneath the center-mounted podium, the Colonel finally located the switch he'd been seeking, causing the heavy curtains behind the stage to roll apart with slow majesty. The opening revealed a large briefing screen that now dominated the stage behind Colonel Penter, displaying a sector of the front in ultrahigh-resolution, color-coded, 3-D-terrain-enhanced, integrated-data elemental glory. "As you can see, we've assembled a perfect picture of the total environment and now have an unparalleled grasp of the military situation on the lunar front."

Stark leaned slightly to whisper in Vic's ear. "Since when do collecting and displaying data elements equal understanding things?"

"They don't," she muttered back.

"As General Meecham had the insight to state," the Colonel lectured in the tones of an elementary-school teacher, "understanding the enemy is the first prerequisite to defeating the enemy."

"Excuse me, sir," a Sergeant somewhere far to the right side of the briefing room called, "but didn't Sun Tzu say that a couple of thousand years ago?"

The Colonel paused, his mouth a thin line. "Comments are neither required nor desired. I expect silence and full attention while presenting this information. Now, as I was saying, understanding of the enemy requires an exhaustive analysis of mind-set parameters fused with historical biases toward action and inaction within discrete decision matrices. These matrices are in turn heavily influenced by enemy perceptions of our own projected, expected, and traditional force employment options."

Smiling confidently, Colonel Penter raised a dramatic finger for emphasis. "Synergy Warfare is based upon careful calculation of the correlation of forces taking into account every physical condition and weighing the subsequent results against the critical nonphysical conditions to produce a definitive course of action with a finitely determinable outcome. For example, in a sample limited-force engagement this correlation is partially determined by measuring relevant combat-impacting factors as they relate to force employment considerations. Application of variables regarding terrain effects is achieved using exhaustive analysis of available data as processed through applicable force-movement and deployment models. Logistics requirements are based on historical-use data streams that reflect current trends in depletion of consumable stockpiles during periods of high-stress activity. Naturally, some approximations must be used in all cases to smooth out jagged anomalies in curve rates of projected applied analyses."

"Naturally," Sanchez whispered softly.

"The proper force application vectors," Colonel Penter droned on, "are determined by high-level secondary and tertiary branch analysis with a heavy emphasis on decision-linkage theory and high-tempo crisis management tools." He paused, raising a finger on the other hand for additional emphasis, so that the raised digits framed the wall of medal ribbons covering most of his chest. "I might add that this particular facet of Synergy Warfare received special praise when General Meecham briefed the Joint Staff."

Goody for him.
Stark felt his mind fuzzing as the relentless stream of jargon continued unabated.
This would be sort of funny, in a sick way, if so many lives weren't riding on this verbal pile of garbage.

"These paradigms are essentially self-evident operational/strategic vectors impacting on each other in an eminently predictable fashion. General Meecham's special contribution to the modern art of war is the recognition that clustering of operational paradigms into highly focused yet diverse grand tactical applications produces an uber paradigm capable of overcoming standard resistance models with multiplication factors dependent only on special considerations and the mental discipline of relevant commanders at all levels." The Colonel produced a laser pointer, holding it like a sword of triumph as he swung toward the display screen at his back. "This presentation represents a typical nonexceptional situation on a discrete portion of the lunar front. Individuals without a grounding in Synergy Warfare concepts would conclude that attacking forces would require a significant material advantage in order to overcome resistance from defenders employing commonly established defensive measures applied by inherent traditional warfare mind-sets as modified by current transitional trends within physical force employment constraints. This, of course, is not actually the case."