Stark's War (28 page)

"What the
hell
is he talking about?" Stark whispered fiercely to Vic.

"I doubt if even he knows," she breathed back. "As Napoleon once stated, the moral is to the material as three is to one." Colonel Penter swung his laser pointer triumphantly, outlining a portion of the display with quick slashes. "In this area, application of Synergy Warfare in its most rudimentary form would allow concentration of our forces to achieve a three-to-one material superiority. By applying the higher-level paradigm clustering inherent in properly focused Synergy Warfare, we re-create and enhance the basis for Napoleon's greatest victories. In short, with this material advantage magnified by employment in accordance with Synergy Warfare, we automatically enjoy the equivalent of a nine-to-one advantage!"

An audible murmur ran around the room as one Sergeant stood to speak. "Excuse me, sir, but are you saying three soldiers equal nine soldiers in your planning?"

The Colonel nodded with obvious satisfaction. "That is correct, if highly simplified, as far as it goes. Of course, when other superiority-enhancing paradigms are applied and multiplied by our own technological superiority, conservative estimates indicate an effective virtual superiority in the range of twelve to one."

"Three soldiers equal twelve soldiers?"

"No, no, no! One soldier equals twelve soldiers!" Colonel Penter gestured grandly. "This is, as I said, a conservative estimate that does not even factor in the obvious huge advantage granted our forces by our overwhelming superiority in leadership by our senior officers."

Oh, God.
Stark stared, speechless for a moment.
They based their plans on the assumption they're playing with twelve times as many people as they've actually got? And they're congratulating themselves on how brilliant they are to do that?
Before he could muster any response, another Sergeant stood.

"Begging the Colonel's pardon, sir, but is that display meant to portray the actual situation in that sector of the front?"

"That is correct, Sergeant. This is, I assure you, a definitive display."

"Colonel, I'm sorry, but that's not a complete picture, sir. There's a number of enemy fortifications missing."

Penter nodded sharply. "Of course. Those extra fortifications were carefully evaluated and assessed to be either abandoned or the product of deliberate deception operations."

"Sir?" The Sergeant's dismay was plain to see. "Colonel, sir, I've led patrols along that front. A lot of them. Those fortifications are there."

"No, Sergeant, they are not. We are well aware that, shall we say, exaggerated estimates of enemy capabilities have been used to justify a long-term lack of results, but—"

"Colonel," the Sergeant broke in, clearly furious at the implied insult, "you can't achieve material superiority by wishing away some of the enemy forces."

"I told you," Penter declared in icy tones, "that this picture of enemy capabilities was developed by careful analysis of all available intelligence."

"Colonel, nobody asked me or anyone else at the front about those capabilities, so I don't know where you got this 'intelligence.' "

Penter didn't so much grin as bare his teeth. "I seriously doubt that General Meecham or his planners require the input of a disrespectful Sergeant in order to reach the necessary conclusions about enemy capabilities."

White with anger, the Sergeant sat abruptly, even as Stark muttered in Vic's ear. "He gave himself away. 'Necessary' conclusions about enemy capabilities, the Colonel says. If they didn't decide the enemy forces were weak enough there, Meecham's plan couldn't work even with this moral superiority nonsense."

"Right," Reynolds agreed. "They did wish away enemy capabilities they didn't want to deal with. Easy to do when you're not gonna have to face them personally."

"
If
I may have everyone's full attention," Penter announced over the rising buzz of conversation, "I will continue telling you what you need to know." The laser pointer swung again, moving in great, sweeping arcs. "The enemy mind is his weakest point, and that is where Synergy Warfare concentrates its efforts. By employing multiple diversions across a wide area, the enemy's attention is distracted. By then striking with a carefully sequenced succession of heavy, closely coordinated attacks against several sectors, the enemy is unable to reinforce threatened areas and will exhaust his reserves by rushing them from place to place. Adhering to a precise timeline is, of course, critical to achieving this goal. The enemy will be unable to determine the most critical point as our forces strike at him repeatedly. Most importantly, by employing our forces in a visually intimidating and aggressive posture, we ensure the enemy defenders are overawed. Their firepower will avail them nothing if their fingers freeze from fear on their triggers." Penter smiled triumphantly. "That last sentence is a direct quote from General Meecham."

Stark stood, despite a frantic but futile grab by Vic to keep him in his chair, drawing the attention of the room as he did so. "Colonel, given your intentions to employ Third Division in this assault, I submit it would be wise to either provide them more training in movement under Lunar conditions—"

"Impossible. We will not dither away our opportunity for victory."

"—or build enough flexibility into your precise timeline to account for the difficulty Third Division personnel will have moving under unfamiliar conditions through unfamiliar and difficult terrain."

"Impossible," Penter repeated. "General Meecham's theory of Synergy Warfare demands
the precise
coordination of all elements in order to generate a quantum magnification of force on narrowly focused areas."

"Colonel, you can't have a precise timeline if your planning doesn't reflect real-world constraints."

"Our planning reflects our doctrine, Sergeant," Penter insisted, nostrils flaring.

Sometimes it's a good idea to think instead of quoting doctrine.
"Colonel," Stark continued out loud, "the Third Division troops can't make a precise timeline over lunar terrain. At best, they'll either sacrifice formation integrity, or any attempts at maintaining a covered advance. That's not theory. That's fact. Any rock-eater can tell you that."

"Rock-eater." The Colonel shook his head in disapproval. "I assume you mean a lunar veteran. Unfortunately, Sergeant, you lunar veterans need to be remotivated. Staff planners are certain good troops will make that timeline."

"SUAFO," Reynolds muttered, the soldier's acronym for Shut Up And Follow Orders.

"With all due respect," Stark stated flatly, "is the Colonel saying we are not good troops?"

"My words speak for themselves, especially since good troops wouldn't be questioning every word I say up here! The next individual to comment from the floor will be charged with insubordination. Am I clear?"

Stark stood for several seconds more, his eyes fixed on the Colonel, then finally sat with enough deliberation to earn another glare from Penter. The Colonel swung his laser pointer some more, reciting Meecham's theories with the apparent enthusiasm of a recent religious convert while the enlisted personnel sat watching in a silence so complete that it began to draw annoyed glances from the officer. Finally he shut off the pointer, resheathed it in his pocket with all the dignity of a warrior putting away his weapon, and glowered at the assembled Sergeants. "It's obvious anything else I might say would be wasted. This briefing is over." He walked off the stage with another staggering attempt at dignity.

"Somebody forgot to yell 'Attention!' " Sanchez observed.

"I don't think forgetting had anything to do with it," Stark suggested. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Stacey Yurivan stalked by, glowering, as she also headed for the exit. "I've just about had enough of this crap," she declared to no one in particular, then focused on Ethan. "Hey, Stark. You gonna let them get away with this?"

"Sure, Stace, I'm gonna walk into the General's office, tell him he's an idiot, and plant my boot in his backside."

"Really?" Yurivan asked, brightening.

"Hell, no. You think I'm crazy enough to do that?"

"Oh." Yurivan managed to look disappointed. "If anybody's crazy enough, it's you, Stark."

"Thanks," Stark replied with all the sarcasm he could project. "I bet afterward you'd feel bad about serving on my firing squad."

"Real bad," Yurivan said with a grin. She reached to grab his arm as Stark began to move away, leaning close. "You ever do decide to do something, you let me know, Ethan."

"What are you talking about?"

"Maybe nothing. See you around, Stark." Yurivan vanished into the crowd.

"Is there something else going on that I don't know about?" Stark complained.

"Not that I know," Vic stated with a hard look. "Is there?"

"Don't you go weird on me, too. Hey, just a sec." Stark strode over to a comm panel they were passing, keying in the number for his Squad's quarters. Sure enough, Mendoza sat there, studying a vid screen of his own intently. "Hey, Mendo."

Mendoza looked up, startled, before focusing on the comm panel. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"You ever hear of some guy named Napoleon?"

"Napoleon Bonaparte?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Some big-time General."

Mendoza nodded vigorously. "Yes, Sergeant. A very big General some centuries ago."

"He win any battles?" Stark wondered.

"Oh, yes, many battles. He was a genius at land warfare for his time."

"Huh."

"Of course," Mendoza added thoughtfully, "Napoleon's armies also suffered terrible losses, especially when he ordered attacks against strong defensive positions. Then there was the invasion of Russia."

"He invaded Russia?" Vic asked.

"Yes, Sergeant Reynolds." Mendoza made a sorrowful face. "He lost practically the entire invasion force, about a million men."

"A million?" Stark questioned. "You sure about that?"

"Yes, Sergeant. It was a military disaster of almost un-equaled scale."

"Thanks, Mendo. See you later." Stark killed the comm connection, staring sourly at his companions. "Great. Our brass admires some guy who lost a million soldiers in one op."

"They're taking advice from him, anyway," Vic agreed.

"We have seen the future of warfare," Stark deadpanned, "and it sucks."

"You're just upset because you didn't think of Synergy Warfare first," Vic observed dryly.

"Nah. I'm upset because I still don't know what the hell Synergy Warfare is."

"Simple." Sergeant Sanchez grunted. "Synergy Warfare is how you win battles without enough firepower or ground troops."

Stark nodded, all levity gone. "Yeah. You think Synergy Warfare is going to impress the enemy as much as it does our officers?"

"No," Sanchez replied calmly.

"You think it's going to work?"

"No."

"So what do you think will happen to this grand offensive of General Meecham's?"

For the first time in Stark's memory, Sergeant Sanchez's imperturbable expression cracked slightly, eyes haunted by foreboding. "What do I think? I think we're going to get our butts kicked. I think we're going to lose a lot of soldiers. I think the angels are going to cry when they watch it happen." His face closed down once more, emotionless.

"I've got a real nasty feeling that you're right, Sanch," Stark noted after a long moment of silence. "Anybody else feel like getting drunk?" His comm unit buzzed before either Reynolds or Sanchez could reply. "Stark here."

"Sergeant, you have been ordered to report to Major Fernandez at Division Headquarters as soon as possible."

"Major Fernandez? Who's he? What's this about?"

"I don't know the answer to either question, Sergeant."

"Great. Thanks." Stark raised his hands, palms up, in a rueful gesture. "Guess my afternoon schedule just got filled. See you guys back at the barracks."

Vic nodded. "Have fun, Ethan. And try to stay out of trouble."

"Trust me." Stark walked toward the headquarters complex while Reynolds and Sanchez headed for the relative sanctuary of the barracks.

Headquarters. Big corridors with walls carefully smoothed so they felt like something back on the World. Lots of officers, most looking like they were doing The Most Important Thing Ever, but still with enough free time to shoot long, questioning glances at a lowly Sergeant cluttering up their halls. One Major speared Stark with a rigid finger as he walked past her. "Get those ribbons replaced," she ordered, indicating the row of decorations on the Sergeant's left chest. "They're frayed."

"Yessir." No sense in arguing. Stark knew, and the Major knew, that replacement ribbons couldn't be had on the Moon for love or money, but the order wasn't really about ribbons. The order was about him being a Sergeant and her being a Major and rubbing it in.

He walked on, past a Colonel who issued another variation on the "new ribbons" order, until he reached a door with "Fernandez" on it in gilt lettering. Stark hesitated before knocking, remembering how often officers changed assignments and therefore offices, which meant those letters represented no end of labor and expense. His knuckles landed directly on the lettering, unfortunately inflicting no damage that Stark could see.

"Come in." Stark entered, seeing a more spacious version of the glorified closets that passed for private offices in the underground warrens of Luna. Major Fernandez smiled in welcome, waving the Sergeant to the office's single chair, then leaned back, eyeing Stark appraisingly. "I suppose you're wondering why you are here, Sergeant."

Stark twitched his brow in a fraction of a frown. "Frankly, yes, sir. I am."

"You've been involved in combat on the Moon for quite a while, haven't you, Sergeant?" Fernandez didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "That's very strenuous, very hard on a soldier."

"I haven't done anything a lot of other soldiers haven't done, sir."

"But how do
you feel
about it, Sergeant?"

"I beg the Major's pardon?"

Fernandez smiled gently. "Just between you and me, Sergeant. Do you hate your officers?"