the American, which is to say the French, system, handled operations and training. The four was logistics.
“Can I think about that?” Kemp asked.
“Sure. Take your time. And speaking of time,”—Reilly glanced at his watch—“I’ve got to get my ass out to the parade field for the assumption of command of the new Second Battalion commander. You could see it from your window, but if you get out of bed before the medicos say you can I’ll send Sergeant Major George over to break your other leg.”
Kemp chuckled. That caused him to wince, too. Not that I don’t think for a minute you wouldn’t have the sergeant major do just that.
As Reilly turned to leave, Kemp asked, “Are you in any shit over this, sir?”
Reilly shrugged. “Other than how it feels inside to lose two of my boys, no. Oh, Stauer’s not happy with me, but then he rarely is.”
Building 26, Camp Fulton, Guyana
(Second Battalion Headquarters)
Von Ahlenfeld hadn’t been this happy in, Oh, a very long time.
My own battalion of Special Forces, and without a single fucking politician to report to; how great is that?
Sitting behind a wooden desk that was perhaps a trifle too small to comfortably fit his large frame, von Ahlenfeld looked from face to face of the commanders, staff and senior non-coms that made up the leadership of his battalion. These included the Russian executive office, Konstantin—balding, graying where not balding, solid like a bear and with clear blue eyes, Welch—commanding A Company, not as solid through the body as Konstantin but perhaps even more muscular and certainly taller, Hilton—a little bit of a runt—commanding Bravo, Charlie, under White, the oldest of the crew of commanders, though for all that he was old, he fidgeted with the energy of a much younger man, Gene Maldon—in charge of D Company and therefore of the battalion’s initial training, specialist training—most of it, and leadership training programs, and, lastly of the commanders, a rather somber Headquarters Company commander, Wahab, an African who was hiding out from the vengeance of his chief for permitting the regiment to get away with a really outrageous sum of cash, and to screw said chief out of a vast estate in Brazil.
Also present was the sergeant major, Rob “Rattus” Hampson. Of the entire crew, von Ahlenfeld had only had the chance to get to know Rattus to any degree. So far, his opinion confirmed Stauer’s: “Good man, for all he’s a medic.”
At a long conference table that stretched forth from von Ahlenfeld’s large but still undersized desk, the others sat in order: Welch, Hilton, White, Konstantin—at the very end, with the staff in a line behind him, Maldon, Wahab, and—“seated at the right hand of the father”—the sergeant major.
“Sir,” began Konstantin, in an accent in which the Russian was virtually lost. He’d been well trained in American English at some time in the past. “Your commanders and staff are formed and present.”
“Very good, XO,” the new commander said. “Now, gentlemen, by companies and then staff sections, tell me about this battalion.”
“So you’re telling me that our number one priority has to be to convince the regimental commander to break this attachment, or detachment, or habitual relationship, with the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Battalions?”
“Yes, sir,” Hilton confirmed. “It sounded like a good idea when we started, but it hasn’t ever quite worked out. The leadership of those companies never knows which way to look, us here or the battalions’ own command and staff. Some of them aren’t above playing us off against each other, either.”
The adjutant added, “Sir, and that’s not even counting the administrative nightmare of the D Companies …”
“D Companies?”
“Deployed companies, sir,” the adjutant answered. “Though, in fact, they are the Delta Companies, reinforced, of the Third and Fourth Battalions, and the Fourth Platoons of Fifth
“Can I think about that?” Kemp asked.
“Sure. Take your time. And speaking of time,”—Reilly glanced at his watch—“I’ve got to get my ass out to the parade field for the assumption of command of the new Second Battalion commander. You could see it from your window, but if you get out of bed before the medicos say you can I’ll send Sergeant Major George over to break your other leg.”
Kemp chuckled. That caused him to wince, too. Not that I don’t think for a minute you wouldn’t have the sergeant major do just that.
As Reilly turned to leave, Kemp asked, “Are you in any shit over this, sir?”
Reilly shrugged. “Other than how it feels inside to lose two of my boys, no. Oh, Stauer’s not happy with me, but then he rarely is.”
Building 26, Camp Fulton, Guyana
(Second Battalion Headquarters)
Von Ahlenfeld hadn’t been this happy in, Oh, a very long time.
My own battalion of Special Forces, and without a single fucking politician to report to; how great is that?
Sitting behind a wooden desk that was perhaps a trifle too small to comfortably fit his large frame, von Ahlenfeld looked from face to face of the commanders, staff and senior non-coms that made up the leadership of his battalion. These included the Russian executive office, Konstantin—balding, graying where not balding, solid like a bear and with clear blue eyes, Welch—commanding A Company, not as solid through the body as Konstantin but perhaps even more muscular and certainly taller, Hilton—a little bit of a runt—commanding Bravo, Charlie, under White, the oldest of the crew of commanders, though for all that he was old, he fidgeted with the energy of a much younger man, Gene Maldon—in charge of D Company and therefore of the battalion’s initial training, specialist training—most of it, and leadership training programs, and, lastly of the commanders, a rather somber Headquarters Company commander, Wahab, an African who was hiding out from the vengeance of his chief for permitting the regiment to get away with a really outrageous sum of cash, and to screw said chief out of a vast estate in Brazil.
Also present was the sergeant major, Rob “Rattus” Hampson. Of the entire crew, von Ahlenfeld had only had the chance to get to know Rattus to any degree. So far, his opinion confirmed Stauer’s: “Good man, for all he’s a medic.”
At a long conference table that stretched forth from von Ahlenfeld’s large but still undersized desk, the others sat in order: Welch, Hilton, White, Konstantin—at the very end, with the staff in a line behind him, Maldon, Wahab, and—“seated at the right hand of the father”—the sergeant major.
“Sir,” began Konstantin, in an accent in which the Russian was virtually lost. He’d been well trained in American English at some time in the past. “Your commanders and staff are formed and present.”
“Very good, XO,” the new commander said. “Now, gentlemen, by companies and then staff sections, tell me about this battalion.”
“So you’re telling me that our number one priority has to be to convince the regimental commander to break this attachment, or detachment, or habitual relationship, with the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Battalions?”
“Yes, sir,” Hilton confirmed. “It sounded like a good idea when we started, but it hasn’t ever quite worked out. The leadership of those companies never knows which way to look, us here or the battalions’ own command and staff. Some of them aren’t above playing us off against each other, either.”
The adjutant added, “Sir, and that’s not even counting the administrative nightmare of the D Companies …”
“D Companies?”
“Deployed companies, sir,” the adjutant answered. “Though, in fact, they are the Delta Companies, reinforced, of the Third and Fourth Battalions, and the Fourth Platoons of Fifth
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