Europa Strike by Ian Douglas

Marine,” the figure rasped. “Whatcha need?”
    â€œSome advice, Chesty. As usual.”
    The image of General Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller hooked his thumbs in his Sam Browne belt and nodded. “Fair enough. Shoot.”
    The AI he’d had patterned after Chesty Puller was resident in his PAD, though pieces of it also roamed the ship’s computer system, and the base network back at V-berg as well. The real Puller—the man was a legend in the Corps, a five-time winner of the Navy Cross—would never have spoken so informally with a major.
    Or, on second thought…maybe he would have. Puller had had a rep for looking out for the men under his command, and for his lack of patience with idiots further up the chain of command than he. His attitude toward the brass, legend had it, had delayed his promotion to general until he’d been in for thirty-three years.
    â€œWe’ll be grounding on Europa in twenty-four, General,” he said. “I need to know what the hell I’m forgetting.”
    That wide mouth shifted slightly in what might have been a lopsided smile. “There’s always something. You’ve taken care of the checklist shit.” It was a statement, not a question. His AI software multitasked with his PAD’s operating system; Chesty had attended the staff meeting a few moments ago, albeit invisibly, listening in through the computer’s audio, and was aware of everything Jeff said and did.
    Such electronic advisors were usually called secretaries in civilian life, and aides in the military. They were supposed to have the personae of assistants. Jeff had received some grief from fellow Marines over his decision to have his aide programmed to mimic an old-time Marine general, and Chesty Puller himself, no less.
    Jeff had insisted on the programming, however, though other officers usually had aides that ran the gamut of personalities from Jeeves-type butlers to eager young junior officers to sharp-creased NCOs to sexy women or, in the case of one Marine officer Jeff knew, a devastatingly handsome young man. His choice wasn’t exactly traditional…but he preferred the electronic persona as a reminder that he needed to tap the command experience of someone who’d been in the Corps for a long time, who knew its ways, its customs, its heritage as no one else.
    â€œNumber one,” Puller’s image told him, “is to talk with your men. Work with them. Let them see you.”
    â€œI’ve been discussing things with Kaminski—”
    â€œI’m not talking about your topkicks, son. Yeah, you listen to your NCOs. They’re your most experienced people, and they’ll tell you what you need to know. What I’m sayin’ now, though, is to make yourself accessible to your men. Especially with that gold oak leaf on your collar.”
    He wasn’t wearing rank insignia, but he knew what Puller meant. A company was normally a captain’s command, but in a small and isolated detachment like this one, the senior officers tended to double up on their duties and their responsibilities. His 21C, the second-in-command of Bravo Company, was a captain named Paul Melendez; his command duties were divided between Bravo Company, his position on the MSEF’s operations staff, and his responsibilities as XO for the entire detachment.
    The higher an officer’s rank, though, the more detached he tended to be from the enlisted men, and a major—usually the commander of an entire battalion—was pretty far up there among the clouds.
    â€œColonel Norden doesn’t like his officers fraternizing that much with the men,” Jeff pointed out.
    â€œFraternization be damned! Who’s gonna be on the line out there, son? Mopey Dick or your men? You need to be careful that you don’t make an ass of yourself, of course. You need to hold their respect.” Puller’s grin widened. “Hell, that’s why