“Still leaves us well short of company strength, Sir.”

  “I can check with Division about getting us more mongooses,” he mused.

  “Mongeese, Sir,” I corrected.

  “Is that so?” Gnad chuckled, amused. “Well, from what I read in your AAR, those ladies fight well enough that I’m happy to call ‘em whatever the fuck they want.”

  “Another dozen mongeese would be a helluva boost, Sir,” I acknowledged. “Much appreciated.”

  “That leads us to your last platoon,” Gnad sighed. “Have you ever heard the saying that there’s no such thing as a free lunch?”

  I knew Goddamned well he was buttering me up for something.

  “University of Adelaide sent a platoon of uplifted platypuses to basic training six months ago. They did so well that they were all sent to special warfare school to learn how to be commandos. They’re particularly suited for maritime ops, and the reports I’m getting are that they are Goddamned ferocious.”

  So what’s the catch? I thought, then said it aloud. “What’s the catch, Sir?”

  “They’re bloody undisciplined. Right now they’re a platoon of PFCs who think they’re the second coming of the US Navy SEALs. They don’t have a platoon sergeant or a lieutenant; it’ll be up to you to promote someone into that role.”

  I fucking knew it. I’m being saddled with the problem children.

  I smiled with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel and barked, “I’ll whip ‘em into shape, Sir! Where can I find them?”

  “Confined to barracks at the transshipment depot at Wollongong,” Colonel Gnad grinned evilly. “Their platoon guidon bearer is cooling his heels in the brig while awaiting the Director of Military Prosecutions to bring charges.”

  What was it I said yesterday morning? Fuck. Me.

  “Stand at attention, soldier!” I snapped. “What in bloody Hell were you thinking?”

  PFC Horace Pfleuger adopted what I can only assume was the position of attention. His ability to stand erect was somewhat hampered by the waist chains and leg irons, and he could barely put weight on one leg. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, and his bill was misshapen and crusted with dried blood. He looked like 100 kilometers of bad road, and I could smell the reek of booze from my side of the desk.

  He said nothing, just stared woodenly at the portrait of the Brigade Commander six feet up the wall behind my desk.

  I glared at him a moment, grinding my central incisors together. “I asked you a question, Private,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

  Pfleuger considered it a moment, then attempted to shrug. “Mishtakes were made, Shir.” His swollen bill made him difficult to understand, and a fissure of dried blood cracked open and began to trickle down his chin.

  “You stand accused, Private, of assault and battery on three United States Navy sailors, and two officers of the Wollongong Municipal Harbor Police. Moreover, you are charged with public intoxication and conduct unbecoming a member of the Australian Armed Forces,” I read the charge sheet to him.

  “They shtarted it, Shir,” he protested. “We – I – wush minding my own bishness when they-“

  “Who is ‘we’?” I interrupted. “Who was with you?”

  “I mishspoke, Shir. I alone wush involved in the… altercation… Shir.”

  That wasn’t the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. PFC Horace Pfleuger may have whipped five humans single-handedly, but the report on my desk said at least two other platypi were involved. The other two miscreants were still unidentified and at large.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, Pfleuger,” I offered. “Who were the other two platypi involved in the fight?”

  “I’m shorry, Shir, I wush the only one involved in the fight,” he repeated, his expression quite clear that no other information would be forthcoming. He wasn’t going to rat out his buddies.

  “Then I have no other choice but to formally charge you with these offenses,” I sighed, “and you may be subject to such punishments as a General Court Martial may provide. You will be detained in the stockade until your formal hearing. Your defense counsel will be in to see you in the morning.”

  Pfleuger looked like he was going to say something but stopped himself. I made a “get on with it” gesture and folded my arms.

  “Shir, I wush defending myself,” he said indignantly. “They shwung firsht, Shir. I can call witneshes. Those shumbitches called us platypussies, and when I called him a fuckin’ swabbie cunt, the big one swung on me! ”

  “You beat up three sailors of an allied power, and an Australian shore patrolmen is still in the hospital where the doctors are still trying to determine if he will ever be able to father children!” I exploded. “You call that merely defending yourself?”

  “The shwelling will go down in 24 hoursh, Shir,” he argued. “He’ll only feel like he’s dying for a while.”

  “You nailed the poor bastard in the balls with your venom spur, Private! You really think that was necessary?”

  PFC Pfleuger looked confused. “It wush the only part that preshented itshelf, Shir.”

  “You are dismissed, Private,” I spat coldly. “Get out of my office. The two sergeants outside will escort you to the infirmary, where you will be confined to your room until medically cleared.”

  PFC Horace Pfleuger did a not-so-crisp about face – the damned leg irons again – and shuffled out of my office. I watched him go and when the door closed behind him, limped back to my desk and slumped into the chair.

  I needed a bourbon and a good night’s sleep, and I wasn’t likely to get either very soon with the huge pile of shit Colonel Gnad had dumped in my lap.

  Like it or not, Pfleuger stood a good chance of beating the charges. There were sworn witness statements in the file supporting both sides in the fight, and I couldn’t help but feel a little sympathy for someone who pushed back against anti-uplifted bigotry.

  Back when we were still buck privates at a titty bar in Adelaide, Ian McMurtrie and I had shown a handful of the Royal Australian Navy’s Amphibious Ready Element – the Australian equivalent of U.S. Marines – that they should be very careful who they called “fucking tunnel rats.”

  In the Australian military, like most civilian legal systems, the accused is presumed innocent until proven guilty. That applied to PFC Horace Pfleuger, who could also bring to his defense a heretofore spotless military record; the kid had a stack of exemplary fitness reports attesting to his skill at arms and his character and leadership potential.

  What with the current ARM unpleasantness, a court martial could take months to convene, and that brought to mind the second problematic sheaf of papers on my desk.

  They were promotion orders, directing me to promote PFC Horace Pfleuger to Lance Corporal and reassign him to 5th Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment Amphibious Ready Element, temporarily detached to the Australian Army 1st Infantry Division, 5th Brigade, Project for Utilization of Sentient Species (PUSS), (Provisional).

  Not only was I going to be the bloody wanker’s new boss, but it was going to look like I promoted him for wiping the floor with three Yank swabbies and a pair of harbor patrolmen.

  “Ten hut!” barked Sergeant Ian McMurtrie as I strode into the barracks. 44 wombats popped to attention, and a pair of smaller shapes slipped furtively out the back door.

  I stepped back outside just in time to see the door of the inflatable tent erected next door ripple as if someone had passed through them. Those mongeese gals were fast.

  “Lieutenant McMurtrie,” I asked politely. “Are you aware of the regulation against inter-species fraternization in the Australian Army? Never mind, you don’t need to answer that. I know Goddamned well that you are aware of that regulation, as we both went to considerable trouble to get it waived in the case of you and your spouse.”

  “Sir, Binsa wasn’t here. She’s back at our barracks or in your office…”

  “So which one of her mongeese was here?” I asked knowingly.

  A private in the back stepped forward. He shifted uncomfortably and admitted, “It was Sapkota and Dahal, Sir. They were borrowing some flour.”

  “And did they leave their undergarments in return for the flour, Private Sweeney?” I asked innocently. Sweeney flushed red and shot a glance at his bunk, where a lacy black brassiere was draped over the bed frame.

  “I, uh…”

  “I was about to remind you, as I did Sergeant McMurtrie, of the regulation against interspecies fraternization,” I interrupted, “but I changed my mind. That regulation is about to become irrelevant. Integrated units live and fight alongside one another; therefore fraternization is a moot point.”

  “Lieutenant?” Sweeney asked, confused. The rest of the wombats seemed to share his bewilderment.

  “You’re going to have to be more observant, Lance Corporal Sweeney,” I grinned, pointing to the third pip on my epaulets. “That’s Captain Dundee. They wouldn’t hand over command of a new uplifted company to a mere lieutenant.”

  “Uh Captain,” Ian McMurtrie stammered, “Sweeney is just a-“

  “Yes, Lieutenant McMurtrie?” I asked innocently. He stopped in mid-sentence and stared at me in amazement.

  “Lieutenant McMurtrie, I would like you to bring Lieutenant Hamal, Sergeants Sapkota and Bandhari, and Corporals Cameron and Sweeney to my office at 1430, please. Also send word to Lieutenant Bellmore that his presence is ordered as well.”

  McMurtrie’s mouth worked, but no words came out.

  “You look confused, Ian,” I said, amused with myself.

  “Very, Sir.”

  “That’s good. Confusion is where the learning starts.”

  “So Wombat Prime is really writing us a blank check?” Ian breathed wonderingly two hours later.

  “I – that is to say we – write the TO&E and the doctrine ourselves,” I confirmed. “The Australian Army is getting serious about integrating our forces. If we can make this work, there will be fewer stand-alone specialty units like the First Engineers. The uplifted will be integrated into combat and support units just as if we were human. Every platoon, company, etc. will have its own uplifted mammals assigned to whatever specialist roles they are most suited.”

  “Yeah, and subordinate to the sodding human officers, I’ll bet,” Ian predicted darkly. “Grabastic bleedin’ cunts, the whole lot of them.” He flashed a look at Jim Bellmore and looked contrite. “No offense, Jim.”

  “None taken,” newly frocked 2nd Lieutenant James Bellmore said magnanimously. “Few people have the privilege of being insulted by the biggest, furriest buttplug in the Australian Army. If Astroglide Ian is busting my balls, I must be doing something right.”

  Ian stuck his tongue out and made an obscene gesture unbefitting a 1st Lieutenant.

  Binsa Hamal took a different tack. “He gave you authority to promote us, Sir? Even commission us? No promotion board, OCS, nothing?”

  “Brevet promotions,” Ian said cynically. “You get to call yourself an officer but have none of the authority.”

  “Not brevet rank,” I said forcefully. “As of this morning, it’s the real deal. You’re frocked now, but as soon as the orders clear Division you’ll get the pay grade, too.”

  “But why, Sir?” Binsa wanted to know.

  “We’re thinking outside the box here, Lieutenant. We have to get a new company formed, equipped, trained and combat ready in three months. You E4 types aren’t the only ones in the Army that can circumvent regs to get things done. Colonel Gnad has the juice to make it happen. If we make him look good, I imagine it will be General Gnad by this time next year.”

  “A wombat general in the bleedin’ Army,” Lance Corporal Sweeney blurted emotionally. “Goddamn.”

  “The first uplifted general in any army, Sweeney,” I clarified, not without a swell of pride myself. “We’ll be making history here.”

  “But I’m not in the Australian Army, Captain,” Binsa Hamal protested quietly, stealing a glance at her husband. “My mongeese are attached to 5th Brigade, but we’re still officially Nepalese soldiers. You don’t have the authority to promote us, and I don’t even know what to make of the rank structure here.”

  “It is kinda muddled,” I admitted, “but only because we don’t have enough candidates to fill all the officer and NCO slots. That will shake itself out soon enough, when we get our new arrivals.”

  “New arrivals, Sir?” Ian asked, confused.

  “We’ll get to that in a moment,” I said impatiently. “Let me finish answering Lieutenant Hamal.” I turned back to Binsa and said formally, “Lieutenant, your government has seen fit to promote all your mongeese one grade. In your case, you will be promoted to the permanent rank of Master Sergeant in the Nepalese Army, and you will hold a reserve commission as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Australian Army, with all the rights, duties and privileges afforded thereto. You and your mongeese will be officially classified as military training attaches on extended TDY with the Australian Army. From what Colonel Gnad told me, it is the fervent hope of your military leadership that the lessons you learn in this assignment, you can bring back to your own army and apply toward integration of your own military.”

  I let that sink in a moment. Bellmore looked speculative, Ian was simply thunderstruck, and the mongeese, Sergeants Sapkota and Bandhari, were grinning with undisguised glee. Corporals Sweeney and Cameron simply looked lost. Binsa was the first to speak.

  “I’m not sure I’m officer material, Sir,” she blurted, uncharacteristically unsure of herself. There were general nods of agreement around the room.

  “Well there’s a switch,” I chuckled, then turned serious. “Look, if I asked you right now to list all the officers you have served under, you could go down that list and say, ‘this one is a good leader,’ and ‘that one is a bloody wanker.’ Just do what the good officers do and try not to act like the wankers.”

  “We still don’t have enough officers for a company,” Bellmore pointed out, “nor NCOs.”

  “We are training cadre for the time being,” I explained. “As we get up to full strength, we’ll be on the lookout for people with NCO potential. In the meantime, start grooming your existing NCOs for higher ranks. Ian, you’re in command of 1st Platoon and 2nd Platoon. Sapkota and Bandhari, you’ll be platoon sergeants for 5th Platoon, but only temporarily; I have other duties in mind for you. Jim, you’ve got command of 3rd Platoon and 4th Platoon. If any of your human NCOs has leadership potential and doesn’t get his nose out of joint over taking orders from a wombat, I wanna know his name.”

  “Sir, that’s five platoons,” Ian pointed out. “We only have two, plus Binsa’s mongeese.”

  “McMurtrie,” I replied acidly, “as long as we have known each other, do you really think I don’t know how to fucking count?”

  Ian flushed and looked down. “Sorry, Sir,” he murmured.

  I ignored the apology. “In one week, there will be two more platoons of human troops here, each with their own platoon sergeants and 2nd lieutenants. I want you and Bellmore to evaluate the lieutenants and NCOs. We’re looking for leaders with flexible minds and no preconceived notions about what works or doesn’t work in combat. Put your heads together and come up with a plan for how to split up the uplifted troops and integrate them into the three human platoons.”

  “I don’t get a platoon?” Binsa asked, almost plaintively. “I get promoted to 2nd Lieutenant just to answer your phone and run errands?”

  “That leads me to the next bit of news,” I grinned evilly. “5th Platoon consists of 36 uplifted platypi who think they’re salty. Right now, they’re confined to quarters at the transient barracks near the port in Wollongong, along with their platoon corporal, who is one step ahead of a general court martial. I want to know ASAP if this corporal is a good kid who just stepped on his crank, or if he’s a genuine threat to good order and discipline.”

  “How salty, Sir?” Binsa asked, a faint smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

  “They think that when a real warrior goes to sleep at night, he checks under his bed for them,” I answered. “I want you to show them what a true badass is. As soon as we get the new meat settled in and the platoons reorganized, you and your mongeese will be in charge of training everyone in infiltration techniques and hand-to-hand combat.”

  2nd Lieutenant Binsa Hamal’s vivid green eyes glinted, and the faint smile on her lips blossomed into a chilling grin. “Oh, I believe we can handle that, Sir.”

  1st Australian Army Division Headquarters

  Blue Mountains, New South Wales

  October, 2227

  “Everyone settling in well?” Colonel Brian Gnad asked as he idly watched Sergeants Sapkota and Bandhari giving two squads of soldiers instruction in hand-to-hand combat. Each sergeant had her squad of trainees gathered around her in a circle, and would periodically select a hapless “volunteer” for demonstration of another martial arts technique. As we watched, Sergeant Sapkota deftly threw her opponent, a platypus who stood at least six inches taller and outweighed her by 50 pounds. The platypus clumsily charged, all balls and no forehead, and Sapkota waited a beat then blurred, and yet another trainee found himself with his face mashed into the dirt, squealing for mercy.

  The current victim lay prone with his arm in some sort of wrist lock, the other webbed hand slapping furiously at the ground in submission. Sapkota stepped back, let the larger uplifted get back to his feet, and there was be a chorus of hoots and jeers from his compatriots until she voluntold another recruit to step up and repeat the evolution. Bandhari’s group was much the same, except that she was teaching edged weapons overview, which is Army-speak for “slicing and dicing your opponent with a kukri.” Several of the wombats, humans and platypi gathered around her sported bruises, abrasions and fresh bandages.

 

1 2 3 4