The Wizards 1: Combat Wizard Read online

  I looked around the club. The others were guys who wanted a drink before crashing, all of them RLO’s. They'd made a point of not seeing me when I came in and they ignored me now.

  RLO, Real Live Officer, is a common term of reference among us, those of us who wear the flyspecks on our bars; I picked the term up when I was still trying to fit in with the other warrant officers. RLO is not a term of admiration among warrants.

  That effort to fit in soon ended. They understood, despite the insignia, that I wasn't one of them; we really weren't alike at all.

  I sat in the back of the Club and sipped my scotch; after a bit, I got another one, scrupulously paying the kitty. The buzz slowly lessened, but the dark thoughts wouldn’t go away.

  #

  I hadn’t noticed the noise level drop while I sat there, thinking and remembering. I looked up as soon as the murmuring stopped, wondering why everyone had gone quiet. Then I knew.

  He stood in the door, Colonel Arschloch; one of the visiting German guys had hung that name on him and it soon spread around the compound. He looked like he’d just bit into an apple and found half a worm.

  Me.

  I should have put on a clean ACU, at least; but I just wanted out when I woke up, so I grabbed the uniform I’d worn on that last patrol and scrammed. It hadn’t mattered before because there was never anyone in the club when I came in. Anyway, the Club wasn’t officially off limits to me even if the presence of junior officers was strongly discouraged.

  This time I didn’t need TP to read his emotions.

  The RLO’s hunkered down and looked away. No indeed; they hadn’t wanted to acknowledge me when I came in and they didn’t want to be blamed now.

  The colonel was clearly unhappy.

  Chapter Three

  Colonel Standford Minot carefully logged off the computer after saving the study. Unplugging the external drive, he stored it in the safe; the drive contained the beginnings of a staff study that might get his career back on track. He was careful to lock the data away each day after he finished working with it. Some of the data was classified, and Colonel Minot was very careful with classified information.

  He had spent weeks gathering data for this report. It was the best study he’d ever done. He’d begun by gathering the reports, then organized the information while looking for an equation to anchor the report. There was a nice rising curve of rounds expended per engaged trooper. He plotted this against enemy casualties, then plotted the results again against noncombatant casualties and collateral damage. From this came the conclusion that moving back down the curve to fewer rounds expended in combat would simultaneously improve logistic efficiency while reducing collateral casualties and property damage. Those cost the Army a lot of money; survivors and relatives were quick to file claims.

  Cutting back on rounds expended wouldn’t reduce efficiency materially. There might be a slight reduction in combat effectiveness, possibly a few more friendly casualties, but logistics was also an important consideration. After all, the saying was that amateurs study tactics while professionals study logistics.

  Colonel Minot knew there was a lot of truth in that saying.

  Most casualties survived anyway if they got to the hospital in time. He briefly considered that some of those casualties required expensive long-term care, then decided this was not something to include in his report.

  This one, unlike the other studies he’d written, would go right to the Pentagon. Those other staff studies were in a file cabinet somewhere, still here in the command. Maybe this one would finally get him out of the career box he’d found himself in to where he could do something substantial.

  Up or out for Colonels left little time to achieve anything noteworthy; even then you had to be somewhere you could get noticed. Promotion to general officer involved luck as much as skill.

  Make general or retire; there were few slots for generals and a lot of colonels. Most inevitably retired, whether they were prepared to do so or not. Lieutenant colonels also lived with up-or-out and there were even more of them than there were colonels.

  Colonel Minot had motivation. He wasn’t ready for a porch and a rocking chair.

  So the patient searches had been done, most of them after his daily tasks were finished. There had been lists of ammunition, shipped and issued, to be collected, and casualty counts of the enemy and estimates of casualties which hadn’t actually been verified. He had calculated the costs of shipping the ammunition and the diversion of space that might have been used for other purposes.

  Colonel Minot had compiled the data, now the report was almost done. The only thing that remained was formulating a few recommendations on training and new operational guidelines. As soon as he finished those, he could write the final report. A conservative approach would be better received at headquarters, something to keep in mind when writing the report.

  Then he would send it off and see how it helped in the decision process; more importantly, on a personal level, he would see how the report was received. Maybe consider what might be achieved if the funds made available by those new operational guidelines could be used to increase local hires, maybe do more work on infrastructure?

  But it was all very tiring, and a break from the keyboard would help him start fresh when he began the next phase. It would be good to see how things were going around his area of responsibility, and anyway he felt like a small celebration.

  He had been made Club Officer (over mild objection; he hadn’t wanted the job, but it wouldn’t do to seem uncooperative) and it would be nice to see what they were stocking this month for senior officers and visiting VIP’s.

  Use of alcohol was officially discouraged in deference to religious beliefs of the host country, but senior officers could clearly work better if they had a few creature comforts. And he wouldn’t be leaving the headquarters compound, so no one outside a small number of HQ officers would know if he had a belt or two.

  Senior junketers, congressional VIP’s, Cabinet secretaries and undersecretaries, important people, wanted better than they could otherwise find in this backward country. Their good opinion was important; if a friendly atmosphere with a little social lubricant helped that opinion, it was a win-win for Colonel Minot and his bosses.

  Colonel Minot checked his schedule a final time, glanced down at his belly, and went to work out. He would visit the Club later.

  He changed to shorts and a T-shirt in a room reserved for senior officers before finding an unused section of the gym. He spent as much time as he could spare in the gym these days, and even so he barely held his own against creeping pudginess. Once, he’d not have been concerned, but the Army was death now on overweight soldiers. Some had been unceremoniously booted, first for being overweight, out of shape physically running a close second.

  He could always retire if it came to that, but still, there was that chance of a star and an even more remote chance at a responsible command somewhere.

  Colonel Minot did not want to retire while still a colonel.

  A number of his contemporaries had already been selected for brigadier general. Granted, they were often members of the combat arms, infantry or artillery or armor, but Minot had begun as an artilleryman.

  It had been made clear to him that his future in that branch was limited, a matter of shells from a 155mm cannon that landed outside the range area (Minot had been in command of the gun platoon, but had managed to deflect blame so that nothing stuck to his official record).

  Still, some might remember what Lieutenant Minot had done; when opportunity presented, he had exercised an option and changed branches. That change didn’t look great on his record, but it could be excused.

  He had worked hard since then and amassed an excellent string of OER’s, Officer Efficiency Reports. He’d punched a few tickets along the way as well. Airborne badge. He had medically failed Ranger school and not reapplied when the condition cleared up, but the medical report was in his record to explain that failure to finish. A Ra
nger badge was a clear plus because many general officers either had been through the course or knew enough about it to respect those who had. But the lack of such wasn’t a career-killer.

  Meanwhile, he had gained a reputation as a good logistician. He simply had been unable to add to this a good record in command of troops. Staff duty, administration, was where his greatest talents lay.

  Once, that would have seen him retired as a lieutenant colonel; that happened to the great majority of his contemporaries. But Minot had prevailed; he had finally gotten his eagle, now he wanted more.

  So when there was need for an officer to take additional duties, those often fell to Minot. He didn’t complain but did the additional jobs as best he could.

  But additional duties would not get him that coveted flag with the white star. It wouldn’t see him called “General”. It wouldn’t see him commanding a base somewhere, perhaps a joint command of some type.

  Administrators were valued in wartime; one had but to consider the record of Eisenhower. But in an era when wars weren’t ‘declared’ and when there were many colonels but few places to employ them….

  Colonel Stanford Minot was feeling the cold wind of an incipient and undistinguished end to his career.

  He could always find civilian employment. Colonels seldom remained out of work. There were companies who had done business with the Army, they were always looking for senior officers. Many colonels retired, then moved across the street to work for those they’d been responsible for supervising only two or three months before. And it might take that long just for the retirement paperwork to be approved, the various forms executed, and the accounts he was responsible for audited. Fortunately, Colonel Minot kept those in excellent condition. The records were immaculate.

  Standford Minot respected records and paperwork.

  But it was the disappointment of it all. He could do a good job as a general officer if only he got the chance.

  #

  He became the officer in charge of the command’s Officers Club. Unlike most such, this one was small enough that junior officers were encouraged not to attend. This was only one of the ways it differed significantly from clubs with official standing. The ordinary post O-club, as they were known, often required junior officers to be members. Failure to join saw the miscreant viewed with great suspicion, even though alcohol use was expected to be no greater than moderate.

  Such a lieutenant or warrant officer would find himself replying-by-endorsement to explain his failure to support the club. A bold officer might object and say so when he RBI’d the communication. He might claim to be a teetotaler, but that was rarely good enough. Other O-clubs served food and moonlighting sergeants often worked behind the bar or in the kitchen. Good sergeants took care to see that popular officers did not overindulge. They might listen to mildly inebriated officers utter the occasional indiscretion, but they knew to keep their mouth shut about what they learned.

  The moonlighting sergeants liked the extra pay.

  But Colonel Minot had no facilities for such an official club, and besides, there might be trouble if the host country found out officially. Best to keep it low-key.

  An unused space had been found, unused by virtue of quietly moving the office that had occupied it elsewhere. There was always room to fit a desk or two somewhere, so the office had gone, and communications techs would install necessary phone and radio systems in the new office. Soldiers were accustomed to unexplained moves. They happened all the time.

  Certain senior officers subscribed to a fund that bought the first shipment of alcohol, very high quality goods. They had then been repaid from sales and the profits had funded new purchases since that time. An honor system substituted for the moonlighting enlisted men.

  A few dining facility tables and chairs completed the furnishings. An original painting done by a sergeant from Operations added a touch of class. There was a bowl for payment, the kitty, and the honor system was pay-as-you-drink. There was always more than enough money for replacement bottles when it was time to restock.

  Senior officers didn’t feel the urge to violate the honor system; they had far too much to lose to sneak a shot of booze without paying for it. Those officers also didn’t want to chance running afoul of Colonel Minot. He was known to be less concerned with the careers of juniors than he was with his own.

  After the first junketing Congressman had a drink in the Club, sharing the premises with a couple of officers with a home-of-record in the state he represented, the Club became a going concern. The Congressman made it a point to commend the Club’s hospitality to the commanding general and Colonel Minot got a letter of commendation for his files. The commendation cited excellence in the performance of unspecified duties; such letters often do when those involved don’t want questions asked. The letters would eventually get the recipient a nice addition to the fruit salad that senior officers wore on their blouses.

  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t help get him a star.

  #

  The bar was a table with two or three opened bottles of choice hooch, most often scotch and brandy. There might be Russian vodka from time to time and occasionally tequila, but senior officers preferred scotch and brandy. There was usually a bottle of good bourbon around for the occasional visiting Congressman, but it wasn’t popular enough to be out on the table. Besides, the single bottle of Pappy van Winkle Family Reserve they'd bought had been horribly expensive, even for senior officers. Smooth, strong, twenty-three years old, but still….

  Bourbon now was Maker’s Mark or Wild Turkey.

  Add a few bottles of mixers, some cubed ice stored in a cooler, this was the essence of the bar even if the senior officers referred to it as a ‘Club’. Junior officers generally found more brass in the club than they liked, and what alcohol was available for consumption was too expensive for a junior officer’s pay anyway.

  Other junior officers didn’t object to the de-facto exclusion. I ignored it.

  It had become known as The Colonel’s Club, not only for the man responsible, but for who patronized it. Colonels and would-be colonels down as far as a few senior majors liked the atmosphere. Newbie junior officers might drop in once, rarely twice, and if they had friends the friends would offer a friendly word of advice. Captains, like lieutenants, stayed out of the Club.

  But I was a reservist on active duty, not a regular. What were they going to do, send me to the Rockpile? Toss my weary ass out of the Army?

  Make my day, Colonel.

  So I sat and sipped my scotch, very good scotch. I looked forward to the temporary loss of buzz along my nerves that the drinks would bring. I didn’t get a buzz, I lost one. It was almost funny.

  #

  The colonel finished up in the gym and decided to have a belt. He felt good after the workout, he deserved a drink with his contemporaries and a few subordinates. He was aware that many of them would work on polishing their noses by ingratiating themselves. He found no fault in this. He’d once done a certain amount of it himself.

  The Colonel’s good mood lasted until he stepped into the club.

  And spotted a dusty, dirty, lowly chief warrant officer, not even a real officer, sitting at a table. Drinking what appeared to be some of the good scotch. A quick glance at the bar showed that the scotch bottle was quite low. A new bottle would have to be broken out, if there was one. If there wasn’t…the man had drunk the last of the Colonel’s scotch! Even if he had paid for it, and who knew, perhaps he hadn’t!

  Really, this was intolerable. The man hadn’t even bothered to put on a clean uniform. Where the hell had he come from? If someone had told him about the club, wouldn’t they have told him that he should stay away? Was this offense to the officer corps thumbing his nose at the Colonel and the traditions of the service in general?

  No. This simply couldn’t be overlooked. A junior officer who hadn’t yet learned might get a word of advice, the sort of avuncular thing that almost all officers experienced on their way up the ladde
r. But not this time.

  “Chief, I’d like a minute of your time. Say, in 15 minutes. In my office.”

  #

  This was not how I wanted my visit to the club to end. I wasn’t going to get to sleep after all. I finished my drink and went off to obey the colonel’s order.

  I knocked the worst of the dust off, and decided not to change. Fuck it, and fuck that pencil-pushing REMF. He was the quintessential empty suit filling a slot. The Army has a lot of them. The buzz was gone, something else took its place.

  I knocked and opened the door. I was supposed to wait to be told to come in, but he’d told me he wanted me in his office, and it had been 15 minutes. So I went in and marched to the front-center of his desk, halted, came to attention, and saluted.

  He glowered at me, moving from pissed to really really pissed in about a second. I could have just slouched into the room, but some of the military’s efforts had sunk in despite my anger and I’d also been cautioned not to make waves. The School wanted me to remain well below the radar of officialdom.

  It wouldn’t do anyone any good to have the Army wonder where I’d come from, what made me a special case. Keep a low profile they’d said, not that the Army would have believed me anyway. I’m a combat wizard, guys, not really a soldier at all. Why sure, I’ll be glad to wait until the nice doctors get here. A new white coat, just for me? How nice!

  I reported to Colonel Minot while holding the salute, then held it for several seconds. When he didn’t return it, I completed the salute and remained at attention.

  He left me standing there. Discourteous bastard; that thought went through my mind. Yes indeed, discourteous fit him like a glove.

  His discourtesy to juniors was exceeded only by toadying to superiors. Textbook pencil-pushing bean-counting REMF, Rear Echelon Mother-Fucker.

  Uniform violations; I was a walking illustration, opined the colonel. He started with that, and escalated. How important it was that officers set standards, something I obviously wasn’t doing. Attitude, not what was expected of officers.