Shadows, стр. 3
“If I combined every Lost Soldier into one command, we couldn’t field more than two platoons, plus maybe a few replacements. We’ve already suffered casualties, we’re gonna suffer more, and time’s running out. So, I need your answer: can the indigs count on you to help them like you helped the French?”
“I’m Catholic, sir,” Cutter said, stating the non-sequitur with a straight face.
“What does that mean?”
“The way you lay on the guilt, sir…you remind me of my mother.”
For the first time since they’d met, Murphy cracked a smile that didn’t seem false. “I’ll take that as a compliment. You’ll accept the command?”
“One question first.”
“What?”
“So if the aliens who brought us here—the Dornaani?—came all this way, why didn’t they just do the dirty work themselves?”
“That’s a long, complicated answer, TD. And I’m not sure I’ve been given all of it, myself.”
“Old aliens never die, they just kidnap old soldiers to do it for them?”
Murphy managed a grunt. “Something like that.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2
For the next two weeks, Cutter underwent intense training with the newer weapons systems, like field stripping, cleaning, and assembling the M14 until he could do it blindfolded and could therefore teach his troops how to do it as well. He didn’t have to; Murphy didn’t require it. But Cutter’s command style was to know his men’s jobs better than they did. He also received intensive and more in-depth language training, sessions on the history of R’Bak, the political situation, and the climate. It all came to him in what he remembered as a long blur of endless lessons.
When Murphy finally sent word he was ready to lay out the mission, Cutter knew it was his last chance to back out. If he did so, the men selected for his dirtside command wouldn’t be looking to him to lead them; they’d be relying on someone else, someone less worried about screwing up and more worried about completing their assigned mission.
When Murphy arrived, Cutter had an M1A1 Thompson sub-machine gun on the table in front of him. The gun had been replicated by the SpinDogs in every detail except the maker and manufacture marks. Those had been eliminated in the attempt to conceal the actual origins of the weapons, if any of them got into what the colonel cryptically referred to as “knowledgeable hands.”
Cutter had tied the sleeve of a spare shirt around his eyes as a blindfold, and, with the ambient noise in the SpinDogs’ habitat, hadn’t heard Murphy’s approach. As he’d done during the black nights in Normandy, he practiced field stripping his weapon without being able to see it; he’d learned first-hand you couldn’t rely on having enough light any more than you could rely upon a dirty weapon.
By feel alone, he pushed up on the catch located above the trigger and released the magazine. Pulling back the bolt, he checked the chamber using his left pinkie finger, then pushed the bolt back into place. A small button on the rear of the frame, near the stock, released the top of the gun, but it wouldn’t come fully loose until he pulled the trigger. Once the Thompson was in two halves, he felt for the button on the back of the top half, pushed it, and applied pressure to the recoil spring guide rod to remove the buffer. Next, he removed the spring and guide rod, careful not to let them shoot across the room. After pulling back the bolt, he took out the cocking knob that held it in place. With that done, he removed the bolt itself and made ready to clean the weapon.
“Impressive.” It was the voice of Colonel Murphy.
“I’m outta practice,” Cutter said, slipping off the blindfold. “Took me twice as long as it used to.”
“It has been a few years.”
“Just a few. What can I do for you, Colonel?”
Murphy sat opposite Cutter, careful not to disturb any of the gun parts on the tabletop. He didn’t revert to the first names they’d briefly used, which told Cutter the status of their relationship better than words.
“You’re needed dirtside, Lieutenant.”
“So I gathered from your message.”
“Then you’ll appreciate that I mean to keep this briefing short. You’ll be leaving in six hours.”
“I never said I’d accept the command, Colonel.”
“Doesn’t matter; you’re going down there either way. The only question is whether you turn indigs into soldiers or waste your talents lugging a rifle and cleaning latrines. Which is it?”
Cutter propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and placed the middle knuckle of his forefinger against his lips. Using his thumbnail, he traced the gap between his front teeth. “May I ask the mission first, sir?”
“Normally I would deny that request, Lieutenant. I’m only making an exception out of respect for your bravery in action. Your psych evals say you don’t have PTSD, but I’m not so sure about that.”
“PTSD?”
“Combat psychosis, in 1944 terminology.”
“You think I’m nuts.”
“I think you may have lingering psychological effects from enduring intense and extended combat, yes, which is why I’m cutting you some slack. But whether you do or don’t, I need you down there.” He pointed at the floor to indicate R’Bak. “Would you like to hear the mission? You’ll be going one way or the other.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think you know some of this already. We’ve been dropped into the middle of an ongoing conflict between oppressor robber barons whose planet orbits the primary star in this binary system. They’ve got