The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

Daun had already drafted an assessment for the Frisian Defense Forces Maedchen Command, back in the capital Jungfrau. In it he stated flatly that the system wasn’t working and could never work as presently constituted.

Nieuw Friesland should either withdraw support from the Central States, or the FDF should insist that the Central States hire a detachment of Frisians sufficient to perform all field as well as base servicing tasks. Otherwise, the inevitable failure would be blamed on Frisian technology rather than the ineptness of the Central States Army at using that technology.

Anya wouldn’t let Daun transmit the assessment. It wasn’t that she disagreed with him—quite the contrary. But she didn’t believe anything a Tech II said could change the policy of bureaucrats on Nieuw Friesland …and there was a good chance Daun’s opinions, once released, were going to become known to the Central States personnel she and Daun shared a tent with.

There are a lot of ways to get hurt in a war zone. Pissing off the heavily armed people closest to you wasn’t a good way to survive to a pension.

But the situation grated on Daun’s sense of rightness, as well as making him feel he was a bubble in a very hostile ocean.

“Too rich for my blood,” Hendries said. “I pass.”

Daun stared at his cards again. They hadn’t changed for the better. He had four clubs, three of each other suit, and his high card was the jack of hearts.

He knew his partner was asking where his support was greatest; and he knew also that the proper answer was: nowhere.

“I pass,” he said aloud.

Anya grimaced.

“Pass,” said Bondo.

Daun laid out his wretched hand. His partner’s expression softened as she saw just what Daun had dealt himself. Hendries glared at his cards to determine a lead, a nearly hopeless task under the circumstances.

The tent flap tore open. “Hey!” called the Central States soldier who stuck his head in. “Smart guys! Your fucking pickup’s gone down again. The screen in the TOC’s nothing but hash!”

“Bloody hell,” Anya muttered. She laid her cards down. “My turn, I guess,” she said to Daun. “You were out all morning with the satellite dish.”

Daun stood up, waving his partner back. “Look, you were up the mast last night. Besides, I’m dummy. I’ll catch this one.”

“Hey!” the messenger from the Tactical Operations Center repeated. “Colonel Jeffords isn’t real thrilled about this, you know.”

That was probably true. The amount paid to Nieuw Friesland by the Central States government for Anya’s services was comparable to what the colonel himself earned. Daun’s pay was at the scale of a senior captain. The money didn’t go into the two technicians’ pockets, much of it, and if it had there was still no place to spend money out here on the tableland. It still provided a reason for some of the locals—Jeffords certainly, and apparently this messenger—to get shirty about off-planet smart-asses whose equipment didn’t work.

“I’m on the way,” Daun said. “Just let me get my gear.”

He buckled his equipment belt around his narrow waist, pulled on his poncho, and tried to punch the larger working canopy down into its carrying sheath. He could only get it partway into the container, but that would hold it while he climbed the mast.

The slick fabric still shone with water from when Daun had had to use it that morning. It didn’t matter—to the job—if he got soaked, but rain dripping into an open box could only make a bad situation worse.

The messenger disappeared. Daun sighed and followed him. “I’ll catch the next one, Niko,” Anya called as Daun stepped out into the rain.

The flashlight strapped for the moment to Daun’s left wrist threw a fan of white light ahead of him. He could switch the beam to deep yellow which wouldn’t affect his night vision, but it didn’t matter if he became night-blind. He’d need normal light to do his work anyway: many of the components were color-coded. The markings would change hue or vanish if viewed under colored light.

Rain sparkled in the beam. Reflections made it difficult to tell what was mud and what was wet duckboard. The crates were likely to shift queasily underfoot anyway.

Three months more. How the locals stood it was beyond him.

Daun couldn’t blame the soldiers he tried to train for being apathetic. It was all very well to tell the troops that their safety depended on them servicing the sensors properly, but a threat to lives so wretched had little incentive value.

Daun and Anya complained, but professionalism and a sense of duty would carry the pair of them through no matter how bad things got. The vast majority of the Central States personnel were conscripts, and the conscripts with the least political influence in Jungfrau besides. Daun was sure that at least eighty percent of the outpost would have deserted by now, if there was any place to which they could desert.