Not For Glory Read Free

false outrage might go over reasonably. "Inspector, I'll have you know—"
    "Enough of that. The Commerce charter provides that offplanet mercenary soldiers can be brought in. Less bloodshed that way, supposedly; I'm not sure. Maybe it's better than letting the locals hack each other to ribbons. But there are limits, and while I'm inspector here they are going to be enforced. Understood?"
    I wiped my hand across my forehead. "I know. No import of military—"
    "—technology beyond whatever the locals already possess. They don't have bombs like that. They can't make bombs like that. And you can't bring them in. Understood?"
    Of course I understood. Shimon should have understood. I'd told him they'd never let us get the messkits by.

Indess, Gomes's Continent
    Pôrto Setubalnôvo
    Thousand Worlds Port Facility
    6/18/40, 1814 local time

    We rode down on the first shuttle, along with First Battalion, HQ company and the three battalion commanders, who were also acting as Shimon's general staff, plus their own staffs/bodyguards.
    Which was standard—that goes back to the old IDF days, before the exile to Metzada, when none of our soldiers ever set foot on a piece of land where an officer hadn't been first. There's nothing romantic about it, no bravura required—it's just a matter of human economics. We've always had a lot of officer material, and traded off the high mortality among bar-grade and leaf-grade officers for lower casualties among line soldiers.
    Other armies did—and still do—see it differently. That's why we're better. And, to a large extent, that's also why I get to wear my stars at home.
    I followed Shimon out into the daylight, squinting nervously in the bright sunlight. Indess orbits an F4 star; much brighter, whiter light than we use in Metzada's underground corridors.
    "Relax," he said, dropping his pack to the tarmac. "We're on Thousand Worlds territory here, in the first place."
    Maybe so, but the fence, far off in the distance, looked like it was made of wood—not electrified wire.
    We waited while Colonels Davis, Silverstein, and Kaplowitz walked down the ramp, their bodyguards behind them, bows strung and arrows nocked, keeping careful watch on the one-story stone buildings on the south edge of the field. They didn't look any too relaxed.
    After them, the rest of headquarters company unloaded, looking more like line soldiers than the clerks and such that kept the regiment running. Shimon beckoned to Natan Raviv, the captain who commanded HQ company, muttered a few words, then sent him and the rest of the company on their way.
    The rest of First Battalion quickly unloaded, officers leading their outfits down, until there were more than six hundred men on the tarmac, adjusting their packs and checking over their gear.
    "General," I said, "you were saying that the fact that we're on CD territory is in the first place. What's in the second place?"
    Shimon Bar-El shrugged. "I doubt that there's a Ciban within a hundred klicks. They're fighting a defensive war, Tetsuo."
    He turned. "Yonni, over here," he shouted.
    Davis trotted over, his blocky guard behind him. "What is it, Shimon?" Yonaton Davis was a short, wide man, whose girth and blandness always gave me the impression that he was more suited to be a shopkeeper than an officer. I've seen the type before; some compensate by becoming martinets. That's not necessarily wrong, by the way; Eitan was a martinet. So was Patton.
    Yonni took the opposite approach, giving and taking orders with an informality that suggested he was good enough, competent enough, not to have to put on airs. Which probably had something to do with why Shimon had made him the regiment's G-3, operations officer, as well as giving him First Battalion.
    "Yonni, my aide and I are going to go talk to our employers. Have the staffs and the spearheads and the rest of the stores made ready." He pointed toward the north. "There's an open field there; have your battalion bivouac there, and