Bolo Brigade Read Online Free Page A
aren't you?"
Donal wasn't sure how best to answer, so he remained silent. He'd been passed by for promotion more than once in the past sixteen years, as good an indicator as any that his future options within Concordiat service had been sharply limited, and growing more so. After the court martial, in fact, he'd been given a choice: resign his commission, or accept a reserve commission and temporary reassignment to the Strathan Confederation. Technically, the Confederation was independent, but the Concordiat still had a vested interest in the military forces and equipment now under Confederation control.
Especially the Bolos.
"Bolo officer," Wood said, still reading.
"Yes, sir."
"You like Bolos?"
"Yes, sir. I do."
"But you don't like ROEs."
Donal considered that question a moment. "There certainly is a need for Rules of Engagement, sir. I think, though, that operational guidelines can become a straitjacket. When that happens, the ROEs should be flexible. Not cast in durachrome-jacketed flintsteel."
Wood chuckled. "You'll find out about that . Just don't ever try to blame your own inadequacies and inefficiencies on the ROEs. Believe me, I've tried. The general won't stand for it."
ROEs—Rules of Engagement—were an ancient military concept, one designed to make certain that the politicians who ran things didn't find themselves in a shooting war by accident. Generally, they ran to ideas like not being allowed to fire unless you were fired on first, though they could get considerably more complex. Donal wondered what ROEs he'd be facing here.
"What units did you work with?" Wood asked him.
"Third Batt, Nineteenth Regiment. The Invincibles. Later I was transferred to the Fourth of the Sixty-third."
"What Marks?"
"Most of my service was with Bolo Mark XXVIIs and XXVIIIs. When I was with the Invincibles, of course, I was working with old Mark XXIIIs." He grinned and shook his head. "Strictly third-line stuff, of course. Three hundred years old, some of them were."
"Well, you'd best get used to that third-line stuff, Lieutenant, because we don't have anything so modern as a Mark XXVIII out here."
Bolos—those monster, land-traveling juggernauts descended from the primitive and strictly non-cybernetic tanks of thirteen centuries ago—were formidable fighting machines no matter what their Mark. A bullet, after all, was just as deadly to an unprotected man whether it was fired from a hyper-kinetic mag-pulse railgun or from a black-powder musket.
Still, Donal felt a renewed stab of disappointment. "Yes, sir. I'm aware that the 15th Gladius Brigade is made up of old Mark XVIIIs," he said.
The words came out tight and clipped. The Bolo Mark XVIII had been introduced in a.e. 727, almost six centuries ago. A good machine in its time, the Mark XVIII Gladius had been front-line equipment throughout the Concordiat for over a century after its introduction, a ten-thousand-ton general-purpose behemoth with a fusion-powered 60cm Hellbore as main armament. Mark XVIIIs had been the first of all Bolos actually able to engage warships in planetary orbit from the surface.
"Fourteen Mark XVIIIs, to be precise," Wood said with a curt nod. "Which is what remains of the original brigade that was shipped to the Strathan Cluster four hundred years ago. However, you won't be working with them."
"Oh?"
"All fourteen Mark XVIIIs are stationed off-planet," Wood said, "but there are two more on the roster. You're being brought in to serve as TO for our pair of Mark XXIVs."
Donal felt the tight knot in his gut relax slightly. For him, the thrill of working with Bolos lay in the very special relationship between a human tactical officer and those combat machines that possessed sentience, even a measure of self-awareness. The older Mark XVIIIs, though possessing voder circuits and able to communicate with their human operators, could not be considered intelligent, were no more self-aware than a typical high-speed computer . . . or a
Donal wasn't sure how best to answer, so he remained silent. He'd been passed by for promotion more than once in the past sixteen years, as good an indicator as any that his future options within Concordiat service had been sharply limited, and growing more so. After the court martial, in fact, he'd been given a choice: resign his commission, or accept a reserve commission and temporary reassignment to the Strathan Confederation. Technically, the Confederation was independent, but the Concordiat still had a vested interest in the military forces and equipment now under Confederation control.
Especially the Bolos.
"Bolo officer," Wood said, still reading.
"Yes, sir."
"You like Bolos?"
"Yes, sir. I do."
"But you don't like ROEs."
Donal considered that question a moment. "There certainly is a need for Rules of Engagement, sir. I think, though, that operational guidelines can become a straitjacket. When that happens, the ROEs should be flexible. Not cast in durachrome-jacketed flintsteel."
Wood chuckled. "You'll find out about that . Just don't ever try to blame your own inadequacies and inefficiencies on the ROEs. Believe me, I've tried. The general won't stand for it."
ROEs—Rules of Engagement—were an ancient military concept, one designed to make certain that the politicians who ran things didn't find themselves in a shooting war by accident. Generally, they ran to ideas like not being allowed to fire unless you were fired on first, though they could get considerably more complex. Donal wondered what ROEs he'd be facing here.
"What units did you work with?" Wood asked him.
"Third Batt, Nineteenth Regiment. The Invincibles. Later I was transferred to the Fourth of the Sixty-third."
"What Marks?"
"Most of my service was with Bolo Mark XXVIIs and XXVIIIs. When I was with the Invincibles, of course, I was working with old Mark XXIIIs." He grinned and shook his head. "Strictly third-line stuff, of course. Three hundred years old, some of them were."
"Well, you'd best get used to that third-line stuff, Lieutenant, because we don't have anything so modern as a Mark XXVIII out here."
Bolos—those monster, land-traveling juggernauts descended from the primitive and strictly non-cybernetic tanks of thirteen centuries ago—were formidable fighting machines no matter what their Mark. A bullet, after all, was just as deadly to an unprotected man whether it was fired from a hyper-kinetic mag-pulse railgun or from a black-powder musket.
Still, Donal felt a renewed stab of disappointment. "Yes, sir. I'm aware that the 15th Gladius Brigade is made up of old Mark XVIIIs," he said.
The words came out tight and clipped. The Bolo Mark XVIII had been introduced in a.e. 727, almost six centuries ago. A good machine in its time, the Mark XVIII Gladius had been front-line equipment throughout the Concordiat for over a century after its introduction, a ten-thousand-ton general-purpose behemoth with a fusion-powered 60cm Hellbore as main armament. Mark XVIIIs had been the first of all Bolos actually able to engage warships in planetary orbit from the surface.
"Fourteen Mark XVIIIs, to be precise," Wood said with a curt nod. "Which is what remains of the original brigade that was shipped to the Strathan Cluster four hundred years ago. However, you won't be working with them."
"Oh?"
"All fourteen Mark XVIIIs are stationed off-planet," Wood said, "but there are two more on the roster. You're being brought in to serve as TO for our pair of Mark XXIVs."
Donal felt the tight knot in his gut relax slightly. For him, the thrill of working with Bolos lay in the very special relationship between a human tactical officer and those combat machines that possessed sentience, even a measure of self-awareness. The older Mark XVIIIs, though possessing voder circuits and able to communicate with their human operators, could not be considered intelligent, were no more self-aware than a typical high-speed computer . . . or a
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