Strong Arm Tactics Read Online Free Page B

attention.
    He continued walking up and down, the adjutant at his heels. The long barracks was divided into three sections, every fifteen meters, as per fire regulations, but during the day the partitions were pushed back to make one big room. The walls were the enameled panels standard in military facilities both shipside and dirtside for their durability and ease in cleaning. Most of it here was drab khaki-gray, except for one panel in drab coral. That one didn’t quite fit into its modular frame. The edges were fire-scarred, and half the surface was etched with names. Some of them were scratched into the hard surface with some sharp object. Others had been laboriously cut, dot by dot, with a laser, all the way through the wall to the insulation. Wolfe ran his fingers along the names, feeling the minute impressions. He knew from experience that the enamel was practically indestructible. Each name had to have taken hours to incise.
    “What’s this?” he asked.
    There was a defensive growl from the troops, but only Chief Boland stepped forward.
    “Wall of honor, sir,” he said. “Memory of the dead.”
    “Why not have their names decently engraved?”
    “It’s our custom,” said another trooper, a tall woman with very long legs and sincere brown eyes. “We use the knife or the sidearm of the lost soldier to write his or her name. It’s … more personal that way.”
    Wolfe nodded. “I see. The color … it didn’t start here, did it?”
    “No, sir,” said the female lieutenant. “It came from Platoon X’s first HQ on board the Burnside .” Wolfe recognized the name of a dreadnaught that had been destroyed in a territorial conflict on the TWC borders several years before. “We’ve been moved a few times, whenever someone the brass likes better wants our location. We take it with us.”
    Wolfe raised an eyebrow. A piece of bulkhead that heavy wouldn’t get shipped as part of a unit’s regular kit. In fact, the loaders would raise hell if a company showed up with something like that in tow, and word got back up the line to the brass. In fact, there should have been at least one attempt to confiscate it. On the other hand, he wouldn’t put it past the resourcefulness of X-Ray to make a way to get their memorial on board their troop transport. The more experienced units would recognize and honor the effort for what it was and let it slip by, and the young ones couldn’t outthink them long enough to stop them doing what they wanted.
    “It’s a Cockroach tradition,” Boland said, staring Wolfe straight in the eye.
    “You’re not going to take it down, sir?” the diminutive woman chief asked. Though it was phrased like a question, it was a statement. Wolfe knew enough to take the warning.
    “I wouldn’t dream of taking it down,” Wolfe said. This time, the murmur that ran through the room was positive. Wolfe knew he’d scored a point, but he meant it sincerely. For all the crap they spouted about being in Platoon X, he knew they had their pride. Outsiders didn’t realize that being the outcasts made this unit band together, form their own society, establish their own rules. The Cockroaches didn’t like being questioned by anyone from a legitimate unit, one that had the backing of the regular Thousand Worlds’ navy behind him or her. Because no one cared what happened to them. Because they really didn’t seem to care themselves. Look at the way they lived! Not a single bunk had been made. The curtains at the windows were gray and cracking. The floor creaked when walked on, probably indicating cracked joists underneath. Look at their uniforms! If anyone had given a hoot about them they’d have had those worn fatigues replaced long ago. Someone had to care about these troopers, and resurrect any self-respect they had. That must be why he had been sent here.
    A blooping sound interrupted his thoughts. The Cockroaches looked surprised, then shamefaced. Then defensive. The bloop erupted again.