Free Countdown: H Hour by Tom Kratman Page A

Rican accent subdued but noticeable, Sergeant Major Pierantoni answered, “Yessir. Substantially, sir.”
    “First Sergeant Kiertzner?”
    Kiertzner had actually retired from the British Army as a sergeant major, held the rank of master sergeant as the senior NCO of the team that was the cadre for C Company, and was a first sergeant by virtue of being the senior noncom in C Company. He wore his old British Army rank on a leather band around his wrist, since M day wasn’t really all that touchy about such things. He also sported a Vandyke, since the Regiment wasn’t especially anal about facial hair, either. The troops, in deference to his old rank, tended to call him “Sergeant Major” rather than “Top.”
    Like many of the senior noncoms in M Day, Kiertzner could have taken a commission if he’d wanted to. Instead, he’d liked being a noncom too much to give it up.
    The Brit-born, if Danish extracted, first shirt ahemed and said, “Umm, yes. Substantially, sir. Sergeant Hallinan left off a few minor details.”
    “Like referring to my entire company as wannabes,” offered Stocker, shooting Kiertzner a dirty look. “Like saying that if my men weren’t competent enough to be trusted with loaded weapons maybe they should find another line of work? Like—”
    Holding up a silencing hand, Warrington said, “I get the idea, Andrew. Sergeant Major?”
    “Yessir, that kind of detail,” Pierantoni agreed. But you’ll have to ask for it, Tracy; I’m not volunteering anything.
    “I see. Hallinan, you are dismissed to your quarters. Stay there until I send for you.”
    “Sir.” The sergeant executed a sharp—unusually so for 2nd Battalion—salute, took a step back, faced about, smartly, and then departed through the hatch. Pierantoni closed the hatch behind him. Then Pierantoni took a seat, himself, opposite Stocker. Kiertzner leaned against the wall.
    “This shit always happens,” Warrington said, as soon as the hatchway clicked shut.
    “Indiscipline and insubordination?” Stocker queried.
    “It isn’t, you know,” Warrington countered, wagging one finger. “Or not exactly what you mean by it. Hallinan’s a good man. I can trust him to do the right thing even if nobody’s watching him. I can tell him to sit in a muddy hole for three days and watch X, and he will stay there, wide awake, watching X, if he has to prop his eyelids open with sharp twigs or wire his own balls to a field telephone. But it’s a different kind of discipline and a different kind of subordination. And that’s appropriate for the kind of soldier he is, which is a different kind of soldier than what you’re used to.
    “ But , whenever we mix the two, regulars and spec ops, we have this kind of problem. Because the two outlooks just don’t mix for shit.
    “How loud was Hallinan?” Warrington asked of Pierantoni.
    “The cap . . . the major’s troops heard the exchange, sir, enough of them. At least the last part, once the two of them got heated.”
    Placing an elbow on the desk’s Formica top, Warrington made a fist and rested his cheek on it. “Right. Of course. Wouldn’t do to be subtle.” He glanced at Stocker. “I don’t suppose any of that was your fault.”
    “Might have been,” the Canuck admitted. “I’m not used to being told to fuck off, for all practical purposes, by a noncom.”
    “Major Stocker,” said Pierantoni, “screamed at Hallinan, ‘Put your fucking safety on, you blockhead.’”
    Stocker shrugged. “Yeah, okay. I suppose I did.”
    “And thereby made this much more complex and difficult than it needed to be. Shall I lay out the problems for you?” Warrington hadn’t made an offer. He intended to lay out the problems, whether Stocker wanted to hear them or not. Fingers began to extend, one by one, as he ticked off the problems.
    “One, and the one you probably care about most; I have to punish Hallinan, who did nothing wrong by our ethos, or you lose prestige and authority in your