Free Stark's Command by John G. Hemry

this morning?"
    "Working out." Stark rolled stiff shoulders, wincing. "Haven't done a resistance workout in way too long."
    Vic drew herself a cup of coffee, smiling archly. "We've been busy."
    "I know. I also know what'll happen to my muscles if I drop off the daily workout routine for any length of time. Speaking of which, when was your last workout?"
    "You got me. Right before we enjoyed front-row seats for the death of Third Division." She nodded several times at Stark's expression. "I'll get back in the routine. Cross my heart. You don't have to look so disgusted."
    "I'm not disgusted by you. It's this coffee. With all the luxuries here at headquarters, I always figured the officers also had good coffee. Boy, was I wrong. How come I've never found a decent cup of coffee in the mil?"
    "I think there's a regulation against it." Vic sipped her own cup. "Ugh. This is worse than the stuff we get. Okay, Ethan, we got some issues to talk about."
    "We've got about a million issues to talk about. Which ones in particular do you mean?"
    "Officers."
    Stark winced again. "Vic, we haven't had time to work out how to get them back to Earth. As soon as—"
    "That's not what I meant. We need new ones. Some of the acting commanders are okay, some aren't. We need to appoint officers, and the only place we're going to find them is from the enlisted ranks." She glanced around until her eyes focused on the terminal imbedded in the wall nearby. "I knew there had to be one of these in here. Look. This is the table of organization for our division. How are we ever going to locate enough enlisted good enough to fill all these officer positions?"
    "We won't, and we don't need to. You told me, remember? There's too many officers. So we only need to fill the positions we, uh, need to fill."
    "Elegantly expressed, Ethan," Reynolds noted with a smile. "Good point. Still, that leaves a lot of job openings."
    "What's wrong with the people holding those jobs now?"
    "You're kidding, right? There's nothing wrong with some of them. But some of the others are way out of their depth. Others can handle the job but don't want it."
    "Tough." Stark leaned back, pitching his empty cup expertly into the recycling chute. "My heart bleeds for them. Nobody better complain to me about having to do a job they don't want. I know all about it."
    "Then," Vic continued, "there's the ones who just don't belong in their positions."
    "Like who?"
    "Like Kalnick."
    "Oh, yeah." Stark scowled. Unfinished business. Gotta deal with that, and soon. "Okay, you've made your point. But how do we turn Sergeants, Corporals, and Privates into Colonels, Majors, and Captains?"
    "There's on-the-job experience," Vic pointed out, "like we had yesterday."
    "I'm not sure I could take many more experiences like that. And since I don't intend launching any offensive actions, there ain't gonna be a lot of opportunity for people to learn that side of the job in the field."
    "Agreed. So we need to set up a training program."
    "A training program? What kind of training?"
    She shrugged. "Large unit command and control, I guess. We'll have to depend on the simulators up here to teach maneuvering large units. Once we get the sims fixed, that is."
    "Fixed? What's wrong with 'em?"
    "Nothing if you prefer fairy tales to reality."
    Stark frowned. "I thought they were supposed to have the latest and greatest combat sims up here."
    "Nah. These are pretty damn good, but the latest and greatest never goes to the front lines. It always ends up in the Pentagon or somewhere else in the rear. You want to know what's wrong with the sims?" Vic leaned to trigger the display again. "You can access them from here." The display sprang to multicolored life, cluttered symbology marking American and enemy positions. "This look familiar?"
    "Yeah." Stark fought down a shudder. "That's what things looked like just before Meecham sent Third Division forward."
    "Very good. This is the sim they ran to, if you'll pardon the term,