Free The War for Profit Series Omnibus by Gideon Fleisher

waistline and the extra material around the shoulders and chest. The subdued name tapes and rank insignia were clearly visible, well-placed by the tailor in accordance with Panzer Brigade uniform regulations. He had to turn his body to view the unit patch sewn onto his left shoulder. It was a rectangle turned on end, showing a sword pointing down the middle, crossed by two ancient muskets with bayonets fixed. At the bottom the embroidered letters said, “Regulars, By God!”
    “Infantry?”
    “Yes. Your first year is with the infantry battalion here on Mandarin,” said the tailor.
    “Infantry. I should have known something like this was bound to happen,” said Spike, emerging from his changing booth. He looked okay, but somehow less impressive without his high boots and leather jacket. Coveralls just didn’t do much to make the short man look better.
    “Don’t sweat it, I’ll keep the enemy off you,” said Tad, performing a martial-arts roundhouse kick with ease. “Hey, it’s only for a year. Then we get tanks.”
    They went back to the welcome center and waited for the convoy to arrive.
    “Look at you,” said the Corporal behind the counter. “You Sergeants look ready to conquer the whole Mosh invasion force single-handed. Mind if I tag along?”
    “I think I hear some disrespect coming from somewhere,” said Galen.
    “More like insubordination.” said Spike.
    “I wonder what the penalty is?” said Tad.
    “Probably death. Yeah, disrespect and insubordination often lead to desertion, so we could nip the problem in the bud and just kill him now,” said Galen.
    “Hold up, I was just kidding. Lighten up, Sergeants. You got to have a sense of humor around here.”
    “Okay, we’ll forget about it this time. So where’s that convoy you promised us, Corporal?” said Galen.
    “Due to arrive in about twenty mikes, Sergeant. They made better time than expected, the last checkpoint said. So you can get on out there and stomp some bad guys into snail snot sooner than I thought.”
    “Watch your mouth,” said Tad.
    “I.D. Cards,” said Galen.
    “What?”
    “We forgot to get our I.D. cards.”
    They stepped outside and walked directly across the quadrangle to the administration building. They could hear the distant sounds of an approaching armor column, the pop and squeak of tracked vehicles on the move.
    “Better make this quick, I hear the convoy,” said Galen.
    They went in the building, consulted the directory, and then headed to the second floor.
    “Greetings, Sergeants. You here for I.D. cards?” A Troop sat behind her desk in her office, door open to the hallway, facing the top of the stairs.
    “Yes.” said Galen.
    “Come right in.” She stood and waved them towards the holo booth. Her light blond hair was in a tight French braid. She wore conservative flat-soled shoes, dark brown slacks and a khaki blouse buttoned all the way up. A small brown woman’s tie was clipped to her throat. Galen admired her figure. Breasts larger than her fists, a trim waistline and hips as wide as her shoulders. He couldn’t see any panty or bra lines, but no part of her body jiggled when she walked. The beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes showed she was no spring chicken. Galen assumed she had one of those body forming ultra-sheer things on under her class B uniform. She was just over two meters tall and looked like she could handle a big man.
    “Give me your orders and step into the booth one at a time so I can get your hologram, and I’ll have you out of here in a couple of minutes.”
    “Yes, recruit, uh…” said Galen, trailing off in hopes of getting her name.
    “Not recruit. Troop. Trooper Harover.”
    “But you wear recruit rank.”
    Spike was just stepping out of the booth. Tad smirked at him and made a subtle gesture toward Galen and Trooper Harover. Spike grinned and nodded and patted Tad on the back as he entered the holo-booth.
    “Oh, that Mandarin stuff. We use their