uniform shirt and stuffed it into the sample bag at the left side of his waist. The shirt looked like a real Casa uniform blouse. Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't. Ditto for the undershirt. It was a normal Casa tee.
He chalked the corpse.
Ezer Laskov, the regimental S2, hadn't been on the commo net before, but he wasn't among the RHQ casualties, far as Peled knew. Maybe he was back on. Peled flipped the identity switch at his belt—making him Tel Aviv Ten, the regimental chief of staff again, and not Haifa Twenty, the First Battalion commander—and bulled into the RHQ freak.
"—and that's ten, repeat ten—"
"Tel Aviv Ten for Tel Aviv Two Twenty."
"Laskov. What is it, Mordecai?"
"Tel Aviv Ten. What's the standard issue Freiheim undershirt?" Most Metzadan Intelligence officers had eidetic memories, although Laskov's was only close.
"Err, that'll be A-shirts for three-season wear—ten or fifteen-weight—long shirts for winter. Polysil for officers, cotton for the enlisted."
"Tel Aviv Ten. Casa?"
"Cotton tees. I don't have manufacturer data."
"Tel Aviv Ten. Get it. I'll have some samples for you to compare."
"Fine. Now can I get—"
"Tel Aviv Ten. You will follow comm discipline, Two Twenty."
"Tel Aviv Two Twenty to Tel Aviv Ten. Aye, aye, roger and will cooperate on that, sir," Laskov said, his intonation carrying not a whiff of insubordinate irony.
"Tel Aviv Ten out."
Peled flicked his identity switch back to Battalion, and called up the company commanders. Everything was quiet. He slashed the shirt off and bagged it, too. Just as he thought. Real Casa shit. He—
Shimon's voice cut through the thought. "Ebi's on RHQ One for you. Too busy?"
It was a reprimand; Peled should have delegated somebody to monitor regimental freaks while he was doing battalion commander things. His own deputy would normally have done that for him, and while he hadn't picked out a deputy yet, that didn't excuse the lapse.
"Tel Aviv Ten. I'll get it."
There was a crackling in his phone. "Hebron Twenty for Tel Aviv Ten."
"Tel Aviv Ten."
"Hebron here." Chaim Goren—called "Ebi" by everyone, in a not-particularly-funny bilingual joke; he was barely one hundred sixty-five centimeters tall—sounded tense. But Ebi was always tense. "We're down; next shuttle is due in one-two-five minutes. Orders?"
Hebron was the administrative designation of the second group of men down—the Aggressor/Defender Company, the Special Training Group, and the third Troop Training Detachment.
It had been just an administrative designation, until now.
"Tel Aviv Ten," Peled said. "Hebron—you are now Second Battalion; go operational now, and when we're done, call up Bar Yosef and Laskov for briefings."
"Hebron. Got it. Hang on." There was a click, but Goren was back in about five seconds, less time by at least ten minutes than it would have taken Peled to issue even the preliminary orders to turn an odd collection of units into a hastily operational battalion. Who was his deputy? Natan Horowitz? Was he that good? "Hebron Twenty. We're operational in five-zero minutes, but I've got one company up now."
"Your Ag/Def detachment?"
"Yeah. You need relief?"
"Tel Aviv Ten. Negative." But exactly the right question; this was the sort of thing Goren was good at, and Ebi wouldn't need more than a hint. "Yossi Bernstein is taking care of your transport; he's going to arrange a full escort—and you ride in APCs, not buses. Have Laskov fill you in on the situation, then call up Bernstein. It won't be there for a few hours, at least, but in any case you wait until Third Bat's down, and you—that's both battalions—stay operational for the trip to Camp Ramorino. You're senior; you take command."
"Hebron. Understood. Any idea of how soon we can expect to move?"
"Tel Aviv Ten. I told you, we're working on it." What the hell did Goren expect? A bus schedule?
"Hebron. I don't like things so up in the air; what say I assume we're going to throw up a quick biv
He chalked the corpse.
Ezer Laskov, the regimental S2, hadn't been on the commo net before, but he wasn't among the RHQ casualties, far as Peled knew. Maybe he was back on. Peled flipped the identity switch at his belt—making him Tel Aviv Ten, the regimental chief of staff again, and not Haifa Twenty, the First Battalion commander—and bulled into the RHQ freak.
"—and that's ten, repeat ten—"
"Tel Aviv Ten for Tel Aviv Two Twenty."
"Laskov. What is it, Mordecai?"
"Tel Aviv Ten. What's the standard issue Freiheim undershirt?" Most Metzadan Intelligence officers had eidetic memories, although Laskov's was only close.
"Err, that'll be A-shirts for three-season wear—ten or fifteen-weight—long shirts for winter. Polysil for officers, cotton for the enlisted."
"Tel Aviv Ten. Casa?"
"Cotton tees. I don't have manufacturer data."
"Tel Aviv Ten. Get it. I'll have some samples for you to compare."
"Fine. Now can I get—"
"Tel Aviv Ten. You will follow comm discipline, Two Twenty."
"Tel Aviv Two Twenty to Tel Aviv Ten. Aye, aye, roger and will cooperate on that, sir," Laskov said, his intonation carrying not a whiff of insubordinate irony.
"Tel Aviv Ten out."
Peled flicked his identity switch back to Battalion, and called up the company commanders. Everything was quiet. He slashed the shirt off and bagged it, too. Just as he thought. Real Casa shit. He—
Shimon's voice cut through the thought. "Ebi's on RHQ One for you. Too busy?"
It was a reprimand; Peled should have delegated somebody to monitor regimental freaks while he was doing battalion commander things. His own deputy would normally have done that for him, and while he hadn't picked out a deputy yet, that didn't excuse the lapse.
"Tel Aviv Ten. I'll get it."
There was a crackling in his phone. "Hebron Twenty for Tel Aviv Ten."
"Tel Aviv Ten."
"Hebron here." Chaim Goren—called "Ebi" by everyone, in a not-particularly-funny bilingual joke; he was barely one hundred sixty-five centimeters tall—sounded tense. But Ebi was always tense. "We're down; next shuttle is due in one-two-five minutes. Orders?"
Hebron was the administrative designation of the second group of men down—the Aggressor/Defender Company, the Special Training Group, and the third Troop Training Detachment.
It had been just an administrative designation, until now.
"Tel Aviv Ten," Peled said. "Hebron—you are now Second Battalion; go operational now, and when we're done, call up Bar Yosef and Laskov for briefings."
"Hebron. Got it. Hang on." There was a click, but Goren was back in about five seconds, less time by at least ten minutes than it would have taken Peled to issue even the preliminary orders to turn an odd collection of units into a hastily operational battalion. Who was his deputy? Natan Horowitz? Was he that good? "Hebron Twenty. We're operational in five-zero minutes, but I've got one company up now."
"Your Ag/Def detachment?"
"Yeah. You need relief?"
"Tel Aviv Ten. Negative." But exactly the right question; this was the sort of thing Goren was good at, and Ebi wouldn't need more than a hint. "Yossi Bernstein is taking care of your transport; he's going to arrange a full escort—and you ride in APCs, not buses. Have Laskov fill you in on the situation, then call up Bernstein. It won't be there for a few hours, at least, but in any case you wait until Third Bat's down, and you—that's both battalions—stay operational for the trip to Camp Ramorino. You're senior; you take command."
"Hebron. Understood. Any idea of how soon we can expect to move?"
"Tel Aviv Ten. I told you, we're working on it." What the hell did Goren expect? A bus schedule?
"Hebron. I don't like things so up in the air; what say I assume we're going to throw up a quick biv
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