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Authors: Jack Murphy
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once the generators began showing up.
Looking at the situation as small manageable tasking blocks, the job in front of him looked fairly straightforward.
However, the truth was that Deckard had deep reservations.
The truth was that he was no George Patton.
The Kazakh mercenaries fanned out across the steppe in a linear L-shaped formation around a building mockup, isolating the objective while reducing the chances of friendly fire. The Kazakhs lay down in the prone with AK's facing inwards while the assault team moved in a line towards the objective.
Deckard had shown up unannounced to watch the maneuvers, the Sergeant Major close at his heels.
The reality of the situation was that Deckard had never commanded anything even approaching this level. While a part of several Army Special Operations units, he had worked as a part of small teams of highly trained soldiers. Afterwards, he had mostly conducted singleton operations in rather austere parts of the world. Given the opportunity, it was an environment he had thrived in.
The assault team halted at the gaping hole left in the sheets of wood representing a doorway. The second man in the stack threw a rock through the door, simulating a grenade. Waiting a few moments, the assault team rushed through the door, each member making gunfire noises as they cleared the single room to let their sergeant know they were engaging invisible targets.
Commanding a battalion of hundreds of soldiers was something else entirely. It meant tracking operations, training, and personnel on a very detailed basis. It meant training meetings, intelligence meetings, and meetings for meetings. Paperwork and teleconferences. Death by Power Point. All the things he had avoided like the plague.
With the objective secured, the assault team moved out of the mockup, and the team leader counted them back into the platoon to have accountability for everyone. At this point the sergeant ended the drill and instructed them to do it again. The men looked bored, and Deckard couldn't blame them. Some of these guys had been doing much more advanced training and even combat operations in Kazakhstan's Special Forces.
Watching them continue to drill on the objective, Deckard was already forming ideas for future training objectives.
“What is the purpose of this type of training?”
“Cordon and search operations. Weapon confiscation,” Korgan said shrugging his shoulders.
“Why focus on this specifically?”
“Not for us to know,” the Sergeant Major grumbled in his thick accent. “Instructions from the Samruk offices in Astana.”
Interesting.
Five
“Here is what I need to happen,” Deckard ordered. After a pause the Sergeant Major translated to the platoon sergeants. “Two five-man assault teams will constitute a squad. Three assault squads per platoon plus one weapons squad.”
One of the Kazakhs spoke up, a confused look on his face.
“He wants to know what you mean by weapons squad. All squads have weapons,” Korgan translated.
“Weapons squad will consist of three, three-man machine gun teams. Three PKMs per weapons squad.”
As the Sergeant Major translated, the younger NCO frowned, the two speaking rapid fire Russian for several seconds.
“But we have no machine guns...”
“Give me a week.”
Korgan again spoke to the platoon sergeant, and now his frown was replaced with approval.
“I want four radio operators, two snipers, and five medics per company, in addition to the first sergeant and company commander. These positions will be filled by those who show the most ability as we continue to train. Monetary bonuses will be put into place, based on duty positions and performance.
“At the battalion level I want one mortar section and one anti-tank section, manned and ready to begin
Looking at the situation as small manageable tasking blocks, the job in front of him looked fairly straightforward.
However, the truth was that Deckard had deep reservations.
The truth was that he was no George Patton.
The Kazakh mercenaries fanned out across the steppe in a linear L-shaped formation around a building mockup, isolating the objective while reducing the chances of friendly fire. The Kazakhs lay down in the prone with AK's facing inwards while the assault team moved in a line towards the objective.
Deckard had shown up unannounced to watch the maneuvers, the Sergeant Major close at his heels.
The reality of the situation was that Deckard had never commanded anything even approaching this level. While a part of several Army Special Operations units, he had worked as a part of small teams of highly trained soldiers. Afterwards, he had mostly conducted singleton operations in rather austere parts of the world. Given the opportunity, it was an environment he had thrived in.
The assault team halted at the gaping hole left in the sheets of wood representing a doorway. The second man in the stack threw a rock through the door, simulating a grenade. Waiting a few moments, the assault team rushed through the door, each member making gunfire noises as they cleared the single room to let their sergeant know they were engaging invisible targets.
Commanding a battalion of hundreds of soldiers was something else entirely. It meant tracking operations, training, and personnel on a very detailed basis. It meant training meetings, intelligence meetings, and meetings for meetings. Paperwork and teleconferences. Death by Power Point. All the things he had avoided like the plague.
With the objective secured, the assault team moved out of the mockup, and the team leader counted them back into the platoon to have accountability for everyone. At this point the sergeant ended the drill and instructed them to do it again. The men looked bored, and Deckard couldn't blame them. Some of these guys had been doing much more advanced training and even combat operations in Kazakhstan's Special Forces.
Watching them continue to drill on the objective, Deckard was already forming ideas for future training objectives.
“What is the purpose of this type of training?”
“Cordon and search operations. Weapon confiscation,” Korgan said shrugging his shoulders.
“Why focus on this specifically?”
“Not for us to know,” the Sergeant Major grumbled in his thick accent. “Instructions from the Samruk offices in Astana.”
Interesting.
Five
“Here is what I need to happen,” Deckard ordered. After a pause the Sergeant Major translated to the platoon sergeants. “Two five-man assault teams will constitute a squad. Three assault squads per platoon plus one weapons squad.”
One of the Kazakhs spoke up, a confused look on his face.
“He wants to know what you mean by weapons squad. All squads have weapons,” Korgan translated.
“Weapons squad will consist of three, three-man machine gun teams. Three PKMs per weapons squad.”
As the Sergeant Major translated, the younger NCO frowned, the two speaking rapid fire Russian for several seconds.
“But we have no machine guns...”
“Give me a week.”
Korgan again spoke to the platoon sergeant, and now his frown was replaced with approval.
“I want four radio operators, two snipers, and five medics per company, in addition to the first sergeant and company commander. These positions will be filled by those who show the most ability as we continue to train. Monetary bonuses will be put into place, based on duty positions and performance.
“At the battalion level I want one mortar section and one anti-tank section, manned and ready to begin
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