Read Online The War for Profit Series Omnibus by Gideon Fleisher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gideon Fleisher
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Galen as he reorganized his field gear to fit better in the pack.
“Not bad. Guns and money and uniforms, just what every young man wants.”
“My rifle ain’t too bad but it looks used.”
“A ten millimeter assault rifle with seven clips of caseless ammo. I’m not going to complain about a couple of scratches on the stock. At least we know they’ve been tested.”
“I wonder if we have to ever give this stuff back.”
“Only if we get kicked out for disciplinary actions. That’s what it says on the receipt.”
Galen followed Spike’s lead and put his pistol in its holster, then strapped the belt around his waist. Four extra magazines were on the left, the sidearm on the right. Galen felt more like a warrior already.
“Hey guys, check this out!” said Tad, re-emerging from the armory. He brandished his entrenching tool and made a few swipes at the air to decapitate an imaginary enemy. Then he folded it up, put it in its carrying case and hooked it to the side of his field pack. “But with this submachine gun, I probably won’t need it.”
Tad removed the pistol holster and magazines from his pistol belt and shoved them in the pack. Then he put his submachine gun magazines in the ammo pouches, clipped his bayonet and scabbard to the belt, and slung his gun over his shoulder. Quick as a flash, he un-slung the weapon, had a magazine snapped into its well and had the bayonet fixed. He practiced the action two more times, then picked up and shouldered his field pack.
Spike said, “Let’s get over to the tailor shop. I’ll feel better when I’m in uniform, showing off my Sergeant rank.”
They went to the basement of the in-processing building and found the tailor shop. A tired old man in a wheelchair greeted them. “Evening, gentlemen. Hold still while my sensors get your measurements.” He pressed a button behind the counter and held it for a moment. “That should do it.”
They laid their coveralls on the counter. The tailor took them to the back of the room, laid each set carefully on a conveyor belt. The uniforms slid out of sight, passing through a half meter square opening in the wall. The tailor hit a few keys on his computer terminal and gazed intently at his monitor, occasionally working a joystick control. Galen looked around the shop. It was neat, clean and uncluttered. On the tailor’s desk was a picture of a young man in a space fleet uniform. There was enough detail in the picture, mostly from the uniform worn by its subject, to let Galen know it was taken during the Dissention War. The young man had been a crewman on a Mandarin warship. Galen realized the man in the picture was the old tailor.
“You were in the fleet?” Galen asked him.
“Yes, thirty five years. Then I helped train the young guns of the Panzer Brigade on how to use a Mandarin transport ship. Now I just do what I can to help out. I like being around the military. It gives my life purpose and direction.”
Galen was stunned by his words. Galen was only here to make a fast buck then get back home to a real life and hang up the combat boots forever. The actual living proof, provided by the old tailor, that some people made the military their way of life, made his stomach knot up. Sure, there had been plenty of hard-core lifer types at the academy: Drill instructors, educators, military science instructors; they all seemed to love the military. But never before had Galen met a disabled, aging man with so little time left to enjoy life, wasting that time on the military. He pitied the old man.
“All done,” said the tailor. “You can step into the changing booths and try them on. Make you look a whole lot better.”
They did. Tad’s field uniform fit well, tailored to his figure. It was the first time since leaving the academy he wore something that wasn’t outrageous. Galen looked at himself in a mirror. The field uniform made him look even taller, his average build made more impressive by the elastic
“Not bad. Guns and money and uniforms, just what every young man wants.”
“My rifle ain’t too bad but it looks used.”
“A ten millimeter assault rifle with seven clips of caseless ammo. I’m not going to complain about a couple of scratches on the stock. At least we know they’ve been tested.”
“I wonder if we have to ever give this stuff back.”
“Only if we get kicked out for disciplinary actions. That’s what it says on the receipt.”
Galen followed Spike’s lead and put his pistol in its holster, then strapped the belt around his waist. Four extra magazines were on the left, the sidearm on the right. Galen felt more like a warrior already.
“Hey guys, check this out!” said Tad, re-emerging from the armory. He brandished his entrenching tool and made a few swipes at the air to decapitate an imaginary enemy. Then he folded it up, put it in its carrying case and hooked it to the side of his field pack. “But with this submachine gun, I probably won’t need it.”
Tad removed the pistol holster and magazines from his pistol belt and shoved them in the pack. Then he put his submachine gun magazines in the ammo pouches, clipped his bayonet and scabbard to the belt, and slung his gun over his shoulder. Quick as a flash, he un-slung the weapon, had a magazine snapped into its well and had the bayonet fixed. He practiced the action two more times, then picked up and shouldered his field pack.
Spike said, “Let’s get over to the tailor shop. I’ll feel better when I’m in uniform, showing off my Sergeant rank.”
They went to the basement of the in-processing building and found the tailor shop. A tired old man in a wheelchair greeted them. “Evening, gentlemen. Hold still while my sensors get your measurements.” He pressed a button behind the counter and held it for a moment. “That should do it.”
They laid their coveralls on the counter. The tailor took them to the back of the room, laid each set carefully on a conveyor belt. The uniforms slid out of sight, passing through a half meter square opening in the wall. The tailor hit a few keys on his computer terminal and gazed intently at his monitor, occasionally working a joystick control. Galen looked around the shop. It was neat, clean and uncluttered. On the tailor’s desk was a picture of a young man in a space fleet uniform. There was enough detail in the picture, mostly from the uniform worn by its subject, to let Galen know it was taken during the Dissention War. The young man had been a crewman on a Mandarin warship. Galen realized the man in the picture was the old tailor.
“You were in the fleet?” Galen asked him.
“Yes, thirty five years. Then I helped train the young guns of the Panzer Brigade on how to use a Mandarin transport ship. Now I just do what I can to help out. I like being around the military. It gives my life purpose and direction.”
Galen was stunned by his words. Galen was only here to make a fast buck then get back home to a real life and hang up the combat boots forever. The actual living proof, provided by the old tailor, that some people made the military their way of life, made his stomach knot up. Sure, there had been plenty of hard-core lifer types at the academy: Drill instructors, educators, military science instructors; they all seemed to love the military. But never before had Galen met a disabled, aging man with so little time left to enjoy life, wasting that time on the military. He pitied the old man.
“All done,” said the tailor. “You can step into the changing booths and try them on. Make you look a whole lot better.”
They did. Tad’s field uniform fit well, tailored to his figure. It was the first time since leaving the academy he wore something that wasn’t outrageous. Galen looked at himself in a mirror. The field uniform made him look even taller, his average build made more impressive by the elastic
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