Chapter Three.

Sub-teniente José Santana paid close attention to the ceremony, trying to spot the differences between this and a ceremony for the regular infantry.

This was “The Army”, which meant that nothing was easy, short, or pleasant. More awards were to be given. As the Regiment’s recon group, they earned Good Conduct Medals and Purple Hearts.

Every member of the army was eligible for a Good Conduct Medal, if they didn’t get into any serious trouble over a period of two years. If they did get into trouble after the award of the medal, it could be taken away and re-awarded later.

Since live scouts didn’t get medals for valor, commanders had adopted an old British Army tradition called “Mentioned in Dispatches”. That tradition had transformed into the current system to honor the scouts.

For the regular army, they wrote the citation for the Purple Heart as “Private Smith was wounded when the company came under fire. Shell fragments hit him in his ass cheek, right side.”

For the Kiowa, they wrote the citations accompanying the Purple Heart medals like citations for valor. Describing in detail the action that had earned the medal.

The Army of the Republic had many strange traditions. Formed after the Sky Fire started and the world fell into madness. It forced several armed forces to band together to survive, forming an amalgamation known as the Army of the Republic. The Panamanian Army had combined with the armed forces of Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. From the UK., Royal Marines and a few special forces units comprising small detachments of the S.B.S and the S.A.S.

From the United States, Marine Force Recon and the Green Berets. These units had been in Central America when the world ended. In two hundred years, it had become a formidable force, wiping out the Night Walkers from Central America, Mexico, and much of lower Texas.

And they had found a new enemy. Their new enemy was known as “The Brotherhood” and they were evil caricatures of men. And they weren’t just a band of outlaws, they were an entire government with roots in Nazism, white supremacy, and slavery. If there was any sort of awful thing that people could do to one another The Brotherhood was guaranteed to practice it on an institutional level.

Every battle hurt. The Brotherhood vastly outnumbered the Republic. So the Republic fought smarter. The scout/snipers snuck about and made maps that meshed with the overheads from orbit. When the Aurora Borealis lit up the sky, all satellites larger than three square meters had failed. No one knew why or how. To get a look at the Earth now, it took thousands of small satellites modeled on the “Star Link” theory of how to do things from the early 21st century. Sophisticated software combined low-resolution images from orbit to produce images of the ground.

It was imperfect, and it took scouts on the ground to make actual maps that were actually useful. There was also no real time observation from orbital assets. It was a strange concept, but ancient technology was better than current. It took women on the ground to show the army where to apply force.

Most of the scout forces were women. They were just better at it. Physically smaller, women needed less food and water compared to larger soldiers. When mounted on a war-horse, they didn’t stand out against the horizon as much. Weighing less, their horses could carry more supplies. Being smaller, they could hide better. Proper training enabled Scouts to run distances twice as far as a marathon. It being an article of faith that women who joined the army to be a Scout/Sniper were all over achievers.

In a technological world, it just didn’t matter if the person pulling the trigger or calling in the mortar was a great big warrior. The scout service wasn’t for them. It was a woman’s world.

The award citations came to an end. There was an expectant air in the room.

Sub-teniente José Santana waited for something special to happen.

***

General O’Keefe ordered the assembly to “at ease.” She cleared her throat. “Ladies, I want you to listen to me. I am not a scout/sniper. I will now turn this formation over to someone who is.”

“Deimos! Front and center.”

***

The man with the call-sign ‘Deimos’ was pacing back and forth behind the stage, waiting for his cue. He took a deep breath, put on his game-face and climbed the stairs on the back of the platform. He marched to the center of the stage, turned and faced the general officer. The man did not salute.

His voice rang out, “You summoned me, Field Marshal?”

“Kiowa, I am led to believe you have some business with this formation.”

“Yes General, if you would permit it.”

“Proceed.”

The general saluted, waited for three seconds, then dropped her salute. She then moved away from the podium and joined the ranks of high-level government officials and officers standing on the stage. There had been no salute from the commander. There had been no expectation of a salute.

The Captain-Commander was a qualified Scout/Sniper/Forward Observer. Scout/Snipers did not salute officers. Anywhere. Anytime. AT All. To earn a salute from a scout was an incredible sign of disrespect. Saluting on a battlefield was dangerous to officers and VIPs. Well, you couldn’t really criticize them, the commander surmised quietly. It took all types to make a very large organization like ‘The Army’ work at all. Let alone efficiently, so sometimes you had to make accommodations. The custom was at odds with regulations, but in this case, the custom carried more weight than the rules.

The army’s “Very Important People” stood before him in Class A uniforms. Blue-black trousers with red stripes down the sides. Officers wore black double-breasted tunics with brass buttons and gold rank insignia. Enlisted men wore the black tunics that had Infantry Blue piping accents and Navy blue stripes on Infantry Blue backgrounds. Red hash marks on the outside of the lower sleeves. White gloves. Black berets. A smattering of medals. White Sam Brown belts with swords and pistols. He had to admit, they looked sexy as fuck.

Like the assembled scouts, the Captain-Commander wore the Battle Dress Uniform. Dark brown suede boots. No headgear or eye protection. He wore a ballistic vest with ceramic disc plates inserted. The Commander wore elbow, knee and shin guards, and he had more weapons and ammunition strapped to his body than any three cavalry-men. He was always equipped this way. Three times in his career he had been in a battle where he had run out of weapons and/or ammunition in the middle of a fight. His enemies had forced him to engage in hand-to-hand combat, and he had vowed it would never happen again.

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As Captain-Commander of the First Regimental Combat Team and its five thousand troops, he would never be on the front lines again. But he was taking no fucking chances.

Rumor had it he was more than a bit paranoid and slept with a loaded pistol within arm’s reach every night. He dismissed the rumor as ridiculous. He never mentioned the pistol was under his pillow.

He was a fully qualified Scout/Sniper/Forward Observer, one of the six percent of men who completed the training. He was also a commissioned officer, which was rare. Most of the scout force were warrant officers. All the commissioned officers that held scout ratings were members of the Special Forces community. He was only 1.75 meters tall. He looked distinguished, a man in his mid 40s. His face only had a small bit of hair on his chin, otherwise being clean shaven. Short hair, more salt than pepper. An old scar ran above his left eyebrow back into his hairline. His brown eyes were cold and calculating. He was slim, but well built. A runner.

The Commander walked to the front of the podium. He took an earpiece and microphone headset off the podium and placed it on his head. He cleared his throat, then said, “Tasking.” His voice carried over the sound system.

He turned and faced the assembled scouts. “Ladies.”

There came a very pregnant pause lasting a three-count beat, then in unison, four male voices shouted out of the formation, “HEY!”

“Yes, yes, yes, AND Gentleman.” There was a susurrus, and light laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Silence in the ranks!”

With every eye on him, the Commander shook his head angrily. Hands on his hips, he glowered at the entire formation. Then he smiled.

“That never gets old.”

The laughter went on longer and louder this time. Allowing the disturbance in the ranks for half a minute, he finally raised his hand, and the formation fell silent.

“Scout/Snipers. Force P. Honored guests. I stand here today with a broken heart. Two of my sisters are dead. Their deaths were not meaningless. ‘Heater’ and "Nozzle’ kicked an incredible amount of ass before they died. The scouting community will remember their deaths for a long time. Until this Republic ends, and this Army is no more. They have joined the ranks of heroes in Valhalla. Their names will be forever associated with ‘Silver Star for Valor.’ We honor their memories, but that is not what we are here for right now. Here and now, our purpose for gathering is entirely different.”

“The Army cannot acknowledge the heroism of live scouts. We all know this. They make attempts, but they all fall short. The rules and regulations exist for a reason. In the distant past, some armed forces would sometimes hand out medals to officers simply for flying above a combat zone. Flying aircraft that could reach altitudes of over 20 kilometers, at speeds of over nine hundred kilometers an hour. It was a travesty. The rules we operate by ensure that the Army awards medals only to those men and women who deserve it. Two centuries have passed by with this happening. In true scout/sniper tradition, we came up with a way of our own. A way to honor individuals who embody the best of our ideals. The Army of the Republic of Central America and Luna are not involved in this. This rite has no Army influence or regulation.”

He shook his head, “200 years ago, retired Kiowa scouts created a group to address the Army’s shortcomings. They gathered in the small town of Cabuya, Costa Rica. On the coast of the Pacific Ocean, these women got drunk and formed a conclave to address this problem. With lots of wine, brandy, and cannabis, they hammered out a framework for how they were going to handle this. After all this work, they tried to come up with a name for the council that would handle these shortcomings.”

“They chose the Goddess Artemis, a Roman deity revered as the Goddess of the hunt as the first patron of the order. Things went well until a young scout noticed something and brought it to the attention of the conclave. Retired Master Chief Warrant Officer Wilhelmina Gutierrez pointed out to the conclave that the Goddess Artemis was a VIRGIN. The conclave stood up as one and said, ‘FUCK THAT.’ After they sobered up, a spirited debate ensued and when the dust and blood settled, they chose a name for the council. A Catholic Saint as the patron of their order. Saint Hubert, patron saint of the hunt.”

The commander of the First Regimental Combat Team looked around the floor where his scouts stood. “KIOWA! TEN HUT!” Every woman and four men in the scout formation snapped to attention.

Captain-commander Zapata faced the entire 1st RCT scout group. His voice was loud, clear, and precise. “Ladies and gentlemen. Stand here and bear witness to an introduction and an induction! You Knights in the order of St. Hubert, Madre de Dios and Arcángel, front and center, please!”

The sound of a sharp intake of breath filled the immense building. José Santana looked around in fascination.

Small tapping sounds came from the back of the building. Metal taps attached to the left boot heels clicked in unison against concrete. A measured cadence, marching in perfect unison. Heels against the ground. Two Scouts appeared and walked down the center aisle. The two soldiers were clad in battle dress. No headgear. Brown leather Sam Browne belts, with pistol and sword.

Both of them adorned with the ancient native American icons that showed beyond a doubt that they were Knights in The Order of St. Hubert. They had long barreled bolt action rifles upright on their right shoulders. The length of the barrel and the suppressors were almost the same. Conveying the image of medieval knights carrying lances. The suppressors had a silver ribbon affixed to their ends. They had a wire sewn in the top so that they stretched out behind them like banners flown by charging knights. Each had their hair cut in a Mohawk, with two eagle feathers attached to the top.

They adorned the sides of their heads with tattoos that proved they were scouts, snipers, and forward artillery observers. Only those who had earned the tattoos, ‘wings’, could display them on their head. Otherwise it was illegal. The woman’s hair stood straight-up; six inches tall.

The two were both abnormally tall for scouts. Freakishly tall. They were the head administrators of the Army Scout/Sniper school. The woman, call sign “Madre de Dios” was the Commandant of the school.

The man, call sign “Arcángel” was the Dean of students. Together, they oversaw the instruction of new warrant officers in the art of being a Scout/Sniper. Neither wore any sign of their rank. A “Recon” patch on their left shoulders was the only indication of their affiliation with The Republic’s armed forces.

***

Arcángel and Madre de Dios. Their radio call signs. Scout call signs were normally given at the Warrant Officer Academy or Reconnaissance School. Scouts often received an embarrassing name because of an alcohol-related incident. Or a botched romantic encounter. All of them were embarrassing. Some scouts came to the schools with call signs already assigned. Earned during their apprenticeship with the parent company's’ scouts. Often denoting failures or just plain funny because maybe, just maybe, scouts could be arseholes.

But once again, the scouts had to honor their own. Occasionally, a scout couldn’t receive a medal because they survived, despite the challenges they faced. So the scouting community had come up with another way to honor their heroes. You could become a “Made Man/Woman”. When that happened, the scouting community came together and changed your call sign.

When you were "Made," it was for a military action that would have merited a medal in the infantry. And thus “Ho-Down” became “Mortja.” The citation that usually accompanied the Purple Heart was explanation enough for being “Made”.

This tradition had a common theme. They changed the call sign to the name of a mythical personification of death, or a God of death, destruction, or change.

***

The two knights marched down the center aisle toward the stage. Metal taps on their left boot heels, keeping time. Reuben Astor, commander of the Third Army Force Protection Service, leaned in and whispered. “Sub-teniente, pay close attention and commit this to memory. This is something very few people get to see.”

He patted the young officer’s shoulder. “Witnessing this is a great honor. You are watching history in the making.” Then he pulled back and assumed the position of attention. The other spectators around the building were doing the same.