Dire Steps Read Online Free PDF Page B

greeted by most of the platoon and Sergeant Dak. The entire brigade had been ordered to form up on a parade field a half mile distant, and First Platoon had to hustle to get there.
    The three infantry battalions of the First Brigade (Independent) of the Human Defense Force each consisted of three companies made up of three platoons, which were in turn made up of three squads. Although the unit was not yet completely up to strength, it still made for a huge number of uniformed men standing in rectangular formations facing a large wooden stage. The assembly order had interrupted early-­morning activities all over the brigade, and so different blocks of men were adorned in the T-­shirts and shorts of physical training while others sported camouflaged fatigues mottled with green, black, and brown.
    Mortas’s platoon, standing at attention as part of First Battalion’s B Company, was the only unit wearing helmets and body armor. Dirty faces and mud-­specked fatigues showed they’d been training hard and, regardless of their personal opinions of Goggle Appreciation Night, the First Platoon troops bore the marks of exertion with pride.
    Standing in front of the three squads, Mortas could only see B Company’s commander and the commanding officer of First Battalion. Both of those officers, veteran Orphans, had replaced men lost on Fractus. First Battalion was now led by Major Hatton, a bear-­sized individual popular with the troops, who had been standing next to the battalion’s previous commander when he’d been killed. The battalion staff, including an intelligence captain named Pappas who’d been poached from a much-­higher echelon, stood in a row behind Hatton.
    B Company was commanded by a young captain named Emile Dassa. Though only twenty, Dassa had been serving in the war for five years and in the Orphans for almost two. Lean and dark-­haired, Dassa had given Mortas crucial tactical advice before the brigade’s perilous defense of an important ridgeline. They were now fast friends, which Mortas still considered slightly odd because they had fought in prep school five years before, a fight that had sent Dassa to the war zone.
    Movement on the reviewing stand caught his eye, and Mortas observed several figures in camouflage fatigues mounting the rostrum. He immediately recognized Colonel Watt, the Orphan Brigade’s beloved commander, and then noted the heavyset figure of General Merkit, the officer in charge of personnel assignments across the Force. The brigade’s expected dissolution after Fractus had been halted when Merkit unexpectedly arrived on MC–1932, and he’d been instrumental in the unit’s rebuilding over the last six months.
    Officers and senior NCOs from the brigade headquarters filed into place behind Watt and Merkit, giving some of Mortas’s troops an opportunity to mutter choice comments.
    â€œLook at ol’ Merkit. Hardly recognize him. All skin and bones.”
    â€œRemember what he looked like when he got here? I bet he’s dropped fifty pounds.”
    â€œThat’s what you get for hanging around with the walking infantry.”
    â€œHe sure didn’t want to hang out with us at first. They say Colonel Watt had to practically drag him to PT.”
    Mortas tried hard not to smirk, standing rigidly at attention. The comments continued.
    â€œThat was part of the plan. Force the fat bastard to spend time with us.”
    â€œIt worked, didn’t it? Colonel Watt killed him with kindness, and he rebuilt the brigade.”
    The discussions ended when a shouted command told the Orphans to stand at ease. Spreading his muddy boots to shoulder width and placing his hands against the small of his back, Mortas watched Colonel Watt approach a microphone at the front of the platform.
    â€œAnd good morning, Orphans.”
    â€œGood morning, sir!” Hundreds of voices shouted in return.
    â€œThis is a big day for the