Johnny Chee inspected the remnants of the platoon he had brought with him from the Ilion. Once he had commanded a platoon of 32 Marines; the fight with the Kelvans had left him with 15. How many would be left before this particular piece of nastiness was over was anyone's guess.
Gone were the black and olive-drab uniforms of the Starfleet Marine Corps; instead his men were clad in attire more suited to Rome's legions. More importantly, gone was their 782 gear: the regulation Starfleet weaponry, personal armor, and medical kits which would save their lives in most emergencies. Corporal Ahmed Farouk, the platoon corpsman, would have the roughest time of all; his Starfleet-issue medical tricorder and hypospray having been replaced with a bag containing miscellaneous herbs. Normally unarmed, as a concession to necessity he now wore a short sword. The thought of Farouk carrying a weapon of any type struck Johnny as being almost as absurd as the enormous lances Krag and Zog, the two Ferengi privates in his platoon, were carrying. For a Human the lance would be no longer than a short spear; in the hands of the diminutive but strong Ferengi they looked like nothing less than pikes. Most absurd of all was the tremendous bronze battle axe Johnny and most of the other Marines carried.
"Marines, I've just been briefed by the captain," he announced. "While it is not ordinarily Federation policy to intervene in local conflicts, an exception has been made in this case due to the unusual situation we find ourselves in.
"We are fighting for a faction known as the Borials against another faction known as the Horde. There is evidence that another race known as the Aody have been enslaved by the Horde and that the Borials are waging a war of liberation," Johnny continued. Or repossession, he thought. Johnny cringed inwardly as he thought of all of Earth's so-called wars of liberation which somehow ended up producing more slaves than they freed. But he wasn't willing to express that to his men. Or the fact that the survival of the crew depended on their willingness to fight in this conflict. They didn't need to know that right now.
"Because of our specialized fighting abilities, Captain Maruu and the Borials have requested that we serve as mounted cavalry scouts. Our mission is to provide intelligence, ride picket around civilian areas to guard against Horde skirmishers, and to buy as much time for the Borals and Starfleet personnel who are making up the infantry," Johnny continued. In other words, we're going to make sure that as many of our people make it out of here alive by taking the sharp end for them, was the thought that was not and would never be spoken by any of them.
A group of Borial stablehands led some enormous mounts toward the platoon. Only vaguely equinesque, the mounts resembled nothing less than a cross between a dachshund and a Komodo dragon, only scaled up to the size of a Clydesdale. Johnny had been informed that the glap'ta were excellent runners but very poor jumpers.
"Now, we all remember from Basic Training how to ride one of these!" Johnny laughed. The troops laughed with him. While equestrian skills were emphasized for Starfleet specialists such as Marines and security personnel who were frequently planetside under primitive conditions, they were rarely put into practice. "The glap'ta have limited telepathic capability, meaning that you can issue very rudimentary commands by thinking them. Just don't make them too complex or you'll confuse them. Normally they're ridden bareback but as a concession to us the Borials have allowed for Roman-style saddles. These four nubs on the saddle may not look like much, but they will allow you to sit upright and to bend forty-five degrees in any direction. I tried to get us stirrups, but the captain said that that would be too much of a Prime Directive violation. So no jousting, people!" Another chorus of laughter.
"People, I want us mounted up and ready by sundown. I intend to start a night patrol to assess the Horde's capabilities. We will avoid engaging the enemy unless absolutely necessary. This is to be a reconaissance only! By my estimation we have two standard hours before sundown. Anyone who isn't back here by the time the sun makes first contact with the horizon will be put on stable duty! Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir!" the platoon chorused.
"Sergeant Zimasa, dismiss the men and come with me." The Andorian sergeant dismissed the short platoon and followed Johnny over to the yurt-like tent he was using as a headquarters.
"You wished to speak with me, Lieutenant?" the Andorian, whose age was starting to show in whiter-than-usual hair, asked.
"Sergeant, I've heard stories about Andorian prowess with low-tech weaponry. How true are they?"
"At least as true as the stories sometimes told of the Vulcans in relation to their fighting arts. Only we don't restrain our emotions," Zimasa responded.
"Good. At least one of us knows what he's doing," Johnny replied.
"Lieutenant, permission to speak freely," Zimasa asked.
Johnny groaned inwardly. Whenever his top sergeant said that, it usually meant something he wasn't going to like. On the other hand, it was more than likely something he needed to hear. As an enlisted man, there was nothing Johnny hated more than the conceited Starfleet officer (usually a lieutenant) who thought he knew everything and heeded no one. Such an officer cost him six months in a Cardassian prison camp and the loss of a molar (among other things).
"Go ahead, Sergeant," Johnny replied. Trusted as Zimasa was in Johnny's eyes, he still wanted to maintain the command relationship.
"If you do not have confidence in your own ability to lead this platoon then I suggest you step out now. These men need an officer who will lead them, not question everything that comes down the path. I've seen you in a fight: you could easily fight one of my people to a standstill with your open-hand fighting. Using hand-to-hand weapons employs many of the same principles.
"That fight aboard the Ilion took us from being a company to being a short platoon. As far as officers go, you're all the men have, and they'll follow you before they'll follow anyone from the Fleet. But if you lose your confidence, they'll lose theirs, and that means a lot of letters to grieving clans: if you get my meaning!" Zimasa finished.
"Is that all?" Johnny asked.
"I've said my piece."
"Thank you, Sergeant. There's something I need to attend to. Dismissed."
Zimasa saluted (one of many customs retained by the Marines which the rest of Starfleet had abandoned) and left the yurt.
Sergeant Zimasa's right, Johnny thought. If I can't control my own fears, how can I expect to control the fears of my troops?
Johnny closed the flap of the yurt and began singing the traditional Enemy Way song to protect his troops in battle. Zimasa, listening outside, nodded to himself. His counsel had had the intended effect.
Sundown approached, and Johnny called his men to order. "Okay, gentleman," he said, ignoring for the moment that four of his Marines were female, "Boots and saddles! Let's mount up!"
The column formed up behind Private Zog, who carried the Borial banner, and Sergeant Zimasa. Zog's Ferengi hearing and Zimasa's ability to see into the near infrared made them ideal to ride point; Johnny rode just behind them. Farouk, the corpsman, rode in the center of the column where he would have the most protection and be able to reach anyone in a hurry; Krag, the other Ferengi private, rode tail. Ironically, Johnny had always been a fan of John Wayne's movies of the Ancient West, skewed though their portrayal was against his people and their cousins throughout North America. As they rode out of camp, Johnny wondered what the Duke would have thought of an Indian leading the cavalry to the rescue...