Futuristic Infantry 12

Meena grins, "tell me, ever do anything with that droid share money?"
"Still in T notes."
"I know where you can get financial advice for free."
I groan inwardly, give it a rest Meena.
"Come on, don't be such a stick-in-the-mud. Come with me next time. Blister butt. It'll get you free portfolio advice."
"I ah well ah"
"I'll take that as a definite yes."
"No you won't."
"Earth calling Zohra; Earth calling Zohra; come in please."
"Very funny!"
"Wake up and smell the coffee. Aren't you bored to death? When do you ever get off base, except some duty? Just do it; can leave before it gets too ah"
"I ah"
"You da** well pulled me outa burning vehicle in Sudan. Risked your life to save mine. Difference is I'm living and you ain't. So?"
I stare out the window, edge of tears, "ok, you win."

Rules are strict, I do my thing, we have coffee, then I vanish. I administer a dozen with real mustard to each. After some half hour of coffee, Meena takes command of her stable of slaves and I vanish. Now that was fun, I reflect on the Metro. Next time, 2 dozen each.
Sunday morning, I surf, research, 3 leads. One develops computer games; another manufactures handhelds; another, virtual reality travel experiences.
In all 3 cases, it is exactly as the business editor said. Healthy, but not spectacular, growth. Languished in relative obscurity. Underpriced for the fundamentals. Good buy-and-holds.
Monday morning I will make a small purchase of each. Gotta leave funds for other leads.
A hungover Meena joins me for lunch. Shyly I admit I'll up the ante, 2 dozen to each.
She grins, "must admit I been worried bout you. Last time you had that alive look was during the rocket attack. Yet, pick up a paddle, you get that alive look back."
I blush.
"Nothing to be ashamed of. Business editor thinks you're hot. Why not just make the easy conquest?"
"I ah"
"He's drooling. Couldn't ask for an easier catch."
"He also snorts coke. A little too high-octane for me. If ever I were to get a guy, he'd hafta be sweet and gentle, sensible and well-behaved."
"And tall. And handsome. And rich," sarcastic tone, "don't forget the suit of armor and white horse."
"You think my standards are too high?"
"Bingo Sherlock, amazing how you deduce these things. So, go for the sci and tech editor. Doesn't do anything more than weed."
"But he's 40 pounds overweight. Munchies, no doubt."
"You are just soooo fussy. Absolute perfectionist, that's you."
"No, I'm not."
"Tell you what. Give him some incentive. I'll tell him if he can drop 20, he gets to be your exclusive slave."
I blush.
"Don't worry, I'll be discreet."
Meena? Discreet? More like a bull in a china shop.
Still, she musta done it quiet. Next time he winks at me.

After several sessions I notice a change in me. Yes I still put mustard on the swings. But somehow or other, my resentment of men in general has largely vanished.
The on-again off-again Col Pearson returns; pushing the resta us back to substantive.
A few days later I am summoned to appear in Brig-Gen Federenko's office. She puts out a carafe of coffee, clears her throat, starts tentatively, "ah tell me, what do you know of the Ontarios?"
"Unusual hybrid ma'am. 1st Battalion is para; 2nd the experimental 10/90; 3rd all men."
"I can't imagine they get along. What comes next is not an order. I will appeal to your sense of duty. If you decline, that's life."
Oy! Now 3 guesses what's incoming.
"The 3rd has spent 6 months in training for an Ulster tour. Passed every measure of competency, even exceeded in most categories. Lotta unit pride on the line. This will be in fact their first overseas tour. Unfortunately their battalion commander is now undergoing major surgery. While his career isn't over, likely any overseas tours are."
I groan inwardly.
"Here is where the crunch comes. There is only one man qualified, but only minimally so. Promoted to Maj a month ago, never toured overseas, not even with a company."
Oy!
"A meeting of the officers and sgt's of the 3rd was convened. Asked for their input. Given a list of possible female officers and the profile of this one man. Their consensus is, you are the only female officer they would accept. I can't order something this distasteful. But if you decline, he takes them to Ulster."
"What is their destination ma'am?"
"Not carved in stone, Crossmaglen."
I see the impossible quandary. XMG Ra beats the lot. Send an inexperienced officer leading an all-male unit and it will be slaughter. While I don't particularly like men, I'd just as soon not see the chivalrous Mr O'Hanlon and his boyos wipe out 550. Yet if I go, how do I know they will really accept my authority?
"Any chance of swapping for another location ma'am?"
"I'll check. But explain, why is this important?"
"Ma'am the Brit 1st Para was mangled by the XMG Ra. I can't even imagine the 3rd Ontarios are within a light year of 1st Para in professionalism."
She chuckles, "see what I can do."
A day later, she phones, "if you wish you can swap for Belfast. Think the 3rd could handle the Belfast IRA?"
"I don't know, but at least now there are odds some will come back alive."
"So you'll take it?"
"Yes ma'am."

And so I land at the small London Ontario airport. A sgt picks me up. It is a truly magnificent drive. Lovely old architecture and lotsa trees. We're on a site that in ancient times was the University of Western Ontario campus. Short drive into the country is our practice range.
The weekend I spend browsing in some of London's rather famous used book stores. Even in Antiquity, that was a London institution.
Monday morning, officer and sgt meeting.
Captain Zimmerman, A Co, leads, "I will now introduce Maj Zohra Zamani. Not the actress, but the tough tourist with 15 tours and 3 decorations."
Laughter.
Capt Leblanc, B Co, "that's 7 tours in the insanity of Ulster, guys. We're in good hands here. Play nice."
I stand, "I will now share some photos. Architecture of Belfast. This will answer many of your questions." I show some 4 dozen.
Capt Zimmerman says softly, in tones of awe, "my God, they're stuck 500 years in the past."
"That is how five centuries of civil war looks. Yet the cars, computers, cell phones, fully modern."
Capt Taypotat, C Co, grins, "ma'am I can dig it. Same contrast as on Indian Reserves."
I continue, "notice how many really narrow streets there are. For Belfast we use British make APC's. Here's a photo."
Gasps.
"You will notice, with that narrow length and high center of gravity, these are unstable. Turn turtle easily. Before we ever hit the streets, our drivers will need practice. On the plus side, massive armor underneath. Totally impervious to land mines. Your wheels could be blown off, yet your men are alive."
Murmurs.
"88 mm cannons are impractical for this small. 20's are mounted. Plus side, 6 times the rounds per minute. Check out those machine-guns. Shotgun MG's. An invention of our ever-creative Brit colleagues. Work very well as all ranges in Belfast are very short. Firing ports, look at that field of swivel. Far wider than ours. These boyos stayed awake during geometry class."
Capt Taypotat says, in tones of reverence, "ma'am, those look ridiculous, to us I mean. But they are one mean killing machine, far more effective than ours."
"Thank you for your support Capt. The biggest problem is getting our side to take these 'toys' seriously at the start. I trust all here will cooperate in this endeavor."
Murmurs of agreement.