O'Donnel's eyes slid sideways at the governor in a reptilian glance.

"Now that you mention it, Captain, I do believe there's a clause in our standard contract that states that while a unit of the Regular Army can be contracted for specific duty, the Army reserves the right to select which unit will be so assigned...nd that they may replace said unit at their discretion depending upon the demands placed upon their manpower at any given time."

"So they're sending in the Red Eagles to nail down the contract, then plan to swap them with a completely different unit once the deal is closed. Is that it?"

Phule turned to Governor Wingas, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"That's show business, Captain... or, should I say, that's politics!"

I have been very open in the chronicling of my employer's fallibility. Lest the wrong impression be given, however, I would hasten to add that, without a doubt, he is the best fighter I have ever had the privilege to observe, much less serve, when pushed into a corner.

"Of all the double-crossing, ballot-stuffing, two-faced-"

"That's enough, Armstrong!" The company commander's voice cracked like a whip. "We don't have time to discuss the moral or genetic shortcomings of the governor. Not if we're going to put together a plan of action before the competition tomorrow!"

"The company's still waiting in the dining hall, Captain," Brandy announced, sticking her head in the door of the commander's office. "What do you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them I'll be down to talk to them in about half an hour. Oh, and Brandy... in the meantime start talking it up that we've already won."

"We have?"

"Certainly. We won the minute the Army decided it would take the Red Eagles to compete with us. Even if we get our brains beat out tomorrow, there always will be the question in people's minds as to whether or not we could have beaten any normal Army unit."

"If you say so, sir." The top sergeant's voice was doubtful. "Oh... almost forgot. Do-Wop said you wanted this."

"What is it, Captain?" Rembrandt said, craning her neck to try to read the sheet of paper Phule was studying.

"Hmm? Oh. It's a copy of the personnel roster for the Red Eagles. I guess they left it lying around the terminal somewhere. "

"Shall I ask Beeker to run it through his computer?"

"Never mind, Armstrong. I've already found it. Damn! I should have known!"

"What did you find?"

Both lieutenants were crowding in next to Phule now, staring at the paper as if the names listed were some kind of coded message.

"I thought O'Donnel was awfully eager to agree to a fencing match!" the commander muttered, almost to himself. "See this name? Third from the top? Isaac Corbin! He was Tri-Planetary saber champion for five years running! What in the hell is he doing in the Army?"

"Getting ready to cancel our checks, I'd say." Armstrong grimaced. "At least it's just one bout out of three."

"Maybe, maybe not," Phule murmured thoughtfully. "I think we'll-"

The shriek of his wrist communicator cut him short.

"Colonel Battleax wishes to view your classic features sir!"

"Oh great... just great. On the way, Mother."

"I see you're getting your usual amount of press coverage, Captain. Certainly taking on the Regular Army in a public challenge is an ambitious effort."

"Look, Colonel. I didn't know they were going to run the Red Eagles in on us. I'll even admit it's my fault for letting the media wave a targeting flag over us, but..."

"Whoa. Relax, Captain," Battleax insisted. "I'm not trying to hassle you. I just called in to wish you luck in tomorrow's competition. If you don't mind my saying so, I think you're going to need it."

"You can say that again," Phule said with a snort. "Sorry, ma'am. Didn't mean to snap at you, there. I'm just a bit pressured trying to get ready for tomorrow."

"Well, I won't keep you, then. Just between you and me, though, Jester, do you think there's any chance at all you can pull it off?"

"There's always a chance, ma'am," he replied automatically. "But seriously... I'd just go ahead and concede the close order drill except for the fact that I don't think we should ever give up without a fight. I would have bet we could hold our own against a normal Army unit on the confidence course, but now... I don't know. About the only thing that's definitely in our favor is that, even though it's supposed to be impartial judging, my crew has gotten in pretty good with the locals here on Haskin's. It just might give us the home court advantage."

"I'm surprised at you, Captain." Battleax laughed. "And with your business background, too. You may have inadvertently set yourself a rougher road to hoe. I don't mean to rain on your parade, but we both know that an expert is someone from off-planet with a briefcase. I just hope your success with the locals hasn't made your troops too familiar figures, so that they only make the Red Eagles seem that much more exotic... or expert!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Journal #129

I was fortunate enough to witness the events which made up the Legion vs. Army competition firsthand... though as a spectator, not as a judge. Though I normally try to stay emotionally detached from the antics of the company beyond what has immediate effect on my employer, I will admit to having formed a certain affection for the Legionnaires as individuals and as a group, and felt they might need whatever moral support they could get in the conflict. As it turned out, I was right.

The competition itself took place at the Legion facilities, which seemed to impress the Red Eagles even if the Legionnaires did not. Governor Wingas was on hand, along with the entire Settlement Council and assorted other local dignitaries who were to serve as judges... and, as might be expected, the media.

The less said about the close order drill event, the better, save to note that it took place. The Legionnaires managed to stagger through their portion without too many mistakes which would be noticeable to a civilian eye, and thus managed to avoid any actual embarrassment. There was no question, however, as to which group had the greater expertise.

Rather than restricting themselves to the normal Manual of Arms-right-face, left face, about-face, that sort of rubbish-the Red Eagles dipped into their knowledge of the Exhibition Manual of Arms. Again, for the enlightenment of my fellow nonmilitary creatures, this consists of a series of rifle spins, ripple movements, and toss-exchanging of rifles, more often than not carried out while the participants are marching in a bewildering variety of directions. Needless to say, this impressed the judges and spectators in the reviewing stand, who rewarded the Eagles with frequent and loud bursts of applause. I somehow managed to restrain myself, but noticed I seemed to be the only one of the spectators who exercised such control.

As a finale, it was announced that the Eagles would repeat one of their more intricate maneuvers, only blindfolded and without the benefit of anyone counting cadence or calling orders... which they proceeded to do with chilling precision.

It might be expected that this display would move the already nervous Legionnaires to the depths of despair. Strangely enough, it seemed to have the exact opposite effect. From where I sat, I was able to overhear some of the comments the company whispered back and forth within their formation while the Eagles were performing. The general thrust of the comments was that they felt that the Eagles could have won the event without resorting to "the snazzy stuff," but that the soldiers had chosen their specific routines to "show off" and otherwise make the Legionnaires "look worse than we really are"! By the end of the Red Eagles' exhibition, a new, dark resolve had settled over the Legionnaires. What had been a contest for a soft contract had suddenly escalated in their eyes to a full-blown vendetta.