Out of the Dark by David Weber

fair,
every
lieutenant colonel or colonel wanted stars eventually. In his case, however, there was an added incentive to achieve general officer’s rank quickly.
    No, he’d explained to one would-be wit after another, he
wasn’t
from Kentucky. He was from Wyoming. And he didn’t have any secret recipes, either. For that matter, he wasn’t even all that
fond
of fried chicken, thank you very much. Soldiers being soldiers, however, and officers senior to one being senior to one, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would be dogged by those putatively jocular inquiries until the hoped-for day when—oh, glory!—he would become
Brigadier General
Sanders.
    Of course, he reminded himself as he regarded the orders before him with something less than ecstasy, there were always trade-offs, and there would be on that longed-for day, as well. Such as giving up assignments like the one he currently held. As the commanding officer of First Battalion, Second Brigade, Third Armored Division, he had what was
the
plum duty of his career, as far as he was concerned.
    Even today, the Army’s transformation plan was still tinkering with the perfect setup for its modular brigades. And while it had discovered over the past few years that the format for its Stryker brigades was, indeed, well suited to fast, mobile warfare against guerrillas, insurgencies, terrorists, and low-intensity combat in general, it was rather less well designed than the enthusiasts had predicted for some of the other tasks it had been supposed to perform. In short, there was still a need for a
heavy
maneuver force, as well, as recent political events had tended to underscore.
    That was what his combined arms battalion was supposed to be, and Third Armored Division had been reactivated less than two years ago specifically to increase the number of heavy combat teams. At the moment, his battalion’s table of organization and equipment consisted of his headquartersand headquarters company, two companies of M1A2 Abrams tanks, two mechanized infantry companies, and a mechanized combat engineer company. Both of his infantry companies were mounted in the M2A3 Bradley infantry fighting vehicle, with all the updated digital electronics, and there was talk of assigning an organic helicopter gunship element to the brigade, although he suspected control would be held at the brigade level rather than assigned at the battalion level.
    He’d just been informed that he was receiving three extra sections of ANT/TWQ-1 Avenger HMMVW-mounted antiaircraft systems for his upcoming assignment, plus two of the brigade’s three armored reconnaissance troops, mounted in the M3A3 cavalry variant of the Bradley, as well. Despite the fact that he didn’t care all that much for the assignment in question, he had to admit that was a potent, ass-kicking collection of combat power. Nor could he pretend he didn’t feel a deep sense of satisfaction as he regarded the fact that it was his, all his.
    Well, his, the brigade CO’s, the
division
CO’s, and national command authority’s, anyway. Indeed, the orders he’d just received could be looked upon as a gentle reminder that those who commanded the United States military might occasionally have the odd little task they wished “his” battalion to perform. Unreasonable of them, perhaps, but there it was.
    He didn’t really object to being reminded, though, and that wasn’t the reason for his discontent. No, the problem was where they were sending him. Or, more to the point perhaps, the
reason
they were sending him.
    Herat, capital of Herat Province, just across the border from Iran. There hadn’t been much fighting in the province lately, other than the increasingly frequent pounces seeking to interdict the flow of weapons across the border from Iran. Most of those weapons were headed to points deeper inside the country, not Herat itself, however, and the provincial government (which was at least reasonably free of corruption and